Page 42 of Cilka's Journey
“There’s a truck outside waiting to take the girl home,” says a guard from the doorway. Cilka is glad she cannot hear the idling truck, a sound from her nightmares, a sound she would hear from her room in Block 25—the death cart waiting for its passengers. The guard steps aside as two men enter, carrying a stretcher between them. Yelena lifts Katya from the bed. The stretcher is placed on the bed and Yelena lowers Katya back down, carefully placing herbroken arm across her small body. Blankets are piled on top of the delicate little frame.
As the men lift the stretcher and walk toward the door Maria turns back to Cilka.
“If there is anything I can do for you, please ask. I mean it.”
“Thank you,” Cilka says.My freedom.That is an impossible request, she knows. “Thank you for letting me care for Katya.”
“I wouldn’t let anyone else care for my children or myself but you and Yelena Georgiyevna.” She smiles.
Cilka smiles back.
“Goodbye,” Maria says.
As she is leaving, Cilka studies the elegant woman she has spent the past few hours with. The delicate lace collar on her dress and the silver locket and chain hanging around her neck. The colorful belt that pulls her dress in to her tiny waist, and the shiny buckles on her shoes. It has been many years since she saw a woman dressed so beautifully. Images of her mother dressed similarly come into Cilka’s head. A memory to cling to. But that is followed by thoughts of her mother at the very end. A memory she can’t bear.
It takes until the final hour of her shift for Cilka to find an excuse to go to the dispensary. She takes one container of the pills, slips it into the extra pocket sewn into her skirt where she normally puts food to take back to the hut. It is just one container, she thinks. She just can’t face up to this relative peace—this position, these friends—being lost.
As she steps outside after her shift she glances over toward the administration building. She sees the messenger, the polite man with the brown eyes, walking across spotlit grass. He raises a cigarette to his lips, pauses his walk, closes his eyes and inhales. Despite his layers of clothing, his scarf and hat, his worn boots, there is an elegance to him, in the small pleasure he takes on the inhale, in the exhaled smoke rising above him and his gloved fingers poised in front of his mouth. Cilka feels something shift inside her.
She keeps walking.
CHAPTER 11
Name: Stepan Adamovich Skliar
Date: September 14, 1947. Time of Death: 10:44
Placing the blanket over Stepan’s head, Cilka walks back to the desk area, slowly flicking through Stepan’s file. A couple of recent entries catch her attention and she reads on.
Ukrainian prisoner, presented three days previously with stomach pain. Nothing identified on examination. Watch and wait. Age: 37 years.
She looks for the treatment plan. There isn’t one. Investigations: nil. Pain relief: occasional.
A doctor is sitting at the desk nearby. She hands him the file.
“I’ve noted the time of death for this patient, Gleb Vitalyevich.”
“Thank you, just leave it there.” He indicates a pile nearby.
“If you would like to sign it, I can file it immediately.”
The doctor takes the record from her and flicks quickly through it. He scribbles something on the front page and hands the file back.
“Thank you, I’ll file it.”
With her back turned to the doctor, Cilka looks at the entry.The doctor’s illegible signature beside her notation. Then the words “Cause of Death: unknown.”
Cilka looks back at the doctor, noting how little he is writing in any record, how he is not reading previous entries, and how the pile of records that was in front of him when she approached is now reduced to three or four.
With anger growing inside her, Cilka doesn’t see Yelena approaching until she stops in front of her, blocking her path.
“Is something the matter, Cilka?”
Cilka takes several moments to think of how to respond.
“Why do you go to great lengths to save some people and not others? How do you decide who should live and who should die?”
Yelena frowns. “We try and save everyone.”
