Under a Red Sky

by Haya Leah Molnar

  “That’s enough, Gyuri.” Mama sighs, looking up from her knitting. “I won’t have you speaking ill of Max. He’s putting bread on the table for all of us. We’re lucky he’s working.” Tata looks at Mama in amusement but adds nothing more.

  Mama and Tata have these talks often. She remains calm and steadfastly optimistic, never doubting that we are going to get out, that this suspended state of unemployment and life cannot last forever. She insists that the Communists will eventually come to their senses and issue us our passports. “We just have to be patient and wait our turn,” she says. “Why would the Romanian government give us permission to apply for passports if they never intended to allow us to leave?”

  “Good question, Stefica,” Tata retorts, pressing the tobacco tightly into his pipe bowl with his thumb. “You are so naïve, but I love the fact that at least one person in Bucharest is still employing some form of logic.”

  ON SUNDAY MORNING Mama asks me to go and help clear out her things at the ballet school.

  “How are you going to get in?” I ask.

  “Easy,” Mama answers. “Esther, the principal, gave me this. See?” She dangles the key to the school in front of me. “Esther still trusts me, but she wants me to do it on a Sunday, when the place is empty, so that my presence won’t upset the students and the rest of the staff.”

  At the school Mama cleans out her locker and her desk in less than ten minutes. We are on our way out when she stops in front of the auditorium door. “Do you remember my students’ ballet recitals, Eva?” she asks.

  “Yes, Mama, the dancing was so beautiful,” I tell her, knowing this will make her feel better.

  “Come on.” She grabs my hand and pulls me into the dark theater. Somehow Mama’s feet know exactly where to go, and we find ourselves backstage. She flips on a switch, and the stage is suddenly flooded with light. “Go on,” she says, giving me a push. I am standing on the empty stage with the orchestra pit below and a sea of empty seats staring back at me from the darkness. “Dance,” Mama whispers. “Get up on your toes and keep your head high. Lift your arms, that’s right,” she says. “Can you hear music, Eva? Hear the music in your head and keep dancing.” Her voice is only a whisper, yet it resonates in the empty theater. I can’t hear any music in my head, but I don’t want to disappoint Mama, so I fake it. I twirl and twirl until I get dizzy. I leap across the stage with my legs and arms spread wide open like an eagle or a plane, and to my surprise, I land safely. I squint, trying to make out Mama’s outline in the wings as I elevate myself onto my toes again and try to do a pirouette the way I had seen her advanced ballet students do it. When my own two feet stumble upon each other, I gasp for breath and run off into the wings, straight into Mama’s arms. She catches me. “That was great!” she says. “Isn’t it wonderful to dance, Eva? Even without music, it’s marvelous to dance.”

  “But, Mama, I have no idea how to really dance. I’ve never had any lessons!” I tell her.

  “I will teach you.”

  TATA IS HOLED UP in the bathroom when we return home. He is hanging a black curtain on the window and installing shelves for trays and chemicals in the bathtub.

  Mama takes off her coat and throws it on the bed. “Get out of the bathroom, Gyuri, I need to pee,” she says. “What are you doing in there?” she asks.

  “What does it look like? I’m setting up a mobile darkroom,” Tata answers.

  “You’re what?”

  “I told you, Stefica, I’m building a darkroom that I can easily assemble and disassemble so that I can print photographs. Victor was here earlier to offer his condolences about my losing my job. He also offered help. He came armed with optimism and a list of artists who need portraits right away—starting with most of the actresses and actors from the film studio. I’m setting up a darkroom so I can process the film and print the photos right here.”

  “Have you lost your mind, Gyuri? You can’t do that! This is a shared bathroom for the whole family. There are seven of us, plus Eva, Gyuri—”

  “I can count, Stefica, and I’m well aware of the drawbacks,” Tata interrupts while fitting a rubber tube onto the bathtub spout.

  “Gyuri, it’s illegal. All private enterprise, including freelancing, is illegal, you know that! You’ll get arrested if you get caught, and I can’t live like that.”

