Cilka's Journey(68)

“I’m Cilka. This is my first time out.”

“Hey, Pavel, it’s her first time,” the gruff driver says. He is bulkier and broader than Pavel. “From what I saw of her, it’ll probably be her last as well—look at the size of her.”

“She may prove you wrong there, Kirill Grigorovich,” says Pavel. The two men cackle away. Kirill winds down his window as he nears the closed front gates, which are lit up by the searchlights of the compound. Sticking his head out the window, he screams at the sentry as he speeds toward him.

“Open the fucking gates, you moron! Can’t you see we’re in a hurry?”

The gates are barely open when the ambulance races through, and a torrent of abuse from the sentry follows.

Crunching the gears, Kirill winds up his window and shakes the snow off his hat.

“Excuse me,” Cilka says loudly, ensuring she is heard over the revving engine.

“Find out what she wants,” Kirill says.

Pavel leans back over the seat, staring at Cilka.

“Pavel … is it? What can you tell me about where we’re going? What kind of accident is it?”

“Yes, I’m Pavel Sergeyevich. We’ll find out when we get there.”

“But surely you know if there is more than one patient?”

Kirill cackles away, his big shoulders shaking up and down in his coarse peacoat. They are prisoners, she thinks. Trusties with a good job, driving back and forth with cigarette breaks in between.

“That you can be sure of, honey. When any part of a mine collapses, there will be more than one casualty.”

“So, you do know what happened. Why couldn’t you just say so?”

“Well, well, what do we have here, Pavel? A nurse with attitude. Listen, printsessa, you just do what you do when we get to the scene and we’ll transport them.”

Cilka looks around her in the back of the ambulance. Two stretchers are stacked against the side of the truck, and two containers slide around the floor. One comes to rest against Cilka’s leg.

Cilka edges the top off the container to examine the contents. An assortment of instruments bang against each other. Rolls of bandages, bottles of medication. Cilka lifts each one, identifying exactly what she has to work with. Dragging the other container over she finds the equipment for hanging a drip and two bottles of saline solution.

The road is pockmarked; the ambulance swerves around boul ders, bounces against snow piled at the side of the road, visible in the headlights.

“Time for action, honey, we’re here.”

The ambulance screeches to a halt, throwing Cilka against the front seat.

Before she can steady herself, the back doors are thrown open. Hands reach in and grab the stretchers. A hand is held out for her to take and she is helped down. Cilka notices the numbers roughly sewn on their jackets.

She takes a moment to have a quick glance around. At first she can see nothing in the dusk and sleet. Then she begins to make out figures: men moving about aimlessly, some screaming orders. Cilka, Pavel and Kirill make their way to the opening of the mine, toward the ladder-like structure with the wheel on top. A guard strides over.

“An upper tunnel is caving in; we’re not sure when it’s going to be safe to go down.” The wheel above them creaks to a stop as an elevator cage full of soot-blackened men arrives at the top. The men spill out.

“There are still injured men down there,” one of them says, holding his hat in his hand.

“We have to go and get them,” Cilka yells.

“Who’s this?” the supervisor asks Pavel.

“It’s the nurse they sent with us,” Pavel answers.

“Not much to her,” the supervisor responds, looking Cilka up and down.

Cilka rolls her eyes. “Let me go in and see if I can help,” she says.

“Didn’t you hear me, girl? The tunnel is still collapsing. Do you have a desire to die?”

“No.” Cilka raises her chin.

She advances toward the now empty elevator cage, looking back at the men.

“If you want to go in, go, but I’m not coming with you,” the supervisor says.

“I can’t go alone. I don’t know how to operate this or where to get off.”

“I’ll come,” Pavel says, without conviction.

“I’ll take you to the level,” the miner with the hat in his hand says. His teeth are chattering. Cold, or shock? Cilka wonders.

Wrapping her scarf over her mouth and nose, she steps into the cage. Pavel follows, loading the equipment in, too. The miner clears his throat, then pushes a lever, and the lift jolts into action, lowering slowly into dusty gloom. Cilka checks the lamp Pavel handed her as they set off.

They go down, and down and down. Cilka tries to keep her breathing steady.

The lift stops at a tunnel entrance. Cilka clears her throat. She unlatches and pushes aside the lift cage door.

“It’s a bit of a walk,” the miner says, indicating he will stay where he is. “Just keep to the left.”

Cilka and Pavel do as he says.

“We’re here to help you,” she begins to yell out. Debris enters her lungs and she coughs. “Call out so we know where you are.”

“Here, over here,” she eventually hears from somewhere in front of her. The voice is weak, scared.