Cilka's Journey (ARC)

by Heather Morris

  be seen. Grabbing the blanket off her bed, she indicates

  for Cilka to wrap it around herself. She does. The patient

  leads the way out of a back door.

  The building they are headed to is only fifty or sixty

  metres away. Their feet crunch across the frosty grass. The

  sound of infants crying, jabbering and screaming reaches

  them before they open the door. Stepping inside, Cilka is

  confronted by a chaotic scene. A few cots crammed against

  one wall, small mattresses – more like mats – scattered

  around. Three staff to care for what looks like twenty

  babies and toddlers.

  ‘We need to check in here and then go through the

  door at the end of the room to the dormitory where I will

  sleep.’

  ‘And we have a full house again,’ one of the staff

  members says as she walks towards them. ‘Well, hello,

  Anna Anatolyeva. You’re back.’

  ‘I missed your charming face, what can I say. How are

  you, Irina Igorevna, still eating little children for break-

  fast?’

  ‘Oh, Anya, of course, why are you back here?’

  Cilka notices the switch to the diminutive and under-

  stands that these women know each other quite well.

  ‘One of those ugly pigs looked at me and, you know, I

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  have another baby. This one you will look after properly, or I will send his ugly pig of a father to deal with you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, heard it before. What have you got this

  time?’

  ‘Another girl. Another victim for the cause.’

  ‘Have you named her this time?’

  ‘You did such a great job with the last one, you give

  her a name. Make it a strong one. She will need to be

  strong to survive this house of horrors.’

  Looking around, Cilka tries to process the meaning of

  what she sees. The two other staff stand chatting, each with

  an infant on their hip, jiggling it up and down in an attempt to soothe it. They seem oblivious to the howling babies,

  the toddlers fighting over a ratty blanket. Several have no

  nappy on; the smell of urine and faeces is overpowering.

  The new mother attempts to hand her newborn over.

  ‘Look after her yourself for a while,’ Irina Igorevna says.

  ‘She won’t bite, or maybe she will when she realises who

  her mumma is.’

  She turns to Cilka and thrusts her chin at her. ‘Who

  are you?’

  ‘I’m one of the nurses. I was asked to bring her over

  here.’

  ‘All right then. This one knows what to do – you can

  go.’

  Cilka can’t just yet. ‘Excuse me,’ she asks. ‘How many

  babies do you have here?’

  ‘Twenty is our maximum; there are only twenty beds

  next door for the mothers.’

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  ‘How long are they allowed to stay here? Some of them don’t look like babies anymore.’

  ‘New, huh? Well, princess, here’s how it works. When

  Anya here produces another bastard, she gets to stay here

  until the kid is two then she gets sent back to a general

  hut to get knocked up again and it starts all over.’

  ‘So she doesn’t have to work? Just stay here and look

  after her baby?’

  ‘Do you see any other mothers here? Do you? No.

  Anya will go next door and look after her bastard by

  herself for four weeks, then she will bring it here each

  morning and go off to work like the rest of the poor

  bastards.’

  ‘And you three look after the babies during the day.’

  ‘Got an education, have you? Worked that out by your-

  self, did you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend,’ Cilka says, not

  wanting to get on anyone’s wrong side again. ‘I had no

  idea how it worked, that’s all.’

  The woman’s face softens a little.

  ‘Are there more huts?’

  ‘If you must know, the majority of the new arrivals go

  with their mothers to the big unit down the road, at

  Rechlag,’ says Irina Igorevna. ‘You’re very nosy.’

  ‘Can I have a look around?’

  ‘Please yourself. I’ve got things to do, can’t stand here

  chatting all day. Anya, get out of here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says the departing mother to Cilka. ‘See you

  around.’

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  ‘Anna Anatolyeva, Cilka says tentatively. ‘I think . . .

  Jozefína . . . Josie, is a nice name.’

  The woman shrugs. ‘Fine, whatever you want. I’ll take

  little Josie and go and have a lie-down.’

  An infant has crawled over to Cilka, plonking himself

  on one of her feet, and is staring up at her. Cilka bends

  down and picks him up. His little fingers poke her in the

  mouth, the eyes and up her nostrils. She giggles and tickles

  him on the belly. He doesn’t respond, keeps wanting to

  put his fingers up her nose.

  With the boy balanced on her hip Cilka walks around

  the room, looking at the other infants. She stops at a small

  baby lying on a blanket on the floor staring at the ceiling.

  Cilka moves her head to get its attention; only a small

  movement of its head shows it knows Cilka is there. Placing

  the boy on the floor she touches the baby; it is hot to the

  touch in a room badly in need of heating. She picks up

  one of its arms and lets it go. The baby makes no attempt

  to stop its arm flopping onto the floor.

