Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  “Thank you, I’ll file it.”

  With her back turned to the doctor, Cilka looks at the entry. The doctor’s illegible signature beside her notation. Then the words “Cause of Death: unknown.”

  Cilka looks back at the doctor, noting how little he is writing in any record, how he is not reading previous entries, and how the pile of records that was in front of him when she approached is now reduced to three or four.

  With anger growing inside her, Cilka doesn’t see Yelena approaching until she stops in front of her, blocking her path.

  “Is something the matter, Cilka?”

  Cilka takes several moments to think of how to respond.

  “Why do you go to great lengths to save some people and not others? How do you decide who should live and who should die?”

  Yelena frowns. “We try and save everyone.”

  “You do, not every doctor here does.”

  Yelena takes the file from Cilka, scanning the last entries.

  “Hmm, I see what you mean. It’s possible that investigations were made and simply not recorded.”

  “Possible, but I don’t think so.”

  Yelena looks at Cilka seriously. “You need to be careful, Cilka. The administration needs functional bodies to work, and so saying anybody was deliberately hindering the sick from getting better so they can serve Mother Russia is a more serious accusation than you may realize.”

  Cilka takes back the file with a little more force than she should have.

  In the small filing room filled with boxes she goes to place Stepan’s file in the current open box. Taking the last two files out she quickly looks at the entries. Both causes of death do seem valid to her untrained brain. She will keep her thoughts to herself and heed Yelena’s advice not to pry. After all, it’s not as though she is doing everything right by the patients. Though she tries her hardest, there is that one container of pills slipped into her pocket every now and then.

  * * *

  “Are you religious?” Yelena asks Cilka one day, standing in the corner of the ward near an unconscious patient who has just been looked over by Gleb Vitalyevich. It is dark outside, and snowing.

  “No,” Cilka answers quickly, though it is not the full answer. “Why?”

  “Well…” She is keeping her voice low. As Cilka remembers, one does not talk about religion in the Soviet Union. Any religion. “It’s the season where some religions celebrate … I wasn’t sure if it meant anything to you.”

  “No, not me.” Cilka looks down at the patient. Talking about this means talking about a lot of other things. Talking about the annihilation of her people. About how hard it is to have faith the way she once could. “You?”

  “Well, in Georgia, it was always a time when we would gather with family, and have food and music…” It’s the first time Cilka has seen Yelena look properly sad, wistful. She is always forthright, practical, in the moment. “Are you just not … Christian?”

  “No, not a Christian.”

  “Dare I ask, any other religion?”

  Cilka pauses for a moment too long.

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. You know that if you ever want to talk about where you come from … just know I will not judge you.”

  Cilka smiles at her. “A long time ago, my family did celebrate … around this time of year. Also with food, lots of food, lights, blessings and songs…” She looks around her, fearing someone may overhear. “But it is hard to remember.”

  Deeply and instinctively, Cilka still often reaches for prayers. Her religion is tied to her childhood, her family, traditions and comfort. To another time. It is a part of who she is. At the same time, her faith has been challenged. It has been very hard for her to continue believing when it truly does not seem that actions are fairly rewarded or punished, when it seems instead that events are random, and that life is chaotic.

  “I understand,” Yelena says warmly.

  “I wonder if anyone is lighting a candle tonight for this poor fellow,” Cilka says, wanting to move the focus from herself.

  “Let’s hope so,” says Yelena. “For all these wretches. But you didn’t hear me say that.”

  Cilka nods and takes a step away from the bed, before turning back to Yelena.

  “If I was ever going to talk about my past, I would like it to be with you.”

  She has surprised herself by saying it. It is too much of a risk, and too difficult. And even if Yelena—the most compassionate person Cilka has met—could handle it, what if she told others? Even the patients in the hospital wouldn’t want her around. Someone who has overseen so much death.

  “Whenever you’re ready, come and find me,” Yelena says.

