be seen. Grabbing the blanket off her bed, she indicates
for Cilka to wrap it around herself. She does. The patient
leads the way out of a back door.
The building they are headed to is only fifty or sixty
metres away. Their feet crunch across the frosty grass. The
sound of infants crying, jabbering and screaming reaches
them before they open the door. Stepping inside, Cilka is
confronted by a chaotic scene. A few cots crammed against
one wall, small mattresses – more like mats – scattered
around. Three staff to care for what looks like twenty
babies and toddlers.
‘We need to check in here and then go through the
door at the end of the room to the dormitory where I will
sleep.’
‘And we have a full house again,’ one of the staff
members says as she walks towards them. ‘Well, hello,
Anna Anatolyeva. You’re back.’
‘I missed your charming face, what can I say. How are
you, Irina Igorevna, still eating little children for break-
fast?’
‘Oh, Anya, of course, why are you back here?’
Cilka notices the switch to the diminutive and under-
stands that these women know each other quite well.
‘One of those ugly pigs looked at me and, you know, I
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have another baby. This one you will look after properly, or I will send his ugly pig of a father to deal with you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, heard it before. What have you got this
time?’
‘Another girl. Another victim for the cause.’
‘Have you named her this time?’
‘You did such a great job with the last one, you give
her a name. Make it a strong one. She will need to be
strong to survive this house of horrors.’
Looking around, Cilka tries to process the meaning of
what she sees. The two other staff stand chatting, each with
an infant on their hip, jiggling it up and down in an attempt to soothe it. They seem oblivious to the howling babies,
the toddlers fighting over a ratty blanket. Several have no
nappy on; the smell of urine and faeces is overpowering.
The new mother attempts to hand her newborn over.
‘Look after her yourself for a while,’ Irina Igorevna says.
‘She won’t bite, or maybe she will when she realises who
her mumma is.’
She turns to Cilka and thrusts her chin at her. ‘Who
are you?’
‘I’m one of the nurses. I was asked to bring her over
here.’
‘All right then. This one knows what to do – you can
go.’
Cilka can’t just yet. ‘Excuse me,’ she asks. ‘How many
babies do you have here?’
‘Twenty is our maximum; there are only twenty beds
next door for the mothers.’
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‘How long are they allowed to stay here? Some of them don’t look like babies anymore.’
‘New, huh? Well, princess, here’s how it works. When
Anya here produces another bastard, she gets to stay here
until the kid is two then she gets sent back to a general
hut to get knocked up again and it starts all over.’
‘So she doesn’t have to work? Just stay here and look
after her baby?’
‘Do you see any other mothers here? Do you? No.
Anya will go next door and look after her bastard by
herself for four weeks, then she will bring it here each
morning and go off to work like the rest of the poor
bastards.’
‘And you three look after the babies during the day.’
‘Got an education, have you? Worked that out by your-
self, did you?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend,’ Cilka says, not
wanting to get on anyone’s wrong side again. ‘I had no
idea how it worked, that’s all.’
The woman’s face softens a little.
‘Are there more huts?’
‘If you must know, the majority of the new arrivals go
with their mothers to the big unit down the road, at
Rechlag,’ says Irina Igorevna. ‘You’re very nosy.’
‘Can I have a look around?’
‘Please yourself. I’ve got things to do, can’t stand here
chatting all day. Anya, get out of here.’
around.’
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‘Anna Anatolyeva, Cilka says tentatively. ‘I think . . .
Jozefína . . . Josie, is a nice name.’
The woman shrugs. ‘Fine, whatever you want. I’ll take
little Josie and go and have a lie-down.’
An infant has crawled over to Cilka, plonking himself
on one of her feet, and is staring up at her. Cilka bends
down and picks him up. His little fingers poke her in the
mouth, the eyes and up her nostrils. She giggles and tickles
him on the belly. He doesn’t respond, keeps wanting to
put his fingers up her nose.
With the boy balanced on her hip Cilka walks around
the room, looking at the other infants. She stops at a small
baby lying on a blanket on the floor staring at the ceiling.
Cilka moves her head to get its attention; only a small
movement of its head shows it knows Cilka is there. Placing
the boy on the floor she touches the baby; it is hot to the
touch in a room badly in need of heating. She picks up
one of its arms and lets it go. The baby makes no attempt
to stop its arm flopping onto the floor.
