Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  As they move away from the others, the girl’s screams follow them.

  Cilka begs Boris to let her go back to her hut. She wants to be alone. She is turning blank and numb. She assures him it is nothing he has said or done, trying to keep the fear out of her voice; she needs time by herself.

  Alone, curled up on her bed, facing the wall, even with her blindfold on, sleep will not come. Absurd images appear and warp in her head. An SS officer, his rifle adorned in lacy embroidery; Gita and Josie sitting beside a mountain of crushed coal searching in the grass for a four-leaf clover, laughing and sharing a secret as Cilka looks on from a distance; Yelena leading Cilka’s mother away from the truck as other women are piled on it, nearly corpses already, and bound for their death; Boris dressed in an SS commandant’s uniform, his arms outstretched, dead flowers being offered to her. She sobs silently at the hopelessness she suddenly feels for her future and the people who will never be in it.

  Auschwitz-Birkenau, 1944

  Cilka steps foot outside Block 25. Four SS officers stand near the idling truck, just outside the gates of the brick courtyard, waiting to take the overnight residents of her block to their deaths. The women are slowly making their way out the gate, dead women walking. She pushes through them to approach the two nearest SS officers.

  “Two have died overnight. Would you like me to have their bodies brought out for the death cart?”

  One of the officers nods.

  Cilka stops the next four women.

  “Get back inside and bring out the two who have cheated the gas chamber,” she snarls.

  The four women turn back into the block. Cilka follows them in, pulling the door behind her, not quite shutting it.

  “Here, let me help you,” she says. The women look at her as if it’s a trick. Cilka frowns. “They would have stuck their rifles in your belly and dragged you back here if I didn’t say something first.”

  The women nod, understanding. One of the women who died is lying on a top bunk. Cilka climbs up to her, and as gently as she can, lowers her down into the arms of two of the waiting women. The body weighs nothing. Cilka climbs down and helps properly place her across their spindly arms, then adjusts the woman’s meager clothing to give her a degree of dignity in death.

  Once the two dead women are carried outside, Cilka watches the truck drive away. She is left with the squeak and scratch of hungry rats. She will go inside in a moment and put on her clean nylons, bought with bread. If he comes to visit, he likes her clean. And she has a favor to ask him, for her friend Gita, concerning the man she loves. Cilka finds “love” a strange word—it bounces around in her mind but doesn’t land. But if Gita is able to feel it, Cilka will do what she can to preserve that. Before going inside, she glances in the direction of the gas chambers and crematoria. When she started here in this hell on earth she had always sent a prayer. But now the words will not come.

  * * *

  In her hut, desperate to drive away the memories, Cilka wills sleep to come.

  Thirteen years to go.

  CHAPTER 10

  A small child screams. Patients and staff turn as the door to the ward is flung open, and a woman runs in, holding a little girl. Blood covers the child’s face and dress; her left arm hangs at an impossible angle. Two guards follow, shouting for a doctor.

  Cilka watches as Yelena runs to the woman. She is well-dressed, clad in a warm coat and hat; not a prisoner. Her arm around the woman’s shoulders, Yelena ushers her to the end of the ward. As she passes Cilka, she calls to her, “Come with me.”

  Cilka falls in behind the procession, the child still screaming. In the treatment room, Yelena gently takes the child. She places her on the bed and the child appears to go limp. Her cries subside to a whimper.

  “Help her, help her!” the mother begs.

  “What’s her name?” Yelena asks calmly.

  “Katya.”

  “And what’s your name?”

  “I’m Maria Danilovna, her mother.”

  “They are the wife and daughter of Commandant Alexei Demyanovich Kukhtikov,” one of the guards offers. “The officers’ hospital is at capacity because of the ward being rebuilt, so we brought her straight here.”

  Yelena nods, asks the mother, “What happened?”

  “She followed her older brother up onto the roof of our house and fell off.”

  Yelena turns to Cilka. “Get some wet cloths and help me wipe the blood away so I can see the extent of the injuries.”

