Under a Red Sky

  “Can I go with you to the Purim party?” I ask.

  “As long as your mother gives you permission,” Uncle Max says.

  “You can’t take the Child, Max. I’m not even going,” Puica says, as if her presence must determine anyone else’s attendance.

  “And why not take the Child?”

  “Because.” Aunt Puica glares at Uncle Max.

  “Because why?” he asks.

  “You know very well why she can’t go,” Puica pleads.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because there are going to be a bunch of Jews gathered in one place, and if the Securitate gets wind of it, they’re not going to like it,” she answers.

  “So? Aren’t we already a bunch of Jews gathered in one place right in this house? Do you think the Securitate likes that?”

  But Aunt Puica’s not buying it. “Let’s not involve the Child, Max. If you get into trouble, that’s your business, but the little girl is another matter.” Aunt Puica retreats into their bedroom. “You know what I mean.”

  “No. I don’t,” he answers, making a clumsy rat-tat-tat sound with his toe shoes as he follows her.

  “No one else is bringing children. It’s an adult Purimspiel.” My aunt’s voice can be heard through their closed door.

  “So what?” Uncle Max has never had the last word before.

  I HAVE NO IDEA what Purimspiel means. All I care about is going to the party. I wonder if I could wear a costume too. That would be so much fun! Still, when Uncle Max emerges from his bedroom dressed once again as himself, I ask him what this dress-up party is all about.

  “Aha! Just as I thought,” he says. “No one’s bothered to tell you the most important thing—the Purim story.”

  “No.”

  “Purim is great because you can laugh, get drunk, and make a total fool of yourself. Show me a Jew who can’t laugh at himself and I’ll show you a Jew in trouble.”

  Uncle Max begins his story. “Once upon a time there was a man by the name of Mordechai, who lived in Persia. He was one of many Jews who lived in exile more than a thousand years ago.”

  “Uncle Max,” I interrupt, “what does exile mean?”

  “Oy.” Uncle Max’s forehead is a river of creases. He finally answers with a heavy sigh. “Exile. Exile means ‘not at home, not living in your own country.’ Exile. Like the way we are living now, Eva, waiting and praying to get back to Israel.”

  “But, Uncle Max,” I argue, “I was born here. I’m not living in exile!”

  “You are, Eva. A Jew can be born anywhere, but unless you’re living in Israel, you are in some fashion living in exile, even if you are doing well and you’re rich, as was the case with my family when we lived in Spain.”

  “You come from Spain, Uncle Max?”

  “I was born here just like you, but my family was from Spain. They were Sephardic Jews who were expelled from Spain during the Inquisition.”

  “Uncle Max, I don’t understand.”

  “Jews have been living in exile all over the world for more than two thousand years. Some of us have been feeling so at home in foreign lands that we forget where we came from. But sooner or later, a Haman or a Hitler tries to wipe us off the face of the earth. Purim is about laughter because, despite all of our hardships and the pogroms, and even after what happened during the war, God has never abandoned Jews and Jews have never abandoned God. Or maybe it’s the other way around. In any case, being alive is certainly something for us to celebrate. Even here.”

  I am uncomfortable with what he’s telling me, since I’ve always thought of Bucharest as my home. “I see what you mean by ‘oy,’ Uncle Max.”

  Uncle Max cracks up. “Not just ‘oy,’ kid, but ‘oy, vey, zmir’!”

  We start to laugh and make faces at each other. “So what happened with Mordechai?” I ask, giggling.

  “Mordechai had no children of his own,” Uncle Max continues, “but he took care of his beautiful orphaned cousin, whose name was Esther.” He pauses and looks at me. “Anyway, there was a very rich king in Persia who got tired of his wife, Queen Vashti, so he asked his courtiers to find him a new, younger, and more beautiful wife.”

  “And Esther got chosen?” I guess.

  “You got it. Except there’s one problem.” Uncle Max’s index finger goes up in the air. “Esther is Jewish, and King Ahasuerus is not.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  Uncle Max rolls his eyes. “Eva, do they like Jews around here?”

  I shrug.

  “All right then, what makes you think that it was any different back then?” Uncle Max continues: “So Mordechai tells Esther to do the only sensible thing—he tells her to hide the fact that she is Jewish.” Uncle Max pauses.

