can manage from here, can’t we, Jakub?’
Cilka quickly finishes rebandaging Jakub’s other arm,
telling him she will be back to check on him in a little
while. She joins Raisa and falls quickly back into the
rhythm of caring for the patients Raisa allocates her. This
feels natural, she thinks. And she knows what the complete
opposite is like – when a role you are forced into feels
unnatural, like your very soul has been contorted.
During a break, Raisa, Lyuba and Cilka sip on hot weak
tea, eat bread and something pretending to be sausage.
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Yelena joins them, waving away the offer of tea. It’s well known the doctors have the premium tea in their lounge
area.
‘How’s our girl doing?’ she asks Raisa and Lyuba.
‘It’s like she never left! Thanks for talking her into
coming back to us,’ Raisa says.
‘She didn’t talk me into anything,’ Cilka says. ‘It is good
to be back and helping out, even if I have to hear you
telling patients I should be walking around naked.’
‘Who said that about you?’
‘It was just a joke,’ Cilka quickly says. ‘We were dis-
tracting a patient with nasty burns while we changed his
bandages.’
‘So long as it’s effective.’ Yelena smiles.
‘Is there anything more I can do to help?’ Cilka asks.
‘Actually, Cilka, I was wondering if you would like to
assist me in surgery tomorrow. It’s the one area you haven’t
worked in. I’m doing some relatively straightforward proce-
dures and thought it could be an extension of your training.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ Lyuba says. ‘I think she’s ready for
it. What do you say, Cilka?’
‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you. What do I have
to do?’
‘Just come to work tomorrow as usual. I’ll meet you
and we’ll take it from there.’
Cilka watches Yelena walk away. She is in awe of her
ability as a brilliant doctor and of her willingness to share her knowledge, particularly with someone who has had
no formal training.
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‘It’s amazing that she volunteered to be here,’ she says to the others.
‘Yes, most of the doctors have been sent here, usually
because they have screwed up at whatever hospital they
came from or got on the wrong side of someone in their
hometown. Or, like us, it’s their first assignment out of
medical school. Yelena Georgiyevna genuinely wants to
work where she can do the most good,’ Raisa says.
‘I’ve felt rude to ask, but does she have a family with her?’
‘No, she lives with the other female doctors in their
quarters, though I did hear a rumour about her being
friendly with one of the other doctors. They’ve been seen
together in the town at night,’ Lyuba whispers.
The town of Vorkuta, outside the camp, has been built
entirely by prisoners.
‘Really . . .’ Love again, Cilka thinks, even in a place like this. ‘Do we know who? Which doctor?’
‘The doctor in the maternity ward is all I know.’
‘Petre – she and Petre Davitovich?’
‘You know him?’ Raisa says.
‘Of course she does,’ Lyuba adds. ‘That’s where she was
working. Did you see them together?’
‘No. Well, only the once, when she took me to meet
him on my first day, but that explains why he was prepared
to take me on when I got fired from here. That’s wonderful,’
Cilka marvels, ‘because he is just like her, a really good
doctor and a kind man.’
‘Is he good-looking?’ Lyuba raises her eyebrows.
Cilka thinks for a moment.
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He is handsome, with a thick moustache and eyes that smile. ‘Yes; they are perfect for each other.’
She can’t help thinking, though, that he is not the most
handsome man she has seen in her time in Vorkuta. Now
she is back in the hospital, she wonders if she will see the
messenger, Alexandr, again.
‘I think we’d better get back to work,’ Raisa says. ‘I can
feel the temperature rising around you two.’
Yes, work is what Cilka needs to do. She will not allow
herself to wonder far too long, about the impossible.
The prospect of being in the operating room sends Cilka’s
brain working overtime. That night she cannot sleep.
Thoughts whirl around inside her head as she replays all
she has seen and done that day.
The next morning the sky is overcast but Cilka appre-
ciates walking across the grass, with small weedy flowers
underfoot, on the way to the hospital. Yelena is waiting
for her and together they go through to the area designated
for surgery. An assistant is standing by with a gown, gloves
and a mask. Cilka reaches out to take the gown.
‘You have to wash your hands thoroughly first,’ Yelena
says, leading her over to a nearby sink. ‘Are you wearing
anything under your shirt?’
‘Just my slip.’
‘Good, take your shirt off. You can’t have a sleeve getting
in the way.’
Cilka hesitates.
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‘It’s all right, Cilka, there’s only us women here.’
