Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  “I am. Thank you.”

  Cilka looks out at the daylight, thinking of the coming short summer. “Yelena Georgiyevna?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know Josie had a little girl.”

  “Yes, I heard, and I hear both mother and baby are doing well.”

  “I’d love to see little Natia. Is it safe for me to visit her, given where I’ve been working?”

  “I wouldn’t go near her for another two weeks; that is the incubation period of typhoid—maybe even three weeks to be safe.”

  “I can wait another three weeks, but not a day more.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “It’s like you never left. Welcome back,” Raisa greets Cilka on her return to the general ward.

  “About time you showed up,” Lyuba calls out from the other end of the ward. “Get your coat off and help us out.”

  “Have you two not done anything to clean this place up since I left? I swear that dirty towel was lying there more than a year ago,” Cilka throws back at them.

  “Has it been that long?” Raisa says.

  “Long enough,” Cilka says.

  Screams from the patient Lyuba is caring for divert their attention.

  “Is everything all right?” Cilka asks.

  “Come on, we’ve got plenty for you to do,” Raisa says. “There was an explosion in one of the mine tunnels yesterday; quite a few men died, and we have several who are badly injured. Some have been in surgery and we have two who had to have limbs amputated.”

  “Just tell me where you want me.”

  “Go and help Lyuba. That poor chap was badly burned and she’s trying to change his dressings; we’ve given him something for the pain but it’s barely touching him.”

  Cilka joins Lyuba, forcing a smile for the man lying in the bed, his arms and upper body wrapped in bandages, his face red and raw from flash burns, his sobbing producing no tears.

  “Tell me what to do,” she asks Lyuba.

  “Cilka, this is Jakub. We need to change the bandages on your arms, don’t we, Jakub? We don’t want you to get an infection.”

  “Hello, Jakub, that’s a Polish name, isn’t it?”

  Jakub nods, despite the pain moving obviously causes him.

  “Lyuba, is it all right if I speak to Jakub in Polish?”

  She nods. “Perhaps you can change the bandage on his other arm while you two are remembering old times.”

  “I’m from Czechoslovakia, your next-door neighbor, but I am … familiar with Poland. I was about to ask you what you’re doing here, but let’s leave that conversation for another time.”

  Cilka gently unwinds the bandage covering Jakub’s left arm, chatting like a long-lost friend. With the bandage removed, she sees the damage. Lyuba hands her a new bandage soaked in a solution that makes it feel slimy.

  Cilka asks Lyuba, “How is his arm burned worse than his hand? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Jakub’s clothes caught fire and the burns he received through his clothing are more severe because they kept burning for longer—until the clothes could be removed.”

  “I see. Well, Jakub, can I give you some advice? Go to work naked in future.”

  Cilka realizes her comment is in extremely bad taste and starts to apologize. But she feels Jakub squeeze her hand and looks down at him; he is trying to smile, to laugh, he has appreciated her joke.

  Lyuba regards them both. “You have to excuse her, Jakub. Cilka has been away from us delivering babies. She’s used to her patients being naked. In fact, if it wasn’t so cold, I’m sure she would walk around here naked.”

  “Lyuba!” Cilka exclaims indignantly.

  Lyuba laughs heartily. “I’ve finished with your dressing, Jakub, so I’ll leave you two. Call if you want anything, Cilka.”

  “You’ve been a great help, Lyuba. I think Jakub and I can manage from here, can’t we, Jakub?”

  Cilka quickly finishes rebandaging Jakub’s other arm, telling him she will be back to check on him in a little while. She joins Raisa and falls quickly back into the rhythm of caring for the patients Raisa allocates her. This feels natural, she thinks. And she knows what the complete opposite is like—when a role you are forced into feels unnatural, like your very soul has been contorted.

  During a break, Raisa, Lyuba and Cilka sip on hot, weak tea, eat bread and something pretending to be sausage. Yelena joins them, waving away the offer of tea. It’s well known the doctors have the premium tea in their lounge area.

