Cilka's Journey(8)

“Lift your head up, don’t look afraid.”

“A moment ago you told me to be invisible.”

“That was then, this is now; that’s how quickly things can change.”

Cilka raises her own eyes toward the men.


Birkenau Administration Block, 1942

Cilka is sitting beside Gita, each working diligently, their eyes meeting fleetingly, small smiles shared. Cilka was pulled out of the selection line, and chosen for this work, rather than the Kanada. And she is grateful Gita is now working here, too. But she hopes she can also get Magda into the warmth, somehow. Gita’s hair is still cropped close to her head but for some reason Cilka has been allowed to grow hers. It feathers down over her neck and ears.

She doesn’t see the two SS officers approach them and with no warning she is grabbed by the arm, jerked to her feet. As she is dragged away, she looks back at Gita, her eyes pleading. Every time they are separated it could be the last time they see each other. She sees an officer approach Gita and strike her across the head with her hand.

She tries to resist as she is dragged outside and across to the women’s camp. She is no match for the two men. It is quiet in the camp—the women all out at work. They walk past the barracks where the women live until they come to an identical building, but this one is surrounded by a brick wall. Cilka feels bile rise in her throat. She has heard that this is where women go to die.

“No … Please…” she says. “What’s happening?”

There is a shiny car parked on the dirt road outside. The officers open the gate and go into the courtyard. One of the officers knocks loudly on the door to the left-hand building, and as the door opens, they throw her inside, slamming it behind her. Cilka is sprawled on a rough dirt floor and standing in front of her, in front of rows of empty crude wooden bunks, is the man she recognizes from the selection, the senior officer, Schwarzhuber.

He is an imposing man and is rarely seen in the camp. He taps his tall leather boot with his swagger stick. From an expressionless face he stares above Cilka’s head. She backs up against the door, feeling for the door handle. In a flash, the swagger stick is hurled through the air and strikes her hand. She cries out in pain as she slides down to the floor.

Schwarzhuber walks to her and picks up his stick. He stands over her, dwarfing her. He breathes heavily as he glares at her.

“This will be your new home,” he says. “Stand up.”

She gets to her feet.

“Follow me.”

He takes her behind a wall where there is a small room and a single wooden-slatted bed with a mattress on it.

“You know each block has a block leader?” he says.

“Yes,” she says.

“Well, you are to be the leader of Block 25.”

Cilka has no words, no breath. How could she—how could anybody—be expected to be the leader of this block? This is the block where women spend their final hours before being sent to the gas chamber. And will she ever see Magda, see Gita again? This is the most terrifying moment of her life.

“You are very lucky,” Schwarzhuber says.

Taking off his hat, he throws it across the room. With his other hand he continues to hit his leg firmly with his stick. With every whack Cilka flinches, expecting to be struck. He uses the stick to push up her shirt. Oh, Cilka thinks. So this is why. With shaking hands, she undoes the top two buttons. He then places his stick under her chin. His eyes seem to see nothing. He is a man whose soul has died and whose body is waiting to catch up with it.

He holds out both his arms and Cilka interprets this gesture as “undress me.” Taking a step closer, still at arm’s length, she begins undoing the many buttons on his jacket. A whack across her back hurries her up. He is forced to drop his stick so she can slide his jacket off. Taking it from her, he throws it after his hat. He removes his own singlet. Slowly, Cilka begins undoing his belt and the buttons beneath it. Kneeling down, she pulls his boots off from over his breeches.

Pulling the second one off, she becomes unbalanced, falling heavily on the bed as he pushes her. He straddles her. Terrified, Cilka attempts to cover herself as he tears her shirt open. She feels the back of his hand across her face as she closes her eyes and gives in to the inevitable.



* * *



“They’re the trusties,” a guard with a cigarette clenched between her teeth whispers.

The voice brings Cilka back to the present.

“What?”

“The men you’re about to be paraded in front of. They’re the trusties, senior prisoners who have high positions in the camp.”

“Oh, not soldiers?”

“No, prisoners like you, who have been here a long time and work in the skilled jobs, with the administrators. But these ones are also of the criminal class. They have their own network of power.”

Cilka understands. A hierarchy between old and new.

She steps into the room, Josie behind her, both of them naked and shivering. She pauses to take in the rows of men she must walk between. Dozens of eyes look back at her.

The man first in line on her right takes a step forward and she turns to meet his stare, boldly sizing him up, making the judgment he would have been the leader of a gang wherever he came from. Not much taller than she, stocky, clearly not starving. She thinks he must not be much older than his late twenties, early thirties. She examines his face, looking beyond the body language he is throwing her way. His face betrays him. Sad eyes. For some reason she is not afraid of him.