Cilka's Journey (ARC)

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Cilka's Journey (ARC) Page 4

by Heather Morris


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  shirt open. She feels the back of his hand across her face as she closes her eyes and gives in to the inevitable.

  * * *

  ‘They’re the trusties,’ a guard with a cigarette clenched

  between her teeth whispers.

  The voice brings Cilka back to the present.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The men you’re about to be paraded in front of. They’re

  the trusties, senior prisoners who have high positions in

  the camp.’

  ‘Oh, not soldiers?’

  ‘No, prisoners like you, who have been here a long time

  and work in the skilled jobs, with the administrators. But

  these ones are also of the criminal class. They have their

  own network of power.’

  Cilka understands. A hierarchy between old and new.

  She steps into the room, Josie behind her, both of them

  naked and shivering. She pauses to take in the rows of men

  she must walk between. Dozens of eyes look back at her.

  The man first in line on her right takes a step forward

  and she turns to meet his stare, boldly sizing him up,

  making the judgement he would have been the leader of

  a gang wherever he came from. Not much taller than her,

  stocky, clearly not starving. She thinks he must not be

  much older than in his late twenties, early thirties. She

  examines his face, looking beyond the body language he

  is throwing her way. His face betrays him. Sad eyes. For

  some reason she is not afraid of him.

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  ‘At last,’ is shouted out somewhere amongst the men.

  ‘About bloody time, Boris.’

  Boris puts his hand out to Cilka. She doesn’t take it but

  moves closer to him. Turning back, she encourages Josie

  to walk on.

  ‘Come here, little one,’ another man says. Cilka looks

  at the man ogling Josie. A large brute, but hunched. His

  tongue darts in and out of his mouth, revealing badly

  coloured and broken teeth. He has more of a feral energy

  than Boris.

  And Josie is chosen.

  Cilka looks at the man identified as Boris.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Cilka.’

  ‘Go and get some clothes and I’ll find you when I need

  you.’

  Cilka continues down the row of men. They all smile

  at her, with several making comments about her skin, her

  body. She catches up with Josie and they find themselves

  outside again, being ushered into another concrete bunker.

  At last, clothing is thrust at them. A shirt with missing

  buttons, trousers in the roughest fabric Cilka has ever felt, a heavy coat and a hat. All grey. The knee-high boots

  several sizes too big will come in handy, once she’s wrapped

  her feet in whatever rags she can get to help with the cold.

  Dressed, they leave the bunker. Cilka shades her eyes

  from the glare of sunlight. She takes in the camp resem-

  bling a town. There are clearly barracks for sleeping, but

  they are not neatly lined up like those in Birkenau. They

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  differ in size and shape. Beyond the perimeter she sees a small hill with a large, crane-like piece of equipment

  rearing above it. The fence enclosing them is scattered

  with lookouts, nowhere near as threatening as she has

  experienced in the past. Cilka looks closely at the top of

  the fence. She does not see the tell-tale insulators that

  would indicate it is electrified. Looking beyond the fence

  to the barren, desolate terrain stretching as far as the

  horizon, she accepts no electric fence would be needed.

  There could be no survival out there.

  As they trudge towards the buildings that will become

  home, following the person in front, unaware who is

  leading them or directing them, a woman with a broad,

  weathered face sidles up to them. The sun might be

  attempting to shine but the wind chill bites into any

  exposed skin – they are so far north that even though it

  is late summer there is snow on the ground. The woman

  is wearing layers of coats, strong-looking boots, and has

  her hat pulled down and tied beneath her chin. She leers

  at Cilka and Josie.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the lucky ones! Got yourselves men

  to protect you, I hear.’

  Cilka puts her head down, not wanting to engage in or

  encourage conversation with her. She doesn’t see the leg

  extended in front of her, tripping her, so that with her

  hands in her pockets she falls flat on her face.

  Josie reaches down to help her up, only to be hit in the

  back and sent sprawling herself. The two girls lie on the

  damp, frosty ground, side by side.

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  ‘Your looks won’t get you anywhere with me. Now get moving.’

  Cilka pulls herself up first. Josie stays lying on the

  ground, eventually taking Cilka’s hand as she is helped to

  her feet.

  Cilka risks looking around. Amongst the hundreds of

  women, dressed the same, heads shaven, faces buried in

  coats, it is impossible to identify the others from their

  train carriage.

  As they enter a hut, they are counted off by the gruff

  woman. Cilka had thought maybe she was a guard, but

  she’s not in uniform and as she walks past her Cilka notices

  the number sewn on her coat and hat. Must be like a

  block leader, Cilka thinks.

