Under a Red Sky

by Haya Leah Molnar

  “Little Leah, come with me,” Grandpa Yosef says, extending his hand and grasping mine. We go to my bedroom and out onto the terrace. Everything in the yard is in bloom. The leaves of the tree branch above our terrace spread out like a beautiful yellow-green fan. Their color is so powerful, it makes me giddy and I start to laugh.

  “Eva, my little Leah,” Grandpa Yosef begins, not letting go of my hands. “Look at me.” I gaze up and glimpse for the first time the sadness in his deep, brown eyes.

  “Here,” he says, dipping his hand into his overcoat pocket. “I want you to have these.” He takes out a bunch of pencils tied with a string.

  “Ochii care nu se vd se uit. Eyes that do not see each other, forget each other,” Grandpa tells me. This is a Romanian proverb I’ve never heard before, but it rings true despite the knot in my throat. I take the pencils.

  “I want you to remember to write,” he says, taking me into his arms.

  LETTER FROM ISRAEL

  YOU NEVER KNOW what empty is until you feel the absence of someone you love. It’s more hollow than the pains of hunger and deeper than a pit. One moment Grandpa Yosef is here holding my hand and the next he is gone—and with him Grandma Iulia and Uncle Natan.

  In less than a week’s time the Romanian authorities assign a young gentile couple to live in my grandparents’ bedroom. Given the housing shortage, they are quite happy finally to have a bedroom to themselves in a good Bucharest neighborhood. They are polite, quiet people who are out working for most of the day. They eat their main meals elsewhere and only boil water for tea and coffee on a portable burner they install in their room. When they come home in the evening, they nod a curt bun seara—good evening—and retire to their room. They knock before using our bathroom and carry their toiletry bags and towels with them. The wife wipes the rim of the sink before she leaves the bathroom and makes sure that the seat is down after her husband uses the toilet.

  My parents never say a bad word about these people, but Aunt Puica hates them with a passion that is hard for her to contain. My father stops fighting with Aunt Puica or even paying her any mind, and my mother distances herself from her sister as well. It feels as if we are two families now instead of one, and I am the only link between them.

  I have the entire dining room to myself to study every afternoon. Since Grandma Iulia is gone, Sabina no longer expects me to set the table.

  “Don’t tell Madame Iulia when you see her again that I’ve excused you from your chores. She’ll never forgive me,” Sabina says.

  Judging from Sabina’s comments, she is more confident about us getting our passports than any of us are. Later in the afternoon I take a break from reading and go to the kitchen to make tea. I find Aunt Puica standing by the stove, steaming open an envelope that has come through the mail for the gentile couple who now live in my grandparents’ bedroom.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” I say, watching the steam from the teakettle magically open the envelope.

  “And who’s going to tell them, you?” She laughs.

  The letter turns out to be a long-winded correspondence from the couple’s cousin in the provinces. It contains details about every family member, facts without insights. Aunt Puica tries to instill a bit of drama as she reads the letter out loud in the privacy of her bedroom when Uncle Max gets home from work, but the contents are so boring, she doesn’t even bother to finish it.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask her. “What if you get caught?”

  “Why? Because they are invading the privacy of our home, that’s why! I can spy on them just as they can on us and I won’t get caught,” she says, resealing the envelope with her tongue. “See, I’m an expert at licking the goyim.” Uncle Max snickers, and she smacks his head lightly with the back of her hand.

  IN LATE JUNE we receive our first letter from Israel. The weather in Bucharest is glorious, so Uncle Max and Aunt Puica join my parents and me on the terrace. Aunt Puica rips open the tissue-thin airmail envelope.

  “Be careful, Puica,” Mother warns her. “You’ll tear the letter.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Aunt Puica retorts. She slides out the pages that reveal Grandma Iulia’s large script. “I’m an expert at this.”

