Cilka's Journey (ARC)

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Cilka's Journey (ARC) Page 29

by Heather Morris

transported.

  Margarethe begins to sob.

  ‘I die a little more each day, not knowing what has

  happened to my husband.’

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  ‘He was taken with you, wasn’t he?’ Olga asks, as though trying to solve the puzzle aloud.

  ‘We were taken together but sent to different prisons.

  I never saw him again. I don’t know if he is alive, but my

  heart tells me he is dead.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Anastasia asks, having not heard the

  story yet.

  ‘He fell in love with me.’

  ‘That’s it? No, there has to be more.’

  ‘He’s from Prague; he is Czech. I call him my husband

  but that is the problem. We dared to attempt to marry. I’m

  from Moscow and we are not permitted to marry a foreign

  citizen.’

  Cilka’s heart has been racing throughout this whole

  conversation. She has been here five years and the women

  know she is Jewish and Slovakian, but nothing of her

  arrest. Josie had gathered a bit of information from asking

  Cilka questions, though Cilka never elaborated. She had

  told her about her friends, like Gita and Lale, wondered

  aloud with Josie about where they were, whether they

  were safe. She had told Josie about her mother and sister

  dying, but had not gone into the details. She is ashamed

  that she had not told her everything. But if Josie had

  turned away from her, it would have broken her all over

  again.

  The hut falls into silent contemplation.

  ‘It is time to take my advice again,’ Olga says to the

  group. ‘A happy memory. Force it into your head and

  your heart.’

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  Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1939

  ‘Cilka, Magda, come here quickly,’ their mumma calls out.

  Magda drops the book she is reading and hurries to the

  kitchen.

  ‘Cilka, come on,’ she says.

  ‘In a minute, let me finish this chapter,’ Cilka growls

  back.

  ‘It’s something wonderful, Cilka, come on,’ her mother

  says.

  ‘Oh, all right, I’m coming.’

  Holding the book open on the page she was reading,

  Cilka stomps into the kitchen. Her mother is sitting at the table reading a letter. She waves the letter at the two girls.

  ‘What does it say?’ Magda squeals.

  Cilka stays standing in the doorway, pretending to read,

  waiting to hear the news.

  ‘Put the book down, Cilka,’ her mother says firmly. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Cilka splays the book open on the table as she takes a

  seat alongside Magda, facing their mother.

  ‘What?’ Cilka says.

  ‘Aunt Helena is getting married.’

  ‘Oh! That’s wonderful news, Mumma,’ Magda says. ‘I

  love all your sisters but especially Aunt Helena, I’m so

  happy for her.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with us?’ Cilka asks nonchalantly.

  ‘Well, my two beautiful girls, she wants you to be her

  bridesmaids, to be part of her wedding, isn’t that lovely?’

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  ‘You mean we get to wear a beautiful dress and have flowers in our hair?’ an excited Magda asks.

  ‘Yes, you will both have the most beautiful dresses and

  I’m sure Aunt Helena would love you to have flowers in

  your hair. What do you think, Cilka? Do you want to be a

  bridesmaid, have everyone looking at you and telling you

  how beautiful you are?’

  Cilka looks from her mother to her sister, trying to contain the excitement she feels. She fails. Jumping to her feet, knocking over her chair, she swirls around the kitchen,

  trying to pull her straight dress out.

  ‘I’m going to be a princess with flowers in my hair. Can

  my dress be red? I’d really like a red dress.’

  ‘That will be up to Aunt Helena, but you can always ask

  her. She might say yes, but you will both have to wear the same colour.’

  ‘I’m going to tell Papa.’

  Cilka rushes from the kitchen, looking for her father.

  ‘Papa, Papa, Aunt Helena’s getting married. She’s in love.’

  One day, Cilka thinks, it will be my turn.

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  CHAPTER 26

  The winter of 1950–51 is particularly harsh. The hospital

  is overwhelmed by severe cases of frostbite and other

  weather-associated ailments. Amputations of lower limbs

  become common, the survivors immediately shipped off

  to places unknown, to free up the beds. Pneumonia claims

  many; lungs weakened from constant inhalation of coal

  dust no match for the infections that spread through the

  camp. Cases of pellagra barely make it through the front

  door – the near-corpses are taken with their peeling skin

  and put on blankets on the floor near the entrance, ready

  to be taken out to a truck when they expire.

  Injuries increase alarmingly as frozen fingers lose grip

  on tools; crush injuries rise as weakened prisoners are

  slow to respond to the dangers of heavy equipment and

  falling rocks.

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  Any suspicion of self-harm is verified when doctors question the injured patients. They beg to be kept in the

  hospital, or at the very least, released from outside work.

  Some of these self-inflicted injuries are terrible mutilations

  – among the worst Cilka has seen.

