As Cilka and Josie walk away, gray towels their only cover, blood trickles down Cilka’s inner thigh, her punishment for daring to be brave. Josie begins to vomit. Gagging, bile and watery liquid is all she can throw up.
They follow others down a long corridor.
“What next?” Josie sobs.
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, don’t argue, don’t fight with them; try to be invisible and do as you are told.”
“That’s your advice? Just take it, whatever it is, take it?” Her voice rises, anger replacing shame.
“Josie, I’ve been here before, trust me.” Cilka sighs. But she also feels relief at Josie’s display of strength and defiance. She will need that fire in a place like this.
“Does this have something to do with the numbers on your arm?” Josie asks.
Cilka looks at her left arm, which is holding the towel across her body, tattoo exposed for all to see.
“Yes, but don’t ever ask me about that again.”
“All right,” Josie says. “I trust you. At least no one is screaming ahead of us now, so it can’t be so bad, right?”
“Let’s hope it’s getting something warm to wear. I’m frozen. I can’t feel my feet.” Cilka tries to bring lightness to her tone.
As they approach a room at the end of the corridor, they see piles of gray towels dropped at the entrance. Once again, blank-faced female guards stand nearby. Ahead of them they hear male voices.
“Ty moya,” Cilka hears a guard call to one of the women just ahead of them in the queue. You are mine. The woman behind her, older, shuffles forward. Cilka and Josie are coming up to their turn.
“Move on, you old hag,” a guard shouts at the woman. Cilka’s heart thumps. What is happening?
“Hey, Boris, what are you waiting for?”
“I’ll know when I see her.”
The woman in front of Cilka turns back to the younger girls with a look of pity, whispering, “The bastards are picking who they want to fuck.” She looks Cilka and Josie up and down. “You’ll have no problem.”
“What does she mean, we’ll be picked?” Josie asks.
Cilka shakes her head in disbelief. Can this be happening again?
She turns to Josie, looks her in the eyes. “Listen to me, Josie. If one of the men chooses you, go with him.”
“Why? What does he want?”
“He wants your body.”
She hopes she will be able to explain to Josie later that he can have her body and that is all; he cannot have her mind, her heart, her soul.
“No, no, I’ve never been with a boy. Cilka, please don’t make me. I’d rather die.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You have to live. We have to live. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything, I shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m sure most of us shouldn’t be here, but we are. If you get chosen to be the property of just one man, the others will leave you alone. Now do you understand me?”
Josie’s face is tight, puzzled. “I-I think so. Oh, Cilka, this has happened to you before, hasn’t it?”
“Lift your head up, don’t look afraid.”
“A moment ago you told me to be invisible.”
“That was then, this is now; that’s how quickly things can change.”
Cilka raises her own eyes toward the men.
Birkenau Administration Block, 1942
Cilka is sitting beside Gita, each working diligently, their eyes meeting fleetingly, small smiles shared. Cilka was pulled out of the selection line, and chosen for this work, rather than the Kanada. And she is grateful Gita is now working here, too. But she hopes she can also get Magda into the warmth, somehow. Gita’s hair is still cropped close to her head but for some reason Cilka has been allowed to grow hers. It feathers down over her neck and ears.
She doesn’t see the two SS officers approach them and with no warning she is grabbed by the arm, jerked to her feet. As she is dragged away, she looks back at Gita, her eyes pleading. Every time they are separated it could be the last time they see each other. She sees an officer approach Gita and strike her across the head with her hand.
She tries to resist as she is dragged outside and across to the women’s camp. She is no match for the two men. It is quiet in the camp—the women all out at work. They walk past the barracks where the women live until they come to an identical building, but this one is surrounded by a brick wall. Cilka feels bile rise in her throat. She has heard that this is where women go to die.
“No … Please…” she says. “What’s happening?”
There is a shiny car parked on the dirt road outside. The officers open the gate and go into the courtyard. One of the officers knocks loudly on the door to the left-hand building, and as the door opens, they throw her inside, slamming it behind her. Cilka is sprawled on a rough dirt floor and standing in front of her, in front of rows of empty crude wooden bunks, is the man she recognizes from the selection, the senior officer, Schwarzhuber.
He is an imposing man and is rarely seen in the camp. He taps his tall leather boot with his swagger stick. From an expressionless face he stares above Cilka’s head. She backs up against the door, feeling for the door handle. In a flash, the swagger stick is hurled through the air and strikes her hand. She cries out in pain as she slides down to the floor.
Schwarzhuber walks to her and picks up his stick. He stands over her, dwarfing her. He breathes heavily as he glares at her.
“This will be your new home,” he says. “Stand up.”
She gets to her feet.
“Follow me.”
He takes her behind a wall where there is a small room and a single wooden-slatted bed with a mattress on it.
“You know each block has a block leader?” he says.
“Yes,” she says.
“Well, you are to be the leader of Block 25.”
Cilka has no words, no breath. How could she—how could anybody—be expected to be the leader of this block? This is the block where women spend their final hours before being sent to the gas chamber. And will she ever see Magda, see Gita again? This is the most terrifying moment of her life.