  “Just like you guys hid it from me?”

  “What are you talking about, Eva?”

  “Uncle Max, I didn’t know that I’m Jewish until everyone lost their job,” I tell him, and then I add quickly, “Except for you.”

  “Eva, there are times when hiding being a Jew is a good idea, as Queen Esther proves. In any case, the king marries Esther. Shortly after the wedding, Mordechai uncovers a plot to kill the king, reports it, and saves the king’s life—but the king is completely unaware of this. Instead of rewarding Mordechai, the king appoints Haman, an evil man, to become his prime minister. Mordechai refuses to bow down to Haman, so Haman builds a gallows in order to hang Mordechai. Haman also plans to kill the entire Jewish community.”

  “Queen Esther knows this?” I ask.

  “Of course! Mordechai asks for her help, and she risks her life by telling the king the truth about Haman’s plans. She also divulges that she is Jewish.”

  “What does the king do?”

  “He has Haman hung on the very gallows he’s prepared for Mordechai. He also signs a decree that the Jews are allowed to defend themselves.”

  “Uncle Max?”

  “Yes, sweetheart.”

  “That’s a scary story, but I’m glad that it ends well.”

  “Yes, well enough for us to have a great party and get drunk!” Uncle Max laughs. “I’ll see what I can do about having you join me.”

  UNCLE MAX convinces everyone that I can go to the party with him. Mama volunteers to make a costume, and when Cousin Mimi hears about it, she offers to help and invites Mama and Aunt Puica to her studio to research ideas. Having to produce a unique costume in just a few days gets the three of them focused. But they forget to ask me what I want to wear.

  “Take a look at these beautiful tribal African women,” Mimi says, opening up a giant book on her coffee table entitled Native Costumes of the World. “Don’t these women look like magnificent sculptures?”

  “They look like very tall, topless women to me,” Aunt Puica comments.

  “So what?” Mimi snaps. “There’s no shame in going topless in many countries, including on some of the best beaches on the French Riviera.”

  “Bucharest is not the French Riviera or Africa, thank God,” Aunt Puica says, rolling her eyes.

  “Look, I’ve got a tribal skirt that I brought back from Africa and lots of beads and bracelets. I’ve even got a very curly black wig. Let’s just try it and see how she looks.” Mimi is not about to take no for an answer, so she rushes to her bedroom and reappears with armloads of stuff for my costume. Before I have a chance to protest, they pull off my clothes until I am standing in my underwear.

  “Take off your undershirt,” Mimi orders, “and let’s get some makeup on your body to see what you look like with black skin.” She dips her hands in a round jar of dark brown makeup. She examines my face as if it were one of her canvases, and in seconds my skin turns dark beneath her hands. I stand in front of the mirror and notice how the whites of my eyes suddenly seem to glow. I smile at myself and notice that my teeth also look whiter. Aunt Puica pins up my hair and pulls Mimi’s wig onto my head, tucking in every stray wisp of blond hair. The wig fits snugly. The tribal skirt is way too big, so Mimi wraps
it around my waist several times, and Mama secures it with a brooch. Mimi slips brightly colored necklaces over my head and gold and silver bangle bracelets on my arms. Mama paints my lips bright red and darkens my eyebrows to match the wig. The three of them look at their creation in the mirror. I stand motionless and watch as I am transformed into an African girl. I have never seen a black person before. She is beautiful but topless. Inside, I feel the same: beautiful but naked.

  “You are absolutely gorgeous,” Mimi gushes. Mama and Aunt Puica nod in agreement but I tell them, “No.” Three bewildered faces look back at me in the mirror. “What do you mean, ‘No’?” Mimi asks.

  “I’m not going anywhere naked like this,” I answer.

  “You’re not naked!” Mimi shouts. “You’re wearing a magnificent African tribal skirt and gorgeous jewelry. It’s the way they dress in Africa.”

  I shrug. “I don’t care,” I tell her. “I won’t go without my undershirt.”

  Mimi explodes. “Are you crazy, Eva? African girls don’t wear ugly white undershirts. Take a look at how stunning you look,” she says, pointing at my reflection in the mirror.

