Under a Red Sky

by Haya Leah Molnar

  I FIND SABINA in her room upstairs. She looks so different without her turban. Her long and scraggly hair has turned gray, and it’s parted in the middle. There are spots where I can see her scalp.

  “Sabina, we’re leaving,” I tell her, tiptoeing into the room. She takes me in her arms and holds me for a long time. “Tell your grandparents and Uncle Natan that I love them and miss them,” she says. “And may God watch over you always,” she whispers, crossing herself.

  ANDREI IS MY LAST GOODBYE at home since Uncle Max will be taking us to the train station. I knock on Andrei’s door, and he sticks his head out and says, “I’ll meet you on the terrace in a few minutes.”

  Outside, a sliver of a moon hangs in the dusk sky and a few stars have made their appearance. The autumn air is cool and crisp. I place my American Indian headdress on my head and wait for Andrei. When he joins me, he is holding a package wrapped in brown paper.

  “Andrei, you know I can’t take anything with me,” I tell him.

  “This you can take,” he answers, unwrapping the brown paper and revealing my favorite type of Hungarian salami, from Sibiu. “Oh, and I also brought you dessert,” he says, presenting me with a bar of dark chocolate.

  “This must have cost a fortune!” I embrace him, and then we both pull away uncomfortably.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I say, looking down into the darkness that has descended upon the yard.

  “I’m going to miss you too,” he answers, taking my hand.

  “Here, I want you to keep this.” I take off my feathered headdress and place it on his head.

  THE CUSTOMS OFFICIALS have searched our luggage and discovered Aunt Puica’s watch on my wrist during the body check. “Let the girl keep it,” one of the clerks says to the other. “That watch isn’t worth much.” So I get to keep the watch. When they find the Hungarian salami, they pierce holes through it with knitting needles to make sure that we have not hidden any jewelry inside. They break the bar of chocolate into pieces for the same reason. None of us cares. The train is hurtling forward into the cold night air toward Bulgaria.

  We stop in Giurgiu, the last town on the Romanian border. Even though we have an entire compartment to ourselves, it’s tight quarters. My father stands up to stretch. Mama has fallen asleep. “Where are we?” she asks, yawning, when she wakes up. She looks out the window at the barren station.

  “We’re almost out of here,” Tata answers.

  “Fifteen minutes!” The conductor’s voice comes through so loudly over the sound system that I have to cover my ears. “This train will depart in fifteen minutes. Please be sure to be back on board by eleven fifteen sharp.”

  “How about a family photo at the Romanian border?” Tata suggests. I can tell that my mother doesn’t feel like posing right now, but she humors him. “Get up, sweetheart,” she says, taking my hand. We step off the train and wait for Tata on the platform. When he doesn’t join us after a few minutes have passed, Mama gets impatient. “Stay here,” she tells me. “I’m going to see what’s holding him.” A moment later she reappears, grabs my hand, and pulls me back onto the train.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Your father can’t find his camera bag.” She looks ashen.

  Tata doesn’t speak. He continues to rummage through all of our belongings, including my valise.

  “Try to remember when you last had it,” Mama tells him.

  Tata keeps looking at his watch.

  “We’ve got seven minutes before this train crosses the border,” he says, ignoring Mother’s advice. “I’m going to talk with the conductor.”

  Tata runs to the front of the train. He is back in our compartment four minutes later. I checked the time on Aunt Puica’s watch.

  “They found my camera bag in Bucharest on the train platform!” he announces. “There’s nowhere for them to ship it and I’m not even going to consider that as an option, because it will get stolen—guaranteed. Stefi, I must go back to Bucharest and get it. I spoke with the station chief there, and he swore that he’ll hold on to it for me. Of course, I promised him a huge tip. I’ll have to call Max and ask him to come to the station with the money.”

  “Are you crazy, Gyuri? You want to go back to Bucharest for a camera? You’ll buy another one when we get to Israel!” Mama shouts.

