Cilka's Journey (ARC)

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Cilka's Journey (ARC) Page 35

by Heather Morris


  her want to live, not just stay alive.

  And she knows there is one brave thing she has to

  do.

  She talks to the trusties who act as guards for the nurses’

  quarters, gives them her stash of extra food, and they agree

  to escort her that night – a Sunday – to the hut. She needs

  to talk to the women.

  As they walk through the compound, she can see men

  eyeing her from a distance, but they do not approach.

  She opens the door to the hut, while the guards wait

  outside.

  ‘Cilka!’ Margarethe rushes towards her, enveloping her.

  ‘What are you doing here? It’s dangerous.’

  Cilka begins to shake. ‘I need to talk to you all.’ She

  looks around. There are a couple of new faces, but the

  hut is still mostly women she recognises, including her

  oldest hut-mates, Elena and Margarethe.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ she says.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Elena says.

  ‘It is,’ Cilka begins. ‘Well, I have met someone, and I

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  feel something for him, and I may lose him yet, but I never even knew I would be able to feel something for a man,

  because of everything I have been through.’

  The women sit politely. Elena gives Cilka an encouraging

  look.

  ‘You all shared your pasts with me, your secrets, and I

  was too afraid. But I should have reciprocated. I owe it

  to you.’

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘I was in Auschwitz,’ Cilka says. Margarethe sits bolt

  upright. ‘The concentration camp.’

  She swallows.

  ‘I survived because I was given a privileged position in

  the camp, in the women’s camp in Birkenau. A bit like

  Antonina. But . . .’

  Elena nods at her. ‘Go on, Cilka.’

  No one else speaks.

  ‘I had my own room in the block. A block where they

  would put the—’ she struggles to say the words – ‘sick

  and the dying women, before they would take them to

  the gas chambers to murder them.’

  The women have their hands over their mouths, unbe-

  lieving.

  ‘The SS officers, they put me there, in that block,

  because there were no witnesses.’

  Silence. Complete silence.

  Cilka swallows again, feeling light, dizzy.

  Anastasia starts to cry, audibly.

  ‘I know that sound, Anastasia, it is so familiar to me,’

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  Cilka says. ‘I used to get angry. I don’t know why that emotion. But they were all just so helpless. I wasn’t able

  to cry. I had no tears. And this is why I have not been

  able to tell you all. I had a bed, I had food. And they

  were naked and dying.’

  ‘How . . . how long were you there?’ Elena asks.

  ‘Three years.’

  Margarethe comes to sit near Cilka and holds out a

  hand. ‘None of us know what we would have done. Did

  those bastards kill your family?’

  ‘I put my mother on the death cart myself.’

  Margarethe forcefully takes Cilka’s hand. ‘The memory

  is giving you a shock. I can tell by your voice. And you’re

  shaking. Elena, make a cup of tea.’

  Elena jumps up and goes to the stove.

  The rest of the women remain quiet. But Cilka is now

  too numb to think about how her words have been

  received. There’s an exhaustion taking over her.

  Such a small space of time has passed, but the words

  have been so large.

  When Elena returns with the tea, she says, ‘Hannah

  knew, didn’t she?’

  Cilka nods.

  Margarethe says, ‘I hope this isn’t more of a shock,

  Cilka, but many of us had guessed that you had been

  there. You being Jewish, not talking about your arrest.’

  Cilka begins shaking again. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, and things you would say here and there.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

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  ‘You survived it, Cilka,’ Elena says. ‘And you will survive here too.’

  Anastasia, the youngest, still has her hand over her

  mouth, silent tears falling down her cheeks. But none of

  them has reacted as Cilka had always played over in her

  mind, had always feared. They are still beside her.

  And so maybe she can tell Alexandr, too. Maybe he can

  know her, and still love her.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Cilka says.

  Elena stands with her. ‘Come back again, if you can.’

  Cilka lets Elena put her arms around her. And

  Margarethe. Anastasia still seems too shocked.

  Cilka goes out into the night, dizzy and trembling.

  * * *

  ‘Good morning,’ Cilka greets the receptionist as she heads

  towards the ward. She has one more day with Alexandr.

  She doesn’t know yet how she can possibly say goodbye.

  Will she dare to promise that she will try to find him,

  many years from now, on the outside? Or should she just

  accept her fate, her curse?

  But though she is losing him, losing Yelena, and though

  she has lost everyone dear to her, Alexandr has kindled a

  fire within her.

  Not to anger, but to something like hope.

  Because she never thought she could fall in love, after

  all she’s been through. To do so, she thought, would be

  a miracle. And now she has.

