Under a Red Sky

  I am so hypnotized by the speeding cars that I cannot blink. I imagine myself in the driver’s seat of the red car with the air rushing past my ears. My eyes are glued to the road. My mind wills the wheels to respond to my commands. “Go steady on the right and gain on yellow.” The car swerves right, following my thoughts. The finish line is in the distance, but a blue car is gaining on me to the left. I press on the accelerator and change lanes. There are blinking lights and flags waving as my car races past the gate. “We have a winner here! Red is the winner!” a voice booms as the blood rushes to my ears. I step on the brakes, and the car rolls to a halt.

  A shrill whistle blows directly above my head. I look up and see Uncle Max standing in front of the table with the race cars, with two fingers stuck in his mouth, signaling everyone to come to attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, comrades and esteemed members of the Communist Party … has anyone ever seen anything as exciting as this recent import from our lowlife capitalist neighbors? Imagine, comrades, if we work our butts off and pool all of the cash from around this table, perhaps we can buy a real car for all of us to cooperatively share by the end of the century. Excuse me, I meant by the end of our next five-year cooperative economic plan. But it really doesn’t matter, since we don’t have far to drive. We can drive around the block in Bucharest, or around this game board, because God knows, we can’t drive out of this country, not even if we’re Jewish. Forgive me, comrades, how stupid of me to mention God. No, we must be firm believers in Mother Russia and our savior, the Communist Party.” Uncle Max is surveying the tent with a straight face, but I can see the hint of a smile breaking under his mustache.

  I lower myself onto my hands and knees and slide under the table again. Doesn’t Uncle Max remember Silviu’s warning? “Comrades, this is the closest any of us will ever come to sitting our asses down in the driver’s seat of one of these vehicles.” An uncomfortable silence descends. I get up and grab Uncle Max’s hand and tug at him to go. Everyone around us is smiling sheepishly.

  A man behind the table wearing an official-looking name tag eyes Uncle Max carefully and breaks into a polite smile. “Sir, are you interested in purchasing this game?” he asks.

  “I am.” Uncle Max takes his glasses out of his shirt pocket and wipes them with his handkerchief.

  I am so worried that Uncle Max will get into trouble with his big mouth that I don’t even care about the game anymore. He’ll definitely catch hell from Aunt Puica for buying it, especially since his money now pays everyone’s bills. She’s always reminding me, “You must allow Max his rest, Eva. He doesn’t have the energy to play with you like he used to. We can’t afford for him to get sick.”

  “Let’s go!” I whisper and pull him away. But Uncle Max is walking confidently out the door with the race-car game in a shopping bag.

  Back home, I’m relieved that Uncle Max doesn’t allow me to play with my new game. “This must be put away until Natan wins on Those in the Know Are in the Dough,” Uncle Max tells me as he slides the brown box tied with red string onto a high shelf in his armoire. “We’ll have a big celebration and unveil the game then. Don’t tell anyone that I bought it. It will be a great surprise,” he reassures me with a loud kiss on my cheek. “Natan better win, because I spent three months’ rent on your game.”

  THE COUNTDOWN BEGINS. Every day after school I run into the dining room to check on Uncle Natan’s progress, but he just says a curt hello and ignores me. He is intent on reading up to the last minute about Charlie Chaplin. His notes have filled an entire notebook.

  On the day of the contest Uncle Natan is decked out in a gray suit, white shirt, and navy silk tie. His hair is slicked back with brilliantine, and his thick glasses are grease-free. The corner of a folded white handkerchief peeks out of his jacket pocket. His black shoes have been polished to a mirror shine. On his way out, Grandma Iulia spits three times into the palm of her right hand and pats him on his head—“to ward off the evil Communist eyes,” she says, giving him a hug. An hour later, Grandpa Yosef brings his Grundig radio from their bedroom into the dining room, where we are all gathered to listen to Those in the Know Are in the Dough.

