‘The others?’ he asks.
‘They’re alive and we’re moving them out. Now we have
to think about how to move this rock off your legs.’ She
stands, looking around in the gloom, feeling helpless.
‘Don’t go, please.’
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‘I’m not going anywhere. I can’t move it through, it’s way too heavy for me and I don’t want to roll it off. I
think it needs to be lifted off, so it doesn’t do any more
damage. Hang in there, Mikhail Alexandrovich, I’ll get
something for your pain also.’ She hunts for the supplies
that Pavel had placed in the tunnel and finds the pain
relief. She returns to Mikhail.
‘Mikhail Alexandrovich, I’m going to give you an injec-
tion to help with the pain,’ she says. ‘And then, when the
men come back, we’re going to gently lift the rock from
your legs and load you onto a stretcher. The ambulance
is outside the mine and we’ll take you to the hospital.’
Mikhail painfully raises a hand and brushes it against
Cilka’s face. She smiles reassuringly at him. She takes
scissors from the container and cuts through his coat and
shirt, exposing his upper arm. She injects him slowly and
watches as he relaxes, his pain diminishing.
Cilka sits in the gloomy, quiet tunnel, waiting, coughing
regularly. Eventually, Pavel and the miner come back.
‘All right,’ she says, ‘you need to slide your hands under
each end of the rock and when you have a good hold lift
it off cleanly. Do not roll it or drop it on him.’ She holds
her lamp up for them. She holds her breath.
The men lift the rock, wobbling slightly, and drop it
down to the side, panting with exertion. Cilka looks at
Mikhail’s legs – bone protrudes through the skin of his
right shin.
Pavel and the miner place Mikhail on the stretcher and
they all hurry back down the long tunnel to the lift and
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up and out of the mine. The dead man will have to be removed when it is safer.
With Mikhail loaded into the ambulance along with the
other two injured men, there is no room in the back for
Cilka.
Kirill leers at her. ‘You’ll just have to ride up front with
us. Get in.’
Squashed between Kirill and Pavel, Cilka has to
constantly remove Kirill’s big hairy hand, which is
attempting to creep up her thigh. She winces at the cries
that come from the injured men in the back as they are
bounced around, Kirill showing no compassion or care
for their injuries. She offers up words of comfort, telling
them they are nearly there, nearly at the hospital, where
doctors and nurses will take care of them.
The drive cannot end soon enough for Cilka.
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CHAPTER 21
Cilka reaches over and opens the passenger door before
Pavel can. He finds himself pushed out of the ambu-
lance, Cilka right behind him. Two orderlies approach and
open the back doors.
‘This one, take this one first,’ she points to Mikhail.
‘Then bring the stretcher back to get the other one.’ She
indicates the unconscious man lying on the floor.
‘Give me a hand,’ Pavel calls out to Kirill as he pulls
the other stretcher free from the ambulance.
Cilka runs after the first patient, unbuttoning and
flinging off her coat as she enters the ward. Yelena, another doctor and several nurses appear.
‘This one, Mikhail Alexandrovich – small head wound,
both legs crushed by a large rock.’
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‘I thought you said it was a small rock,’ Mikhail whispers through clenched teeth.
‘I’ve got him,’ Yelena says. Two nurses tend to Mikhail,
assisting.
out to Pavel and Kirill.
‘There’s one more coming. Unconscious but with a
strong pulse, obvious head wound.’
‘Thanks, Cilka, we’ve got it,’ Yelena says.
The unconscious patient is brought in and placed on a
bed. Kirill leaves immediately and Pavel wanders over to
Cilka.
‘You did great work, stupid and dangerous work.’
‘Thanks, you too. I wasted too much time being angry
with Kirill Grigorovich when I should have been helping
the patients.’
‘Kirill thinks he was born to rule.’
‘Bad driver, bad attitude.’
‘You’d better learn to get along with him, or he can
make your life hard.’
This again, thinks Cilka. But she can’t stifle a laugh. He
is far from the most intimidating figure she has met.
Pavel looks puzzled.
‘Let’s just say, I’ve seen worse,’ Cilka says. She looks
around at the efforts being made to comfort and treat
these three men injured just doing their job, a job with
no proper safety measures. She has seen injuries like
this too many times. The prisoners are here for their
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productivity, as part of a quota, and they are expendable and replaceable.
‘But thanks for the warning, Pavel. I’ll keep my distance
from him.’
‘Cilka, can you give me a hand over here?’
Pavel watches as Cilka goes over to Mikhail, cleaning
and rebandaging his head wound as Yelena continues the
examination of his lower legs. Cilka glances occasionally
at the doctor, reading her expression as serious.
