Under a Red Sky

  Since Sabina is away at her nephew’s christening, Grandma Iulia has brought in Margareta, a temporary housekeeper from Transylvania, to help with the laundry. Margareta takes a big knife and starts hacking away at a huge bar of brown soap. She places the soap slices in a glass bowl, eyeing me.

  “What are you staring at, Miss Eva? Doesn’t your Sabina slice soap for the washing machine?” Margareta asks.

  “Nope. She grates it like Parmesan cheese,” I whisper.

  “Is that so?” Margareta smirks. “Let Sabina work harder, if she’s got nothing better to do. Soap dissolves just as quickly when it’s sliced in chunks as when it’s grated. Too much work.”

  I notice that Margareta is younger that Sabina, and she doesn’t wear a turban or peasant skirts. She’s wearing a khaki army skirt and matching shirt with buttoned lapels at the shoulders. A small golden pin with sheaves of wheat, Romania’s Communist crest, is pinned onto her shirt collar. Her two thick braids meet in a crown that’s neatly pinned at the top of her head.

  “Eva,” Grandma Iulia’s voice calls from the kitchen, “please set the table.”

  I leave Margareta with her bowl of soap slices by the washing machine and run into the dining room. Everyone except Grandma Iulia is already seated at the table, but eating seems to be the last thing on their minds. They don’t notice me as I lay out the tablecloth and place the silverware and plates in front of them. After I set out the water glasses and napkins, I sit at my place, but still no one mentions food.

  Mother is sitting across from Grandpa Yosef, with her hands folded on the table. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Papa,” she says. “It happened so quickly. Maria, the principal’s secretary, came into the ballet studio and apologized for interrupting my class. She told me to report to Comrade Nicolai’s office right away. When I got there, Comrade Nicolai just handed me a letter she had received early this morning from the Ministry of Education. The letter states that any citizen who has recently filed for a passport to emigrate to Israel is to be dismissed from work immediately.” Grandpa is speechless, waiting for my mother to continue. “Comrade Nicolai started crying as she hugged me goodbye,” Mama says. “That’s all there is to it, Papa. I don’t have a job anymore.”

  “That makes two of us,” my father whispers as his fingers press some loose tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

  “Make that three,” Uncle Natan chimes in, making a snorting sound from behind his paper.

  “Stop that!” Aunt Puica snaps. “It’s so disgusting.”

  “I can’t help it,” Uncle Natan says, embarrassed. “I’ve got allergies.”

  “And I thought I had it bad.” Uncle Max sighs. “They told me that due to my indispensable function as an expert housepainter, I get to keep my job at half pay at the Ministry of Construction.”

  “This isn’t funny, Max. What are we going to do?” Aunt Puica’s voice is filled with panic.

  “Survive,” Grandpa Yosef answers.

  “How?” Aunt Puica’s voice is shrill. “Do you propose that all seven of us, plus the Child, live on Max’s half salary? What about Sabina?”

  “I don’t know yet how we will survive,” Grandpa says, “but we will. Iulia and I still have our pension. We didn’t receive any notices.”

  “Your pension will buy us just enough food to impale on a toothpick,” Aunt Puica says with a smirk.

  “And we all have some savings,” Grandpa continues.

  “How long do you think our savings will last?” Aunt Puica asks. “A week? A month, if we all go on a diet? What about the rent and the phone? Or maybe you think we should give up the phone and live in the dark ages all over again?”

  My parents reach for each other’s hands. Uncle Max finally speaks, choosing his words carefully. His mustache twitches with each word. “With all due respect, Papa, we are not living in the old days, when you could replace a job with another job. Today there’s only one employer, the Communist Party.” His words hang in the air.

  “I am well aware of that,” Grandpa Yosef answers. “We’re just going to have to be creative.”

  “Creative? Papa, have you lost your mind?” Aunt Puica raises her voice. “Do you want us to get so creative that we all land in jail for working illegally?”