“You are very lucky,” Schwarzhuber says.
Taking off his hat, he throws it across the room. With his other hand he continues to hit his leg firmly with his stick. With every whack Cilka flinches, expecting to be struck. He uses the stick to push up her shirt. Oh, Cilka thinks. So this is why. With shaking hands, she undoes the top two buttons. He then places his stick under her chin. His eyes seem to see nothing. He is a man whose soul has died and whose body is waiting to catch up with it.
He holds out both his arms and Cilka interprets this gesture as “undress me.” Taking a step closer, still at arm’s length, she begins undoing the many buttons on his jacket. A whack across her back hurries her up. He is forced to drop his stick so she can slide his jacket off. Taking it from her, he throws it after his hat. He removes his own singlet. Slowly, Cilka begins undoing his belt and the buttons beneath it. Kneeling down, she pulls his boots off from over his breeches.
Pulling the second one off, she becomes unbalanced, falling heavily on the bed as he pushes her. He straddles her. Terrified, Cilka attempts to cover herself as he tears her shirt open. She feels the back of his hand across her face as she closes her eyes and gives in to the inevitable.
* * *
“They’re the trusties,” a guard with a cigarette clenched between her teeth whispers.
The voice brings Cilka back to the present.
“What?”
“The men you’re about to be paraded in front of. They’re the trusties, senior prisoners who have high positions in the camp.”
“Oh, not soldiers?”
“No, prisoners like you, who have been here a long time and work in the skilled jobs, with the administrators. But these ones are also of the criminal class. They have their own network of power.”
Cilka understands. A hierarc
hy between old and new.
She steps into the room, Josie behind her, both of them naked and shivering. She pauses to take in the rows of men she must walk between. Dozens of eyes look back at her.
The man first in line on her right takes a step forward and she turns to meet his stare, boldly sizing him up, making the judgment he would have been the leader of a gang wherever he came from. Not much taller than she, stocky, clearly not starving. She thinks he must not be much older than his late twenties, early thirties. She examines his face, looking beyond the body language he is throwing her way. His face betrays him. Sad eyes. For some reason she is not afraid of him.
“At last” is shouted out somewhere among the men.
“About bloody time, Boris.”
Boris puts his hand out to Cilka. She doesn’t take it but moves closer to him. Turning back, she encourages Josie to walk on.
“Come here, little one,” another man says. Cilka looks at the man ogling Josie. A large brute, but hunched. His tongue darts in and out of his mouth, revealing badly colored and broken teeth. He has more of a feral energy than Boris.
And Josie is chosen.
Cilka looks at the man identified as Boris.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“Cilka.”
“Go and get some clothes and I’ll find you when I need you.”
Cilka continues down the row of men. They all smile at her, with several making comments about her skin, her body. She catches up with Josie and they find themselves outside again, being ushered into another concrete bunker.
At last, clothing is thrust at them. A shirt with missing buttons, trousers in the roughest fabric Cilka has ever felt, a heavy coat and a hat. All gray. The knee-high boots several sizes too big will come in handy, once she’s wrapped her feet in whatever rags she can get to help with the cold.
Dressed, they leave the bunker. Cilka shades her eyes from the glare of sunlight. She takes in the camp resembling a town. There are clearly barracks for sleeping, but they are not neatly lined up like those in Birkenau. They differ in size and shape. Beyond the perimeter she sees a small hill with a large, crane-like piece of equipment rearing above it. The fence enclosing them is scattered with lookouts, nowhere near as threatening as she has experienced in the past. Cilka looks closely at the top of the fence. She does not see the telltale insulators that would indicate it is electrified. Looking beyond the fence to the barren, desolate terrain stretching as far as the horizon, she accepts no electric fence would be needed. There could be no survival out there.
As they trudge toward the buildings that will become home, following the person in front, unaware who is leading them or directing them, a woman with a broad, weathered face sidles up to them. The sun might be attempting to shine but the windchill bites into any exposed skin—they are so far north that even though it is late summer there is snow on the ground. The woman is wearing layers of coats, strong-looking boots, and has her hat pulled down and tied beneath her chin. She leers at Cilka and Josie.
“Well, aren’t you the lucky ones! Got yourselves men to protect you, I hear.”
Cilka puts her head down, not wanting to engage in or encourage conversation with her. She doesn’t see the leg extended in front of her, tripping her, so that with her hands in her pockets she falls flat on her face.
Josie reaches down to help her up, only to be hit in the back and sent sprawling herself. The two girls lie on the damp, frosty ground, side by side.
“Your looks won’t get you anywhere with me. Now get moving.”
Cilka pulls herself up first. Josie stays lying on the ground, eventually taking Cilka’s hand as she is helped to her feet.
Cilka risks looking around. Among the hundreds of women, dressed the same, heads shaven, faces buried in coats, it is impossible to identify the others from their train carriage.
As they enter a hut, they are counted off by the gruff woman. Cilka had thought maybe she was a guard, but she’s not in uniform, and as she walks past her, Cilka notices the number sewn on her coat and hat. Must be like a block leader, Cilka thinks.
