Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  “What did he do?” Anastasia asks, having not heard the story yet.

  “He fell in love with me.”

  “That’s it? No, there has to be more.”

  “He’s from Prague; he is Czech. I call him my husband but that is the problem. We dared to attempt to marry. I’m from Moscow and we are not permitted to marry a foreign citizen.”

  Cilka’s heart has been racing throughout this whole conversation. She has been here five years and the women know she is Jewish and Slovakian, but nothing of her arrest. Josie had gathered a bit of information from asking Cilka questions, though Cilka never elaborated. She had told her about her friends, like Gita and Lale, wondered aloud with Josie about where they were, whether they were safe. She had told Josie about her mother and sister dying, but had not gone into the details. She is ashamed that she had not told her everything. But if Josie had turned away from her, it would have broken her all over again.

  The hut falls into silent contemplation.

  “It is time to take my advice again,” Olga says to the group. “A happy memory. Force it into your head and your heart.”

  Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1939

  “Cilka, Magda, come here quickly,” their mumma calls out.

  Magda drops the book she is reading and hurries to the kitchen.

  “Cilka, come on,” she says.

  “In a minute, let me finish this chapter,” Cilka growls back.

  “It’s something wonderful, Cilka, come on,” her mother says.

  “Oh, all right, I’m coming.”

  Holding the book open to the page she was reading, Cilka stomps into the kitchen. Her mother is sitting at the table reading a letter. She waves the letter at the two girls.

  “What does it say?” Magda squeals.

  Cilka stays standing in the doorway, pretending to read, waiting to hear the news.

  “Put the book down, Cilka,” her mother says firmly. “Come and sit down.”

  Cilka splays the book open on the table as she takes a seat alongside Magda, facing their mother.

  “What?” Cilka says.

  “Aunt Helena is getting married.”

  “Oh! That’s wonderful news, Mumma,” Magda says. “I love all your sisters but especially Aunt Helena. I’m so happy for her.”

  “What’s it got to do with us?” Cilka asks nonchalantly.

  “Well, my two beautiful girls, she wants you to be her bridesmaids, to be part of her wedding, isn’t that lovely?”

  “You mean we get to wear a beautiful dress and have flowers in our hair?” an excited Magda asks.

  “Yes, you will both have the most beautiful dresses and I’m sure Aunt Helena would love you to have flowers in your hair. What do you think, Cilka? Do you want to be a bridesmaid, have everyone looking at you and telling you how beautiful you are?”

  Cilka looks from her mother to her sister, trying to contain the excitement she feels. She fails. Jumping to her feet, knocking over her chair, she swirls around the kitchen, trying to pull her straight dress out.

  “I’m going to be a princess with flowers in my hair. Can my dress be red? I’d really like a red dress.”

  “That will be up to Aunt Helena, but you can always ask her. She might say yes, but you will both have to wear the same color.”

  “I’m going to tell Papa.”

  Cilka rushes from the kitchen, looking for her father.

  “Papa, Papa, Aunt Helena’s getting married. She’s in love.”

  One day, Cilka thinks, it will be my turn.

  CHAPTER 26

  The winter of 1950–51 is particularly harsh. The hospital is overwhelmed by severe cases of frostbite and other weather-associated ailments. Amputations of lower limbs become common, the survivors immediately shipped off to places unknown, to free up the beds. Pneumonia claims many; lungs weakened from the constant inhalation of coal dust no match for the infections that spread through the camp. Cases of pellagra barely make it through the front door—the near-corpses are taken with their peeling skin and put on blankets on the floor near the entrance, ready to be taken out to a truck when they expire.

  Injuries increase alarmingly as frozen fingers lose their grip on tools; crush injuries rise as weakened prisoners are slow to respond to the dangers of heavy equipment and falling rocks.

  Any suspicion of self-harm is verified when doctors question the injured patients. They beg to be kept in the hospital, or at the very least, released from outside work. Some of these self-inflicted injuries are terrible mutilations—among the worst Cilka has seen.

