Under a Red Sky

  “Nothing,” I answer, walking backward toward the door. “I just wanted to see how you are doing.” Aunt Puica smiles at me as I depart, still clutching the hidden metal tube in my hand. It works! Grandpa’s right. Even the most unlikely wishes, like Aunt Puica behaving kindly, come true when you believe they’re possible. This is better than magic. This truth works.

  I decide I must learn the meaning of the words written on the hidden parchment. I kiss the cylinder again, and this time I wish for Grandma Iulia to recover from phlebitis. I hide the metal tube along with all of my treasures in my new turquoise toiletry box that Renée gave me. It is always within reach on my nightstand. Sometimes I take it out and place it under my pillow, my hand warming the smooth metal before I drift off to sleep.

  THE MOLE

  A FEW DAYS LATER we have a visitor. Silviu, Uncle Max’s closest friend and co-worker at the Ministry of Construction, is sunk into the most comfortable armchair in Aunt Puica’s bedroom. Aunt Puica is at the dressmaker’s, the only place she ever goes without Uncle Max. I am sprawled on the Oriental carpet with my drawing pad and colored pencils nearby. Neither Uncle Max nor his visitor takes any notice of me, and that’s just fine by me.

  Silviu is a quiet man with big hands and giant feet. He doesn’t look as tall as he really is because he slouches. His knees are bent uncomfortably in the low chair with his hands resting on the arms. A cigarette dangles from his yellowed fingertips, and the rest of his hands are curved tightly around the chair fabric. He has a dark complexion and hair that’s slicked back. His eyelids are so heavy, he looks half asleep, but his voice does not match his face. His lips are thin and curved at the corners into a fixed smile as his words shoot out.

  “There are rumors, Max. There’s going to be a crackdown at the office. It’s time you cooled it with the Party jokes.”

  “Yeah, right,” Uncle Max answers, dragging on his cigarette. “You are such an alarmist, Silviu. Do me a favor and mind your own business.”

  “It’s time to keep your big mouth shut, Max. I’m telling you this for your own good.”

  “Are you threatening me, Silviu? I’m not even a Party member. That privilege is yours. What are they going to do, expel me from the Party I don’t belong to?”

  “Cut the sarcasm, Max, and listen. I’m risking my neck to keep you out of trouble.” Silviu’s Adam’s apple moves up and down as he speaks, but his body does not flinch. “Max! You’re not listening.”

  “Who asked you to risk anything?” Uncle Max snaps. “Perhaps you have delusions of grandeur and think that you’re in charge at the office.” Uncle Max pauses for a moment to inhale the smoke from his cigarette, his eyes riveted on his friend. “It was Comrade Manciulescu, wasn’t it, who started this idiotic rumor?”

  “The consequences, Max, are severe and serious,” Silviu hisses back, blowing smoke in Uncle Max’s direction. “A joke is only funny once, and yours are getting tired. Your job is at risk.”

  “Your mother, and your Communist Party!” Uncle Max shouts, smoke billowing out of his mouth. “Don’t ever threaten me, Mr. ‘Severe and Serious,’ and don’t play the mysterious informer with me!” he says, waving his cigarette.

  “For God’s sake, Max, this is not a threat. It’s fair warning.” Silviu leans forward in his chair. “I happen to know that the Securitate has recruited a mole within the department. That’s a fact—not a rumor, Max.” Silviu’s face is flushed. “Manciulescu doesn’t have a clue about any of this.” Silviu falls back into the armchair and waits for the news to register.

  “And you do? That’s interesting, Silviu. Moles infiltrating our office?” Uncle Max’s tone is nasal.

  I open my mouth to ask what a mole is, but Uncle Max seems completely unaware of my presence. I thought moles were furry animals that burrowed underground. I pick up my pencil and start to draw a mole running through a tunnel. I color the earth brown, but above the ground, I add flowers and a house with people in it who are holding their hands over their ears.

  Uncle Max scrutinizes his friend’s face. “Do you expect me to believe any of this, Silviu?”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Silviu snaps. “What do I have to do for you to believe me, Max, prove it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are so goddamn predictable, Max. I knew it would come to this.” Silviu takes off his jacket. He rolls up his left shirtsleeve, revealing a wire connected to his wristwatch and leading to a hidden tape recorder in his shirt pocket. He presses the button. Uncle Max’s voice cuts through the heavy smoke and echoes in the room. “Severe and serious.”

