Cilka's Journey (ARC)

by Heather Morris

telling Josie she’ll be in soon.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Josie asks, frowning at Hannah

  standing next to Cilka.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Cilka says, forcing a smile.

  Josie shrugs and walks on, leaving Cilka and Hannah

  alone.

  Cilka takes a deep breath.

  To her surprise, Hannah does not look threatening, but

  vulnerable. She licks her dry lips, her eyes darting about.

  ‘In the hospital . . .’ she says tentatively, ‘you have drugs for pain, right?’

  ‘We do, but they are limited. We only use them when

  we really have to.’

  ‘Well, you have to get me some,’ Hannah says. Her eyes

  flare in their sockets, desperate.

  ‘There’s not enough—’ Cilka says.

  ‘You know the consequences,’ Hannah growls, digging

  her hand back into the flesh of Cilka’s arm until it hurts.

  ‘If you don’t get me a steady supply, I will tell everyone

  in there—’ she nods towards the hut – ‘that you not only

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  fucked the Nazis but you stood like an angel of death in a fur coat and watched, and did nothing, as thousands of

  your kind were killed before your eyes.’

  Despite the mild weather, Cilka’s insides turn to ice.

  She begins to shake. She wants to explain to Hannah: I

  was sixteen! I did not choose any of it, any of this. I simply stayed alive. But no words come. And she knows, too, how they would ring out hollow and desperate to her

  hut-mates. How they would not be able to stand to be

  around her. How she would seem cursed, wrong. She does

  not want to steal drugs badly needed by patients for

  Hannah. But she also can’t lose her friends – her only

  solace. And what if Yelena found out about the death

  block too? Raisa and Lyuba? She might lose them, and

  her position. She wouldn’t be able to bring extra food for

  her hut-mates, helping to keep them strong enough to do

  their gruelling work. Everything would unravel.

  She sees on Hannah’s face that she has guessed Cilka’s

  thoughts.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Cilka says in a flat voice, defeated.

  As she is about to go back into the hut, to lie down

  and try to close her mind to this dilemma and all that it

  has brought up, she hears a voice call her name.

  ‘Cilka, Cilka!’ It is Boris.

  She turns as the stocky, ruddy-faced Russian bounds

  over to her. How can she deal with him right now? Their

  relationship has gradually changed. He tells Cilka often

  that he cares for her. She forces herself to tell him the

  same, for her safety, but she never means it. Many times,

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  when he visits, he just wants to be held, cuddled. He tells her about his childhood, one of rejection, of never knowing

  the love and comfort of caring parents. She pities him.

  She wonders if her feelings for men are to be only fear

  and pity? Her own childhood was full of love and atten-

  tion, her parents always interested in what she said,

  appreciating the stubborn, wilful daughter they were

  raising. There is a remnant of this sense of family, and

  belonging, tucked deep down, that cannot be touched.

  Her father was a good man. There must be other men

  like her father. Like Gita’s Lale. Love against terrible odds is possible. Maybe just not for her.

  She thinks again of the messenger she has seen in the

  hospital. His kind, dark eyes. But can a look of apparent

  kindness really be trusted? She doesn’t even know his

  name. It is better that she doesn’t.

  ‘Walk with me,’ Boris says firmly. She doesn’t know

  what will happen if she protests. So she goes. He takes

  her to a part of the camp she and the others have avoided,

  an area full of men, often arguing, always fighting.

  Boris tells her he wants her to meet some of his friends.

  He wants to show her off. For the first time since her

  arrival in Vorkuta, Cilka is genuinely scared. She knows

  Boris is a powerful trustie in the camp, but the vile

  comments of the men, who attempt to grab her and touch

  her as she walks past them, make her fear that he cannot

  protect her. One of the others has a young woman with

  him and is savagely having sex with her in full view of

  his comrades. The calls for Boris to prove his manhood

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  and take Cilka the same way make her break from him and run. Catching up to her, Boris insists he would never

  do anything like that to her. He apologises. A heartfelt

  apology. Confirming what she suspected. He cares for

  her. But how can he care for her when he does not know

  her? He only knows her as a body: face, hair, limbs.

  As they move away from the others, the girl’s screams

  follow them.

  Cilka begs Boris to let her go back to her hut. She wants

  to be alone. She is turning blank and numb. She assures

  him it is nothing he has said or done, trying to keep the

  fear out of her voice; she needs time by herself.

  Alone, curled up on her bed, facing the wall, even with

  her blindfold on, sleep will not come. Absurd images

  appear and warp in her head. An SS officer, his rifle

  adorned in lacy embroidery; Gita and Josie sitting beside

  a mountain of crushed coal searching in the grass for a

  four-leaf clover, laughing and sharing a secret as Cilka

  looks on from a distance; Yelena leading Cilka’s mother

  away from the truck as other women are piled on it, nearly

  corpses already, and bound for their death; Boris dressed

  in an SS commandant’s uniform, his arms outstretched,

  dead flowers being offered to her. She sobs silently at the

  hopelessness she suddenly feels for her future and the

  people who will never be in it.