  The ambulances struggle to transport the sick and

  injured, many arriving piled into the back of trucks, or

  carried in by fellow prisoners.

  With the bleak weather, and Josie’s departure,

  combined with the lack of hope, Cilka descends into

  darkness, again. She refuses her breaks from going out

  in the ambulance – picking up, dropping off and imme-

  diately going back out, endlessly caring for the sick, the

  injured and dying. She is becoming a stranger on the

  ward.

  The mine supervisors praise her bravery in never

  refusing to go into a dangerous situation. They say her

  size and competence make her the best person to enter

  the mine to look for casualties. That word ‘bravery’ again

  – Cilka still thinks she is yet to earn it.

  ‘Ambulance going out.’

  ‘Coming.’

  Kirill, Pavel and Cilka race to the mine.

  ‘Not asking what we’re facing today, Cilka?’ Kirill asks.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Having a bad day?’ Kirill fires back.

  ‘Drop it, Kirill.’ Pavel comes to Cilka’s defence.

  ‘All right. It’s an explosion, so there will be burns as

  well as broken bones,’ Kirill says.

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  Neither Pavel nor Cilka responds.

  Kirill shrugs. ‘If that’s the way you’re going to play it.’

  * * *

  The chaos is evident as they approach the mine. There is

  the usual gathering of onlooking prisoners, mov
ing from

  foot to foot in an effort to keep warm.

  Cilka is out of the ambulance before the engine is killed.

  ‘Cilka, over here.’

  She joins a group of guards. A supervisor appears.

  ‘Cilka, good to see you. Got a nasty one for you. We

  were taking explosives into the central drift so we can

  advance and one of them went off unexpectedly. We’ve

  got at least six prisoners in there and about the same

  number of guards. We’ve also got our explosives expert

  in there. He was going to be setting the dynamite. He’s

  the top man around here. Shit, there will be trouble if

  he’s not all right.’

  Cilka starts walking towards the entrance to the mine.

  ‘Pavel,’ she calls out, ‘bring the box. Come on, hurry

  up.’

  The supervisor runs after her, ‘Cilka, you can’t go in

  yet. They haven’t declared it safe.’

  She’s heard it all before.

  ‘And who’s going to declare it safe, standing up here?’

  With no answer, Cilka turns to Pavel. ‘I can’t make you

  come with me, but I’d like you to.’

  ‘Cilka, you heard the man – the walls could collapse

  around us.’

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  ‘There are men in there. We have to try.’

  ‘And get killed ourselves? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll go in by myself. Hand me the box.’

  Pavel holds out the box, hesitates, then pulls it back

  towards himself. ‘I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’

  ‘Probably,’ she says with a small smile.

  ‘Definitely,’ says the supervisor. ‘Look, I can’t stop you,

  but I can advise against it.’

  ‘Come, Pavel, let’s go.’

  ‘Here, take the big lamp,’ the supervisor says.

  As Cilka and Pavel descend in the lift, the lamp barely

  penetrates the dust rising and swirling around them. They

  step out into the darkness and inch forward for several

  minutes before beginning to call out.

  ‘Can anybody hear me?’ Cilka shouts. ‘Call out if you

  hear me so we can find you. Is there anybody here?’

  Nothing. They walk deeper, getting closer to the blast

  site as the ground underfoot becomes an obstacle course,

  littered with rocks and boulders. The path narrows.

  Pavel stumbles, slipping on a jagged rock and screams

  as much from the fright of falling as from being hurt.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  His string of expletives bounces off the walls. As the

  echo dies down, they hear a cry.

  ‘Over here, we’re over here.’

  ‘Keep talking, we’re coming,’ Pavel calls out as he and

  Cilka hurry in the direction of the voice.

  Their combined lights illuminate several men waving

  and calling to them. As they arrive, Pavel asks who is in

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  charge. A guard sitting beside an unconscious man identifies himself.

  ‘Tell me who we have here and what you know of the

  others,’ Cilka says.

  There are six of them – three guards, two prisoners and

  the explosives expert who is unconscious. Their helmets

  were knocked off in the explosion, the lights went out at

  the same time and they can’t see to tell how badly injured

  they all are.

  Cilka asks if any of them can stand and walk out them-

  selves. Two say they think they can even though they are

  badly hurt. One reports he has a broken arm as bone has

  pierced his shirt and coat.

  Using the lamp, Cilka and Pavel do a quick examination

  of the men. The explosives expert’s breathing is ragged,

  and he has a head wound. She asks Pavel to check on

  another unconscious man. It only takes him a moment to

  report that he is dead. He was one of the guards.

  Cilka concentrates on the explosives expert. Besides the

  head wound, he seems to have been hit in the chest by

  something; a depression tells her he has several broken

  ribs. Cilka has the able-bodied men help her lie him

  straight. She administers a drip into his arm, and roughly

  bandages his head.

