Cilka's Journey

by Heather Morris

  “Take a break, have something to eat and drink,” a blood-splattered Yelena tells Cilka and Raisa, who together are bandaging the same badly wounded man.

  “There’s too much still to do,” Raisa responds.

  “Take a break, then come and relieve Lyuba and me,” Yelena says, and it’s the first time Cilka has heard her raise her voice like that. “It’s the only way we are going to cope. We have to look after ourselves.”

  Cilka and Raisa get themselves a cup of tea and hunk of bread, bringing it back onto the ward. They sit with the less injured awaiting their turn for treatment. No one talks. Cilka dozes.

  She is startled awake. Several men in uniform storm into the ward, guards hurrying behind them.

  “Who’s in charge?” one of them bellows.

  Yelena approaches them. “I am.”

  “I want to know the name of every zek in here. Get me the list.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have a list. We’ve been too busy treating them, saving their lives, to ask them their names.”

  Yelena receives a fierce slap to her face, sending her sprawling.

  “I’ll be back in an hour and I want the name of every single person.”

  Cilka crawls over the floor to get to Yelena as the uniforms leave the ward.

  “Are you all right? The bastard. How dare he hit you!”

  She helps Yelena to her feet.

  “Didn’t see that coming,” Yelena says with a brave smile.

  “How can I help?”

  “Get paper and a pencil and get the names, please, Cilka.”

  “But what if they’re unconscious?”

  “Then make them up.”

  The Vorkuta Uprising is over. Two weeks of a bloodless standoff ends with dozens dead, hundreds injured.

  As Cilka obtains the names of the prisoners who are conscious and makes up names for those who aren’t, she is flooded with conflicting emotions. Talking quietly to the men who can answer her questions, she draws strength from their defiance and attempted resistance. Many of them are proud of the wounds they obtained while fighting for what they see as a just cause—better working and living conditions.

  When looking at the severely wounded—many that she knows will probably not survive—she is racked by grief for their failed resistance; grief for the loss of Pavel; grief at the departure of her friends, Josie and Olga. She can only hope they are somewhere safe. Hope that the best efforts of the doctors and nursing staff will save some of these lives that hang in the balance. Hope that one day another uprising will lead to a better outcome and they can all go home.

  She gets to the furthest beds and drops down when she sees a familiar face.

  “Hannah!”

  Hannah looks at Cilka through half-closed eyes.

  The doctor nearby looks over. “Bullet wounds, Cilka,” he says, and gives her a sorrowful look.

  Hannah croaks, “Help me, Cilka.”

  There’s a lot of blood, but Cilka can see the wounds are in Hannah’s arm and chest.

  “I’ll be back,” she says, and she runs to the dispensary. She returns with a rubber tourniquet and gauze. She lifts Hannah’s blood-covered arm, causing her to howl, and tightens the tourniquet. Then, with her left hand and the gauze bandages, she applies pressure to the chest wound. She is not sure how long ago Hannah was injured, but she can see why the doctor may have moved on to patients with a better chance of surviving.

  Cilka pushes Hannah’s hair back from her forehead. She is covered in cold sweat.

  The two women hold each other’s eyes. Despite everything, at this moment Cilka finds herself willing Hannah to live. She knows why she has become brutalized in this place, why she let addiction take hold. Now, lying before her, Cilka can see only her bravery, her humanity.

  “Hannah…”

  Hannah draws a pained breath over bloodied teeth. “I couldn’t stand by, Cilka, and let the men have all the fun.”

  “You are so strong, Hannah,” Cilka says.

  There are cries and moans all around them.

  Hannah takes short, sharp breaths. She reaches out with her non-injured arm and grasps the front of Cilka’s apron.

  “Cilka,” Hannah says, her voice choked with blood, “you are strong too.”

  Tears well up in Cilka’s eyes. She takes Hannah’s hand from the front of her apron, curls her fingers around it. With her other hand she keeps the pressure on the chest wound. Trying, failing, to stop the bleeding.

  Hannah squeezes her hand back.

  “Just keep making sure”—Hannah says, gasping for air—“you do not let them break you.” She pushes these last words through her teeth, fiery and tough. “Please…” she says. “Say goodbye to Elena for me.”

  “Hannah…” Cilka says, tears rushing now down her cheeks, her lips. “We need you.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Hannah says, and closes her eyes.

  Cilka sits with Hannah as her breaths come further and further apart, and then not at all. She cries for the loss of a person of such strength and integrity. Hannah may not have liked Cilka, or been able to understand what it had been like in that other place. But Cilka respected her. Everyone affected by war, captivity, or oppression reacts differently—and away from it, people might try to guess how they would act, or react, in the circumstances. But they do not really know.

  Once she has composed herself, and washed the blood from her hands, she picks the list back up and completes her task.

  She hands the list of names to Yelena.

  “I hope this will do,” she says.

  She needs to get back to the hut to break the news.

  “Ah, hope, now that’s a word we must use more often here,” Yelena replies. She looks up from the list, at Cilka. She frowns. “Cilka, are you okay?”

  Cilka nods. It is too much to explain right now. “I just have to get back to my hut.”