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  Auschwitz-Birkenau, 1944

  Cilka steps foot outside Block 25. Four SS officers stand near the idling truck, just outside the gates of the brick courtyard, waiting to take the overnight residents of her block to their death. The women are slowly making their

  way out the gate, dead women walking. She pushes through

  them to approach the two nearest SS officers.

  ‘Two have died overnight. Would you like me to have

  their bodies brought out for the death cart?’

  One of the officers nods.

  Cilka stops the next four women.

  ‘Get back inside and bring out the two who have cheated

  the gas chamber,’ she snarls.

  The four women turn back into the block. Cilka follows

  them in, pulling the door behind her, not quite shutting it.

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ she says. The women look at her

  as if it’s a trick. Cilka frowns. ‘They would have stuck their rifles in your belly and dragged you back here if I didn’t say something first.’

  The women nod, understanding. One of them has died

  and is lying on a top bunk. Cilka climbs up to her, and as gently as she can, lowers her down into the arms of two of the waiting women. The
body weighs nothing. Cilka climbs

  down and helps properly place her across their spindly arms, then adjusts the woman’s meagre clothing to give her a

  degree of dignity in death.

  Once the two dead women are carried outside, Cilka

  watches the truck drive away. She is left with the squeak 135

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  and scratch of hungry rats. She will go inside in a moment and put on her clean nylons, bought with bread. If he comes to visit, he likes her clean. And she has a favour to ask him, for her friend Gita, concerning the man she loves. Cilka

  finds ‘love’ a strange word – it bounces around in her mind but doesn’t land. But if Gita is able to feel it, Cilka will do what she can to preserve that. Before going inside, she

  glances in the direction of the gas chambers and crematoria.

  When she started here in this hell on earth she had always sent a prayer. But now the words will not come.

  * * *

  In her hut, desperate to drive away the memories, Cilka

  wills sleep to come.

  Thirteen years to go.

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  CHAPTER 10

  A small child screams. Patients and staff turn as the

  door to the ward is flung open, and a woman runs

  in, holding a little girl. Blood covers the child’s face and

  dress; her left arm hangs at an impossible angle. Two

  guards follow, shouting for a doctor.

  Cilka watches as Yelena runs to the woman. She is well-

  dressed, clad in a warm coat and hat; not a prisoner. Her

  arm around the woman’s shoulders, Yelena ushers her to

  the end of the ward. As she passes Cilka, she calls to her,

  ‘Come with me.’

  Cilka falls in behind the procession, the child still

  screaming. In the treatment room, Yelena gently takes the

  child. She places her on the bed and the child appears to

  go limp. Her cries subside to a whimper.

  ‘Help her, help her!’ the mother begs.

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  ‘What’s her name?’ Yelena asks calmly.

  ‘Katya.’

  ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Maria Danilovna, her mother.’

  ‘They are the wife and daughter of Commandant Alexei

  Demyanovich Kukhtikov,’ one of the guards offers. ‘The

  officers’ hospital is at capacity because of the ward being

  rebuilt, so we brought her straight here.’

  Yelena nods, asks the mother, ‘What happened?’

  ‘She followed her older brother up onto the roof of our

  house and fell off.’

  Yelena turns to Cilka. ‘Get some wet cloths and help me

  wipe the blood away so I can see the extent of the injuries.’

  A small pile of towels rests on a chair next to a basin.

  Cilka drenches two of them. There is no time to wait for

  the water to warm up, cold will have to do. Handing one

  to Yelena, she follows her lead in wiping blood from the

  little girl’s face. The wet, cold towel seems to revive her,

  and her screams resume.

  ‘Please, help my malyshka, please,’ sobs Maria.

  ‘We are helping,’ Yelena says softly. ‘We need to clean

  some of the blood away to see where she is hurt. Be careful

  of her arm, Cilka, it’s broken and will need to be set.’

  Cilka glances at the arm hanging over the bed next to

  her and repositions herself to avoid it. Bending down, she

  speaks to Katya in a quiet, soothing voice, telling her she

  is not going to hurt her, she is just cleaning her face. Katya responds, her whimpering now accompanied by shivers

  that wrack her small body.

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  ‘Get a blanket, quickly, and cover her. We need to keep her warm.’ Cilka grabs a blanket from the end of the bed.

  Folding it into two she carefully places it over Katya, again murmuring, telling her what she is doing.

  ‘I can see the site of the wound, it’s on my side of her

  head – it’s quite a gash. Keep cleaning her face, Cilka. I’m

  going to get some supplies.’

  Yelena drapes the end of a towel over the right side of

  Katya’s head, covering her right eye.

  Maria steps in front of Yelena. ‘You can’t leave her,

  you’re the doctor. Send her.’