  ‘What of the others?’ she asks the guard. ‘We were told

  there were about twelve of you down here.’

  The guard tells her to shine her light further ahead.

  When she does, she sees that the path is mostly blocked

  by rock from the explosions.

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  ‘They will be on the other side of that,’ he explains.

  ‘Have you tried calling out to see if any of them

  respond?’

  ‘It will be a waste of time. They were about a hundred

  metres in front of us, going ahead with the dynamite when

  it went off. They would have taken the full force of the

  first explosion, then there were two more. They didn’t

  stand a chance.’

  ‘OK, I’ll let you report that when we get out. For now,

  let’s see who is capable of helping other men walk out

  of here. I need at least one to help Pavel carry our expert

  here.’

  ‘I can help,’ the guard says.

  ‘I can help,’ one of the prisoners croaks, coughing.

  ‘Thanks.’ Turning to the other prisoner: ‘Can you keep

  an eye on him?’ she says, nodding towards the injured

  man. ‘He’s got a badly broken arm.’

  ‘I’ve got him,’ the prisoner answers.

  Cilka holds the lamp up towards the way out and the

  shuffling, wincing men start to follow it. Pavel, behind

  her, eases his arms under the unconscious man’s shoulders,

  taking a firm grip around his chest. Cilka picks up the

  medication box, places the intravenous bottle of fluid on

  top, and follows the workers along the long, claustrophobic

  corridor and eventually into the open door of the lift cage.

  She looks back. Through the sooty swirl of the lamplight

  she can see that Pavel is struggling with the weight of the

  man. She hears rumbling. No. Dislodged rocks break away spewing out clouds of dust. She hears Pavel scream.

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  Cilka hears yelling, and the lever of the lift clicking up, the cage door slamming. She coughs and coughs, ears

  ringing. She collapses, her head hitting the hard caging of

  the lift wall, her body vibrating as it starts its slow ascent.

  * * *

  ‘Cilka, Cilka, squeeze my hand.’ Yelena’s soothing voice

  drifts into Cilka’s semi-consciousness.

  Hand, feel hand, squeeze, she tells herself. The small

  effort of obeying this command sends shock waves of

  pain through her body and she lapses back into uncon-

  sciousness.

  * * *

  The sound of someone crying out stirs Cilka awake.

  Without opening her eyes, she listens to the familiar sounds

  of doctors and nurses going about their work, of patients

  calling out for comfort, calling out in pain. She wants to

  call out for both.

  ‘Are you with us, Cilka?’ she hears R
aisa whispering.

  She feels Raisa’s breath on her cheek; she must be leaning

  over her.

  ‘It’s time to wake up. Come on, open your eyes.’

  Slowly, Cilka opens her eyes. The world is a blur.

  ‘I can’t see,’ she whispers.

  ‘You may have blurred vision, so don’t panic, Cilka.

  You’re going to be all right. Can you see my hand?’

  Something flashes in front of Cilka, a movement. It

  could be a hand. Cilka blinks several times, and each time

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  she does so her vision clears a little until she can identify fingers; yes, it is a hand.

  ‘I see it, I see your hand,’ she mumbles weakly.

  ‘Good girl. Now just listen while I tell you how you

  are, then you can tell me how you feel. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have had a nasty blow to the back of the head

  requiring twenty stitches. I can’t believe you made it out

  of there, when the whole tunnel was collapsing. What are

  you made of?’

  ‘Stronger stuff than you thought.’

  ‘We had to cut some of your hair away, I’m afraid, but

  it will grow back. Now, you are bound to have a headache

  and we don’t want you talking, feeling like you have to

  do anything.’

  Cilka opens her mouth to speak. Pavel. She is remem-

  bering the last moments in the mine. She gurgles his name,

  in distress.

  ‘It’s all right, Cilka,’ Raisa says.

  ‘Pavel . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cilka. He didn’t make it.’

  And it is my fault, she thinks. I made him go in.

  She closes her eyes.

  I am cursed. Everyone around me dies or is taken away.

  It is not safe to be near me.

  ‘Cilka, you have grazes and bruises on your upper back

  where the rock landed, you must have been bent over when

  it happened. They are nothing serious and are healing nicely.’

  She tries to breathe. It doesn’t matter about her.

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  ‘How are the other men?’

  ‘Oh, Cilka. Only you would ask about others before

  yourself. Thanks to you, the workers who came out before

  you are mostly fine.’

  Cilka is relieved they are not all dead. But, Pavel. She

  should have been more careful.

  ‘Now,’ Raisa says. ‘Here is how you are going to be

  treated, and I want your promise that you will do as we

  tell you. I want none of your interfering, even if you do

  think you know more than all of us put together.’

 

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