  “No!” Tata says. I know by the look on his face that there is no arguing with him. “We have no money. That camera is my only means to make a living. I’m going back to Bucharest to get it. You and Eva wait for me in Sofia at the train station. I promise, I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  Tata steps off the train without so much as a goodbye kiss. Less than one minute later, the locomotive starts up again and transports my mother and me out of Romania with a puff of white steam against the night sky and the wail of a long whistle.

  NEW FRIENDS IN SOFIA

  MAMA DOES NOT DISCUSS Tata’s decision to go back to Bucharest for his camera. We are both worried about how long we will have to wait for him in Sofia and whether the Hungarian salami and the chocolate that Andrei has given me, our only food, will last until we are reunited and on our way to Istanbul.

  “You know, Eva, just before we left Bucharest, my friend Livia telephoned and asked me to call a friend of hers who lives here in Sofia, and say hello. She gave me her friend’s number, but I didn’t write it down since we couldn’t take anything written with us. I told Livia that I would try to memorize her friend’s number, but honestly, it just didn’t seem that important at the time. I wish I knew her friend’s last name so we could look her up in the Sofia phone book.”

  “Try to remember the number, Mama” are the last words I murmur before the sound of the train lulls me to sleep.

  When I wake up, my mother is engrossed in conversation with a man who is sitting across from us. They are speaking French, but the man peppers his conversation with Romanian words spoken in a heavy accent I do not recognize. Neither of them notices that I’m awake, so I close my eyes quickly and then only half-reopen them, so that I can observe their conversation through my lashes.

  The man is unnervingly handsome. His black hair is thick and slicked back, his skin is olive, and his brown eyes are enormous. He is well dressed in a light gray suit with a deep blue silk tie. His hands express concern as he speaks. I am relieved when I notice a gold wedding band on his left hand. I don’t know if it’s because they’re speaking in French or if it’s just my imagination, but I detect a bit of flirtation in Mama’s voice. I decide to let them know that I’m awake just as the train pulls into the station at Sofia. It is five thirty in the morning.

  Our luggage is unloaded onto the platform by a hamal whose hand is out, expecting a tip. Mama looks on with gratitude and embarrassment as our new friend pulls out his wallet and tips the hamal in Bulgarian currency. More words in French are exchanged as our handsome friend reaches into his pocket for his card and hands it to Mama before he’s whisked away to a waiting black limousine.

  We watch the commotion as passengers are met by family members who embrace them, others hail taxis, and the remainder rush to make connecting trains. Mama and I form a solitary island in the Sofia train station. Perched on top of our valises, we watch the multitude rush by. I envy their sense of purpose and their focus on a destination.

  Mama breaks off a piece of Andrei’s chocolate and hands it to me. “Here,” she says. “It’s too early for salami. Think of this as a cup of hot chocolate while it melts in your mouth.”

  I don’t think about hot chocolate, I think about Andrei. He is probably in school right now, listening to Comrade Popescu’s boring math lesson. I wonder if he allows himself to drift and think of me as I’m thinking of him. One day shortly before we left, one of Mama’s friends came to the house to bid us farewell. She asked, “What will you miss the most after you’re gone, Eva?” and without hesitation, my answer was “Nothing. I will miss nothing, because while I have good f
riends here, I will make new ones wherever I go.” Now that Andrei’s dark chocolate is melting in my mouth, I miss him so much already, I would trade this chocolate just to see him one more time.

  Mama gets up from the valise, goes to the phone, and dials. She got some change for phone calls from our handsome friend. I leave our luggage to go talk to her. “Are you calling the man we met this morning?” I ask.

  Mama turns around as her fingers press down on the telephone receiver lever. “No, I’m trying to reach my friend Livia’s friend, but her number is constantly busy. Don’t leave our luggage unattended. Get back there now!”

  I return to our luggage and sit down. I wish I had a book, but since books are prohibited as printed material, mine were left behind in Bucharest. I wonder when Tata will reappear. Mama comes back from the telephone looking defeated. “Let me have a piece of chocolate,” she says, sitting down on her valise. As she savors the chocolate, she checks her watch for the time. It is eleven thirty. She goes to the ticket booth and tries to speak with the clerk. I hear Mama trying to explain our situation to him in French, but he clearly does not understand. He answers her in Bulgarian. Mama starts to gesticulate, but that doesn’t help. She finally gives up and rejoins me.

