Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  Looking around, Cilka tries to process the meaning of what she sees. The two other staff stand chatting, each with an infant on her hip, jiggling it up and down in an attempt to soothe it. They seem oblivious to the howling babies, the toddlers fighting over a ratty blanket. Several have no nappy on; the smell of urine and feces is overpowering.

  The new mother attempts to hand her newborn over.

  “Look after her yourself for a while,” Irina Igorevna says. “She won’t bite, or maybe she will when she realizes who her mumma is.”

  She turns to Cilka and thrusts her chin at her. “Who are you?”

  “I’m one of the nurses. I was asked to bring her over here.”

  “All right then. This one knows what to do—you can go.”

  Cilka can’t just yet. “Excuse me,” she asks. “How many babies do you have here?”

  “Twenty is our maximum; there are only twenty beds next door for the mothers.”

  “How long are they allowed to stay here? Some of them don’t look like babies anymore.”

  “New, huh? Well, printsessa, here’s how it works. When Anya here produces another bastard, she gets to stay here until the kid is two, then she gets sent back to a general hut to get knocked up again and it starts all over.”

  “So she doesn’t have to work? Just stays here and looks after her baby?”

  “Do you see any other mothers here? Do you? No. Anya will go next door and look after her bastard by herself for four weeks, then she will bring it here each morning and go off to work like the rest of the poor bastards.”

  “And you three look after the babies during the day.”

  “Got an education, have you? Worked that out by yourself, did you?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend,” Cilka says, not wanting to get on anyone’s wrong side again. “I had no idea how it worked, that’s all.”

  The woman’s face softens a little.

  “Are there more huts?”

  “If you must know, the majority of the new arrivals go with their mothers to the big unit down the road, at Rechlag,” says Irina Igorevna. “You’re very nosy.”

  “Can I have a look around?”

  “Please yourself. I’ve got things to do, can’t stand here chatting all day. Anya, get out of here.”

  “Thanks,” says the departing mother to Cilka. “See you around.”

  “Anna Anatolyeva,” Cilka says tentatively. “I think … Jozefína … Josie, is a nice name.”

  The woman shrugs. “Fine, whatever you want. I’ll take little Josie and go and have a lie-down.”

  An infant has crawled over to Cilka, plonking himself on one of her feet, and is staring up at her. Cilka bends down and picks him up. His little fingers poke her in the mouth, the eyes and up her nostrils. She giggles and tickles him on the belly. He doesn’t respond, keeps wanting to put his fingers up her nose.

  With the boy balanced on her hip Cilka walks around the room, looking at the other infants. She stops at a small baby lying on a blanket on the floor staring at the ceiling. Cilka moves her head to get its attention; only a small movement of its head shows it knows Cilka is there. Placing the boy on the floor she touches the baby; it is hot to the touch in a room badly in need of heating. She picks up one of its arms and lets it go. The baby makes no attempt to stop its arm flopping onto the floor.

  Cilka calls out to the staff. “Excuse me, this baby is sick, there’s something wrong with it.”

  One of the attendants wanders over.

  “Yeah, been like that for a couple of days.”

  “Has a doctor seen it?”

  “Doctors don’t come here, love. These little ones either make it or they don’t. This will be one that probably won’t.”

  Cilka looks again at the tiny form, its large head and sunken cheeks, its ribs showing under the skin.

  She has seen enough.

  “Thank you,” she says to no one in particular. She leaves.

  * * *

  When Cilka returns to the maternity ward, Petre greets her.

  “Hello. Where have you been?”

  “Next door—to the nursery. I went with Anna Anatolyeva and her baby.”

  Cilka offers no further explanation; she wants to get away from him, away from the images she has just seen, busy herself by cleaning.

  “And what did you think of our nursery?”

  “Do you ever go there?” she blurts out.

  “No, my job is here, delivering babies. Why do you ask?”

  “Because some of those babies you deliver safe and sound lie on the floor over there sick and dying.”

  “And you know they are dying?”

  “I saw it for myself. The staff there, I don’t know what you call them, they’re not nurses—they show very little interest in the babies. They told me only the strong survive, but they might just be sick. They could live if they got care and treatment.”

  “All right, all right, Cilka, settle down. Why don’t we talk about this another day?”

  “When?”

  “When we are not so busy.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “When we are not so busy,” Petre repeats. “Now you had better get back to work.”

  * * *

  Several weeks pass. The frost starts to thaw, the days get longer. Petre seems to be avoiding Cilka. She struggles. She has learned her lesson about interfering in medical matters, so she never mentions the building next door with the neglected babies. But it’s pressing at her. To know something could be done. Once, she’d had to accept circumstances like these. How can she now?

  One day she is working with Tatiana and they only have one patient laboring. Petre comes in and checks on the woman. He watches Cilka tidying the administration area, neatly stacking files, checking for entries—the tasks that can only be done when you aren’t busy. Pulling up a chair, he says to Cilka, “Let’s talk about the babies in the nursery, shall we?”

  “I … shouldn’t have said anything, it’s not my place.” She is clenching her jaw.