  “How’s our girl doing?” she asks Raisa and Lyuba.

  “It’s like she never left! Thanks for talking her into coming back to us,” Raisa says.

  “She didn’t talk me into anything,” Cilka says. “It is good to be back and helping out, even if I have to hear you telling patients I should be walking around naked.”

  “Who said that about you?”

  “It was just a joke,” Cilka quickly says. “We were distracting a patient with nasty burns while we changed his bandages.”

  “So long as it’s effective.” Yelena smiles.

  “Is there anything more I can do to help?” Cilka asks.

  “Actually, Cilka, I was wondering if you would like to assist me in surgery tomorrow. It’s the one area you haven’t worked in. I’m doing some relatively straightforward procedures and thought it could be an extension of your training.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Lyuba says. “I think she’s ready for it. What do you say, Cilka?”

  “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. What do I have to do?”

  “Just come to work tomorrow as usual. I’ll meet you and we’ll take it from there.”

  Cilka watches Yelena walk away. She is in awe of her ability as a brilliant doctor and of her willingness to share her knowledge, particularly with someone who has had no formal training.

  “It’s amazing that she volunteered to be here,” she says to the others.

  “Yes, most of the doctors have been sent here, usually because they have screwed up at whatever hospital they came from or got on the wrong side of someone in their hometown. Or, like us, it’s their first assignment out of medical school. Yelena Georgiyevna genuinely wants to work where she can do the most good,” Raisa says.

  “I’ve felt rude to ask, but does she have a family with her?”

  “No, she lives with the other female doctors in their quarters, though I did hear a rumor about her being friendly with one of the other doctors. They’ve been seen together in the town at night,” Lyuba whispers.

  The town of Vorkuta, outside the camp, has been built entirely by prisoners.

  “Really…” Love again, Cilka thinks, even in a place like this. “Do we know who? Which doctor?”

  “The doctor in the maternity ward is all I know.”

  “Petre—she and Petre Davitovich?”

  “You know him?” Raisa says.

  “Of course she does,” Lyuba adds. “That’s where she was working. Did you see them together?”

  “No. Well, only the once, when she took me to meet him on my first day, but that explains why he was prepared to take me on when I got fired from here. That’s wonderful,” Cilka marvels, “because he is just like her, a really good doctor and a kind man.”

  “Is he good-looking?” Lyuba raises her eyebrows.

  Cilka thinks for a moment.

  He is handsome, with a thick mustache and eyes that smile. “Yes; they are perfect for each other.”

  She can’t help thinking, though, that he is not the most handsome man she has seen in her time in Vorkuta. Now she is back in the hospital, she wonders if she will see the messenger, Alexandr, again.

  “I think we’d better get back to work,” Raisa says. “I can feel the temperature rising around you two.”

  Yes, work is what Cilka needs to do. She will not allow herself to wonder for too long about the impossible.

  * * *

  The prospect of being in the operating room sends Cilka’s brain working overtime. Th
at night she cannot sleep. Thoughts whirl around inside her head as she replays all she has seen and done that day.

  The next morning the sky is overcast but Cilka appreciates walking across the grass, with small weedy flowers underfoot, on the way to the hospital. Yelena is waiting for her and together they go through to the area designated for surgery. An assistant is standing by with a gown, gloves and a mask. Cilka reaches out to take the gown.

  “You have to wash your hands thoroughly first,” Yelena says, leading her over to a nearby sink. “Are you wearing anything under your shirt?”

  “Just my slip.”

  “Good, take your shirt off. You can’t have a sleeve getting in the way.”

  Cilka hesitates.

  “It’s all right, Cilka, there’s only us women here.”

  Slowly, Cilka unbuttons her shirt. The assistant takes it from her, handing her a bar of soap and turning a tap on for her. Cilka starts rubbing the soap up her arms. The assistant goes to arrange the room. Yelena stands beside her, lathering up and scrubbing her own hands and arms, past the elbows. Cilka copies her actions.

