Cilka's Journey(59)

“Is he good-looking?” Lyuba raises her eyebrows.

Cilka thinks for a moment.

He is handsome, with a thick mustache and eyes that smile. “Yes; they are perfect for each other.”

She can’t help thinking, though, that he is not the most handsome man she has seen in her time in Vorkuta. Now she is back in the hospital, she wonders if she will see the messenger, Alexandr, again.

“I think we’d better get back to work,” Raisa says. “I can feel the temperature rising around you two.”

Yes, work is what Cilka needs to do. She will not allow herself to wonder for too long about the impossible.



* * *



The prospect of being in the operating room sends Cilka’s brain working overtime. That night she cannot sleep. Thoughts whirl around inside her head as she replays all she has seen and done that day.

The next morning the sky is overcast but Cilka appreciates walking across the grass, with small weedy flowers underfoot, on the way to the hospital. Yelena is waiting for her and together they go through to the area designated for surgery. An assistant is standing by with a gown, gloves and a mask. Cilka reaches out to take the gown.

“You have to wash your hands thoroughly first,” Yelena says, leading her over to a nearby sink. “Are you wearing anything under your shirt?”

“Just my slip.”

“Good, take your shirt off. You can’t have a sleeve getting in the way.”

Cilka hesitates.

“It’s all right, Cilka, there’s only us women here.”

Slowly, Cilka unbuttons her shirt. The assistant takes it from her, handing her a bar of soap and turning a tap on for her. Cilka starts rubbing the soap up her arms. The assistant goes to arrange the room. Yelena stands beside her, lathering up and scrubbing her own hands and arms, past the elbows. Cilka copies her actions.

Focused back on the running water, rinsing the soap from her arms and hands, Cilka is startled when Yelena gently takes hold of her left arm. She turns it toward her, staring at the blurry blue-green numbers running down the inside of her forearm.

Yelena starts to say something, closes her mouth.

Cilka continues to stare at the running water, breathing deeply.

Raising her head, she looks directly at Yelena. “Do you know where I got this?”

“Yes. I had suspected you had been there, but I … didn’t really want to believe it.”

Cilka feels hot and cold at the same time.

“You must have been so young,” Yelena says. She lets go of Cilka’s arm.

“Sixteen.”

“Can I ask … your family?”

Cilka shakes her head, looking away, reaching to turn off the tap. She wants this conversation to be over.

“Oh, Cilka,” Yelena says. Cilka looks at the doctor’s compassionate face. Of course, she thinks. Everyone would know by now what that other place was. But not her role in it.

“Doctor, just tell me one thing,” Cilka says firmly. She can’t look at Yelena.

“Yes?”

“Did they get them?”

Yelena pauses, then understands. “Yes, Cilka. The commandants, the guards, the doctors. There have been trials. Their crimes are being exposed to the world. They are being imprisoned or executed for what they did.”

Cilka nods. Her jaw is clenched. She could scream, or cry. There is too much welling up inside her. It’s still not enough. It took too long.

“I don’t know what to say, Cilka, except that I’m so sorry you had to go through that, something unimaginable, and then, also, to end up here. Whatever the reason for that…” Yelena falters. “Well, you were only sixteen.”

Cilka nods. Her eyes are hot with unshed tears. She swallows and swallows. She clears her throat. Takes a deep breath. Wills her racing heart to slow. Looks back at Yelena.

“The patient is waiting for us,” she says.

“Yes,” Yelena says. As they dry off their hands and start to walk toward the operating room, where the assistant waits with their gloves and gowns, Yelena says, “Cilka, if you ever want someone to talk to—”

“Thank you,” Cilka cuts her off. She can’t imagine a time when she could ever put those memories, those images, into words. She clears her throat again. “I am grateful, Yelena Georgiyevna.”

Yelena nods. “Just know I am here.” As they near the operating room, the conversation recedes in Cilka’s mind. She has an important task to do, and it will distract her. Once her gown and gloves are on, the assistant pulls Cilka’s mask down under her chin and then holds open the door leading into a small room.

A patient lies on a table and an anesthetist sits at the end of the bed holding a rubber mask over the patient’s nose and mouth.

“He’s out,” he comments, with little interest or enthusiasm, before staring off at a point on the far wall.

Cilka follows Yelena and stands beside her.

“Go around to the other side: you can see and help me better from there.”

Cilka does as instructed, holding her hands out in front of her, afraid to touch anything.

“All right, here we go. You see all the instruments on the table beside you? Well, I’m going to say the name of the instrument I want, then point to it so you know which one it is. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”