  “True.” His face, with its bushy brows and mustache, is enigmatic. “You know, I spoke to Yelena Georgiyevna about you. She asks about you all the time.”

  “Really? How is she?” Cilka’s chest aches. She doesn’t admit to herself she is missing anyone, anything, until her body reminds her that that is the case.

  “She’s good. Busy. I told her what you said about the babies.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She laughed and said, that sounds like Cilka, trying to fix everything.”

  “It’s just, well … you take good care of the mothers, making sure they have healthy babies, then they get sent over there and no one cares anymore.”

  “I’m sure their mothers do.”

  “Yes, of course, but they work all day and only return to the nursery at night. How are they ever going to get a doctor to check on their babies?”

  “That is a very good point. Well, the State cares too, or should do. Those babies are our future workers.”

  There does seem to be quite a contradiction about that in this place though, Cilka thinks. Such as the workers getting less food when their productivity drops—as punishment. There are always more people out there to arrest, to replace the dead. But of course she cannot voice any of this out loud.

  “How about, given it is quiet here today, you and I go to the nursery and I’ll have a look at any baby you think needs to see a doctor,” Petre says.

  “I’ll get my coat.”

  Petre laughs, retrieves his coat and follows Cilka out the door.

  The smile on Petre’s face disappears the moment he enters the nursery. The three staff are sitting together sipping steaming cups of tea. Babies and infants lie on the floor; some crawl lethargically in circles. He stares in disbelief.

  “You’re back,” Irina Igorevna calls out before registering Cilka is not alone. She puts her cup down and hurries over to Cilka and Petre.

  “This is Petre Davitovich,
the maternity doctor,” Cilka says. “He has come to have a look at some of the babies, to see if any of them needs medical attention.”

  Wiping her grubby hands on her dress, the woman extends her hand.

  “Irina Igorevna, I’m in charge.”

  Petre doesn’t take her hand.

  “I’m glad you’ve identified yourself. I’m going to take a look at some of these babies. Show me your charts with their feeding regime.”

  “Well, we don’t have charts. We just feed them when we can with what we’ve got; there’s never enough to go around so we give it to the strongest. They make the most noise.” She giggles.

  Petre goes to the nearest baby, lying limply on a blanket, a thin smock hanging loosely on its body, eyes sunken. The baby doesn’t respond when he picks it up. He carries it to the table the three women were sitting around, sweeps their cups to the side, gently places the baby on the table and begins examining it. Cilka stands beside him.

  “How old is this infant?”

  The three women look from one to another, none of them wanting to speak.

  “Irina Igorevna, I said, how old is this infant?”

  “I don’t know, we just look after them during the day while their mothers are working; there are too many of them for us to get to know them—there are only three of us,” she says, waving her hand around at the others.

  “This child is starving. When was the last time you fed him?”

  “We would have offered him something a couple of hours ago, but I don’t think he wanted anything,” Irina replies.

  “Cilka, put him in a cot.”

  Cilka takes the little boy and gently places him in a nearby cot. Petre picks up the next infant and repeats the examination. He asks no further questions of the nursery staff. Another baby is given to Cilka.

  By the time all the sickly babies have had a quick examination, seven are lined up lying quietly in two cots.

  “You two,” Petre points to the other two staff members, “put your coats on, wrap up two of the babies and come with me. Cilka, can you take two, please?” He picks up the remaining baby, snuggles it inside his coat and heads out the door with Cilka and the nursery staff following.

  Back on the ward, he has three babies placed on one bed, four on another. With a flick of his hand he dismisses the nursery staff, who beat a hasty retreat.

  Tatiana and Svetlana gather at the beds, looking down at the babies.

  “Oh my God, what’s happened to them?” Svetlana wails.

  “Do either of you know how we can get our hands on some milk?” Petre asks.

  “I’ll find it. Look after them and I’ll be back,” Tatiana says as she grabs her coat and heads out.

  “Svetlana, see if you can find the doctor called Yelena Georgiyevna and ask her if she can come here.”

  “What can I do?” Cilka asks.

  “Well, I could say you’ve done enough,” he says with a half-laugh. “Get some charts and write down what I say about each one of these poor little things. We don’t know their names so you will have to call them baby one, baby two, and so on.”

  As Cilka walks past the only patient on the ward, returning with charts and pens, the woman softly calls out to her, “What’s going on over there?”

  “It’s all right, just some sick babies. Don’t worry, we’re going to take care of them.”

  Petre is wrapping up the first baby he examined.

  “Baby one,” he says. “Male. Severe malnutrition, fever, infected bug bites, possible deafness. Four to six months of age, hard to tell.”

  Cilka quickly writes down his comments below the notation “Baby 1.” With a thicker pen she gently writes the number one on the baby’s forehead, fighting to shut out memories of her own, permanent marking.

  They hear the door open, followed by, “Oh, Cilka, what have you done now?”

  Svetlana has returned with Yelena. Close behind them Tatiana runs in, carrying a box with baby bottles, each half-filled with nursing mothers’ milk.

  Petre fills Yelena in on what they are dealing with. She immediately claims a baby, and strips the child bare to examine her.

