Page 18 of Cilka's Journey
“I’ll ask Antonina tomorrow if there is a hospital or sick bay here. If there is, they will be able to help you and put a proper dressing on it.”
Cilka knows anyone wanting to get out of work won’t be looked kindly upon. But if Josie’s hand doesn’t heal, things will be much worse. She nods.
“Thanks, Natalya,” says Cilka.
They all settle in their beds. The night envelops them, but dawn still arrives early and Cilka wakes with a jolt, heart racing, before the silence and stillness puts her back to sleep.
Antonina arrives in the morning, looking tired. She wordlessly indicates for them to get moving. Natalya goes to say something about Josie but catches Cilka’s shake of the head. As they walk, Cilka whispers, “Let her have breakfast first, otherwise she might miss out.” She’s also very aware of Antonina’s mood. She has learned to read the faces of captors, guards, those with power over the rest.
When all names have been checked off at roll call Natalya looks over to Cilka. Cilka and Josie have had their gruel, and both have bread tucked up into their sleeves. Antonina’s face has a little more color, too. Cilka nods to Natalya.
“Excuse me, Antonina Karpovna,” says Natalya. Cilka hears the formal use of first name and patronymic.
The brigadier gives Natalya her full attention.
“As you may know from your visit in the evening, Josie has acquired an injury on her right hand. Is there a sick bay she can go to?”
“How did it happen?” asks Antonina.
Natalya looks reluctant to reveal who is at fault. Despite the nastiness of the act, they don’t want to get anybody thrown in the hole—the punishment cell. Starvation, disease, madness could result. Despite Cilka’s fury at Elena—particularly at her cowardice; a push in the back—she thinks she deserves another chance.
It seems Josie does too.
“I tripped near the stove,” Josie says, “and put my hand out to break my fall.”
Antonina beckons Josie over to her, chin raised.
Josie approaches the brigadier, her bandaged hand outstretched.
“How do I know you’re not just trying to get out of work?”
Josie understands her. She begins unwrapping the bandage. She can’t stop the tears that accompany the pain as she removes the last layer, revealing the raw blistered hand.
Cilka steps forward so she’s beside Josie, not wanting to stand out but wanting her to know she is there, to comfort her. Antonina looks at the two of them, sizing them up.
“There’s not much to either of youzechkas, is there?” She looks at Cilka. “Take her back inside. I’ll be back for you.”
Cilka is startled. Worried. But she does what she’s told. They hurry back inside the building, Cilka casting a backward glance at the others as they shuffle off to work. The snow whips up, enveloping them, and they disappear from sight. What has she done now?
Cilka and Josie huddle by the stove, blankets wrapped around their shivering bodies. Cilka desperately hopes they will acclimatize. It’s not even winter yet. An icy blast smacks them from their contemplation. Antonina stands in the doorway.
Cilka nudges Josie and they walk quickly to the door and follow Antonina out, Cilka making sure the door is securely closed behind her.
She has often seen Antonina with another brigadier—with whom she shared a hut in the cluster of huts that make up their brigade—so she supposes they must share responsibility for the women. Or perhaps the other woman was an assistant to Antonina. Either way, she must be the one keeping track of the brigade in the field while Antonina takes on this duty.
While the distance to the sick bay and hospital is not far, the blizzard conditions make walking slow and painful as the snow is so deep they are forced to push their legs through it, rather than take steps. Cilka tries to gain an understanding of the size of the complex by the number of huts that resemble theirs. The other, larger buildings that stand a little apart must be administration or stores, but there is nothing to indicate their use. The hospital building Antonina points out to them also has no outward sign of its purpose.
A guard stands outside. Antonina, her eyes barely visible, is forced to remove the scarf wrapped around her face and shout into his face. Cilka wonders what he can possibly have done to be punished with this duty. It doesn’t seem much better than being a prisoner, though he probably has better living quarters and more food. With apparent reluctance, he opens the door and pushes the women unceremoniously inside. Presumably he is under instruction not to let any snow in.
The warmth of the building hits them immediately, and they unwrap their scarves, Josie using her good hand.
“Wait here,” Antonina tells them. They stand just inside the door, taking a first look at the room they have just entered.
It is some kind of waiting room. Prisoners—men and women—sit on the few available chairs, with more on the floor, hunched over, pain etched on their faces. Others are curled up, sleeping,unconscious, dead—it is not obvious which. Several groan quietly, a distressing sound, a too-familiar sound for Cilka. She looks away from them, up at the portrait of Stalin on the wall.
Antonina is at the desk at the front of the room, speaking quietly to the matronly figure seated behind it. With a nod of her head she returns to Cilka and Josie.
“You are number 509 when it is called.” She repeats the numbers slowly in Russian: “Pyat’sot devyat.”