  The ward is quiet for a moment, unusually so. Cilka stands by the window, watching the snow flurry in the blue-black sky. Closing her eyes, she sees her family sitting around the table. Her beloved father reciting blessings, the lighting of the menorah, the pure joy of being together. She can smell and taste the latkes, potato pancakes fried in oil, that will be eaten for the next eight days. She remembers the excitement of being a young girl given her first candle to light. How she pestered her father many times to be allowed to light the first one. How she never accepted his explanation that it was the man in the house who did it. Then the memory of the time he relented, telling her she had the courage and determination of any boy and as long as it was their family secret, she could light the first candle. She then remembers when that was. The last time she sat with her family to welcome and celebrate Hanukkah.

  “Hanukkah sameach,” she whispers to herself. “Happy Hanukkah, my family: Ocko, Mamička. Magda.”

  Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1942

  “Happy birthday. Pack the new coat Mumma and Papa gave you for your birthday, Cilka. You may need it,” Magda whispers as the sisters each pack a small suitcase.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Poprad. We have to catch the train there for Bratislava.”

  “And Mumma and Papa?”

  “They will take us to the train station and we will see them when we come home. We must be brave, little sister, keep Mumma and Papa safe by going to work for the Germans.”

  “I’m always brave,” Cilka says firmly.

  “Yes, you are, but tomorrow when we say goodbye, you have to be especially brave. We will stay together and … and you can look after me.” Magda winks at her little sister.

  Cilka continues putting her very best dresses into the suitcase.

  She will do her family proud.

  * * *

  Cilka has contained all this for so long. She is not sure if it is the darkness or the quiet, or Yelena’s open face, but she has to run to the nearby linen room. She closes the door, heart racing, and drops onto the floor, burying her face in dirty soiled linen so no one can hear the sobs that are escaping her.

  With no sense of how long she has been down there, Cilka struggles to her feet. She smooths down her clothing, wipes her fingers under her lashes, making sure it is not obvious that she has been crying. She needs to get back to work.

  She takes a deep breath and opens the door. As she leaves the room she hears—

  “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Cilka squares her shoulders. Striding toward her is the doctor she despises for his attitude and complete lack of compassion in treating his patients: Gleb Vitalyevich. She has often wondered if it would be possible to compare the survival rate of his patients with other doctors. She knows he would be the worst by far.

  “Watch Bed 9 for time of death. I’m going off for a while. I’ll sign it off tomorrow.”

  She watches him walk away. I know about you, she thinks, throwing silent daggers at his back.

  Bed 9 is the unconscious wretch by the window. Cilka leans in and, with detachment, feels for the pulse in his neck. She is shocked to feel a strong, healthy thud thud, thud thud … She peels back his right eyelid and notes the pinprick-sized pupil, sees a flutter of movement.
Looking around, she observes that Yelena and the two nurses present are occupied. She can see Josie’s back in the filing room.

  The man’s file lies at the foot of the bed. As she is about to pick it up, she hesitates, and pulls the blankets away, revealing his feet. She scratches her fingernail down his right foot. It twitches. She reads his file.

  A single line. Name: Isaac Ivanovich Kuznetsov. December 24, 1947. Found unconscious in his bed, unresponsive, brought to hospital. Not for treatment.

  Isaac. A Jewish name. Cilka tries to control her breathing. No. No. Not today, not this man. She will not sit by and watch him die if there is something that can be done to save him.

  From the dispensary, Cilka finds the medication she has used many times before to wave under the noses of unconscious patients to try to bring them around. A foul-smelling substance she has often thought could wake the dead. Gently she slaps his face, calling his name. A small whimper escapes his lips. She holds the cloth containing the substance close to his nose. She pinches his nostrils shut for a moment or two before releasing them. Being denied oxygen briefly his nostrils flare open and inhale. Immediately, he responds; his eyes open as he gasps for breath, choking. She gently rolls him onto his side. Soothing words float from her lips to his ears as he turns his eyes upward toward her.

  At that moment, Josie comes over to see if she can help.

  “Is Yelena Georgiyevna available?” Cilka says.

