Demyanovich, Alexei Demyanovich, I am in charge.’
The commandant arrives at the bed and registers his
daughter’s broken, bloodied body. He looks to his wife.
‘What happened, Masha?’
‘Alyosha—’
Yelena comes to Maria’s defence. ‘She was just playing,
Alexei Demyanovich, and had a fall. It looks worse than
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it is. I have put her to sleep so I can take care of her, but I assure you she will be fine.’
The commandant listens without interrupting, but the
doctor who followed him intervenes.
‘Alexei Demyanovich, I am in charge here. I am so sorry
I didn’t know your daughter was here.’ Turning on Yelena,
he shouts, ‘No one told me the commandant’s daughter
was here. I will now take over.’
Maria cautiously walks towards her husband. ‘These
two angels have taken care of our little girl. Let them finish what they have started.’
Alexei looks at his wife. ‘And are you all right?’
‘Excuse me,’ pipes up the doctor. ‘I am the most expe-
rienced doctor here and it is my duty to take care of your
daughter, Alexei Demyanovich.’
Without looking at him, the commandant answers. ‘If
my wife says she trusts these two to look after Katya then
they will, with my thanks.’
He turns to Yelena. ‘You look like the doctor.’
‘Yes, Alexei Demyanovich. I am Yelena Georgiyevna,
or Doctor Kaldani.’
Turning to Cilka. ‘And you, the nurse?’
‘She is not even a nurse, she’s a—’ the male doctor
interjects.
‘A nurse in training, Alexei Demyanovich, but a very
good one,’ Yelena says.
The commandant attempts to run his hands through
the matted, bloodied hair of Katya. He bends down and
kisses her gently on the cheek.
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‘I’ll go back to my office and leave her in your hands.
Have someone report to me when you have finished and
I will organise where she is to stay; she’s not staying here.’
He turns to Maria. ‘Stay with her, my dear.’
‘I was never leaving.’
Cilka and Maria follow the bed with Katya on it as it
is pushed by Yelena to the operating room. Cilka has not
been in this part of the hospital before. The door at the
end of the ward always seemed forbidden territory to her.
A short corridor leads to two small anterooms feeding
into a slightly larger room with a big overhead light. Cilka
heard about such rooms in Auschwitz. Chills overcome
her, her breathing quickens.
‘It’s all right, Cilka,’ Yelena says, ‘this is where we
operate. Now come on, I need your help.’
While Yelena stitches and bandages Katya’s head,
manipulates and plasters her arm, examines the bruises
which have now appeared on her legs and small body,
none of which require medical attention, Cilka stands with
Maria. At the sound of the bones in the girl’s arm crunching
back into place, Maria buries her head in Cilka’s shoulder.
Cilka takes a sharp breath, then places a loose arm around
the distressed mother.
In the recovery room, Cilka stands beside the chair
while Maria sits with her head on the bed beside her
daughter. When Katya wakes, crying, her mother comforts
her as Cilka runs to get Yelena.
A quick examination by Yelena determines that Katya
has come through her procedures well. Cilka notices Katya
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looking at her quizzically, as if she doesn’t know who she is.
‘Hello, Katya, I am Cilka.’
Katya registers her voice; a small smile crosses her lips.
‘These are the two angels who took care of you,’ Maria
tells her daughter.
Katya continues to look at Cilka through one opened
eye, the other partially covered by the large bandage encir-
cling her head. Cilka is uncomfortable with the attention
aware of the child’s smallness, her vulnerability, how it
could all have gone so wrong.
‘There’s a truck outside waiting to take the girl home,’
says a guard from the doorway. Cilka is glad she cannot
hear the idling truck, a sound from her nightmares, a
sound she would hear from her room in Block 25 – the
death cart waiting for its passengers. The guard steps aside
as two men enter, carrying a stretcher between them.
Yelena lifts Katya from the bed. The stretcher is placed
on the bed and Yelena lowers Katya back down, carefully
placing her broken arm across her small body. Blankets
are piled on top of the delicate little frame.
As the men lift the stretcher and walk towards the door
Maria turns back to Cilka.
‘If there is anything I can do for you, please ask. I mean
it.’
‘Thank you,’ Cilka says. My freedom. That is an impossible request, she knows. ‘Thank you for letting me care
for Katya.’
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‘I wouldn’t let anyone else care for my children or myself but you and Yelena Georgiyevna.’ She smiles.
Cilka smiles back.
‘Goodbye,’ Maria says.
