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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 -
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.
Cilka's Journey (ARC) Page 4