Cilka's Journey (ARC)
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been together, have I?’
‘Mmm, no, I don’t think you have, why?’
‘Could I ask you for just one thing?’
‘I suppose so. Yes, if I can give it to you. What is it you want?’
‘It’s not for me.’
‘Then who?’
‘For my friend, Gita. She likes this man, just as I like
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you, and it would be good if he could have his old job back, he was very good at it.’
‘What’s his job?’
‘The Tätowierer – he was the Tätowierer .’
‘Mmm, I have heard about him. Do you know where he
is?’
‘I do.’
‘Then why don’t we pay him a visit tomorrow?’
‘Thank you, Johann. Thank you very much.’
Cilka clears her throat and swallows back her tears. There is no use for them in this place.
* * *
Aware that Boris is stroking her face, running his hands
down her neck, Cilka forces herself to find that voice
again.
‘Oh, Boris, I don’t know what to say. I care so much
for you; you have been so important in my life here.’
‘But do you love me, Cilka?’
She clears her throat. ‘Of course I do. You have been
my saviour.’ She marvels at his inability, now and always,
to read the tone of her voice, her body language, the
things that don’t lie. She doesn’t believe in miracles, in
love.
‘I have to take you with me. I want you with me. I can’t
bear the thought of any of those animals putting their
hands on you. They tell me they are lining up to take you
as soon as I go.’
The words stab Cilka like a knife and she clutches her
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chest. Boris interprets her groan to be the pain of sadness that he is leaving. He holds her, gently whispering his love
and how he is going to take care of her.
* * *
At the mess the next morning, Cilka, Elena and Anastasia
sit together over their gruel.
‘I heard everything last night,’ Anastasia says to Cilka.
‘Don’t worry your head about it, Anastasia,’ Cilka says.
She needs to solve this on her own.
‘Heard what?’ Elena says.
Anastasia says, ‘Boris is being let out.’
Elena stops eating for a moment. ‘Cilka, you have to
move into the nurses’ quarters.’
‘We’ll work it out. I can’t leave all of you.’
‘Cilka, don’t be stupid!’ Elena says, hitting her with her
spoon. ‘We all have husbands, or protection,’ she says,
sending a subtle wave to Antonina across the hall. ‘You
will be eaten alive. Even Antonina or your fancy doctor
won’t be able to save you.’
Anastasia’s lip wobbles. ‘Cilka, I will miss you so much,
but Elena is right. We will try to see you on the white
nights – like Josie, remember?’
Cilka stares at her gruel. Considering.
* * *
Cilka wades through knee-deep snow to the ward after
rollcall, and seeks out Yelena.
‘Can we talk?’
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‘Of course, Cilka.’
‘Can you please move me, now, today, into the nurses’
quarters? I can’t continue sleeping in the hut,’ she blurts
out.
‘Are you hurt?’ Yelena asks.
‘Not yet, but I might be if I stay where I am. Please
help me.’
Cilka still feels terrible about leaving her friends, but it
is true that they are all now protected. Her being there
won’t change a thing. They don’t need her for extra rations
either, as most of them now have better jobs.
‘Calm down. Of course we’ll help you. You will go to
the nurses’ quarters with Lyuba when you have finished
your shift this afternoon,’ Yelena says. ‘Do you want to
tell me what happened? I thought the women you live
with care for you.’
‘They do. It’s not them, it’s Boris.’
‘The pig who forces himself on you.’
‘Yes. He told me last night he is being released and that
other men are lining up to take me.’
‘That’s enough, Cilka. No one is taking you. No one
will harm you ever again as long as I can help it.’
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CHAPTER 30
Living in her new home, with a bed, a small chest of
drawers, fresh clothing, makes Cilka’s daily life easier.
It is access to a shower that breaks her, reducing her to
a sobbing heap crumpled under the water, where Raisa
finds her, cradles her, dries, dresses and puts her back to
bed.
Each evening, Cilka returns to the barrack that she shares
with twelve other nurses, and if she sees a bed unmade, it
is soon made. The floor is swept, sometimes several times
a day, the personal keepsakes and photos belonging to each
nurse dusted and arranged on their drawers. Keeping busy
in this way helps with the intense missing of her friends
back in the hut and makes her feel she can contribute
something to her new living companions.
She has been in Vorkuta for eight years. Eleven years
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have passed since she left her home town of Bardejov, bound for Auschwitz, still an innocent child.
