Cilka's Journey (ARC)

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Cilka's Journey (ARC) Page 22

by Heather Morris


  can manage from here, can’t we, Jakub?’

  Cilka quickly finishes rebandaging Jakub’s other arm,

  telling him she will be back to check on him in a little

  while. She joins Raisa and falls quickly back into the

  rhythm of caring for the patients Raisa allocates her. This

  feels natural, she thinks. And she knows what the complete

  opposite is like – when a role you are forced into feels

  unnatural, like your very soul has been contorted.

  During a break, Raisa, Lyuba and Cilka sip on hot weak

  tea, eat bread and something pretending to be sausage.

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  Yelena joins them, waving away the offer of tea. It’s well known the doctors have the premium tea in their lounge

  area.

  ‘How’s our girl doing?’ she asks Raisa and Lyuba.

  ‘It’s like she never left! Thanks for talking her into

  coming back to us,’ Raisa says.

  ‘She didn’t talk me into anything,’ Cilka says. ‘It is good

  to be back and helping out, even if I have to hear you

  telling patients I should be walking around naked.’

  ‘Who said that about you?’

  ‘It was just a joke,’ Cilka quickly says. ‘We were dis-

  tracting a patient with nasty burns while we changed his

  bandages.’

  ‘So long as it’s effective.’ Yelena smiles.

  ‘Is there anything more I can do to help?’ Cilka asks.

  ‘Actually, Cilka, I was wondering if you would like to

  assist me in surgery tomorrow. It’s the one area you haven’t

  worked in. I’m doing some relatively straightforward proce-

  dures and thought it could be an extension of your training.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ Lyuba says. ‘I think she’s ready for

  it. What do you say, Cilka?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you. What do I have

  to do?’

  ‘Just come to work tomorrow as usual. I’ll meet you

  and we’ll take it from there.’

  Cilka watches Yelena walk away. She is in awe of her

  ability as a brilliant doctor and of her willingness to share her knowledge, particularly with someone who has had

  no formal training.

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  ‘It’s amazing that she volunteered to be here,’ she says to the others.

  ‘Yes, most of the doctors have been sent here, usually

  because they have screwed up at whatever hospital they

  came from or got on the wrong side of someone in their

  hometown. Or, like us, it’s their first assignment out of

  medical school. Yelena Georgiyevna genuinely wants to

  work where she can do the most good,’ Raisa says.

  ‘I’ve felt rude to ask, but does she have a family with her?’

  ‘No, she lives with the other female doctors in their

  quarters, though I did hear a rumour about her being

  friendly with one of the other doctors. They’ve been seen

  together in the town at night,’ Lyuba whispers.

  The town of Vorkuta, outside the camp, has been built

  entirely by prisoners.

  ‘Really . . .’ Love again, Cilka thinks, even in a place like this. ‘Do we know who? Which doctor?’

  ‘The doctor in the maternity ward is all I know.’

  ‘Petre – she and Petre Davitovich?’

  ‘You know him?’ Raisa says.

  ‘Of course she does,’ Lyuba adds. ‘That’s where she was

  working. Did you see them together?’

  ‘No. Well, only the once, when she took me to meet

  him on my first day, but that explains why he was prepared

  to take me on when I got fired from here. That’s wonderful,’

  Cilka marvels, ‘because he is just like her, a really good

  doctor and a kind man.’

  ‘Is he good-looking?’ Lyuba raises her eyebrows.

  Cilka thinks for a moment.

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  He is handsome, with a thick moustache and eyes that smile. ‘Yes; they are perfect for each other.’

  She can’t help thinking, though, that he is not the most

  handsome man she has seen in her time in Vorkuta. Now

  she is back in the hospital, she wonders if she will see the

  messenger, Alexandr, again.

  ‘I think we’d better get back to work,’ Raisa says. ‘I can

  feel the temperature rising around you two.’

  Yes, work is what Cilka needs to do. She will not allow

  herself to wonder far too long, about the impossible.

  * * *

  The prospect of being in the operating room sends Cilka’s

  brain working overtime. That night she cannot sleep.

  Thoughts whirl around inside her head as she replays all

  she has seen and done that day.

  The next morning the sky is overcast but Cilka appre-

  ciates walking across the grass, with small weedy flowers

  underfoot, on the way to the hospital. Yelena is waiting

  for her and together they go through to the area designated

  for surgery. An assistant is standing by with a gown, gloves

  and a mask. Cilka reaches out to take the gown.

  ‘You have to wash your hands thoroughly first,’ Yelena

  says, leading her over to a nearby sink. ‘Are you wearing

  anything under your shirt?’

  ‘Just my slip.’

  ‘Good, take your shirt off. You can’t have a sleeve getting

  in the way.’