  “Turn it off.” Uncle Max’s voice sounds as if it belonged to someone else.

  “I warned you—” Silviu starts to speak.

  “Turn it off. And get out of here,” Uncle Max interrupts.

  “Don’t worry, Max, I’m not going to turn you in,” Silviu pleads, rewinding the tape. “Here, we’ll erase this crap together. Don’t freak out. I promise you, this conversation never existed. I’m your friend, you idiot! Do you think I’m the only mole? There are thousands of people planted in every ministry. Every office is covered. I just happen to be assigned to ours. If I wanted to turn you in, I wouldn’t stick my neck out and expose myself to you. Promise me, Max, you’ll watch what you say. Okay?”

  Uncle Max has stopped listening. He looks up at his friend and sighs. “How much are they paying you for this, Silviu?”

  Silviu glares at Uncle Max, his face hard, his thin lips still curled into the same fixed smile.

  “Better yet,” Max continues, “what the hell did they have on you to make you do such a thing? Did someone tell the Securitate that you’re half a Yid and you can’t be trusted with Party secrets?”

  “Shut up!” Silviu yells, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “You’re one lucky idiot because I still consider you a friend.” Silviu puts on his jacket and leaves.

  Uncle Max remains sitting and smoking in his white T-shirt and boxer shorts for a long while, his hairy legs swaying heavily over the edge of the bed.

  “Hey, kid.” He turns to me, becoming aware of my presence. “Hand me my pants and slippers from the armoire.”

  I open the armoire door with a squeak and watch him slip his legs into his pants. “Don’t breathe a word about this to your aunt Puica, or anyone, okay?” He winks and slides his belt through his pants loops. His face is the color of cigarette ashes. I nod to let him know that I know how to keep a secret.

  “I love you, Uncle Max.”

  “I love you too, kid.”

  OUT OF THE DARK

  SOON AFTER SILVIU’S VISIT things begin to change. The other adults still go about their business as usual. But Uncle Max stops whistling on his way home from work. Instead, his heavy footsteps in the yard are followed by the sound of the front door latch. I run to the foyer to greet him, but Uncle Max stands for a moment in front of his bedroom in silence, hangs his hat on the doorknob, and takes off his shoes. Sometimes he rumbles under his breath a few curse words that end with “that imbecile mole,” and when he catches me snickering, he asks, “So you think moles are funny too, huh?” I shake my head until my hair is in my eyes, but Uncle Max is already knocking lightly on his bedroom door and enters before an answer comes from within. He no longer asks me for his slippers, and I don’t offer to fetch them. Aunt Puica and he remain in their room until suppertime.

  At the dining table, the meal is eaten in relative silence, except for the occasional “Would you please pass the salt, the butter, or the bread?” Gone are the squabbles between my mother and Aunt Puica, as well as any political gossip exchanged by the men. Something has shifted. There is a disturbing feeling of politeness in the air, the kind usually reserved for strangers.

  On the few occasions when the grownups talk politics or anything that may compromise us, all the windows in the house are shut hermetically (Tata’s word, not mine), and I am given the chore of covering the telephone with a giant down pillow as an added precautio
n. “Just in case the phone is tapped and the Securitate is listening in,” Grandma Iulia says. Even then, the conversations are whispered.

  THE NIGHT IS MOONLESS without any reflection from the terrace. Even the back of the bookcase that separates my bed from my parents’ side of the room is invisible in the darkness, but I know it’s there. The room is so quiet, it feels empty. I realize that Tata’s even snores are missing. I call for my mother, but no one answers. I crawl out of my bed and into theirs, hoping to find the reassuring comfort of their bodies. The discovery that my parents are gone spreads through me from the pit of my stomach down to my toes and back up my spine all the way to where I feel my hair connect to my scalp.