  Tata keeps working, but his body turns toward Mama. “Can you live without food, Stefi? Can you live beholden to your darling little sister’s husband? Is that okay with you?”

  Mama looks blankly at him and finally says, “Have you at least asked their permission?”

  “Whose permission? If you mean have I asked your parents’ permission, then the answer is no. It’s not their business. And if you mean have I asked your darling little sister’s permission, then that’s a definite no. And, Stefica, please don’t even dream of telling me to ask Max for anything, because then surely we will have a war in this house. I’m not going to ask anybody’s opinion or permission about what I should or shouldn’t do in order to support my family. They’re all just going to have to knock whenever they need to use the loo.”

  “That’s not fair,” Mama mutters.

  “Don’t talk to me about fair,” Tata snaps.

  TATA BUILDS HIS mobile darkroom in our common bathroom, and miraculously no one raises an objection. His loyal friends begin showing up right away for photo portraits. Most are well-known actors and actresses. They sit for him either in our bedroom, where Tata sets up lights and his camera on a tripod, or, on sunny days, on the terrace.

  Tata processes the film in the bathroom, and a few days later he meets with his “clients” in our bedroom over Turkish coffee to show them contact prints and proof prints of the best shots. If his clients visit in the afternoon when I’m home from school, I listen to the conversation while pretending to do my homework. Everyone raves about Tata’s work and pays him in cash. Tata sometimes sheepishly refuses payment, but invariably each one of his models insists, “I am lucky to have such a great artist shoot my portrait. Please accept this as a small token of my appreciation.” The folded money is pressed gently into Tata’s hand, and then he graciously accepts it as he puffs on his pipe and smiles.

  When things are slow because people are on vacation, Victor gets on the phone and drums up new clients. I don’t know how he does it, since he’s risking his hide because this is all illegal, but Victor gets results without getting caught. Friends and friends of friends ask for family portraits and photographs to mark birthday celebrations, weddings, and anniversaries. Victor acts as Tata’s agent—never taking a penny for his services. Though not an artist himself, Victor is in awe of art and the people who produce it. Despite all he has endured in the lagers, and the fact that he lost his entire family during the war, Victor remains one of those human beings who sees good in everyone.

  EVENTUALLY, Mama stops talking about how Tata could be arrested for carrying on an illegal freelance business, but I’m sure that the thought is lurking in the back of her mind, as it is always gnawing at me. We both know that a single phone call from an unfriendly or anti-Semitic acquaintance could land Tata in jail indefinitely. Whenever Mama alludes to being fearful, Tata reminds her that we simply have no choice but to trust our friends. One winter evening when the sun has set early, Grandpa comments over a bowl of vegetable broth at suppertime that we have to trust God. Tata makes no comment and continues to sip his soup.

  I long for the days when both my parents went to work. Tata still gets up at the crack of dawn. He showers and gets dressed as if he had somewhere to go. Grandpa Yosef, who is used to being the first one up, has a hard time adjusting to Tata’s presence in the kitchen.

  “I’ll make coffee,” Grandpa says, gently shooing him out. But Tata doesn’t want to hear of it. “Thanks, Papa, but I prefer to make my own coffee.” Grandpa Yosef is hurt and mentions the incident to Mama, who in turn confronts Tata.

  “Stefica darling,” Tata argues, “you simply don’t understand. Th
e way I was raised is that one doesn’t expect an elderly gentleman such as your father to cater to me. I am fully capable of brewing my own coffee. Besides, I do a better job of it.” Tata smirks and draws on his pipe.

  “You just hurt Papa’s feelings, Gyuri,” Mama pleads.

  “I did no such thing,” Tata insists. “Your father chose to feel hurt.”

  Mama rolls her eyes and sighs.

  It’s been six months since my parents lost their jobs, but it feels much longer. Our bedroom is even smaller since Tata camps out in it all day. He sits on the bed and fills his pipe with tobacco, never finishing the bowl before tapping the half-smoldering ashes out. Between smokes he cleans his pipe meticulously, pulling a thin brush through the narrow pipe stem, then refilling the still warm bowl. He does this with his nose stuck in a book, ignoring anyone who enters the room. In the afternoons, he occasionally takes long walks, with his camera always strapped around his neck. He never takes Mama or me along, but sometimes he meets friends from the Studio for coffee. On those days, his mood lifts, and when he returns home he is more like his old self.