  Cilka hesitates.

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  ‘It’s all right, Cilka, there’s only us women here.’

  Slowly, Cilka unbuttons her shirt. The assistant takes it

  from her, handing her a bar of soap and turning a tap on

  for her. Cilka starts rubbing the soap up her arms. The

  assistant goes to arrange the room. Yelena stands beside

  her, lathering up and scrubbing her own hands and arms,

  past the elbows. Cilka copies her actions.

  Focused back on the running water, rinsing the soap

  from her arms and hands, Cilka is startled when Yelena

  gently takes hold of her left arm. She turns it towards her,

  staring at the blurry blue-green numbers running down

  the inside of her forearm.

  Yelena goes to say something, closes her mouth.

  Cilka continues to stare at the running water, breathing

  deeply.

  Raising her head, she looks directly at Yelena. ‘Do you

  know where I got this?’

  ‘Yes. I had suspected you had been there, but I . . .

  didn’t really want to believe it.’

  Cilka feels hot and cold at the same time.

  ‘You must have been so young,’ Yelena says. She lets

  go of Cilka’s arm.

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Can I ask . . . your family?’

  Cilka shakes her head, looking away, reaching to turn

  off the tap. She wants this conversation to be over.

  ‘Oh, Cilka,’ Yelena says. Cilka looks at the doctor’s

  compassionate face. Of course, she thinks. Everyone would

  know by now what that place was. But not her role in it.

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  ‘Doctor, just tell me one thing.’ Cilka says firmly. She can’t look
at Yelena.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did they get them?’

  Yelena pauses, then understands. ‘Yes, Cilka. The

  commandants, the guards, the doctors. There have been

  trials. Their crimes are being exposed to the world. They

  are being imprisoned or executed for what they did.’

  Cilka nods. Her jaw is clenched. She could scream, or

  cry. There is too much welling up inside her. It’s still not

  enough. It took too long.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Cilka, except that I’m so

  sorry you had to go through that, something unimaginable,

  and then, also, to end up here. Whatever the reason for

  that . . .’ Yelena falters. ‘Well, you were only sixteen.’

  Cilka nods. Her eyes are hot with unshed tears. She

  swallows and swallows. She clears her throat. Takes a deep

  breath. Wills her racing heart to slow. Looks back at

  Yelena.

  ‘The patient is waiting for us,’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ Yelena says. As they dry off their hands, and start

  to walk towards the operating room, where the assistant

  waits with their gloves and gowns, Yelena says, ‘Cilka, if

  you ever want someone to talk to—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cilka cuts her off. She can’t imagine a time

  when she could ever put those memories, those images,

  into words. She clears her throat again. ‘I am grateful,

  Yelena Georgiyevna.’

  Yelena nods. ‘Just know I am here.’ As they near the

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  operating room, the conversation recedes in Cilka’s mind.

  She has an important task to do, and it will distract her.

  Once her gown and gloves are on, the assistant pulls Cilka’s

  mask down under her chin and then holds open the door

  leading into a small room.

  A patient lies on a table and an anaesthetist sits at the

  end of the bed holding a rubber mask over the patient’s

  nose and mouth.

  ‘He’s out,’ he comments, with little interest or enthu-

  siasm, before staring off at a point on the far wall.

  Cilka follows Yelena and stands beside her.

  ‘Go round to the other side: you can see and help me

  better from there.’

  Cilka does as instructed, holding her hands out in front

  of her, afraid to touch anything.

  ‘All right, here we go. You see all the instruments on

  the table beside you? Well, I’m going to say the name of

  the instrument I want, then point to it so you know which

  one it is. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

  The assistant has followed them into the room and pulls

  the sheet covering the man away, revealing his naked body.

  ‘I need to get into his stomach and remove whatever it

  is he has swallowed that he shouldn’t have. Unfortunately,

  some people will go to extreme lengths to not work outside,

  including swallowing objects that could kill them.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Cilka says.

  ‘No, I’m not. Coming into hospital and having their

  stomach cut open is seen as a better option than working,

  at least for a while.’

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  ‘How do you know for sure he has swallowed something?’

  ‘The pain he was in when he was brought to us was

  real; when we couldn’t work out what was wrong he finally

  admitted to having swallowed something.’

  ‘Did he say what?’

  ‘That’s the funny thing – he wouldn’t say, told us to

  go hunting for it and then we’d know.’ Yelena gives a

  wry smile.

  It is a different world here, Cilka thinks. Still very much

  a prison, as such desperate actions indicated, but in that

  other place, you would not want to draw any attention to yourself. In a selection, you would not want to attract the

  eye of the doctors. You would not want anything to do

  with them at all.

