Under a Red Sky

by Haya Leah Molnar

  “What does goyim mean, Grandma?”

  “Don’t interrupt me. Goyim just means ‘non-Jews.’ Where was I?”

  “You were saying that the Legionnaires were evil.”

  “Yes, they were a bunch of lunatics. They performed Romanian Orthodox religious rites, and the Romanians, who love drama, ate it all up and hated the Jews even more. The Legionnaire leader was Corneliu Zelea Codreanu—he was not a man but the devil himself. When King Carol saw that the Legionnaires were a threat to his monarchy, he ordered his men to kill Codreanu and fourteen Legionnaires. The king’s men stripped the Legionnaires naked and strangled them. Then they doused the bodies with acid, so they would be unrecognizable, and buried all fifteen, including Codreanu, in a mass grave. This murder incited the Romanian population of Bucharest into a fanatic religious frenzy. The Jews had no hand in the murder, but we were blamed.” Grandma stops abruptly. “My mouth is very dry. Be a good girl and fetch me a glass of water.”

  I bound out of the dark bedroom, hoping that Grandma Iulia won’t change her mind about telling me the rest of the story. In the kitchen I find Sabina looking quite exhausted, slumped on a stool with her mouth half open and her head propped against the windowsill. I let the water run until it is cold and fill up a glass. Sabina snores softly through it all. Then I tiptoe back to Grandma Iulia’s bedroom and hand her the glass.

  “You’re an angel,” she says between gulps, finishing the entire glass. “Where was I?”

  “You were talking about the Legionnaires.”

  “Ah yes, the war came. Eventually Romania joined the Axis powers, the Nazis. There were a lot of German army personnel swarming all over Bucharest. The Jewish population was forced under peril of death to treat the Germans as honored guests. There was a terrible shortage of food and housing. Jews were ordered to wear armbands with yellow Stars of David, and we had to obey a night curfew. Our children were assigned to do forced labor for the Nazis. Your mother had to draft maps of key local roads and bridges, and your aunt Puica became a surgical nurse at a clinic that cared for injured German soldiers. Uncle Natan was part of the team of Jews who had to cart off the bodies to the morgue after the Allied bombardments of Bucharest. I never knew if my children would come home alive at the end of the day, and whenever Natan did appear, he smelled of death. I was too scared to ask him where he had been.”

  “I don’t understand why you had to wear armbands with yellow Stars of David, Grandma,” I say.

  “How else were they going to know who is Jewish and who isn’t?” she answers. “It was an easy way for them to identify us.”

  “But why did they need to identify Jews if we look just like everyone else?”

  “This isn’t about our looks, it’s about who we are,” Grandma explains. “When the sirens started to blast announcing an air raid, Jews were the last ones allowed into the bomb shelters, so we suffered the highest casualties. Your uncle Natan had to cart off several of his school friends after air raids. Our nightly curfew was also set much earlier than the rest of the population’s, and our ration cards were even more meager than theirs.”

  “Couldn’t you just refuse to wear the Star of David armband?” I wonder out loud.

  “We had no choice,” Grandma goes on. “We were lucky that we weren’t deported to concentration camps, like your father. We had heard horror stories about so many other Jews from Transylvania, from Hungary, Germany, Austria, Poland, and the rest of Europe. What is hard labor when you compare it to a death camp?”

  “But, Grandma,” I argue, still trying to understand, “how would anyone know that you were Jewish unless you told them?”

  “They would know, believe me. Our identity wasn’t a secret before the war. You can never hide who you really are, Eva.”

  “I didn’t know that I’m Jewish until now, so you can hide who you are!”

  “Shhh, let me finish my story,” Grandma continues. “In the midst of all this, your grandpa Yosef and I were forced to take in two Nazi SS officers, Lieutenant Schmidt and Lieutenant Bundt.”

  “Did they know you were Jewish?”

