Cilka's Journey (ARC)

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Cilka's Journey (ARC) Page 24

by Heather Morris


  * * *

  ‘You can take a break,’ Raisa tells Cilka the next day. ‘Put

  your feet up and have something to eat; there’s plenty left

  over, many are too sick to eat today.’

  ‘Will it be OK if I go out for a short while, just to the

  nursery? I want to see baby Natia and leave a message for

  Josie.’

  Raisa considers. ‘Don’t be too long.’

  * * *

  Cilka has timed her visit deliberately to avoid the trusties.

  When she arrives, she stands near the door, watching

  Natia dragging herself along the floor, getting up onto

  all fours and attempting to crawl before collapsing as if

  a large hand has pushed her down. She waves to the

  staff, pointing to Natia. They nod their approval for her

  to visit.

  Sitting on the floor a few feet away, she encourages the

  baby to come to her. With a mighty effort the little girl

  balances on her hands and knees and slowly moves first

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  one hand, then the opposing leg. She squeals with delight at her accomplishment. Cilka encourages her further.

  Another hand moves forward, she wobbles, a leg moves

  forward, one – two – three giant shuffles for a little girl

  who is then swept up into Cilka’s arms, hugged so tightly

  she squeals and wriggles to be released.

  ‘Well, there will be no stopping her now. Look what

  you’ve done, given us another one to chase after,’ says the

  nurse, whom Cilka has learned is called Bella Armenova.

  Cilka is not sure if Bella is seriously annoyed or making

  fun of her. She starts to apologise.

  ‘It was going to happen sooner or later. I’m just glad

  someone who knows her was here to see her crawl for the

  first time.’

  ‘It was very special, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We won’t tell Josie what she did today, and I guarantee

  when she drops this one off tomorrow she will tell us how

  she crawled for the first time last night.’

  ‘That’s a really nice thing to do,’ Cilka says. ‘I was

  wondering if you could pass on a message to Josie for

  me?’

  ‘If I see her, yes, certainly.’

  ‘Tell her, her friends would love to see her and meet

  this little one, and if possible, can they come out this

  Sunday after lights out?’

  ‘Hardly matters that they turn the lights out this time

  of year, but I know what you mean. Where do you want

  to meet?’

  Cilka doesn’t want Josie to have to stray too far from

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  comfort and safety. As a pack, with Cilka hidden in the middle, the women from the hut should be OK.

  ‘We will wait between the maternity ward and the

  nursery.’

  * * *

  Anastasia stands back as the women she shares living

  quarters with cry, hug, push to get their hands on both

  Josie and the small infant clinging to her. It is too much

  for Natia, who lets the world know she is scared of so

  much attention from strangers. Josie turns her back on

  the women and gently rocks Natia, soothing and comforting

  her.

  ‘One or two at a time might be best,’ she says, turning

  back to them with a smile. ‘She doesn’t know you, but I

  want her to. I want her to know the people responsible

  for her being here, being alive.’

  Elena pushes her way forward. ‘Me first, can I have a

  hold?’

  Josie softly touches Elena on the face, making sure Natia

  is watching. Slowly she hands her daughter over. Elena

  holds her at arms’ length, not sure what to do with her.

  As she feels Natia relax, her little face never leaving her

  mother’s, Elena brings the baby to her chest. They work

  out that as long as Natia can see her mother she will

  happily be held and cuddled by them all.

  Cilka stays at the back, enjoying the rare, sweet scene

  playing out in front of her. She cannot remember the last

  time they were all smiling gap-toothed smiles, laughing

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  and crying together. She marvels at the power of something so small to make a difference. But in a place like this, any

  tiny moment that shifts them away from the relentless,

  gruelling horror, from the reminder of the long years still

  ahead, is to be treasured. It’s a shame, really, that Hannah

  has not joined them, too. Preferring to lie passed out on

  her bed.

  When Cilka has determined that everyone has had a

  hold of Natia, except the reluctant Anastasia, she pushes

  her way forward. Natia sees her and immediately throws

  her arms at her, desperate to be with Cilka. The others

  grumble and complain good-naturedly. Cilka walks over

  to Anastasia. In Cilka’s arms, Natia doesn’t complain that

  she can no longer see her mother.

  Cilka introduces Natia to Anastasia. The little girl looks

  at Anastasia in puzzlement, as Anastasia makes no effort

  to touch her. Natia reaches out and tugs at strands of

  Anastasia’s growing hair that have sprung free from her

  scarf. They both giggle. Anastasia refuses the offer to hold

  her; she is quite happy just to look at her.

  The others join them as Josie tells them they have now

  spoilt Natia and she probably won’t sleep tonight.