Her father, dear Papa, occupies much of her thoughts.
Knowing her mother and sister have died has allowed her
to grieve, remember them. She is tormented by not
knowing if her father is alive or dead. Why can’t I feel his loss, mourn his death; why can’t I rejoice, knowing he is alive waiting for me to come home? Neither of these
emotions rests with her. Only the unknown.
A week into her new situation, during a break, Yelena
sits down with her. She tells her about a patient she treated a couple of days ago with a burn on her arm. When she
asked the patient what happened, she was told it was
self-inflicted. The patient identified herself as Elena and
asked Yelena to pass on a message to Cilka.
Boris had come looking for Cilka, planning to take her
away. When Elena told him Cilka had taken a turn for
the worse and was back in hospital and not expected to
live, Boris had flown into a terrifying rage and smashed
up her empty bed. Elena wanted Cilka to know that the
wood had kept them warm that night. Her message was
a warning, however: Cilka must stay away from Hut 29.
Other men have come looking for her, bad men . . .
Cilka is horrified that Elena had to do that to herself
to get a message to her.
‘Did they say any more? Are the women all right?’
‘Yes,’ Yelena said. ‘She said not to worry, they are all
fine.’
‘Am I really safe? Can they not find me here?’ Cilka asks.
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‘You’re safe, none of those men would dare venture near the staff q
uarters. In all my years here, I’ve never
seen anyone cause any trouble. We have our own protec-
tion.’
It starts to sink in for Cilka: even on the white nights,
she may not ever be able to see her friends. She is safe.
They are safe enough. But again, she is separated from
those she has become close to. Is there to be no lasting
relationship in Cilka’s life?
Not that they ever knew her completely.
‘Can I ask how Petre Davitovich is?’ Cilka asks, because
at least she can know there is the possibility for others, in here, to have something lasting.
She will not let herself entertain the fantasy of the tall,
brown-eyed Alexandr.
‘Oh, he’s wonderful, he’s—’ Yelena catches herself.
‘What do you know about Petre Davitovich and me?’
‘Just what everyone else here knows, that you two see
each other, and we are so happy for you.’
‘Everyone knows?’
Cilka laughs. ‘Of course we do. What else do we have
to gossip about in here?’
‘Break’s finished. Come on you, back to work.’
* * *
On her ambulance trips throughout that winter, Cilka
notices that the number of prisoners working at the mine
seems to be dwindling. Fyodor tells her there have been
a lot of prisoners released in the past few weeks and not
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so many new ones coming in. They discuss what this means, and whether they might also be freed – they’ve
heard of prisoners being released early. Cilka can barely
let in the thought, the hope.
Soon it is spring; the days are lengthening. Cilka notices
more flowers than usual. They poke their heads above the
snow and ice, waving in the breeze. Cilka’s steady routine,
the time passing, and the freshness of spring bring her a
level of relative calm, despite the deep ache she still feels for her losses and how much she misses her friends. And
her secret longing. The ache is as much a part of her daily
life as the harsh elements, hard bread, and the call of
‘Ambulance going out!’
One day they stop outside a cluster of buildings that
include food storage and laundry supplies. They are met
and waved into a section Cilka hasn’t been in before but
quickly identifies as the sewing room. Long tables with
barely room between them for someone to sit in front of
the machines.
Cilka looks around and sees a hand waving at her and
Kirill and Fyodor.
‘Over here.’
Cilka walks over and jumps at a gentle tap on her
shoulder. ‘Hello, stranger,’ a beaming Elena says.
‘Elena!’ The two women hug. Cilka doesn’t give Elena
a chance to answer any of her questions, as she fires one
after another. ‘How is Anastasia? How is Margarethe?’
‘Slow down, let me look at you.’
‘But—’
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‘Anastasia is fine, Margarethe is well. Everyone misses you so much but we know you can only be safe away from
us. You look well.’
‘I miss you all so much. I wish—’
‘Cilka, we have a patient here, will you take a look at
him?’
Cilka registers Fyodor and Kirill attending to the man
lying on the floor, groaning, clutching his chest.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ she says, walking over but
holding onto Elena’s hand, to bring her with her, to spend
as much time with her as possible.
‘Chest pains,’ Fyodor replies.
Cilka crouches down, Elena with her, and introduces
herself to the patient and asks some general questions.
His answers indicate there is nothing she can do but get
him to the hospital as quickly as possible for the doctors
to assess.