  A small pile of towels rests on a chair next to a basin. Cilka drenches two of them. There is no time to wait for the water to warm up, cold will have to do. Handing one to Yelena, she follows her lead in wiping blood from the little girl’s face. The wet, cold towel seems to revive her, and her screams resume.

  “Please, help my malyshka, please,” sobs Maria.

  “We are helping,” Yelena says softly. “We need to clean some of the blood away to see where she is hurt. Be careful of her arm, Cilka, it’s broken and will need to be set.”

  Cilka glances at the arm hanging over the bed next to her and repositions herself to avoid it. Bending down, she speaks to Katya in a quiet, soothing voice, telling her she is not going to hurt her, she is just cleaning her face. Katya responds, her whimpering now accompanied by shivers that rack her small body.

  “Get a blanket, quickly, and cover her. We need to keep her warm.” Cilka grabs a blanket from the end of the bed. Folding it into two she carefully places it over Katya, again murmuring, telling her what she is doing.

  “I can see the site of the wound, it’s on my side of her head—it’s quite a gash. Keep cleaning her face, Cilka. I’m going to get some supplies.”

  Yelena drapes the end of a towel over the right side of Katya’s head, covering her right eye.

  Maria steps in front of Yelena. “You can’t leave her, you’re the doctor. Send her.”

  Cilka’s heart races. At some point today she has to get to the dispensary that contains all the medicines and medical materials needed on the ward, though she dreads what she is planning to do.

  “She won’t know what to get. I’ll be right back. In the meantime, Katya, and you too, Maria Danilovna, are in good hands with Cilka.”

  Yelena leaves the room.

  “You might want to hold her hand,” Cilka tells Maria, who nods and takes Katya’s uninjured hand in her own.

  Cilka wets a clean towel.

  When Yelena returns, Cilka is talking to Katya.

  “Katya, my name is Cilka Klein. Dr. Kaldani and I are going to take care of you. Do you understand?”

  A small grunt comes from the little girl.

  “Good girl. Now, Katya, can you tell me where you hurt? We know your head hurts and we know your arm hurts, but does it hurt anywhere else?”

  “My … my leg,” splutters Katya.

  “Good girl. Anywhere else?”

  “My head hurts. Mumma, Mumma!”

  “I’m here, my malyshka, I’m here. You’re such a brave little girl; you’re going to be okay.”

  Yelena places the tray she has brought in on the bedside table. From the bottom of the blanket she lifts it gently to look at Katya’s legs. They are covered in thick stockings, and no injury is visible.

  “Cilka, help me take her stockings off so we can examine her legs.”

  Whatever pain Katya is feeling in her legs is not significant enough for her to react as Yelena and Cilka each remove a boot and a sock. Yelena examines her legs. The right one is showing signs of early swelling and bruising around the knee. Yelena moves it carefully; Katya doesn’t respond.

  “I think it’s not serious. Let’s get back to her head.”

  “What about her arm?” Cilka asks.

  “We’ll get to that. You’re doing really well, Cilka; thank you for asking her about other injuries. Often children this young don’t respond. You have to find the injuries yourself, so well done. Pardon me, Maria Danilovna, but how old is Katya?”

  “She
’s nearly four.”

  “A lovely age,” Yelena says quietly, as much to herself as Maria.

  Yelena removes the towel from Katya’s head. The gaping wound has stopped pulsing blood, but the red raw edges look nasty. She hears Maria gasp.

  Yelena pours antiseptic over a wadded bandage and gently places it over the wound. Cilka continues to attempt to wash the blood from Katya’s hair.

  “You have beautiful hair, Katya. It goes with your lovely face.”

  “Keep talking to her, Cilka. Maria Danilovna, this is what we have to do. I cannot take care of Katya’s injuries while she is awake. I will give her an injection to put her under, examine her more closely, then move her to a more sterile room to stitch her head wound and take care of her arm. It is broken between the elbow and the wrist and will need to be pulled into place properly before it can be plastered. Do you understand?”

  “I think so. Are you sure you need to put her to sleep though? What if she doesn’t wake up? I’ve heard about people being put to sleep by doctors and not waking up.”

