Under a Red Sky

by Haya Leah Molnar

  “They did.” Mama seems surprised that I know the story, but from the look on her face it is clear she does not want to revisit the topic.

  “What was the scariest part of the war, Mama?”

  “Everything. Everything was scary and terrible,” she says.

  “Yes, but what was the very worst of it?” I press.

  Mama eventually looks up from her embroidery. “I suppose the worst of it was when Father cheered on the American airplanes to bomb us.”

  “Grandpa wanted you to get bombed?”

  “Of course not, silly,” Mama says. “But he wanted the Allies to win so bad, every time the sirens went off before an air raid, your grandpa was the last person to get into the shelter. Instead, he would cup his hands like binoculars and look up at the sky, waiting for the planes to arrive and drop their bombs. As they approached, he would start cheering them on. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ His fists flew through the air in victory until the bombs could be seen dropping from the sky and Mother would lunge out of the shelter, grab him by both his arms, and pull him down into safety. ‘Yosef, you crazy bastard,’ she’d shout, ‘you’re going to get us all killed!’”

  “Why did Grandpa do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Mama shrugs. “He couldn’t help himself. He wanted the war to end.”

  I concentrate on Mama’s embroidery. She has finished the red petals of the flower and is now working on its stem and leaves.

  “Don’t you want to know what my best memory of the war is?” she asks.

  I wait for her to tell me.

  “The best day of the war took place when I thought an air raid had hit us but it was something else entirely. I was taking a ballet class when I heard a terrible rumble and the light fixtures started to shake and then the walls in the studio fell one by one, all around us. I started to run, but everywhere I ran there was rubble to climb over, and people were screaming. I saw a hand moving just above the ground, its fingers stretched up as if reaching to grasp the sky, but the body attached to that hand was buried alive. None of the buses were running, and the tram had stopped as well, so even though I was very far from home, I kept running. And the closer I got to home, the more dead bodies I encountered. I stumbled over people who were injured. Many more were dead or dying, and the smell of burned rubber was in my nostrils, in my hair, and on my clothes. I thought, This is what death smells like.

  “There were sirens blaring, and rescue crews were beginning to pull people from beneath collapsed buildings. The shouts for help were everywhere. Somewhere at the back of my head I thought, Maybe I’ll run into Natan, whose job was to cart off the dead after the air raids, but this was no air raid. It was the worst earthquake that had ever hit Bucharest. I kept running, and the earth at one point opened up right in front of me, so I ran in the opposite direction. I closed my eyes and kept running, blinded, but all the while, though my eyes were closed, I could see my mother, who was home in bed with phlebitis. I ran and I prayed and I ran and I prayed, ‘Dear God, please, please, please make sure that Mother is safe. Please. I’ll do anything, God. Anything you want me to do. Whether you are there, God, or not. Please. Anything. Please. Only keep her alive. Please.’ Out of nowhere, a man with a horse and buggy appeared, and the horse reared up on his hind legs as the man shouted, ‘Hey, beautiful, you need a ride?’ I got in and begged him to take me home even though I had no money to give him. He took pity on me because I must have been crying. ‘Don’t worry, beautiful,’ he told me. ‘If God wants you to die, you will die, but if He wants you to live, you could be in the eye of the storm where it’s calm, or in the middle of the raging ocean, or in this cab with me during this earthquake and you will survive.’ And as he said that we turned the corner onto our street.”

  Mama pauses and smiles. “I will never forget the image of my mother waving her white handkerchief as she sat perched on the ledge of a wall that had been part of her bedroom. Beneath her dangling feet hung a framed needlepoint depicting a couple having a picnic in a pastoral setting. The man was playing the lute, and the woman was gazing lovingly at him. That giant gilded frame was still on the hook, though completely crooked. It had hung right above Mother’s bed. Mother was all black from soot, but she was alive. I climbed through the rubble and helped her down, and I couldn’t stop crying because she had been spared, and my prayers had been answered. We were so lucky. My father, Puica, and Natan—every one of us had been in a different part of the city, and we all survived the earthquake. That miracle was the best day of the war for me.”