  The ambulances struggle to transport the sick and injured, many arriving piled into the backs of trucks, or carried in by fellow prisoners.

  With the bleak weather, and Josie’s departure, combined with the lack of hope, Cilka descends into darkness, again. She refuses her breaks from going out in the ambulance—picking up, dropping off and immediately going back out, endlessly caring for the sick, the injured and dying. She is becoming a stranger on the ward.

  The mine supervisors praise her bravery in never refusing to go into a dangerous situation. They say her size and competence make her the best person to enter the mine to look for casualties. That word “bravery” again—Cilka still thinks she is yet to earn it.

  “Ambulance going out.”

  “Coming.”

  Kirill, Pavel and Cilka race to the mine.

  “Not asking what we’re facing today, Cilka?” Kirill asks.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Having a bad day?” Kirill fires back.

  “Drop it, Kirill.” Pavel comes to Cilka’s defense.

  “All right. It’s an explosion, so there will be burns as well as broken bones,” Kirill says.

  Neither Pavel nor Cilka responds.

  Kirill shrugs. “If that’s the way you’re going to play it.”

  * * *

  The chaos is evident as they approach the mine. There is the usual gathering of onlooking prisoners, moving from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm.

  Cilka is out of the ambulance before the engine is killed.

  “Cilka, over here.”

  She joins a group of guards. A supervisor appears.

  “Cilka, good to see you. Got a nasty one for you. We were taking explosives into the central drift so we can advance and one of them went off unexpectedly. We’ve got at least six prisoners in there and about the same number of guards. We’ve also got our explosives expert in there. He was going to be setting the dynamite. He’s the top man around here. Shit, there will be trouble if he’s not all right.”

  Cilka starts walking toward the entrance to the mine.

  “Pavel,” she calls out, “bring the box. Come on, hurry up.”

  The supervisor runs after her. “Cilka, you can’t go in yet. They haven’t declared it safe.”

  She’s heard it all before.

  “And who’s going to declare it safe, standing up here?”

  With no answer, Cilka turns to Pavel. “I can’t make you come with me, but I’d like you to.”

  “Cilka, you heard the man—the walls could collapse around us.”

  “There are men in there. We have to try.”

  “And get killed ourselves? I don’t think so.”

  “Fine, I’ll go in by myself. Hand me the box.”

  Pavel holds out the box, hesitates, then pulls it back toward himself. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

  “Probably,” she says with a small smile.

  “Definitely,” says the supervisor. “Look, I can’t stop you, but I can advise against it.”

  “Come, Pavel, let’s go.”

  “Here, take the big lamp,” the supervisor says.

  As Cilka and Pavel descend in the lift, the lamp barely penetrates the dust rising and swirling around them. They step out into the darkness and inch forward for several minutes before beginning to call out.

  “Can anybody hear me?” Cilka shouts. “Call out if you hear me so we can find yo
u. Is there anybody here?”

  Nothing. They walk deeper, getting closer to the blast site as the ground underfoot becomes an obstacle course, littered with rocks and boulders. The path narrows.

  Pavel stumbles, slipping on a jagged rock, and screams as much from the fright of falling as from being hurt.

  “Are you all right?”

  His string of expletives bounces off the walls. As the echo dies down, they hear a cry.

  “Over here, we’re over here.”

  “Keep talking, we’re coming,” Pavel calls out as he and Cilka hurry in the direction of the voice.

  Their combined lights illuminate several men waving and calling to them. As they arrive, Pavel asks who is in charge. A guard sitting beside an unconscious man identifies himself.

  “Tell me who we have here and what you know of the others,” Cilka says.

  There are six of them—three guards, two prisoners and the explosives expert who is unconscious. Their helmets were knocked off in the explosion, the lights went out at the same time and they can’t see to tell how badly injured they all are.

