Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  * * *

  Nine o’clock is observed by the lights going out; the women already in their beds.

  The searchlight outside advances into the hut, along with a shower of snow. The door is open. Several women raise their heads to see the cause. Boys and men, old and young, are pushing their way into their hut. Many of the women scream, burying themselves under their blanket. If you can’t see me and I can’t see you, I’m not here.

  “We thought we’d give you a little time to settle in,” says the man Cilka recognizes as Boris—the one who chose her. “But it’s bloody cold and we need some warming up. Where are you? Where’s my pretty one? I’ve been waiting all day for my fuck. Come on, identify yourself so we can get started.”

  He is walking in her direction, pulling the blankets from all the women as he approaches.

  “I’m down here,” Cilka calls.

  “What are you doing?” Josie cries out. “Cilka, what’s happening? I’m scared.”

  Boris stands over Cilka, smiling down.

  “Cilka!” yells Josie.

  “Shut up, bitch, before I shut you up,” he says to Josie.

  “It’s all right, Josie, it’s all right,” Cilka says, although she is shaking.

  “Hey, Vadim, here’s your one next to mine,” says Boris. “Come and get her.”

  Josie attempts to get out of her bed, screaming.

  Boris roughly pushes her back down and holds her as Vadim makes his way over to Josie.

  Then, stumbling, Boris sits on the edge of Cilka’s bed and starts taking off his boots. The smell of vodka wafts off him. Josie is quietly sobbing, a sound that tears at Cilka’s heart. She puts a hand on Boris’s chest.

  “If you let me just have a few words with her, I can quiet her,” she says flatly. Every other woman is screaming and cursing as they are slapped around and forced down on their cots, but she feels responsible for Josie. She was there when she was chosen for this. She has to do what she can to protect her.

  Boris gives an uninterested shrug of his shoulders, which tells Cilka she can try to calm Josie. Vadim has his hand over Josie’s mouth and is tearing at her clothes.

  “Hold on a minute,” Cilka says to him firmly. He stops, surprised. “Josie, listen to me. Listen.” Cilka leans closer to the girl and speaks quietly. “I’m sorry … there is nothing you or I can do to stop this. Or if there is I haven’t yet worked it out.” She blinks her eyes slowly. Time is distorting in the way it does when she becomes blank. Just limbs.

  “Cilka, no, we can’t let them—”

  “I would murder them all if I could,” Cilka whispers. She turns to Vadim. “Please, she has an injured hand. Be careful.” She turns back to Josie. “Josie, I’m right here.” Knowing, though, that she isn’t. Not really. “I’m so sorry…”

  She looks at Boris. “She’s just a child, can’t he leave her alone?”

  “Not my decision. Anyway, Vadim likes them young. So do I. You’re not much older than her, are you?”

  “No.”

  Cilka begins to unbutton her shirt. She knows what to do. The noise of screaming women, and shouting men determined to do what they came here for, is overpowering. For a moment Cilka wonders if the noise will bring guards, rescuers. None arrive. They are probably just doing the same thing.

  As Boris explores her body with calloused hands, talking himself up, Cilka looks across at Josie. In the flickering light from the stove she sees Josie’s face turned to her—a new level of fear in her eyes. Cilka reaches out her hand. A heavily bandaged hand is placed on hers. Hand in hand, with Josie quietly sobbing, their eyes never leaving each other, they survive their ordeal.

  As Boris is putting his trousers and boots back on, he whispers to Cilka, “No one else will touch you. And I can arrange that only Vadim will touch your friend.”

  “Then do.”

  “Come on, boys, if you haven’t managed to fuck by now, you’re not gonna get it up tonight. Out of here—let these ladies get their beauty sleep,” Boris calls out across the room.

  Groans from the unsuccessful men mingle with the sniggering and laughter of the conquerors, only to be replaced by the sobs of the injured and distressed women. No one speaks. The stink of unwashed, vodka-soaked men is all that is left in the air.

