Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  “Yes, I’m fine, just a bad dream.”

  “This whole place is a bad dream,” Elena says.

  They are being kind, Cilka knows. It is not the first time she has woken them by screaming. Anastasia has told her too, that sometimes she whimpers, and sometimes she hisses, like she is furious with somebody.

  Cilka shuffles to the stove. A comforting arm—Elena’s—is wrapped around her shoulders as she extends her hands to feel the warmth. She glances toward Hannah’s bed, can’t see whether she is awake and watching or not. Only she would know what the nightmares are really about. But she is probably more blissfully asleep than any of them, having collected her goods from Cilka’s pocket when the women all came in.

  There are layers of pain within Cilka. She misses Josie and Natia too. All winter it has been impossible to see them. Natia must have grown so much, may even be walking by now.

  “You need to remember the happy times to dream about,” Olga says from her bed. “That’s what I do. Every night before I fall asleep, I remember my childhood, on the beach in Sochi. It was a happy time.”

  As Cilka closes her eyes for the second time that evening she decides she will try to remember a happy time in her life. It is not for a shortage of them, quite the opposite. Her life up until the day she was loaded onto a cattle train had been blissfully happy, and perhaps for this reason, remembering has been too painful for her. But she will try again.

  Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1941

  “Move over, Papa, it’s my birthday, I want to drive the car.”

  The day is cool with the sun shining. A spring day, full of promise. Cilka has put on her hat and scarf, placed her father’s driving goggles on top of her head, determined to drive even if only to the end of the street. Papa has lowered the soft-top roof on his pride and joy: a two-door roadster with brown leather seats and a horn that can be heard miles away.

  “You don’t know how to drive a car. Don’t be silly, Cilka,” her father replies.

  “I can—I bet I can. Mumma, tell him I can drive the car.”

  “Let her drive the car,” her mother says, lovingly.

  “Now you’re being silly. You always spoil the child,” her father says, although they all know it is he who dotes on Cilka. On both his girls.

  “I’m not a child,” Cilka protests.

  “You are, my diet’a, that will never change.”

  “I’m fifteen, I’m now a woman,” Cilka boasts. “Look, here’s Uncle Moshe and he has his camera. Over here, Uncle! I want my photo taken driving the car.”

  Uncle Moshe greets Cilka, her mother and sister with kisses on each cheek. A manly handshake and pat on the shoulder for her father.

  “Are you going to let her drive?” Uncle Moshe asks.

  “Have you ever been able to tell her anything? None of us have. Cilka wants to rule the world and she probably will. Set up your camera.”

  Cilka wraps her arms around her father’s neck, standing on tiptoe to reach.

  “Thank you, Papa. Now, everyone get in the car.”

  While Uncle Moshe sets up his camera on its stand, Cilka sets about placing the members of her family where she wants them for the photo. Her father is permitted to sit in the front alongside her, her mother and sister are in the back. With her hands confidently resting on the steering wheel, she poses.

  With a bang and a flash, the camera captures the moment.

  “Where are the keys? I’ll take you all for a drive.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Cilka’s father says. “I promise to give you driving lessons, but not today. Today is your birthday and we will have a lovely day, then celebrate at dinner. For now, we change seats.”

  Reluctantly, Cilka concedes defeat—one of the few times in her short life she has—and, pouting, moves to the front passenger seat.

  Her scarf is flapping in the wind as she is driven through her hometown of Bardejov …

  Cilka, in Vorkuta, finally falls back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 22

  “He made it through.”

  The words greet Cilka as she enters the ward.

  “Mikhail Alexandrovich? Where is he?”

  “Bed 1—we thought you might like to have him as close to the nurses’ station as possible. You’ll be able to write your notes and still see him.”

  “I’ll go and say hello.”

  Mikhail is sleeping. Cilka looks at him for several moments, her eyes wandering down the bed to where she knows only one leg remains, hidden under blankets. She was present when his right leg was amputated. She touches his forehead, swathed in fresh bandages. Her training kicks in and she picks up his file, scanning it for information on how he fared overnight. Nothing concerning jumps out at her.

  When she returns to the desk area, Raisa discusses the other patients and they share out the workload: washing, changing dressings, administering medication. There are two new women on the ward who had a fight the previous night, inflicting nasty injuries on each other. Raisa and Cilka agree to nurse one each, to avoid getting caught in the middle of the dispute.

  Cilka has barely begun attending to her patient when the words “Ambulance going out” are shouted.

  “Go! I’ll see to your patient,” Lyuba calls out.

  Outside, the ambulance is waiting.

  “Do you want to ride up front?” Pavel asks.

  “Yes,” Cilka says as she takes hold of the ambulance door. “After you. Kirill Grigorovich can play with your leg today.”

  Reluctantly Pavel climbs into the ambulance, pushing up against Kirill.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Kirill demands.

  Cilka climbs into the cab, slamming the door shut.

  “Let’s go.”

  With a screeching of gears, the ambulance drives off.

  “If we’re going to be working together, can we try to get along?” Cilka says, leaning over Pavel and staring at Kirill.