  “Of course. Not only did they know but they showed up for three kosher meals a day, meager as our food supply was. They expected me to set out my finest china and silver and join them in German conversation while they ate at our table. They loved hearing their mother tongue uttered from Jewish lips.” In my mind I could see Grandma smile despite the total darkness that surrounded us.

  “Were they mean?”

  “No. They were extremely polite and neat. They made their beds every morning. Their uniforms were spotless, and their shirts were always pressed and starched. They never brought women to the house, and most important, they didn’t touch my daughters or make lewd remarks. I was so grateful, because I had heard such horror tales from many friends who had to house other Nazis …” Grandma’s voice trails off.

  After a while, I ask, “So what happened?”

  “On January 22, 1941, Lieutenant Schmidt and Lieutenant Bundt showed up early for dinner, toting guns. The Legionnaires were already in power, and I was terrified. I had no idea why they were home so early. The two men barked orders at us as if we were members of their platoon or, worse, their prisoners—which is precisely what we were.

  “‘Close your window shutters and nail them shut,’ they said as they ran around the house making sure that all our windows and doors were locked. Then, after bolting everything, they barricaded the doors with furniture. They spoke to us in German but offered no explanation. When they had secured the house, they stationed themselves inside by our front door, shotguns in hand, and waited.

  “I made strong Turkish coffee and placed their cups on a chair by the door. Just after five P.M., there was a loud knock, and I felt my heart leap into my mouth but I couldn’t utter a sound. I started toward the door, but Lieutenant Schmidt and Lieutenant Bundt had already opened it a crack with the tips of their guns. The afternoon light leaked in, revealing two silhouettes. It was the girls, Stefica and her best friend, Rachel Goldman, coming home late from ballet practice. Lieutenant Schmidt quickly pulled them inside. Rachel pleaded with him, saying that she was expected home for supper, but he wouldn’t let her go. I was grateful that my daughter was home safe, but not knowing what was about to happen, I was terrified. I wondered if the girls would have been better off at the ballet studio or at Rachel’s house. But at this point, we had no choice. All that mattered was that we were together, even though we were prisoners in our own home.”

  “Grandma,” I whisper, “do you think that Mama remembers this?”

  “Of course she does, she was right there with us when it happened. How could she forget such a thing?”

  I nod in the dark, not fully comprehending, since Mama has never told me anything like this about the war. “Go on, Grandma,” I tell her.

  “Darkness fell early. It was frigid. The air felt as if it would freeze in our throats. Natan was ill with the flu, and he huddled in his cot under five blankets. The only sound you could hear in the house was his breathing. Your aunt Puica hid in our pantry closet and chain-smoked. She knew how much I hate cigarettes, but I made believe I didn’t see or smell anything. Yosef sat at the dining room table, playing solitaire, turning each card softly in order not to make any noise. I took off my shoes and paced from room to room, checking on everyone. I had to make sure that each and every member of my family was really here and safe.

  “When I first heard the singing, I thought that one of my children had turned on the radio. I rushed to turn it off but realized it was coming from outside. The sound of Romanian Orthodox hymns grew louder until it reached fever pitch. Then I heard truck tires screeching to a halt. Fists pounded on our door with frozen knuckles.

  “‘Who’s there?’ Lieutenant Schmidt asked in German.

  “‘Open this door or I’ll break it!’ a voice barked back in Romanian.

  “The two men remained stationed at our door. That moment’s silence was heavier than an
ything I had ever felt. When it broke, there was pounding everywhere and the sound of shattered glass. ‘We know that there are Jews in this house,’ the voice hissed from the other side of the door. ‘Open up and let the kikes out and you will be unharmed.’

  “Lieutenant Schmidt slowly unbolted the door, sliding the barrel of his shotgun out first. He then popped his helmeted head out and carefully addressed the man in front of him.

  “‘I told you to go away. No one enters this house, by order of the Führer,’ he said.

  “‘Show me your orders on paper,’ the voice demanded.

  “‘These are my orders,’ Lieutenant Schmidt snapped, rattling his shotgun against the doorframe.

