Page 19 of Cilka's Journey

Without further word, Antonina walks back to the door and is replaced by a sheet of fresh snow, which quickly melts into the puddle on the floor.

Cilka takes Josie’s arm and steers her to a small patch of bare wall they can sit against. It is only as they slide down to the floor that Cilka notices several heads lift and fearful eyes appraise the newcomers. Is there a hierarchy even here? Cilka meets their stares. They look away first.

Cilka hears their number, accompanied by some yelling.

She startles from a daze. “Last chance!” the matronly woman is saying.

Disoriented, she sees Josie is asleep, her head resting on Cilka’s outstretched legs.

“Here! We’re coming!” she calls as loudly as she can.

She shakes Josie and they scramble to their feet, heading quickly to the desk and the scowling woman behind it.

She stands, thrusts a clipboard at Josie, and walks to a door leading to the back of the room. Cilka and Josie follow.

Through the door, the woman leads them past beds that line both sides of the room. A ward. Cilka glances at them. The sheets are white. The blankets gray, but possibly thicker than those they have in their hut. Pillows are tucked beneath the heads of the men and women lying there.

Through the ward, they enter a clinical area screened off from the rest of the room. The smell of disinfectant assaults their nostrils.

Josie is shoved into a chair next to a table laden with bottles, bandages and instruments.

The woman indicates the clipboard Josie is holding, and hands Cilka a pen. Cilka understands that they are to fill it out. The woman turns away and is gone.

“I can’t do this,” Josie whispers. “I write with my right hand.”

“Let me,” says Cilka.

She takes the clipboard, pushes some of the instruments on the table to one side and places it down.

And then she sees it is in Cyrillic script. The letters are like tunnels and gates, with surprising added curves and flourishes. It has been a long time since she has read it. Writing in it will be difficult.

“Right then,” she says. “The first entry is always your name. What is your family name, Josie?”

“Kotecka, Jozefína Kotecka.”

Cilka writes the name slowly, as best she can, hoping the doctors will be able to read it.

“Let’s see, I believe this is date of birth?”

“November 25, 1930.”

“And this asks for your place of residence.”

“I don’t have an address anymore. They arrested my father after he missed a day from work. He was a forest worker, and he went looking for my brothers, who had been missing for three days. They arrested my mother next. My grandmother and I were so afraid, all alone together in our house. And then they came and arrested us too.” Josie looks pained. “No one in my family lives there now.”

“I know, Josie.” Cilka puts a hand on Josie’s shoulder. She was the same age when everyone was taken away from her too.

“They put me in prison.” Josie begins to cry. “They beat me, Cilka. They beat me and wanted to know where my brothers were. I told them I don’t know but they refused to believe me.”

Cilka nods to show she is listening. It’s strange how and when the past wants to reveal itself, she thinks. But not for her. There is no way she could find the words.

“Then one day, they loaded me and my grandmother onto a truck and took us to the train station, and that’s when I met you.”

“I’m sorry that I’ve brought it all up, Josie. Let’s…” She looks down at the form.

“No, it’s all right,” Josie says. She looks up at Cilka. “Will you tell me why you’re here? All I know is that you are Slovakian. And that woman on the train said she’d been with you somewhere… Did your family get arrested too?”

Cilka’s gut clenches.