* * *
‘You can take a break,’ Raisa tells Cilka the next day. ‘Put
your feet up and have something to eat; there’s plenty left
over, many are too sick to eat today.’
‘Will it be OK if I go out for a short while, just to the
nursery? I want to see baby Natia and leave a message for
Josie.’
Raisa considers. ‘Don’t be too long.’
* * *
Cilka has timed her visit deliberately to avoid the trusties.
When she arrives, she stands near the door, watching
Natia dragging herself along the floor, getting up onto
all fours and attempting to crawl before collapsing as if
a large hand has pushed her down. She waves to the
staff, pointing to Natia. They nod their approval for her
to visit.
Sitting on the floor a few feet away, she encourages the
baby to come to her. With a mighty effort the little girl
balances on her hands and knees and slowly moves first
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one hand, then the opposing leg. She squeals with delight at her accomplishment. Cilka encourages her further.
Another hand moves forward, she wobbles, a leg moves
forward, one – two – three giant shuffles for a little girl
who is then swept up into Cilka’s arms, hugged so tightly
she squeals and wriggles to be released.
‘Well, there will be no stopping her now. Look what
you’ve done, given us another one to chase after,’ says the
nurse, whom Cilka has learned is called Bella Armenova.
Cilka is not sure if Bella is seriously annoyed or making
fun of her. She starts to apologise.
‘It was going to happen sooner or later. I’m just glad
someone who knows her was here to see her crawl for the
first time.’
‘It was very special, wasn’t it?’
‘We won’t tell Josie what she did today, and I guarantee
when she drops this one off tomorrow she will tell us how
she crawled for the first time last night.’
‘That’s a really nice thing to do,’ Cilka says. ‘I was
wondering if you could pass on a message to Josie for
me?’
‘If I see her, yes, certainly.’
‘Tell her, her friends would love to see her and meet
this little one, and if possible, can they come out this
Sunday after lights out?’
‘Hardly matters that they turn the lights out this time
of year, but I know what you mean. Where do you want
to meet?’
Cilka doesn’t want Josie to have to stray too far from
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comfort and safety. As a pack, with Cilka hidden in the middle, the women from the hut should be OK.
‘We will wait between the maternity ward and the
nursery.’
* * *
Anastasia stands back as the women she shares living
quarters with cry, hug, push to get their hands on both
Josie and the small infant clinging to her. It is too much
for Natia, who lets the world know she is scared of so
much attention from strangers. Josie turns her back on
the women and gently rocks Natia, soothing and comforting
her.
‘One or two at a time might be best,’ she says, turning
back to them with a smile. ‘She doesn’t know you, but I
want her to. I want her to know the people responsible
for her being here, being alive.’
Elena pushes her way forward. ‘Me first, can I have a
hold?’
Josie softly touches Elena on the face, making sure Natia
is watching. Slowly she hands her daughter over. Elena
holds her at arms’ length, not sure what to do with her.
As she feels Natia relax, her little face never leaving her
mother’s, Elena brings the baby to her chest. They work
out that as long as Natia can see her mother she will
happily be held and cuddled by them all.
Cilka stays at the back, enjoying the rare, sweet scene
playing out in front of her. She cannot remember the last
time they were all smiling gap-toothed smiles, laughing
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and crying together. She marvels at the power of something so small to make a difference. But in a place like this, any
tiny moment that shifts them away from the relentless,
gruelling horror, from the reminder of the long years still
ahead, is to be treasured. It’s a shame, really, that Hannah
has not joined them, too. Preferring to lie passed out on
her bed.
When Cilka has determined that everyone has had a
hold of Natia, except the reluctant Anastasia, she pushes
her way forward. Natia sees her and immediately throws
her arms at her, desperate to be with Cilka. The others
grumble and complain good-naturedly. Cilka walks over
to Anastasia. In Cilka’s arms, Natia doesn’t complain that
she can no longer see her mother.
Cilka introduces Natia to Anastasia. The little girl looks
at Anastasia in puzzlement, as Anastasia makes no effort
to touch her. Natia reaches out and tugs at strands of
Anastasia’s growing hair that have sprung free from her
scarf. They both giggle. Anastasia refuses the offer to hold
her; she is quite happy just to look at her.
The others join them as Josie tells them they have now
spoilt Natia and she probably won’t sleep tonight.