  ‘Cilka, I need you to hand me a scalpel.’ Yelena points

  it out on the tray. Cilka picks it up and places it in her

  outstretched hand.

  ‘Slap it in my hand so I feel it. These gloves are so thick

  I won’t know if I’m holding it unless you hit me with it, just make sure the blade is pointed at you and I get the handle.’

  Cilka watches in fascination as Yelena quickly and

  expertly slices the patient’s abdomen open, blood gently

  oozing from the cut.

  ‘Grab some swabs – those pads that look like thick

  squares of bandage – and wipe the blood away; it will stop

  soon.’

  Cilka catches on quickly, wiping the blood away so

  Yelena can see what she is doing.

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  Instruments are handed over, explanations given by Yelena, questions asked by Cilka, until Yelena raises her

  hand from the man’s abdomen, holding up a metal spoon.

  ‘I wonder if the owner misses this,’ she says with humour.

  ‘Let’s see if it caused any damage in his stomach.’

  She pokes around. Cilka leans over for a closer inspec-

  tion and the two women bang heads.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—’

  ‘It’s all right, I’m glad you want to have a closer look;

  this is how you will learn.’ Yelena is silent for a moment,

  considering the open cavity. ‘Well, there doesn’t seem to

  be any damage, so now we sew him back up.’

  * * *

  When the patient has been wheeled from the room, Cilka

  follows Yelena back into the washroom. The assistant is

  waiting for them. She unties their gowns, removes their

  masks and gloves, and hands Cilka back her shirt. Cilka

  wonders if she is a prisoner too.

  ‘As usual, you learned quickly in there. I’d be happy to

  have you assist me any time. In fact, I think we should

  do more of it, so you become totally comfortable with

  what you are doing. What do you say?’

  Cilka is wary for a moment. She hopes that Yelena is

  not just doing this because of what she knows; because

  she pities her.

  But this is rewarding, challenging work. And Cilka does

  think she can do it.

  ‘Yes, please.’

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  ‘Go back and tell Raisa and Lyuba the news. I’m sure they could do with an extra pair of hands for the afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cilka says. She feels herself welling up

  again. There’s no blankness coming to take over – to cover

  it – and so she hurries from the room.

  She stops a moment in the hall to gather herself, then

  walks onto the ward.

  A chorus of ‘Well, how did you get on?’ greets her.

  ‘Well, very well.’ She looks at their open faces. Wonders

  suddenly if they know, too. ‘What do you want me to do

  here?’ she asks quickly. ‘I’ve still got half a day of work.’

  ‘Can you check the charts and get any medicines that

  need to be handed out?’ Raisa says.

  Cilka dives into her work, relieved to push all thoughts

  away.

&
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  CHAPTER 17

  Cilka has written down the names of five patients and

  the drugs they require. She strolls to the dispensary.

  As she approaches, she hears voices inside, one of them

  raised. Cautiously, she opens the door. Yury Petrovich,

  the kind male doctor Cilka remembers from her previous

  time working in the hospital, stands in the middle of the

  room with a knife held to his throat. On the other end

  of the knife is a man who looks capable of wrestling a

  bear and winning the fight. The big man turns to face

  Cilka.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he yells at her.

  She can’t speak.

  ‘Get in here and close the door.’

  Cilka does as she’s told, leaning her back against the

  shut door, staying as far away from the man as possible.

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  ‘Get over here and stand beside the doctor. Do it now, or I cut him.’

  In three steps Cilka is beside the doctor, who looks at

  her, eyes pleading.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asks with a bravado she doesn’t

  feel.

  ‘You to shut your mouth. You picked the wrong time

  to come in here; now I’ll have to deal with you too.’

  Cilka glares at him. She knows enough about violent

  men to be able to judge the desperation in this one. His

  threats are a means to an end. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I said shut your mouth. I’ll do the talking.’

  ‘Just do as he says,’ the doctor whimpers.

  ‘That’s good advice,’ the big man says. ‘We can all leave

  here happy if you listen to the good doctor and do as I

  say.’

  As he pushes the knife under the doctor’s chin, a

  trickle of blood flows and the man smiles a toothless

  grin. ‘Now give me the fucking drugs; the ones I got

  last time.’

  Cilka is incredulous. She stares from the man to the

  doctor.

  ‘All right, all right, but you need to put the knife down,’

  Yury Petrovich says.

  The man looks from the doctor to Cilka. In a flash, the

  knife is now at Cilka’s throat.

  ‘In case you thought of making a run for it,’ he chuckles.

  The doctor takes several pill containers from the shelves.

  With the hand that is not across Cilka’s neck, the man

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  holds open a large pocket sewn in his coat and the doctor stuffs them in there.

 

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