Yelena says quietly to the nurse assisting her, ‘Find me
an operating room, we need to get him there straight
away.’
‘What’s going on? How bad is it?’ Mikhail gasps, his
hand reaching out for Cilka, grabbing her forearm, panic
rising as he tries to lift his head to see his legs.
‘I’m sorry,’ Yelena says gently. ‘I can’t save your right
leg; your left is not as bad, and we should be able to keep
it.’
‘What do you mean, keep one and not the other? Is
that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, we need to amputate your right leg below the
knee, it is too badly crushed.’
‘No, no, you can’t chop off my leg! I won’t let you.’
‘If I don’t, you will die,’ Yelena says, keeping her voice
steady. ‘The leg is dead. There is no blood flow into the
lower part; if we don’t amputate it, it will poison you and
you will die. Do you understand?’
‘But, how will I . . . Cilka Klein, don’t let them chop
off my leg, please,’ Mikhail pleads.
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Removing his grip from her arm, Cilka holds his hand and brings her face close to his.
‘Mikhail, if the doctor says she has to amputate your
leg, then she has to. We will help you deal with this, help
you recover. I’m sorry I could not do more.’
‘The leg was crushed on impact, Cilka, there’s nothing
more you could have done,’ Yelena says. ‘I’m going to go
and get ready. Cilka, will you prepare the patient and I’ll
see you in the operating room.’
That evening Cilka doesn’t go to the mess for dinner.
Exhausted, she drops onto her bed, and is instantly asleep.
* * *
Men and women in white coats waltz around her, laughing,
some hold amputated limbs, tossing them to each other.
Small children dressed in blue-and-white pyjamas wander
aimlessly between them, their hands outstretched. What do they want? Food, attention, love?
A door opens, sun streams in. A man enters, a rainbow
halo surrounding him. He is dressed in a suit of immaculate white, doctor’s coat unbuttoned, a stethoscope around his neck. He holds his arms out. The adults lower their heads in respect, the children run towards him, excited.
‘Papa, Papa,’ they cry out.
Cilka wakes from her nightmare, but the memory that
it awakens is just as horrifying.
* * *
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Auschwitz-Birkenau, 1943
‘Papa, Papa,’ they cry out. Boys and girls run to the man who has stepped from his car. He is smiling warmly at them, his hands extended and full of candy. To the children he is a beloved father. Some call him uncle.
Cilka has heard the stories. Every adult at Auschwitz-
Birkenau has heard the stories of what becomes of the
children when they leave here, in his car.
Cilka watches from a distance, examining the slightly
built man with not a hair out of place: his dark green tunic, without a crease or wrinkle, partially covers the white coat that indicates his rank of doctor; his clean-shaven face; his brilliant white teeth revealed by his big smile; his gleaming eyes; his SS cap tilted to one side.
The Angel of Death, that is what they call him. Twice,
prior to being sent to Block 25 and given a layer of protection, she’d had to parade in front of him. She had barely dared to sneak a look at him whistling a tune as he flicked his hand to the left or the right. Both times she had escaped selection.
The children clamber around him. ‘Pick me, pick me,’
they squeal.
Four girls are tapped on the head and handed candy, and
they climb into the car with him. The other children go
back to playing. Cilka bows her head in silent prayer for the four souls being driven away.
* * *
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Cilka cries out, sitting bolt upright in bed, shaking, terror etched on her face.
The women in the hut are all looking at her. Some from
their beds, several others standing around the stove.
‘Are you all right?’ Olga asks with concern.
Cilka looks from one to the next, scanning the faces
only partly visible in moonlight. Pulling herself together,
she drops her legs over the side of the bed.
‘Yes, I’m fine, just a bad dream.’
‘This whole place is a bad dream,’ Elena says.
They are being kind, Cilka knows. It is not the first time
she has woken them by screaming. Anastasia has told her
too, that sometimes she whimpers, and sometimes she
hisses, like she is furious with somebody.
Cilka shuffles to the stove. A comforting arm – Elena’s –
is wrapped around her shoulders as she extends her hands
to feel the warmth. She glances towards Hannah’s bed,
can’t see whether she is awake and watching or not. Only
she would know what the nightmares are really about.
But she is probably more blissfully asleep than any of
them, having collected her goods from Cilka’s pocket
when the women all came in.
There are layers of pain within Cilka. She misses Josie
and Natia too. All winter it has been impossible to see
them. Natia must have grown so much, may even be
walking by now.