  “You may go,” Yelena says.

  * * *

  Life in the camp and in the hospital slowly returns to normal. Despite the white nights, no one risks being outside in the evenings due to the increased guard presence along the perimeter fence, and the sense that the guards are still jittery.

  The hut mourns Hannah. Though she was always finding ways to get under her hut-mates’ skin, she was admired, especially now that the women see what she used to do for them all. Elena takes it the hardest, beating herself up for not knowing her plans, for not being by her side.

  Cilka learns that the prisoners who survived the uprising face no further punishment. They go back to their huts, to their jobs, their lives returning to normal. Rumors circulate about some prisoners removing the patches identifying them by a number. They are getting away with it, no attempt is being made to force them to sew it back on.

  When entering the hospital one day, Cilka is relieved to look across the yard and see the familiar tall, confident figure of Alexandr, closing his eyes and breathing out smoke into the frosty air.

  She gets to work, the sight sustaining her for days, like food.

  CHAPTER 29

  The dark returns.

  There’s a blizzard howling outside and only one man braves it to enter Hut 29. Boris. He is distraught. He has learned he is to be released in a few days’ time and is trying to pull strings to have Cilka released too, so they can start a life together.

  Cilka says nothing as he regales her with plans of moving back to his home, of his family there and how he will get a job and he can provide for Cilka and the family he wants to have with her. Cilka feels sick. She has to think of something.

  She runs her fingers across his scalp as he snuggles into her.

  He tells her he loves her.

  Cilka is thrown back to another place, another time.

  Auschwitz-Birkenau, 1944

  “You know I care about you, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Commandant Schwarzhuber,” Cilka replies meekly.

  “I’d do something about my feelings for you if I could. You know that, don�
�t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir here, in bed. Use my name, Cilka.”

  “Johann.”

  “It sounds so lovely coming from your lips. You do like me, don’t you?”

  Cilka forces her voice to sound loving. He doesn’t see the tears she wipes from her eyes as she tells the biggest lie of her life. A lie that will allow her to stay alive.

  “Of course I do, Johann.”

  Tentatively Cilka runs her fingers through his hair. He purrs like a kitten, snuggling into her chest.

  “Johann?”

  “Yes, little one.”

  “I’ve never asked you for anything in all the time we’ve been together, have I?”

  “Mmm, no, I don’t think you have, why?”

  “Could I ask you for just one thing?”

  “I suppose so. Yes, if I can give it to you. What is it you want?”

  “It’s not for me.”

  “Then who?”

  “For my friend Gita. She likes this man, just as I like you, and it would be good if he could have his old job back, he was very good at it.”

  “What’s his job?”

  “The Tätowierer—he was the Tätowierer.”

  “Mmm, I have heard about him. Do you know where he is?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why don’t we pay him a visit tomorrow?”

  “Thank you, Johann. Thank you very much.”

  Cilka clears her throat and swallows back her tears. There is no use for them in this place.

  * * *

  Aware that Boris is stroking her face, running his hands down her neck, Cilka forces herself to find that voice again.

  “Oh, Boris, I don’t know what to say. I care so much for you; you have been so important in my life here.”

  “But do you love me, Cilka?”

  She clears her throat. “Of course I do. You have been my savior.” She marvels at his inability, now and always, to read the tone of her voice, her body language, the things that don’t lie. She doesn’t believe in miracles, in love.

  “I have to take you with me. I want you with me. I can’t bear the thought of any of those animals putting their hands on you. They tell me they are lining up to take you as soon as I go.”

  The words stab Cilka like a knife and she clutches her chest. Boris interprets her groan to be the pain of sadness that he is leaving. He holds her, gently whispering his love and how he is going to take care of her.

  * * *

  At the mess the next morning, Cilka, Elena and Anastasia sit together over their gruel.

  “I heard everything last night,” Anastasia says to Cilka.

  “Don’t worry your head about it, Anastasia,” Cilka says. She needs to solve this on her own.

  “Heard what?” Elena says.

  Anastasia says, “Boris is being let out.”

  Elena stops eating for a moment. “Cilka, you have to move into the nurses’ quarters.”

  “We’ll work it out. I can’t leave all of you.”

  “Cilka, don’t be stupid!” Elena says, hitting her with her spoon. “We all have husbands, or protection,” she says, sending a subtle wave to Antonina across the hall. “You will be eaten alive. Even Antonina or your fancy doctor won’t be able to save you.”

  Anastasia’s lip wobbles. “Cilka, I will miss you so much, but Elena is right. We will try to see you on the white nights—like Josie, remember?”

  Cilka stares at her gruel. Considering.

  * * *

  Cilka wades through knee-deep snow to the ward after roll call, and seeks out Yelena.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Of course, Cilka.”

  “Can you please move me, now, today, into the nurses’ quarters? I can’t continue sleeping in the hut,” she blurts out.

  “Are you hurt?” Yelena asks.

  “Not yet, but I might be if I stay where I am. Please help me.”

  Cilka still feels terrible about leaving her friends, but it is true that they are all now protected. Her being there won’t change a thing. They don’t need her for extra rations either, as most of them now have better jobs.