  Cilka calls out to the staff. ‘Excuse me, this baby is sick,

  there’s something wrong with it.’

  One of the attendants wanders over.

  ‘Yeah, been like that for a couple of days.’

  ‘Has a doctor seen it?’

  ‘Doctors don’t come here, love. These little ones either

  make it or they don’t. This will be one that probably

  won’t.’

  Cilka looks again at the tiny form, its large head and

  sunken cheeks, its ribs showing under the skin.

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  She has seen enough.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says to no one in particular. She leaves.

  * * *

  When Cilka returns to the maternity ward, Petre greets

  her.

  ‘Hello. Where have you been?’

  ‘Next door – to the nursery. I went with Anna Anatolyeva

  and her baby.’

  Cilka offers no further explanation; she wants to get

  away from him, away from the images she has just seen,

  busy herself by cleaning.

  ‘And what did you think of our nursery?’

  ‘Do you ever go there?’ she blurts out.

  ‘No, my job is here, delivering babies. Why do you

  ask?’

  ‘Because some of those babies you deliver safe and

  sound lie on the floor over there sick and dying.’

  ‘And you know they are dying?’

  ‘I saw it for myself. The staff there, I don’t know what

  you call them, they’re not nurses – they show very little

  interes
t in the babies. They told me only the strong survive, but they might just be sick. They could live if they got

  care and treatment.’

  ‘All right, all right, Cilka, settle down. Why don’t we

  talk about this another day?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When we are not so busy.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

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  ‘When we are not so busy,’ Petre repeats. ‘Now you had better get back to work.’

  * * *

  Several weeks pass. The frost starts to thaw, the days get

  longer. Petre seems to be avoiding Cilka. She struggles.

  She has learned her lesson about interfering in medical

  matters, so she never mentions the building next door

  with the neglected babies. But it’s pressing at her. To know

  something could be done. Once, she’d had to accept

  circumstances like these. How can she now?

  One day she is working with Tatiana and they only have

  one patient labouring. Petre comes in and checks on the

  woman. He watches Cilka tidying the administration area,

  neatly stacking files, checking for entries; the tasks that

  can only be done when you aren’t busy. Pulling up a chair,

  he says to Cilka, ‘Let’s talk about the babies in the nursery, shall we?’

  ‘I . . . shouldn’t have said anything, it’s not my place.’

  She is clenching her jaw.

  ‘True.’ His face, with its bushy brows and moustache,

  is enigmatic. ‘You know, I spoke to Yelena Georgiyevna

  about you. She asks about you all the time.’

  ‘Really? How is she?’ Cilka’s chest aches. She doesn’t

  admit to herself she is missing anyone, anything, until her

  body reminds her that that is the case.

  ‘She’s good. Busy. I told her what you said about the

  babies.’

  ‘What did she say?’

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  ‘She laughed and said, that sounds like Cilka, trying to fix everything.’

  ‘It’s just, well . . . you take good care of the mothers,

  making sure they have healthy babies, then they get sent

  over there and no one cares anymore.’

  ‘I’m sure their mothers do.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but they work all day and only return

  to the nursery at night. How are they ever going to get a

  doctor to check on their babies?’

  ‘That is a very good point. Well, the State cares too, or

  should do. Those babies are our future workers.’

  There does seem to be quite a contradiction about that

  in this place though, Cilka thinks. Such as the workers

  getting less food when their productivity drops – as punish-

  ment. There are always more people out there to arrest,

  to replace the dead. But of course she cannot voice any

  of this out loud.

  ‘How about, given it is quiet here today, you and I go

  to the nursery and I’ll have a look at any baby you think

  needs to see a doctor,’ Petre says.

  ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  Petre laughs, retrieves his coat and follows Cilka out

  the door.

  The smile on Petre’s face disappears the moment he

  enters the nursery. The three staff are sitting together

  sipping steaming cups of tea. Babies and infants lie on

  the floor; some crawl lethargically in circles. He stares in

  disbelief.

  ‘You’re back,’ Irina Igorevna calls out before registering

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  Cilka is not alone. She puts her cup down and hurries over to Cilka and Petre.

  ‘This is Petre Davitovich, the maternity doctor,’ Cilka

  says. ‘He has come to have a look at some of the babies,

  to see if any of them need medical attention.’

  Wiping her grubby hands on her dress, the woman

  extends her hand.

  ‘Irina Igorevna, I’m in charge.’

  Petre doesn’t take her hand.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve identified yourself. I’m going to take

  a look at some of these babies. Show me your charts with

  their feeding regime.’

