Cilka's Journey(43)

“Ah yes, I remember. You brought his body to us. I can’t promise anything, but I will ask.”

“Thank you, thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“I can’t keep you here today. You will have to risk going back to the hut. A note may not be enough, but I’ll get a messenger to alert the relevant parties. He can take you back too. Wait here.”

Cilka rests her head against a shelf, feeling light-headed. She needs this job to work out. She thinks about how grateful she is to Yelena for the ways she has always tried to help.

The door opens and Yelena and the messenger enter. She looks up and another wave of dizziness overtakes her. It is the man with the brown eyes. He smiles gently as Yelena relays instructions to him. He looks at Yelena, nods, then reaches out a hand for Cilka’s arm, just above the elbow. He helps to lift her from the chair and opens the door.

Outside the hospital, his grip remains firmly on her upper arm, and he keeps his body at a polite distance as they walk toward the huts in a light snowfall. Where is he from? Why is he here? Why does she even want to know?

“Your name is Cilka Klein?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. She looks briefly up at his face. He is looking ahead, snow dusting his face, his eyelashes. His accent is recognizable.

“You are Czech,” she says.

“Yes.” He stops, looks down at her.

“What is your name?” She switches to speaking to him in Czech, to which he gives a delighted laugh, his eyes lighting up.

“Alexandr Petrik.”

Before they start walking again he releases her arm momentarily to light a cigarette. As he closes his eyes to draw in the smoke, Cilka studies his face—his dark eyebrows, his lips, his strong jawline above his scarf. He opens his eyes and she looks quickly away.

He takes her arm again, and she leans in a little closer to his side.

They arrive at the hut, and though Cilka is exhausted and needs to lie down, it feels too soon.

He opens the door for her, and she goes in. He remains outside.

“I will take my messages,” he says. “And I … hope to see you again soon, Cilka Klein.”

Again, words get stuck in Cilka’s mouth. She nods to him, then lets the door close.



* * *



The next morning Cilka walks with Josie to the hospital. As Josie enters, Yelena steps outside, taking Cilka by the arm.

“Come with me.”

Heads down, they fight against a blizzard, their progress slow. The snow-blast stings Cilka’s sensitive skin, where it is uncovered. Behind the main hospital building, several smaller ones are barely visible. Yelena heads for one of them and they go inside.

A man in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck is waiting for them.

“Cilka, this is Dr. Labadze, Petre Davitovich. He and I trained together in Georgia and he has been kind enough to agree to give you a trial. Thank you, Petre Davitovich. Cilka is a quick learner and patients love her.”

“If you recommend her, Yelena Georgiyevna, then I am sure she is good.”

Cilka says nothing, worried that if she opens her mouth, she will say the wrong thing.

“Look after yourself, Cilka, and do as you are told,” Yelena says pointedly. “No doing things on your own.”

With a quick wink, Yelena leaves Cilka with Petre.

“Take your coat off, you can hang it on a hook behind you, and come with me.”

A nearby door opens into a small ward. Cilka hears the cries of laboring women before she sees them.

Six beds line each side of the room. Seven of them are occupied, one by a mother with a new arrival, the delicate cries of a newborn competing with the women’s moans of pain.

Two nurses move quickly and efficiently between the women, three of whom have their knees bent, close to giving birth.

“Welcome to our world,” the doctor says. “Some days we have one or two women birthing, other days they fill the beds and can be on the floor. No predicting.”

“Are these women all prisoners?” Cilka asks.

“They are,” the doctor says.

“How many nurses do you have working each day?”

“Two, though you will make three, but one of them will probably move to the night shift.” Relief and gratitude run through Cilka. Clearly room has been made for her. “I don’t know why babies insist on being born during the night, but it seems to happen. Have you delivered babies before?”

“Just the one, a stillborn in our hut.”

He nods. “No matter, you’ll catch on. Really, there is not much for you to do, just catch the baby,” he says with a hint of humor. “The women have to do it themselves. What I need you to do is look for signs of problems—the head is too big, the birth not advancing like it should—and let myself or one of the other doctors know.”

“How many doctors work here?”

“Just the two of us, one day shift, the other night shift. We swap around. Let’s go and take a look at Bed 2.”

The woman in Bed 2 has her bent legs exposed, her face soaked in perspiration and tears as she groans quietly.

“You’re doing well, nearly there.” He takes a peek at the bottom of the bed. “Not long now.”

Cilka leans over the woman.

“Hello, I’m Cilka Klein.” In the absence of a patronymic name, which is used when the Russians greet each other, Cilka often uses two names—her first and last—when introducing herself, to make the person she is talking to comfortable. “What’s your name?”