Cilka's Journey(27)

“That’s very good, Gita. You want to love someone who is good to the other women in his life,” says Dana, mature beyond her years.

“Who said anything about being in love?” Gita throws back at her.

“Gita loves Lale…” Cilka sing-songs to her friends, letting the sunlight and their friendship momentarily block out the horror surrounding them.

“Stop it, both of you,” Gita says, but she is smiling.

Exhausted by hope, the three young women lie on the grass and close their eyes, letting the warmth of the sun transport them away from where they are.



* * *



That afternoon as Cilka is putting on her coat, readying to leave the warmth of the hospital and face the freezing temperatures outside, she sees Yelena.

“Yelena Georgiyevna, I need to talk to you—”

“Cilka! I’ve been looking for you. Yes, let’s talk.”

Before Cilka can say anything, Yelena continues, “My colleagues are impressed with you. They asked if you had any nursing experience.”

“No, I told you … I’ve never been a nurse.”

“That’s what I told them. We chatted about you and we were wondering whether you would like to train to be a nurse.”

This was all happening so fast.

“I … How can I do that? I’m a prisoner here.”

“What better way to learn nursing than by doing it. I’ll be your teacher. I’m sure the other nurses will help and be grateful for the extra pair of hands. What do you say?”

“I don’t know … Yelena Georgiyevna. I don’t know if I belong here.”

Yelena puts a hand on Cilka’s shoulder. Cilka tries not to flinch at the intimacy of the touch.

“I know I don’t know you very well, Cilka. But you are good at this, and we would like your help. Will you think about it?”

Yelena smiles warmly, like a sister. Cilka swallows. She can hardly bear it. The guilt she feels is overwhelming. She thinks of her hut-mates after they come in, huddling by the stove, unwrapping wet fabric from their frozen feet, groaning. But she also thinks of Olga’s face when she hands her the real tea she has just boiled on the stove. This is a terrible decision and she doesn’t know why, again, she has been singled out.

“Can I ask, Yelena Georgiyevna, why you are here?”

“You mean, what did I do to be assigned this position in Vorkuta?”

Cilka nods slowly.

“Believe it or not, Cilka, I volunteered to be here.” She lowers her voice. “My family always believed in a … greater good.” She nods to the sky. It is forbidden to talk about religion, but Cilka understands what she is getting at. “My parents devoted their lives to helping others. In fact, my father died doing so, fighting a fire. I try to honor them by carrying on their mission.”

“That’s very good of you,” Cilka says. She feels overwhelmed.

“Although,” Yelena says, her brow creasing, “I must admit I did believe, broadly, in the project of the Soviet Union—the Motherland calling, and all that—but it is quite different to be here.”

Cilka sees her turn to look back at the people lying in the beds behind them.

“I’d best stop talking now,” she says, and pulls her face back into a smile.

“Thank you, Yelena Georgiyevna, for telling me. And I just hope the women in my hut can find better work, too. And soon.”

“I understand. I do too,” Yelena says. “See you tomorrow.”

Yelena takes her hand off Cilka’s shoulder, goes to leave. Cilka remains facing her.

“Is there something else, Cilka?”

“Josie—could Josie do my clerical job?”

Yelena thinks for a moment or two. “Not just yet. Maybe if we can use you full time as a nurse, we will bring Josie here. But will she be able to learn…?”

“I’ll teach her. She’ll be all right.” It is a risk, thinks Cilka. If Josie can’t pick up the tasks, the language, as quickly as Cilka, will she be punished? A punishment worse even than going back to outside labor?

“We’ll see,” Yelena says, and walks away.





CHAPTER 8


Long days and nights of darkness. The temperature drops to well below anything Cilka has ever experienced. She continues working in the hospital, never far from her guilt, trying to assuage it by smuggling back food for the women in the hut. Bread, vegetables, margarine. Real tea. Just enough for them to eat each evening, lest there is another raid by Klavdiya Arsenyevna. Antonina Karpovna gets a larger portion than Cilka’s hut-mates each night.

Over the next few months, Cilka absorbs all that she is shown and told at the hospital like a sponge. She becomes so good at giving injections that patients start requesting her. They will often wait, desperate, until she is free to tend to them. The fact she is minimizing pain rather than exacerbating it is a wonder for Cilka. She does still try to remember, as the ward overfills with desperate, frostbitten patients, that she cannot do more than she can do. And still, often, her mind goes blank and she runs on automatic, like an engine. Yelena notices, and tells her to take breaks, but if she could stay at the hospital twenty-four hours a day, she thinks she would.

Returning each night to her hut brings conflicting emotions. Not wanting to leave “her” patients; needing to see Josie and the other women to know they have made it through another day of carrying, stacking, lifting, picking, their eyes streaming tears from the icy wind onto the fabric wrapped across their faces. She leaves earlier than the women and comes back later, so she does not have to sit idly while they wrap and unwrap themselves, aching, head to foot.