  ‘Cilka,’ the receptionist says.

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  Cilka turns back.

  ‘I’ve been asked to tell you to go to the main adminis-

  tration block, they want to see you.’

  Cilka pulls her hand back from the door to the ward.

  ‘Now?’

  Alexandr is just inside. She could say good morning,

  first. No, she’ll get this out of the way and then have the

  day with him before he is discharged. A day where she

  can tell him everything, and then never speak of it again.

  * * *

  Entering the administration block, Cilka is confronted by

  several other prisoners, all men, standing around

  complaining about why they are here. She reports to the

  only person looking official, behind a desk.

  ‘I’ve been asked to report here,’ she says with a confi-

  dence she doesn’t feel.

  ‘Name.’

  ‘Cecilia Klein.’

  ‘Number.’

  ‘1 B 4 9 4.’

  The receptionist rifles through several envelopes on her

  desk. Taking one, she looks at the number printed on it.

  1 B 4 9 4.

  ‘Here, there’s a small sum of money in there and a letter

  to hand to the guard at the gate on your way out.’

  Cilka doesn’t take the offered envelope.

  ‘Take it and get out of here,’ the receptionist snaps at

  her.

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  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘First to Moscow, then to be deported to your home

  country,’ the receptionist says.


  Home?

  ‘I am to go to the train station?’

  ‘Yes. Now get out of here. Next.’

  The bulb in the ceiling blinks. Another piece of paper.

  Another moment where her life is decided for her.

  ‘But I can’t just leave. There are people I need to see.’

  Alexandr. Will he be released? Released under the dead

  man’s name. How will she find him?

  Her chest aches, feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

  Yelena, Raisa, Lyuba, Elena and Margarethe – if she

  could get to them . . . She needs to say goodbye!

  Klavdiya Arsenyevna is there, overseeing the prisoners’

  release. Cilka has seldom seen her since moving into the

  nurses’ quarters. Now the guard steps forward.

  ‘You are lucky, Cilka Klein, but do not test my patience.

  You are to leave immediately, not to go anywhere but the

  front gate. Or I can arrange for a guard to drag you to

  the hole if that’s what you would prefer?’

  Cilka takes the envelope, shaking. The men behind her

  have all gone quiet.

  ‘Next,’ says the receptionist.

  * * *

  Cilka hands the letter to the guard at the gate, who barely

  glances at it, indicating with his head for her to move on.

  Slowly, she walks away, looking around for someone to

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  stop her, tell her it’s all a mistake. The few guards she passes ignore her.

  On she walks, down the only road she sees. Alone.

  The heavy clouds roll in. Cilka prays it doesn’t snow

  today.

  In the distance she can see small buildings. Homes, she

  thinks. She walks on. Aching with sadness, but dizzy, also,

  at the strangeness of this freedom. This road in front of

  her. One foot, the next. What do people do with this?

  Walking down a street with houses and a few shops,

  she peers into windows. Women with children, cleaning,

  playing, cooking, eating, look out at her suspiciously. She

  catches the rich smells of stew, and baking bread.

  She hears a familiar sound, a train slowly pulling in

  behind the buildings, and hurries towards it. By the time

  she reaches the railway line, the train is disappearing. Her

  eyes follow the tracks to a small station. She goes to it. A

  man is in the process of closing and locking the door to

  a small office.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The man pauses with his key in the door, stares down

  at her.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Where was that train going?’

  ‘Moscow, eventually.’

  ‘And among the released prisoners, did you happen to

  see a man . . . tall, slight bruising on his face . . .’

  The man cuts her off. ‘It was full, there were many men.

  I’m sorry, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.’

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  Cilka opens the envelope stuffed in her coat pocket.

  She pulls all the money out.

  ‘Can I have a ticket for the next train, please?’

  Josie and Natia are in Moscow. If all the trains went to

  Moscow, then in Moscow she could look for them, and

  eventually also, for Alexandr. If only she could remember

  the name of Maria Danilovna’s friend. It will be very

  difficult to track her down. But she can try. She will.

  ‘It’s not due yet, but all you need is your release paper

  and movement order.’

  ‘When will it come?’

  ‘Tomorrow, come back tomorrow.’

  Cilka is totally deflated, exhausted, desperate.

  ‘Where will I stay?’ she says, close to tears.

  ‘Look, I can’t help you. You’ll just have to do what all

  the others like you have done, find somewhere warm to

  hole up in and come back tomorrow.’

  ‘Can I stay here somewhere?’

