Cilka's Journey(11)
With the hut empty, they follow the lead of the others slushing through thick mud toward a larger building. The rough fabric of her new clothes is chafing Cilka’s skin. Mosquitoes bite at her exposed neck.
She notices the stares, both sorrowful and threatening. She understands. Another hut filled with inmates, more mouths to feed, more people to fight with for the better jobs. It is the newest arrivals who will have the hardest time adjusting and finding their place in the pecking order, until they are no longer the newest arrivals. She had been a long-timer in that other place—her and the other surviving Slovakian girls. They had seen it all. They had stayed alive. She wonders if she can find a way to advance her status, and Josie’s, without standing out. Or maybe she is here because of thoughts like that. Maybe hard labor is what she deserves.
They enter the mess building, observing the established tradition of lining up, accepting what is given to you, finding a bench to sit on. Eyes down, don’t stand out.
A tin mug is thrust into her hand. She checks on Josie. Her nose is swollen, bruising beginning to appear. Shuffling along, something resembling soup, full of little white unidentifiable bits, is slopped into the mug, a chunk of stale bread thrust at her. Josie’s hands shake and she spills half her food in her attempt to grab it. Soup and bread lie on the floor. Slowly Josie bends down and picks up the bread. Cilka has a horrible urge to yell at her. How much these small portions are worth!
There are not enough tables and benches for all to sit. Many women stand around the walls looking, waiting for someone to finish and vacate their seat. Several eat while they stand, too hungry to care about table manners.
One of the women from Cilka’s hut sees a space being vacated and hurries to reach it. She is met with a backhand from the person sitting next to the vacated spot, sending her mug flying, its contents splattering over both the floor and nearby diners.
“Wait your turn, novichok! You haven’t earned the right to sit with us.”
The pecking order is on display for the newcomers to observe and learn. Just like in Birkenau, with the swarms of new arrivals. She and Gita and the other Slovakian girls had dwindled from thousands, having lost all of their friends and families. And the new ones didn’t understand, couldn’t understand what their bodies and minds had been through, what they had done in order to survive.
“Eat your soup, then have your bread or save it for later,” Cilka says to Josie. “Sometimes it is better to save it, just like we did on the train, until we know how often and how much we are going to be fed.”
She can see from looking at some of the women’s sunken faces that it won’t be frequent or nutritious.
The two girls slowly sip the brown liquid. At least it is hot. There is no real substance to it. Josie notices others sitting at the table with spoons, scooping out what look like bits of potato or possibly fish.
“They didn’t give us a spoon.”
“I think that might be something we have to obtain for ourselves,” says Cilka, seeing the beat-up-looking utensils some of the old-timers are using, “when and however we can.”
Soon, Cilka and the other newcomers are gathered by their brigadier. Antonina Karpovna corrals the women together and leads them back to their hut.
As the last woman enters the room, Antonina watches them wander either to their beds or to the stove in order to be comfortable.
“In the future, when I enter the room you will immediately go and stand at the end of your bed. Do I make myself clear?”
Women jump up from their beds or scurry to them, and all stand to attention at the foot.
“You will also turn and face me. I will give instructions once only and I want to look into your eyes and know you have all understood. Who understands what I am saying?”
Several hands meekly rise, including Cilka’s. The rest had seemingly just followed what the other women were doing.
“Then those who understand better teach the rest, quickly.”
She pauses to watch the women look to the person standing next to them and a few of them pass on what had been said, mostly in other Slavic languages.
“These are the rules you will live by while you are here. We have already determined when and how you will work, receive food and how long you will sleep. Lights will go out at nine p.m., though in summer you won’t really notice … Between now and then is when you will clean the floor in here, restock the coal for the next day, shovel any snow away from the front of the building, do any mending of your clothes, whatever is required for you to live here. I will not stand for this place looking like a pigsty—I want to be able to eat off the floor. Do you hear me? You will hear the wake-up call, you won’t be able to sleep through it. Two of you will empty the toilet buckets, I don’t care who does it, just make sure it is done. No one will eat until it is.”
Not a word is spoken, but all heads nod.
“If you fail to do any of this, but especially if you fail to do your share of work—letting down my brigade—you will be thrown in the hole.” She sniffs. “The hole is a solitary confinement cell in the lagpunkt. It is a dank, moldy place where your body is forced into a crooked shape whether you stand, sit or lie down. There is no stove, and through a barred open window the snow will come in on you from outside. You’ll be lucky to get a bucket for your waste, as there’s a ready-made stinking hole in the floor. You will receive barely a third of your normal ration—and a black, hard piece of bread at that. Do you understand?”