  I have been alone in our room before, but never at night. I listen for unusual sounds, but all I hear is my own shallow breath. I dart out from under the covers and run straight into Grandma Iulia and Grandpa Yosef’s bedroom without knocking. I am met with the same stony silence, the same thick darkness. The dining room is empty as well. I can barely make out the outline of the dining table. Uncle Natan’s cot is illuminated by the cinema’s blinking blue light coming in through the window overlooking the back alley. His bedcovers are thrown back as if he has just gotten up. I choke back tears, wiping my face with my pajama sleeve, tasting salt. My heart is pounding. I scratch on Aunt Puica’s door as softly as a mouse.

  “Come in,” a voice answers. I am relieved to hear Aunt Puica but wonder why Uncle Max is not in bed next to her. She is propped up against her giant pillows, the light from her cigarette barely illuminating her profile. “What do you want?” she asks.

  “No one’s home,” I tell her.

  “I know,” she says, blowing the cigarette smoke out through her nostrils.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Out. Standing in line at City Hall, waiting to file passport applications so that we can finally leave this hole. Thank God, Max can apply for both of us. I hate standing in line in the cold for anything.”

  “Leave?” I swallow. “Where are we going?”

  “To Israel, of course, where all Jews belong.”

  “Jews?”

  “Yes, of course, Jews, stupid. Do you think the Communists are dumb enough to let the goyim go too? No one would be left in this godforsaken country if they opened the borders to everyone.”

  I remain standing by her bed. I want to sink into the comfort of her armchair or, even better, I’d like to slide under the covers next to her and go back to sleep. But instead, I ask the obvious:

  “We are Jews?”

  “What the hell do you think we are, Nazis?”

  “We are Jews,” I repeat.

  “Of course. Stop gaping at me and get back to bed,” she says, waving me out with her cigarette.

  BACK IN BED I pull my covers around me and wait to warm up. In the dark, I reach for the surface of my nightstand and find my turquoise box. I open it and feel for the small cylindrical container that Grandpa Yosef gave me just a few days ago. Even with my eyes closed, I can see the black letters written on the cream parchment that’s hidden inside. I clutch the cool metal tube in my hand until it gets warm, and finally I fall asleep.

  DURING SABINA’S VACATION

  IN THE MORNING my parents’ bed is still empty. Instead of Grandpa Yosef, it is Sabina who wakes me with a knock on the door, bringing a tray with a small pot of hot chocolate and pouring me a frothy cup. I breathe in the steaming aroma before I take a sip. The anticipation of my first taste is more delicious than the entire cup. I love the thick chocolate mingled with fresh cream, love dipping my upper lip into the froth to create a mustache I can lick off. Sabina has cut a crusty baguette into even, buttered slices and arranged them on the plate in a flower pattern, adding a touch of color in the middle with a dollop of strawberry jam. Rather than retire to the kitchen, she sits on the edge of my bed and watches as I eat.

  “Master Yosef and your grandma Iulia went out last night with the rest of them,” Sabina finally says, tucking a stray strand of hair into her turban. “I told Doamna Iulia that it’s not a good idea for her to be standing in line all night in the cold, especially after her bout with phlebitis, but she wouldn’t listen. She’s bound to catch pneumonia and her legs will swell up again. Then she’ll have to contend with those ugly leeches all over, and Dr. Khan will be angry, but she’s a stubborn one, your grandma.”

  “Sabina, did you know that we’re Jewish?”

  Sabina stares at me blankly. “So? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Nothing,” I lie, trying to act as casual as possible. “I was just wondering if we’ll get in trouble with the Party.”

  “Don’t you be worrying about the Party, Miss Eva. The Communists have only been around since the end of the war. Jews are nothing new around here.”

  “Why does everyone hate Jews?”

  “How should I know? I’m not a Jew, thank God.” Sabina crosses herself. “Maybe it’s because Jews don’t believe in Jesus,” she says, smiling and showing off her gold front tooth. “But then,” she adds with a huge grin, “neither do the members of the Communist Party, do they? So who are they to talk?”

  “Do you believe in Jesus, Sabina?”

  “Of course,” she answers indignantly. “What a question!”

  “Who was Jesus?” I ask, guessing that Jesus must be the same Lord whom Andrei is always talking about with such reverence.

