Cilka's Journey (ARC)
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the ward. She holds the hands of young women like herself
as they labour and give birth. Cilka can see that being on
this ward is helping Josie just as it helped her. While
remaining fearful of the process she is yet to go through,
Josie tells Cilka she thinks she can do it, and is now
beginning to look forward to meeting her baby, holding
her baby in her arms, and feeling what she has seen on
the faces of many of the gaunt, tired, beaten women when
they first look at their child. Cilka starts to smile a little again, realises how the muscles around her neck and shoulders have been bunched up – not from the cold but from
holding the worry in her body that Josie would not find
a way to make it through. Cilka herself does not know
how she has always found a way, does not know where
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that comes from, within herself. She has never wanted to die, despite the horror.
Josie goes into labour on the first day of Hanukkah.
She endures a long, painful birth, helped and encouraged
by Cilka, Petre and Tatiana. Cilka brings the blessings and
songs of this time of the year, their comfort and joy, secretly to the front of her mind. It is less painful to remember
them in this small, contained environment of new life.
She gets permission to stay with Josie after the end of
her shift. On the stroke of midnight, Josie delivers a tiny,
squalling, precious baby girl.
When mother and baby are clean and the ward is quiet,
Cilka asks, ‘Have you thought of a name for her?’
‘Yes,’ Josie says, looking into her friend’s eyes. ‘I’m going to call her Natia Cilka. Do you mind if her second name
is after you?’
Josie passes the baby to Cilka.
‘Hello, little Natia,’ Cilka says. ‘I am honoured that you
will share my name.’ So many thoughts rush in for Cilka.
How dangerous and unexpected the path ahead could be
for this tiny new being. ‘The story of your life begins today, Natia. My hope for you is that you will be able live your
own life, with the help of your mumma and everyone who
will love you. There is a better world out there. I’ve seen
it. I remember it.’
Cilka looks up at Josie and realises the baby has allowed
her to express something to her friend that she can’t say
directly. She hands the baby back and leans in to kiss
them both.
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* * *
The next morning, Natia is thoroughly examined by
Petre, who declares her the healthiest and sweetest
newborn he has ever seen, and he has seen a lot of them.
Josie glows.
Later that day, Cilka takes Josie and Natia next door to
the nursery and settles them in to what will be their home
for the next two years. No mention is made of what will
happen at the end of that time. Cilka has now heard from
the nurses that the toddlers are sent to orphanages at two,
but she doesn’t tell Josie this. She’ll find out soon enough.
Two years is a long time in this place, and Cilka is deter-
mined to find a way to keep them together.
That evening, after Cilka fills the other women in on
all the details of Josie’s labour and birth, the loss they feel without Josie starts to sink in. Within days, a stranger will be sleeping in her bed. The little gowns so lovingly made
by them all are bundled up and given to Cilka to take to
her. They also send word that they will continue to make
clothes for little Natia, in varying sizes as she grows, and
they will run freely with the embroidered lace now they
know it is a little girl they are sewing for.
Without Josie’s presence Cilka allows herself a little
thought of Alexandr, the messenger, finding that his face
provides comfort. She wonders if she will ever speak to
him again, hopes that she might.
* * *
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Cilka and the others return to their hut the next day and find someone sleeping in Josie’s bed. The newcomer winces
as she sits up to face the women’s scrutiny.
‘I am Anastasia Orlovna,’ she says, in a strong clear voice.
Elena walks over to her, looking her up and down. The
bruises on the newcomer’s face reflect beatings over a
period of time. The older ones are a purplish blue, more
recent ones still black. Her right eye is partially closed from swelling.
‘How old are you?’ Elena asks.
‘Sixteen.’
The women crowd around the bed to get a closer look
at their new resident, who holds her head high, refusing
to hide her injuries, defiance written across her face and
the body she struggles to hold straight.
Olga gently pushes her back down onto her bed. ‘What
happened to you?’
‘Do you mean to get me here in the first place, or more
recently?’
‘Both,’ says Olga.
‘We were caught stealing from the bakery.’
‘We? How many of you?’
Anastasia forces a small grin. ‘Six of us. It was good
while it lasted.’
‘What was good?’ Elena asks.
‘The thrill of taking the bread as soon as it came out
of the oven, right under the nose of the pig who made it.’
‘Why were you stealing?’ Elena asks. They didn’t
normally put political prisoners and thieves together, but
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the rules in Vorkuta had seemed to become a bit more relaxed on this front. Wherever there is a bed, Cilka
supposes.
‘Because, despite us all supposedly getting a fair share
in the great Soviet Union, the kids were starving. Why
else?’