  “Sweetheart,” Grandpa Yosef says to her, “why get upset? It’s not going to help the situation. Let’s eat. I’m hungry. We’ll all feel better with a little bit of food in our stomachs. Eva, go into the kitchen and help your grandmother bring out the food.”

  IN THE MORNING, my parents are in bed, since they have nowhere else to go. It feels like a holiday, but I am late for school. I wash quickly and run into the kitchen for my hot chocolate. Still tasting the sweetness in my mouth, I slide my schoolbag straps over my shoulders and race down the stairs, jumping the last two stairs into our yard, where I nearly knock Margareta over.

  “Watch yourself,” she mumbles indignantly as she struggles with a huge valise.

  “I’m sorry, I’m late!” I answer breathlessly and run off wondering why Margareta is leaving before Sabina has returned.

  AT SCHOOL no one mentions anything about their parents losing their jobs, so I assume that my parents must be the only ones. I am so relieved I never told any of my friends that I’m Jewish.

  When I come home, I find Tata sitting on the terrace floor with a bunch of newspapers laid out in front of him. He is holding the vase that usually stands on top of our Biedermeier chest of drawers, the vase that once belonged to his mother, which curiously still smells of lilac branches and roses. The vase is broken into many pieces; the only part intact is the base. Tata is so intent on gluing the pieces back together that he doesn’t even look up when I step onto the terrace.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I found it broken on top of the bureau,” Tata says without looking up. “I was going to ask you if you knew anything about how this happened.”

  “No,” I stammer. “I didn’t see it broken, but I was late for school and I ran out.”

  “Well, it was broken when your mother and I got up this morning.”

  “I didn’t do it, Tata, I swear.”

  “I hope not,” Tata says as he holds a sharp shard of porcelain with a pair of tweezers and tries to fit it together with another broken piece. I notice that his face is flushed, but Tata’s hands are as steady as if he were doing surgery on a person. “Who would do such a thing without owning up?” he asks, never lifting his eyes from his work to look at me.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him, and let out a long breath. “But I saw Margareta leave this morning with a big valise.”

  “She left this morning?” Tata asks.

  “I bumped into her in the yard on my way to school.”

  “I thought she wasn’t due to leave until Sabina comes back, not for at least another week or so. Go ask Grandma. Hurry!”

  Grandma Iulia is napping with her mouth half open. The book she was reading is resting on top of her duvet. My entrance startles her even though I tiptoe in.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” I say.

  “That’s all right, sweetheart. It’s not good for me to nap during the day. Now I’ll be up all night again.”

  “Grandma, Tata’s upset because he found his mother’s vase broken in pieces on top of our bureau, and Margareta is gone.”

  Grandma sits up at once. “What do you mean she’s gone?”

  “I saw her leave this morning with a big valise.”

  “Oh no,” Grandma groans, reaching for her robe. She opens the armoire door and slides her hand under the stacked linens. Not finding what she is looking for, she takes everything out, placing all the crisp sheets and pillowcases on her bed and sifting through each one. “I was afraid of this,” she murmurs.

  “What’s wrong, Grandma?”

  “That little witch did a lot more damage than break your father’s vase,” she whispers through pursed lips. “She stole the only piece of jewelry I had left.”

  �
�What jewelry?”

  “After the war I sold everything. I’m not one for baubles, and with the Communist takeover, it was too dangerous to keep any gold and stones anyway. But I saved a gold chain with a Magen David pendant for you.”

  “What’s a Magen David, Grandma?”

  “It’s the Star of David, darling, the Jewish star. But it’s gone now. I am so sorry,” she says. Her eyes are full of tears.

  “That’s okay, Grandma. I wouldn’t be able to wear it in school anyway.”

  “I know, but I wanted you to have it. I was hoping you could wear it someday.”

  “It’s not your fault, Grandma,” I tell her, trying to make her feel better, but she is as upset as Tata. Except she can’t glue the pieces back together.