  “‘Nicu! Nicu, get back over here!’ Shouts in Romanian came from the truck outside. ‘Let’s not waste time. There are plenty more kikes where these came from.’ I was standing in the dark, close enough to the door to see the glare of headlights illuminating the top of Lieutenant Schmidt’s helmet. Then I heard the crackling of boots against pebbles followed by the sound of the truck taking off.

  “I don’t have any recollection of the rest of that night. The next day Lieutenant Schmidt and Lieutenant Bundt remained in our house guarding us. I cooked them a meal that consisted of our entire week’s rations and told my family to tighten their belts. We were nearly out of food, but we were alive. When the Germans determined that it was safe for us to venture out, they gave us strict orders to return as soon as we had foraged for food.”

  “WHAT I LEARNED at the marketplace was far worse than the terror we had experienced the night before. The Legionnaires had gone on a killing spree. The truck in front of our house was part of a convoy that had carted off hundreds of Jewish men, women, and children from their homes to Bucharest’s slaughterhouse. There, in the red-brick building of the slaughterhouse near the icy black waters of the Dîmbovia River, the legionnaires ordered the Jews to strip naked and kneel on the ice-cold floor next to the lifeless cattle that hung from hooks. Our people were made to crawl on their hands and knees onto the conveyor belt. No one was spared. Not even the babies. Jews were slaughtered like cattle, torn limb from limb, our blood gushing everywhere.

  “Everywhere an endless river of tears. I heard that there was so much blood, the Legionnaires had trouble finding a spot to mark the flesh with a stamp that read ‘Kosher meat, fit for human consumption’ before hanging each lifeless body on a hook alongside lambs and other meat. The parents of Rachel Goldman, your mother’s friend who had come to our home that night, were among the victims. Rachel was the only one in her family who survived.

  “Later I found out that many more people were killed. Over thirteen hundred Jews were tormented or killed during three days of anti-Semitic riots throughout Bucharest. Some were burned alive in their homes after being robbed. Others were taken to the forest and shot into open pits that became mass graves. Women were raped in view of their children and then murdered. Eva, that is how the Legionnaires took revenge on us Jews for what King Carol’s men had done to their leader.

  “When I got home, I didn’t allow myself a moment to think about what I had heard at the market. I didn’t even tell your grandfather until much later. I had a responsibility toward Lieutenant Schmidt and Lieutenant Bundt, who had saved our lives. I had to cook and be a good hostess. After dinner, I asked the kids to each personally thank our SS men. ‘No problem,’ Lieutenant Bundt said, toasting all of us with one of my crystal glasses filled to the rim with red wine. ‘If all Jews were like you, anti-Semitism would not exist in the world.’”

  THE GRAY DOOR

  GRANDPA YOSEF pokes his head into our bedroom and motions for me to join him.

  “Let’s go for a walk. It’s beautiful outside.”

  “I’m reading, Grandpa,” I tell him, stretching my arms and yawning.

  “You can read later. We’re going out.”

  I slide off my bed and slip on my shoes, wondering what’s going on. Grandpa is usually so easygoing, but not today. He takes my hand as we walk past the yard gate and turn left.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “You’ll see,” he answers. “Look how sunny it is. I told you it’s a gorgeous day. The walk will do you good.”

  We turn the corner, and Grandpa stops to light a cigarette. “I want you to keep your eyes open and remember exactly where we are going, because the next time you go you will have to do it alone,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

  “What are you talking about, Grandpa?”

  “Don’t ask so many questions. Just keep your eyes open and remember the way we’re walking.”

  We walk for about three blocks, and then Grandpa stops again, throws his cigarette on the sidewalk, stubs it out with his shoe, and nods toward a house to his right.

  “See that building?” he says without looking at the building or at me. “That’s the place you want to remember.” He searches his pocket for his cigarette pack again, gets another one out, and lights it. I see a gray building with no windows. There is a gray wooden door with a peephole. No number. No nameplate. Nothing anyone would ever remember. “Why do I want to remember this building?” I ask, pointing to it.