‘Load him up,’ she tells the men. She lingers over a last
hug from Elena, then follows the stretcher outside, jumping
into the back of the ambulance. She glances one more
time at her friend before giving the patient her full atten-
tion. She again asks the questions she knows the doctors
will want her to answer on arrival.
On her way back to her living quarters that afternoon
she stops and picks as many flowers as she can carry.
Placed in pots, jugs and somone’s mug, they greet the
other nurses on their return.
* * *
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The white nights are back. Cilka and the nurses take their evening walks outside. Occasionally, Cilka thinks about
risking a visit to the general compound to see her friends,
to wander between the huts, share in the laughter that
only comes at this time of year. And could she, finally,
find the words? Something within her still closes over at
the thought. She knows that she would be recognised by
some of the men and boys, that she is still not safe, and
so she stays away. She does not see Alexandr on those
evenings – perhaps their shifts are out of sync – but she
often glances to the administration building anyway, just
in case.
She is almost grateful when the winds return, the sun
goes down and her temptations are no longer a threat.
But then winter arrives with a vengeance. With the new
concessions gained at the expense of dozens of lives in
the fateful uprising a year ago, work grinds to a halt on
many days as prisoners are no longer expected to work
in the bitter cold, with temperatures well below freezing,
and constant darkness. Many days, the prisoners cannot
leave their huts – the snow piled so high throughout the
camp that even walking to the mess for meals is not
possible. The road between the camp and the mine is
blocked, making it difficult for either trucks or the train
to collect the coal needed throughout the Soviet Union.
Futile attempts are made by prisoners to shovel snow
away from their huts and create a path to the mess. Some
succeed, but many give up as more snow arrives faster
than they can clear it.
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Paths are created between the medical and nursing staff quarters and the hospital.
The injuries presenting for Cilka and the others to treat
now often arise from brutal beatings as bored men and
women forced to stay indoors for days on end release
whatever energy they have in physical violence. Cilka
hears of, and sees, some beatings that are so severe the
loser doesn’t survive. Like caged animals with nothing to
live for, the prisoners turn on each other. Cilka’s gently
flowering optimism starts to shrink back down inside her.
This is always, she thinks, the way people will treat each
other.
Poor sanitation, as the prisoners become reluctant to
venture outside for the most basic of human bodily func-
tions, leads to illness and this also fills the ward. The
doctors often l
ament that they are wasting their time
treating patients who will return all too soon with the
same symptoms, the same ailments. And then the weather
lifts and the temperature rises the few degrees needed for
the prisoners to be sent back outside, to work.
* * *
‘Ambulance going out,’ Fyodor shouts.
‘Coming,’ Cilka replies, grabbing her coat and the new,
softer scarf Raisa gave her recently.
‘Where are we going?’ Cilka asks as the ambulance turns
away from the front gates.
‘Not far, just to the other side of the administration
building,’ Kirill tells her.
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‘Another heart attack. One of the commandants doing it with someone he shouldn’t have?’ Cilka jokes.
Fyodor and Kirill stare at her, taken aback.
Several men stand around, blocking their view of the
patient. As Cilka walks towards them she notices a piece
of timber lying nearby, covered in blood.
‘Get out of the way,’ Kirill calls.
They step aside and Cilka sees a man lying on the
ground, not moving, the blood draining from him turning
the white snow all around him an ugly shade of red. As
Fyodor and Kirill advance towards the man, Cilka freezes,
fixated on the blood-stained snow.
Auschwitz-Birkenau, 1944
The loud pounding on the door of Block 25 wakes Cilka.
Disorientated, she looks around the room. She has been dreaming, and it takes her a moment to remember where she is. Crawling out of her bed, she takes the coat that doubles as an extra blanket and pulls it on, then slips her feet into the boots waiting for her next to her bunk and pulls on her thick gloves.
Opening the door from her single room out into the large
room where dozens of women have just spent their last
night on earth, she screams at the pounding door, ‘Coming, we’re coming.’
She walks between the two rows of bunks, screaming at
the women: ‘Get up, get up and get out of here!’
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She shakes each of the bodies awake, giving them a gentler, last message with her eyes. In between her screams, loud
enough for the SS to hear, she softly mumbles and whispers
– prayers, an apology, a frustrated sort of rumble. Not enough to bring herself to tears. And not looking at them in the eye. She can no longer do that. The women in Block 25
know what fate awaits them. No one speaks or resists; an