  “And the house?” I ask.

  “Gone. It collapsed like a house of cards. Later we all went back and rummaged through what was left. Most of our stuff had been destroyed. But still, we found so many things intact. We salvaged several paintings. Some clothing. Pots and pans. Dishes. Forks, knives, spoons. I even found a dozen eggs in the icebox. They were completely unbroken. We made an omelet for supper that evening at Cousin Mimi’s house. What a feast that was.”

  “Where did you live after that?”

  “My father searched long and hard for a new home, but there was no point in buying another house, because at any moment we could have been bombed. When he found this place as a rental, he grabbed it, and we’ve been here ever since.”

  Mama puts her embroidery down. I try to take it all in.

  TOURIST BOXES

  THE DINING ROOM TABLE is covered with sheets of newspaper. Tubes of oil paints, a can of turpentine, and a jar filled with paintbrushes and a rag are lying on top of the newspapers. Mama has lined up several carved wooden boxes in front of her, in soldierlike fashion.

  “If I were a tourist from the West, I would buy one of these gift boxes as a souvenir. Wouldn’t you, Eva?” she asks, holding a carved wooden box close up and painting the stem of a flower on its lid.

  “I guess so.”

  “Come help me out,” she says. “It’s fun.”

  I sit down next to her, and she shows me how to use the end of the brush handle to create a pattern of perfect dots on the box.

  “This will turn out to be the center of the flower,” she says, dipping the tip of the brush into yellow paint. “If you do a good job, I will show you how to paint petals next.”

  “How come tourists can visit Bucharest but we can’t go anywhere?”

  Mama smiles. “Have you ever met a tourist, Eva?”

  “No. Wait a minute, isn’t Renée, Beard’s girlfriend who gave me my turquoise toiletry kit, a tourist?”

  “Yes, I suppose she is,” Mama answers without looking up from her work, “but she came here as a puppeteer. Tourists go places just for fun.”

  “Why can’t we have fun?”

  “We are having fun, darling. We’re painting boxes with pretty flowers.”

  “I’d like to be able to travel to other countries, Mama.”

  “So would I, but you will have to be patient until the Party lets us out.”

  We sit together and paint these gift boxes with Romanian motifs until my hands are covered with specks of oil paint and my fingers are numb. I have no idea how Mama got this job or who is paying her, but she says that it’s a great way for her to continue to contribute to the household income now that she no longer teaches ballet. When we are done, we allow the boxes to dry overnight. On the following afternoon Mama wraps the boxes in old newspapers and packs them in a shopping bag.

  “Let’s go deliver these,” she says.

  Outside, it’s beginning to drizzle, and we don’t have an umbrella with us. Mama walks faster, and I keep up with her—until she stops abruptly and turns around as if she’s forgotten something.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, tugging at her arm.

  “Nothing,” she mutters under her breath. “I saw Mrs. Antoniu walking down the street and I didn’t want to bump into her.”

  “Why not, Mama?”

  “Because every time I see that woman, her whiny voice drives me crazy. She always ends the conversation by asking, ‘Do you have enough to
eat?’ But she never offers help and she doesn’t stop talking long enough to listen. I have no use for people like her, Eva. I’m down enough without having her bring me any lower.”

  We turn back when Mrs. Antoniu has gone and deliver the boxes to an apartment in a large building. A maid wearing a white apron opens the door and takes Mama’s shopping bag. We wait in the foyer until the maid reappears a few minutes later with an envelope. Mama opens it and counts the cash. The maid hands my mother another bag.

  “There are twenty-five boxes in this order. The boss says to stick to the floral motifs and the geometric patterns.”

  “Fine. I’ll keep that in mind. See you next week,” Mama tells her.

  “La revedere—until we see each other again,” the maid answers, and then the door latches behind us.

  When we’re back on the street, Mama squeezes my hand. “Not a word about this to anyone, right, Eva?” she asks.

  “Right,” I reassure her.

  AS SOON AS WE ARRIVE HOME, I grab my jump rope and get out of the stuffy house. The yard is empty, and I’m eager to exercise.