Reluctantly, Natia is given back to her mother and they
say goodbye, promising to come back in seven days’ time.
Same place.
The women slowly drift back to their hut, chattering
away about the evening, the embroiderers debating
amongst themselves about the next size of gown they will
need to make now they have met Natia. They all agree
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she is the most beautiful baby they have ever laid eyes on.
Natia has been like a sun breaking through dark clouds.
No one mentions the uncertain future that both Natia and
Josie have, or the cruel surroundings Natia was born into.
That’s a conversation no one wants to start.
* * *
They see Josie and Natia a second and third time. The
third time, in a moment with Josie out of earshot of the
others, Cilka asks her if she has met a man called Alexandr
while working in the administration building.
‘The Czech man?’ Josie asks.
‘Yes, he works as a messenger. Or did, last I knew,’
Cilka says.
‘Yes, I don’t have a lot to do with him day to day, but
I see him. He is very friendly,’ she says. ‘Which is a rare
enough thing around here.’
‘It is,’ Cilka says. ‘I guess that’s why he has stayed in
my mind.’
Josie contemplates Cilka. ‘I can try to talk to him for
you.’
‘Oh no . . .’ Cilka says. ‘I was just wondering if he was
still there. I haven’t seen him for a while.’
Josie nods. Cilka can see she wants to say more, but
she tur
ns away and calls out to little Natia, who is reaching out for her.
A fourth planned visit doesn’t happen as autumn comes
early; the temperature drops dramatically, and rain and
sleet prevent all but the foolhardy and those forced to
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work from being outside. The trusties have curtailed their daily visits to Cilka, perhaps thinking she has received the
message, or having found someone else to intimidate. Still,
the drugs dwindle, and the doctor seems permanently
rattled. A feeling of unease plagues Cilka, darkness and
cold closing in on her with the weather.
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CHAPTER 19
Daily life for Cilka plays out, the only thing changing
being the patients in the beds. The gloom of another
winter fifty miles from the Arctic Circle hits and settles
on her.
Getting out of bed in the darkness is something she
doesn’t want to do. Often she doesn’t go to the mess hall
for breakfast. Her conversations in the evening have ceased.
No longer does she gather around the stove, sipping hot
tea and listening to the stories and complaints of the women, who now all trudge to different parts of the camp for work,
with varying degrees of warmth, food, and physical chal-
lenge. More in the hut are able to aid the others now, and
so the pressure is off Cilka – she is no longer the only one
who can bring in extra rations or materials. But being less
useful is not necessarily a state Cilka is able to embrace.
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Her bed becomes her sanctuary, and she lies with her head turned to the wall.
On the ward, Raisa and Lyuba notice the change,
comment on it and ask if something is wrong. Can they
do anything to help her? With a forced half-smile she tells
them she is fine, nothing is wrong. There is no other way
to answer their questions. Cilka cannot articulate to herself, let alone anyone else, how she is feeling.
For the first time in many years she has allowed herself
to be dragged down by the enormity of what she has seen,
heard, and done – or not done – herself. What she no
longer has and what she can never long for. It is like an
avalanche – there seems to be no way now of holding it
at bay. She doesn’t understand how she kept it all back
before, but suspects this may be happening because she
has acknowledged aloud to Yelena that she survived that
place. Josie is also front and centre in Cilka’s mind. With every day that passes, Josie comes closer to being separated
from her daughter.
Cilka thought she had been saved from this feeling of
despair by using her position to make a difference to many
of the sick and injured. Now she knows that it will always
catch up to her. She is filled with heaviness. Why go on?
‘Get the midday medication,’ Raisa tells her one day,
seeking to jolt Cilka from her melancholy. Without
response, Cilka trudges to the dispensary, shutting the
door behind her.
She stares at the medications lining the shelves for a
long time, disorientated. She picks up a pill bottle, the
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Cyrillic script swimming in her vision. To take them all would bring back the blankness. She tips the pills into
her hand.
She rolls them around.
She tips the pills back into the bottle and, trembling,
spills some on the floor. She gets down on her knees and
starts to pick them up. The door opens, startling her.
‘Cilka, I’ve been looking for you,’ Yelena says, putting
her head round the door. ‘Did you drop something?’
‘Yes,’ Cilka says, not looking up. ‘I’ll be out in a moment.’