  Aunt Puica smiles. “She is beautiful, but she’s got a point. I wouldn’t want to go to a masked ball topless either, even if I was as flat as she is.”

  “Flat or not,” Mama says, turning to me, “if you’re not comfortable, you don’t have to do it.”

  Mimi glares at my mother. Aunt Puica smiles, waiting to see who will win out.

  “I’m not going to the Purim party anymore,” I cry, pulling off the wig.

  “Don’t be such a crybaby,” Mimi says. “Of course you’re going.”

  I shake my head and try to push back my tears.

  “We’ll just have to make you a new costume!” Mimi declares, pulling me into her living room with Mama and Aunt Puica trailing us.

  “Show me which costume you’d like, Eva,” Mimi says, opening the Native Costumes of the World book on her coffee table.

  I am about to sit down when she yells, “Don’t! You’ll get makeup all over my white couch.”

  Mama takes me into Mimi’s bathroom, where I shower and watch the colors run off my face and body. When I get back into my clothes, we rejoin Aunt Puica and Mimi, who are huddled over the costume book.

  “Let’s give Eva a chance to look at some costumes by herself,” Mama suggests, to which they both quickly reply, “Of course.”

  There are costumes from the various regions of France, Romania, Russia, Germany, Italy, and many other countries, but they don’t interest me. I keep looking for a Jewish one, but I can’t find any listed. Then a picture of a man wearing a magnificent crown of feathers catches my eye. I point. “What’s that?”

  “That’s an American Indian chief!” Mimi is thrilled. “See, it says here, ‘Navajo chief headdress.’”

  “I love that,” I say.

  “Where on earth are we going to find all those feathers for the headdress?” Aunt Puica asks.

  Grandpa Yosef makes a special trip to the farmers’ market at dawn and enlists Ion’s help. “Anything for Miss Eva,” Ion tells Grandpa, and shows up the next day with close to fifty turkey feathers from the farm. He even brings some duck feathers and one eagle feather. Mimi picks the best ones and dips several of their tips in red oil paint, leaving the bases either brown or white, but she does not touch the eagle feather. “I’m using that one for the center of the headdress,” she says.

  Mama makes leggings from a light beige felt that looks like suede, and Aunt Puica decorates them with fringe and beads. Mama then sews a light blue silk tunic and embroiders its collar with blue and white triangles. Aunt Puica finds several strings of tiny multicolored beads in Mimi’s treasure chest and makes rosettes that she sews into the headdress and down my tunic arms for decoration. The three of them continue to consult Mimi’s book for reference, but the costume is really their unique creation.

  The day before Purim, we get together for a final fitting at Mimi’s house. I stand in front of the mirror in full Native American regalia, with the three women oohing and aahing at their creation.

  “Stop smiling for a second so that I can paint your face properly,” Mama says, adding several bold strokes of color to my cheekbones. I stand still and watch the American Indian chief in the mirror make a face at me. He looks ready for anything, even a Jewish girl’s first Purimspiel.

  PURIMSPIEL—MARCH 1960

  UNCLE MAX AND I are ready, but we cannot go out on the street in our Purim costumes. “Don’t worry,” Uncle Max, says adjusting his blond wig. “My sister Tirtza will be sending a car for us.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister, Uncle Max,” I tell him, touching the pink tulle of his tutu.

  “There are a lot of things about me that you don’t know,” he answers. “Tell me if my mascara is running.” He bats his eyes at me, and I crack up. “Eva, you’re laughing at me, and it’s premature,” Uncle Max says, taking my hand. “Save it for the Purimspiel.”

  MY HANDS ARE CLAMMY as we enter Tirtza’s apartment. There’s so much noise that I wonder if Aunt Puica was right about my staying home. I don’t know anyone here, but they’re all laughing and talking at the same time. The lights in the rooms are dim, silhouetting the guests against the dying sun from the terrace.

  “Oh my God, look who’s here,” a woman screeches, flapping her ears in Uncle Max’s face and planting a kiss that leaves lipstick marks on his cheek. She is dressed as a white bunny rabbit. “It’s Max as a pink ballerina!”