  My dear children and dearest Eva,

  We arrived here one week ago, at the end of May. I would have written sooner, but I was so exhausted, I climbed into bed and slept for two days straight. Then I had to unpack since I don’t want us to continue to sleep like a bunch of gypsies on straw mattresses without linens. The Israeli authorities send new immigrants wherever they are needed to help build roads and homes in new settlements. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined myself living in the Holy Land, next door to Nazareth, the ancient town where Jesus lived. There are thousands of Christian pilgrims who come to pray here all year round. The town is full of Arabs and tourists. We live in Nazareth Elit, the Jewish town that has recently been built on the hills surrounding the old Nazareth. It is very windy, but we have a view of the Canaan valley and on clear nights you can see the lights from Haifa twinkling in the distance. We were the first tenants in our building, and we could have chosen an apartment on any floor. I took one on the ground floor because my legs were too swollen from exhaustion to climb the stairs. It turned out to be a good decision because the iceman comes every day in the early morning and I have to meet him on the hill and carry the ice to the icebox in our kitchen by myself. Imagine if I would have had to carry a block of ice up several flights of stairs! You must be asking, Why isn’t Yosef or Natan helping you?—it’s because they are both out working by 6:30 a.m. Natan got a job building the new road that leads up to this town, which is so full of steep hills. He’s working like a common laborer in the afternoon heat, lifting huge boulders and carrying them great distances, often without help. He doesn’t complain, but I see that this is taking a big toll on him. When he’s finally home in the evening, he’s often too exhausted to eat supper. Yosef is the only one who’s happy. He works every day in the Israeli army kitchen, peeling onions and potatoes for the soldiers, and they all love him. They feed him well, so we have one less mouth to worry about.

  I miss all of you terribly and pray every day to see you and kiss you once again,

  Mama

  Grandma’s letter is followed by one line printed in Grandpa Yosef’s almost illegible handwriting. It is addressed to me.

  “Eva, my sweetest girl, I miss you and kiss you and love you. Your Grandpa.”

  Even Aunt Puica is quiet as she refolds the letter and slips it back into the envelope. None of us comment. We sit in silence as the truth sinks in. My grandparents and Uncle Natan live in Israel now and aren’t ever coming back to Bucharest, Romania.

  CHRISTMAS 1960

  SUMMER TURNS INTO FALL and fall into an early winter. We have very few visitors to the house, as all of our Jewish friends and family are also dealing with their own unemployment and waiting for that ever-elusive, treasured passport. We live from letter to letter. The mail from Israel takes about three weeks to arrive.

  After school I spend every afternoon with Andrei, and we become even closer. He reluctantly returned my Native American headdress, but whenever he comes over to play, he can’t resist trying it on and walking around as if he were Prince Charming, which of course, for me, he is. Since it is common knowledge that my grandparents and Uncle Natan have left for Israel, I assume that Andrei has accepted that I’m Jewish after all—but he never brings up the subject and neither do I. Secretly, I still dream of marrying him, though I know that this is unlikely since every fiber of my mother’s being is now focused on leaving the country. At Christmastime, Mother tells me that this year we can’t have a tree since it is too expensive, and “besides,” she adds, “we’re Jews anyway.” I almost ask her why all of a sudden that makes a difference, but I don’t, because I know she doesn’t have the answer and I don’t want to upset her any more than she already is.

  I stopped going to Rabbi’s house shortly afte
r Grandpa Yosef and Grandma Iulia left. I did not find the answer to what it means to be a Jew there, only more questions. Rabbi, while kind, focused on the boys since each had to study for his Bar Mitzvah, and as Grandma Iulia had pointed out, girls don’t become Bat Mitzvah around here. “You should be happy that you can read Hebrew,” she told me one day when she heard me practicing out loud. But listening to the sounds of words isn’t enough. I want to know what they mean, but Rabbi has no time to translate. If Grandpa Yosef were still here, maybe I wouldn’t have quit. Yet not going forms a void in my heart I cannot explain to anyone because I do not understand it myself.

  IT’S CHRISTMAS MORNING and I’m home alone, except for Sabina. The snowflakes dancing in the windows look like white down. Mama and Tata have gone to Beard’s house since Renée is visiting from Belgium. They asked me to go with them, but I didn’t feel like it. I don’t know where Aunt Puica and Uncle Max have gone, and I don’t care. I love having the house to myself, though I wish Grandpa Yosef were here, wearing his red Santa Claus outfit with the fake beard made out of cotton balls. I try to read, but after several pages, I stop because Grandpa’s face keeps popping up in my head. The phone rings. I mark my place and walk to the foyer without rushing. I pick up the phone on the fourth ring.