  I TURN EIGHT in the spring, and I am close to completing second grade in June. My friends know nothing about my parents being unemployed. In school, I become more indoctrinated in Communist ideology, while at home I’m a Jewish girl in hiding, waiting to leave the country for Israel, a place I know nothing about. I try to imagine what Israel looks like, but I have no pictures of the land or books about it. Even though no one in my family has ever been there, Israel is now the center of our dreams and hopes. Sometimes I shut my eyes tight and wait for a glimpse of the place to come to me, but all I ever see is a glow of gold light that makes me feel warm and safe. Israel is more a feeling than a place.

  The thought of leaving home makes me terribly uneasy, yet it doesn’t matter. What choice do I have? The adults are going to leave with or without my permission, and they are going to take me with them. None of them, not even Grandpa, asked my opinion about whether they should stand in line all night for passport applications. None of them ever thought they would be unemployed because of it either. I’m tired of their lack of work and their long faces, and I’m tired of their tiptoeing around the house as if nothing’s happened. Even more, I’m tired of being afraid of being discovered as a Jew by the other kids in school. How can I defend myself if I don’t even know what I’ve done wrong? It’s not my fault that I was born Jewish. What is a Jew anyway? More than anything, I wish the world would stop hating Jews because I’m still the same person I was before I knew I was Jewish.

  “IF ALL JEWS WERE LIKE YOU”

  GRANDMA IULIA AND GRANDPA YOSEF are in their bedroom. The door is closed and they’re speaking Yiddish. It’s easy to figure out that they’re talking about me, since I understand enough to get the gist of what they’re saying. Several times they go back and forth between Yiddish and Romanian, totally forgetting that I’m right here in the room with them.

  “Have you lost your mind, Yosef?” The more upset Grandma Iulia is, the higher her voice gets. “You want she should go to a rabbi? What on earth for? She’s a girl!” When Grandpa doesn’t respond to this clear evidence, Grandma starts filling in the blanks, then reverts to her own point of view. “I was so happy, Yosef, when she was born a girl. Baruch HaShem! No need for a bris to tear us all apart. Remember how Gyuri vowed not to have the baby circumcised if it was a boy? And how you promised me to take the baby to a mohel without the father’s permission? We would have had World War Three in this house, Yosef, and your own daughter would never have forgiven you. But God was merciful, because she is a girl. Now what do you want to do, Yosef?”

  Seeing that Grandpa still doesn’t answer, Grandma catches her breath and continues. “You want to look for trouble! We’re lucky we don’t have to send her to study for a Bar Mitzvah, lucky we don’t have to hide her studies from the Communist scum. We should be grateful that this child has brought some peace to our home. Don’t you spoil it, Yosef.”

  Grandpa is as still as a rock, so Grandma rolls on in Romanian now, apparently oblivious to my presence. “You’ve forgotten that we’re surrounded by goyim who hate us, and what do you do? You promise this girl she can study with a rabbi no less. Only a meshugeneh kopf like yours would think of such a scheme. Yosef! You’re not listening!” Seeing that Grandpa doesn’t flinch, Grandma proclaims in a definitive voice, “You must explain to the child that this is not a good idea, Yosef. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Are you finished ranting, Iulia?”

  “How come no one ever told me that I’m Jewish?” I shout. Both my grandparents stare at me as if I’ve suddenly appeared in the room.

  “I never hid anything from you,” Grandma Iulia finally answers. “We’ve been speaking Yiddish in front of you ever since you were born.”

  “But I didn’t know that Yiddish was Jewish talk! You never told me.”

  “That’s true.” Grandpa Yosef smiles. “Let’s just call this a sin of omission.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means Grandma Iulia and I left out some vital information.” He adds quickly, “Out of respect for your father, and for your mother’s sake as well.”