  The room has single beds lining one side, a space in

  the middle with a stove throwing out a version of heat.

  The women ahead of them have run to the stove and push

  and shove, hands extended towards it.

  ‘I’m your brigadier, and you belong to me,’ the leader

  says. ‘My name is Antonina Karpovna. An – to – ni – na

  – Kar – pov – na,’ she repeats slowly, pointing at herself,

  so no one can misinterpret her meaning. ‘All right, you

  lucky zechkas, I hope you realise you have one of the best prisoner huts in the camp.’ Cilka thinks she must be right.

  No bunks. Actual mattresses. A blanket each. ‘I’ll leave

  you to sort yourselves out,’ the brigadier says with a wry

  grin, before departing the hut.

  ‘What’s a zechka?’ Josie whispers.

  ‘I don’t know, but it can’t be a good word.’ Cilka

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  shrugs. ‘Probably means prisoner or something like that.’

  Cilka looks around her. None of the beds have been

  claimed; the women ahead of them ran straight to the

  stove. Grabbing Josie’s arm, Cilka pulls her away to

  the far end of the hut.

  ‘Wait, let’s find beds first. Sit on this one.’

  Cilka claims the end bed, pushing Josie onto the one

  next to it.

  They both examine what they are sitting on. A thin grey

  blanket over an off-white sheet covering a sawdust-filled

  mattress.

  Their rush to find somewhere to sleep doesn’t go un -r />
  noticed by the other women who now also scramble for

  beds, pushing and shoving each other as they too claim

  the place they will sleep tonight and for however many

  more nights they survive.

  It becomes obvious there is a bed for everyone. Hats

  are taken off and placed where a pillow would be, had

  one been provided.

  Cilka glances to the space across from the end of their

  beds.

  Two empty buckets look back at her. Toilets. She sighs.

  For as long as she remains in this hut, she will be reminded

  of her greed to secure what she considered the best place

  to sleep. She thought she would have a little privacy: a

  wall on one side of her, Josie on the other. There’s always

  a catch to a good position, to comfort. She should know

  that by now.

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  Having established their place, Cilka nudges Josie and they move towards the stove, hands outstretched.

  Cilka senses she has made some enemies already, on

  day one.

  Josie is shoved in the back by a large, tough-looking

  woman, her age indeterminate. She sprawls forward,

  smashing her face on the hard, wooden floor. Blood seeps

  from her nose.

  Cilka helps Josie to her feet, pulling the girl’s shirt up

  to her face, covering her nose, staunching the blood.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ a voice asks.

  ‘Watch it, bitch, or you’ll get the same,’ the bully says,

  getting in the other girl’s face.

  The other women observe the exchange.

  Cilka wants to react, to defend Josie, but she still needs

  to know more about how the place works, and who these

  women are, whether there’s a possibility of them all getting

  along.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Josie splutters to the girl who defended

  her, a young, slight woman with fair skin and blue eyes.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ the girl asks in Russian-accented

  Polish. She keeps touching her own shaved head.

  ‘She will be,’ Cilka answers.

  The girl examines Josie’s face with concern.

  ‘I’m Natalya.’

  Josie and Cilka introduce themselves.

  ‘You are Russian?’ Josie asks.

  ‘Yes, but my family was living in Poland. For many

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  decades. Only now they decide that is criminal.’ She lowers her head for a moment. ‘And you?’

  Josie’s face crumples. ‘They wanted to know where my

  brothers were. And they wouldn’t believe me when I told

  them I didn’t know.’

  Cilka makes soothing sounds to Josie.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Natalya says. ‘Perhaps let’s not talk about it

  now.’

  ‘Or ever,’ the bully says from her bed, turned away from

  the rest of them. ‘It’s all just variations on the same sob

  story. Whether we did something or not, we have been

  branded enemies of the state and we are here to be corrected

  through labour.’

  She stays facing away from them. Sighs.

  The fire crackles in the stove.

  ‘Now what?’ someone asks.

  No one is prepared to suggest an answer. Some of the

  women wander back to their chosen beds and curl up,

  going deep into their own silent thoughts.

  Cilka takes Josie by the arm and leads her to her bed.

  Pulling the blanket back she urges the girl to take off her

  shoes and lie down. Her nose has stopped bleeding. Cilka

  goes back to the stove. Natalya is carefully placing more

  coal from a nearby bucket into the red-hot cavity, using

  the end of her coat to open and close the door.

  Cilka looks at the coal pile. ‘There’s not enough to get us

  through the night,’ she says, as much to herself as to Natalya.