  “Allo, Eva?” Cousin Mimi’s voice is so loud that I have to hold the receiver away from my ear. “Hello, Mimi.” I roll my eyes as I answer her.

  “Merry Christmas,” she says, full of cheer. “How are you doing? I had so much fun making decorations for my tree yesterday! How’s yours?”

  I refrain from asking her why she has a Christmas tree since she’s such a good Communist. I’m not looking for an argument.

  “We don’t have a tree this year,” I tell her simply.

  Mimi’s voice gets louder. “Why not?”

  “We’re Jewish.”

  “Yes. So am I. So?”

  “We don’t have a tree because Mama says Jews don’t celebrate Christmas and we can’t afford one.”

  “That’s terrible!” Mimi whines. “I called because I wanted to drop by this afternoon to wish Stefica a happy birthday. Are you going to be around later?”

  “Yes. We’re around,” I tell her, and hang up. I had almost forgotten that Mama’s birthday is the day after Christmas. Maybe it’s good that Mimi called after all.

  THE SNOW STICKS and even the sky turns white. I get dressed and have some hot chocolate and buttered bread for breakfast. I spend the rest of the morning reading my book on Uncle Natan’s cot in the dining room. I even miss Uncle Natan hiding behind his paper and making his snorting allergy sounds. A knock at the front door startles me. I hear Sabina greeting Mimi.

  “Merry Christmas, Sabina!” Mimi’s voice carries from the foyer.

  “Merry Christmas to you too, Doamna Mimi. Let me have your galoshes so you won’t drip all over the floor.”

  “Eva!” Mimi shouts. “Come here to see the surprise I brought you. Hurry!”

  Why can’t she just come in and give me a present like any other normal person? I put on my slippers and go to the foyer. There are still snowflakes on Mimi’s black beret. She gives me a great big hug and her usual lipsticked kiss, and I do my best to return her show of affection as politely as possible. I look around and don’t see any presents, but I say nothing.

  “Are you ready?” Mimi asks, excited. I give her a cool nod.

  “Sabina, open the door!” Mimi says, taking my hand and dragging me into the hallway. Leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs is a Christmas tree that stands almost as tall as Mimi. It is fully decorated with glass balls of every color and brightly painted, hand-carved wooden people, houses, and animals. Sabina reaches into the wet branches and wraps her hand around a pinecone. The tree glistens with melting snow, and it smells so good it almost takes my breath away.

  “I couldn’t enjoy my tree knowing that you don’t have one,” Mimi says, “so I brought it over for you!”

  SOMETHING WAKES ME UP in the middle of the night. It’s Mama. She’s sobbing. “Shhh, don’t cry, Stefica. It’s going to be all right.” Tata’s voice is muffled.

  “But it isn’t all right, and I’m sick of it!” Mama cries. “You have no idea, Gyuri, just how sick I …” Her voice breaks again with more sobs.

  “I have a very good idea.” Tata tries to comfort her. “You’re just emotional because tomorrow’s your birthday.”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t understand why they’re torturing us like this. Why don’t they just let us go? It doesn’t make sense. First they announce that we can apply for passports. Then when we apply, they fire us, and we can barely survive. It’s been almost two years since we filed, and Mother and Father have been gone now for eight months. How much longer can we go on like this, Gyuri? What do they expect us to do? Die?”

  “That wouldn’t be a new idea, Stefica. The Germans had it first.”

  “Thanks for making me feel better!” Mama cries.

  The rest of the night is silent.

  JUST LIKE MOSES

  ON NEW YEAR’S DAY Mama bakes a cozonac. She hasn’t baked one since my birthday in April, ages ago. I follow her into the kitchen to watch her knead and braid the dough. She begins to whistle a tune as she searches the pantry for raisins and sugar.

