Under a Red Sky

by Haya Leah Molnar

  “Grandpa says that it contains the Truth,” I answer him.

  “He’s right about that.” Rabbi smiles. “Let me read it to you.” He unfurls the small parchment and holds it open with two fingers on the table. But he doesn’t read it; Rabbi starts to chant: “Sh’ma Yisra’el, Adonai Ehloheinu, Adonai Echad! V’ahavta et Adonai Ehlohehcha b’chol l’vav’cha uv’chol nafsh’cha uv’chol m’odehcha. V’hayu …”

  As his voice rises, his eyes are half closed and his body starts to roll back and forth almost as if he were rocking himself to sleep. His voice is deep and full of feeling, and as the sound resonates through the book-lined walls all the way down to the carpet under my feet and back up toward the ceiling, it seems to stop just above the light fixture and lingers there long enough for me to notice that the glass on the light fixture is trembling. I wonder if the neighbors can hear him and if they will call the Securitate and complain that a bunch of crazy Jews are disturbing the peace. Surely we are about to get into big trouble.

  Rabbi’s voice stops abruptly with three loud knocks at the door. He gets up and stands by the door in silence. I hold my breath. There is one more single knock, after which Rabbi opens the door quickly and shuts it just as quickly. Three people appear in the foyer. A man with a gray cap, a woman wearing a blue silk kerchief tied around her head, and a young boy, who pulls off his wool cap and shuffles his feet nervously.

  “Good Shabbos, Rabbi,” the man says, taking off his cap.

  “Good Shabbos,” Rabbi answers, helping the woman with her coat.

  “I baked a challah,” the woman tells the rabbi, placing a white string shopping bag just like Grandpa’s on the table. “It’s still warm.” She unwraps a blue-and-white checkered kitchen towel from the braided loaf of bread. It smells delicious.

  “David”—Rabbi turns to the young boy—“say hello to Eva. She’s going to be a guest at your Bar Mitzvah.” David is silent. He nods and looks nervously around the room, avoiding my gaze. Eventually he walks through the archway into the other room, where he sits on a folding chair.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Rabbi tells David’s parents. “I’m only going to be a minute with Eva.” He turns to me and opens a thin notebook in front of me. “This is the Aleph Beit, the Hebrew alphabet. You are going to study the letter Aleph at home with your grandfather, and when you come back, we will practice pronouncing it again together. I will teach you how to write and say each letter of the alphabet one at a time, and then we’ll put them together to form words, sentences, paragraphs, and eventually stories.”

  I open the notebook. Each letter is inscribed in black ink on thin, slanted-lined paper. “In Hebrew, we write from right to left,” Rabbi says. “It’s not backward, it’s just a different way of looking at the world. Now repeat after me. Aleph.” His mouth opens wide as he holds up his index finger.

  “Aleph,” I repeat.

  “Good. That’s very good. You have a good accent. Aleph is the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, the very beginning, and sometimes we also think of it as the number one. Again,” Rabbi says, smiling at me.

  “Aleph,” I repeat, looking at his bushy eyebrows.

  “Good. That’s enough for the first day. Now come with me,” he says, taking my hand and leading me into the other room. “Let’s hear David chant his Torah portion for his Bar Mitzvah.”

  The room is almost bare with the exception of some shelves filled with books and a few folding chairs. David stands behind a wooden pedestal, his back as straight as if he had swallowed my mother’s ballet stick.

  Rabbi reaches behind one of the books on the bookshelves and retrieves a box of candles. He takes out three white candles and melts their bases with a match. On the pedestal are two tall silver candlesticks. He places two of the candles in their wells and hands the third to David’s mother. She lights them, covering her eyes and waving her hands above the flames with a whispered blessing, “Baruch atah Adonai, Ehloheinu melech haolam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Shabbat.” She then secures the third candle on a saucer. Rabbi holds out a glass filled with red wine. He chants another blessing over the wine. Everyone says “L’Chaim!” except for me.

