Cilka's Journey (ARC)
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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