Cilka's Journey(71)

Cilka watches from a distance, examining the slightly built man with not a hair out of place: his dark green tunic, without a crease or wrinkle, partially covers the white coat that indicates his rank of doctor; his clean-shaven face; his brilliant white teeth revealed by his big smile; his gleaming eyes; his SS cap tilted to one side.

The Angel of Death, that is what they call him. Twice, prior to being sent to Block 25 and given a layer of protection, she’d had to parade in front of him. She had barely dared to sneak a look at him, whistling a tune as he flicked his hand to the left or the right. Both times she had escaped selection.

The children clamber around him. “Pick me, pick me,” they squeal.

Four girls are tapped on the head and handed candy, and they climb into the car with him. The other children go back to playing. Cilka bows her head in silent prayer for the four souls being driven away.



* * *



Cilka cries out, sitting bolt upright in bed, shaking, terror etched on her face.

The women in the hut are all looking at her. Some from their beds, several others standing around the stove.

“Are you all right?” Olga asks with concern.

Cilka looks from one to the next, scanning the faces only partly visible in the moonlight. Pulling herself together, she drops her legs over the side of the bed.

“Yes, I’m fine, just a bad dream.”

“This whole place is a bad dream,” Elena says.

They are being kind, Cilka knows. It is not the first time she has woken them by screaming. Anastasia has told her too, that sometimes she whimpers, and sometimes she hisses, like she is furious with somebody.

Cilka shuffles to the stove. A comforting arm—Elena’s—is wrapped around her shoulders as she extends her hands to feel the warmth. She glances toward Hannah’s bed, can’t see whether she is awake and watching or not. Only she would know what the nightmares are really about. But she is probably more blissfully asleep than any of them, having collected her goods from Cilka’s pocket when the women all came in.

There are layers of pain within Cilka. She misses Josie and Natia too. All winter it has been impossible to see them. Natia must have grown so much, may even be walking by now.

“You need to remember the happy times to dream about,” Olga says from her bed. “That’s what I do. Every night before I fall asleep, I remember my childhood, on the beach in Sochi. It was a happy time.”

As Cilka closes her eyes for the second time that evening she decides she will try to remember a happy time in her life. It is not for a shortage of them, quite the opposite. Her life up until the day she was loaded onto a cattle train had been blissfully happy, and perhaps for this reason, remembering has been too painful for her. But she will try again.


Bardejov, Czechoslovakia, 1941

“Move over, Papa, it’s my birthday, I want to drive the car.”

The day is cool with the sun shining. A spring day, full of promise. Cilka has put on her hat and scarf, placed her father’s driving goggles on top of her head, determined to drive even if only to the end of the street. Papa has lowered the soft-top roof on his pride and joy: a two-door roadster with brown leather seats and a horn that can be heard miles away.

“You don’t know how to drive a car. Don’t be silly, Cilka,” her father replies.

“I can—I bet I can. Mumma, tell him I can drive the car.”

“Let her drive the car,” her mother says, lovingly.

“Now you’re being silly. You always spoil the child,” her father says, although they all know it is he who dotes on Cilka. On both his girls.

“I’m not a child,” Cilka protests.

“You are, my diet’a, that will never change.”

“I’m fifteen, I’m now a woman,” Cilka boasts. “Look, here’s Uncle Moshe and he has his camera. Over here, Uncle! I want my photo taken driving the car.”

Uncle Moshe greets Cilka, her mother and sister with kisses on each cheek. A manly handshake and pat on the shoulder for her father.

“Are you going to let her drive?” Uncle Moshe asks.

“Have you ever been able to tell her anything? None of us have. Cilka wants to rule the world and she probably will. Set up your camera.”

Cilka wraps her arms around her father’s neck, standing on tiptoe to reach.

“Thank you, Papa. Now, everyone get in the car.”

While Uncle Moshe sets up his camera on its stand, Cilka sets about placing the members of her family where she wants them for the photo. Her father is permitted to sit in the front alongside her, her mother and sister are in the back. With her hands confidently resting on the steering wheel, she poses.

With a bang and a flash, the camera captures the moment.

“Where are the keys? I’ll take you all for a drive.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Cilka’s father says. “I promise to give you driving lessons, but not today. Today is your birthday and we will have a lovely day, then celebrate at dinner. For now, we change seats.”

Reluctantly, Cilka concedes defeat—one of the few times in her short life she has—and, pouting, moves to the front passenger seat.

Her scarf is flapping in the wind as she is driven through her hometown of Bardejov …

Cilka, in Vorkuta, finally falls back to sleep.