  Then Rabbi passes the wineglass around. I wrinkle my nose and take a sip. The wine is very sweet. I don’t think Mama would approve of me sharing a cup with anyone because of germs, but I won’t tell. Rabbi blesses the bread that David’s mother has baked, breaking off a piece and passing it around. It’s delicious. David’s father wraps a white shawl with black stripes and fringes around David’s shoulders. The room grows dark, but the candles are bright enough so that I can see. Rabbi goes over to the bookshelves again and takes out more books. Hidden behind the books is a door in the wall, which he opens carefully. He pulls out a large object wrapped in red velvet with two wooden rollers sticking out, one at each end. He holds it in his arms as if it were a newborn baby. Two lions standing on their hind legs and holding up a set of tablets with Hebrew letters are embroidered on the front of the red velvet cover.

  Rabbi slides the cover off, revealing a giant scroll. He places the scroll on the stand in front of David and unfurls it by its wooden rollers. Rabbi winks at me. “This is the Torah,” he whispers, pointing to the Hebrew text. I rise up on my toes to get a better look. The writing on the scroll looks like a bigger version of my mezuzah.

  David’s father stands next to his son, rocking back and forth with his eyes half open, just as Rabbi did earlier. He chants a blessing in Hebrew very quickly and the room grows quiet. David’s voice crackles, breaking the silence. His face is intent on chanting each word written on the scroll correctly. Every time he opens his mouth to form a word, I imagine a beautiful Hebrew letter flying off the Torah scroll and up toward the ceiling until all the letters are gathered in a crown of dancing words above us. The light from the candles flickers, casting moving shadows on David’s face. The air feels thinner as his chant grows stronger. David’s parents are standing behind him, the fingers of their hands intertwined like the braids of the challah. His mother’s eyes close as she listens to her son. David struggles with the wails and whispers that emerge from his chest until his voice breaks into song.

  TATA’S SECRET

  IT IS TATA, not Grandpa Yosef, who greets me at the door that evening after my first lesson with Rabbi.

  “Where’s Grandpa?” I ask.

  “He went to the movies with your grandma. How was your first lesson?”

  Tata’s acknowledgment that I am studying with Rabbi takes me by surprise. I realize that Grandpa must have told him something after all.

  “It was all right,” I answer as casually as I can, placing my turquoise toiletry box on my bed. I don’t unpack it since I don’t want Tata to see my mezuzah and start asking questions. I’m exhausted, and all I want to do is to crawl into bed and snuggle under the covers. I don’t want to think about anything—not about what it means to be Jewish, not about Rabbi or even about David’s Bar Mitzvah.

  “What did the rabbi teach you?” My father’s voice wakes me from my reverie.

  “I learned the letter Aleph.”

  “Aha,” Tata says. “That’s all?” A mocking smile emerges on his lips.

  “Yes, that’s all,” I tell him. My father is in deep thought as he contemplates my answer. Eventually he turns to me, his brown eyes looking as serious and as sad as ever. “Eva, if you want to know what it means to be a Jew, all you need to grasp is the essence of the Shema.” My father’s mocking smile disappears. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I thought Tata didn’t like being Jewish. “The Shema?” I ask.

  “Sh’ma Yisra’el Adonai Ehloheinu, Adonai Echad!” Tata pronounces each word clearly and translates, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, our God is One.”

  I recognize the Hebrew words from Rabbi’s chanting earlier this afternoon, but I had no idea what they meant since Rabbi didn’t translate. How does Tata know this?

  “Yes. Sh’ma Yisra’el Adon
ai Ehloheinu, Adonai Echad!” I say to him in reply.

  “Yes, indeed,” Tata continues. “It sounds simple, doesn’t it? Yet entire books have been written on the subject.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I studied for my Bar Mitzvah before I turned thirteen.”

  “You had a Bar Mitzvah?” I try not to sound too surprised since I don’t want to offend Tata.

  “Of course,” he says. “My mother insisted on it.”

  “What is a Bar Mitzvah?” I ask casually.

  “It’s a rite of passage for Jewish boys when they turn thirteen. They officially become members of the Jewish community. But there’s a lot of study involved prior to the ceremony, because without being able to chant Torah, you can’t become a Bar Mitzvah.”

  “Did you chant Torah?”

  “Yes, of course, and I was very relieved when it was all over and done with, so I could go back to my tennis lessons.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “Play tennis? Of course, I’ll teach you if you like.”

