An autumn whisper sliced through the crisp air of Zaozerye like the first cold gust before a storm. The rumor fluttered over crooked fences, clanged inside empty water buckets by the well, and murmured softly on benches where elderly women gossiped. They were expecting a “medic”. Not some distant inspector from the district center, not a mythical doctor from a TV report, but one of their own—a local paramedic who would stay. A feldsher. The very person to finally open the clinic in the forsaken office building.
The villagers had almost given up hope. For four years, any spark of optimism drowned in mud during spring impassibility and blinding winter blizzards. Twenty-two kilometers to the district hospital was less a measure of distance than a lifetime when your chest burns with pain, and emergency services on the phone offer only the resigned reply: “Wait, we’re on our way.” Hours slipped by. If the roads were washed out, days could pass. The three-kilometer trek from the highway to the village was a mere stroll on dry days, with dust clouds swirling underfoot. Yet rain, slush, and gloomy autumn skies transformed the path into an impassable swamp—a hellish mix of mud and despair.
- The local tractor driver, Yefim, was the village’s sole hope in such times.
- He could pull anything out of the mire on his battered “Belarus” tractor.
- But calls in the evening were often useless, as after a hard day’s toil, Yefim drowned in the tiny village tavern, surrounded by drinking companions.
On that particular day, the bus labored along the battered road, jolting over potholes. Veronica—no, not Ksenia—was seated by the window, clutching a modest bag of belongings and gingerly holding an orange medical suitcase on her lap. Its vivid hue was the lone splash of color in the dull, gray-brown interior. She nearly drifted to sleep beside the monotonous drone of the engine, until the driver’s harsh, cold voice startled her.
“Hey, anyone going to Zaozerye?! Five minutes and we’re there!”
Veronica’s heart pounded wildly, twisting with either fear or anticipation. Gripping the handles of her suitcase and bag tightly, she braced herself for departure.
The bus door screeched open, ejecting her onto the roadside. The air struck her face—fresh, redolent of decaying leaves, smoke, and boundless, faintly bitter freedom. Golden autumn had arrived. The sun, no longer harsh but warm and gentle, spilled honeyed light all around. Yellow leaves spun in swirling eddies behind passing cars, as though bidding farewell into a vast, unknown life.
Beside her, a young woman with a tired yet kind face landed lightly on the ground, accompanied by a boy about ten, tightly clutching a box of batteries.
The woman surveyed Veronica with a welcoming, curious gaze.
“Hello! You must be here with us? To Zaozerye?”
Veronica’s voice, slightly hoarse from nervousness, replied, “Yes, to the village. But I don’t know where to go.”
“We’ll show you the way. I’m Galina, and this is my son, Vanya. We came from the clinic; I had tests done, and we bought some school supplies for him. Come, Vanya, help the young lady with her suitcase!”
The boy reached eagerly for the orange handle.
“Oh no, no!” Veronica protested, startled. “It’s heavy, full of equipment and medicines… I’ll carry it myself.”
Galina glanced at the suitcase; a spark of understanding and genuine admiration lit her eyes.
“So you’re the one… Our ‘medic’! We’ve been waiting for you for years! Finally, you’re here in person! Thank God! Now we’ll have our own help!”
“Veronica, feldsher. I was told there’s a clinic ready for me here.”
Galina chuckled knowingly as she lifted her bag.
“There is a clinic—a small house—but what it looks like inside, you’ll see yourself. Let’s go, Veronica, to show you our remote home.”
The walk to the village took about forty unhurried minutes. Within half an hour, the entire Zaozerye buzzed like an awakened hive. The news traveled swifter than the wind: “She’s arrived! Young! With the orange suitcase!” It was around three in the afternoon, still bright. Galina led Veronica straight to the head of the village council—Petr Ilyich.
The office smelled of dust, old papers, and authority. Petr Ilyich, a man with weathered skin and weary eyes, muttered irritably into the phone. Spotting the women, he merely gestured toward a chair, signaling he was busy.
After hanging up, his scrutinizing, somewhat cynical gaze fixed on Veronica.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
“Veronica Svetlova. Feldsher. I’ve been assigned here. I have two questions: Where’s the clinic, and where will I live?” she blurted, trying to sound firm.