  Cilka asks if any of them can stand and walk out themselves. Two say they think they can even though they are badly hurt. One reports he has a broken arm, as bone has pierced his shirt and coat.

  Using the lamp, Cilka and Pavel do a quick examination of the men. The explosives expert’s breathing is ragged, and he has a head wound. She asks Pavel to check on another unconscious man. It only takes him a moment to report that he is dead. He was one of the guards.

  Cilka concentrates on the explosives expert. Besides the head wound, he seems to have been hit in the chest by something; a depression tells her he has several broken ribs. Cilka has the able-bodied men help her lie him straight. She administers a drip into his arm, and roughly bandages his head.

  “What of the others?” she asks the guard. “We were told there were about twelve of you down here.”

  The guard tells her to shine her light farther ahead. When she does, she sees that the path is mostly blocked by rock from the explosions.

  “They will be on the other side of that,” he explains.

  “Have you tried calling out to see if any of them respond?”

  “It will be a waste of time. They were about a hundred meters in front of us, going ahead with the dynamite when it went off. They would have taken the full force of the first explosion, then there were two more. They didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you report that when we get out. For now, let’s see who is capable of helping other men walk out of here. I need at least one to help Pavel carry our expert here.”

  “I can help,” the guard says.

  “I can help,” one of the prisoners croaks, coughing.

  “Thanks.” Turning to the other prisoner: “Can you keep an eye on him?” she says, nodding toward the injured man. “He’s got a badly broken arm.”

  “I’ve got him,” the prisoner answers.

  Cilka holds the lamp up toward the way out and the shuffling, wincing men start to follow it. Pavel, behind her, eases his arms under the unconscious man’s shoulders, taking a firm grip around his chest. Cilka picks up the medication box, places the intravenous bottle of fluid on top, and follows the workers along the long, claustrophobic corridor and eventually into the open door of the lift cage.

  She looks back. Through the sooty swirl of the lamplight she can see that Pavel is struggling with the weight of the man. She hears rumbling. No. Dislodged rocks break away, spewing out clouds of dust. She hears Pavel scream.

  Cilka hears yelling, and the lever of the lift clicking up, the cage door slamming. She coughs and coughs, ears ringing. She collapses, her head hitting the hard caging of the lift wall, her body vibrating as it starts its slow ascent.

  * * *

  “Cilka, Cilka, squeeze my hand.” Yelena’s soothing voice drifts into Cilka’s semi-consciousness.

  Hand, feel hand, squeeze, she tells herself. The small effort of obeying this command sends shock waves of pain through her body and she lapses back into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  The sound of someone crying out stirs Cilka awake. Without opening her eyes, she listens to the familiar sounds of doctors and nurses going about their work, of patients calling out for comfort, calling out in pain. She wants to call out for both.

  “Are you with us, Cilka?” she hears Raisa whispering. She feels Raisa’s breath on her cheek; she must be leaning over her.

  “It’s time to wake up. Come on, open your eyes.”

  Slowly, Cilka opens her eyes. The world is a blur.

  “I can’t see,” she whispers.

  “You may have blurred vision, so don’t panic, Cilka. You’re going to be all right. Can you see my hand?”

  Something flashes in front of Cilka, a movement. It could be a hand. Cilka blinks several times, and each time she does so her vision clears a little until she can identify fingers; yes, it is a hand.

  “I see it, I see your hand,” she mumbles weakly.

  “Good girl. Now just listen while I tell you how you are, then you can tell me how you feel. All right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have had a nasty blow to the back of the head requiring twenty stitches. I can’t believe you made it out of there, when the whole tunnel was collapsing. What are you made of?”

  “Stronger stuff than you thought.”

  “We had to cut some of your hair away, I’m afraid, but it will grow back. Now, you are bound to have a headache and we don’t want you talking, feeling like you have to do anything.”

  Cilka opens her mouth to speak. Pavel. She is remembering the last moments in the mine. She gurgles his name, in distress.