As she is leaving, Cilka studies the elegant woman she
has spent the past few hours with. The delicate lace collar
on her dress and the silver locket and chain hanging around
her neck. The colourful belt that pulls her dress in to her
tiny waist, and the shiny buckles on her shoes. It has been
many years since she saw a woman dressed so beautifully.
Images of her mother dressed similarly come into Cilka’s
head. A memory to cling to. But that is followed by thoughts
of her mother at the very end. A memory she can’t bear.
It takes until the final hour of her shift for Cilka to find
an excuse to go to the dispensary. She takes one container
of the pills, slips it into the extra pocket sewn into her skirt where she normally puts food to take back to the hut. It is
just one container, she thinks. She just can’t face up to this relative peace – this position, these friends – being lost.
As she steps outside after her shift she glances over
towards the administration building. She sees the messenger,
the polite man with the brown eyes, walking across spotlit
grass. He raises a cigarette to his lips, pauses his walk, closes his eyes and inhales. Despite his layers of clothing, his scarf and hat, his worn boots, there is an elegance to him, in the
small pleasure he takes on the inhale, in the exhaled smoke
rising above him and his gloved fingers poised in front of
his mouth. Cilka feels something shift inside her.
She keeps walking.
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CHAPTER 11
Name: Stepan Adamovich Skliar
Date: September 14, 1947. Time of Death: 10:44
&nbs
p; Placing the blanket over Stepan’s head, Cilka walks back
to the desk area, slowly flicking through Stepan’s file. A
couple of recent entries catch her attention and she reads
on.
Ukrainian prisoner, presented three days previously with
stomach pain. Nothing identified on examination. Watch
and wait. Aged 37 years.
She looks for the treatment plan. There isn’t one.
Investigations: nil. Pain relief: occasional.
A doctor is sitting at the desk nearby. She hands him
the file.
‘I’ve noted the time of death for this patient, Gleb
Vitalyevich.’
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‘Thank you, just leave it there.’ He indicates a pile nearby.
‘If you would like to sign it, I can file it immediately.’
The doctor takes the record from her and flicks quickly
through it. He scribbles something on the front page and
hands the file back.
‘Thank you, I’ll file it.’
With her back turned to the doctor, Cilka looks at the
entry. The doctor’s illegible signature beside her notation.
Then the words ‘Cause of Death: unknown.’
Cilka looks back at the doctor, noting how little he is
writing in any record, how he is not reading previous
entries, and how the pile of records that was in front of
him when she approached is now reduced to three or
four.
With anger growing inside her, Cilka doesn’t see Yelena
approaching until she stops in front of her, blocking her
path.
‘Is something the matter, Cilka?’
Cilka takes several moments to think of how to
respond.
‘Why do you go to great lengths to save some people
and not others? How do you decide who should live and
who should die?’
Yelena frowns. ‘We try and save everyone.’
‘You do, not every doctor here does.’
Yelena takes the file from Cilka, scanning the last entries.
‘Hmm, I see what you mean. It’s possible that investi-
gations were made and simply not recorded.’
‘Possible, but I don’t think so.’
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Yelena looks at Cilka seriously. ‘You need to be careful, Cilka. The administration needs functional bodies to work,
and so saying anybody was deliberately hindering the sick
from getting better so they can serve Mother Russia is a
more serious accusation than you may realise.’
Cilka takes back the file with a little more force than
she should have.
In the small filing room filled with boxes she goes to
place Stepan’s file in the current open box. Taking the last
two files out she quickly looks at the entries. Both causes
of death do seem valid to her untrained brain. She will
keep her thoughts to herself and heed Yelena’s advice not
to pry. After all, it’s not as though she is doing everything right by the patients. Though she tries her hardest, there
is that one container of pills slipped into her pocket every
now and then.
* * *
‘Are you religious?’ Yelena asks Cilka one day, standing
near an unconscious patient in the corner of the ward who
has just been looked over by Gleb Vitalyevich. It is dark
outside, and snowing.
‘No,’ Cilka answers quickly, though it is not the full
answer. ‘Why?’
‘Well . . .’ She is keeping her voice low. As Cilka remem-
bers, one does not talk about religion in the Soviet Union.
Any religion. ‘It’s the season where some religions celebrate
. . . I wasn’t sure if it meant anything to you.’
‘No, not me.’ Cilka looks down at the patient. Talking
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about this means talking about a lot of other things. Talking about the annihilation of her people. About how hard it
is to have faith the way she once could. ‘You?’