Petr Ilyich paused, sizing her up from head to toe. His thoughts raced: “A feldsher—a young girl. Probably a city graduate. Immediately with demands. Are there no serious doctors left here?”
Aloud, he smirked lightly:
“Veronica… Well then, let’s go; I’ll show you your kingdom. I’ll drive you myself. As for housing… we’ll see.”
“I was promised separate accommodation,” Veronica reminded him.
He snorted, “Who promised that? This isn’t a big city, young lady, but a village. No dormitories here. Maybe someone in town rents a room.”
Unlocking the door of a single-story wooden house with peeling paint, he pushed it open with a creak, revealing a realm of cold and neglect. The air felt stale, redolent of dust and mouse nests. A layer of frost coated the windowsill. Veronica was overwhelmed by icy disappointment and panic.
“It’s freezing here! And there’s nothing!”
“How was I to know you’d come?” he shrugged. “Stepanovna will come tomorrow to clean and tidy up. We’ll get the heating working—you’ll live like in Paris!” he chuckled loudly, though strained.
Taking out his phone, he dialed.
“Stepanovna? Our feldsher has arrived. Grab a bucket and rag, come clean up the clinic. What? Tomorrow? Better now! Fine, we’ll wait.”
Turning to Veronica, he said, “She lives nearby and has a room to rent. She’s an old woman, but alone.”
Soon, Stepanovna appeared herself—a short, wiry woman with sharp, skeptical eyes masking wisdom. Fixing her gaze on Veronica like a merchant inspecting a customer at market, she said:
“So, you’re our new hope? A little girl! How will you treat us old, sick folks? No experience, I suppose?”
“I’m a feldsher,” Veronica replied with dignity. “Veronica.”
“Stepanovna,” Petr Ilyich interjected, “will you rent a room to Veronica? She has nowhere else to go.”
Again, Stepanovna slowly appraised the young woman.
“Do you smoke? Drink? The young ones nowadays are rather spoiled.”
Veronica shook her head, cheeks flushed.
“No, I don’t smoke or drink, and I don’t recommend it to patients.”
“Alright,” Stepanovna grumbled. “We’ll manage. Come on, I live nearby. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Petr Ilyich sighed with relief.
“Good, Veronica! Everything is settling. Tomorrow morning you start work. I’ll bring equipment—safes, cabinets, couches. If you need to visit the neighboring village, come to me. Well, I’m off.”
Veronica locked the clinic’s worn door behind her and followed Stepanovna obediently. Her tiny home was surprisingly warm and cozy, smelling of fresh bread, dried herbs, and cleanliness. An old television sat in the front room, next to a glass cabinet with dishes; a spotless white tablecloth covered the table. Peace and order reigned here—everything Veronica’s new ‘kingdom’ sorely lacked.
Her hostess led her to a small room with a single window overlooking the garden. The bed was neatly made, embroidered pillows resting atop.
“Here’s your little cell. I’m alone, so you’ll sleep well. You seem modest and quiet. But quite young. How old are you, dear?”
“Twenty-six, Stepanovna. Not a child anymore,” Veronica smiled.
“Twenty-six…” she mused. “Alone? Doesn’t a sweetheart lurk somewhere?”
“Alone. No one.”
From that day, her new life began. A job without a schedule: days and nights, bitter frost and autumn mud. Together with Stepanovna, she cleaned and scrubbed the clinic until it gleamed sterile. It transformed, sparkling and smelling of medicines and antiseptics, inspiring hope rather than despair.
- People approached cautiously at first.
- Elderly women came with blood pressure issues.
- Young mothers sought advice.
- Men with trembling hands requested alcohol for warmth, but Veronica firmly refused, recommending rest instead.
She worked from dawn to dusk, often eating dinner at Stepanovna’s home. If patients were numerous, the old woman brought hot borscht and pies to the clinic. At home, a meal always awaited, placed on a clean tablecloth. Veronica expressed immense gratitude and helped with chores. A quiet, strong bond blossomed between youth and experience.
Winter blanketed the village in snow, then retreated to make way for spring’s first timid sun. Veronica kept working. Then, he appeared.