Once the trembling has subsided, Cilka takes the medi-
cation to Raisa, and then finds Yelena. The doctor looks
at her steadily for a while, as if guessing what has just
played out in Cilka’s mind – her dance with death, oblivion,
freedom from the aching loss and the guilt and shame;
and then her step back from the abyss.
‘Are you ready for another challenge?’ Yelena asks Cilka.
‘Not really,’ Cilka replies.
‘I think you are,’ Yelena says slowly, still watching her
carefully. ‘At least, you could try it and if you don’t like
it, well, we can always stop it.’
‘Are you opening another ward?’
‘No, not a ward. We need a new nurse on the ambu-
lance. What do you say?’
‘I’ve seen what the ambulance brings in. How can I
help them? I need you and Raisa and Lyuba to tell me
what to do.’
‘No, you don’t. Not anymore, Cilka. I think you would
be a great asset at the scene of the accident. They need
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someone who can think quickly on her feet, do what needs to be done to get the patient here, then we can take over.
Will you at least give it a try?’
What have I got to lose? Cilka thinks.
‘All right, I will.’
‘Don’t forget, Cilka, I am here. Any time you want to
talk.’
Cilka sways a little on her feet. Sometimes she does run
the words in her head. But can she let them out?
‘I need to get back to work.’
‘What about at the end of the day?’ Yelena persists. ‘I’ll
make sure you get something to eat if you miss your
dinner.’
Cilka is afraid to let it come up, come out. But talking
about it is something she hasn’t tried. She feels a glimmer
Maybe she should. She nods, just a little. ‘Not here. I
don’t want anyone we work with to see me talking to
you.’
‘I’ll find an empty room for us.’
While they have been talking, a new patient has arrived.
Blood is seeping through the bandages on his bare chest.
He is groaning quietly, the deep, painful sound Cilka has
come to recognise as coming from someone barely
conscious and unable to scream out in pain. She is glad
of the distraction.
‘Do you need a hand?’ she calls out to the men roughly
transferring him from the stretcher to the bed.
‘He’s not going to make it,’ one of them calls back.
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Cilka walks over to the bed, picking up the man’s file that has been dropped on his legs. She reads the brief
notes. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen,
extreme loss of blood. No active treatment.
A hand grabs at her apron. Strong and with purpose,
the man pulls her towards the head of the bed, his eyes
pleading, small gasps escaping from his bloodied mouth.
‘Help.’ Barely whispered.
Cilka takes his hand and looks down at the wounded
man. Only then does she recognise him – it’s the thug
wh
o threatened her in the dispensary, shadowed her,
taunted her.
‘You,’ he says.
‘Yes, me.’
‘The drugs . . .’
Cilka can see his face is full of regret.
‘I know it’s this place that did that to you,’ Cilka says.
The man manages to nod, squeezes her hand.
Cilka holds the man’s hand between her own two until
she feels the strength leave it. She places it on the bed,
and she closes his eyes. She doesn’t know what he did in
his life, or in here, but he will not be harming anybody
else, now, and she thinks she can spare him a thought. A
prayer.
Picking up his file, she records the time of death.
She takes the file back to the nurse’s desk and asks Raisa
if she knows what happened to the man whose death she
has just recorded.
‘He was the loser in a fight. The trusties of the criminal
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class are always wanting to be the top dog around here, this is the way it ends up.’
* * *
At the end of the day, Cilka takes a cursory look around
but can’t see Yelena. Gathering her coat, she walks from
the ward, trying not to admit to herself that she is grateful she has escaped talking to her. As she steps into the waiting room, Yelena is there. She beckons Cilka to follow her to
a small room off to the side of the ward.
A desk and two chairs are the only furniture in the
room. Yelena places chairs face-to-face.
She waits for Cilka to begin. Cilka takes her time
folding her coat and placing it just so on the floor beside
her.
Raising her head, she looks directly at Yelena. ‘I was
only sixteen when I went into that place. But I grew up
fast.’
Yelena says nothing.
‘They said they wanted people to go to work for them.’
Yelena nods.
‘The Germans, the Nazis. I stood in a cattle train for
days, peed where I stood, held up by people surrounding
me, squashing me.’
‘And it took you to the camp called Auschwitz.’
‘Yes,’ Cilka says quietly. ‘My sister too.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Three years.’
‘But that’s—’
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‘A long time to be there, yes. For three years I lived in hell – the abyss. Although I have been here just as long
now.’
‘Tell me about the number on your arm.’