  “Make her number three, Cilka, I’ve got number two,” calls out Petre.

  Tatiana and Svetlana set about warming up the bottles, holding them in a basin of boiling water. Yelena warns them not to let the babies drink too much; they must be given small amounts and often if they are to recover. The new mother whose baby is sleeping soundly offers to help with feeding and finds herself with a strange baby in her arms.

  As the day ends, seven worried mothers appear on the ward, looking for their infants. Petre and Yelena talk to them, assuring them they do not blame them for the condition their infants are in. They are told to stay the night on the ward, food will be brought to them, and they will be shown how to feed their babies every hour—small quantities.

  The nurses for the changeover shift appear. Tatiana sends them away saying she will stay the night. Cilka asks if she too can stay.

  * * *

  Over the next several weeks, the management of the nursery changes. The original staff disappear, replaced by carers approved by Petre and Tatiana. A recording system relating to each baby is put in place. Petre gives Cilka the responsibility of visiting the nursery once a week to identify any baby or infant she determines is in need of medical attention. Despite Petre’s belief that these children are important to the system as future workers, Cilka thinks the system might also see them, for now, as a drain on resources. She wonders whether they are all at risk of punishment because of it, but she knows she will fight to keep these infants alive.

  Lying on their beds one night, with the sun still high in the sky, Cilka says to Josie, “Do you think this is to be my calling?”

  “What do you mean?” Josie asks.

  It is hard for Cilka to reveal her inner thoughts. She worries about what else might be opened up, might spill out of her. Josie looks at her expectantly. “Am I not to be a mother myself, but someone who helps others who can be?”

  Josie bursts into tears.

  “Oh, Cilka, I think I’m pregnant.”

  CHAPTER 14

  To the sounds of snoring, Cilka rolls out of her bed. She pulls the blanket off Josie and runs her hands gently over the swollen body hidden by layers of clothes. She pulls the blanket back under her friend’s chin.

  “When did you suspect?” Cilka asks.

  “I don’t know, a month ago? Who can keep track of time in this forgotten place?”

  “Josie, I felt the baby kick. You are well along. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  Josie’s body shudders as she sobs, biting down on the blanket.

  “I’m afraid, Cilka, I’m afraid. Don’t yell at me.”

  “Shhh, keep your voice down. I’m not the one yelling.”

  “What am I going to do?” Cilka sees Josie glance at the bed that used to be Natalya’s. “You have to help me, Cilka.”

  “You are going to have a baby and I will be there with you. We need to tell Antonina tomorrow. Surely it’s a risk for you to be working around sick people.”

  “And the others?”

  “They’ll work it out. Don’t worry, we will all help you.” Cilka tries to give Josie a look filled with warmth and hope. “You’re going to be a mumma!”

  “What about Vadim? Do I tell him? What do you think he will say?”

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t worked it out,” Cilka says. “Surely he felt you were getting bigger around your stomach.”

  “He just told me I was getting fat. He’s such a stupid boy—it wouldn’t occur to him.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right, but you need to tell him. Next time he comes.”

  “What if he—”

  “Just tell him. We will worry about his reaction when we get it. You do know they are not going to let the two of you go off and live a happy family life somewhere, don’t you?”

  “They might.”

  “They won�
�t.”

  * * *

  The next morning after roll call Cilka approaches Antonina with Josie.

  “She’s having a baby.”

  “Is she now? I wonder how that happened,” Antonina says with disgust.

  Cilka chooses to ignore the comment. Josie keeps her head down. Ashamed, humiliated.

  “Five months, I’d say,” Cilka tells the brigadier.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Open your coat.”

  Josie opens her coat, shivering against the wind and in fear of what she is being publicly subjected to. Rough hands press hard against her obvious baby bump. Feel all around her sides, pushing hard from top to bottom.

  Josie cries out in pain. “Stop it, you’re hurting me.”

  “Just making sure it’s not rags stuffed up there; wouldn’t be the first.”

  Cilka pushes the brigadier’s hands away. “Enough. Satisfied?”

  “Get off to work, you. As for the slut here, she can go too, there’s no reason she can’t continue in the soft job she has. I’ll have to tell Klavdiya Arsenyevna about this. She won’t be pleased.”

  Cilka and Josie hurry toward the hospital buildings.

  “I don’t mind working, it’s not as though it’s difficult and it is a distraction for me, during the day; the nights, however…”

  * * *

  That evening, Josie is made a fuss of by the women. They want to feel the baby in her belly; some lucky ones receive a kick for their efforts. “You’re carrying just like I did with my boys,” Olga says, her eyes smiling but with tears in them.

  Someone remembers Natalya, the only other pregnancy in the hut, and the tragic ending that was.

  Olga notices the effect talking about Natalya is having on Josie and quickly changes the subject. She suggests they all get involved in making clothes for Josie’s baby. She is immediately designated the designer; sheets are inspected to see who can afford to lose a foot or two, the embroiderers excited at having something meaningful to create for a new life.

  Hannah is sitting at the back of the group, watching all the activity with a look of distaste.