Cilka's Journey (ARC)

by Heather Morris

  pushes up her sleeves and reaches in to take hold of the

  little arm with one hand, cradling the head in the other.

  Feeling Nina bearing down, she gently tugs on the slippery

  baby. The one almighty push expels the baby completely

  and it lies between its mother’s legs and in Cilka’s hands,

  blood and fluid pooling around it.

  ‘It’s out, it’s out,’ Cilka cries.

  From the other end of the ward comes the doctor’s

  voice, calm and reassuring. ‘Lift it up and give it a tap

  – you have to make the baby cry, make sure it is breathing.’

  As Cilka lifts the baby up it begins to cry without the

  need of assistance.

  ‘Well done – that’s what we want to hear,’ the doctor

  calls. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. Wrap the baby up and

  give it to Nina.’

  ‘What is it?’ pleads Nina.

  Cilka looks at the baby, then to the doctor, who is

  watching her.

  ‘You can tell her.’

  Cilka wraps the baby in the towel left for that purpose.

  Handing it to Nina, she tells her, ‘It’s a little girl, a beautiful little girl.’

  Nina sobs as her daughter is placed in her arms. Cilka

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  watches, fighting tears that threaten, biting her lip – the emotion of the moment overwhelming. After studying her

  baby’s face, Nina exposes her breasts and pushes the baby

  roughly onto a nipple. The baby does nothing at first,

  seemingly reluctant, and then she finally latches on and

  Cilka marvels at the little jaw working feverishly away.

  The doctor appears beside her.

  ‘Well done. If Nina was a first-time mother, she wouldn’t

  know to put the baby to her breast as quickly as possible.

  In that case, you would need to help her. Do you under-

  stand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go and get some towels. Nina’s work isn’t done yet

  – she needs to get the placenta out, and having the baby

  suckle will quicken that.’

  ‘So much to learn,’ Cilka mutters as she retrieves a

  handful of towels.

  When Nina has delivered the placenta, the doctor takes

  it away in a basin he retrieved from underneath the bed.

  ‘Clean her up,’ is his parting comment.

  One of the other nurses comes over and shows Cilka

  the procedure for caring for the mother post-delivery. She

  tells Cilka she and the other nurse are fine with the

  remaining patients and she should spend some time with

  Nina and the baby, making sure nothing changes in their

  condition.

  Cilka helps Nina sit up and examine her baby from

  head to toe. They talk about names and Nina asks Cilka

  if she has any ideas.

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  One name comes directly into Cilka’s mind.

  ‘What about Gisela – Gita for short?’

  Newborn Gita is placed in Cilka’s arms and Cilka revels

  in her smallness, her smell. She goes to give her back and

  finds Nina sound asleep. Exhausted.

  ‘Get a chair and sit with her awhile,’ the nurse who has

  identified herself as Tatiana Filippovna, suggests. Cilka is

  grateful. She is still aching all over. ‘We don’t often get a chance to cuddle the babies, as the mothers are very

  attached to them. Well, the ones who wanted them. A lot

  of them are all too happy for us to take them away and

  never look at them again.’

  The idea breaks Cilka’s heart, but it is also something

  she understands. How could anyone bear to think of what

  the child’s life would be like, or their own life trying to

  protect them in a place like this?

  ‘Nina will be transferred next door to the nursery hut

  in a little while,’ Tatiana continues.

  From Nina’s bedside, Cilka cuddles little Gita while

  observing the other two nurses and the doctor at work.

  Always calm, they move from patient to patient, soothing

  them, offering words of encouragement.

  When a guard appears to take Nina and the baby away,

  Cilka is upset to see them go. Helping Nina into her coat,

  wrapping the baby inside, she assists the unsteady new

  mother to the door, and she is gone.

  When she thinks about it, she’s never before held a

  newborn, healthy baby.

  She doesn’t dare hope that she has broken her curse.

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  That she could have a role in helping new life come into the world, rather than overseeing death.

  ‘And now you clean up and get the bed ready for the

  next one, says Tatiana. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where the

  buckets and water are. Can’t guarantee clean linen for

  everyone but we’ll find the least spoiled.’

  ‘Aren’t there cleaners to do this?’ Cilka asks. She

  wouldn’t normally baulk at the work but she has mere

  threads of energy left.

  Tatiana laughs, ‘Yes, you. You are the cleaner. Unless

  you think the doctor should do it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Cilka says, smiling, wanting to show

  she is happy to work. She will grit her teeth and be grateful.

  Cilka cleans up after Nina and two others who give

  birth. Tatiana and her colleague Svetlana Romonovna

  concentrate on the other patients, and then Cilka, to show

  her dedication, cleans up after them, drawing from a

  hidden reserve of energy. Each patient is taken away

  mysteriously with their newborn, for life in ‘the hut next

  door’.

  * * *

  ‘Who do we have here?’

