Cilka's Journey(53)
“Yes,” Josie says, looking into her friend’s eyes. “I’m going to call her Natia Cilka. Do you mind if her second name is after you?”
Josie passes the baby to Cilka.
“Hello, little Natia,” Cilka says. “I am honored that you will share my name.” So many thoughts rush in for Cilka. How dangerous and unexpected the path ahead could be for this tiny new being. “The story of your life begins today, Natia. My hope for you is that you will be able to live your own life, with the help of your mumma and everyone who will love you. There is a better world out there. I’ve seen it. I remember it.”
Cilka looks up at Josie and realizes the baby has allowed her to express something to her friend that she can’t say directly. She hands the baby back and leans in to kiss them both.
* * *
The next morning, Natia is thoroughly examined by Petre, who declares her the healthiest and sweetest newborn he has ever seen, and he has seen a lot of them. Josie glows.
Later that day, Cilka takes Josie and Natia next door to the nursery and settles them in to what will be their home for the next two years. No mention is made of what will happen at the end of that time. Cilka has now heard from the nurses that the toddlers are sent to orphanages at two, but she doesn’t tell Josie this. She’ll find out soon enough. Two years is a long time in this place, and Cilka is determined to find a way to keep them together.
That evening, after Cilka fills the other women in on all the details of Josie’s labor and birth, the loss they feel without Josie starts to sink in. Within days, a stranger will be sleeping in her bed. The little gowns so lovingly made by them all are bundled up and given to Cilka to take to her. They also send word that they will continue to make clothes for little Natia, in varying sizes as she grows, and they will run freely with the embroidered lace now they know it is a little girl they are sewing for.
Without Josie’s presence Cilka allows herself a little thought of Alexandr, the messenger, finding that his face provides comfort. She wonders if she will ever speak to him again, hopes that she might.
* * *
Cilka and the others return to their hut the next day and find someone sleeping in Josie’s bed. The newcomer winces as she sits up to face the women’s scrutiny.
“I am Anastasia Orlovna,” she says, in a strong clear voice.
Elena walks over to her, looking her up and down. The bruises on the newcomer’s face reflect beatings over a period of time. The older ones are a purplish blue, more recent ones still black. Her right eye is partially closed from swelling.
“How old are you?” Elena asks.
“Sixteen.”
The women crowd around the bed to get a closer look at their new resident, who holds her head high, refusing to hide her injuries, defiance written across her face and the body she struggles to hold herself straight.
Olga gently pushes her back down onto her bed. “What happened to you?”
“Do you mean to get me here in the first place, or more recently?”
“Both,” says Olga.
“We were caught stealing from the bakery.”
“We? How many of you?”
Anastasia forces a small grin. “Six of us. It was good while it lasted.”
“What was good?” Elena asks.
“The thrill of taking the bread as soon as it came out of the oven, right under the nose of the pig who made it.”
“Why were you stealing?” Elena asks. They didn’t normally put political prisoners and thieves together, but the rules in Vorkuta had seemed to become a bit more relaxed on this front. Wherever there is a bed, Cilka supposes.
“Because, despite us all supposedly getting a fair share in the great Soviet Union, the kids were starving. Why else?”
“So you and your friends…”
“Yes, we were a gang of older kids—one or two of us would distract the shopkeeper while the others snuck in and took some food. We got some caviar once, but the children didn’t like it. Neither did I.”
“Huh!” Hannah exclaims in frustration. “What I wouldn’t give—”
“And your bruises, how did you get them?” Elena asks.
“I could say I fell down some stairs.”
“You could,” Elena retorts. “But you’re acting like we’re your interrogators.”
“The spies are everywhere,” Anastasia says. “But yes, sorry, I have just come from prison where they tortured me and Mikhail, the only two of us who got caught. The police knew there were more of us and wanted names. I wouldn’t give them.”
“Hence the bruises,” Elena says.
“Yes,” Anastasia says. “But you can’t talk. You all look like you haven’t seen a piece of bread in a year. And definitely not a vegetable.”
Elena leans in, deliberately close, Cilka observes, so Anastasia can get the full force of her malnourished, rotten-teeth breath. “Believe it or not, love, we’re the lucky ones.”
The dinner alarm sounds.
“Are you able to walk?” Olga asks.
“Yes, slowly.”
Olga helps Anastasia to her feet, buttons her coat, pulling the collar up around her neck. Anastasia pulls her hat on. They join the others in their procession to the mess hall.