  “Calm down. Of course we’ll help you. You will go to the nurses’ quarters with Lyuba when you have finished your shift this afternoon,” Yelena says. “Do you want to tell me what happened? I thought the women you live with care for you.”

  “They do. It’s not them, it’s Boris.”

  “The pig who forces himself on you.”

  “Yes. He told me last night he is being released and that other men are lining up to take me.”

  “That’s enough, Cilka. No one is taking you. No one will harm you ever again as long as I can help it.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Living in her new home, with a bed, a small chest of drawers, fresh clothing, makes Cilka’s daily life easier. It is access to a shower that breaks her, reducing her to a sobbing heap crumpled under the water, where Raisa finds her, cradles her, dries, dresses and puts her back to bed.

  Each evening, Cilka returns to the barrack that she shares with twelve other nurses, and if she sees a bed unmade, it is soon made. The floor is swept, sometimes several times a day, the personal keepsakes and photos belonging to each nurse dusted and arranged on their drawers. Keeping busy in this way helps with the intense missing of her friends back in the hut and makes her feel she can contribute something to her new living companions.

  She has been in Vorkuta for eight years. Eleven years have passed since she left her hometown of Bardejov, bound for Auschwitz, still an innocent child.

  Her father, dear Papa, occupies much of her thoughts. Knowing her mother and sister have died has allowed her to grieve, remember them. She is tormented by not knowing if her father is alive or dead. Why can’t I feel his loss, mourn his death; why can’t I rejoice, knowing he is alive waiting for me to come home? Neither of these emotions rests with her. Only the unknown.

  A week into her new situation, during a break, Yelena sits down with her. She tells her about a patient she treated a couple of days ago with a burn on her arm. When she asked the patient what happened, she was told it was self-inflicted. The patient identified herself as Elena and asked Yelena to pass on a message to Cilka.

  Boris had come looking for Cilka, planning to take her away. When Elena told him Cilka had taken a turn for the worse and was back in hospital and not expected to live, Boris had flown into a terrifying rage and smashed up her empty bed. Elena wanted Cilka to know that the wood had kept them warm that night. Her message was a warning, however: Cilka must stay away from Hut 29. Other men had come looking for her, bad men …

  Cilka is horrified that Elena had to do that to herself to get a message to her.

  “Did she say any more? Are the women all right?”

  “Yes,” Yelena said. “She said not to worry, they are all fine.”

  “Am I really safe? Can they not find me here?” Cilka asks.

  “You’re safe, none of those men would dare venture near the staff quarters. In all my years here, I’ve never seen anyone cause any trouble. We have our own protection.”

  It starts to sink in for Cilka: even on the white nights, she may not ever be able to see her friends. She is safe. They are safe enough. But again, she is separated from those she has become close to. Is there to be no lasting relationship in Cilka’s life?

  Not that they ever knew her completely.

  “Can I ask how Petre Davitovich is?” Cilka asks, because at least she can know there is the possibility for others, in here, to have something lasting.

  She will not let herself entertain the fantasy of the tall, brown-eyed Alexandr.

  “Oh, he’s wonderful, he’s—” Yelena catches herself. “What do you know about Petre Davitovich and me?”

  “Just what everyone else here knows, that you two see each other, and we are so happy for you.”

  “Everyone knows?”

  Cilka laughs. “Of course we do. What else do we ha
ve to gossip about in here?”

  “Break’s finished. Come on, you, back to work.”

  * * *

  On her ambulance trips throughout that winter, Cilka notices that the number of prisoners working at the mine seems to be dwindling. Fyodor tells her there have been a lot of prisoners released in the past few weeks and not so many new ones coming in. They discuss what this means, and whether they might also be freed—they’ve heard of prisoners being released early. Cilka can barely let in the thought, the hope.

  Soon it is spring; the days are lengthening. Cilka notices more flowers than usual. They poke their heads above the snow and ice, waving in the breeze. Cilka’s steady routine, the time passing, and the freshness of spring bring her a level of relative calm, despite the deep ache she still feels for her losses and how much she misses her friends. And her secret longing. The ache is as much a part of her daily life as the harsh elements, hard bread, and the call of “Ambulance going out!”

  One day they stop outside a cluster of buildings that include food storage and laundry supplies. They are met and waved into a section Cilka hasn’t been in before but quickly identifies as the sewing room. Long tables with barely room between them for someone to sit in front of the machine.

  Cilka looks around and sees a hand waving at her and Kirill and Fyodor.

  “Over here.”

  Cilka walks over and jumps at a gentle tap on her shoulder. “Hello, stranger,” a beaming Elena says.

  “Elena!” The two women hug. Cilka doesn’t give Elena a chance to answer any of her questions, firing one after another. “How is Anastasia? How is Margarethe?”

  “Slow down, let me look at you.”

  “But—”

  “Anastasia is fine, Margarethe is well. Everyone misses you so much but we know you can only be safe away from us. You look well.”

  “I miss you all so much. I wish—”

  “Cilka, we have a patient here, will you take a look at him?”

  Cilka registers Fyodor and Kirill attending to the man lying on the floor, groaning, clutching his chest.