Page 51 of Cilka's Journey
A man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck is waiting for them.
“Cilka, this is Dr. Labadze, Petre Davitovich. He and I trained together in Georgia and he has been kind enough to agree to give you a trial. Thank you, Petre Davitovich. Cilka is a quick learner and patients love her.”
“If you recommend her, Yelena Georgiyevna, then I am sure she is good.”
Cilka says nothing, worried that if she opens her mouth, she will say the wrong thing.
“Look after yourself, Cilka, and do as you are told,” Yelena says pointedly. “No doing things on your own.”
With a quick wink, Yelena leaves Cilka with Petre.
“Take your coat off, you can hang it on a hook behind you, and come with me.”
A nearby door opens into a small ward. Cilka hears the cries of laboring women before she sees them.
Six beds line each side of the room. Seven of them are occupied, one by a mother with a new arrival, the delicate cries of a newborn competing with the women’s moans of pain.
Two nurses move quickly and efficiently between the women, three of whom have their knees bent, close to giving birth.
“Welcome to our world,” the doctor says. “Some days we have one or two women birthing, other days they fill the beds and can be on the floor. No predicting.”
“Are these women all prisoners?” Cilka asks.
“They are,” the doctor says.
“How many nurses do you have working each day?”
“Two, though you will make three, but one of them will probably move to the night shift.” Relief and gratitude run through Cilka. Clearly room has been made for her. “I don’t know why babies insist on being born during the night, but it seems to happen. Have you delivered babies before?”
“Just the one, a stillborn in our hut.”
He nods. “No matter, you’ll catch on. Really, there is not much for you to do, just catch the baby,” he says with a hint of humor. “The women have to do it themselves. What I need you to do is look for signs of problems—the head is too big, the birth not advancing like it should—and let myself or one of the other doctors know.”
“How many doctors work here?”
“Just the two of us, one day shift, the other night shift. We swap around. Let’s go and take a look at Bed 2.”
The woman in Bed 2 has her bent legs exposed, her face soaked in perspiration and tears as she groans quietly.
“You’re doing well, nearly there.” He takes a peek at the bottom of the bed. “Not long now.”
Cilka leans over the woman.
“Hello, I’m Cilka Klein.” In the absence of a patronymic name, which is used when the Russians greet each other, Cilka often uses two names—her first and last—when introducing herself, to make the person she is talking to comfortable. “What’s your name?”
“Aaaargh…” she grunts. “Niiiina Romano… va.”
“Have you had a baby before, Nina Romanova?”
“Three. Three boys.”
“Doctor, doctor! Here, quick,” is shouted from the other end of the ward.
“Why don’t you stay here and help Nina Romanova, she knows what she’s doing. Give me a call when the baby is out.”
With that, he walks quickly to the nurse who called out. Cilka looks over and sees her holding a small baby upside down who appears lifeless. She continues watching as the doctor takes the baby and gives it a quick pat on the bottom before pushing a finger into the infant’s mouth and down its throat. The baby splutters and the ward fills with lusty crying.
“Lovely!” Petre says. “Another citizen for our glorious State.”