‘You need to remember the happy times to dream
about,’ Olga says from her bed. ‘That’s what I do. Every
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night before I fall asleep, I remember my childhood, on the beach in Sochi. It was a happy time.’
As Cilka closes her eyes for the second time that evening
she decides she will try and remember a happy time in
her life. It is not for a shortage of them, quite the oppo-
site, her life up until the day she was loaded onto a cattle
train had been blissfully happy, and perhaps for this
reason, remembering has been too painful for her. But
she will try again.
Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1941
‘Move over, Papa, it’s my birthday, I want to drive the
car. ’
The day is cool with the sun shining. A spring day, full
of promise. Cilka has put on her hat and scarf, placed her father’s driving goggles on top of her head, determined to drive even if only to the end of the street. Papa has lowered the soft-top roof on his pride and joy: a two-door roaster with brown leather seats and a horn that can be heard miles away.
‘You don’t know how to drive a car, don’t be silly, Cilka,’
her father replies.
‘I can – I bet I can. Mumma, tell him I can drive the
car.’
‘Let her drive the car,’ her mother says, lovingly.
‘Now you’re being silly. You always spoil the child,’ her 288
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father says, although they all know it is he who dotes on Cilka. On both his girls.
‘I’m not a child,’ Cilka protests.
‘You are, my diet’a , that will never change.’
‘I’m fifteen, I’m now a woman,’ Cilka boasts. ‘Look,
here’s Uncle Moshe and he has his camera. Over here, uncle!
I want my photo taken driving the car.’
Uncle Moshe greets Cilka, her mother and sister with
kisses on each cheek. A manly handshake and pat on the
shoulder for her father.
‘Are you going to let her drive?’ Uncle Moshe asks.
‘Have you ever been able to tell her anything? None of
us have. Cilka wants to rule the world and she probably
will. Set up your camera.’
Cilka wraps her arms around her father’s neck, standing
on tiptoes to reach.
‘Thank you, Papa. Now, everyone get in the car.’
While Uncle Moshe sets up his camera on its stand, Cilka
sets about placing the members of her family where she
wants them for the photo. Her father is permitted to sit in the front alongside her, her mother and sister are in the back. With her hands confidently resting on the steering
wheel, she poses.
With a bang and a flash, the camera captures the moment.
‘Where are the keys? I’ll take you all for a drive.’
‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ Cilka’s father says. ‘I promise to give you driving lessons, but not today. Today is your birthday and we will have a lovely day, then celebrate at dinner. For now, we change seats.’
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Reluctantly, Cilka concedes defeat – one of the few times in her short life she has – and, pouting, moves to the front passenger seat.
Her scarf is flapping in the wind as she is driven through her hometown of Bardejov . . .
Cilka, in Vorkuta, finally falls back to sleep.
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CHAPTER 22
‘He made it through.’
The words greet Cilka as she enters the ward.
‘Mikhail Alexandrovich? Where is he?’
‘Bed 1 – we thought you might like to have him as close
to the nurses’ station as possible. You’ll be able to write
your notes and still see him.’
‘I’ll go and say hello.’
Mikhail is sleeping. Cilka looks at him for several
moments, her eyes wandering down the bed to where she
knows only one leg remains, hidden under blankets.
She was present when his right leg was amputated. She
touches his forehead, swathed in fresh bandages. Her
training kicks in and she picks up his file, scanning it for
information on how he fared overnight. Nothing concerning
jumps out at her.
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When she returns to the desk area, Raisa discusses the other patients and they share out the workload: washing,
changing dressings, administering medication. There are
two new women on the ward who had a fight the previous
night, inflicting nasty injuries on each other. Raisa and
Cilka agree to nurse one each to avoid getting caught in
the middle of the dispute.
Cilka has barely begun attending to her patient when
the words, ‘Ambulance going out,’ are shouted.
‘Go! I’ll see to your patient,’ Lyuba calls out.
Outside, the ambulance is waiting.
‘Do you want to ride up front?’ Pavel asks.
‘Yes,’ Cilka says as she takes hold of the ambulance
door. ‘After you. Kirill Grigorovich can play with your leg
today.’
Reluctantly Pavel climbs into the ambulance, pushing
up against Kirill.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Kirill demands.
Cilka climbs into the cab, slamming the door shut.
‘Let’s go.’
With a screeching of gears, the ambulance drives off.
‘If we’re going to be working together, can we try to
get along?’ Cilka says, leaning over Pavel and staring at
Kirill.
He changes gear, refuses to reply.
‘Do we know what we are going to today?’ Cilka asks.
‘A crane has collapsed and the driver is trapped inside,’