His name was Artem—a tall, silent gamekeeper with piercing gray eyes like storm clouds. Most of his days were spent in the forest, but upon visiting the village, he invariably stopped by the clinic—for a scratched hand, a needed certificate. Initially, he declined invitations to sit, then lingered for minutes, eventually spending hours talking about life, nature, and stars. Their evening walks began at the village’s edge, where they walked close, hands occasionally brushing.
One pre-dawn morning, just as the world submerged into deepest silence, a frantic knocking rattled Stepanovna’s window, making panes quiver. Both women leapt from bed startled. Stepanovna, donning a scarf, pulled back the curtain, revealing a terrified neighbor’s face.
“Stepanovna! Quickly! Where’s the medic?! Artem’s been shot—in the forest!”
Veronica’s heart dropped and froze. Moving with practiced urgency, she pulled on clothes, grabbed her vivid orange medical box, and dashed outside. Stepanovna followed, making the sign of the cross.
The clinic doors flew open. Three muddy, blood-covered men carried Artem’s unconscious body on improvised stretchers. His face was ghostly pale, a horrific, torn wound marked his chest right over the heart.
“Call the ambulance! Fast!” Her own voice sounded alien—cold, metallic, fueled only by fierce determination.
Her hands worked swiftly and with precision. Stop the bleeding. Clean the wound. Apply a dressing. Find a vein. Administer injection. Only one thought thundered in her mind: “He must live.”
He lost much blood. By the time they found him isolated in the wilderness and reached the bumpy road, every second felt eternal.
The ambulance, summoned by Petr Ilyich, seemed to take an age. Later, Veronica learned it had departed instantly, rushing at full speed. Once medics took Artem away, Veronica sank to the floor, weeping for the first time, releasing all the pent-up fear. Stepanovna sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, stroking silently, motherly.
“It’s alright, dear Veronica… Our falcon will pull through. You did well — didn’t lose your head. I saw it — the steel inside you. Now I know for sure you’re young, but you won’t fail, won’t let anyone die. And you love him. I see it, how you looked at him…”
“No, Stepanovna…” Veronica sobbed, wiping her face with her bloodstained sleeve. “I don’t know myself…”
“I do, child. Trust me. My eyes are old but sharp.”
The next day, grinding her teeth, Veronica approached Petr Ilyich to request a car to visit Artem in the district hospital. The word spread instantly throughout the village. Soon, neighbors began arriving silently, bearing gifts—fresh eggs, jars of preserves, warm socks, homemade cheese, goose fat “for the chest”, money wrapped in fabric. Within an hour, two huge baskets stood packed outside Stepanovna’s porch. With this bounty, Veronica set off for the city.
Entering the sunlit hospital room, she found Artem lying by the window, eyes closed. The other patients greeted her arrival with approving murmurs. Opening his eyes, Artem revealed a spark of true, unfeigned miracle amid the pain and weakness. He could hardly believe it. Holding his cold hand, Veronica smiled through tears. That simple gesture sufficed.
When Artem was discharged, Petr Ilyich proudly drove him back to the village himself. The injury happened during a dangerous poacher arrest—the ones who had fired shots.
From then on, the villagers viewed their “medic” with newfound profound respect. She had not crumbled under pressure; she had saved their Artem’s life. Now, they understood that if disaster struck, she would fight for them to the very end. She was one of their own.
That summer, when Zaozerye’s meadows blossomed in full bloom, Artem and Veronica married. Petr Ilyich, no longer sneering, ordered construction of a new cottage for the young couple at the village’s edge. The population of Zaozerye began growing slowly, but steadily.
On that very first day, gazing upon the fragile city girl, Petr Ilyich had thought, “This bird won’t last long with us—she’ll run from our frosts, our mud, from this wilderness.”
Yet nothing daunted Veronica—not the cruel winter snows, spring mud, or night calls miles away. She walked, hitched rides on passing carts, trudged on foot because she loved her profession. She loved these tough, humble, endlessly thankful people. And they repaid her with equal measures—trust, affection, and faith in their own Zaozerye’s guardian angel clad in a white coat.
Final Reflection: Veronica’s journey embodies dedication and compassion blossoming in isolation, proving that steadfast commitment and love can revive even the most forsaken communities. Her story reminds us that courage and care illuminate the darkest corners and heal both body and soul.