  ‘I’ll ask for more,’ Natalya says in a softly spoken

  whisper. She is rosy-cheeked and delicate-limbed, but

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  looks strong. Cilka can see in her eyes she thinks everything is going to work out. Cilka knows how quickly that feeling

  can be taken away.

  ‘We could perhaps just watch and see what they do.

  Ask for nothing and you lessen the risk of a beating.’

  ‘Surely they won’t let us freeze,’ Natalya says, hands on

  hips. The whisper is gone. Several other women push

  themselves up onto an elbow in the beds where they lie,

  listening to the conversation.

  Cilka takes a moment to look around at all the faces

  now turned to her. She can’t accurately tell all the women’s

  ages but thinks she and Josie are amongst the youngest.

  She remembers her own words spoken only a matter of

  hours ago. Don’t stand out, be invisible.

  ‘Well?’ is thrown at her from the bully at the front of

  the hut.

  All eyes are on her.

  ‘I don’t know anything more than you. I’m just guessing.

  But I think we should go easy on what coal we have left

  in case we don’t get any more today.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ says another woman, who lies back down

  and turns her head away.

  Cilka slowly walks back to the end of the hut to her

  bed. The small drop in temperature from the middle of

  the room to the end, only a matter of a few metres, has

  Cilka rethinking the decision she made in placing perceived

  privacy over warmth. She checks Josie, who appears to

  be asleep, before lying down.

  The sunlight goes on and on. Cilka has no idea what

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  time it is. She watches as Natalya approaches the fire, which is cooling, throwing a small amount of coal into

  the stove. Funny how people naturally fall into roles.

  She falls asleep at some point, while it is still light, or

  light again . . . she’s not sure.

  Cilka is startled awake by the loud clanging outside.

  The door to the hut opens and the brigadier, Antonina

  Karpovna, is back.

  ‘Up and get out, zechkas.’ She gestures with her head, her hands staying firmly entrenched in the pockets of her

  coat.

  Cilka knows the drill. She is the first to stand but doesn’t

  move, hoping those at the front of the hut will leave first.

  She knows that standing somewhere in the middle is the

  safest place to be. She helps a drugged-looking Josie to

  her feet and pulls the blankets up on their beds.

  Pushing her way forward, she guides Josie along with

  her and out of the building.

  They see others like them exiting the huts all around.

  Where were they when we arrived? The women from

  Cilka’s hut huddle together outside in a ramshackle manner

  until they observe orderly rows of women walking around

  them. Copying, they form into two rows of ten.

  With the hut empty, they follow the lead of the others

  slushing through thick mud towards a larger building. The

  rough fabric of her new clothes is chafing Cilka’s skin.

  Mosquitoes bite at her exposed neck
.

  She notices the stares, both sorrowful and threatening.

  She understands. Another hut filled with inmates, more

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  mouths to feed, more people to fight with for the better jobs. It is the newest arrivals who will have the hardest

  time adjusting and finding their place in the pecking order,

  until they are no longer the newest arrivals. She had been

  a long-timer in that other place – her and the other surviving Slovakian girls. They had seen it all. They had stayed alive.

  She wonders if she can find a way to advance her status,

  and Josie’s, without standing out. Or maybe she is here

  because of thoughts like that. Maybe hard labour is what

  she deserves.

  They enter the mess building, observing the established

  tradition of lining up, accepting what is given to you,

  finding a bench to sit on. Eyes down, don’t stand out.

  A tin mug is thrust into her hand. She checks on Josie.

  Her nose is swollen, bruising beginning to appear. Shuffling

  along, something resembling soup, full of little white

  unidentifiable bits, is slopped into the mug, a chunk of

  stale bread thrust at her. Josie’s hands shake and she spills half her food in her attempt to grab it. Soup and bread

  lie on the floor. Slowly Josie bends down and picks up

  the bread. Cilka has a horrible urge to yell at her. How

  much these small portions are worth!

  There are not enough tables and benches for all to sit.

  Many women stand around the walls looking, waiting for

  someone to finish and vacate their seat. Several eat while

  they stand, too hungry to care about table manners.

  One of the women from Cilka’s hut sees a space being

  vacated and hurries to reach it. She is met with a back-

  hand from the person sitting next to the vacated spot,

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  sending her mug flying, its contents splattering over both the floor and nearby diners.

  ‘Wait your turn, novichok! You haven’t earned the right to sit with us.’

  The pecking order is on display for the newcomers to

  observe and learn. Just like in Birkenau, with the swarms

  of new arrivals. She and Gita and the other Slovakian girls

  had dwindled from thousands, having lost all of their

  friends and families. And the new ones didn’t understand,

  couldn’t understand what their bodies and minds had

  been through, what they had done in order to survive.

 

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