  “No! Chant Torah.”

  “What on earth for? Girls aren’t obligated to chant anything.”

  “What if I want to?”

  “Suit yourself,” Tata says, shrugging and falling silent. After a while, he lifts my hands and examines my palms.

  “They’re clean,” I assure him.

  “I know they’re clean,” Tata answers impatiently. “Can you do this with them?” He lifts both his hands above my head and separates his pinkies and ring fingers from the rest. Both of his hands now form Vs. Tata seems pleased as I mirror the position of his hands.

  “That’s how a Kohane blesses. We are Kohanim, Eva.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we are descendants from the ancient priestly clan, the Kohanim.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My father told me, just like I’m telling you.”

  “What was he like?” I ask.

  “What was who like?”

  “Your father.”

  Tata stands in silent thought. Suddenly he looks at me as if he had not been aware of my presence until this moment and says, “He was a lot of fun!”

  I can’t imagine my father having any fun, much less being a little boy who played with his father, so I wait for him to continue.

  “We used to bowl with eggs,” Tata says, smiling at the recollection. “One time, the two of us stole a dozen eggs from the icebox, propped them up with wet sand, and competed to see who would crack the most eggs with a small bowling ball.”

  “Who won?”

  “Nobody. My mother caught us and gave us hell. ‘Emile, what are you teaching your son?’ she yelled, just as my father hit three eggs with a big splat. I was in stitches, but my mother was furious. She gathered all the rest of the eggs into her apron before I had a chance to crack any more. ‘I’m making an omelet with these for brunch,’ she said.

  “‘We already made an omelet,’ my father shouted after her.

  “‘Good,’ she said, ‘in that case, you won’t need brunch.’”

  TATA DOESN’T BRING UP my Jewish studies again. He knows I am going to the rabbi’s house once a week, but from that evening on, he says nothing more about it. I continue to knock on the gray door every Friday afternoon, and before long, I start to read Hebrew.

  “You’ve got a terrific accent,” Rabbi encourages me, but I’m not happy. I’m not learning what I came here for. I want to know everything about being Jewish, and all I’m learning is how to pronounce a bunch of Hebrew words I don’t understand. I have no idea what I am saying, and Rabbi doesn’t seem concerned about explaining the meaning of the text. I don’t know if this is because I am a girl. My sense is that the boys who come when I’m there don’t know what they are studying either. I never ask Rabbi to translate and explain the text.

  After several months, my walk to Rabbi’s house on Fridays ceases to frighten me. On my way out, I grab an apple from the kitchen and bound down the stairs, sinking my teeth into the fruit and letting its delicious juice fill my mouth. I skip across the hopscotch grid in the yard, half-bitten apple in one hand and my turquoise toiletry box swinging from the other. Once there, however, I often feel restless and get bored. I never see another girl come in. There are only boys, each studying for his Bar Mitzvah, struggling to pronounce every word. I never talk to any of them, and no one asks me why I’m there, the only person with pigtails among them. Rabbi walks from one of us to the other, making us each repeat the Aleph Beit, then specific words, and eventually full sentences. Sometimes he comments on my pronunciation or my handwriting, but for the most part, he just keeps increasing my workload. When I get home, no one inquires about where I have been, not even Grandpa Yosef. Seeing that we didn’t get into trouble with the Securitate, Grandma Iulia stops nagging Grandpa about my studying Hebrew, although I feel that she somehow manages to block the thought out of her mind.

  During school, I too block the thought of my visits to Rabbi’s house out of my head, and anything to do with being Jewish—especially the fact that Mama and Tata are no longer working. At home, the number one topic of conversation is how are we ever going to get out of this godforsaken country and join the ranks of the lucky few who have gotten their papers and left for Israel. Uncle Max brings home a popular joke from the office.

  “The way the authorities are deciding who will be issued a passport next is totally scientific.” He delivers this tidbit with a straight face while everyone at our dining room table listens. “It depends on the clerk’s height.” A faint smile starts to appear on his lips, but he suppresses it as he continues the joke. “If the clerk is tall, he pulls out a folder from the top shelf and works on it for the next three years or more, and if the clerk is short, he pulls out a folder from the bottom shelf and also works on it for the next three years or more, until eventually you’ll get your passport and get out. But if your folder happens to be filed somewhere in the middle, you’re out of luck.” A few chuckles are exchanged as Uncle Max continues. “These bureaucratic imbeciles make believe that they are working, and the Party makes believe that they are paying them.”