  “Are you sure you have the right number for Livia’s friend?” I ask.

  “I’ve got as right a number as I’m ever going to remember, Eva. I wish whoever is on that phone would stop yakking and pick up.”

  I yawn. It’s hot and I’m very thirsty. My mother won’t leave our luggage, so I have to find the bathroom by myself. It isn’t very clean, but there is a sink with running water. I perch myself on the sink ledge and let the water run until it’s cold. I drink without touching the faucet and the water tastes great. When I get back, Mama has left our luggage unattended and is on the phone again trying to reach her friend’s friend. I stand guard by our valises. By two p.m. we are both famished, since we were too nervous to eat a proper dinner before leaving Bucharest. Mama hands me the salami, and, since we have no knife, I bite into it.

  “Save some for dinner,” she cautions, nibbling on her own tiny bite.

  I chew slowly, wishing for a piece of bread to go with the salami, which is delicious but spicier than usual. After lunch I’m exhausted. I place my head on Mama’s shoulder and fall asleep. This time, what wakes me is my mother standing up and stretching her arms above her head.

  “I’m going to call that man from the train I was speaking with this morning, Eva. I must have the wrong number for Livia’s friend, whoever she may be, or the phone is out of order, because it’s still busy.” Mama checks her watch and I check mine. It is 5:20 p.m. We’ve been in this station for nearly twelve hours. Mama walks over to the telephone again, and after just three minutes she returns smiling.

  “I got him,” she announces. “He’s sending a car out to pick us up.”

  I glance at her and say nothing. I wonder how Tata will feel about this, but we have no choice. Tata should have thought about his decision to go back to Bucharest before leaving us stranded with no money and no food in a foreign country. I’m furious with him.

  THE SAME BLACK LIMOUSINE that met the handsome man this morning picks us up. The driver is a uniformed chauffeur who holds the car door open and helps us with our luggage. He speaks only Bulgarian, but he clearly knows about us because he shows us the same card my mother received earlier in the day.

  At the house, Vasily, Mama’s handsome friend, greets us and introduces us to his wife, Ana.

  “Welcome to Sofia,” she says in English, extending her hand to Mama, who shakes it vigorously and answers her in French.

  “I’m so sorry I’m not fluent in English,” Mama apologizes in French and stands there tongue-tied until Vasily intervenes by translating.

  Our room is bright. There are fresh roses in a vase on the dresser across from the bed.

  “How do you like Sofia so far, Eva?” Mama asks me, pleased with herself. When I don’t respond, she stops unpacking and sits next to me on the bed. “We are so lucky, Eva. Can’t you see just how lucky we are? When Vasily telephoned the train station, he was told that they don’t expect another train from Bucharest for at least three days! He said we are welcome to stay with his family. What would we have done in that station alone and with no money?”

  Mama is right, but my stomach hurts. I run to the bathroom, but nothing comes out. When I return, Mama opens my valise and takes out my gauzy white blouse with Romanian embroidery, a gray skirt, and white knee-highs to go with my only pair of black shoes. She combs my hair and pins it off my face before we join the Bulgarians for dinner.

  The table is set with a white lace tablecloth, china, crystal, and silverware. A vase with daisies and purple bellflowers is resting on the sideboard. Vasily lives with his in-laws. He tells Mama that he is an actor with the Bulgarian National Theater and that he travels to Bucharest often. His wife is a painter, just like Cousin Mimi. His father-in-law has white hair and a mustache and is extremely polite. The maid brings out a soup terrine, and the mother-in-law ladles the white broth into each bowl. Suddenly, I miss eating with Grandpa Yosef and Grandma Iulia, and a lump rises in my throat, but I swallow and push back my tears.

  “The soup is traditional,” Vasily’s wife tells Mama. “It’s cold milk with cucumbers and other raw vegetables. Try it,” she says, motioning at me.