  He changes gear, refuses to reply.

  “Do we know what we are going to today?” Cilka asks.

  “A crane has collapsed and the driver is trapped inside,” Pavel says.

  “Only one casualty?”

  “I think so, but you never know. Sometimes we’ve gone to an accident like this and found that the bloody thing came down and landed on ten others,” Pavel answers.

  “Who is rescuing him?”

  “Depends,” Kirill throws out.

  “Depends on what?” Cilka asks.

  “Has anybody ever told you, you ask too many bloody questions?”

  “Plenty of people, probably everyone who’s ever met me.”

  The truck bounces over a boulder and Cilka winces as her shoulder slams into the window.

  “So you’re not going to shut up then, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m not going to shut up, Kirill Grigorovich, so you had better get used to it. Do you want to answer my question? Or should Pavel?”

  “Well—” Pavel begins to explain.

  “Shut it, I’ll tell Cilka I-Have-to-Know-Everything Klein. It depends how dangerous the rescue is. If it’s risky, then the supervisors will make the prisoners do it. If not, then the guards will want to make themselves heroes.”

  “Thank you,” Cilka says. “We’ll know as soon as we arrive how dangerous it is then. I know you don’t like talking to me, Kirill Grigorovich, but it does help if I have even just a little information.”

  “Yeah, well, clearly knowing everything didn’t stop you being sent here.”

  Cilka chortles. “I never said I knew everything. I just like to know what I’m getting into.”

  When they reach the site, there is nothing they can do straight-away. Senior guards and supervisors appear from time to time to yell, as prisoners try to untangle the mess that was once the long arm of the crane, now wrapped around the driver’s box. There is no glory in this rescue.

  For the next two hours Cilka, Pavel and Kirill stand in the cold, stamping their feet, smacking their hands, return
ing to the ambulance to escape the wind. Several times Cilka climbs up the mangled metal frame of the collapsed crane to wriggle partway into the cabin to check for signs of life in the driver. Each time she notes his pulse getting weaker, the flow of blood from his head wound no longer gushing, the bandage she has put around the wound soaked in blood.

  After her last trip, Cilka returns to the ambulance to tell Kirill to go back to the hospital. On the drive back, Cilka sees the first bloom of spring flowers pushing their way through the frost on the ground. The wind whips them around and still their stalks bounce back, staying rooted to the frozen earth. Cilka has served nearly one third of her sentence. It is unbearable to contemplate how much longer there is to go. Instead, looking at the flowers, she dreams of the light and warmth that soon will come, and with them, time to see Josie and Natia again.

  * * *

  When she gets back to the ward, Cilka is told Mikhail is awake and has been asking for her.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks him, smiling, reassuring.

  “Is it gone, my leg? But I can feel it still. The pain is there.”

  “I’ll get you something for the pain, but yes, Mikhail Alexandrovich, the doctor had to amputate your right leg, but she has done a marvelous job repairing your left leg, and with time it will heal.”

  “And I’ll be able to walk, how? How, Cilka Klein? How can I live with only one leg?”

  “I’m told they can make you a really good lower leg that you will learn to walk on.”

  “Really? You believe someone is going to waste money on making a prisoner a leg?” He is getting angry; his voice is raised.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Mikhail Alexandrovich. I don’t know if you will be given a different job or whether they will send you home; you won’t be able to work in the mines.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? That I might now be sent back to Moscow to no home, no family, the one-legged man to beg on the streets?”

  “I don’t know, Mikhail Alexandrovich. Let me get you something for the pain,” Cilka repeats.

  She turns away, not wanting Mikhail to see how their conversation has upset her. Yelena has been watching her and follows her into the dispensary, shutting the door behind her.

  “Cilka, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” Yelena says gently. “But that’s all right. You know how quickly things can turn bad here, you’ve seen it before.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Did I make a mistake putting you on the ambulance run?”

  Cilka stops looking at the bottle of medication in her hand, turning to face Yelena. “No, no, not at all. That’s not it.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Do you know how long I’m to stay here?”

  “I’m not told information like that.”

  “Fifteen years. Fifteen years. It feels impossibly long. And then, after that—I don’t even remember what life is like outside of a place like this.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Tell me I will leave here,” she says pleadingly to Yelena. “That I have the chance to live a life like other young women.” That I will have friends that don’t disappear from my life. That I might find that love exists for me, too. That I might have a child of my own. “Can you tell me that?”

  “What I can tell you,” Yelena says calmly, “is that I will do all I can to make that come true.”

  Cilka nods gratefully, looking back up at the shelf, seeking another bottle.

  “Promise me you will talk to me if you feel any worse than you do now,” Yelena says.

  “My father always told me I was the strongest person he ever knew, you know that?” Cilka says, still not looking at Yelena.

  “That’s a lot to live up to.”

  “Yes, it is. But I have always wanted to live up to the expectations of my father, not disappoint him, stay strong no matter what. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.” She shrugs. “It’s unlikely.”

  “A curse and a blessing from your father. I was very young when my father died; I would give anything to have your memories.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s a patient out there waiting for you. Come on, I’ll have a look at him while you give him the medication.”

