Cilka's Journey(9)

“At last” is shouted out somewhere among the men.

“About bloody time, Boris.”

Boris puts his hand out to Cilka. She doesn’t take it but moves closer to him. Turning back, she encourages Josie to walk on.

“Come here, little one,” another man says. Cilka looks at the man ogling Josie. A large brute, but hunched. His tongue darts in and out of his mouth, revealing badly colored and broken teeth. He has more of a feral energy than Boris.

And Josie is chosen.

Cilka looks at the man identified as Boris.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“Cilka.”

“Go and get some clothes and I’ll find you when I need you.”

Cilka continues down the row of men. They all smile at her, with several making comments about her skin, her body. She catches up with Josie and they find themselves outside again, being ushered into another concrete bunker.

At last, clothing is thrust at them. A shirt with missing buttons, trousers in the roughest fabric Cilka has ever felt, a heavy coat and a hat. All gray. The knee-high boots several sizes too big will come in handy, once she’s wrapped her feet in whatever rags she can get to help with the cold.

Dressed, they leave the bunker. Cilka shades her eyes from the glare of sunlight. She takes in the camp resembling a town. There are clearly barracks for sleeping, but they are not neatly lined up like those in Birkenau. They differ in size and shape. Beyond the perimeter she sees a small hill with a large, crane-like piece of equipment rearing above it. The fence enclosing them is scattered with lookouts, nowhere near as threatening as she has experienced in the past. Cilka looks closely at the top of the fence. She does not see the telltale insulators that would indicate it is electrified. Looking beyond the fence to the barren, desolate terrain stretching as far as the horizon, she accepts no electric fence would be needed. There could be no survival out there.

As they trudge toward the buildings that will become home, following the person in front, unaware who is leading them or directing them, a woman with a broad, weathered face sidles up to them. The sun might be attempting to shine but the windchill bites into any exposed skin—they are so far north that even though it is late summer there is snow on the ground. The woman is wearing layers of coats, strong-looking boots, and has her hat pulled down and tied beneath her chin. She leers at Cilka and Josie.

“Well, aren’t you the lucky ones! Got yourselves men to protect you, I hear.”

Cilka puts her head down, not wanting to engage in or encourage conversation with her. She doesn’t see the leg extended in front of her, tripping her, so that with her hands in her pockets she falls flat on her face.

Josie reaches down to help her up, only to be hit in the back and sent sprawling herself. The two girls lie on the damp, frosty ground, side by side.

“Your looks won’t get you anywhere with me. Now get moving.”

Cilka pulls herself up first. Josie stays lying on the ground, eventually taking Cilka’s hand as she is helped to her feet.

Cilka risks looking around. Among the hundreds of women, dressed the same, heads shaven, faces buried in coats, it is impossible to identify the others from their train carriage.

As they enter a hut, they are counted off by the gruff woman. Cilka had thought maybe she was a guard, but she’s not in uniform, and as she walks past her, Cilka notices the number sewn on her coat and hat. Must be like a block leader, Cilka thinks.

The room has single beds lining one side, a space in the middle with a stove throwing out a version of heat. The women ahead of them have run to the stove and push and shove, hands extended toward it.

“I’m your brigadier, and you belong to me,” the leader says. “My name is Antonina Karpovna. An-to-ni-na Kar-pov-na,” she repeats slowly, pointing at herself, so no one can misinterpret her meaning. “All right, you lucky zechkas, I hope you realize you have one of the best prisoner huts in the camp.” Cilka thinks she must be right. No bunks. Actual mattresses. A blanket each. “I’ll leave you to sort yourselves out,” the brigadier says with a wry grin, before departing the hut.

“What’s a zechka?” Josie whispers.

“I don’t know, but it can’t be a good word.” Cilka shrugs. “Probably means prisoner or something like that.”

Cilka looks around her. None of the beds have been claimed; the women ahead of them ran straight to the stove. Grabbing Josie’s arm, Cilka pulls her away to the far end of the hut.

“Wait, let’s find beds first. Sit on this one.”

Cilka claims the end bed, pushing Josie onto the one next to it.

They both examine what they are sitting on. A thin gray blanket over an off-white sheet covering a sawdust-filled mattress.

Their rush to find somewhere to sleep doesn’t go unnoticed by the other women who now also scramble for beds, pushing and shoving each other as they too claim the place they will sleep tonight and for however many more nights they survive.

It becomes obvious there is a bed for everyone. Hats are taken off and placed where a pillow would be, had one been provided.

Cilka glances to the space across from the end of their beds.

Two empty buckets look back at her. Toilets. She sighs. For as long as she remains in this hut, she will be reminded of her greed to secure what she considered the best place to sleep. She thought she would have a little privacy: a wall on one side of her, Josie on the other. There’s always a catch to a good position, to comfort. She should know that by now.