  Sabina looks at me funny and crosses herself again. “Jesus Christ, how can you not know who Jesus is, even if you are Jewish? What a shame! Jesus is our Lord, our savior, and the son of God.” She puts her palms together as if in prayer and raises her eyes up past the cracks in our ceiling. “Even the poorest of the poor and the dumbest of the dumb from Bucovina, people who can’t read and write, know that.”

  I don’t comment, knowing that Sabina herself can barely read and write. She rolls on. “Why aren’t those Bolsheviks down on their knees in church where they belong? If they’re so high and mighty, why is everyone so miserable since they’ve come to power? I’ll tell you why—because there’s only one High and Mighty, and that’s God. And Jesus Christ our Lord is His son, and this entire country has lost sight of that. That’s why we are being punished with this Communist scourge. It’s a damn shame when children like you don’t even know who Jesus is. They ought to teach you about Jesus in school.” I have never heard Sabina express an opinion so passionately about anything before.

  “They don’t teach us religion in school, Sabina,” I try to explain, but she interrupts.

  “I’ll tell you who Jesus was. Jesus gave his life for you and me. He preached peace, and instead, his own people, the Jews, betrayed him.”

  “Jesus was Jewish?” I ask, stunned.

  “Yes,” Sabina answers.

  “Then how come people hate Jews?”

  Sabina doesn’t seem to hear my question. “The Romans crucified Jesus and placed a crown of thorns on his head,” she continues. “He died on Good Friday for all of our sins, and he rose again on Easter Sunday.” She crosses herself again.

  “They took him off the cross after he died?”

  “Yes. But he was resurrected.”

  “What’s resurrected?” I ask.

  “It means he came back from the dead.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “Only if you are Jesus.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. Do you know anyone else who was resurrected?”

  “No,” I have to admit, but I think that maybe there are other people who might have been resurrected and we just didn’t know about them since they’re not as famous as Jesus. I wonder why Jews don’t believe in Jesus and why a Jew would betray another Jew. I save these questions for Grandpa Yosef. But I still don’t understand why most people hate Jews, especially if Jesus was Jewish.

  I wonder if Andrei will stop being my friend once he finds out that I’m Jewish. And I’m worried about how I can explain to him that Jews are just like everyone
else when I don’t even know the difference between a Jew and a Christian. All I know is that yesterday I wasn’t Jewish and today I am. I am still the same person, yet everything has changed overnight.

  “Sabina, do you hate me because I’m Jewish?” I ask, looking up at her turban.

  Sabina crosses herself again before answering. “Hate you? Why would you ever think such a thing, Miss Eva? I love you,” she says, giving me a huge hug. “You didn’t kill Jesus, even if your kind did.”

  “Is that why people hate Jews?”

  “I don’t know why anyone hates anybody. I guess many people hate the Jews for killing Jesus, but I think they’re wrong. We may as well hate the Italians, who are Catholic, just for being descendants of the Romans, because they were in power at the time and ordered Jesus’ crucifixion. But that would be just as wrong as hating Jews. If you ask me, hating anyone is against what Jesus preached.” Sabina shakes her head, her turban slipping and settling a little crooked right above her forehead.

  “Jesus said, ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’ When you believe that, there’s no room for hate in your heart.” Sabina tears a piece of baguette and chews loudly, the few teeth left in her mouth having a hard time with the crust.

  “Speaking of Jesus,” she continues in between bites, “I’m going home on Friday for my nephew’s christening, so I’m counting on you to set the table while I’m gone. Agreed?”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Of course. I’ll be back in a week. Are you going to miss me?”

  I wrap my arms around Sabina and give her a big hug, and as she hugs me back I feel her belly shaking up and down with laughter under the folds of her peasant skirts.

  MAMA AND TATA are home from work on a Monday, but we’re not going on vacation. Uncle Max shows up early for lunch, and even Uncle Natan is resting on his cot, hiding as usual behind his newspaper. Aunt Puica hasn’t emerged from her bedroom, and Grandma Iulia has disappeared into the kitchen. Grandpa Yosef is taking a nap. The house feels just like it did the night they were all standing in line at City Hall, waiting to fill out passport applications so we can leave the country. Except now the house isn’t empty. Everyone is home and the mood is somber.