Cilka's Journey(38)
Deeply and instinctively, Cilka still often reaches for prayers. Her religion is tied to her childhood, her family, traditions and comfort. To another time. It is a part of who she is. At the same time, her faith has been challenged. It has been very hard for her to continue believing when it truly does not seem that actions are fairly rewarded or punished, when it seems instead that events are random, and that life is chaotic.
“I understand,” Yelena says warmly.
“I wonder if anyone is lighting a candle tonight for this poor fellow,” Cilka says, wanting to move the focus from herself.
“Let’s hope so,” says Yelena. “For all these wretches. But you didn’t hear me say that.”
Cilka nods and takes a step away from the bed, before turning back to Yelena.
“If I was ever going to talk about my past, I would like it to be with you.”
She has surprised herself by saying it. It is too much of a risk, and too difficult. And even if Yelena—the most compassionate person Cilka has met—could handle it, what if she told others? Even the patients in the hospital wouldn’t want her around. Someone who has overseen so much death.
“Whenever you’re ready, come and find me,” Yelena says.
The ward is quiet for a moment, unusually so. Cilka stands by the window, watching the snow flurry in the blue-black sky. Closing her eyes, she sees her family sitting around the table. Her beloved father reciting blessings, the lighting of the menorah, the pure joy of being together. She can smell and taste the latkes, potato pancakes fried in oil, that will be eaten for the next eight days. She remembers the excitement of being a young girl given her first candle to light. How she pestered her father many times to be allowed to light the first one. How she never accepted his explanation that it was the man in the house who did it. Then the memory of the time he relented, telling her she had the courage and determination of any boy and as long as it was their family secret, she could light the first candle. She then remembers when that was. The last time she sat with her family to welcome and celebrate Hanukkah.
“Hanukkah sameach,” she whispers to herself. “Happy Hanukkah, my family: Ocko, Mami?ka. Magda.”
Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1942
“Happy birthday. Pack the new coat Mumma and Papa gave you for your birthday, Cilka. You may need it,” Magda whispers as the sisters each pack a small suitcase.
“Where are we going?”
“To Poprad. We have to catch the train there for Bratislava.”
“And Mumma and Papa?”
“They will take us to the train station and we will see them when we come home. We must be brave, little sister, keep Mumma and Papa safe by going to work for the Germans.”
“I’m always brave,” Cilka says firmly.
“Yes, you are, but tomorrow when we say goodbye, you have to be especially brave. We will stay together and … and you can look after me.” Magda winks at her little sister.
Cilka continues putting her very best dresses into the suitcase.
She will do her family proud.
* * *
Cilka has contained all this for so long. She is not sure if it is the darkness or the quiet, or Yelena’s open face, but she has to run to the nearby linen room. She closes the door, heart racing, and drops onto the floor, burying her face in dirty soiled linen so no one can hear the sobs that are escaping her.
With no sense of how long she has been down there, Cilka struggles to her feet. She smooths down her clothing, wipes her fingers under her lashes, making sure it is not obvious that she has been crying. She needs to get back to work.
She takes a deep breath and opens the door. As she leaves the room she hears—
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Cilka squares her shoulders. Striding toward her is the doctor she despises for his attitude and complete lack of compassion in treating his patients: Gleb Vitalyevich. She has often wondered if it would be possible to compare the survival rate of his patients with other doctors. She knows he would be the worst by far.
“Watch Bed 9 for time of death. I’m going off for a while. I’ll sign it off tomorrow.”
She watches him walk away. I know about you, she thinks, throwing silent daggers at his back.
Bed 9 is the unconscious wretch by the window. Cilka leans in and, with detachment, feels for the pulse in his neck. She is shocked to feel a strong, healthy thud thud, thud thud … She peels back his right eyelid and notes the pinprick-sized pupil, sees a flutter of movement. Looking around, she observes that Yelena and the two nurses present are occupied. She can see Josie’s back in the filing room.
The man’s file lies at the foot of the bed. As she is about to pick it up, she hesitates, and pulls the blankets away, revealing his feet. She scratches her fingernail down his right foot. It twitches. She reads his file.
A single line. Name: Isaac Ivanovich Kuznetsov. December 24, 1947. Found unconscious in his bed, unresponsive, brought to hospital. Not for treatment.
Isaac. A Jewish name. Cilka tries to control her breathing. No. No. Not today, not this man. She will not sit by and watch him die if there is something that can be done to save him.
From the dispensary, Cilka finds the medication she has used many times before to wave under the noses of unconscious patients to try to bring them around. A foul-smelling substance she has often thought could wake the dead. Gently she slaps his face, calling his name. A small whimper escapes his lips. She holds the cloth containing the substance close to his nose. She pinches his nostrils shut for a moment or two before releasing them. Being denied oxygen briefly his nostrils flare open and inhale. Immediately, he responds; his eyes open as he gasps for breath, choking. She gently rolls him onto his side. Soothing words float from her lips to his ears as he turns his eyes upward toward her.