Cilka calls out to the staff. ‘Excuse me, this baby is sick,
there’s something wrong with it.’
One of the attendants wanders over.
‘Yeah, been like that for a couple of days.’
‘Has a doctor seen it?’
‘Doctors don’t come here, love. These little ones either
make it or they don’t. This will be one that probably
won’t.’
Cilka looks again at the tiny form, its large head and
sunken cheeks, its ribs showing under the skin.
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She has seen enough.
‘Thank you,’ she says to no one in particular. She leaves.
* * *
When Cilka returns to the maternity ward, Petre greets
her.
‘Hello. Where have you been?’
‘Next door – to the nursery. I went with Anna Anatolyeva
and her baby.’
Cilka offers no further explanation; she wants to get
away from him, away from the images she has just seen,
busy herself by cleaning.
‘And what did you think of our nursery?’
‘Do you ever go there?’ she blurts out.
‘No, my job is here, delivering babies. Why do you
ask?’
‘Because some of those babies you deliver safe and
sound lie on the floor over there sick and dying.’
‘And you know they are dying?’
‘I saw it for myself. The staff there, I don’t know what
you call them, they’re not nurses – they show very little
interes
t in the babies. They told me only the strong survive, but they might just be sick. They could live if they got
care and treatment.’
‘All right, all right, Cilka, settle down. Why don’t we
talk about this another day?’
‘When?’
‘When we are not so busy.’
‘Tomorrow?’
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‘When we are not so busy,’ Petre repeats. ‘Now you had better get back to work.’
* * *
Several weeks pass. The frost starts to thaw, the days get
longer. Petre seems to be avoiding Cilka. She struggles.
She has learned her lesson about interfering in medical
matters, so she never mentions the building next door
with the neglected babies. But it’s pressing at her. To know
something could be done. Once, she’d had to accept
circumstances like these. How can she now?
One day she is working with Tatiana and they only have
one patient labouring. Petre comes in and checks on the
woman. He watches Cilka tidying the administration area,
neatly stacking files, checking for entries; the tasks that
can only be done when you aren’t busy. Pulling up a chair,
he says to Cilka, ‘Let’s talk about the babies in the nursery, shall we?’
‘I . . . shouldn’t have said anything, it’s not my place.’
She is clenching her jaw.
‘True.’ His face, with its bushy brows and moustache,
is enigmatic. ‘You know, I spoke to Yelena Georgiyevna
about you. She asks about you all the time.’
‘Really? How is she?’ Cilka’s chest aches. She doesn’t
admit to herself she is missing anyone, anything, until her
body reminds her that that is the case.
‘She’s good. Busy. I told her what you said about the
babies.’
‘What did she say?’
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‘She laughed and said, that sounds like Cilka, trying to fix everything.’
‘It’s just, well . . . you take good care of the mothers,
making sure they have healthy babies, then they get sent
over there and no one cares anymore.’
‘I’m sure their mothers do.’
‘Yes, of course, but they work all day and only return
to the nursery at night. How are they ever going to get a
doctor to check on their babies?’
‘That is a very good point. Well, the State cares too, or
should do. Those babies are our future workers.’
There does seem to be quite a contradiction about that
in this place though, Cilka thinks. Such as the workers
getting less food when their productivity drops – as punish-
ment. There are always more people out there to arrest,
to replace the dead. But of course she cannot voice any
of this out loud.
‘How about, given it is quiet here today, you and I go
to the nursery and I’ll have a look at any baby you think
needs to see a doctor,’ Petre says.
‘I’ll get my coat.’
Petre laughs, retrieves his coat and follows Cilka out
the door.
The smile on Petre’s face disappears the moment he
enters the nursery. The three staff are sitting together
sipping steaming cups of tea. Babies and infants lie on
the floor; some crawl lethargically in circles. He stares in
disbelief.
‘You’re back,’ Irina Igorevna calls out before registering
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Cilka is not alone. She puts her cup down and hurries over to Cilka and Petre.
‘This is Petre Davitovich, the maternity doctor,’ Cilka
says. ‘He has come to have a look at some of the babies,
to see if any of them need medical attention.’
Wiping her grubby hands on her dress, the woman
extends her hand.
‘Irina Igorevna, I’m in charge.’
Petre doesn’t take her hand.
‘I’m glad you’ve identified yourself. I’m going to take
a look at some of these babies. Show me your charts with
their feeding regime.’