  “She needs to be asleep, Maria Danilovna, you have to trust me.”

  “Where are you from? Where did you get your training?” Maria asks Yelena, and Cilka senses the anxiety beneath her bravado.

  “I’m from Georgia, and I was trained there.”

  “I’m also from Georgia—they have good hospitals there.”

  “We must talk some more, but for now, I need to take care of Katya,” Yelena says, and then continues quietly, “Do you want to tell her she is going to have a needle and go to sleep or should I?”

  Turning to Cilka, Maria says, “Let her, she seems to be able to calm Katya.”

  Although Cilka has heard the exchange, she looks to Yelena to repeat exactly what it is she is to say to Katya. She doesn’t want to get it wrong and frighten the girl. She strokes Katya’s face as she tells her what is going to happen. Katya doesn’t flinch as Yelena injects the anesthetic, and both she and Cilka watch as Katya’s eyes flutter and close.

  When Yelena is convinced Katya is deeply asleep, she removes the blanket and starts to cut away her clothes. Layer by layer is discarded on the floor. With only a singlet and underpants remaining, Cilka becomes aware of the two guards in the room.

  “Leave,” Cilka says to them firmly.

  They don’t need to be told twice.

  As the door closes behind them, bellowing can be heard in the ward. “Where is she, where is my malyshka, Katya?”

  “My husband,” whispers Maria. Cilka watches as the relief on her face at hearing her husband’s voice is replaced by what looks like fear. Maria backs away from the bed.

  The door bursts open and Commandant Alexei Demyanovich Kukhtikov storms into the room. Scrambling behind him, a senior doctor enters, squawking, “Alexei Demyanovich, Alexei Demyanovich, I am in charge.”

  The commandant arrives at the bed and registers his daughter’s broken, bloodied body. He looks to his wife.

  “What happened, Masha?”

  “Alyosha—”

  Yelena comes to Maria’s defense. “She was just playing, Alexei Demyanovich, and had a fall. It looks worse than it is. I have put her to sleep so I can take care of her, but I assure you she will be fine.”

  The commandant listens without interrupting, but the doctor who followed him intervenes.

  “Alexei Demyanovich, I am in charge here. I am so sorry I didn’t know your daughter was here.” Turning on Yelena, he shouts, “No one told me the commandant’s daughter was here. I will now take over.”

  Maria cautiously walks toward her husband. “These two angels have taken care of our little girl. Let them finish what they have started.”

  Alexei looks at his wife. “And are you all right?”

  “Excuse me,” pipes up the doctor. “I am the most experienced doctor here and it is my duty to take care of your daughter, Alexei Demyanovich.”

  Without looking at him, the commandant answers. “If my wife says she trusts these two to look after Katya, then they will, with my thanks.”

  He turns to Yelena. “You look like the doctor.”

  “Yes, Alexei Demyanovich. I am Yelena Georgiyevna, or Dr. Kaldani.”

  Turning to Cilka. “And you, the nurse?”

  “She is not even a nurse, she’s a—” the male doctor interjects.

  “A nurse in training, Alexei Demyanovich, but a very good one,” Yelena says.

  The commandant attempts to run his hands through the matted, bloodied hair of Katya. He bends down and kisses her gently on the cheek.

  “I’ll go back to my office and leave her in your hands. Have someone report to me when you have finished and I will organize where she is to stay; she’s not staying here.” He turns to Maria. “Stay with her, my dear.”

  “I was never leaving.”

  Cilka and Maria follow the bed with Katya on it as it is pushed by Yelena to the operating room. Cilka has not been in this part of the hospital before. The door at the end of the ward always seemed forbidden territory to her. A short corridor leads to two small anterooms feeding into a slightly larger room with a big overhead light. Cilka heard about such rooms in Auschwitz. Chills overcome her, her breathing quickens.

  “It’s all right, Cilka,” Yelena says, “this is where we operate. Now come on, I need your help.”