  The music swells and fades as the show’s announcer comes on. “Good evening, comrades.” His voice sounds as if he’s holding his nose. “Tonight we are proud to bring you two contestants ready to prove once again that those in the know are in the dough! Comrade Roxana Grigore has chosen geography as her category, and her topic will be the Great Rivers of Europe. Please welcome Comrade Grigore.” The music swells again as everyone at our dining room table waits intently for the announcer to introduce Uncle Natan. “Our second contestant is Comrade Natan Natanson, who has chosen film as his category and the great comedian Charles Chaplin as his topic.” Everyone at our table bursts into nervous laughter and starts to applaud. Grandpa is still clapping long after the music has stopped.

  “Shhh, they’re starting,” Aunt Puica says, and we all fall silent. The rules of the game are spelled out by the announcer, and he begins by asking, “Comrade Grigore, are you ready to play Those in the Know Are in the Dough?” The audience roars, “Yes!!!”

  I am too anxious for Uncle Natan’s turn to listen to Comrade Grigore’s answers about the great rivers of Europe. Besides, who cares about a bunch of rivers we’re never going to see? Tata once told me that, before the Communists came to power, you could travel throughout Europe, and anywhere else in the world. All you needed was a passport and money. But now the Communist Party issues passports only to officials on diplomatic business abroad and once in a while to performers or artists who are on tour. That’s how my cousin Mimi got to see the Great Wall of China.

  Comrade Grigore blows the eighth question, so she doesn’t get a chance to double her winnings.

  “Congratulations, Comrade Grigore! What are you going to do now that you are seven thousand lei richer?”

  “I’m going to take my husband and little boy on a beach vacation to Constana and perhaps on a day cruise on the Danube.”

  “What a great idea. Let’s all give a hand to Comrade Grigore, a true lover of rivers!”

  Grandma Iulia darts to the kitchen door and sticks her head in. “Come on, Sabina, Natan’s on now.” Sabina emerges from the kitchen and tucks the folds of her turban behind her ears so she can hear better. Grandpa Yosef pulls out a chair and motions for her to join us. Mama and Tata are holding hands under the table in a tight fist. Aunt Puica and Uncle Max both have forgotten the cigarettes hanging between their lips. The smoke is rising toward the ceiling, and the ashes are accumulating. Grandpa is hunched by the radio, his ear right up against the speaker. And Grandma sits in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap.

  For the first eight questions, Uncle Natan gets every answer right. Everyone around the table breaks into nervous laughter and applauds after each of his answers.

  “Comrade Natan Natanson,” the announcer’s nasal twang resumes over the airwaves. “We now pose the most difficult question of all. Do you want to try your luck with question number nine for a chance to double your winnings? Take your time … You’ve got exactly thirty seconds to make up your mind. Comrades, let’s see what’s it going to be … Double … or nothing?” The theme from the game show is playing.

  “Don’t be a fool, Natan, go for it!” Uncle Max shouts at the radio.

  Aunt Puica starts to giggle. Sabina’s mouth is gaping open, her turban slightly askew. Tata whispers in Mama’s ear loud enough for me to hear, “He’s not going to take it.” Grandpa’s ear is still glued to the radio, while Grandma shakes her head and mutters, “A bird in the hand is a bird in the hand.”

  Nine thousand lei or eighteen thousand lei—that’s a lot of money for the grownups to buy food and pay bills for a few months. Who cares? I can see myself already dancing in my new blue velvet dress at our big family celebration. All of my younger cousins will be green with envy.

  “Your time is up, Comrade Natanson. Which is it going to be? Will y
ou take the money or take your chance?”

  “I’ll take the money,” Uncle Natan answers flatly.

  “Good boy,” Grandma Iulia says, nodding her head.

  “You idiot!” Uncle Max shouts and leaves the room.

  “Max, come back here!” Aunt Puica yells after him in a panic.

  “They’re about to ask him the ninth question, to see if he would have gotten it right.”

  “Who cares?” Uncle Max hollers back.

  “Of course he would have gotten it right,” my father says with a disgusted smile.

  “Who asked you?” Aunt Puica quips.

  Mama turns to Tata. “Ignore her rotten mouth.”

  The announcer’s voice continues. “Comrade Natanson, just to satisfy our curious listeners and our studio audience, who have all been rooting for you, please answer the ninth question, which comes to you in two parts. What is Charlie Chaplin’s wife’s maiden name, and who was her famous father?”

