There is too much quiet, and a tight band of pressure
around her head. Hunger, thirst, pain, cold.
She keeps seeing her mother, her hand slipping from
Cilka’s, the death cart being driven away.
Other women’s faces. Shaved heads, sunken cheeks.
They all had a name. They all had a number.
The images crackle, burn. The crying of the women
permeates the silence. Or maybe it is her, crying. She is
no longer sure.
At some point, a man enters. A blurred face. Gleb
Vitalyevich. Cilka is too weak to protest when he takes
her arm, feels for her pulse.
‘Strong. Keep going,’ the doctor says.
No. A wild, angry scream rises from within her. She
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bucks on the floor, screaming. He closes the door. Her nails scrape the mould from the walls. She screams on.
Maybe this was where it has all been leading. But to go
through all of that, and end here? No. Some part of her wills herself to go back to stillness, distance. Do not give in to madness.
She will survive, she knows that. She can survive
anything.
The loud clanking screech of the door opening.
‘Get up, get out,’ a blurred face says.
Unable to walk, she crawls from the hole through the
open door.
The glare of the weak setting sun bouncing off the snow
blinds her, and she can’t see the person screaming abuse
but then recognises the voice. Klavdiya Arsenyevna kicks
her in the side. She curls up in a ball only to find herself
being pulled by the hair up onto her feet. Dragged like
this, stumbling continually, Cilka is returned to her hut as
the others are arriving back from their different work areas.
The women in Hut 29 look down on the frail, broken
body of Cilka lying on the floor, Klavdiya challenging them
to help her, waiting to strike out at anyone who attempts
to do so. Cilka crawls through the hut to her bed at the
end of the room and pulls herself onto the bed. The
mattress feels almost unbearably soft.
‘Anyone else who has material they shouldn’t will get
double the stay in the hole.’ She leaves the door open as
she departs, glaring at Antonina as she passes.
Antonina closes the door and hurries to Cilka. Josie has
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already wrapped her in her arms, weeping as she rocks her, whispering, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Cilka can feel where every bone in her body meets skin, meets material, meets
the other bodies, the bed.
The women gather around, curious to hear what Cilka
has to say. She is not the first one of them to spend time
in the hole, but she is the first to have been punished for
someone else’s error.
‘Has anyone got some food they can give her?’ Antonina
says. ‘Elena, get the kettle boiling and make her some tea.’
She turns to Cilka. ‘Can you sit up? Here, let me help
you.’
Elena does as she’s told.
Cilka lets Antonina help her sit up to rest against the
wall. Josie hands her a large chunk of bread, everyone
grateful that Antonina has never objected to food being
in the hut, having also been the beneficiary of the patients’
uneaten meals. Antonina often trades this food for goods
for Klavdiya. There is a network and the rules are murky.
This is the prerogative of the guards and, beneath them,
the brigadiers – to bend the rules or enforce them, at
will. Depending on what they are getting out of it.
Cilka nibbles on the bread and soon a cup of strong
tea is in her hand.
‘Do you think you can make it to the mess?’ Antonina
asks.
‘No, it’s all right. I just want to sleep in a bed.’
‘I’ll have Josie bring you back something. The rest of
you, off to dinner.’
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‘Can I stay with her?’ Josie asks.
‘You need to go to the mess, eat, and bring back some-
thing hot for Cilka.’
The women head towards the door, pulling on layers
of clothing. Hannah is the last of them. She stands by the
door, looks back at Cilka.
‘I know what you did,’ she says.
‘No, I mean for Josie.’ She sighs. ‘But don’t think this
gets you off the hook with me.’
Cilka says nothing.
‘I could have told them everything, while you were in
there.’
Cilka rolls away, tries to block out the voice.
‘You would have come back and been shunned. You
only help people so you can feel better about having rolled
over for evil.’ She pauses. ‘You’re lucky, I have found
another supply point for . . . what I need. For now. But
you will keep doing whatever it is I ask you to. Because
I will tell them.’
She closes the door.
* * *
The next morning Cilka struggles to get out of bed, her
legs collapsing underneath her at first. Josie returns from
the mess with breakfast for her. Antonina tells her not to
report for rollcall, she will mark her as present.
As the women prepare to go to work Cilka limps out
to join them, not knowing where she should go.
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‘Josie, take her to the hospital with you. I think she needs to see a doctor,’ Antonina says.
Cilka looks at Josie. She doesn’t want to tell Antonina,
but it has occurred to her that the doctor who fired her,
Gleb Vitalyevich, might have some connection to the guard
Klavdiya Arsenyevna. That he may have told her Cilka
would be in her hut, and to make things worse for her.