  Focused back on the running water, rinsing the soap from her arms and hands, Cilka is startled when Yelena gently takes hold of her left arm. She turns it toward her, staring at the blurry blue-green numbers running down the inside of her forearm.

  Yelena starts to say something, closes her mouth.

  Cilka continues to stare at the running water, breathing deeply.

  Raising her head, she looks directly at Yelena. “Do you know where I got this?”

  “Yes. I had suspected you had been there, but I … didn’t really want to believe it.”

  Cilka feels hot and cold at the same time.

  “You must have been so young,” Yelena says. She lets go of Cilka’s arm.

  “Sixteen.”

  “Can I ask … your family?”

  Cilka shakes her head, looking away, reaching to turn off the tap. She wants this conversation to be over.

  “Oh, Cilka,” Yelena says. Cilka looks at the doctor’s compassionate face. Of course, she thinks. Everyone would know by now what that other place was. But not her role in it.

  “Doctor, just tell me one thing,” Cilka says firmly. She can’t look at Yelena.

  “Yes?”

  “Did they get them?”

  Yelena pauses, then understands. “Yes, Cilka. The commandants, the guards, the doctors. There have been trials. Their crimes are being exposed to the world. They are being imprisoned or executed for what they did.”

  Cilka nods. Her jaw is clenched. She could scream, or cry. There is too much welling up inside her. It’s still not enough. It took too long.

  “I don’t know what to say, Cilka, except that I’m so sorry you had to go through that, something unimaginable, and then, also, to end up here. Whatever the reason for that…” Yelena falters. “Well, you were only sixteen.”

  Cilka nods. Her eyes are hot with unshed tears. She swallows and swallows. She clears her throat. Takes a deep breath. Wills her racing heart to slow. Looks back at Yelena.

  “The patient is waiting for us,” she says.

  “Yes,” Yelena says. As they dry off their hands and start to walk toward the operating room, where the assistant waits with their gloves and gowns, Yelena says, “Cilka, if you ever want someone to talk to—”

  “Thank you,” Cilka cuts her off. She can’t imagine a time when she could ever put those memories, those images, into words. She clears her throat again. “I am grateful, Yelena Georgiyevna.”

  Yelena nods. “Just know I am here.” As they near the operating room, the conversation recedes in Cilka’s mind. She has an important task to do, and it will distract her. Once her gown and gloves are on, the assistant pulls Cilka’s mask down under her chin and then holds open the door leading into a small room.

  A patient lies on a table and an anesthetist sits at the end of the bed holding a rubber mask over the patient’s nose and mouth.

  “He’s out,” he comments, with little interest or enthusiasm, before staring off at a point on the far wall.

  Cilka follows Yelena and stands beside her.

  “Go around to the other side: you can see and help me better from there.”

  Cilka does as instructed, holding her hands out in front of her, afraid to touch anything.

  “All right, here we go. You see all the instruments on the table beside you? Well, I’m going to say the name of the instrument I want, then point to it so you know which one it is. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

  The assistant has followed them into the room and pulls the sheet covering the man away, revealing his naked body.

  “I need to get into his stomach and remove whatever it is he has swallowed that he shouldn’t have. Unfortunately, some people will go to extreme lengths to not work outside, including swallowing objects that could kill them.”

  “You’re joking,” Cilka says.

  “No, I’m not. Coming into hospital and having their stomach cut open is seen as a better option than working, at least for a while.”

  “How do you know for sure he has swallowed something?”

  “The pain he was in when he was brought to us was real; when we couldn’t work out what was wrong he finally admitted to having swallowed something.”

  “Did he say what?”

  “That’s the funny thing—he wouldn’t say, told us to go hunting for it and then we’d know.” Yelena gives a wry smile.