  Reluctantly, Natia is given back to her mother and they

  say goodbye, promising to come back in seven days’ time.

  Same place.

  The women slowly drift back to their hut, chattering

  away about the evening, the embroiderers debating

  amongst themselves about the next size of gown they will

  need to make now they have met Natia. They all agree

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  she is the most beautiful baby they have ever laid eyes on.

  Natia has been like a sun breaking through dark clouds.

  No one mentions the uncertain future that both Natia and

  Josie have, or the cruel surroundings Natia was born into.

  That’s a conversation no one wants to start.

  * * *

  They see Josie and Natia a second and third time. The

  third time, in a moment with Josie out of earshot of the

  others, Cilka asks her if she has met a man called Alexandr

  while working in the administration building.

  ‘The Czech man?’ Josie asks.

  ‘Yes, he works as a messenger. Or did, last I knew,’

  Cilka says.

  ‘Yes, I don’t have a lot to do with him day to day, but

  I see him. He is very friendly,’ she says. ‘Which is a rare

  enough thing around here.’

  ‘It is,’ Cilka says. ‘I guess that’s why he has stayed in

  my mind.’

  Josie contemplates Cilka. ‘I can try to talk to him for

  you.’

  ‘Oh no . . .’ Cilka says. ‘I was just wondering if he was

  still there. I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  Josie nods. Cilka can see she wants to say more, but

  she tur
ns away and calls out to little Natia, who is reaching out for her.

  A fourth planned visit doesn’t happen as autumn comes

  early; the temperature drops dramatically, and rain and

  sleet prevent all but the foolhardy and those forced to

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  work from being outside. The trusties have curtailed their daily visits to Cilka, perhaps thinking she has received the

  message, or having found someone else to intimidate. Still,

  the drugs dwindle, and the doctor seems permanently

  rattled. A feeling of unease plagues Cilka, darkness and

  cold closing in on her with the weather.

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  CHAPTER 19

  Daily life for Cilka plays out, the only thing changing

  being the patients in the beds. The gloom of another

  winter fifty miles from the Arctic Circle hits and settles

  on her.

  Getting out of bed in the darkness is something she

  doesn’t want to do. Often she doesn’t go to the mess hall

  for breakfast. Her conversations in the evening have ceased.

  No longer does she gather around the stove, sipping hot

  tea and listening to the stories and complaints of the women, who now all trudge to different parts of the camp for work,

  with varying degrees of warmth, food, and physical chal-

  lenge. More in the hut are able to aid the others now, and

  so the pressure is off Cilka – she is no longer the only one

  who can bring in extra rations or materials. But being less

  useful is not necessarily a state Cilka is able to embrace.

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  Her bed becomes her sanctuary, and she lies with her head turned to the wall.

  On the ward, Raisa and Lyuba notice the change,

  comment on it and ask if something is wrong. Can they

  do anything to help her? With a forced half-smile she tells

  them she is fine, nothing is wrong. There is no other way

  to answer their questions. Cilka cannot articulate to herself, let alone anyone else, how she is feeling.

  For the first time in many years she has allowed herself

  to be dragged down by the enormity of what she has seen,

  heard, and done – or not done – herself. What she no

  longer has and what she can never long for. It is like an

  avalanche – there seems to be no way now of holding it

  at bay. She doesn’t understand how she kept it all back

  before, but suspects this may be happening because she

  has acknowledged aloud to Yelena that she survived that

  place. Josie is also front and centre in Cilka’s mind. With every day that passes, Josie comes closer to being separated

  from her daughter.

  Cilka thought she had been saved from this feeling of

  despair by using her position to make a difference to many

  of the sick and injured. Now she knows that it will always

  catch up to her. She is filled with heaviness. Why go on?

  ‘Get the midday medication,’ Raisa tells her one day,

  seeking to jolt Cilka from her melancholy. Without

  response, Cilka trudges to the dispensary, shutting the

  door behind her.

  She stares at the medications lining the shelves for a

  long time, disorientated. She picks up a pill bottle, the

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  Cyrillic script swimming in her vision. To take them all would bring back the blankness. She tips the pills into

  her hand.

  She rolls them around.

  She tips the pills back into the bottle and, trembling,

  spills some on the floor. She gets down on her knees and

  starts to pick them up. The door opens, startling her.

  ‘Cilka, I’ve been looking for you,’ Yelena says, putting

  her head round the door. ‘Did you drop something?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cilka says, not looking up. ‘I’ll be out in a moment.’

