Page 72 of Cilka's Journey

“Yes. I had suspected you had been there, but I… didn’t really want to believe it.”

Cilka feels hot and cold at the same time.

“You must have been so young,” Yelena says. She lets go of Cilka’s arm.

“Sixteen.”

“Can I ask… your family?”

Cilka shakes her head, looking away, reaching to turn off the tap. She wants this conversation to be over.

“Oh, Cilka,” Yelena says. Cilka looks at the doctor’s compassionate face. Of course, she thinks. Everyone would know by now what thatother placewas. But not her role in it.

“Doctor, just tell me one thing,” Cilka says firmly. She can’t look at Yelena.

“Yes?”

“Did they get them?”

Yelena pauses, then understands. “Yes, Cilka. The commandants, the guards, the doctors. There have been trials. Their crimesare being exposed to the world. They are being imprisoned or executed for what they did.”

Cilka nods. Her jaw is clenched. She could scream, or cry. There is too much welling up inside her. It’s still not enough. It took too long.

“I don’t know what to say, Cilka, except that I’m so sorry you had to go through that, something unimaginable, and then, also, to end up here. Whatever the reason for that…” Yelena falters. “Well, you were only sixteen.”

Cilka nods. Her eyes are hot with unshed tears. She swallows and swallows. She clears her throat. Takes a deep breath. Wills her racing heart to slow. Looks back at Yelena.

“The patient is waiting for us,” she says.

“Yes,” Yelena says. As they dry off their hands and start to walk toward the operating room, where the assistant waits with their gloves and gowns, Yelena says, “Cilka, if you ever want someone to talk to—”

“Thank you,” Cilka cuts her off. She can’t imagine a time when she could ever put those memories, those images, into words. She clears her throat again. “I am grateful, Yelena Georgiyevna.”

Yelena nods. “Just know I am here.” As they near the operating room, the conversation recedes in Cilka’s mind. She has an important task to do, and it will distract her. Once her gown and gloves are on, the assistant pulls Cilka’s mask down under her chin and then holds open the door leading into a small room.

A patient lies on a table and an anesthetist sits at the end of the bed holding a rubber mask over the patient’s nose and mouth.

“He’s out,” he comments, with little interest or enthusiasm, before staring off at a point on the far wall.

Cilka follows Yelena and stands beside her.

“Go around to the other side: you can see and help me better from there.”

Cilka does as instructed, holding her hands out in front of her, afraid to touch anything.

“All right, here we go. You see all the instruments on the table beside you? Well, I’m going to say the name of the instrument I want, then point to it so you know which one it is. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

The assistant has followed them into the room and pulls the sheet covering the man away, revealing his naked body.

“I need to get into his stomach and remove whatever it is he has swallowed that he shouldn’t have. Unfortunately, some people will go to extreme lengths to not work outside, including swallowing objects that could kill them.”

“You’re joking,” Cilka says.

“No, I’m not. Coming into hospital and having their stomach cut open is seen as a better option than working, at least for a while.”

“How do you know for sure he has swallowed something?”

“The pain he was in when he was brought to us was real; when we couldn’t work out what was wrong he finally admitted to having swallowed something.”