  Cilka’s heart races. At some point today she has to get

  to the dispensary that contains all the medicines and

  medical materials needed on the ward, though she dreads

  what she is planning to do.

  ‘She won’t know what to get. I’ll be right back. In the

  meantime, Katya, and you too, Maria Danilovna, are in

  good hands with Cilka.’

  Yelena leaves the room.

  ‘You might want to hold her hand,’ Cilka tells Maria,

  who nods and takes Katya’s uninjured hand in her own.

  Cilka wets a clean towel.

  When Yelena returns, Cilka is talking to Katya.

  ‘Katya, my name is Cilka Klein. Doctor Kaldani and I

  are going to take care of you. Do you understand?’

  A small grunt comes from the little girl.

  ‘Good girl. Now, Katya, can you tell me where you

  hurt? We know your head hurts and we know your arm

  hurts, but does it hurt anywhere else?’

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  ‘My . . . my leg,’ splutters Katya.

  ‘Good girl. Anywhere else?’

  ‘My head hurts. Mumma, Mumma!’

  ‘I’m here, my malyshka, I’m here. You’re such a brave little girl; you’re going to be OK.’

  Yelena places the tray she has brought in on the bedside

  table. From the bottom of the blanket she lifts it gently

  to look at Katya’s legs. They are covered in thick stockings, and no injury is visible.

  ‘Cilka, help me take her stockings off so we can examine

  her legs.’

  Whatever pain Katya is feeling in her legs is not significant enough for her to react as Yelena and Cilka each remove

  a boot and a sock. Yelena examines her legs. The right one

  is showing signs of early swelling and bruising around the

  knee. Yelena moves it carefully; Katya doesn’t respond.

  ‘I think it’s not serious. Let’s get back to her head.’

  ‘What about her arm?’ Cilka asks.

  ‘We’ll get to that. You’re doing really well, Cilka; thank

  you for asking her about other injuries. Often children

  this young don’t respond. You have to find the injuries

  yourself, so well done. Pardon me, Maria Danilovna, but

  how old is Katya?’

  ‘She’s nearly four.’

  ‘A lovely age,’ Yelena says quietly, as much to herself

  as Maria.

  Yelena removes the towel from Katya’s head. The gaping

  wound has stopped pulsing blood, but the red raw edges

  look nasty. She hears Maria gasp.

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  Yelena pours antiseptic over a wadded bandage and gently places it over the wound. Cilka continues to attempt

  to wash the blood from Katya’s hair.

  ‘You have beautiful hair, Katya. It goes with your lovely

  face.’

  ‘Keep talking to her, Cilka. M
aria Danilovna, this is

  what we have to do. I cannot take care of Katya’s injuries

  while she is awake. I will give her an injection to put her

  under, examine her more closely, then move her to a more

  sterile room to stitch her head wound and take care of

  her arm. It is broken between the elbow and the wrist

  and will need to be pulled into place properly before it

  can be plastered. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so. Are you sure you need to put her to sleep

  though? What if she doesn’t wake up? I’ve heard about

  people being put to sleep by doctors and not waking up.’

  ‘She needs to be asleep, Maria Danilovna, you have to

  trust me.’

  ‘Where are you from? Where did you get your training?’

  Maria asks Yelena, and Cilka senses the anxiety beneath

  her bravado.

  ‘I’m from Georgia, and I was trained there.’

  ‘I’m also from Georgia – they have good hospitals there.’

  ‘We must talk some more, but for now, I need to take

  care of Katya,’ Yelena says, and then quietly, ‘Do you want

  to tell her she is going to have a needle and go to sleep

  or should I?’

  Turning to Cilka, Maria says, ‘Let her, she seems to be

  able to calm Katya.’

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  Although Cilka has heard the exchange, she looks to Yelena to repeat exactly what it is she is to say to Katya.

  She doesn’t want to get it wrong and frighten the girl.

  She strokes Katya’s face as she tells her what is going to

  happen. Katya doesn’t flinch as Yelena injects the anaes-

  thetic, and both she and Cilka watch as Katya’s eyes flutter

  and close.

  When Yelena is convinced Katya is deeply asleep, she

  removes the blanket and starts to cut away her clothes.

  Layer by layer is discarded on the floor. With only a singlet and underpants remaining, Cilka becomes aware of the

  two guards in the room.

  ‘Leave,’ Cilka says to them firmly.

  They don’t need to be told twice.

  As the door closes behind them, bellowing can be heard

  in the ward. ‘Where is she, where is my malyshka, Katya?’

  ‘My husband,’ whispers Maria. Cilka watches as the

  relief on her face at hearing her husband’s voice is replaced by what looks like fear. Maria backs away from the bed.

  The door bursts open and Commandant Alexei

  Demyanovich Kukhtikov storms into the room. Scrambling

  behind him, a senior doctor enters, squawking, ‘Alexei