  Two new nurses enter the ward.

  Cilka looks up from her mop, leaning on it. ‘Hello, I’m

  Cilka Klein. I started work here today.’

  ‘As a cleaner, I see. Just what we need,’ one of them

  replies.

  ‘Well, no, I’m a nurse . . .’ She tries to steady her

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  breathing. ‘I’m just helping Tatiana Filippovna by cleaning up.’

  ‘Hey, Tatiana, got yourself a slave here.’

  ‘Get lost, you pathetic excuse for a nurse,’ Tatiana responds.

  Cilka tries to work out if the exchange is in jest or seri-

  ousness. The thumb thrust through the middle and index

  fingers at Tatiana – a rude gesture – answers her question.

  ‘Well, slave, we’ll be on day shift next week; we’ll see

  how good a cleaner you are.’ The two newcomers go to

  the front of the ward to the desk area. Pulling up chairs

  they relax, talking and giggling. Cilka doesn’t need to be

  told they are talking about her, their body language and

  calls of ‘Get back to work’ are clear enough. This

  surprising, joyous day seems also to herald a darker future.

  Tatiana finds a moment to reassure her. ‘Look, you are

  a prisoner. We are not, we are qualified and must work

  both day and night shifts. I’m sorry, but every second

  week you will have to work with those cows. Don’t let

  them boss you around too much, you are here t
o work as

  a nurse.’

  ‘Thank you. I shall look forward to every second week.’

  ‘Our shifts are up,’ Tatiana says. ‘Come on, get your

  coat and go. We’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Night.’

  With mixed emotions, but relieved that her shift is over,

  Cilka wraps herself in her coat and steps out into the frigid air. In her pocket she feels the note Petre has written

  advising Antonina of her new position.

  * * *

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  That night, Cilka tells Josie, Olga, Elena and anyone else interested about her day and her new role helping deliver

  babies. Though Hannah lies on her bed, facing the wall,

  Cilka can tell she is listening, too. She regales them with

  exaggerated stories of baby Gita’s birth, and how she flew

  out from her mother and would have landed on the floor

  if Cilka hadn’t caught her. She declares herself now an

  expert on all matters concerning childbirth and tells them

  about the support she received from the nurses and the

  one lovely doctor who couldn’t be more caring. She doesn’t

  mention the two night-shift nurses she will have to spend

  the next week with.

  Questions of where the new mothers went and whether

  they were allowed to stay with their babies, and for how

  long, are brushed aside. She doesn’t know that yet. And

  she’s worried about knowing.

  Elena says she has heard that they take the babies away

  from the mothers and force them back to work.

  ‘I’ll find out soon enough,’ Cilka promises.

  Cilka had been given the same food as the other nurses,

  twice as much bread as the usual ration, and she has been

  able to bring that back to share. She is relieved she can

  still be useful in this way, or the guilt of landing another

  inside job would be overwhelming.

  Cilka is also grateful that the job will be so busy and

  all-consuming that she will have no time to think about

  Alexandr Petrik, the Czech man working as a messenger.

  Because no good would come of that.

  As Cilka lies down, Josie pushes her over, crawling in

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  beside her. She sobs, ‘I’m sorry about the sheet, Cilka.

  About you having to go into the hole.’

  ‘Please, Josie, you don’t have to keep saying that. It’s

  over. Can we get back to being friends?’

  ‘You are my dearest friend,’ Josie says.

  ‘Well, dearest, get out of my bed and let me get some

  sleep.’

  Auschwitz-Birkenau, 1942

  Cilka stares at a fly on the cold cement wall of her room in Block 25. He has not come for her today.

  Women and girls stagger into the block to seek out a

  place to lay their head for the final time. She sighs, stands up from her bed and opens the door, watching the wraiths

  pass by her, holding her arms around herself.

  A woman, being assisted into the block by two others,

  turns to Cilka – thick grey-brown locks, dark circles under her eyes, sunken cheeks. It takes Cilka a moment to recognise her.

  ‘Mumma!’ she screams.

  Cilka pushes herself into the trio, grasping the woman in the middle.

  ‘My baby, my beautiful dievča !’ the woman cries.

  The other women are too distraught, blank-eyed, to pay

  much attention to the reunion.

  Cilka helps her mother into her own room, and onto the

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  bed. For a long time they sit there, holding each other, not saying a word.

  The clanging of pans and shouts rouses Cilka. The evening rations have arrived. Gently removing her arms from around her mother, Cilka goes to meet those bringing in urns of

  watery coffee and small rations of stale bread.

  She tells the women around her to come and get some

  food. She knows from experience that those who have the

  strength will. The others are too far gone.

  Back in her room, she places her mother’s portion on the

  floor as she attempts to prop her up against the wall. When this fails, she places a small piece of bread on her lips, encouraging her to open her mouth. Her mother turns her

  head away.