  Josie reaches out to Cilka, a look of concern on her face. “Cilka, are you all right?”

  Cilka has forgotten, already, about the linen room, though she does feel tired, emptied out.

  “I am, Josie. I just need to help this man.”

  Josie looks around. “I’ll find her,” she says.

  Cilka is glad that she and Josie have become close again. Josie was quiet and subdued, and closed off, for a long time after Natalya disappeared. But she began to enjoy conspiring with Cilka to sneak food back to the hut, especially when winter set in. They have been pretty lucky with the food, and sometimes Cilka has to remind herself to be careful. Mostly the women do not leave so much as a crumb, so it’s okay. But if the head guard, Klavdiya Arsenyevna, came in at the wrong time, it could be the hole or worse for Cilka and Josie. Not to mention Hannah, whose pills are swapped from pocket to pocket and then, Cilka assumes, sewn into something—her mattress, perhaps—by night.

  Josie returns a few moments later with Yelena.

  Cilka explains how she was meant to be watching the patient to record time of death but was concerned no attempt had been made to work out why he was here. When she did some tests of her own, she discovered he had a strong pulse and good reflexes. She used the smelling substance and he has regained consciousness.

  Yelena listens intently. Reads the sole entry on his file.

  She draws a breath through her teeth. “You have interfered here, Cilka. Gleb Vitalyevich isn’t going to like this.”

  “But—”

  “I do think you’ve done the right thing, and I’ll take a look at the patient, but I can’t guarantee there won’t be consequences for you. Remember what I said? You two go. It’s time to finish up and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You won’t get in trouble, will you?” Cilka asks Yelena.

  “No. I’ll try and make it look like he recovered on his own,” she says.

  Cilka looks down at the bewildered man lying in the bed.

  “You’ll be fine, Isaac. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Cilka and Josie go to get their coats, their scarves, their hats.

  * * *

  That night, Cilka hardly sleeps. How can saving a man be a problem? Why is it that her life always pushes her to be confronted by, or to embrace, the deaths of others? Why is it that, even if she tries, she cannot change this? Is there any point ever getting attached to another person—Josie? Yelena? They are always in danger.

  * * *

  When Cilka arrives on the ward the next morning, she is greeted by Gleb Vitalyevich and a bulky-looking trustie thug.

  “I want her out of here,” he screams on seeing Cilka.

  The trustie moves toward her.

  “She’s an interfering, mixed-up zechka who does nothing here of any lasting good. She’d be of better use in the mines.”

  Yelena and the other staff stand back watching the rant. Cilka looks pleadingly at Yelena. She shakes her head, indicating there is nothing she can do. Josie stands close behind Cilka, silently supporting her.

  The trustie grips Cilka’s upper arm, steering her to the door.

  “It’ll be all right,” Cilka calls out to Josie.

  “She is going,” Gleb Vitalyevich says. “Now, the rest of you get back to work.”

  Cilka glances at Bed 9 and sees Isaac sitting up. She throws him a quick smile as she is forced out of the ward. The trustie follows her all the way to her hut.

  CHAPTER 12

  The next morning at roll call Josie keeps looking at Cilka, and then at Antonina Karpovna, as Klavdiya Arsenyevna barks out their names. They stand in ankle-deep snow. Cilka looks back at Josie’s questioning eyes beneath the lace detail on her hat. When Josie turns back to Antonina, the searchlight casts a patterned shadow across her pale cheek. Cilka knows Josie is wondering when she is going to tell Antonina she has to put her back on another work detail. As Josie leaves the hut to head toward the hospital, Cilka falls into line with her.

  “What are you doing, Cilka? You can’t come back,” Josie says, worried. Cilka did not tell their hut-mates last night why she’d been back early; she’d feigned illness.

  “I assumed you just weren’t ready to tell everyone yesterday—I didn’t know you would try to come back!” Josie says.

  “I am going to stand up for myself,” Cilka says. “I did nothing wrong, I deserve to have my job back.”