  CINE TIE CTIG—THOSE IN THE KNOW ARE IN THE DOUGH

  UNCLE NATAN shows up in the dining room with a bunch of books and plops them down next to mine. I’m doing my homework. He sits across from me, opens his notebook, and starts writing on the lined pages with a squeaky pen. Every now and then he takes off his thick, greasy glasses and wipes them with his T-shirt. When he does this, he always makes a snorting sound as if he’s about to sneeze. His nostrils flare and I can see the black hairs sticking out of his nose, but his sneeze never happens.

  “Uncle Natan?” I ask softly, not wanting to disturb him.

  “What?” he answers, without looking up from his notebook.

  “What are you studying?”

  “I’m reading up on Charlie Chaplin,” he says, sliding one of the books across the table so I can see it. The book has a black-and-white photograph on its cover of a little man with a mustache. The guy is wearing a round hat, and his pants and shoes are too large for him.

  “Who’s Charlie Chaplin?” I ask.

  “Charlie Chaplin is the greatest comedian in the world,” Uncle Natan declares, his frog eyes looking up over his glasses. “Your grandpa used to show his films all the time, when we owned the movie house. Before the war, I saw every Charlie Chaplin movie that was ever made, at least three times.”

  “Is he funny?”

  “Hilarious.”

  “I wish I could see him,” I answer. “What made him so funny?”

  “Everything. You see the outfit he’s wearing?” Uncle Natan asks, pointing to Chaplin’s baggy pants. “He created this character called ‘the Tramp,’ who always gets into trouble.”

  “What’s so funny about the Tramp getting into trouble?”

  “People like to laugh at other people’s misfortunes. It’s called ‘comic relief.’”

  I can tell Uncle Natan is getting impatient with me, but I’m too curious to stop. “Why are you studying him if you’ve already seen all of his movies?” I ask.

  Uncle Natan shuts his Charlie Chaplin book with a thud and answers me in a solemn voice. “I’ve been invited to be a contestant on a new game show on the radio, Those in the Know Are in the Dough. I could win a lot of money if I do well.”

  “You’re going to be on the radio?” I ask, astounded.

  “I am.” Uncle Natan taps the end of a cigarette against the table and lights his match with a single flick of his wrist. His nostrils push out two long tunnels of smoke as he continues. “You’re going to have to be a good girl and allow me to study so that I can win for all of us. We need the money now.”

  “You mean because no one has a job anymore, except for Uncle Max?”

  Uncle Natan ignores my question. Instead he announces, “If I do well, I’ll buy you any present you want.”

  “You will?” I’m so excited I pinch myself right above my knee-highs under the table.

  “Yes, I’m going to buy everyone a present. Grandma Iulia and Grandpa Yosef, your mother and father, Aunt Puica and Uncle Max, even Sabina.”

  “How does the game show work? Are you sure you can win?” I ask.

  “I hope so. They give every contestant a choice of category, such as geography, history, economics, Romanian literature, theater, and so on. I chose film, of course.”

  “Of course,” I add quickly. “But what made you choose Charlie Chaplin?”

  “Why not?” Uncle Natan asks. “They gave me a choice between comedy and horror. No contest there, but I still have to study.”

  “How much money can you make?” I wonder out loud.

  “Enough to buy you two presents instead of one. What would you like?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer quickly, hoping he won’t change his mind. “I definitely want a blue velvet dress with a white lace collar and also a toy or a game, but I’m not sure what yet.”

  “Done. The blue velvet dress will be yours,” Uncle Natan says, smiling. “You let me know what toy you want and I’ll add that to my list. But now you’ll have to run along so I can study, okay?”

  I don’t mind giving up the dining room table for a while, not if I can get my blue velvet dress and a toy out of it. On my way out I bump into Uncle Max, who’s just arrived from work. Uncle Max already knows all about Uncle Natan’s upcoming appearance on Those in the Know Are in the Dough.

  “Natan’s going to win,” he reassures me, picking me up in his arms and giving me an itchy kiss with his mustache.

  “How do you know, Uncle Max?”

