Cilka's Journey (ARC)

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Cilka's Journey (ARC) Page 14

by Heather Morris


  Demyanovich, Alexei Demyanovich, I am in charge.’

  The commandant arrives at the bed and registers his

  daughter’s broken, bloodied body. He looks to his wife.

  ‘What happened, Masha?’

  ‘Alyosha—’

  Yelena comes to Maria’s defence. ‘She was just playing,

  Alexei Demyanovich, and had a fall. It looks worse than

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  it is. I have put her to sleep so I can take care of her, but I assure you she will be fine.’

  The commandant listens without interrupting, but the

  doctor who followed him intervenes.

  ‘Alexei Demyanovich, I am in charge here. I am so sorry

  I didn’t know your daughter was here.’ Turning on Yelena,

  he shouts, ‘No one told me the commandant’s daughter

  was here. I will now take over.’

  Maria cautiously walks towards her husband. ‘These

  two angels have taken care of our little girl. Let them finish what they have started.’

  Alexei looks at his wife. ‘And are you all right?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ pipes up the doctor. ‘I am the most expe-

  rienced doctor here and it is my duty to take care of your

  daughter, Alexei Demyanovich.’

  Without looking at him, the commandant answers. ‘If

  my wife says she trusts these two to look after Katya then

  they will, with my thanks.’

  He turns to Yelena. ‘You look like the doctor.’

  ‘Yes, Alexei Demyanovich. I am Yelena Georgiyevna,

  or Doctor Kaldani.’

  Turning to Cilka. ‘And you, the nurse?’

  ‘She is not even a nurse, she’s a—’ the male doctor

  interjects.

  ‘A nurse in training, Alexei Demyanovich, but a very

  good one,’ Yelena says.

  The commandant attempts to run his hands through

  the matted, bloodied hair of Katya. He bends down and

  kisses her gently on the cheek.

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  ‘I’ll go back to my office and leave her in your hands.

  Have someone report to me when you have finished and

  I will organise where she is to stay; she’s not staying here.’

  He turns to Maria. ‘Stay with her, my dear.’

  ‘I was never leaving.’

  Cilka and Maria follow the bed with Katya on it as it

  is pushed by Yelena to the operating room. Cilka has not

  been in this part of the hospital before. The door at the

  end of the ward always seemed forbidden territory to her.

  A short corridor leads to two small anterooms feeding

  into a slightly larger room with a big overhead light. Cilka

  heard about such rooms in Auschwitz. Chills overcome

  her, her breathing quickens.

  ‘It’s all right, Cilka,’ Yelena says, ‘this is where we

  operate. Now come on, I need your help.’

  While Yelena stitches and bandages Katya’s head,

  manipulates and plasters her arm, examines the bruises

  which have now appeared on her legs and small body,

  none of which require medical attention, Cilka stands with

  Maria. At the sound of the bones in the girl’s arm crunching

  back into place, Maria buries her head in Cilka’s shoulder.

  Cilka takes a sharp breath, then places a loose arm around

  the distressed mother.

  In the recovery room, Cilka stands beside the chair

  while Maria sits with her head on the bed beside her

  daughter. When Katya wakes, crying, her mother comforts

  her as Cilka runs to get Yelena.

  A quick examination by Yelena determines that Katya

  has come through her procedures well. Cilka notices Katya

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  looking at her quizzically, as if she doesn’t know who she is.

  ‘Hello, Katya, I am Cilka.’

  Katya registers her voice; a small smile crosses her lips.

  ‘These are the two angels who took care of you,’ Maria

  tells her daughter.

  Katya continues to look at Cilka through one opened

  eye, the other partially covered by the large bandage encir-

  cling her head. Cilka is uncomfortable with the attention

  from the girl. Now the action is over she’s much more

  aware of the child’s smallness, her vulnerability, how it

  could all have gone so wrong.

  ‘There’s a truck outside waiting to take the girl home,’

  says a guard from the doorway. Cilka is glad she cannot

  hear the idling truck, a sound from her nightmares, a

  sound she would hear from her room in Block 25 – the

  death cart waiting for its passengers. The guard steps aside

  as two men enter, carrying a stretcher between them.

  Yelena lifts Katya from the bed. The stretcher is placed

  on the bed and Yelena lowers Katya back down, carefully

  placing her broken arm across her small body. Blankets

  are piled on top of the delicate little frame.

  As the men lift the stretcher and walk towards the door

  Maria turns back to Cilka.

  ‘If there is anything I can do for you, please ask. I mean

  it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cilka says. My freedom. That is an impossible request, she knows. ‘Thank you for letting me care

  for Katya.’

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  ‘I wouldn’t let anyone else care for my children or myself but you and Yelena Georgiyevna.’ She smiles.