‘Well, we don’t have charts. We just feed them when
we can with what we’ve got; there’s never enough to go
around so we give it to the strongest. They make the most
noise,’ she giggles.
Petre goes to the nearest baby, lying limply on a
blanket, a thin smock hanging loosely on its body, eyes
sunken. The baby doesn’t respond when he picks it up.
He carries it to the table the three women were sitting
around, sweeps their cups to the side, gently places the
baby on the table and begins examining it. Cilka stands
beside him.
‘How old is this infant?’
The three women look from one to another, none of
them wanting to speak.
‘Irina Igorevna, I said, how old is this infant?’
‘I don’t know, we just look after them during the day
while their mothers are working; there are too many of
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them for us to get to know them – there are only three of us,’ she says, waving her hand around at the others.
‘This child is starving. When was the last time you fed
him?’
‘We would have offered him something a couple of
hours ago, but I don’t think he wanted anything,’ Irina
replies.
‘Cilka, put him in a cot.’
Cilka takes the little boy and gently places him in a
nearby cot. Petre picks up the next infant and repeats the
examination. He asks no further questions of the nursery
staff. Another baby is given to Cilka.
By the time all the sickly babies have had a quick exam-
ination, seven are lined up lying quietly in two cots.
‘You two,’ Petre points to the other two staff members,
‘put your coats on, wrap up two of the babies and
come with me. Cilka, can you take two, please?’ He picks
up the remaining baby, snuggles it inside his coat and
heads out the door with Cilka and the nursery staff
following.
Back on the ward, he has three babies placed on one
bed, four on another. With a flick of his hand he dismisses
the nursery staff, who beat a hasty retreat.
Tatiana and Svetlana gather at the beds, looking down
at the babies.
‘Oh my God, what’s happened to them?’ Svetlana
wails.
‘Do either of you know how we can get our hands on
some milk?’ Petre asks.
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‘I’ll find it. Look after them and I’ll be back,’ Tatiana says as she grabs her coat and heads out.
‘Svetlana, see if you can find the doctor called Yelena
Georgiyevna and ask her if she can come here.’
‘What can I do?’ Cilka asks.
‘Well, I could say you’ve done enough,’ he says with a
half-laugh. ‘Get some charts and write down what I say
about each one of these poor little things. We don’t know
their names so you will have to call them baby one, baby
two, and so on.’
As Cilka walks past the only patient on the ward,
returning with charts and pens, the woman softly calls out
to her, ‘What’s going on over there?’
‘It’s all right, just some sick babies. Don’t worry, we’re
going to take care of them.’
Petre is wrapping up the first baby he examined.
‘Baby one,’ he says. ‘Male. Severe malnutrition, fever,
infected bug bites, possible deafness. Four to six months
of age, hard to tell.’
Cilka quickly writes down his comments below the
notation ‘Baby 1’. With a thicker pen she gently writes
the number one on the baby’s forehead, fighting to shut
out memories of her own, permanent marking.
They hear the door open, followed by, ‘Oh, Cilka, what
have you done now?’
Yelena and Svetlana are back. Close behind them Tatiana
runs in, carrying a box with baby bottles, each half-filled
with nursing mothers’ milk.
Petre fills Yelena in on what they are dealing with. She
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immediately claims a baby, and strips the child bare to examine her.
‘Make her number three, Cilka, I’ve got number two,’
calls out Petre.
Tatiana and Svetlana set about warming up the bottles,
holding them in a basin of boiling water. Yelena warns
them not to let the babies drink too much; they must be
given small amounts and often if they are to recover. The
new mother whose baby is sleeping soundly offers to help
with feeding and finds herself with a strange baby in her
arms.
As the day ends, seven worried mothers appear on the
ward, looking for their infants. Petre and Yelena talk to
them, assuring them they do not blame them for the
condition their infants are in. They are told to stay the
night on the ward, food will be brought to them, and they
will be shown how to feed their babies every hour – small
quantities.
The nurses for the changeover shift appear. Tatiana
sends them away saying she will stay the night. Cilka asks
if she too can stay.
* * *
Over the next several weeks, the management of the
nursery changes. The original staff disappear, replaced by
carers approved by Petre and Tatiana. A recording system
relating to each baby is put in place. Petre gives Cilka the
responsibility of visiting the nursery once a week to iden-
tify any baby or infant she determines is in need of medical