Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  Punishing herself for her foolishness, Cilka curls up on the wooden slats of her bed.

  * * *

  The blast of icy wind alerts Cilka to the arrival of the women, Josie coming in behind them. They enter slowly, stepping over the scattered bedding, shaking their heads in disgust at yet another violation of their space.

  “Antonina Karpovna,” Cilka calls out as the brigadier is about to shut the door and leave. “Please, Antonina Karpovna, Klavdiya Arsenyevna has asked that you stay until she returns.”

  “Can we make our beds?” one of the women asks.

  “No. And I have to tell you something.”

  The women pause, all eyes on Cilka.

  “It wasn’t the guard who did this, it was me.”

  “Why did you do this?” Elena asks.

  “Because Klavdiya made her, obviously.” Josie jumps to Cilka’s defense.

  “Is that right?” Elena asks.

  “Still, it was me who did it,” Cilka replies.

  She flicks her eyes to Hannah, who is red-faced as she presses around the edges of her mattress, seeming to find her pills safe.

  Antonina walks down toward Cilka.

  “What’s this all about? Why weren’t you at work?”

  “Well…” Cilka says, struggling to hold on to a voice that threatens to break.

  She is saved by the door opening and Klavdiya stepping inside the hut, imposing in her uniform. She looks around with a wicked smirk on her face.

  “Get this place tidied up, you lazy bitches.” To Antonina, she says, “Come with me,” and the two of them walk to the end of the hut where Josie has been putting her mattress and sheet back on the bed. They stop beside the bed. Josie stops what she is doing. Cilka stands beside her unmade bed.

  “Is this yours?” Klavdiya asks Josie.

  “Yes, Klavdiya Arsenyevna.”

  Klavdiya yanks the sheet away from the mattress, turning it over, revealing the sewn patch with writing. She shows it to Antonina and asks her, “What is this?”

  Antonina looks at the sheet with writing thrust at her.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t…”

  “I’m sorry, Josie, you have the wrong sheet. This is mine,” Cilka blurts out.

  All eyes turn to Cilka as she reaches out and takes the sheet from Klavdiya.

  “These are the names of medications we use in the hospital. I wrote them to practice spelling them. I didn’t want to make mistakes in the patients’ records.”

  “Cilka, no,” Josie says.

  “It’s all right, Josie, I’m sorry you picked up my sheet. Please, Klavdiya Arsenyevna, this is mine, I’m the one to blame.”

  Klavdiya turns on Antonina.

  “You are responsible for what goes on in this hut. What have you got to say for yourself? When was the last time you inspected this?”

  “I only did it today, this morning, when I returned,” says Cilka. “Before you came. Antonina Karpovna couldn’t possibly have known about this. She inspected our beds only yesterday.”

  “Is that right?” Klavdiya asks, looking at Antonina.

  “I haven’t seen this before,” Antonina replies, looking at Cilka with concern.

  “Cilka, no…” Josie wails.

  “It’s all right, Josie, make your bed. I’ll be fine.”

  Cilka is grabbed by the arm, marched from the hut.

  * * *

  Cilka lies curled up on the stone floor of a tiny cell. She wears only her underclothes. She is shivering so hard her hip and shoulder are turning to bruises. In front of her nose is a damp wall, smelling of mold. A barred window at neck height lets in the weather.

  With no sense of time, she trains herself to sleep, inviting in the blankness. She wakes from nightmares, screaming, thrashing about, banging her limbs on the cold, hard floor and wall. She shivers more, the bruises blossoming all over her.

  Sometimes a hand throws in a hardened chunk of black bread, sometimes a cup of soup so thin it could just be water.

  The toilet bucket in the corner reeks; it is rarely changed.

  When she wakes from her nightmares Cilka willingly invites the blankness back. But sometimes it will not stay. There is too much quiet, and a tight band of pressure around her head. Hunger, thirst, pain, cold.