  “Because Natan’s smarter than all of us put together.” Uncle Max laughs. “That boy’s got a photographic memory. If I had his brains, I would be a doctor living the good life in South Africa, which is exactly where he could have been today if he weren’t scared of his own shadow. You can thank your grandmamma for that. She’s coddled him as if he were still in diapers.” Uncle Max takes me into his room and sinks into his armchair with a sigh. He loosens his shoelaces and takes off his shoes. “What is this, Eva? I can’t count on you for my slippers anymore?”

  “They’re under the armchair,” I tell him, sliding his slippers under his feet. “Uncle Max, do you really think Uncle Natan’s got a chance at winning on Those in the Know Are in the Dough?”

  “Absolutely. Unless he blows it all on the last question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They give you an all-or-nothing choice at the end. If you answer the ninth question correctly, then you have a chance to double your earnings. If you blow it, then you’ve just forfeited all of your previous winnings and go home with nothing. What do you think, that Communists are stupid? No one likes to give away money. That’s why they always save the most difficult question for last. Of course, Uncle Natan can pass on answering the ninth question, in which case he gets to keep all his earnings without doubling them. That’s up to him.”

  “Wow. Do you think he’ll want to answer the ninth question?”

  “I have no idea. It all depends on how he does up to that point. If he gets eight questions right, then chances are he’ll have the correct answer to the ninth as well.”

  “I want him to win big, Uncle Max.” The thought of losing my beautiful blue velvet dress even before I get it is dreadful.

  I’M DYING TO FIGURE OUT what kind of game I can get, but I don’t know where to look. I’ve never been to a toy store. I’m not even sure that they exist in Bucharest. Where do toys come from, anyway? Certainly not from the farmers’ market where I got my chicken with Grandpa Yosef.

  “What are you daydreaming about?” Uncle Max asks.

  “I still haven’t figured out what kind of toy I should ask Uncle Natan to buy me when he wins on Those in the Know Are in the Dough.”

  Uncle Max looks at me with a big grin on his face. “How about I take you out to the toy show that just arrived in town? Then you can have something to dream about.”

  “There’s a toy show in town?”

  “There is. There are marvelous toys on display from abroad. What do you say? Want to go?”

  “Can we go right now?”

  “Now? I just got home and haven’t even eaten. Your aunt Puica will get mad if I skip a meal.”

  “Can’t you eat when we get back, Uncle Max?”

  “Go grab yo
ur coat,” he says.

  I’m in the hall closet in a flash, tugging my coat to loosen it from the hanger that’s too high for me to reach. The coat lands on the floor in a pile of dust, and I push my arms through the armholes so quickly that my sweater bunches up. Uncle Max grabs his hat and shouts in the direction of the kitchen, “Puica, I’m going out with the Child. We’ll be back in a couple of hours and we’ll eat then.”

  Uncle Max lets the front door slam behind us before hearing a reply. I take his hand and pull him down the stairs and through the front yard before anyone has a chance to call us back.

  THE TOY SHOW is in a huge, crowded tent in one of Bucharest’s central squares. Parents and kids are fighting for space around the display tables to see the latest toy imports. Most toys come from other Communist bloc countries, like Hungary, Bulgaria, Poland, and the USSR, but there are a few tables featuring dolls from France and board games from Italy. Those tables draw the largest crowds. I let go of Uncle Max’s hand and crawl on all fours, maneuvering between the spectators’ legs and feet until I reach a table. I pull myself up with both hands anchored to the edge of the table and take a good look.

  “Eva, where are you?” Uncle Max’s voice floats above a sea of drab winter kerchiefs and fur hats that smell of cigarette smoke.

  “I’m here,” I answer, but I don’t care if he’s heard me. I only have eyes for what’s on that table. The track before me is a whirlwind of speeding color. Ribbons of red, blue, and yellow toy cars are racing one another as voices from around the table cheer them on.

  “Red, red, revolution red! Goooooo, red!” a boy with a red ski cap is hollering while waving his fists in the air. “True blue. Go blue. Blue is true!” chant a father and son in unison. “Yellow, yellow, yellow brings good luck,” an old man with gnarly hands is muttering under his breath while shaking his finger at his favorite car as if he could magically make it win the race.