  * * *

  As the clanging outside drags the prisoners into a new day, the women rise slowly. Heads down, no one makes eye contact. No chatter. Cilka risks a quick glance at Josie. The swelling and bruising on her cheek and around her eye is obvious from where Vadim pressed her down. She thinks about saying something, asking how she is, having a closer look at her facial injuries, asking if she has any others. Josie turns her back on her. She gets the message.

  Breakfast plays out in the mess hall in silence. The old-timers throw a quick glance at the newcomers, registering the injuries, knowing the cause. They retreat into their own shame, grateful for the fresh bodies that will provide some relief from their assault.

  As the others leave for work, Cilka and Josie remain in their hut. They have been told not to leave until Antonina returns and escorts them to the hospital. Josie returns to her bed and curls up, her face buried.

  Ice forms on the inside of the windows as the stove cools. Their time alone is mercifully short. Cilka can’t stand the tension between them.

  As they enter the hospital waiting room, Antonina takes them to the reception desk.

  “This one is here to work,” indicating Cilka, who catches the gist of her words. “The other will have to stay here until the end of the day. I’m not coming back just to get one of them.”

  The woman at the desk reads the pieces of paper handed to her.

  “Come with me.” She beckons.

  They follow her through the ward into the treatment area. Josie sits on the chair indicated, Cilka behind her.

  The dozen or so beds are all occupied, along with several chairs holding those capable of sitting. Groans of pain escape from several of the patients. They seem to be mainly men, but there are a few women. Cilka challenges herself to examine these people, trying to work out where they are injured or what could possibly be wrong with them. For many it is obvious: visible wounds exist, blood seeps through scraps of material masquerading as a bandage or tourniquet. She feels the blankness sliding over her, cold as snow.

  “Ah, here you are.” Cilka and Josie see Yelena Georgiyevna approaching. Josie glances up before returning her eyes to the floor in front of her.

  “How are you today? How is the pain?”

  Josie shrugs.

  The doctor looks from Josie to Cilka, who turns away. Yelena gently places her fingers under Josie’s chin, forcing her to look up. The injury on her face looks worse, having been stung by the icy walk to the hospital. The doctor brushes her fingers over the damaged area. Josie winces.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Josie forces her head down, Yelena releasing her hold.

  “It’s her fault,” Josie spits. “She made me do it, made me go along with it. She calls herself my friend and she did nothing to help me, just let them…”

  “Men visited our hut last night,” Cilka whispers.

  “Oh, I see.” Yelena sighs. “Do you have any other injuries, Josie?”

  Josie shakes her head.

  “And what about you, Cilka?”

  “No.”

  “Of course she doesn’t, she just let him have her, didn’t fight, didn’t say no.”

  The doctor stands. “Stay here. I’m going to try to find a room I can take you both to, I want to examine you further.”

  Cilka and Josie wait in silence. Cilka wonders about the doctor. Are people assigned this work in the camps? Or do they choose it? She can’t imagine anyone wanting to be here. Yelena returns and ushers them into a nearby room. The occupant being taken out is arguing that he should be in a room by himself; he is a senior officer, not to be treated like a prisoner.

  The bed in the room has the crumpled sheet and blanket of t
he former occupant, and the smell of an unwashed male, stale alcohol and cigarettes. Yelena has the two girls sit side by side on the bed.

  “This is a brutal place…” says the doctor.

  “I know,” Cilka whispers. She turns to Josie. “Josie, I’m sorry, I should have warned you, told you what to expect, helped you understand—”

  “You just lay there. You … looked at me. Cilka, how could you?”

  Cilka is still not able to access any feeling but she notices, distantly, she has started shaking, her knees knocking up and down on the bed. She clutches her hands beneath them.

  “I’m sure she didn’t have a choice,” Yelena answers.

  “She could have tried; a friend would have tried.” Josie’s voice lowers and trails away.