  She keeps seeing her mother, her hand slipping from Cilka’s, the death cart being driven away.

  Other women’s faces. Shaved heads, sunken cheeks. They all had a name. They all had a number.

  The images crackle, burn. The crying of the women permeates the silence. Or maybe it is her, crying. She is no longer sure.

  At some point, a man enters. A blurred face. Gleb Vitalyevich. Cilka is too weak to protest when he takes her arm, feels for her pulse.

  “Strong. Keep going,” the doctor says.

  No. A wild, angry scream rises from within her. She bucks on the floor, screaming. He closes the door. Her nails scrape the mold from the walls. She screams on.

  Maybe this was where it has all been leading. But to go through all of that, and end here? No. Some part of her wills herself to go back to stillness, distance. Do not give in to madness.

  She will survive, she knows that. She can survive anything.

  The loud clanking screech of the door opening.

  “Get up, get out,” a blurred face says.

  Unable to walk, she crawls from the hole through the open door.

  The glare of the weak setting sun bouncing off the snow blinds her, and she can’t see the person screaming abuse but then recognizes the voice. Klavdiya Arsenyevna kicks her in the side. She curls up in a ball only to find herself being pulled by the hair up onto her feet. Dragged like this, stumbling continually, Cilka is returned to her hut as the others are arriving back from their different work areas.

  The women in Hut 29 look down on the frail, broken body of Cilka lying on the floor, Klavdiya challenging them to help her, waiting to strike out at anyone who attempts to do so. Cilka crawls through the hut to her bed at the end of the room and pulls herself onto the bed. The mattress feels almost unbearably soft.

  “Anyone else who has material they shouldn’t will get double the stay in the hole.” She leaves the door open as she departs, glaring at Antonina as she passes.

  Antonina closes the door and hurries to Cilka. Josie has already wrapped her in her arms, weeping as she rocks her, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Cilka can feel where every bone in her body meets skin, meets material, meets the other bodies, the bed.

  The women gather around, curious to hear what Cilka has to say. She is not the first one of them to spend time in the hole, but she is the first to have been punished for someone else’s error.

  “Has anyone got some food they can give her?” Antonina says. “Elena, get the kettle boiling and make her some tea.”

  She turns to Cilka. “Can you sit up? Here, let me help you.”

  Elena does as she’s told.

  Cilka lets Antonina help her sit up to rest against the wall. Josie hands her a large chunk of bread, everyone grateful that Antonina has never objected to food being in the hut, having also been the beneficiary of the patients’ uneaten meals. Antonina often trades this food for goods for Klavdiya. There is a network and the rules are murky. This is the prerogative of the guards and, beneath them, the brigadiers—to bend the rules or enforce them, at will. Depending on what they are getting out of it.

  Cilka nibbles on the bread and soon a cup of strong tea is in her hand.

  “Do you think you can make it to the mess?” Antonina asks.

  “No, it’s all right. I just want to sleep in a bed.”

  “I’ll have Josie bring you back something. The rest of you, off to dinner.”

  “Can I stay with her?” Josie asks.

  “You need to go to the mess, eat, and bring back something hot for Cilka.”

  The women head toward the door, pulling on layers of clothing. Hannah is the last of them. She stands by the door, looks back at Cilka.
/>   “I know what you did,” she says.

  “You don’t know anything,” Cilka says flatly.

  “No, I mean for Josie.” She sighs. “But don’t think this gets you off the hook with me.”

  Cilka says nothing.

  “I could have told them everything, while you were in there.”

  Cilka rolls away, tries to block out the voice.

  “You would have come back and been shunned. You only help people so you can feel better about having rolled over for evil.” She pauses. “You’re lucky, I have found another supply point for … what I need. For now. But you will keep doing whatever it is I ask you to. Because I will tell them.”

  She closes the door.

  * * *

  The next morning Cilka struggles to get out of bed, her legs collapsing underneath her at first. Josie returns from the mess with breakfast for her. Antonina tells her not to report for roll call, she will mark her as present.