  “Don’t point,” Grandpa says, pushing my hand down. “This is where you will meet the rabbi and start your Jewish studies. But next week you will have to come here by yourself. Do you think you can do that?”

  I look around. We are just three blocks from home on a street I’ve passed every day on my way to and from school. There are trees and lampposts on this street, and most of the houses have wrought-iron gates guarding their front yards. I note again that the gray building to our right has no yard, no gate, and no windows—just a gray wooden door with a peephole. That’s the only thing that makes it different. No yard. No gate. I can remember that. I grab Grandpa’s hand. “Let’s go!” I tell him, pulling him back toward home.

  WHEN WE ARRIVE HOME, Grandpa makes me a tall glass of homemade raspberry syrup with seltzer, my favorite Romanian soda. He pours the thick syrup, and I watch its red ribbon trail to the bottom of the glass. Grandpa shakes the blue seltzer bottle, and with a single move of his wrist he swishes the seltzer into the glass, then stirs it with a long spoon. The bubbles rise to the surface. I gulp the delicious drink down as soon as he hands it to me.

  “Why can’t you take me to meet the rabbi?”

  “It’s not a good idea for me to take you there and drop you off on a regular basis. The rabbi thinks it might attract attention, and we’ve got enough problems right now. The last thing we need is more trouble because some Communist anti-Semite gets wind that you are getting a Jewish education. Your grandmother gave me hell about your safety, and I promised her that not even a hair on your body would be harmed. You understand?”

  “Is it dangerous, Grandpa?”

  “I’m not taking any chances.”

  “What could happen?” I draw up the last of my syrup and bite the straw.

  “Nothing. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. It’s not illegal to be a Jew, and it isn’t illegal or wrong to study any religion, including ours. It’s just that the Communists think all religion is superstition and they’re anti-Semitic. So they might try to make our life a little more difficult than it already is.” Grandpa pauses. “But we’re not going to allow them to do that, are we?” he asks, looking at me.

  I shake my head in agreement, but I am terrified.

  “Good. Your first lesson will begin next Friday after you get home from school, so we’ve got all week for you to practice getting there and back.”

  THE EMBROIDERY LESSON

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I ask Mama one afternoon later that week.

  “I’m embroidering a flower, see?” Mama points to a red petal against the crisp whiteness of the tablecloth.

  “Who taught you how to do that?”

  “My grandmother Eliza. She taught me how to sew and how to knit.” Mama smiles, looking up from her work.

  “Is it difficult?”

&nb
sp; “Not if you practice. You want to try?” Mama places the needle between my fingers, cups her hand around mine, and pulls the thread.

  “Mama,” I ask cautiously, “do you remember the war?”

  “Of course,” she says, still guiding my hand.

  “What do you remember the most? What was the scariest thing?”

  Mama places her embroidery in her lap and looks up. “What do I remember? I remember too much. I remember being hungry, so hungry that I would have eaten anything. One night I came home from a ballet class and Mother prepared a dish that she said was rabbit, but it looked like cat. I was too hungry to ask, but it surely didn’t look like rabbit or chicken to me.”

  “Grandma Iulia cooked a cat?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked, and I’m certain she wouldn’t have told me anyway. But we were all so hungry, we didn’t care. We ate it, whatever it was.”

  “I would have thrown up,” I assure her.

  “Perhaps.” Mama smiles.

  “What else do you remember?”

  “Let’s see, I remember walking in pitch darkness after the curfew with my cousin Mimi and being terrified that we would get caught. I stumbled and fell into a construction hole, and poor Mimi had to pull me out. That was terrifying.”

  “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “I sprained my ankle, but I was lucky not to have broken anything.”

  “Did you tell Grandma?”

  “Of course not. She had enough to worry about.”

  “Mama, do you remember the Nazis who lived with you?” I try broaching the subject that has been haunting my dreams.

  Mama arches her left eyebrow. “Of course I remember Lieutenant Schmidt and Lieutenant Bundt. What about them?”

  “Grandma told me that they saved your life.”