Cilka's Journey(48)

With the boy balanced on her hip Cilka walks around the room, looking at the other infants. She stops at a small baby lying on a blanket on the floor staring at the ceiling. Cilka moves her head to get its attention; only a small movement of its head shows it knows Cilka is there. Placing the boy on the floor she touches the baby; it is hot to the touch in a room badly in need of heating. She picks up one of its arms and lets it go. The baby makes no attempt to stop its arm flopping onto the floor.

Cilka calls out to the staff. “Excuse me, this baby is sick, there’s something wrong with it.”

One of the attendants wanders over.

“Yeah, been like that for a couple of days.”

“Has a doctor seen it?”

“Doctors don’t come here, love. These little ones either make it or they don’t. This will be one that probably won’t.”

Cilka looks again at the tiny form, its large head and sunken cheeks, its ribs showing under the skin.

She has seen enough.

“Thank you,” she says to no one in particular. She leaves.



* * *



When Cilka returns to the maternity ward, Petre greets her.

“Hello. Where have you been?”

“Next door—to the nursery. I went with Anna Anatolyeva and her baby.”

Cilka offers no further explanation; she wants to get away from him, away from the images she has just seen, busy herself by cleaning.

“And what did you think of our nursery?”

“Do you ever go there?” she blurts out.

“No, my job is here, delivering babies. Why do you ask?”

“Because some of those babies you deliver safe and sound lie on the floor over there sick and dying.”

“And you know they are dying?”

“I saw it for myself. The staff there, I don’t know what you call them, they’re not nurses—they show very little interest in the babies. They told me only the strong survive, but they might just be sick. They could live if they got care and treatment.”

“All right, all right, Cilka, settle down. Why don’t we talk about this another day?”

“When?”

“When we are not so busy.”

“Tomorrow?”

“When we are not so busy,” Petre repeats. “Now you had better get back to work.”



* * *



Several weeks pass. The frost starts to thaw, the days get longer. Petre seems to be avoiding Cilka. She struggles. She has learned her lesson about interfering in medical matters, so she never men tions the building next door with the neglected babies. But it’s pressing at her. To know something could be done. Once, she’d had to accept circumstances like these. How can she now?

One day she is working with Tatiana and they only have one patient laboring. Petre comes in and checks on the woman. He watches Cilka tidying the administration area, neatly stacking files, checking for entries—the tasks that can only be done when you aren’t busy. Pulling up a chair, he says to Cilka, “Let’s talk about the babies in the nursery, shall we?”

“I … shouldn’t have said anything, it’s not my place.” She is clenching her jaw.

“True.” His face, with its bushy brows and mustache, is enigmatic. “You know, I spoke to Yelena Georgiyevna about you. She asks about you all the time.”

“Really? How is she?” Cilka’s chest aches. She doesn’t admit to herself she is missing anyone, anything, until her body reminds her that that is the case.

“She’s good. Busy. I told her what you said about the babies.”

“What did she say?”

“She laughed and said, that sounds like Cilka, trying to fix everything.”

“It’s just, well … you take good care of the mothers, making sure they have healthy babies, then they get sent over there and no one cares anymore.”

“I’m sure their mothers do.”

“Yes, of course, but they work all day and only return to the nursery at night. How are they ever going to get a doctor to check on their babies?”

“That is a very good point. Well, the State cares too, or should do. Those babies are our future workers.”

There does seem to be quite a contradiction about that in this place though, Cilka thinks. Such as the workers getting less food when their productivity drops—as punishment. There are always more people out there to arrest, to replace the dead. But of course she cannot voice any of this out loud.

“How about, given it is quiet here today, you and I go to the nursery and I’ll have a look at any baby you think needs to see a doctor,” Petre says.

“I’ll get my coat.”

Petre laughs, retrieves his coat and follows Cilka out the door.

The smile on Petre’s face disappears the moment he enters the nursery. The three staff are sitting together sipping steaming cups of tea. Babies and infants lie on the floor; some crawl lethargically in circles. He stares in disbelief.

“You’re back,” Irina Igorevna calls out before registering Cilka is not alone. She puts her cup down and hurries over to Cilka and Petre.

“This is Petre Davitovich, the maternity doctor,” Cilka says. “He has come to have a look at some of the babies, to see if any of them needs medical attention.”