  “It’s all right, Cilka,” Raisa says.

  “Pavel…”

  “I’m sorry, Cilka. He didn’t make it.”

  And it is my fault, she thinks. I made him go in.

  She closes her eyes.

  I am cursed. Everyone around me dies or is taken away. It is not safe to be near me.

  “Cilka, you have grazes and bruises on your upper back where the rock landed; you must have been bent over when it happened. They are nothing serious and are healing nicely.”

  She tries to breathe. It doesn’t matter about her.

  “How are the other men?”

  “Oh, Cilka. Only you would ask about others before yourself. Thanks to you, the workers who came out before you are mostly fine.”

  Cilka is relieved they are not all dead. But, Pavel. She should have been more careful.

  “Now,” Raisa says. “Here is how you are going to be treated, and I want your promise that you will do as we tell you. I want none of your interfering, even if you do think you know more than all of us put together.”

  Cilka says nothing.

  “I said, promise.”

  “I promise,” she mumbles.

  “Promise what?”

  “To do as I’m told, not to interfere and think I can heal myself.”

  “I heard that,” Yelena says, having snuck up on them. “How is our patient?”

  “I’m—”

  “I’ll do the talking, you’ve just agreed to keep quiet,” Raisa says.

  “I said nothing about keeping quiet.”

  “My question has just been answered. Cilka, tell me how you feel? Where does it hurt?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  Yelena huffs. “I want you to stay lying flat for another twenty-four hours. Try not to move too much, let your body heal, particularly your head. I suspect you have been badly concussed and only rest will heal that.”

  “Thank you,” Cilka manages.

  “Get some rest. I got word back to your hut that you were injured but are going to be all right; I know how close you are to the women there and I thought they might be worried.”

  Hannah certainly will be, she thinks. But the last container Cilka got for her will last awhile.

  Cilka’s thoughts turn back to Pavel
and a tear escapes and runs down her cheek.

  * * *

  The next day, Cilka opens her eyes to find a strange man leaning over her. Before she can say anything, he grabs one of her hands and kisses it.

  “Thank you for saving my life. You are an angel. I’ve been watching you sleep, hoping you would wake up so I could thank you.”

  She recognizes him as the explosives expert from the mine.

  Lyuba appears beside him. “Come on, back to your own bed. I’ve told you, you can’t keep coming over here. Cilka needs her rest.”

  “But—”

  “Lyuba, it’s all right, let him stay for a moment,” Cilka croaks.

  “Thank you again.”

  “How are you? You didn’t look too good last time I saw you,” Cilka says.

  “So I’ve been told. But I’m much better. I’m going back to my hut tomorrow, so I must be.”

  Cilka manages a smile. “It’s been good to see you. Look after yourself.”

  As the man goes back to his bed, Lyuba reappears in front of Cilka.

  “I hear your quick actions, and directions, saved him and the other workers. He won’t stop going on about it.”

  “But, Lyuba, I dragged Pavel in, and now he is dead.”

  “You needed help, and it was his choice.”

  “He came in because he cared about me. I see it now.”

  “Well then he’d be glad you made it out.”

  “Can I see her?” Kirill appears behind Lyuba, who steps aside.

  “How you feeling?” he asks, with genuine concern.

  “I’m so sorry, Kirill. I’m so sorry,” Cilka says, close to tears.

  “It wasn’t your fault, what happened to Pavel.”

  “But he only helped because I asked.”

  “He would help you even if you didn’t ask. I guess you’ll have to ask me, now.”

  “I don’t think I want to do this anymore, go out with you, without Pavel.”

  “Don’t say that. Of course you’ll be back, you just have to get better.”

  Cilka sighs. “I don’t think I can be the one who risks others’ lives.”

  “Cilka Klein, mostly, you don’t tell others what to do, they risk their lives because you don’t ask. That’s why they want to help you. Don’t you understand that?”