  “Well,” my father says, taking his pipe out of its pouch, “at least they are making believe that they’re getting paid. I’ve forgotten what that’s like altogether.”

  I get up without excusing myself and go out to the terrace for some air. Listening to them is useless. I can hear their thoughts even when they are silent.

  MY PIONEER OATH—JUNE 1959

  “YOU WILL WEAR your Pioneer scarf with great pride,” Comrade Popescu tells us as she demonstrates how to make a square knot out of the triangular silk fabric. “Class, what does the color red of your scarf symbolize?” she asks. We answer in unison, “The red flag of the USSR!”

  “Right.” She nods. “And if you ever come to school with stains from last night’s dinner on your new Pioneer scarf, you will have to deal with me—and so will your parents,” she adds. “Understood?”

  “Understood!” we shout back.

  Becoming a Pioneer isn’t easy, and it’s compulsory. We study the history of the Party. We have to swear to uphold all of its Communist values and act accordingly. “Only then will you be indoctrinated in a special ceremony to which your parents will be invited,” Comrade Popescu announces.

  After weeks of more studying she tells us, “Next Tuesday at ten a.m. sharp you will all become Red Pioneers. Tell your parents not to bother coming if they’re going to be late. At the end of the ceremony, you will each receive a special gold pin with the Romanian crest. Once awarded, this pin must be worn at the correct angle on your school uniform at all times. Should you lose the pin, you are to inform me, Comrade Popescu, immediately, and your parents will have to pay for its replacement, plus be fined a loser’s fee. Who wants to be a loser?” Comrade Popescu asks.

  The silence in our classroom is unanimous.

  THE PHONE IS RINGING as I run up the stairs and unload my backpack
onto the foyer floor.

  “Allo?” I answer into the mouthpiece.

  “Eva, is that you?” It is my cousin Mimi.

  “Yes, hello, Mimi.”

  “You sound out of breath,” Mimi says.

  “I just got home from school. I am going to become a Pioneer next Tuesday!”

  “That’s wonderful!” Mimi shouts back. “Am I invited to the ceremony?”

  “Uh … I don’t know. My teacher says we have to invite our parents. I haven’t had a chance to tell Mother and Father yet.”

  “Well, tell them I’m coming. I am so proud of you,” she says, and hangs up. I wonder why Cousin Mimi called in the first place.

  THE NEXT THREE DAYS are spent in anticipation of Tuesday morning’s Pioneer ceremony. Somehow, Cousin Mimi has wormed her way into attending.

  “She can have my place,” I overhear Tata tell Mama in a disgusted tone of voice. “The last thing I want to do is attend my daughter’s indoctrination into the Party machine.”

  “Don’t be selfish,” Mama tells him. “It means the world to your daughter.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” my father retorts. “Your daughter is studying Hebrew.”

  “I don’t see why these two things are mutually exclusive, Gyuri.”

  “You must be joking, Stefica,” Tata says, looking up from his book.

  Mama’s knitting needles stop in midair. “I’m joking. Of course,” she answers, throwing her unfinished sweater and the knitting needles onto the bed. The door slams behind her. Tata shakes his head and continues to read.

  The truth is, I am proud of becoming a Pioneer, because if I didn’t I would be singled out as a student who has failed or who is not worthy of being Romanian. What any of this has to do with my studying Hebrew I have no idea, but I’m not about to interrupt Tata’s reading to ask. I do wish he would change his mind and come to the ceremony.

  PIONEER DAY is filled with tension. Cousin Mimi shows up early in the morning. Tata hands Mama his camera and shows her how to take some snapshots of me since, despite Mama’s begging, he isn’t coming after all. Cousin Mimi wears a navy blue beret with a pearl hatpin. Her bright red lipstick has smudged one of her front teeth, and when she smiles it looks like her mouth is bleeding. I cringe every time she beams at me.