  While Yelena stitches and bandages Katya’s head, manipulates and plasters her arm, examines the bruises which have now appeared on her legs and small body, none of which require medical attention, Cilka stands with Maria. At the sound of the bones in the girl’s arm crunching back into place, Maria buries her head in Cilka’s shoulder. Cilka takes a sharp breath, then places a loose arm around the distressed mother.

  In the recovery room, Cilka stands beside the chair while Maria sits with her head on the bed beside her daughter. When Katya wakes, crying, her mother comforts her as Cilka runs to get Yelena.

  A quick examination by Yelena determines that Katya has come through her procedures well. Cilka notices Katya looking at her quizzically, as if she doesn’t know who she is.

  “Hello, Katya, I am Cilka.”

  Katya registers her voice; a small smile crosses her lips.

  “These are the two angels who took care of you,” Maria tells her daughter.

  Katya continues to look at Cilka through one opened eye, the other partially covered by the large bandage encircling her head. Cilka is uncomfortable with the attention from the girl. Now the action is over she’s much more aware of the child’s smallness, her vulnerability, how it could all have gone so wrong.

  “There’s a truck outside waiting to take the girl home,” says a guard from the doorway. Cilka is glad she cannot hear the idling truck, a sound from her nightmares, a sound she would hear from her room in Block 25—the death cart waiting for its passengers. The guard steps aside as two men enter, carrying a stretcher between them. Yelena lifts Katya from the bed. The stretcher is placed on the bed and Yelena lowers Katya back down, carefully placing her broken arm across her small body. Blankets are piled on top of the delicate little frame.

  As the men lift the stretcher and walk toward the door Maria turns back to Cilka.

  “If there is anything I can do for you, please ask. I mean it.”

  “Thank you,” Cilka says. My freedom. That is an impossible request, she knows. “Thank you for letting me care for Katya.”

  “I wouldn’t let anyone else care for my children or myself but you and Yelena Georgiyevna.” She smiles.

  Cilka smiles back.

  “Goodbye,” Maria says.

  As she is leaving, Cilka studies the elegant woman she has spent the past few hours with. The delicate lace collar on her dress and the silver locket and chain hanging around her neck. The colorful belt that pulls her dress in to her tiny waist, and the shiny buckles on her shoes. It has been many years since she saw a woman dressed so beautifully. Images of her mother dressed similarly come into Cilka’s head. A memory to cling to. But that is fo
llowed by thoughts of her mother at the very end. A memory she can’t bear.

  It takes until the final hour of her shift for Cilka to find an excuse to go to the dispensary. She takes one container of the pills, slips it into the extra pocket sewn into her skirt where she normally puts food to take back to the hut. It is just one container, she thinks. She just can’t face up to this relative peace—this position, these friends—being lost.

  As she steps outside after her shift she glances over toward the administration building. She sees the messenger, the polite man with the brown eyes, walking across spotlit grass. He raises a cigarette to his lips, pauses his walk, closes his eyes and inhales. Despite his layers of clothing, his scarf and hat, his worn boots, there is an elegance to him, in the small pleasure he takes on the inhale, in the exhaled smoke rising above him and his gloved fingers poised in front of his mouth. Cilka feels something shift inside her.

  She keeps walking.

  CHAPTER 11

  Name: Stepan Adamovich Skliar

  Date: September 14, 1947. Time of Death: 10:44

  Placing the blanket over Stepan’s head, Cilka walks back to the desk area, slowly flicking through Stepan’s file. A couple of recent entries catch her attention and she reads on.

  Ukrainian prisoner, presented three days previously with stomach pain. Nothing identified on examination. Watch and wait. Age: 37 years.

  She looks for the treatment plan. There isn’t one. Investigations: nil. Pain relief: occasional.

  A doctor is sitting at the desk nearby. She hands him the file.

  “I’ve noted the time of death for this patient, Gleb Vitalyevich.”

  “Thank you, just leave it there.” He indicates a pile nearby.

  “If you would like to sign it, I can file it immediately.”

  The doctor takes the record from her and flicks quickly through it. He scribbles something on the front page and hands the file back.