‘Well, in Georgia, it was always a time when we would
gather with family, and have food and music . . .’ It’s the
first time Cilka has seen Yelena look properly sad, wistful.
She is always forthright, practical, in the moment. ‘Are
you just not . . . Christian?’
‘No, not a Christian.’
‘Dare I ask, any other religion?’
Cilka pauses for a moment too long.
‘It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. You know that
if you ever want to talk about where you come from . . .
just know I will not judge you.’
Cilka smiles at her. ‘A long time ago, my family did
celebrate . . . around this time of year. Also with food,
lots of food, lights, blessings and songs . . .’ She looks
around her, fearing someone may overhear. ‘But it is hard
to remember.’
Deeply and instinctively, Cilka still often reaches for
prayers. Her religion is tied to her childhood, her family,
traditions and comfort. To another time. It is a part of
who she is. At the same time, her faith has been challenged.
It has been very hard for her to continue believing when
it truly does not seem that actions are fairly rewarded or
punished, when it seems instead that events are random,
and that life is chaotic.
‘I understand,’ Yelena says, warmly.
‘I wonder if anyone is lighting a candle tonight for this
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poor fellow,’ Cilka says, wanting to move the focus from herself.
‘Let’s hope so,’ says Yelena. ‘For all these wretches. But
you didn’t hear me say that.’
Cilka nods and takes a step away from the bed, before
turning back to Yelena.
‘If I was ever going to talk about my past, I would like
it to be with you.’
She has surprised herself by saying it. It is too much of
a risk, and too difficult. And even if Yelena – the most
compassionate person Cilka has met – could handle it,
what if she told others? Even the patients in the hospital
wouldn’t want her around. Someone who has overseen so
much death.
‘Whenever you’re ready, come and find me,’ Yelena
says.
The ward is quiet for a moment, unusually so. Cilka
stands by the window, watching the snow flurry in the
blue-black sky. Closing her eyes, she sees her family sitting around the table. Her beloved father reciting blessings,
the lighting of the menorah, the pure joy of being together.
She can smell and taste the latkes, potato pancakes fried in oil, that will be eaten for the next eight days. She
remembers the excitement of being a young girl given her
first candle to light. How she pestered her father many
times to be allowed to light the first one. How she never
accepted his explanation that it was the man in the house
who did it. Then the memory of the time he relented,
telling her she had the courage and determination of any
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6:31
boy and as long as it was their family secret, she could light the first candle. She then remembers when that was.
The last time she sat with her family to welcome and
celebrate Hanukkah.
‘ Hanukkah sameach,’ she whispers to herself. ‘Happy
Hanukkah, my family: Ocko, Mamička. Magda.’
Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1942
‘Happy birthday. Pack the new coat Mumma and Papa gave
you for your birthday, Cilka. You may need it,’ Magda
whispers as the sisters each pack a small suitcase.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To Poprad. We have to catch the train there for Bratislava.’
‘And Mumma and Papa?’
‘They will take us to the train station and we will see
them when we come home. We must be brave, little sister,
keep Mumma and Papa safe by going to work for the
Germans.’
‘I’m always brave,’ Cilka says firmly.
‘Yes, you are, but tomorrow when we say goodbye, you
have to be especially brave. We will stay together and . . .
and you can look after me.’ Magda winks at her little sister.
Cilka continues putting her very best dresses into the suitcase.
She will do her family proud.
* * *
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Cilka has contained all this for so long. She is not sure if it is the darkness or the quiet, or Yelena’s open face, but
she has to run to the nearby linen room. She closes the
door, heart racing, and drops onto the floor, burying her
face in dirty soiled linen so no one can hear the sobs that
are escaping her.
With no sense of how long she has been down there,
Cilka struggles to her feet. She smooths down her clothing,
wipes her fingers under her lashes, making sure it is not
obvious that she has been crying. She needs to get back
to work.
She takes a deep breath and opens the door. As she
leaves the room she hears—
‘There you are. I’ve been looking for you.’
Cilka squares her shoulders. Striding towards her is the
doctor she despises for his attitude and complete lack of
compassion in treating his patients: Gleb Vitalyevich. She
has often wondered if it would be possible to compare
the survival rate of his patients with other doctors. She
knows he would be the worst by far.
‘Watch Bed nine for time of death. I’m going off for a
while. I’ll sign it off tomorrow.’
She watches him walk away. I know about you, she