  “I don’t understand!” I cry.

  “Your father went through hell during the war because he is Jewish, and he didn’t want you to suffer the way he had.”

  “How could he avoid my suffering just by not telling me that I’m Jewish?”

  Grandpa shrugs. “He can’t, but he clearly doesn’t see that.”

  “I don’t care! I just want to understand about being Jewish.”

  “What’s there to understand?” Grandma Iulia asks. “We’re Jews, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Look, Iulia, I promised,” Grandpa says. “The child wants to know about being Jewish, so she needs to study with a rabbi. That’s not such a bad idea. What do you expect me to tell her, that her grandmother’s afraid?”

  “Yes. Tell her you’ve made a mistake. Tell her being Jewish is dangerous. Yosef, tell her what we went through during the war!” Grandma Iulia is now red in the face.

  “Now who’s meshugeneh?” Grandpa asks.

  “And putting her in harm’s way is not?”

  “You’re getting paranoid, Iulia. I will make sure that Eva is safe.”

  “How can you say I’m paranoid, Yosef, when we barely survived the slaughterhouse?”

  “That’s in the past, Iulia. I’m grateful that we are alive.”

  “I suppose you think that it can’t happen again, since the Communists love us so much. You better tell the child the truth, Yosef.”

  “What truth?”

  “That being a Jew isn’t easy, and it isn’t only about Torah.”

  “Iulia, being a Jew is about Torah. Your parents knew it and so do you.”

  “Leave my parents out of this, you fool. What happened to us during the war, I suppose that was in the Torah too?”

  “If I were a rabbi, I would say yes, it is somewhere in the Torah—but I don’t know. This child has a right to question and to learn.”

  “Learn that people hate us, Yosef? She already knows it. Where is it written that girls have to study Torah?”

  “You show me where it’s written that girls don’t have a right to study.”

  “I’m sure the rabbi will agree with me,” Grandma Iulia says indignantly.

  “I hope not.” Grandpa Yosef puts on his cardigan. “I’m going for a walk, Iulia. You want to come?”

  “Get out of here, you crazy old fool.”

  THE ROOM IS as still as twilight. I have never witnessed such a serious argument between my grandparents, and it is all on my account. I feel so bad I wish I could disappear, but instead I can’t help asking:

  “Grandma?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you want me to learn about being Jewish?”

  Grandma doesn’t answer. The room gets darker, and her duvet covers take on ominous proportions. Ev
entually I get up and start toward the door, but her voice stops me.

  “Before the war, before the lousy Communist scums took power and nationalized all our property, including the skin on our back, there was a king in Romania,” she begins. “His name was King Carol II. The only redeeming feature about King Carol, as far as I’m concerned, is that he had a Jewish mistress who influenced him not to murder Jews. During his reign, King Carol allowed us to live in relative peace. We were free to own businesses and have our own homes. And as long as we didn’t publicize it, we could practice our religion. We owned several businesses, and we were free to travel abroad. I dragged your grandfather to France, where he was more interested in eating oysters than in sightseeing in Paris. He squeezed lemon over those treif—unkosher—oysters and slurped them with gusto, declaring them ‘magnifique!’ After Paris, he sent me to a Swiss spa, where every part of my body was rubbed with the most exquisite potions on earth. I went on a diet so that I would be even more attractive in his eyes. Those were good times.” Grandma sighs.

  I hate it when Grandma goes off in a different direction. “What happened with King Carol during the war?” I ask, trying to steer her back on track.

  “The rat ran away as soon as things got rough with the Germans,” she says, pulling the duvet around her waist. The room is so dark now that Grandma Iulia is just a shadow sitting up in her bed. “In Germany, Hitler and his Nazi gangs came to power. But in Romania we had our own brand of fascists, the Iron Guard. They were called the Legion of the Archangel Michael, and they wore green shirts and spewed venom. Of course, Jews were at the top of their enemies list. The Legionnaires incited the goyim to rise up against the monarchy and against Jews, with empty promises of a better life.”