Cilka's Journey(21)
Then, stumbling, Boris sits on the edge of Cilka’s bed and starts taking off his boots. The smell of vodka wafts off him. Josie is quietly sobbing, a sound that tears at Cilka’s heart. She puts a hand on Boris’s chest.
“If you let me just have a few words with her, I can quiet her,” she says flatly. Every other woman is screaming and cursing as they are slapped around and forced down on their cots, but she feels responsible for Josie. She was there when she was chosen for this. She has to do what she can to protect her.
Boris gives an uninterested shrug of his shoulders, which tells Cilka she can try to calm Josie. Vadim has his hand over Josie’s mouth and is tearing at her clothes.
“Hold on a minute,” Cilka says to him firmly. He stops, surprised. “Josie, listen to me. Listen.” Cilka leans closer to the girl and speaks quietly. “I’m sorry … there is nothing you or I can do to stop this. Or if there is I haven’t yet worked it out.” She blinks her eyes slowly. Time is distorting in the way it does when she becomes blank. Just limbs.
“Cilka, no, we can’t let them—”
“I would murder them all if I could,” Cilka whispers. She turns to Vadim. “Please, she has an injured hand. Be careful.” She turns back to Josie. “Josie, I’m right here.” Knowing, though, that she isn’t. Not really. “I’m so sorry…”
She looks at Boris. “She’s just a child, can’t he leave her alone?”
“Not my decision. Anyway, Vadim likes them young. So do I. You’re not much older than her, are you?”
“No.”
Cilka begins to unbutton her shirt. She knows what to do. The noise of screaming women, and shouting men determined to do what they came here for, is overpowering. For a moment Cilka wonders if the noise will bring guards, rescuers. None arrive. They are probably just doing the same thing.
As Boris explores her body with calloused hands, talking himself up, Cilka looks across at Josie. In the flickering light from the stove she sees Josie’s face turned to her—a new level of fear in her eyes. Cilka reaches out her hand. A heavily bandaged hand is placed on hers. Hand in hand, with Josie quietly sobbing, their eyes never leaving each other, they survive their ordeal.
As Boris is putting his trousers and boots back on, he whispers to Cilka, “No one else will touch you. And I can arrange that only Vadim will touch your friend.”
“Then do.”
“Come on, boys, if you haven’t managed to fuck by now, you’re not gonna get it up tonight. Out of here—let these ladies get their beauty sleep,” Boris calls out across the room.
Groans from the unsuccessful men mingle with the sniggering and laughter of the conquerors, only to be replaced by the sobs of the injured and distressed women. No one speaks. The stink of unwashed, vodka-soaked men is all that is left in the air.
* * *
As the clanging outside drags the prisoners into a new day, the women rise slowly. Heads down, no one makes eye contact. No chatter. Cilka risks a quick glance at Josie. The swelling and bruising on her cheek and around her eye is obvious from where Vadim pressed her down. She thinks about saying something, asking how she is, having a closer look at her facial injuries, asking if she has any others. Josie turns her back on her. She gets the message.
Breakfast plays out in the mess hall in silence. The old-timers throw a quick glance at the newcomers, registering the injuries, knowing the cause. They retreat into their own shame, grateful for the fresh bodies that will provide some relief from their assault.
As the others leave for work, Cilka and Josie remain in their hut. They have been told not to leave until Antonina returns and escorts them to the hospital. Josie returns to her bed and curls up, her face buried.
Ice forms on the inside of the windows as the stove cools. Their time alone is mercifully short. Cilka can’t stand the tension between them.
As they enter the hospital waiting room, Antonina takes them to the reception desk.
“This one is here to work,” indicating Cilka, who catches the gist of her words. “The other will have to stay here until the end of the day. I’m not coming back just to get one of them.”
The woman at the desk reads the pieces of paper handed to her.
“Come with me.” She beckons.
They follow her through the ward into the treatment area. Josie sits on the chair indicated, Cilka behind her.
The dozen or so beds are all occupied, along with several chairs holding those capable of sitting. Groans of pain escape from several of the patients. They seem to be mainly men, but there are a few women. Cilka challenges herself to examine these people, trying to work out where they are injured or what could possibly be wrong with them. For many it is obvious: visible wounds exist, blood seeps through scraps of material masquerading as a bandage or tourniquet. She feels the blankness sliding over her, cold as snow.
“Ah, here you are.” Cilka and Josie see Yelena Georgiyevna approaching. Josie glances up before returning her eyes to the floor in front of her.
“How are you today? How is the pain?”
Josie shrugs.
The doctor looks from Josie to Cilka, who turns away. Yelena gently places her fingers under Josie’s chin, forcing her to look up. The injury on her face looks worse, having been stung by the icy walk to the hospital. The doctor brushes her fingers over the damaged area. Josie winces.