Cilka's Journey(12)

The heads nod again. A shiver runs down Cilka’s spine.

From a bag draped over her shoulder Antonina produces strips of rag, and removes a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket.

“When I call your name come and get your number. You have two: one you must put on your hat, the other on whatever outer garment you wear. You must never be seen outside without your number visible on at least one garment.”

As names are called out the women respond and take the two rags handed to them, examining the number roughly written in paint.

Another number. Cilka subconsciously rubs her left arm; hidden under her clothing is her identity from that other place. How many times can one person be reduced, erased? When her name is called, she takes the fabric handed to her and examines her new identity. 1-B494. Josie shows Cilka hers. 1-B490.

“Sew the numbers on, and do it tonight, all of you. I want to see them all in the morning.” She pauses, lets the translations come through, looks at the confused stares. “I expect to see some interesting needlework; it will tell me a lot about you,” she sneers.

A brave voice pipes up. “What do we use for needle and thread?”

From her bag the brigadier produces a small piece of fabric with two needles punched through. They look like they’ve been fashioned from wire and sharpened to a point. She hands them to the nearest woman.

“So, get to it. I’ll be back in the morning. Tomorrow, you work. Six o’clock wake-up.”

“Excuse me,” says Natalya, “where do we get coal from?”

“Work it out for yourselves.”

As the door shuts behind her the women gather around the stove. Cilka is relieved no one received a beating for their questions.

Josie offers, “If we go outside, we might see the others getting their coal; then we will know where to go.”

“Knock yourselves out,” says the bully, Elena, lying back on her bed. “This could be our last day off.”

“I’ll come with you,” says Cilka.

“Me too,” says Natalya. “The rest of you start sewing.”

“Yes, master,” says Elena coldly.

Josie has placed the remaining few pieces of coal beside the stove and picks up the empty bucket.

The three of them cautiously leave the hut, looking around. Darkness is closing in, and searchlights illuminate the yard. It is cold. They can see prisoners darting here and there between buildings, and a group of young women walking quickly toward the hut near them, carrying buckets brimming with coal.

“This way,” says Cilka.

Natalya steps in front of the women. “Can you tell us where the coal is, please?”

“Find it yourself,” is the reply.

Natalya rolls her eyes.

“They came from here,” Josie says, pointing to a building. “From behind there somewhere. Let’s go and look.”

They arrive back in the hut after taking turns carrying the heavy bucket. Natalya goes to place it on the floor. Her soft hands slip from the handle, the coal spilling on the floor. She looks at the other women, apologizing.

“It’s all right, I’ll sweep up,” volunteers Josie.

Two women are quickly sewing their numbers to their hat and coat.

“Where did you get the thread from?” Natalya asks before Cilka gets the chance.

“From our sheets,” says the older woman, speaking a halting Slavic, close to Slovak, and repeating it in Russian. Possibly the oldest in the hut, a lifetime of hard work and making-do evident in her abrupt words. She tells them her name is Olga.

Cilka looks around and sees other women carefully stripping away thread from the ends of their sheets.

“Hurry up. What are you doing taking so long with the needle, Olga?” Elena asks, looming over the older woman.

“I’m trying to do a good job. If you do it properly the first time, you won’t have to do it again.”

“Give me the needle now, you stupid bitch. There’s a time and place to show off your embroidery skills and it’s not here.”

Elena reaches her hand out impatiently.

“I’m nearly there,” Olga says calmly. Cilka admires the way she’s dealing with the hot-tempered Elena, but she also understands the urge to lash out when all is not going as planned. This must be Elena’s first camp. Olga increases her sewing speed, snapping off the end of the thread with her teeth before handing the needle over. “Here you go. Tuk krava.”

Cilka suppresses a grin. Olga has just called Elena a fat cow in Slovak in an endearing voice. She winks at Cilka.

“My father was Slovakian,” she says.

Elena scowls, snatching the needle.

Cilka sits on her bed, looking at Josie, who forlornly fiddles with her number patches. She seems to go from capable to overwhelmed in a matter of moments.

“Hand it over,” she says.

Josie looks pained.

“One day at a time,” Cilka says. “All right?”

Josie nods.

Cilka starts stripping threads from her sheet. When a needle is handed to her, she quickly sews the numbers on Josie’s and her own garments.

Each time she stabs the needle through the fabric she feels the pain of a needle stabbing into her left arm. Another number. Another place. She grimaces.

To have lost everything. To have had to endure what she has endured, and be punished for it. Suddenly the needle feels as heavy as a brick. How can she go on? How can she work for a new enemy? Live to see the women around her tire, starve, diminish, die. But she—she will live. She does not know why she has always been sure of that, why she feels she can persist—keep picking up this needle even though it’s as heavy as a brick, keep sewing, keep doing what she has to do—but she can. She starts to feel angry, furious. And the needle feels light again. Light and quick. It is this fire, then, that keeps her going. But it is also a curse. It makes her stand out, be singled out. She must contain it, control it, direct it.