Page 43 of Cilka's Journey
“You do, not every doctor here does.”
Yelena takes the file from Cilka, scanning the last entries.
“Hmm, I see what you mean. It’s possible that investigations were made and simply not recorded.”
“Possible, but I don’t think so.”
Yelena looks at Cilka seriously. “You need to be careful, Cilka. The administration needs functional bodies to work, and so saying anybody was deliberately hindering the sick from getting better so they can serve Mother Russia is a more serious accusation than you may realize.”
Cilka takes back the file with a little more force than she should have.
In the small filing room filled with boxes she goes to place Stepan’s file in the current open box. Taking the last two files out she quickly looks at the entries. Both causes of death do seem valid to her untrained brain. She will keep her thoughts to herself and heed Yelena’s advice not to pry. After all, it’s not as though she is doing everything right by the patients. Though she tries her hardest, there is that one container of pills slipped into her pocket every now and then.
“Are you religious?” Yelena asks Cilka one day, standing in the corner of the ward near an unconscious patient who has just been looked over by Gleb Vitalyevich. It is dark outside, and snowing.
“No,” Cilka answers quickly, though it is not the full answer. “Why?”
“Well…” She is keeping her voice low. As Cilka remembers, one does not talk about religion in the Soviet Union. Any religion. “It’s the season where some religions celebrate… I wasn’t sure if it meant anything to you.”
“No, not me.” Cilka looks down at the patient. Talking about this means talking about a lot of other things. Talking about the annihilation of her people. About how hard it is to have faith the way she once could. “You?”
“Well, in Georgia, it was always a time when we would gather with family, and have food and music…” It’s the first time Cilka has seen Yelena look properly sad, wistful. She is always forthright, practical, in the moment. “Are you just not… Christian?”
“No, not a Christian.”
“Dare I ask, any other religion?”
Cilka pauses for a moment too long.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. You know that if you ever want to talk about where you come from… just know I will not judge you.”
Cilka smiles at her. “A long time ago, my family did celebrate… around this time of year. Also with food, lots of food, lights, blessings and songs…” She looks around her, fearing someone may overhear. “But it is hard to remember.”
Deeply and instinctively, Cilka still often reaches for prayers. Her religion is tied to her childhood, her family, traditions and comfort. To another time. It is a part of who she is. At the same time, her faith has been challenged. It has been very hard for herto continue believing when it truly does not seem that actions are fairly rewarded or punished, when it seems instead that events are random, and that life is chaotic.
“I understand,” Yelena says warmly.
“I wonder if anyone is lighting a candle tonight for this poor fellow,” Cilka says, wanting to move the focus from herself.
“Let’s hope so,” says Yelena. “For all these wretches. But you didn’t hear me say that.”
Cilka nods and takes a step away from the bed, before turning back to Yelena.
“If I was ever going to talk about my past, I would like it to be with you.”
She has surprised herself by saying it. It is too much of a risk, and too difficult. And even if Yelena—the most compassionate person Cilka has met—could handle it, what if she told others? Even the patients in the hospital wouldn’t want her around. Someone who has overseen so much death.
“Whenever you’re ready, come and find me,” Yelena says.
The ward is quiet for a moment, unusually so. Cilka stands by the window, watching the snow flurry in the blue-black sky. Closing her eyes, she sees her family sitting around the table. Her beloved father reciting blessings, the lighting of themenorah, the pure joy of being together. She can smell and taste thelatkes, potato pancakes fried in oil, that will be eaten for the next eight days. She remembers the excitement of being a young girl given her first candle to light. How she pestered her father many times to be allowed to light the first one. How she never accepted his explanation that it was the man in the house who did it. Then the memory of the time he relented, telling her she had the courage and determination of any boy and as long as it was their family secret, she could light the first candle. She then remembers when that was. The last time she sat with her family to welcome and celebrate Hanukkah.
“Hanukkah sameach,” she whispers to herself. “Happy Hanukkah, my family:Ocko,Mamicka. Magda.”
Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1942
“Happy birthday. Pack the new coat Mumma and Papa gave you for your birthday, Cilka. You may need it,” Magda whispers as the sisters each pack a small suitcase.
“Where are we going?”
