Page 7 of Cilka's Journey
“Hurry up,” Cilka says. “Just drop your clothes where they are.”
Cilka looks up at the men standing in front of the doors, yelling out instructions. The smirks and nudges between them sicken her. She looks down at the pile of her clothes at her feet. She knows she will not see them again.
The men in front of the doors part as four other guards enter, each dragging with them a large hose. The blast of freezing water sends the women crashing into each other, screaming, shouting, as they are knocked down, bundled together by the force of the water. The smell of chlorine becomes overpowering and the screaming changes to gagging and coughing.
Cilka is smashed up against a cracked tiled wall, grazing her arm as she slides to the ground. She watches as sadistically the guards target older, frail women who attempt defiance by trying to stand firm. They go down fighting. Cilka curls up in the fetal position and stays there until the hoses are turned off and the laughing guards leave.
As the women pick themselves up and shuffle toward the door, several grab at a dripping article of clothing to cover themselves. They exit the building and are handed a thin gray towel to wrap around themselves. Barefoot on the gritty cold ground, they walk to a nearby concrete building identical to the one they have just left.
Cilka sees Josie in front of her and hurries to catch up.
“Will they give us new clothes now?” Josie asks.
Cilka looks at Josie’s drawn, desperate face. There is much worse to come, she thinks. Maybe, momentarily, she can cheer her.
“I hope so—gray is not my color.” Cilka is pleased when Josie stifles a snigger.
They are roughly pushed into four lines and screams of protest inside are heard by those waiting to enter. Several terrified women break from their line, scared by the screams ahead. They become game for the warders to fire at. The shots miss but send the women scurrying back into line. A source of entertainment.
She feels Josie trembling beside her.
Cilka and Josie enter the building and see what is happening tothe women in front of them. Four men stand behind four chairs. Several strong, large women, also dressed in khaki uniforms, stand nearby.
She watches as the woman in front of her approaches the chair and is forced to sit down. The woman’s hair is roughly gathered together and swiftly cut close to her head with a large pair of scissors. Without missing a beat, the man exchanges the scissors for a shaving blade and scrapes it across the woman’s scalp. Blood trickles down her face and back. One of the nearby women is yanked to her feet, turned around and placed with one of her feet on the chair. Josie and Cilka watch in horror as the man, with no sign of emotion or care, shaves her pubic area. As he lifts his head, indicating he is done, the female guard pushes the woman away and motions for Josie to come forward.
Cilka quickly moves over into the next line so she is next to be shaved. She can at least be beside Josie as this humiliation is played out; she has been through it all before. Together they walk to the chairs. Without instruction, they sit. Cilka keeps her eyes on Josie as much as she can, wordlessly offering comfort, her heart aching as she sees tears falling helplessly down Josie’s cheeks. She can tell this is the first time Josie has been subjected to anything this brutal.
Their heads shaved, Josie is slow to stand and the back of a female guard’s hand slaps her across the face as she is pulled to her feet. Cilka places her own foot on the chair and stares at the man in front of her. Her glare is met with a thin toothless grin and she knows she has made a mistake.
As Cilka and Josie walk away, gray towels their only cover, blood trickles down Cilka’s inner thigh, her punishment for daring to be brave. Josie begins to vomit. Gagging, bile and watery liquid is all she can throw up.
They follow others down a long corridor.
“What next?” Josie sobs.
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, don’t argue, don’t fight with them; try to be invisible and do as you are told.”
“That’s your advice? Just take it, whatever it is, take it?” Her voice rises, anger replacing shame.
“Josie, I’ve been here before, trust me.” Cilka sighs. But she also feels relief at Josie’s display of strength and defiance. She will need that fire in a place like this.
“Does this have something to do with the numbers on your arm?” Josie asks.
Cilka looks at her left arm, which is holding the towel across her body, tattoo exposed for all to see.
“Yes, but don’t ever ask me about that again.”
“All right,” Josie says. “I trust you. At least no one is screaming ahead of us now, so it can’t be so bad, right?”
“Let’s hope it’s getting something warm to wear. I’m frozen. I can’t feel my feet.” Cilka tries to bring lightness to her tone.
As they approach a room at the end of the corridor, they see piles of gray towels dropped at the entrance. Once again, blank-faced female guards stand nearby. Ahead of them they hear male voices.
“Ty moya,” Cilka hears a guard call to one of the women just ahead of them in the queue.You are mine. The woman behind her, older, shuffles forward. Cilka and Josie are coming up to their turn.
“Move on, you old hag,” a guard shouts at the woman. Cilka’s heart thumps. What is happening?
“Hey, Boris, what are you waiting for?”