  ‘No, but look out for the police, they patrol day and

  night looking for your type, you prisoners – some of them

  have caused trouble stealing from shops and homes while

  waiting for the train.’

  Cilka is crushed. She turns away, walks back to town.

  * * *

  Other prisoners have also been released and been told by

  the stationmaster to return the next day. They wander the

  streets. They get into trouble with the locals. Blood is

  spilled. Cilka doesn’t offer to help, choosing to stay apart.

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  She still doesn’t believe she is free. Maybe the world is just a wider prison, where she has no family and no friends

  and no home. She has – had – Alexandr. Is her life to be

  spent wondering about him the way she wonders about

  her father, about Gita, about Josie? How will she really

  find Josie in a huge city like Moscow? At least she knows

  Yelena will be safe. But she didn’t get to say goodbye, to

  hug her, to thank her properly. She feels wrenched in two.

  She spends the night behind a shop, curled up in a doorway

  in an attempt to keep out of the icy wind.

  * * *

  She hears the commotion of dozens of people yelling

  before she hears the train. The fog in her head clears with

  the realisation night has become day. Her transport out

  of Vorkuta is pulling in to the station.

  She joins the others, running, all heading to the same

  place. The train has beaten her to the station and stands

  waiting, its engine running. She is pushed and jostled and

  knocked to the ground several times. Picking herself up,

  she keeps moving. The queue for the doors is long. The

  stationmaster has left his room and walks up the line of

  waiting passengers, checking their papers. No ticket is

  handed over. Cilka takes the form from her pocket and

  holds it out for him.

  The stationmaster’s hand reaches for it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says to him.

  With one hand on hers, he smiles down at her and nods

  encouragement.

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  ‘Good luck out there, little one. Now, get on that train.’

  Cilka rushes towards the open carriage door. As she is

  about to step up into the train, she is pushed heavily aside

  by two men wanting to board ahead of her. The compart-

  ment is looking very full. She reaches her arms into the

  scrabble, desperately trying to get a hold on the doors so

  she can swing in. The train whistle calls, warning them all

  to get on board. There is yelling and pushing in front of

  her, and a man falls from the pack, back off the carriage

  steps and lands on the ground, twisted beside her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she says, letting go of the door and

  reaching down to him. People continue to shove and

  swarm around them. He looks up and beneath the hat are

  the startled brown eyes of Alexandr.

  ‘Cilka!’

  She reaches under his arms to help him up, her heart

  thumping wildly in her chest.

  ‘Oh, Alexandr. Are you all right?’ she repeats, her voice

  choked wi
th tears.

  He winces as he stands, the stream of people behind

  them thinning out. Her hands are still under his arms.

  The train whistle sounds again. She looks to the door.

  A small gap has opened in the crowd.

  ‘Let’s go!’ she says. Her hand goes to his and they climb

  onto the train together, Alexandr’s foot clearing the plat-

  form just as it starts moving.

  In the carriage, Alexandr puts his arms around Cilka.

  She weeps, openly, into his chest.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she says.

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  She looks up into his eyes, soft and kind.

  ‘I can,’ he says. He strokes her hair, wipes the tears

  from her cheeks. In his eyes she can see everything he has

  been through, and, reflected, her own eyes and everything

  she has been through.

  ‘It is time to live now, Cilka,’ he says. ‘Without fear,

  and with the miracle of love.’

  ‘Is that a poem?’ she asks him, smiling through her

  tears.

  ‘It is the beginning of one.’

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  EPILOGUE

  Košice, Czechoslovakia, January 1961

  The bell dings on the café door and in walks a glam-

  orous, tanned woman with a heart-shaped face,

  painted lips and large brown eyes.

  Another woman, with curls in her hair and showing her

  curves in a lively floral dress, stands up from a table to

  greet her.

  Gita walks towards Cilka, and the two women, who

  have not seen each other for almost twenty years, embrace.

  They are so different to how they were back then: now

  they are warm and healthy. The moment is overwhelming.

  They pull back. Cilka looks at Gita’s lustrous, curled brown

  hair, her plump cheeks, her shining eyes.

  ‘Gita! You look incredible.’

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  ‘Cilka, you are beautiful, more beautiful than ever.’

  For a long time, they simply look at each other, touch

  each other’s hair, smile, tears leaking from their eyes.

  Will they be able to talk about that place? That time?

  The waitress comes over and they realise they must look

  a sight – pawing at each other, crying and laughing. They

  sit down and order coffee and cake, sharing more looks,

  delighting in the knowledge that these are things they were

  not allowed, that it is still a daily miracle to have survived.

  These simple pleasures will taste different, for them, to

 

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