  I bring a spoonful to my lips and stop. My stomach feels like it is about to come out of my nose. Mama’s knee knocks mine under the table. She smiles charmingly at our hosts and whispers to me in Romanian, “Drink it.” And so I swallow down the soup. The rest of the meal is better. There is beef stew and steamed potatoes garnished with butter and dill weed, foods I am familiar with. Dessert is a home-baked apple cake and grapes. I eat just enough that I won’t offend our hosts.

  THREE DAYS LATER, Tata arrives at the Sofia train station with uic—strong Romanian plum liquor—on his breath. He is close to collapsing from physical and emotional exhaustion, but he is smiling as he gets off the train with his camera hanging around his neck like a trophy. His only other luggage is the camera bag, filled with lenses since we brought his valise with us to Sofia. He is still wearing the same pants and shirt he had on when we left Bucharest.

  “Gyuri,” Mama says after a restrained public embrace, “I’d like you to meet our Bulgarian friends.” Tata shakes hands with Vasily. During our ride back to their home, Tata’s eyes glaze over as Mama tries to explain what has happened to us since we last saw him.

  “Forgive me”—Tata speaks in French so that Vasily can understand—“I have not slept in three days. Once I got my camera back, it was just a matter of waiting for the next train to Sofia, but it took this long, and the customs authorities would not allow me to go home since I’m emigrating. The stationmaster was kind enough to let me take naps in his office, but drinking uic with him was part of the deal.”

  Mama slips her hand into Tata’s. He smells so bad I wish I could open the car window. Luckily, the driver must have read my mind.

  MY PARENTS ARE ANXIOUS to leave for Istanbul as quickly as possible, but erratic and unreliable train schedules prevail for another week. I am constipated, and Mama is worried about me. She reminds me that we are doubly lucky to have found our Bulgarian friends, who continue to treat us as honored guests. On the night before our departure, Vasily’s father-in-law asks to have a word with my father in private.

  “What did he want?” Mama asks anxiously when Tata returns.

  “He didn’t want anything, Stefica,” Tata tells her. “He offered us the option to stay in Bulgaria.”

  Mama is speechless. “I don’t understand,” she finally says.

  “It’s hard to understand kindness when you’re not used to it, isn’t it?” Tata remarks. “Stefica, did it occur to you that most Bulgarians don’t drive around in chauffeured limousines? It just so happens that the old man is a big-shot minister in the Bulgarian Communist Party, and he can make things happen. He offered us ho
using, jobs, the works, despite the fact that he is well aware that we’re Jewish. All we have to do is say yes.”

  “What did you tell him?” Mama panics.

  “I accepted his offer, of course,” Tata answers, taking out his pipe.

  Mama looks blankly at him. As she opens her mouth, she gets red in the face trying to control her voice. “Very well then. You can stay here and find yourself a new Bulgarian wife to go along with your new Bulgarian job and apartment.” She yanks her suitcase and mine out of the closet and starts to throw our clothes in.

  Tata can’t contain himself. “Get a hold of yourself, Stefica. I was joking!” When he sees the doubt in her face, he repeats, “I’m joking! I thanked him very much for his offer and explained that we must join your parents in Israel. Your mother is not well and needs you. He understands and respects my decision.”

  “Your decision?” Mama asks.

  “Our decision, Stefica, since I love you so much, I read your mind.”

  THE BOSPORUS STRAIT

  IN ISTANBUL, my parents act like birds that have just been released from a cage. They pull me out of bed each morning so we can visit as many places as possible. The Israeli authorities put us up in a cheap hotel and give us enough pocket money to last exactly seven days. On our final day we are to take a train to Ankara and then on to Izmir, the port city where we will finally board a ship for our voyage to Israel.

  We walk everywhere in order to save money. In Kapalicarsi, the Grand Bazaar, I am overwhelmed by how many vendors and stores there are. Wherever I look I see vibrant color, even more luscious than the colors Cousin Mimi squeezed out of her oil paint tubes. Mama buys me my first piece of jewelry—a silver ring with tiny blue pieces of turquoise—in a crowded stall where people are elbowing each other. She bargains until she wears the vendor down to what she has to offer, which isn’t much.