  As the women prepare to go to work Cilka limps out to join them, not knowing where she should go.

  “Josie, take her to the hospital with you. I think she needs to see a doctor,” Antonina says.

  Cilka looks at Josie. She doesn’t want to tell Antonina, but it has occurred to her that the doctor who fired her, Gleb Vitalyevich, might have some connection to the guard Klavdiya Arsenyevna. That he may have told her Cilka would be in her hut, and to make things worse for her.

  It would be risky to go to the hospital, when last time, Josie had not been able to get Yelena alone and let her know Cilka was waiting outside. But Cilka can’t stay in the hut for fear of being accused of “shirking” again, nor is she able to go to the mines and work—she is not strong enough. She will have to face the hospital and hope that she and Josie can get Yelena’s attention, and not Gleb’s.

  * * *

  This time, Josie leaves Cilka in the waiting area, leaning against a wall, and goes through to the ward. Cilka has her hat pulled low. Soon several staff members rush out to her and assist her into a chair.

  “Get Yelena,” Raisa says to no one in particular.

  “I’m right here,” Yelena says, pushing her way to Cilka.

  “Hello,” says Cilka, forcing a smile.

  “Come with me,” Yelena says, helping her to her feet. “Gleb Vitalyevich is not in yet.” They enter the ward and go through to the nearby dispensary. Sitting her on the only chair in there, Yelena carries out a cursory examination of Cilka’s face and hands, tenderly stroking her dirty face.

  “We’ll get you cleaned up and I’ll take a better look at you. How do you feel?”

  “Stiff, sore, worn out. I ache in bones and muscles I never knew I had, but I’m all right. I survived.”

  She feels guilty sitting in this room though, remembering the drugs she’s taken.

  “I’m so sorry this happened, Cilka.” Cilka can see the regret in Yelena’s eyes. “We are all in danger from him, but I wish—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” says Cilka.

  “What are we going to do with you?” Yelena asks, sighing.

  “Can’t you get me my job back? You know what I did was the right thing.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I know, I can’t take you back here.” Yelena looks pained.

  “Well, where else can I work? I want to help people. And I know I’m not currently strong enough for the mines.”

  Yelena looks away, thinking. Cilka waits.

  “I have a colleague who works in the maternity ward behind us. I don’t know if they need anyone, Cilka, and I don’t want to get your hopes up…”

  A maternity ward, in this place? Of course, there would have to be, Cilka thinks. But what happens to the children afterward? Perhaps it is better to not think of that, for now.

  “I’ll go anywhere I can help.”

  “I will ask him,” Yelena says. “Have you had any experience delivering babies?”

  Cilka flashes back to the night she held Natalya’s premature, stillborn son. How useless she felt.

  “Well, I have helped deliver one baby here.”

  “Ah yes, I remember. You brought his body to us. I can’t promise anything, but I will ask.”

  “Thank you, thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  “I can’t keep you here today. You will have to risk going back to the hut. A note may not be enough, but I’ll get a messenger to alert the relevant parties. He can take you back too. Wait here.”

  Cilka rests her head against a shelf, feeling light-headed. She needs this job to work out. She thinks about how grateful she is to Yelena for the ways she has always tried to help.

  The door opens and Yelena and the messenger enter. She looks up and another wave of dizziness overtakes her. It is the man with the brown eyes. He smiles gently as Yelena relays instructions to him. He looks at Yelena, nods, then reaches out a hand for Cilka’s arm, just above the elbow. He helps to lift her from the chair and opens the door.

  Outside the hospital, his grip remains firmly on her upper arm, and he keeps his body at a polite distance as they walk toward the huts in a light snowfall. Where is he from? Why is he here? Why does she even want to know?

  “Your name is Cilka Klein?” he asks.

  “Yes,” she says. She looks briefly up at his face. He is looking ahead, snow dusting his face, his eyelashes. His accent is recognizable.

