Cilka's Journey(36)

The door bursts open and Commandant Alexei Demyanovich Kukhtikov storms into the room. Scrambling behind him, a senior doctor enters, squawking, “Alexei Demyanovich, Alexei Demyanovich, I am in charge.”

The commandant arrives at the bed and registers his daughter’s broken, bloodied body. He looks to his wife.

“What happened, Masha?”

“Alyosha—”

Yelena comes to Maria’s defense. “She was just playing, Alexei Demyanovich, and had a fall. It looks worse than it is. I have put her to sleep so I can take care of her, but I assure you she will be fine.”

The commandant listens without interrupting, but the doctor who followed him intervenes.

“Alexei Demyanovich, I am in charge here. I am so sorry I didn’t know your daughter was here.” Turning on Yelena, he shouts, “No one told me the commandant’s daughter was here. I will now take over.”

Maria cautiously walks toward her husband. “These two angels have taken care of our little girl. Let them finish what they have started.”

Alexei looks at his wife. “And are you all right?”

“Excuse me,” pipes up the doctor. “I am the most experienced doctor here and it is my duty to take care of your daughter, Alexei Demyanovich.”

Without looking at him, the commandant answers. “If my wife says she trusts these two to look after Katya, then they will, with my thanks.”

He turns to Yelena. “You look like the doctor.”

“Yes, Alexei Demyanovich. I am Yelena Georgiyevna, or Dr. Kaldani.”

Turning to Cilka. “And you, the nurse?”

“She is not even a nurse, she’s a—” the male doctor interjects.

“A nurse in training, Alexei Demyanovich, but a very good one,” Yelena says.

The commandant attempts to run his hands through the matted, bloodied hair of Katya. He bends down and kisses her gently on the cheek.

“I’ll go back to my office and leave her in your hands. Have someone report to me when you have finished and I will organize where she is to stay; she’s not staying here.” He turns to Maria. “Stay with her, my dear.”

“I was never leaving.”

Cilka and Maria follow the bed with Katya on it as it is pushed by Yelena to the operating room. Cilka has not been in this part of the hospital before. The door at the end of the ward always seemed forbidden territory to her. A short corridor leads to two small anterooms feeding into a slightly larger room with a big overhead light. Cilka heard about such rooms in Auschwitz. Chills overcome her, her breathing quickens.

“It’s all right, Cilka,” Yelena says, “this is where we operate. Now come on, I need your help.”

While Yelena stitches and bandages Katya’s head, manipulates and plasters her arm, examines the bruises which have now appeared on her legs and small body, none of which require medical attention, Cilka stands with Maria. At the sound of the bones in the girl’s arm crunching back into place, Maria buries her head in Cilka’s shoulder. Cilka takes a sharp breath, then places a loose arm around the distressed mother.

In the recovery room, Cilka stands beside the chair while Maria sits with her head on the bed beside her daughter. When Katya wakes, crying, her mother comforts her as Cilka runs to get Yelena.

A quick examination by Yelena determines that Katya has come through her procedures well. Cilka notices Katya looking at her quizzically, as if she doesn’t know who she is.

“Hello, Katya, I am Cilka.”

Katya registers her voice; a small smile crosses her lips.

“These are the two angels who took care of you,” Maria tells her daughter.

Katya continues to look at Cilka through one opened eye, the other partially covered by the large bandage encircling her head. Cilka is uncomfortable with the attention from the girl. Now the action is over she’s much more aware of the child’s smallness, her vulnerability, how it could all have gone so wrong.

“There’s a truck outside waiting to take the girl home,” says a guard from the doorway. Cilka is glad she cannot hear the idling truck, a sound from her nightmares, a sound she would hear from her room in Block 25—the death cart waiting for its passengers. The guard steps aside as two men enter, carrying a stretcher between them. Yelena lifts Katya from the bed. The stretcher is placed on the bed and Yelena lowers Katya back down, carefully placing her broken arm across her small body. Blankets are piled on top of the delicate little frame.

As the men lift the stretcher and walk toward the door Maria turns back to Cilka.

“If there is anything I can do for you, please ask. I mean it.”

“Thank you,” Cilka says. My freedom. That is an impossible request, she knows. “Thank you for letting me care for Katya.”

“I wouldn’t let anyone else care for my children or myself but you and Yelena Georgiyevna.” She smiles.

Cilka smiles back.

“Goodbye,” Maria says.

As she is leaving, Cilka studies the elegant woman she has spent the past few hours with. The delicate lace collar on her dress and the silver locket and chain hanging around her neck. The colorful belt that pulls her dress in to her tiny waist, and the shiny buckles on her shoes. It has been many years since she saw a woman dressed so beautifully. Images of her mother dressed similarly come into Cilka’s head. A memory to cling to. But that is followed by thoughts of her mother at the very end. A memory she can’t bear.