  There are always other things people think she should have done. But it is hardest hearing this from someone she has been trying to let in, become close to. “I just hoped it wouldn’t happen,” Cilka says. “I knew it would, but I didn’t know when, and I just hoped it wouldn’t.”

  She is truly sorry, but she also doesn’t know what else she should have done, could have done.

  The doctor seems to feel the tension. “For now, I want to examine Josie, change her dressing, then I need to get you set up for work here, Cilka.”

  Cilka slides off the bed. “Shall I wait outside?”

  Yelena looks at Josie.

  “You can stay,” she answers, the chill still in her voice.

  Cilka looks away, holding one hand in another, trying to quell the shaking, as Josie is examined.

  Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1940

  Cilka and her sister, Magda, walk down a street in their hometown of Bardejov, on a fragrant spring day. Magda smiles at two boys walking toward them. She is two years older than Cilka and Cilka admires the way she walks, her elegant wrists with her watch glinting in the sunlight, her hips gently swinging.

  “They both like you,” Cilka says. “Which one do you like the best?”

  “They’re just boys,” Magda says.

  The boys position themselves in front of Cilka and Magda, forcing the girls to either stop or walk around them. Magda stops and Cilka follows suit.

  “Hello, Lazlo, Jardin,” Magda says.

  “So, who’s this pretty little thing with you?” Lazlo says, his eyes wandering up and down Cilka.

  “She’s my sister, my younger sister. Take your eyes off her,” Magda snaps.

  “No boy or man is going to want to take his eyes off her,” Lazlo sneers.

  Cilka’s stomach lurches in a confusing way. She looks down at the ground.

  “Come on, Cilka, let’s go.” Magda grabs Cilka’s hand and pulls her away.

  “Hey, Cilka, lose your sister and come and find me,” Lazlo calls out.

  Magda squeezes Cilka’s arm.

  “Ow! Stop it, let me go. What’s your problem?” Cilka says, shaking her arm free.

  “You’re only fourteen, Cilka,” Magda snaps back at her.

  “I know how old I am,” she says defiantly. “He’s quite good-looking. How well do you know him?”

  Magda stops, puts her face close to Cilka’s.

  “Don’t be stupid, Cilka. You’re just a child. He’s a … well, he’s not a man but he’s not a boy either. You have to be careful.”

  Cilka brings her arms across her chest. “So, I’m never allowed to talk to a boy, is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. One day you’ll grow up, then you’ll know…”

  “Know what? What do you know about boys? I’ve never seen you alone with a boy.”

  Magda looks away, a dark cloud on her beautiful face. Cilka has never seen her look this way, shadows behind her eyes.

  “Magda, are you all right?”

  “Come on, let’s get the shopping done and get home before curfew.”

  “No, why can’t we stay out? I don’t want to obey such a stupid rule. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You can be such a child, Cilka. Do you want to get Papa into trouble because you won’t do as you’re told? This is so like you, always wanting things your way. This time, little sister, you do as I say and we go home before the curfew.”

  “And if we don’t? What will they do to us?”

  Cilka stands still in the warm, scented street. What could possibly happen to them, on such a soft spring day?

  “The Germans? You don’t want to know.”

  “How much worse can it get?”

  “Oh, Cilka, please, just once believe me when I say we need to do as Papa asks.”

  * * *

  Cilka and Josie follow the doctor, Yelena Georgiyevna, to the end of the ward and are introduced to two nurses, both Russian, Raisa Fyodorovna and Lyuba Lukyanovna. They are instructed to teach Cilka what is required in filing patient records, making notations and fetching medicine. Raisa is tall and strikingly pale, with large, full lips, and Lyuba is shorter, with almond-shaped eyes and sharp cheekbones. Both have long dark hair, indicating they are not prisoners. Cilka wonders again if they chose to be here, or whether they are assigned their positions. Cilka’s and Josie’s hair is still short, beginning to curl lightly in the damp air. Both Raisa and Lyuba speak multiple languages too, and Cilka is told they will be her main overseers during the two weeks. Josie is told she will have to sit in the corner of the room and wait until the end of the day.