  “Can I jump too?” I hear Andrei’s voice when I’m in midair.

  “Unu, doi, trei, patru, cinci …” I count as my feet fly over the rope. I am on a roll, so I keep going without answering him, way past one hundred, at which point I lose count.

  “Sure,” I finally tell him and hand him the rope. I am completely out of breath. Andrei jumps for a while, until beads of sweat break above his upper lip and his cheeks are flushed. Then he sits next to me against the yard wall, his legs stretched out, his socks crumpled around his ankles.

  “Andrei”—the question pops out of my mouth—“what would you say if I told you that I’m Jewish?”

  “You’re joking, right?” he asks, looking up. “No kidding,” he murmurs, whistling softly and crossing himself.

  “No kidding,” I tell him as Andrei runs his hands through my hair, feeling for my scalp.

  “What are you doing?” I cry, brushing his hands away. Andrei has never touched me before.

  “I’m looking for your horns. My father says all Jews have horns.”

  “I don’t have any,” I whisper, trying to push back my tears.

  “Then you can’t be Jewish,” he says, relieved.

  “But I am.”

  “You can’t be. Your hair feels just like corn silk to me.”

  ALEPH

  GRANDPA YOSEF makes good on his promise. We practice the route to the rabbi’s house every day when I get home from school for the rest of that week. When we find ourselves in front of the gray house with the wooden door with the peephole, Grandpa Yosef lights a cigarette and says, “Don’t do it now, but on Friday you will knock on this door three times like this”—his knuckles tap my head gently—“followed by just a single knock. Then the rabbi will know it’s you and he’ll open the door. But you must go in very quickly. You understand?”

  “Yes.” I nod. “Grandpa, what is the rabbi’s name?”

  “It’s Rabbi.” Grandpa smiles. “Just call him Rabbi and he’ll be happy.”

  ON FRIDAY when I get home from school, Sabina has my lunch ready in the dining room, but I’m not hungry.

  “Eat. You’re going to be hungry later,” Grandpa Yosef tells me, looking at my untouched Swiss cheese sandwich. “It’s going to be a long afternoon.”

  I take the slice of cheese out of the sandwich and nibble on it. Grandpa sits down next to me.

  “You’ll need something to carry the book that Rabbi will give you. Also a notebook and pencil,” he says.

  “What about my schoolbag?” I suggest.

  “Not a good idea. That would look odd since you won’t be going during school hours,” Grandpa murmurs, deep in thought.

  “I could pretend I’m going to Claudia’s house to do homework.”

  Grandpa shakes his head. “Better not to involve anyone else.”

  “I know!” I tell him, running to my room and returning with the turquoise plastic toiletry box that I got from Renée. It looks just like a lunch box, only prettier. It’s big enough for a book and a notebook, and is easy to carry by its two sturdy handles. Best of all, it has a little metal latch that snaps tightly shut.

  Grandpa Yosef checks it out carefully. “Perfect,” he declares.

  Finally, at 3:15, Grandpa stops sipping his tea and says that it’s time to go. I take a quick look at myself in the mirror. The nine-year-old girl with pigtails who stares back at me is very determined. I try smiling at her, but she doesn’t return my smile, so I stop. I am ready to begin my Jewish studies.

  GRANDPA WALKS ME to the yard gate. This time he isn’t going with me to the gray house. I kiss him goodbye.

  “Make sure you come straight home,” he tells me, looking at his watch. “You’d better not be a minute later than seven tonight or I’ll have to send your mother and father after you.”

  I wave at him without turning my head; my other hand is swinging my toiletry box. I know that if I look back I won’t be able to keep walking. My first impulse is to run. I know my feet can fly to the gray house in less than three minutes flat. But Grandpa cautioned me against running.

  Don’t run. Walk, I tell myself. My breathing is shallow. I think about Andrei, and my heart starts to pound just as hard as if I were skipping rope. What would Andrei say if he knew that I’m on my way to study with a rabbi?

  I try to push these thoughts away and concentrate on the streets. This is the same route I take every single day to and from school. But this time it’s different because I am doing it as a Jew, and being Jewish is dangerous. My feet speed up. My right hand is holding the handles of my turquoise toiletry box so tightly, my wrist hurts. My palms are clammy. Everything around me is blurry, except for my racing thoughts.