  Cilka smiles back.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Maria says.

  As she is leaving, Cilka studies the elegant woman she

  has spent the past few hours with. The delicate lace collar

  on her dress and the silver locket and chain hanging around

  her neck. The colourful belt that pulls her dress in to her

  tiny waist, and the shiny buckles on her shoes. It has been

  many years since she saw a woman dressed so beautifully.

  Images of her mother dressed similarly come into Cilka’s

  head. A memory to cling to. But that is followed by thoughts

  of her mother at the very end. A memory she can’t bear.

  It takes until the final hour of her shift for Cilka to find

  an excuse to go to the dispensary. She takes one container

  of the pills, slips it into the extra pocket sewn into her skirt where she normally puts food to take back to the hut. It is

  just one container, she thinks. She just can’t face up to this relative peace – this position, these friends – being lost.

  As she steps outside after her shift she glances over

  towards the administration building. She sees the messenger,

  the polite man with the brown eyes, walking across spotlit

  grass. He raises a cigarette to his lips, pauses his walk, closes his eyes and inhales. Despite his layers of clothing, his scarf and hat, his worn boots, there is an elegance to him, in the

  small pleasure he takes on the inhale, in the exhaled smoke

  rising above him and his gloved fingers poised in front of

  his mouth. Cilka feels something shift inside her.

  She keeps walking.

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  CHAPTER 11

  Name: Stepan Adamovich Skliar

  Date: September 14, 1947. Time of Death: 10:44

&nbs
p; Placing the blanket over Stepan’s head, Cilka walks back

  to the desk area, slowly flicking through Stepan’s file. A

  couple of recent entries catch her attention and she reads

  on.

  Ukrainian prisoner, presented three days previously with

  stomach pain. Nothing identified on examination. Watch

  and wait. Aged 37 years.

  She looks for the treatment plan. There isn’t one.

  Investigations: nil. Pain relief: occasional.

  A doctor is sitting at the desk nearby. She hands him

  the file.

  ‘I’ve noted the time of death for this patient, Gleb

  Vitalyevich.’

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  ‘Thank you, just leave it there.’ He indicates a pile nearby.

  ‘If you would like to sign it, I can file it immediately.’

  The doctor takes the record from her and flicks quickly

  through it. He scribbles something on the front page and

  hands the file back.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll file it.’

  With her back turned to the doctor, Cilka looks at the

  entry. The doctor’s illegible signature beside her notation.

  Then the words ‘Cause of Death: unknown.’

  Cilka looks back at the doctor, noting how little he is

  writing in any record, how he is not reading previous

  entries, and how the pile of records that was in front of

  him when she approached is now reduced to three or

  four.

  With anger growing inside her, Cilka doesn’t see Yelena

  approaching until she stops in front of her, blocking her

  path.

  ‘Is something the matter, Cilka?’

  Cilka takes several moments to think of how to

  respond.

  ‘Why do you go to great lengths to save some people

  and not others? How do you decide who should live and

  who should die?’

  Yelena frowns. ‘We try and save everyone.’

  ‘You do, not every doctor here does.’

  Yelena takes the file from Cilka, scanning the last entries.

  ‘Hmm, I see what you mean. It’s possible that investi-

  gations were made and simply not recorded.’

  ‘Possible, but I don’t think so.’

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  Yelena looks at Cilka seriously. ‘You need to be careful, Cilka. The administration needs functional bodies to work,

  and so saying anybody was deliberately hindering the sick

  from getting better so they can serve Mother Russia is a

  more serious accusation than you may realise.’

  Cilka takes back the file with a little more force than

  she should have.

  In the small filing room filled with boxes she goes to

  place Stepan’s file in the current open box. Taking the last

  two files out she quickly looks at the entries. Both causes

  of death do seem valid to her untrained brain. She will

  keep her thoughts to herself and heed Yelena’s advice not

  to pry. After all, it’s not as though she is doing everything right by the patients. Though she tries her hardest, there

  is that one container of pills slipped into her pocket every

  now and then.

  * * *

  ‘Are you religious?’ Yelena asks Cilka one day, standing

  near an unconscious patient in the corner of the ward who

  has just been looked over by Gleb Vitalyevich. It is dark

  outside, and snowing.

  ‘No,’ Cilka answers quickly, though it is not the full

  answer. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well . . .’ She is keeping her voice low. As Cilka remem-

  bers, one does not talk about religion in the Soviet Union.

  Any religion. ‘It’s the season where some religions celebrate

  . . . I wasn’t sure if it meant anything to you.’

  ‘No, not me.’ Cilka looks down at the patient. Talking

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  about this means talking about a lot of other things. Talking about the annihilation of her people. About how hard it

  is to have faith the way she once could. ‘You?’