  “You are Czech,” she says.

  “Yes.” He stops, looks down at her.

  “What is your name?” She switches to speaking to him in Czech, to which he gives a delighted laugh, his eyes lighting up.

  “Alexandr Petrik.”

  Before they start walking again he releases her arm momentarily to light a cigarette. As he closes his eyes to draw in the smoke, Cilka studies his face—his dark eyebrows, his lips, his strong jawline above his scarf. He opens his eyes and she looks quickly away.

  He takes her arm again, and she leans in a little closer to his side.

  They arrive at the hut, and though Cilka is exhausted and needs to lie down, it feels too soon.

  He opens the door for her, and she goes in. He remains outside.

  “I will take my messages,” he says. “And I … hope to see you again soon, Cilka Klein.”

  Again, words get stuck in Cilka’s mouth. She nods to him, then lets the door close.

  * * *

  The next morning Cilka walks with Josie to the hospital. As Josie enters, Yelena steps outside, taking Cilka by the arm.

  “Come with me.”

  Heads down, they fight against a blizzard, their progress slow. The snow-blast stings Cilka’s sensitive skin, where it is uncovered. Behind the main hospital building, several smaller ones are barely visible. Yelena heads for one of them and they go inside.

  A man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck is waiting for them.

  “Cilka, this is Dr. Labadze, Petre Davitovich. He and I trained together in Georgia and he has been kind enough to agree to give you a trial. Thank you, Petre Davitovich. Cilka is a quick learner and patients love her.”

  “If you recommend her, Yelena Georgiyevna, then I am sure she is good.”

  Cilka says nothing, worried that if she opens her mouth, she will say the wrong thing.

  “Look after yourself, Cilka, and do as you are told,” Yelena says pointedly. “No doing things on your own.”

  With a quick wink, Yelena leaves Cilka with Petre.

  “Take your coat off, you can hang it on a hook behind you, and come with me.”

  A nearby door opens into a small ward. Cilka hears the cries of laboring women before she sees them.

  Six beds line each side of the room. Seven of them are occupied, one by a mother with a new arrival, the delicate cries of a newborn competing with the women’s moans of pain.

  Two nurses move quickly and efficiently between the women, three of whom have their knees bent, close to giving birth.

  “Welcome to our world,” the doctor says. “Some days we have one or two women birthin
g, other days they fill the beds and can be on the floor. No predicting.”

  “Are these women all prisoners?” Cilka asks.

  “They are,” the doctor says.

  “How many nurses do you have working each day?”

  “Two, though you will make three, but one of them will probably move to the night shift.” Relief and gratitude run through Cilka. Clearly room has been made for her. “I don’t know why babies insist on being born during the night, but it seems to happen. Have you delivered babies before?”

  “Just the one, a stillborn in our hut.”

  He nods. “No matter, you’ll catch on. Really, there is not much for you to do, just catch the baby,” he says with a hint of humor. “The women have to do it themselves. What I need you to do is look for signs of problems—the head is too big, the birth not advancing like it should—and let myself or one of the other doctors know.”

  “How many doctors work here?”

  “Just the two of us, one day shift, the other night shift. We swap around. Let’s go and take a look at Bed 2.”

  The woman in Bed 2 has her bent legs exposed, her face soaked in perspiration and tears as she groans quietly.

  “You’re doing well, nearly there.” He takes a peek at the bottom of the bed. “Not long now.”

  Cilka leans over the woman.

  “Hello, I’m Cilka Klein.” In the absence of a patronymic name, which is used when the Russians greet each other, Cilka often uses two names—her first and last—when introducing herself, to make the person she is talking to comfortable. “What’s your name?”

  “Aaaargh…” she grunts. “Niiiina Romano … va.”

  “Have you had a baby before, Nina Romanova?”

  “Three. Three boys.”

  “Doctor, doctor! Here, quick,” is shouted from the other end of the ward.