  Two other male doctors are introduced to Cilka, told she is in training to be able to record their notes directly as they examine and assess patients. Cilka notices the glances they give her, liking what they see. She cringes. Is this place as threatening as Hut 29? Only time will tell.

  Josie sits on the floor at the back of the large counter that has four chairs to sit and work from. One of the women offers her a chair, which she declines. She is soon curled up asleep. Tired. Traumatized. In shock. A combination of all three.

  Cilka is a fast learner. She catches on to the format and rhythm of carefully identifying the correct notes for each patient and filing them. She is taken to a small room at the back of the ward and shown the range of medications she will have to correctly write down or collect. Left there to study the names and spellings of each, she works out their varied medicinal benefits.

  When Raisa comes to get Cilka from the dispensary for a meal break, Cilka asks her to confirm what she has taught herself. Raisa tells her she is very impressed, particularly with her pronunciation.

  Another nurse comes in and angrily demands to know what they are doing. Without waiting for an explanation, she orders them from the room.

  Cilka doesn’t yet understand the hierarchy but realizes that here, as with anywhere, she will have to learn who to trust and who to avoid.

  Taking a seat at the counter, she is handed a tin plate with a sweet bread roll, a piece of potato and a small quantity of dried green beans.

  “Is this for me?” she asks.

  “Yes, eat up,” Raisa says. “We can eat whatever the patients don’t. This is what is left over. Many of them are too sick to eat.”

  “Don’t they need it to get better?”

  “Some of them won’t get better and we can’t force them. If we send it back to the kitchen the greedy pigs there would only eat it or sell it.” Raisa’s lips draw tight in a thin line of distaste.

  Cilka’s stomach suddenly feels very small. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s eaten a dead person’s food.

  “Can I share it with my friend?”

  “If you want.” Raisa shrugs.

  Cilka takes the plate and sits down beside Josie, resting against the wall. She gently shakes her awake. Josie sits up, orienting herself to where she is.

  “Here, eat some of this.”

  “I don’t want your food. I don’t want anything from you.” Josie lies back down and closes her eyes.

  Cilka breaks the bread roll in two and places one half on the floor in front of Josie.

  Lyuba, the other nurse, comes and sits d
own beside her.

  “It’s great to have some help.”

  “Oh … I don’t know how much help I am yet.”

  “You’ll get there. Raisa said you are a fast learner and already can pronounce the names of the drugs better than she can.”

  “I’m good with languages.”

  “Excellent. When you start writing your own reports, you will need to have your spelling one hundred percent. Mostly it doesn’t matter, but every now and then we get audited and we all get in trouble if they find incorrect spelling, or something left out.”

  “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. Can I show you what I write before it goes on the file?”

  “Of course—that is what I am suggesting. Raisa and I will teach and supervise you, and I think Yelena Georgiyevna likes you, so you will be fine.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “It’s time to go back to work.”

  Cilka looks at Josie and the uneaten piece of bread. It is good, she thinks, that Josie does not just accept her situation. It is a kind of strength. Still, Cilka feels the pang of distance.

  * * *

  That afternoon when Cilka and Josie are returned to their hut before the others arrive back, they find it in total disarray. All the beds have been stripped of their sheets and blankets and in many cases tipped upside down or onto their sides. The meager belongings of the women lie in heaps on the floor of the hut.

  Josie, Cilka and Antonina stand in the doorway surveying the mess.

  “Hmm, looks like Klavdiya Arsenyevna has been here,” Antonina says.

  Stepping into the hut, Cilka asks quietly, “Are we allowed to clean it up?”

  “You can fix your own bed.”

  Antonina stands with hands on hips, and Cilka notices how strong she is, though with a small frame. The muscles—arms, chest, thighs—bulge roundly out from her joints.

  “What about the others? Can we do them all while we wait for you to bring the women back?”

  “It’s probably better they see for themselves what happens without warning.”