It would be risky to go to the hospital, when last time,
Josie had not been able to get Yelena alone and let her
know Cilka was waiting outside. But Cilka can’t stay in
the hut for fear of being accused of ‘shirking’ again, nor
is she able to go to the mines and work – she is not strong
enough. She will have to face the hospital and hope that
she and Josie can get Yelena’s attention, and not Gleb’s.
* * *
This time, Josie leaves Cilka in the waiting area, leaning
against a wall, and goes through to the ward. Cilka has
her hat pulled low. Soon several staff members rush out
to her and assist her into a chair.
‘Get Yelena,’ Raisa says to no one in particular.
‘I’m right here,’ Yelena says, pushing her way to Cilka.
‘Hello,’ says Cilka, forcing a smile.
‘Come with me,’ Yelena says, helping her to her feet.
‘Gleb Vitalyevich is not in yet.’ They enter the ward and
go through to the nearby dispensary. Sitting her on the
only chair in there, Yelena carries out a cursory examina-
tion of Cilka’s face and hands, tenderly stroking her dirty
face.
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‘We’ll get you cleaned up and I’ll take a better look at you. How do you feel?’
‘Stiff, sore, worn out. I ache in bones and muscles I
never knew I had, but I’m all right. I survived.’
She feels guilty sitting in this room though, remembering
the drugs she’s taken.
‘I’m so sorry this happened, Cilka.’ Cilka can see the
regret in Yelena’s eyes. ‘We are all in danger from him,
but I wish—’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Cilka.
‘What are we going to do with you?’ Yelena asks, sighing.
‘Can’t you get me my job back? You know what I did
was the right thing.’
‘It doesn’t matter what I know, I can’t take you back
here.’ Yelena looks pained.
‘Well, where else can I work? I want to help people.
And I know I’m not currently strong enough for the
mines.’
Yelena looks away, thinking. Cilka waits.
‘I have a colleague who works in the maternity ward
behind us. I don’t know if they need anyone, Cilka, and
I don’t want to get your hopes up . . .’
A maternity ward, in this place? Of course, there would
have to be, Cilka thinks. But what happens to the children
afterwards? Perhaps it is better to not think of that, for
now.
‘I’ll go anywhere I can help.’
‘I will ask him,’ Yelena says. ‘Have you had any expe-
rience delivering babies?’
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Cilka flashes back to the night she held Natalya’s prema-ture, stillborn son. How useless she felt.
‘Well, I have helped deliver one baby here.’
‘Ah yes, I remember. You brought his body to us. I
can’t promise anything, but I will ask.’
‘Thank you, thank you. I won’t let you down.’
‘I can’t keep you here today. You will have to risk going
back to the hut. A note may not be enough, but I’ll get
a messenger to alert the relevant parties. He can take you
back too. Wait here.’
Cilka’s rests her head against a shelf, feeling light-
headed. She needs this job to work out. She thinks about
how grateful she is to Yelena for the ways she has always
tried to help.
The door opens and Yelena and the messenger enter.
She looks up and another wave of dizziness overtakes her.
It is the man with the brown eyes. He smiles gently as
Yelena relays instructions to him. He looks at Yelena,
nods, then reaches out a hand for Cilka’s arm, just above
the elbow. He helps to lift her from the chair and opens
the door.
Outside the hospital, his grip remains firmly on her upper
arm, and he keeps his body at a polite distance as they
walk towards the huts in a light snowfall. Where is he
from? Why is he here? Why does she even want to know?
‘Your name is Cilka Klein?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she says. She looks briefly up at his face. He is
looking ahead, snow dusting his face, his eyelashes. His
accent is recognisable.
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‘You are Czech,’ she says.
‘Yes,’ he stops, looks down at her.
‘What is your name?’ She switches to speaking to him
in Czech, to which he gives a delighted laugh, his eyes
lighting up.
‘Alexandr Petrik.’
Before they start walking again he releases his arm
momentarily to light a cigarette. As he closes his eyes to
draw in the smoke, Cilka studies his face – his dark
eyebrows, his lips, his strong jawline above his scarf. He
opens his eyes and she looks quickly away.
He takes her arm again, and she leans in a little closer
to his side.
They arrive at the hut, and though Cilka is exhausted
and needs to lie down, it feels too soon.
He opens the door for her, and she goes in. He remains
outside.
‘I will take my messages,’ he says. ‘And I . . . hope to
see you again soon, Cilka Klein.’