  “Grandma used to say it’s bad luck to whistle in the house,” I tell her.

  Mama laughs. “Don’t be silly, Eva. I’m happy.”

  “I know, but Grandma Iulia says that whistling indoors calls in the devil.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Mama says, looking up from her mixing bowl. When she sees the mortified look on my face, she stops whistling.

  “Happy New Year to the Child!” Uncle Max bursts into the kitchen, takes me in his arms, and starts planting one loud kiss after another on both of my cheeks, my hands, and all over my body.

  “Stop it! Your mustache itches,” I tell him, pushing him away.

  “She’s not five anymore, Max,” Mama scolds, but she’s smiling.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME since my grandparents and Uncle Natan left, we eat together at the dining room table as a family. Sabina brings out one dish after another. Aunt Puica has fried an entire carp that Uncle Max was able to buy by bribing a friend with connections. Tata used the extra money he made from his holiday portrait shoots to buy meat. Sabina has put the meat through the grinder, and Mother has rolled it into mititei and spiced it so that my mouth waters even before I taste any. There are crispy French fries, and both Tata and Uncle Max are drinking beer. I am stuffing my face and swallowing food before it is fully chewed. I’m already thinking about Mama’s cozonac for dessert.

  “Do you want the fish head or the tail?” Aunt Puica asks Mama.

  “I’ll take the tail since I know you’re dying for the head,” Mama says, trying to be nice.

  “Great.” Aunt Puica detaches the head of the fish with her fork, scooping it from the platter and slurping the eyes before the rest of the head hits her plate. “Delicious.”

  “It’s all yours.” My father watches her in disgust since he hates all fish and he’s made a big concession for New Year’s just to eat at the same table where a fish dish is served.

  Uncle Max ignores all of us. He’s too busy cutting his mititei, pouring salt on his French fries, and forking them into his mouth.

  “So,” my mother begins.

  “So,” Uncle Max answers without looking up from his plate.

  “So,” Mama says again as Sabina enters carrying a casserole filled with steaming cauliflower, feta cheese, and bread crumbs.

  “So?” Uncle Max repeats, his eyebrows going up as he helps himself to a huge portion of cauliflower. “Mmmm, this is so good. Try some,” he tells Aunt Puica, motioning to the dish.

  “I’ve made a decision,” my mother says.

  “Good. Decisions are terrific, especially on New Year’s,” Uncle Max says with his mouth full.

  Tata looks surprised as he lifts his beer glas
s and takes a sip.

  “We’re leaving for Israel,” Mama announces.

  Everyone, including me, stops eating and looks up.

  “That’s not news,” Aunt Puica says, breaking the momentary silence. “We’ve been leaving for a long time.”

  “Yes.” Mama’s not addressing her sister, she’s talking to all of us. “But now it’s time that we go.”

  “What has gotten into you, Stefi?” Tata asks in a soft voice.

  “Don’t patronize me, Gyuri,” Mama answers him calmly. “I’ve had enough and I’m going to do something about it.”

  “About what?” Tata and Aunt Puica ask in unison, and then laugh in embarrassment.

  “About our situation,” Mama answers.

  Aunt Puica looks at Uncle Max. “She’s gone cuckoo.”

  “I’m not crazy. I’m going to have a talk with the Securitate officials where we filed our application.”

  “Stefi.” Tata tries to contain his voice. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  My father gets up and starts to pace. Uncle Max and Aunt Puica are both staring at Mama.

  “I don’t understand why you’re all so upset,” Mama continues.

  “We were told we could leave. That was almost two years ago. We’ve lost our jobs and we’re still waiting. How much longer is this crap going to go on?”

  “As long as they want, Stefi,” my father suggests.

  “No. That’s not acceptable.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s not acceptable. You being picked up by the Securitate isn’t acceptable.” Tata returns to his seat but continues to stand as he holds on to the back of his chair. “That’s not acceptable to me, Stefi.”

  “Stefi,” Uncle Max interrupts, “be reasonable. I never thought I’d agree with Gyuri about anything, but this isn’t a good idea. You’re talking nonsense. It’s too big a chance to take.”