  Once the trembling has subsided, Cilka takes the medi-

  cation to Raisa, and then finds Yelena. The doctor looks

  at her steadily for a while, as if guessing what has just

  played out in Cilka’s mind – her dance with death, oblivion,

  freedom from the aching loss and the guilt and shame;

  and then her step back from the abyss.

  ‘Are you ready for another challenge?’ Yelena asks Cilka.

  ‘Not really,’ Cilka replies.

  ‘I think you are,’ Yelena says slowly, still watching her

  carefully. ‘At least, you could try it and if you don’t like

  it, well, we can always stop it.’

  ‘Are you opening another ward?’

  ‘No, not a ward. We need a new nurse on the ambu-

  lance. What do you say?’

  ‘I’ve seen what the ambulance brings in. How can I

  help them? I need you and Raisa and Lyuba to tell me

  what to do.’

  ‘No, you don’t. Not anymore, Cilka. I think you would

  be a great asset at the scene of the accident. They need

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  someone who can think quickly on her feet, do what needs to be done to get the patient here, then we can take over.

  Will you at least give it a try?’

  What have I got to lose? Cilka thinks.

  ‘All right, I will.’

  ‘Don’t forget, Cilka, I am here. Any time you want to

  talk.’

  Cilka sways a little on her feet. Sometimes she does run

  the words in her head. But can she let them out?

  ‘I need to get back to work.’

  ‘What about at the end of the day?’ Yelena persists. ‘I’ll

  make sure you get something to eat if you miss your

  dinner.’

  Cilka is afraid to let it come up, come out. But talking

  about it is something she hasn’t tried. She feels a glimmer

  of something, that survival mechanism; a sense of hope.

  Maybe she should. She nods, just a little. ‘Not here. I

  don’t want anyone we work with to see me talking to

  you.’

  ‘I’ll find an empty room for us.’

  While they have been talking, a new patient has arrived.

  Blood is seeping through the bandages on his bare chest.

  He is groaning quietly, the deep, painful sound Cilka has

  come to recognise as coming from someone barely

  conscious and unable to scream out in pain. She is glad

  of the distraction.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ she calls out to the men roughly

  transferring him from the stretcher to the bed.

  ‘He’s not going to make it,’ one of them calls back.

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  Cilka walks over to the bed, picking up the man’s file that has been dropped on his legs. She reads the brief

  notes. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen,

  extreme loss of blood. No active treatment.

  A hand grabs at her apron. Strong and with purpose,

  the man pulls her towards the head of the bed, his eyes

  pleading, small gasps escaping from his bloodied mouth.

  ‘Help.’ Barely whispered.

  Cilka takes his hand and looks down at the wounded

  man. Only then does she recognise him – it’s the thug

  wh
o threatened her in the dispensary, shadowed her,

  taunted her.

  ‘You,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, me.’

  ‘The drugs . . .’

  Cilka can see his face is full of regret.

  ‘I know it’s this place that did that to you,’ Cilka says.

  The man manages to nod, squeezes her hand.

  Cilka holds the man’s hand between her own two until

  she feels the strength leave it. She places it on the bed,

  and she closes his eyes. She doesn’t know what he did in

  his life, or in here, but he will not be harming anybody

  else, now, and she thinks she can spare him a thought. A

  prayer.

  Picking up his file, she records the time of death.

  She takes the file back to the nurse’s desk and asks Raisa

  if she knows what happened to the man whose death she

  has just recorded.

  ‘He was the loser in a fight. The trusties of the criminal

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  class are always wanting to be the top dog around here, this is the way it ends up.’

  * * *

  At the end of the day, Cilka takes a cursory look around

  but can’t see Yelena. Gathering her coat, she walks from

  the ward, trying not to admit to herself that she is grateful she has escaped talking to her. As she steps into the waiting room, Yelena is there. She beckons Cilka to follow her to

  a small room off to the side of the ward.

  A desk and two chairs are the only furniture in the

  room. Yelena places chairs face-to-face.

  She waits for Cilka to begin. Cilka takes her time

  folding her coat and placing it just so on the floor beside

  her.

  Raising her head, she looks directly at Yelena. ‘I was

  only sixteen when I went into that place. But I grew up

  fast.’

  Yelena says nothing.

  ‘They said they wanted people to go to work for them.’

  Yelena nods.

  ‘The Germans, the Nazis. I stood in a cattle train for

  days, peed where I stood, held up by people surrounding

  me, squashing me.’

  ‘And it took you to the camp called Auschwitz.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cilka says quietly. ‘My sister too.’

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘But that’s—’

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  ‘A long time to be there, yes. For three years I lived in hell – the abyss. Although I have been here just as long

  now.’

  ‘Tell me about the number on your arm.’

 

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