Slowly, Cilka unbuttons her shirt. The assistant takes it
from her, handing her a bar of soap and turning a tap on
for her. Cilka starts rubbing the soap up her arms. The
assistant goes to arrange the room. Yelena stands beside
her, lathering up and scrubbing her own hands and arms,
past the elbows. Cilka copies her actions.
Focused back on the running water, rinsing the soap
from her arms and hands, Cilka is startled when Yelena
gently takes hold of her left arm. She turns it towards her,
staring at the blurry blue-green numbers running down
the inside of her forearm.
Yelena goes to say something, closes her mouth.
Cilka continues to stare at the running water, breathing
deeply.
Raising her head, she looks directly at Yelena. ‘Do you
know where I got this?’
‘Yes. I had suspected you had been there, but I . . .
didn’t really want to believe it.’
Cilka feels hot and cold at the same time.
‘You must have been so young,’ Yelena says. She lets
go of Cilka’s arm.
‘Sixteen.’
‘Can I ask . . . your family?’
Cilka shakes her head, looking away, reaching to turn
off the tap. She wants this conversation to be over.
‘Oh, Cilka,’ Yelena says. Cilka looks at the doctor’s
compassionate face. Of course, she thinks. Everyone would
know by now what that place was. But not her role in it.
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‘Doctor, just tell me one thing.’ Cilka says firmly. She can’t look
at Yelena.
‘Yes?’
‘Did they get them?’
Yelena pauses, then understands. ‘Yes, Cilka. The
commandants, the guards, the doctors. There have been
trials. Their crimes are being exposed to the world. They
are being imprisoned or executed for what they did.’
Cilka nods. Her jaw is clenched. She could scream, or
cry. There is too much welling up inside her. It’s still not
enough. It took too long.
‘I don’t know what to say, Cilka, except that I’m so
sorry you had to go through that, something unimaginable,
and then, also, to end up here. Whatever the reason for
that . . .’ Yelena falters. ‘Well, you were only sixteen.’
Cilka nods. Her eyes are hot with unshed tears. She
swallows and swallows. She clears her throat. Takes a deep
breath. Wills her racing heart to slow. Looks back at
Yelena.
‘The patient is waiting for us,’ she says.
‘Yes,’ Yelena says. As they dry off their hands, and start
to walk towards the operating room, where the assistant
waits with their gloves and gowns, Yelena says, ‘Cilka, if
you ever want someone to talk to—’
‘Thank you,’ Cilka cuts her off. She can’t imagine a time
when she could ever put those memories, those images,
into words. She clears her throat again. ‘I am grateful,
Yelena Georgiyevna.’
Yelena nods. ‘Just know I am here.’ As they near the
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operating room, the conversation recedes in Cilka’s mind.
She has an important task to do, and it will distract her.
Once her gown and gloves are on, the assistant pulls Cilka’s
mask down under her chin and then holds open the door
leading into a small room.
A patient lies on a table and an anaesthetist sits at the
end of the bed holding a rubber mask over the patient’s
nose and mouth.
‘He’s out,’ he comments, with little interest or enthu-
siasm, before staring off at a point on the far wall.
Cilka follows Yelena and stands beside her.
‘Go round to the other side: you can see and help me
better from there.’
Cilka does as instructed, holding her hands out in front
of her, afraid to touch anything.
‘All right, here we go. You see all the instruments on
the table beside you? Well, I’m going to say the name of
the instrument I want, then point to it so you know which
one it is. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
The assistant has followed them into the room and pulls
the sheet covering the man away, revealing his naked body.
‘I need to get into his stomach and remove whatever it
is he has swallowed that he shouldn’t have. Unfortunately,
some people will go to extreme lengths to not work outside,
including swallowing objects that could kill them.’
‘You’re joking,’ Cilka says.
‘No, I’m not. Coming into hospital and having their
stomach cut open is seen as a better option than working,
at least for a while.’
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‘How do you know for sure he has swallowed something?’
‘The pain he was in when he was brought to us was
real; when we couldn’t work out what was wrong he finally
admitted to having swallowed something.’
‘Did he say what?’
‘That’s the funny thing – he wouldn’t say, told us to
go hunting for it and then we’d know.’ Yelena gives a
wry smile.
It is a different world here, Cilka thinks. Still very much
a prison, as such desperate actions indicated, but in that
other place, you would not want to draw any attention to yourself. In a selection, you would not want to attract the
eye of the doctors. You would not want anything to do
with them at all.