  Heads turn. Everyone approaches until we are surrounded by masked people. Seeing that he has an audience, Uncle Max opens his makeup bag with a flourish.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, mademoiselles and messieurs, comrades and esteemed members of the Proletariat, you are about to witness an act of ingenuity that will demonstrate how our revered Party courageously strikes a delicate economic balance.” The crowd quiets down. Uncle Max retrieves the ball of string from his bag as if he is pulling a rabbit out of a hat and holds it up for everyone to see.

  “Voilà, my tightrope,” he continues as people chuckle in anticipation. “Not since Houdini came to Bucharest has anyone witnessed a feat like this.” He lays the string on the parquet floor, sits next to it, and slips on his toe shoes. Then he gracefully crisscrosses the pink satin laces up his thick calf muscles. “Madame,” he asks Miss Bunny Rabbit, “would you be kind enough to give me a hand? I am a little unsteady on my toes.” Everyone roars as he gets up and brushes off his tutu. Uncle Max tucks in his belly and turns to introduce me. “My lovely assistant here, Chief Eva of the American Bird Feathers, will stand on one end in order to ensure that I will not fall as I walk on the Party’s budgetary tightrope.”

  I stand on the end of the string just as he asks, but Miss Bunny Rabbit won’t let go of my arm. “Isn’t Max hilarious?” she gushes. “And you look like a turkey has just spread its tail on top of your head. What a marvelous costume!”

  “I am a Native American Navajo chief,” I inform her politely.

  “Oh.” She laughs. “Are you an American turkey?” She pinches both of my cheeks. I pull my face away without losing my footing. “You’re smudging my paint,” I tell her.

  “Max, your niece is adorable! I’m so glad you brought her.” Miss Bunny Rabbit’s breath reeks of viinat—homemade Romanian cherry liqueur.

  “Kiki, my little bunny rabbit,” Uncle Max teases, “stop torturing the Child. You’re breaking my concentration. Tirtza, let the music begin!” Uncle Max’s sister hurries to a turntable and places the needle on the record. The voices of a Russian choir singing the Internationale fill the room as Uncle Max demurely puts one toe in front of the other and dances across the tightrope on the floor. As he makes his way past someone he recognizes, he stops to curtsy. When he reaches the other side of the room, he does a headstand to the crowd’s thunderous applause. With his legs in the air and his tutu hanging upside down, he quickly lifts his right hand off the floor and scratches his rear end.
I am so embarrassed, I wish I had stayed home. Everyone’s applause is drowned out by laughter.

  The rest of the night is a whirlwind of people laughing, talking, eating mititei, and drinking beer, uic, and viinat. A man dressed as a clown reads the Megillah in Hebrew, which no one seems to understand. We are given glasses and spoons and told to make as much noise as possible every time he utters Haman’s name. The chanter lets us know when to make noise by shaking his head and ringing the bells on his clown hat.

  Uncle Max circulates through the apartment. I lose track of him but eventually find him in the bedroom engaged in heated conversation with a heavy man who is sprawled on Tirtza’s bed.

  “I heard that the Securitate is beginning to visit houses about two to three months before issuing exit visas,” Uncle Max says. The man slides his mask on top of his bald, sweaty head.

  “Yes, I heard that too.” The man nods. “But why?”

  “Why?” Uncle Max echoes.

  “I can’t figure it out,” Mr. Sweathead answers.

  “You can always speculate that they want something. The Securitate always wants something,” Uncle Max tells him.

  “Like what? The skin off our backs?”

  “That too. But maybe they’ll start with our homes,” Uncle Max murmurs.

  “Our homes?”

  “Yeah, our homes. We can’t sell them, and we can’t transport them on our backs to the West.”

  Mr. Sweathead whistles softly. “You’re a genius, Max. If what you’re saying is true, they’ll start with those of us who have the largest apartments so they can get their grubby hands on them.”

  Max nods in silence.

  “And if you don’t happen to have a two-bedroom apartment with a terrace—”

  Uncle Max finishes the man’s thought. “Let’s just say you will enjoy Bucharest’s ambience a little longer.”

  “Ce porcrie—what a disgusting mess!” Mr. Sweathead cries.

  I tug at Uncle Max’s tutu.

  “What is it, sweetheart?”