  ‘Well, in Georgia, it was always a time when we would

  gather with family, and have food and music . . .’ It’s the

  first time Cilka has seen Yelena look properly sad, wistful.

  She is always forthright, practical, in the moment. ‘Are

  you just not . . . Christian?’

  ‘No, not a Christian.’

  ‘Dare I ask, any other religion?’

  Cilka pauses for a moment too long.

  ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. You know that

  if you ever want to talk about where you come from . . .

  just know I will not judge you.’

  Cilka smiles at her. ‘A long time ago, my family did

  celebrate . . . around this time of year. Also with food,

  lots of food, lights, blessings and songs . . .’ She looks

  around her, fearing someone may overhear. ‘But it is hard

  to remember.’

  Deeply and instinctively, Cilka still often reaches for

  prayers. Her religion is tied to her childhood, her family,

  traditions and comfort. To another time. It is a part of

  who she is. At the same time, her faith has been challenged.

  It has been very hard for her to continue believing when

  it truly does not seem that actions are fairly rewarded or

  punished, when it seems instead that events are random,

  and that life is chaotic.

  ‘I understand,’ Yelena says, warmly.

  ‘I wonder if anyone is lighting a candle tonight for this

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  poor fellow,’ Cilka says, wanting to move the focus from herself.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ says Yelena. ‘For all these wretches. But

  you didn’t hear me say that.’

  Cilka nods and takes a step away from the bed, before

  turning back to Yelena.

  ‘If I was ever going to talk about my past, I would like

  it to be with you.’

  She has surprised herself by saying it. It is too much of

  a risk, and too difficult. And even if Yelena – the most

  compassionate person Cilka has met – could handle it,

  what if she told others? Even the patients in the hospital

  wouldn’t want her around. Someone who has overseen so

  much death.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, come and find me,’ Yelena

  says.

  The ward is quiet for a moment, unusually so. Cilka

  stands by the window, watching the snow flurry in the

  blue-black sky. Closing her eyes, she sees her family sitting around the table. Her beloved father reciting blessings,

  the lighting of the menorah, the pure joy of being together.

  She can smell and taste the latkes, potato pancakes fried in oil, that will be eaten for the next eight days. She

  remembers the excitement of being a young girl given her

  first candle to light. How she pestered her father many

  times to be allowed to light the first one. How she never

  accepted his explanation that it was the man in the house

  who did it. Then the memory of the time he relented,

  telling her she had the courage and determination of any

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6:31

  boy and as long as it was their family secret, she could light the first candle. She then remembers when that was.

  The last time she sat with her family to welcome and

  celebrate Hanukkah.

  ‘ Hanukkah sameach,’ she whispers to herself. ‘Happy

  Hanukkah, my family: Ocko, Mamička. Magda.’

  Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1942

  ‘Happy birthday. Pack the new coat Mumma and Papa gave

  you for your birthday, Cilka. You may need it,’ Magda

  whispers as the sisters each pack a small suitcase.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Poprad. We have to catch the train there for Bratislava.’

  ‘And Mumma and Papa?’

  ‘They will take us to the train station and we will see

  them when we come home. We must be brave, little sister,

  keep Mumma and Papa safe by going to work for the

  Germans.’

  ‘I’m always brave,’ Cilka says firmly.

  ‘Yes, you are, but tomorrow when we say goodbye, you

  have to be especially brave. We will stay together and . . .

  and you can look after me.’ Magda winks at her little sister.

  Cilka continues putting her very best dresses into the suitcase.

  She will do her family proud.

  * * *

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  Cilka has contained all this for so long. She is not sure if it is the darkness or the quiet, or Yelena’s open face, but

  she has to run to the nearby linen room. She closes the

  door, heart racing, and drops onto the floor, burying her

  face in dirty soiled linen so no one can hear the sobs that

  are escaping her.

  With no sense of how long she has been down there,

  Cilka struggles to her feet. She smooths down her clothing,

  wipes her fingers under her lashes, making sure it is not

  obvious that she has been crying. She needs to get back

  to work.

  She takes a deep breath and opens the door. As she

  leaves the room she hears—

  ‘There you are. I’ve been looking for you.’

  Cilka squares her shoulders. Striding towards her is the

  doctor she despises for his attitude and complete lack of

  compassion in treating his patients: Gleb Vitalyevich. She

  has often wondered if it would be possible to compare

  the survival rate of his patients with other doctors. She

  knows he would be the worst by far.

  ‘Watch Bed nine for time of death. I’m going off for a

  while. I’ll sign it off tomorrow.’

  She watches him walk away. I know about you, she

 

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