  Uncle Natan answers without hesitation. “Charlie Chaplin’s wife’s name is Oona O’Neill, and her father was the American playwright Eugene O’Neill.”

  “You are so right, Comrade Natanson. Unfortunately, we cannot count your answer since you declined our double or nothing offer. Congratulations! You still get to go home with nine thousand more lei in your pocket. I almost forgot to ask, what are you going to do with the money?”

  “I’m going to share it with my family. My niece has asked for a blue velvet dress and a toy, which she will surely get now.”

  “You are a generous man, Comrade Natanson. Good luck, and don’t forget … Those in the know are in the dough!”

  MY DREAM COMES TRUE. We have a huge family get-together, for which Grandma Iulia cooks for an entire week. I don’t know how much the money helps with the household bills, but it surely puts everyone in a better mood. Sabina sweeps every corner of the house, gets up on a ladder to dust away the cobwebs, and applies a thick coat of wax to all the furniture. Grandpa Yosef goes to the market several times that week and brings back every goody he can get his hands on: a hard Hungarian salami from Sibiu, beef bones for vegetable soup, new potatoes and tiny green peas for Grandma’s Viennese potato salad, feta cheese and black Kalamata olives for Aunt Puica’s “Oriental” salad, and chopped meat from which Mama makes mititei—herb-spiced Romanian hamburgers in the shape of little sausages—and Greek-style grape leaves stuffed with rice. Aunt Puica is in charge of the hors d’oeuvres, the salad, and the drinks. My mother also bakes a chocolate cake using a stash of chocolate bars that had been saved for just such an occasion, and Grandma bakes her famous cozonac.

  The entire house smells like a birthday party. I take in the aromas wafting from the kitchen and dance from room to room in anticipation of our guests’ arrival. All of Grandma’s siblings are expected along with their families. Grandpa’s sisters will also come with their own spouses and children. Uncle Lazr, Grandpa’s older brother, is invited as well, which is a huge concession on Grandma Iulia’s part since she has never forgiven him for his hand in our being detained behind the iron curtain to live like cattle in this godforsaken, Communist, cockroach-infested country where we are all bound to rot—unless, God willing, God will intervene.

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, Uncle Natan gives my mother money to buy my blue velvet dress, which magically appears laid out on my bed before the party, complete with white lace collar and mother-of-pearl buttons. The dress is a perfect fit. The blue velvet is as deep and as soft as the view of the dusk sky from our terrace in early summer. How did Mama know the exact color I had been dreaming about? How did she figure my size without my trying on the dress? When things go this well, I learn not to ask questions and just be happy. I put the dress on and linger in front of the armoire mirror. Nothing feels tight. Everything flows in the right places. I so wish I could wear this dress to school every single day. Then perhaps I could lift up the hem of my stiff uniform and show Andrei the color of my dress.

  GRANDMA’S SISTERS AND BROTHERS arrive with their children, who are not children at all; they are close to my parents’ age, and they bring their children, my second cousins, whom I rarely see, except at birthday parties. But this is no ordinary birthday party, it is a big family celebration, and all of us kids run around, playing hide-and-seek behind the furniture, scaring each other with boos and horror tales, filling the entire house with new energy.

  The food keeps coming out of the kitchen as steadily as the flow of gossip and the noise escalates. Political rumors, however, are uttered in whispers. “Have you heard that they might open up immigration to Israel?” my cousin Carol asks Uncle Max, who nods knowingly. “I heard Mrs. Mandelbaum is expecting a shipment of silk stockings from Hungary,” Aunt Fanny confides to Mama.

  The men retire to the dining room, where the table is draped with a heavy needlepoint rug, one of Grandma’s prized possessions from before the war that appears out of hiding. Bets are made and cigarettes are chain-smoked as the men play backgammon, chess, and cards.

  The women move from bedroom to bedroom in small groups and talk fashion. Aunt Puica brings out two dog-eared French magazines from under her bed. Every seam on every dress featured in those magazines is carefully analyzed, the fabric’s weight, texture, and color are discussed in detail, the necklines scrutinized, the proportions of the hemlines in relation to the shoes assessed. Oh, the shoes! The shoes are the biggest heartache, because they cannot be made by hand by a clever Romanian seamstress with a good eye who can copy anything she is shown in a French magazine. The shoes have to be smuggled in from Italy at great cost, and you have to have money tucked away for just such a rare occasion, because you never know when a shipment might arrive. Good timing, in fashion as in life, is everything.