  She is surprising even herself, but something became clear to her overnight. She will no longer accept death, which is all around her, as inevitable.

  “You’ll get thrown in the hole! Please, Cilka, go back. Don’t do this.”

  “I’ll be all right, Josie. I just need your help.”

  “I can’t. I don’t want to go back to working at the mine. I’ll die there. Please, Cilka.”

  “Just this one thing. I’ll wait outside. You go in and find Yelena Georgiyevna, ask her to come outside and talk to me. That’s all. I won’t walk into the hospital with you. No one but the doctor will know I’m here.”

  “What if she’s not there? What if she’s busy?”

  “I’ll wait for a while, and if she doesn’t come out, I’ll go back to the hut and think of something else.”

  She has a good enough relationship with Antonina Karpovna by now, having lined her stomach with hospital food just like her hut-mates, so there’s a certain amount she can get away with. As long as Antonina also keeps the guard Klavdiya Arsenyevna happy.

  Cilka lets Josie get a few steps ahead of her. When Josie enters the hospital, Cilka leans against the building, grateful for once for the swirling snow that covers her, blending her into the surroundings. She watches the door.

  It finally opens and two men walk away without noticing her. She waits. She watches. Time passes.

  The door remains closed.

  Back in her hut, Cilka flings herself onto her bed, beating the thin mattress, screaming at the world, screaming at her stupidity in losing a job that kept her safe and helped to feed her hut-mates. She falls asleep, facedown, drained of energy, of emotion.

  A hard slap across the back of her head brings Cilka back to time and place.

  Klavdiya Arsenyevna stands over her, her hand raised to strike her again.

  “What are you doing here? Get on your feet,” she screams.

  Crawling to the end of her bed, scrambling to her feet, with her head down, Cilka stares at the foot tapping out a threatening tune on the wooden floor.

  “I said, what are you doing here in the middle of the day? Answer me, zechka.”

  �
��I-I work in the hospital, but I’m not needed there today,” Cilka mutters, trying to buy herself time to explain her dismissal.

  “So you thought you could just spend the day in bed? In the comfort of a warm hut while everyone else is out working?”

  In fact the stove is barely working, the temperature inside the hut is not much warmer than outside. Cilka is still in her coat and hat.

  “No, I didn’t know what to do after I left the hospital this morning so came back here, that’s all.”

  “Well then, let me put you to work.”

  “Yes, Klavdiya Arsenyevna.”

  Klavdiya pulls the blanket and mattress from Cilka’s bed, throwing it into the middle of the room.

  “Your turn.”

  “I’m sorry, what do you want me to do?”

  “Strip every bed into a pile. You can then explain to the others when they return how you trashed their tidy little home. You will do this and bear the consequences. Now get going.”

  Josie’s bed, being next to Cilka’s, is quickly added to the middle of the room. And then the next, and the next, until mattresses and blankets cover the entire floor of the hut. Klavdiya positions herself next to the stove, enjoying the scene.

  With the last bed stripped, Cilka looks back at Klavdiya, awaiting further instructions.

  Klavdiya walks to the back of the hut next to Cilka’s bedding and begins kicking it, looking for something that shouldn’t be there. A letter, something smuggled into the hut.

  Next to Cilka’s bed, Klavdiya kicks the sheet that has clearly come from Josie’s bed, before picking it up and examining what looks like another piece of fabric sewn onto the sheet.

  “What’s this?” she calls out to Cilka.

  Hurrying to her side, Cilka examines the sheet with the attached piece of fabric containing words written in Cyrillic text, the names of medications.

  “Who sleeps here?” Klavdiya demands to know, pointing at Josie’s bed.

  Cilka doesn’t answer.

  Klavdiya stares at her. “You will sit here among this mess until the others have come back and then I shall return. Don’t forget to tell them it was you who did all this,” she says, sweeping her hand around the room. “You did a better job than I would,” she adds with a snarl. “I want it to look just like this when I return, so don’t go getting any ideas about fixing it up. Tell Antonina Karpovna to be here when I return also.”