  “What will happen to him now that he only has one leg?”

  “We’ll get him stable, then move him to a larger city hospital where they can rehabilitate him and hopefully get him a good replacement limb.”

  “And then?”

  “In the eyes of the State he’s still a counterrevolutionary, Cilka,” Yelena says, looking down. “There’s not much I can do about that.”

  Cilka picks up the medication, tries again to press down the worry, the sadness and the pain.

  CHAPTER 23

  The white nights return.

  Once again, the women revel in spending Sunday evenings walking around the camp. Trying to feel, for just a couple of hours, they have some small amount of freedom. They know where to walk, where it is safe to go and where to avoid the roaming gangs of men waiting to pounce.

  The appearance of Josie and Natia makes some of those evenings the happiest, as Natia shows off her ability to walk. Her attempts to talk entertain them. They play with her wispy hair, fight over whom she likes the most.

  The women start to escort Josie and Natia to and from the hut on the warmest nights, so they can spend time all together away from prying eyes and let Natia run about. They take turns putting Natia in their beds, cuddling her as though she is their own daughter. They kiss her and touch her tiny hands and try to teach her their names.

  Josie lets Natia socialize, giving her a nod and a smile if she looks over for reassurance. Josie sits with Cilka on her bed, and Cilka has begun to wrap her arms around Josie, press her face against her hair. Josie takes Cilka’s hand and squeezes it. They communicate in this way, instead of saying what they fear, what they know, is coming.

  * * *

  The light fades quickly this summer. Several of the women stop venturing out. On one warm night, possibly the final gasp of summer, the women escort Josie to the hut with Natia snuggled into her arms. Anastasia has become attached to the little girl and reaches for her.

  “Would you look after her for a while, please, Nastya?” says Josie, using the affectionate diminutive for Anastasia. “I’d like to talk to Cilka.”

  Cilka gets off her bed, reaches for her coat, and follows Josie outside.

  They don’t go too far; there are many people wandering around, and the wind has started up. They find protection beside the hut and huddle against the building.

  “Cilka, what am I going to do?” So, they are finally voicing this, Cilka thinks. Beyond the one brief conversation last summer when Josie had told her one of the other mothers, who’d had several children, said they were sent to orphanages when they turned two, they have never given words to the fear. The mother had been broken, Josie said. Completely blank-faced, barely looking at her child.

  Cilka looks away. She has no answer.

  “Can you help me, please, Cilka? I can’t let them take her away. She’s my child.”

  Cilka wraps her arms around Josie, letting her sob on her shoulder.

  “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. I’ll talk to Yelena Georgiyevna, I’ll do what I can, I promise.”

  “Thank you. I know you can help, you’ve always been able to,” Josie says, drawing back from the embrace to look at Cilka in such a hopeful, open way that Cilka feels ill. Josie still looks so young, a girl. “Please don’t let them take my baby away.”

  Cilka draws her in again, hugs her for a long time. Please don’t let them take you away.

  “Come on,” she says. “You need to take Natia back to your hut. The wind has picked up and you don’t want her getting sick.”

  * * *

  Cilka speaks to Yelena the next day. Yelena is sympathetic but doesn’t think s
he has any power over the administrators. Both women know there is little chance that they can help Josie and Natia stay together after she turns two, and Josie is forced to return to a general hut without the warm little body to come home to.

  Josie will die, Cilka thinks. She will not survive the heartbreak. Cilka has to figure something out.

  “Ambulance going out.”

  “Coming.”

  Tossing the file she is holding to Lyuba and grabbing her coat, Cilka runs from the ward.

  Pavel stands holding the passenger door, his big teeth resting over his bottom lip. Seeing her running toward them, he climbs into the cabin. Nothing has changed since their second day together, and so Pavel must sit in the middle.

  “Something different today, Cilka,” Kirill offers.

  “Wow, speaking first, Kirill,” Cilka laughs.

  “No, really,” Pavel says, “this is serious.”

  “Aren’t they all? Since when did we decide one accident was more serious than another before we even got there?”

  “It’s not an accident,” Pavel says. “We’re going to the house of the commandant, Alexei Demyanovich. One of his children is sick and we have to bring him to the hospital.”

  “A child! A boy? How old, do we know?”

  “I don’t know if it’s a boy, but it’s one of the commandant’s children.”

  For the first time since her arrival in Vorkuta, Cilka travels on a street outside the compound of the camp and mine. A road built by prisoners. She looks at the houses where families live. Women with small children in tow hurry down the street, carrying bags. They pass several cars. She has seen a car only a few times, when someone important visits the camp.

  A guard waves them down, indicating for them to stop.

  Piling out, Cilka runs ahead with the guard while Pavel and Kirill retrieve the containers from the back. The front door is open, and the guard leads Cilka into the house and to a bedroom, where a girl tosses and screams on a bed. Her mother sits on the edge of the bed, attempting to put a wet towel on her forehead, speaking in a soothing, comforting voice. Cilka recognizes her.