  ‘Well, we don’t have charts. We just feed them when

  we can with what we’ve got; there’s never enough to go

  around so we give it to the strongest. They make the most

  noise,’ she giggles.

  Petre goes to the nearest baby, lying limply on a

  blanket, a thin smock hanging loosely on its body, eyes

  sunken. The baby doesn’t respond when he picks it up.

  He carries it to the table the three women were sitting

  around, sweeps their cups to the side, gently places the

  baby on the table and begins examining it. Cilka stands

  beside him.

  ‘How old is this infant?’

  The three women look from one to another, none of

  them wanting to speak.

  ‘Irina Igorevna, I said, how old is this infant?’

  ‘I don’t know, we just look after them during the day

  while their mothers are working; there are too many of

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  them for us to get to know them – there are only three of us,’ she says, waving her hand around at the others.

  ‘This child is starving. When was the last time you fed

  him?’

  ‘We would have offered him something a couple of

  hours ago, but I don’t think he wanted anything,’ Irina

  replies.

  ‘Cilka, put him in a cot.’

  Cilka takes the little boy and gently places him in a

  nearby cot. Petre picks up the next infant and repeats the

  examination. He asks no further questions of the nursery

  staff. Another baby is given to Cilka.

  By the time all the sickly babies have had a quick exam-

  ination, seven are lined up lying quietly in two cots.

  ‘You two,’ Petre points to the other two staff members,

  ‘put your coats on, wrap up two of the babies and

  come with me. Cilka, can you take two, please?’ He picks

  up the remaining baby, snuggles it inside his coat and

  heads out the door with Cilka and the nursery staff

  following.

  Back on the ward, he has three babies placed on one

  bed, four on another. With a flick of his hand he dismisses

  the nursery staff, who beat a hasty retreat.

  Tatiana and Svetlana gather at the beds, looking down

  at the babies.

  ‘Oh my God, what’s happened to them?’ Svetlana

  wails.

  ‘Do either of you know how we can get our hands on

  some milk?’ Petre asks.

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  ‘I’ll find it. Look after them and I’ll be back,’ Tatiana says as she grabs her coat and heads out.

  ‘Svetlana, see if you can find the doctor called Yelena

  Georgiyevna and ask her if she can come here.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Cilka asks.

  ‘Well, I could say you’ve done enough,’ he says with a

  half-laugh. ‘Get some charts and write down what I say

  about each one of these poor little things. We don’t know

  their names so you will have to call them baby one, baby
/>
  two, and so on.’

  As Cilka walks past the only patient on the ward,

  returning with charts and pens, the woman softly calls out

  to her, ‘What’s going on over there?’

  ‘It’s all right, just some sick babies. Don’t worry, we’re

  going to take care of them.’

  Petre is wrapping up the first baby he examined.

  ‘Baby one,’ he says. ‘Male. Severe malnutrition, fever,

  infected bug bites, possible deafness. Four to six months

  of age, hard to tell.’

  Cilka quickly writes down his comments below the

  notation ‘Baby 1’. With a thicker pen she gently writes

  the number one on the baby’s forehead, fighting to shut

  out memories of her own, permanent marking.

  They hear the door open, followed by, ‘Oh, Cilka, what

  have you done now?’

  Yelena and Svetlana are back. Close behind them Tatiana

  runs in, carrying a box with baby bottles, each half-filled

  with nursing mothers’ milk.

  Petre fills Yelena in on what they are dealing with. She

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  immediately claims a baby, and strips the child bare to examine her.

  ‘Make her number three, Cilka, I’ve got number two,’

  calls out Petre.

  Tatiana and Svetlana set about warming up the bottles,

  holding them in a basin of boiling water. Yelena warns

  them not to let the babies drink too much; they must be

  given small amounts and often if they are to recover. The

  new mother whose baby is sleeping soundly offers to help

  with feeding and finds herself with a strange baby in her

  arms.

  As the day ends, seven worried mothers appear on the

  ward, looking for their infants. Petre and Yelena talk to

  them, assuring them they do not blame them for the

  condition their infants are in. They are told to stay the

  night on the ward, food will be brought to them, and they

  will be shown how to feed their babies every hour – small

  quantities.

  The nurses for the changeover shift appear. Tatiana

  sends them away saying she will stay the night. Cilka asks

  if she too can stay.

  * * *

  Over the next several weeks, the management of the

  nursery changes. The original staff disappear, replaced by

  carers approved by Petre and Tatiana. A recording system

  relating to each baby is put in place. Petre gives Cilka the

  responsibility of visiting the nursery once a week to iden-

  tify any baby or infant she determines is in need of medical