‘Cilka, I need you to hand me a scalpel.’ Yelena points
it out on the tray. Cilka picks it up and places it in her
outstretched hand.
‘Slap it in my hand so I feel it. These gloves are so thick
I won’t know if I’m holding it unless you hit me with it, just make sure the blade is pointed at you and I get the handle.’
Cilka watches in fascination as Yelena quickly and
expertly slices the patient’s abdomen open, blood gently
oozing from the cut.
‘Grab some swabs – those pads that look like thick
squares of bandage – and wipe the blood away; it will stop
soon.’
Cilka catches on quickly, wiping the blood away so
Yelena can see what she is doing.
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Instruments are handed over, explanations given by Yelena, questions asked by Cilka, until Yelena raises her
hand from the man’s abdomen, holding up a metal spoon.
‘I wonder if the owner misses this,’ she says with humour.
‘Let’s see if it caused any damage in his stomach.’
She pokes around. Cilka leans over for a closer inspec-
tion and the two women bang heads.
‘I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—’
‘It’s all right, I’m glad you want to have a closer look;
this is how you will learn.’ Yelena is silent for a moment,
considering the open cavity. ‘Well, there doesn’t seem to
be any damage, so now we sew him back up.’
* * *
When the patient has been wheeled from the room, Cilka
follows Yelena back into the washroom. The assistant is
waiting for them. She unties their gowns, removes their
masks and gloves, and hands Cilka back her shirt. Cilka
wonders if she is a prisoner too.
‘As usual, you learned quickly in there. I’d be happy to
have you assist me any time. In fact, I think we should
do more of it, so you become totally comfortable with
what you are doing. What do you say?’
Cilka is wary for a moment. She hopes that Yelena is
not just doing this because of what she knows; because
she pities her.
But this is rewarding, challenging work. And Cilka does
think she can do it.
‘Yes, please.’
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‘Go back and tell Raisa and Lyuba the news. I’m sure they could do with an extra pair of hands for the afternoon.’
‘Thank you,’ Cilka says. She feels herself welling up
again. There’s no blankness coming to take over – to cover
it – and so she hurries from the room.
She stops a moment in the hall to gather herself, then
walks onto the ward.
A chorus of ‘Well, how did you get on?’ greets her.
‘Well, very well.’ She looks at their open faces. Wonders
suddenly if they know, too. ‘What do you want me to do
here?’ she asks quickly. ‘I’ve still got half a day of work.’
‘Can you check the charts and get any medicines that
need to be handed out?’ Raisa says.
Cilka dives into her work, relieved to push all thoughts
away.
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CHAPTER 17
Cilka has written down the names of five patients and
the drugs they require. She strolls to the dispensary.
As she approaches, she hears voices inside, one of them
raised. Cautiously, she opens the door. Yury Petrovich,
the kind male doctor Cilka remembers from her previous
time working in the hospital, stands in the middle of the
room with a knife held to his throat. On the other end
of the knife is a man who looks capable of wrestling a
bear and winning the fight. The big man turns to face
Cilka.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he yells at her.
She can’t speak.
‘Get in here and close the door.’
Cilka does as she’s told, leaning her back against the
shut door, staying as far away from the man as possible.
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‘Get over here and stand beside the doctor. Do it now, or I cut him.’
In three steps Cilka is beside the doctor, who looks at
her, eyes pleading.
‘What do you want?’ she asks with a bravado she doesn’t
feel.
‘You to shut your mouth. You picked the wrong time
to come in here; now I’ll have to deal with you too.’
Cilka glares at him. She knows enough about violent
men to be able to judge the desperation in this one. His
threats are a means to an end. ‘What do you want?’
‘I said shut your mouth. I’ll do the talking.’
‘Just do as he says,’ the doctor whimpers.
‘That’s good advice,’ the big man says. ‘We can all leave
here happy if you listen to the good doctor and do as I
say.’
As he pushes the knife under the doctor’s chin, a
trickle of blood flows and the man smiles a toothless
grin. ‘Now give me the fucking drugs; the ones I got
last time.’
Cilka is incredulous. She stares from the man to the
doctor.
‘All right, all right, but you need to put the knife down,’
Yury Petrovich says.
The man looks from the doctor to Cilka. In a flash, the
knife is now at Cilka’s throat.
‘In case you thought of making a run for it,’ he chuckles.
The doctor takes several pill containers from the shelves.
With the hand that is not across Cilka’s neck, the man
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holds open a large pocket sewn in his coat and the doctor stuffs them in there.