The room has single beds lining one side, a space in the middle with a stove throwing out a version of heat. The women ahead of them have run to the stove and push and shove, hands extended toward it.
“I’m your brigadier, and you belong to me,” the leader says. “My name is Antonina Karpovna. An-to-ni-na Kar-pov-na,” she repeats slowly, pointing at herself, so no one can misinterpret her meaning. “All right, you lucky zechkas, I hope you realize you have one of the best prisoner huts in the camp.” Cilka thinks she must be right. No bunks. Actual mattresses. A blanket each. “I’ll leave you to sort yourselves out,” the brigadier says with a wry grin, before departing the hut.
“What’s a zechka?” Josie whispers.
“I don’t know, but it can’t be a good word.” Cilka shrugs. “Probably means prisoner or something like that.”
Cilka looks around her. None of the beds have been claimed; the women ahead of them ran straight to the stove. Grabbing Josie’s arm, Cilka pulls her away to the far end of the hut.
“Wait, let’s find beds first. Sit on this one.”
Cilka claims the end bed, pushing Josie onto the one next to it.
They both examine what they are sitting on. A thin gray blanket over an off-white sheet covering a sawdust-filled mattress.
Their rush to find somewhere to sleep doesn’t go unnoticed by the other women who now also scramble for beds, pushing and shoving each other as they too claim the place they will sleep tonight and for however many more nights they survive.
It becomes obvious there is a bed for everyone. Hats are taken off and placed where a pillow would be, had one been provided.
Cilka glances to the space across from the end of their beds.
Two empty buckets look back at her. Toilets. She sighs. For as long as she remains in this hut, she will be reminded of her greed to secure what she considered the best place to sleep. She thought she would have a little privacy: a wall on one side of her, Josie on the other. There’s always a catch to a good position, to comfort. She should know that by now.
Having established their place, Cilka nudges Josie and they move toward the stove, hands outstretched. Cilka senses she has made some enemies already, on day one.
Josie is shoved in the back by a large, tough-looking woman, her age indeterminate. Josie sprawls forward, smashing her face on the hard, wooden floor. Blood seeps from her nose.
Cilka helps Josie to her feet, pulling the girl’s shirt up to her face, covering her nose, staunching the blood.
“What did you do that for?” a voice asks.
“Watch it, bitch, or you’ll get the same,” the bully says, getting in the other girl’s face.
The other women observe the exchange.
Cilka wants to react, to defend Josie, but she still needs to know more about how the place works, and who these women are, whether there’s a possibility of them all getting along.
“It’s all right,” Josie splutters to the girl who defended her, a young, slight woman with fair skin and blue eyes. “Thank you.”
“Are you all right?” the girl asks in Russian-accented Polish. She keeps touching her own shaved head.
“She will be,” Cilka answers.
The girl examines Josie’s face with concern.
“I’m Natalya.”
Josie and Cilka introduce themselves.
“You are Russian?” Josie asks.
“Yes, but my family was living in Poland. For many decades. Only now they decide that is criminal.” She lowers her head for a moment. “And you?”
Josie’s face crumples. “They wanted to know where my brothers were. And they wouldn’t believe me when I told them I didn’t know.”
Cilka makes soothing sounds to Josie.
“I’m sorry,” Natalya says. “Perhaps let’s not talk about it now.”
“Or ever,” the bully says from her bed, turned away from the
rest of them. “It’s all just variations on the same sob story. Whether we did something or not, we have been branded enemies of the state and we are here to be corrected through labor.”
She stays facing away from them. Sighs.
The fire crackles in the stove.
“Now what?” someone asks.
No one is prepared to suggest an answer. Some of the women wander back to their chosen beds and curl up, going deep into their own silent thoughts.
Cilka takes Josie by the arm and leads her to her bed. Pulling the blanket back she urges the girl to take off her shoes and lie down. Her nose has stopped bleeding. Cilka goes back to the stove. Natalya is carefully placing more coal from a nearby bucket into the red-hot cavity, using the end of her coat to open and close the door.
Cilka looks at the coal pile. “There’s not enough to get us through the night,” she says, as much to herself as to Natalya.
“I’ll ask for more,” Natalya says in a softly spoken whisper. She is rosy-cheeked and delicate-limbed, but looks strong. Cilka can see in her eyes she thinks everything is going to work out. Cilka knows how quickly that feeling can be taken away.
“We could perhaps just watch and see what they do. Ask for nothing and you lessen the risk of a beating.”
“Surely they won’t let us freeze,” Natalya says, hands on hips. The whisper is gone. Several other women push themselves up onto an elbow in the beds where they lie, listening to the conversation.
Cilka takes a moment to look around at all the faces now turned to her. She can’t accurately tell all the women’s ages but thinks she and Josie are among the youngest. She remembers her own words spoken only a matter of hours ago. Don’t stand out, be invisible.
“Well?” is thrown at her from the bully at the front of the hut.
All eyes are on her.
“I don’t know anything more than you. I’m just guessing. But I think we should go easy on what coal we have left in case we don’t get any more today.”
Cilka's Journey Page 3