  ‘You have it, my darling. You need it more than I do.’

  ‘No, Mumma, I can get more,’ Cilka says. ‘Please, you

  have to get your strength back, you need to eat.’

  ‘Your hair . . .’ her mother says. It was still there, tucked behind her ears, falling over her shoulders. She reaches up and runs her fingers through it, like she did when Cilka

  was a child.

  Cilka brings the food up to her mother’s mouth and she

  opens it and allows Cilka to feed her. Pulling herself up, she drinks the foul-tasting liquid Cilka holds to her lips.

  Cilka settles her mother on the bed.

  ‘I’ll be right back, just stay here and rest.’

  ‘Where are you going? Don’t leave me.’

  ‘Please, Mumma, I won’t be long, I have to find some-

  one . . .’

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  ‘Nobody can help us, please stay with me. We have so little time.’

  ‘That’s why I have to go and see someone, so we can

  have more time. I won’t let them take you.’

  Cilka reaches the door.

  ‘Cilka, no.’ The voice is unexpectedly firm.

  Cilka returns to sit on the bed, cradling her mother’s head in her arms. ‘There is someone who can help us, someone

  who can have you put into another block where you can

  get better and we can see each other, be with each other.

  Please, Mumma, let me go and speak to him.’

  ‘No, my darling daughter. Stay with me, here and now.

  There are no certainties in this place. Let us have this night together. I know what awaits me in the morning. I am not

  afraid.’

  ‘I can’t let them take you, Mumma. You and Magda are

  all I have.’

  ‘My darling Magda! She’s alive?’

  ‘She is, Mumma.’

  ‘Oh . . . thank Hashem . You must look after each other, as best you can.’

  ‘And you, Mumma, I must look after you.’

  Cilka’s mother struggles to free herself from her child’s arms. ‘Look at me, look at me. I am sick, I am dying. You can’t stop that.’

  Cilka runs her hands over her mother’s face, kisses her

  shaven head. Their tears mingle and fall together onto the bed.

  ‘What about Papa, Mumma – was he with you?’

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  ‘Oh, my darling, we were separated. He was in a bad way . . .’

  Overwhelming waves of sadness and hopelessness threaten

  to drown Cilka. ‘No. No, Mumma.’

  ‘Lie here with me,’ her mother says gently, ‘and in the

  morning kiss me goodbye. I will watch over you.’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t let you go,’ Cilka sobs.

  ‘You must, it’s not your decision to make.’

  ‘Hold me. Hold me, Mumma.’

  Cilka’s mother embraces her daughter with all her might,

  pulling her down onto the bed. The two become one.

  ‘One day, if Hashem is willing,’ her mother says, stroking Cilka’s
face, ‘you will know a child’s love. You will know what I feel for you.’

  Cilka buries her face in her mother’s neck.

  ‘I love you, Mumma.’

  * * *

  The sun has barely risen when Cilka, her mother and the

  others in Block 25 are roused by the screaming SS and

  barking dogs.

  ‘Out, out, everybody out.’

  Cilka’s head rests on her mother’s shoulder as they slowly leave the room and join the others heading outside to the waiting trucks.

  Swagger sticks are being wielded at those too slow or in

  any way resisting the final few steps onto the trucks. Cilka pauses. A stick is raised in her mother’s direction by a nearby guard.

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  ‘Don’t you dare,’ she hisses at him.

  The baton is lowered as Cilka’s mother takes the final

  few steps, Cilka still clinging to her arm.

  ‘Mumma, no, don’t get on the truck!’

  The guards watch as Cilka’s mother frees herself from her daughter, kisses her on both cheeks, on the lips and runs her fingers through her hair. One last time. She then accepts the hands reaching down from the truck to help pull her

  up. Cilka can still feel her mother’s lips on her face. She sinks to the ground as the truck starts up and drives away.

  A guard extends his hand to Cilka and she smacks him

  away. The truck drives on.

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  CHAPTER 13

  ‘You, what’s-your-name.’

  Pasting a smile on her face, Cilka turns to the

  voice. She will not respond, will make the nurse work for

  it.

  ‘Come here.’

  Cilka walks to the bed where the nurse stands. Every

  bed is occupied. If ever there was a day Cilka could be

  useful, today is it. Cilka smiles at the new mother holding

  her baby, just hours old.

  ‘We need this bed, and no one has turned up to take

  her next door. You need to take them over.’

  ‘I’ll just grab my coat,’ Cilka replies. It is spring now,

  but frosty outside.

  ‘You don’t have time for that; just get them out of here.’

  ‘But where—’

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  The new mother tugs on Cilka’s skirt.

  ‘It’s all right, I know where to go. I’ve been there before.’

  The patient is already dressed, her baby swaddled in a

  blanket. Cilka helps her into her coat with the baby tucked

  inside. The patient looks for the nurse; she is nowhere to