  My cousins eye my new velvet dress, but none of them comment on it until I bring it up. They all ask where I got the dress. I tell them that Uncle Natan bought it with money from his radio show winnings, but I don’t know where my mother found it. We all run to find Mama and ask her. She says that it was custom-made by the same seamstress who makes the costumes for the national ballet corps. “I gave her your white cotton dress for size and told her to make it just a bit larger,” Mama says. “She did a great job, don’t you agree?”

  I am thrilled that my dress is so special you can’t buy it in a cooperative store, and all my girl cousins touch the fabric with great longing and get in line to try it on when Mama intervenes. “You can feel the fabric as long as your hands are clean, but you may not try it on because I don’t want the fabric to stretch or rip. This is Eva’s dress, and only she is allowed to wear it.”

  I am relieved, because I don’t want to get undressed in our drafty bedroom and stand in my white underwear while my cousins gawk at me.

  It isn’t as easy with the race-car game. Mama mentions it to make my cousins feel better, and they start to screech—“We want to race! We want to race! We want to race!”—until Uncle Max brings the game to the dining room.

  Once the race-car game is set up on the dining room table, everything in the house stops. It’s as if the game contains some kind of a magnet or silent siren that brings everyone together. Uncle Natan shuts his backgammon case while the men put out their cigarettes and gather around the table. The women drift in, their voices quieting to murmurs. Grandma and Grandpa emerge from the kitchen, with Sabina following close behind them. Even Andrei, who hasn’t been invited because Mama told him the party is only for family, appears from upstairs.

  Uncle Max sets up the game in silence. The motor under the track starts to whir as the cars pick up speed. We move our heads from side to side, following the bands of color looping around the track in a hypnotic trance. It is clear that the race-car game no longer belongs to me. We are all dreaming about what could be, yet the outcome of the dream is different for each of us.

  TATA BUILDS HIS DARKROOM

  NOW THAT UNCLE MAX is our sole “provider,” everyone treats him with exaggerated politeness. Mama has stopped squabbling with
Aunt Puica about favoring Uncle Max at dinnertime with a larger portion on his plate. And Aunt Puica is careful not to overdo it because she knows she’ll get in trouble with Grandma Iulia.

  On the same day that my parents lost their jobs, all the other Jews in the city who had filed for passport applications got fired as well. Virtually overnight, the entire Jewish population in Bucharest became unemployed. The few exceptions were those who hadn’t yet filed—Jews without family who did not wish to leave the country, or those who held high-paying jobs in key positions within the Communist Party and who were content to stay. There were some who were too old or too sick to emigrate.

  “Bucharest will have no cultural life once all the Jews have gone,” Tata jokes with Mama between drags on his pipe. “The Gentiles want to leave just as bad, but they don’t have an excuse like we do—to be repatriated in their homeland. Look who’s leaving: Jewish teachers and other artists like us, whom undoubtedly no other country wants, except Israel. Also economists, lawyers, engineers, scientists, doctors, nurses, and architects—maybe other countries want them. Who knows? Maybe we’ve got a few loudmouth big shots sprinkled in, since we Jews certainly don’t have a shortage of those. For now, whether we’ve been big shots or clerks—we’re all unemployed and unemployable. Our glorious Party has made certain that unemployment is the great leveler.” Tata’s voice is bouncing off our bedroom walls while Mama listens. “Just as death was the great leveler during the war. Did you know, Stefica, that in America they have such a thing as unemployment benefits? Can you believe that there could ever be a benefit to being unemployed?”

  Mama sits on the bed, listening in silence and knitting the sleeve of a sweater. Seeing that she has nothing to add, Tata concludes, “Of course, some of us are just too important and therefore indispensable to the Party, like Max. He gets to keep his job, at half pay. After all, the great proletariat needs a housepainter who can paint the Party’s gathering halls spanking white for their committee meetings.”