‘So you and your friends . . .’
‘Yes, we were a gang of older kids – one or two of us
would distract the shopkeeper while the others snuck in
and took some food. We got some caviar once, but the
children didn’t like it. Neither did I.’
‘Huh!’ Hannah exclaims in frustration. ‘What I wouldn’t
give—’
‘And your bruises, how did you get them?’ Elena asks.
‘I could say I fell down some stairs.’
‘You could,’ Elena retorts. ‘But you’re acting like we’re
your interrogators.’
‘The spies are everywhere,’ Anastasia says. ‘But yes,
sorry, I have just come from prison where they tortured
me and Mikhail, the only two of us who got caught. The
police knew there were more of us and wanted names. I
wouldn’t give them.’
‘Hence the bruises,’ Elena says.
‘Yes,’ Anastasia says. ‘But you can’t talk. You all look
like you haven’t seen a piece of bread in a year. And defi-
nitely not a vegetable.’
Elena leans in, deliberately close, Cilka observes, so
Anastasia can get the full force of her malnourished, rotten-
teeth breath. ‘Believe it or not, love, we’re the lucky ones.’
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The dinner alarm sounds.
‘Are you able to walk?’ Olga asks.
‘Yes, slowly.’
Olga helps Anastasia to her feet, buttons her coat,
pulling the collar up around her neck. Anastasia pulls her
hat on. They join the others in their procession to the
mess hall.
Sixteen, Cilka thinks. Another young, defiant woman
to be ground down by suffering. But Elena is right. Their
horror is marginally better than the next woman’s. This
hut, the extra rations and fabric, the fact they have a jug
in which to boil water! The hard thing will be helping
Anastasia to accept that, especially after her first visit from the men.
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CHAPTER 15
‘She smiled at me!’ Cilka joyfully recounts her visit with
her namesake to the women in the hut. ‘She gurgled,
looked me in the eyes and smiled.’ It tore my heart apart.
‘Is she putting on weight, is she healthy?’ Elena wants
to know.
‘Yes, and yes. I think she has become a favourite with
the nursery staff, but I’ll need to make sure they’re not
feeding her another baby’s lunch.’
Cilka looks around at the women’s thin faces, chapped
lips, dark circles under their eyes. Their clavicles pro-
truding. She is glad she can give them some reprieve –
something warm to think about and hold inside them
during the hard, long days out in the snow.
‘You’d know all about that, Cilka. Taking someone’s
lunch,’ Hannah says.
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Cilka’s stomach flips.
‘Shut up, Hannah,’ Elena says. ‘Who has given you
more of their own lunch than anybody else here?’
‘Well, she can afford to.’
‘Well, so can you, now your “husband” has got you a
job in the mess.’
‘I will eat all of my lunch because I fought in a resistance
against these bastards, and the Nazis, too. Unlike some
people here.’ She looks pointedly at Cilka.
‘Keep your fucking voice down, Hannah,’ Elena says.
‘Attacking the only Jewish woman in here, one would
think you were just like the Germans you fought against.’
Hannah looks indignant. Cilka’s heart is racing. The
blankness is coming over her.
‘She . . .’ Hannah points at Cilka. She goes to say more,
then lets a smile come across her face. ‘I could tell you
about all the things she has done to preserve her own
flimsy little life.’
‘No life is flimsy,’ Elena says.
Cilka feels sick.
‘Do you know how Josie is doing?’ Olga asks, cutting
across the tension, her fingers darting in and out, weaving
her spell, embroidering another gown.
Cilka finds her voice. ‘I haven’t seen her for a while
now, not since they made her go back to work when Natia
was four weeks old. I’m told she is doing well; she is
working in the administration building, and she is feeding
the baby herself, plenty of milk apparently.’
‘That’s probably why little Natia is getting fat.’
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‘I never said she is getting fat. Just chubby.’ Cilka tries to smile.
‘Please give her our love, however you can. Maybe one
of the nursery staff will pass it on,’ Olga says.
‘I will,’ Cilka reassures them. ‘She knows how much
you all care.’ She looks pointedly at Hannah. ‘But I will
ask the staff to pass it on anyway.’
‘What’s going to happen when . . .’ Elena whispers.
‘Don’t think about that,’ Cilka says. ‘Two years is a long
way ahead.’ The truth is, Cilka finds it incredibly hard to
contemplate the separation. She knows too much about
the pain of mother and daughter being forced apart. She
knows too much about whole families being broken up,
dehumanised, murdered. She cannot let herself think what
might happen to Josie and Natia, or what might happen
to Josie if Natia is taken away from her.