Again, words get stuck in Cilka’s mouth. She nods to
him, then lets the door close.
* * *
The next morning Cilka walks with Josie to the hospital.
As Josie enters, Yelena steps outside, taking Cilka by the
arm.
‘Come with me.’
Heads down, they fight against a blizzard, their progress
slow. The snow-blast stings Cilka’s sensitive skin, where
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it is uncovered. Behind the main hospital building, several smaller ones are barely visible. Yelena heads for one of
them and they go inside.
A man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his
neck is waiting for them.
‘Cilka, this is Doctor Labadze, Petre Davitovich. He
and I trained together in Georgia and he has been kind
enough to agree to give you a trial. Thank you, Petre
Davitovich. Cilka is a quick learner and patients love
her.’
‘If you recommend her, Yelena Georgiyevna, then I am
sure she is good.’
Cilka says nothing, worried that if she opens her mouth,
she will say the wrong thing.
‘Look after yourself, Cilka, and do as you are told,’
Yelena says pointedly. ‘No doing things on your own.’
With a quick wink, Yelena leaves Cilka with Petre.
‘Take your coat off, you can hang it on a hook behind
you, and come with me.’
A nearby door opens into a small ward. Cilka hears the
cries of labouring women before she sees them.
Six beds line each side of the room. Seven of them are
occupied, one by a mother with a new arrival, the delicate
cries of a newborn competing with the women’s moans of
pain.
Two nurses move quickly and efficiently between the
women, three of whom have their knees bent, close to
giving birth.
‘Welcome to our world,’ the doctor says. ‘Some days
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we have one or two women birthing, other days they fill the beds and can be on the floor. No predicting.’
‘Are these women all prisoners?’ Cilka asks.
‘They are,’ the doctor says.
‘How many nurses do you have working each day?’
‘Two, though you will make three, but one of them will
probably move to the night shift.’ Relief and gratitude run
through Cilka. Clearly room has been made for her. ‘I
don’t know why babies insist on being born during the
night, but it seems to happen. Have you delivered babies
before?’
‘Just the one, a stillborn in our hut.’
He nods. ‘No matter, you’ll catch on. Really, there is
not much for you to do, just catch the baby,’ he says with
a hint of humour. ‘The women have to do it themselves.
What I need you to do is look for signs of problems – the
head is too big, the birth not advancing like it should –
and let myself o
r one of the other doctors know.’
‘How many doctors work here?’
‘Just the two of us, one day shift, the other night shift.
We swap around. Let’s go and take a look at bed two.’
The woman in Bed 2 has her bent legs exposed, her
face soaked in perspiration and tears as she groans quietly.
‘You’re doing well, nearly there.’ He takes a peek at the
bottom of the bed. ‘Not long now.’
Cilka leans over the woman.
‘Hello, I’m Cilka Klein.’ In the absence of a patronymic
name, which is used when the Russians greet each other,
Cilka often uses two names – her first and last, when
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introducing herself, to make the person she is talking to comfortable. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Aaaargh . . .’ she grunts. ‘Niiiina Romano . . . va.’
‘Have you had a baby before, Nina Romanova?’
‘Three. Three boys.’
‘Doctor, doctor! Here, quick,’ is shouted from the other
end of the ward.
‘Why don’t you stay here and help Nina Romanova, she
knows what she’s doing. Give me a call when the baby is
out.’
With that, he walks quickly to the nurse who called out.
Cilka looks over and sees her holding a small baby upside
down who appears lifeless. She continues watching as the
doctor takes the baby and gives it a quick pat on the
bottom before pushing a finger into the infant’s mouth
and down its throat. The baby splutters and the ward fills
with lusty crying.
‘Lovely!’ Petre says. ‘Another citizen for our glorious
State.’
Cilka can’t tell if he is just saying this for show or
whether he believes it.
She turns her attention back to Nina. She wipes the
woman’s face with the corner of a sheet. Useless. Looking
around, she sees a basin on the far wall, a small pile of
towels beside it. She quickly wets a towel and gently wipes
Nina’s face, brushing her wet matted hair away.
‘It’s coming, it’s coming,’ Nina screams.
Cilka ventures to the end of the bed and looks in fas -
cination as the head pops free.
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‘Doctor – Petre Davitovich,’ she screams out.
‘Cilka, let me know when the baby is out. I have my
hands full here.’
‘Pull it out!’ screams Nina.
Cilka looks at her hands, bony and weak, and at the
baby who now has one shoulder and an arm out. She