KHARBIN
"Of all the places I have visited during this long journey, Kharbin seems to me the dreariest"
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Of all the places I have visited during this long journey, Kharbin seems to me the dreariest, the most desolate. A dull, cold autumn afternoon greeted me on my arrival. The rain fell in torrents; not only did the water pour down from the skies, but it oozed up from the ground as well. The river had overflowed, and all the land was inundated. Half the place stood under water. The railway station looked like a little island in the midst of a marsh. Together with the few passengers for Vladivostok I was carried on men's shoulders into the waiting-room, a mere barn, where we found a mixed crowd of mujiks and Cossacks with their luggage, which consisted of bedding, cooking utensils, packages and bundles of all sorts and sizes, tied together, piled around them.
The same place also served as refreshment room, and at one end of it about a dozen officers were dining at a big table. A pretentious gilded chandelier—ironically reminding one of Western luxury—formed the centre-piece. But I had no time to admire its beauty or even to sit down to my meal, although I was nearly famished. The station-master came bustling up to me with a very disconsolate countenance and informed me that he had received a telegram intimating that a bridge near Liaoyang had been carried away by the floods, and that in consequence of the defective state of the roads it was impossible to say when the next train would start.
It would be difficult to describe my consternation on hearing this depressing announcement, for I fully realized the awfulness of my position should I be compelled to make a prolonged stay in this place. The roads were so bad that excursions would be out of the question, and I should have to remain a prisoner in my carriage until the road was open again.
Meanwhile, I gladly accepted the offer of a seat in a tarantass to drive round the town. Kharbin is of interest from a modern point of view because it is one of the headquarters of the Russians in Manchuria.
The town has sprung up within recent years, about the time of the Chino-Japanese war. It consists of barracks and military quarters, ammunition stores, railroad factories, and a few private houses for the families of officers, railway officials, and employés. It has no pretence to beauty, and in the flooded condition in which I saw it, its gloomy buildings, streaming with rain, looked deplorable. We came past some shops where tinned meats, vegetables, and other provisions are sold. There is also a hotel, which I prefer not to describe. I was told that the place even boasts a café and music-hall, the only place of poor amusement for the officers and their wives in garrison there. Kharbin is supposed to have about fifteen thousand inhabitants, but where were they? Were they dead, asleep, or hiding? I could not see a single living being. Could this be altogether accounted for by the weather, even allowing that the water in the streets rose to the knees of the horses, and that the wheels of our vehicle were submerged to the axle?
As we drove along my amiable guide explained to me that Kharbin is a military place, destined to see much active service in the event of a war, because, being situated on the junction of three great railway lines, it would be the centre for the mobilization and concentration of the troops. It would probably become the headquarters of the intendant and of the ammunition service. Hospitals, too, would be erected and the Red Cross would have a large staff there. I listened with interest to all these conjectures and plans for the future.
It was night when we returned to the station, where an agreeable surprise awaited me. I was told that a goods train with a convoy of coolies and troops to repair the line which had been destroyed, would be ready to start a little after midnight. Could my carriage be attached to it? I inquired. At first it seemed doubtful. No one appeared to know how far we could get, and there was even some question as to whether the road would bear the weight of the train. However, anything, no matter what, would be better than Kharbin, I thought; even the uncertainty of the future was preferable to the certainty of the present.
About three o'clock in the morning, after an interminable night of bustling, coming and going of troops, rushing about of coolies, shunting and whistling of engines, we at last began to move. The train presented a curious appearance. It consisted chiefly of open trucks and a few wagons in which the soldiers lay huddled together, with their winter coats tucked under their heads for pillows, while hundreds of coolies were packed like cattle in the open carriages.
At first we passed slowly through a vast, partially submerged plain. Often the road was entirely under water, and in various places so badly damaged that we had to proceed with the greatest possible caution. More than once the coolies had to turn out with pickaxe, shovel, and building material to repair the line, under the strict supervision of the officers of the railway service. I availed myself of the frequent stoppages and our altogether casual progress to study the country.