‘Do you think there is some way we can see her and
the baby, I mean, just for a minute?’ Olga asks.
‘Maybe in summer,’ Elena suggests.
‘That’s an idea. When it’s warmer and we can be outside
on a Sunday. I love that idea, something to look forward
to,’ Olga says.
Hannah huffs. ‘There’s no getting through to you all.’
Smiles return to the other women’s faces at the possi-
bility of seeing the baby. The faraway look Cilka sees in
their eyes tells her they are dreaming of, visualising, holding an infant. Cilka knows several of them have children
waiting for them, including Olga. It’s not something she
is often able to talk about, but when she receives her
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limited letters she sometimes passes them around to share what her two boys – who are living with an aunt – are
getting up to. She is often silent for days afterwards, with
emotions playing across her face, no doubt picturing every
little detail her sister has included in the letter.
* * *
Before the moon and stars disappear and the white nights
return, the camp is struck down with typhoid. The accom-
modation hut nearest the hospital is emptied of its residents to create a new ward. The infectious ward.
In the washroom cleaning up after a birth, Cilka is joined
by Petre. She hasn’t seen him in this room before and
immediately braces herself for news she suspects she doesn’t
want to hear. He leans against the door looking at her.
‘Just say it,’ she says abruptly.
‘We—’
‘Who’s we?’ she interrupts.
‘Sorry, some of the other doctors you’ve worked with,
here and on the general ward.’
‘Go on.’
‘We know you have spent time in another prison,
another camp, and that maybe there you were exposed to
typhoid.’
His eyes are focused on the ground.
‘Do you want me to confirm or deny that?’ she says,
both terrified and exhausted.
‘Have you?’
‘Been exposed to typhoid? Yes.’
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Auschwitz-Birkenau, Winter 1943
Ever since her mother died, Cilka has been spending less
time in the main compound, too afraid of seeing the women who are starting to turn, the ones who will soon be sent
to their deaths. The ones who will soon be coming to her, the ones she will have to force herself to feel nothing for.
But her mother had told her to look after Magda. And she
wants to.
But her strong, kind sister is just as vulnerable as the
rest.
There is also the fact that the other women, besides her
friends, have begun to give Cilka a wide berth. Those that dare, spit on the ground when she walks past, call her the worst na
mes they know. Death clings to her. And so do
the SS.
One Sunday afternoon she has forced herself out, to check on Magda. Cilka and Gita are sitting beside Gita and
Magda’s block, away from the door. She can’t bring herself to go in yet, as Gita has told her that Magda has been lying down all day, that she is worried. Cilka watches as Gita
sifts through the new grass, searching for the elusive four-leaf clover. They are currency here: with a clover she can buy extra food or prevent a beating.
Gita is talking quietly about her latest stolen moment
with Lale. He had walked beside her as she left the administration building, slowly going back to her block. They
hadn’t spoken, just exchanged stolen glances, which said a thousand words.
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The quiet is broken by hysterical screaming. It starts inside the block and intensifies as a girl runs outside. Cilka and Gita look up; they both recognise the girl and jump to their feet, running towards her; she is heading to the edge of the women’s camp and into danger.
‘Dana, Dana,’ they both scream.
Catching up to her, they grab an arm each as Dana
collapses, sobbing.
‘No, Cilka, no . . .’
Cilka’s heart sinks.
‘What, Dana? What is it?’
‘What’s happened?’ Gita says.
Dana slowly lifts her red-rimmed eyes to Cilka. They are
full of regret. ‘She was so weak, it was typhoid . . . She hid it so you didn’t have to . . . And then it happened so fast.’
‘No, Dana, please, not Magda.’ Cilka clutches at Dana’s
arm. Please, please, not my sister too.
Dana nods slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Cilka.’
Cilka feels an intense pain course through her body and
up into her head. She leans over and retches, feels arms
around her, under her arms, helping her up. Gita is crying softly next to her.
‘Cilka,’ Dana says, her voice choked with tears. ‘She told me just this morning how much she loves you. How brave
you are. How she knows you’re going to get out of here.’
Cilka lets Dana and Gita hold her, the way she held them
when they lost their families. This is what they share –
unfathomable losses.
‘I have to see her,’ Cilka says.
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Her friends go into the block with her and help her to sit in the bunk across from Magda’s body. Cilka wants to cry
and scream but it comes out more like a yell, a fury. And then, as soon as it has come out of her, it goes back inside.
Her crying stops. She stares, shaking, but feeling blank. She stays like that for a long time, and her friends stay with her.