  It is a different world here, Cilka thinks. Still very much a prison, as such desperate actions indicated, but in that other place, you would not want to draw any attention to yourself. In a selection, you would not want to attract the eye of the doctors. You would not want anything to do with them at all.

  “Cilka, I need you to hand me a scalpel.” Yelena points it out on the tray. Cilka picks it up and places it in her outstretched hand.

  “Slap it in my hand so I feel it. These gloves are so thick I won’t know if I’m holding it unless you hit me with it, just make sure the blade is pointed at you and I get the handle.”

  Cilka watches in fascination as Yelena quickly and expertly slices the patient’s abdomen open, blood gently oozing from the cut.

  “Grab some swabs—those pads that look like thick squares of bandage—and wipe the blood away; it will stop soon.”

  Cilka catches on quickly, wiping the blood away so Yelena can see what she is doing.

  Instruments are handed over, explanations given by Yelena, questions asked by Cilka, until Yelena raises her hand from the man’s abdomen, holding up a metal spoon.

  “I wonder if the owner misses this,” she says with humor. “Let’s see if it caused any damage in his stomach.”

  She pokes around. Cilka leans over for a closer inspection and the two women bang heads.

  “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  “It’s all right, I’m glad you want to have a closer look; this is how you will learn.” Yelena is silent for a moment, considering the open cavity. “Well, there doesn’t seem to be any damage, so now we sew him back up.”

  * * *

  When the patient has been wheeled from the room, Cilka follows Yelena back into the washroom. The assistant is waiting for them. She unties their gowns, removes their masks and gloves, and hands Cilka back her shirt. Cilka wonders if she is a prisoner too.

  “As usual, you learned quickly in there. I’d be happy to have you assist me any time. In fact, I think we should do more of it, so you become totally comfortable with what you are doing. What do you say?”

  Cilka is wary for a moment. She hopes that Yelena is not just doing this because of what she knows; because she pities her.

  But this is rewarding, challenging work. And Cilka does think she can do it.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Go back and tell Raisa and Lyuba the news. I’m sure they could do with an extra pair of hands for the afternoon.”

  “Thank you,” Cilka says. She fee
ls herself welling up again. There’s no blankness coming to take over—to cover it—and so she hurries from the room.

  She stops a moment in the hall to gather herself, then walks onto the ward.

  A chorus of “Well, how did you get on?” greets her.

  “Well, very well.” She looks at their open faces. Wonders suddenly if they know, too. “What do you want me to do here?” she asks quickly. “I’ve still got half a day of work.”

  “Can you check the charts and get any medicines that need to be handed out?” Raisa says.

  Cilka dives into her work, relieved to push all thoughts away.

  CHAPTER 17

  Cilka has written down the names of five patients and the drugs they require. She strolls to the dispensary. As she approaches, she hears voices inside, one of them raised. Cautiously, she opens the door. Yury Petrovich, the kind male doctor Cilka remembers from her previous time working in the hospital, stands in the middle of the room with a knife held to his throat. On the other end of the knife is a man who looks capable of wrestling a bear and winning the fight. The big man turns to face Cilka.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he yells at her.

  She can’t speak.

  “Get in here and close the door.”

  Cilka does as she’s told, leaning her back against the shut door, staying as far away from the man as possible.

  “Get over here and stand beside the doctor. Do it now, or I cut him.”

  In three steps Cilka is beside the doctor, who looks at her, eyes pleading.

  “What do you want?” she asks with a bravado she doesn’t feel.

  “You to shut your mouth. You picked the wrong time to come in here; now I’ll have to deal with you too.”

  Cilka glares at him. She knows enough about violent men to be able to judge the desperation in this one. His threats are a means to an end. “What do you want?”

  “I said shut your mouth. I’ll do the talking.”

  “Just do as he says,” the doctor whimpers.

  “That’s good advice,” the big man says. “We can all leave here happy if you listen to the good doctor and do as I say.”