  If Grandpa Yosef had enough courage to cheer the Allied planes on to drop their bombs on Bucharest, I can walk to the rabbi’s house. If Mama could come home after an earthquake to find her house had been destroyed, I can walk to the rabbi’s house. If Tata could survive the lagers and the Russian gulag, I can walk to the rabbi’s house, even if Tata doesn’t believe in God.

  The words of the horse-and-buggy driver in my mother’s story echo in my mind. “If God wants you to die, you will die, but if He wants you to live, you could be in the eye of the storm or in the middle of the raging ocean and you will survive.” But my father’s parents hadn’t survived. Did God want them to die? What had they done?

  I start to run. I run past the rabbi’s house and don’t even notice. I run straight into a woman walking her dog. She yells, “Hey, watch where you’re going!” I stop. Where am I? I look around and backtrack. This time I walk very slowly, counting every step in my head so that I won’t break into a run. I am relieved that Grandpa isn’t here to see me screw up so badly. I knock on the door of the gray house three times, rapidly. I wait. Then I knock again, just once. Someone looks through the peephole, and the door opens. A hand grabs my arm and pulls me in. My eyes have to adjust to the dark.

  “You must be Eva,” Rabbi says.

  I nod my head. He brings me a glass of water. “Sit down and catch your breath,” he tells me.

  The cold water is delicious. “So your grandfather tells me you want to study Hebrew.” Rabbi’s voice is kind.

  I had never said that I wanted to study Hebrew, but I’m not about to argue with him. All I ever asked was “What does it mean to be Jewish?” I wait for Rabbi to continue, but he just sits quietly and surveys me. I start to fidget. I want to take stock of him as well, to take a really good look at his face, but I am too uncomfortable to do it. He has a beard, just like Tata’s friend Beard. How does Rabbi get away with that? I wonder.

  Rabbi takes a book from the shelf behind me and places it on the table between us. “This is a Tanach,” he says. “What do you have in that box?”

  I snap the box open, and my notebook and pencil fly out. The magic metal cylinder Grandpa has given me rolls onto the table.

 
“Oh, a mezuzah,” Rabbi says, picking it up and examining it.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I see you have a mezuzah,” Rabbi says, sliding the hidden parchment from its cylinder. “Good. This will be our first lesson.” He unrolls the parchment and lays it flat on the table.

  He thumbs rapidly through the thin pages of the Tanach book. “Take a look,” he says, pointing to the beautiful black letters in the book and then back to the little scroll he has just unfurled. The same black letters are in Rabbi’s book as on the scroll that Grandpa Yosef has given me!

  “This is Hebrew,” Rabbi explains. “If you want to study Torah, you’ll have to learn Hebrew first, so today we will start with the Aleph Beit, the Hebrew alphabet. You know what an alphabet is, don’t you?”

  I nod and finally get enough courage to look up. The skin around his deep-set eyes is thin. His eyebrows are bushy and meet in the middle. He has long, white fingers. He wears a small round hat even though we are indoors. When he catches me staring at him, he smiles. “Come with me,” he says, getting up and leading me back to the door of the apartment. Affixed to the inside of the doorframe is a metal cylinder identical to mine. “A mezuzah is supposed to be placed on the outside of your doorpost,” he tells me, “but these are uncertain times, so God will forgive us for placing it indoors.” He points to my metal cylinder. “I see that you carry your mezuzah with you.”

  “I didn’t know that it’s called a ‘mezuzah,’” I confess, and add quickly, “but I know that it’s magic.”

  “Magic?” he asks, both his heavy eyebrows going up at the same time. I think about Mama and how her left eyebrow always seems to have a mind of its own. But his are different; they remind me of a giant black paintbrush.

  “Yes. Magic. Because it works,” I try to explain.

  “Hmm,” Rabbi says. “I never heard of a magic mezuzah before, but I suppose anything’s possible. Tell me, how do you figure that your mezuzah is magic?”