Tata takes us on a short boat ride through the Bosporus Strait and points to the places where the tension between the European side of the city and the Asian side can be demonstrated geographically. “This is where Europe and Asia meet, greet, and part ways so quickly it makes your head spin!” Tata says, trying to impress us.
We visit Hagia Sophia and the Topkapi Palace, both in a single day, and it is hard to take it all in: the awesome architecture of the ancient church, the sultan’s wealth at Topkapi, the sounds of birds calling as they float above the Golden Horn in the twilight.
I have my first sip of Coca-Cola, an American drink that is as brown as Romanian cough syrup and almost as sugary. I long for one of Grandpa Yosef’s homemade raspberry syrups with seltzer. In the afternoon, we feast at an inexpensive restaurant that serves chunks of roasted lamb on skewers and pilaf. We dip our meat in sauces laced with aromatic spices I never knew existed. On our way back to the hotel, Tata buys black tea and gooey baklava from a street vendor who wears a red fez and balances his silver tray full of steaming glass cups on one hand. At dusk, the cobblestoned road turns a slate blue in the golden light that permeates the city. We pass a woman whose face is hidden under a long black veil. She floats down the street like a ghost, her robes trailing in the breeze as she turns the corner.
On our last day in Istanbul we visit the Blue Mosque. At the door we are asked to take off our shoes. Once we are inside, a hush descends. We are surrounded by blue and white tiles and a soaring cupola. An eerie chant rises from somewhere outside. “It’s the call to prayer,” Tata whispers. This is the first time I have entered a house of prayer other than Rabbi’s hidden room back in Bucharest. I wonder what a synagogue looks like.
THE TRAIN RIDE from Ankara to Izmir seems interminable. There is standing room only as more and more people come aboard. Tata has found an almost empty compartment that everyone is avoiding. He sits down across from a woman who is very ill. She is shivering uncontrollably under her blanket despite the stifling heat.
“Malaria,” Tata explains, and smiles. “You can only catch it from carrier mosquitoes. I had it twice myself, in the lagers.”
I believe him, but I’m annoyed at his show-off bravery, so I remain outside with Mama and the rest of the crowd. It is so hot that the very air we breathe feels like it has been boiled and is turning into steam. I am dying of thirst. Tata uses his last Turkish coins to buy a bottle of water. Though it turns out to be quite hot, the three of us gulp it down, grateful for every drop. This is the first time we’ve ever had to pay for drinking water.
By nightfall Mama and I are so tired from standing that we collapse next to Tata in the compartment where the woman with malaria is still shivering. There is an acrid smell coming from her body. Tata opens the upper window, which is so dirty you can’t see through it. Suddenly, a million stars appear in the night sky. I place my head in Mama’s lap, and she runs her fingers through my hair. The last thing I see before drifting off is the sliver of a moon rising.
HAIFA HARBOR—OCTOBER 1961
WHERE DOES THE WATER in the sea come from? I don’t bother asking Tata because I know what he would say. He would tell me that all the rivers and streams flow down from the mountains through the valleys and the deltas and eventually spill into the seas. He would explain that clouds in the sky cause rainstorms and snowstorms that also contribute water to rivers, streams, lakes, the seas, and the great oceans. He would talk about melting glaciers, climate change, and the tilt of the earth. All this water, I tell myself as I gaze at the blue expanse from the top deck of our ship. Water reaching beyond the horizon, beyond the rush of rivers and the cascading mountain streams, beyond the swell of the great oceans, water that sometimes evaporates into thin air and then pours down from the heavens again. Where does all of it really come from?
On the ship I feel like a rootless emigrant for the first time. Suddenly I hear Romanian spoken by a few other Jewish families with children, but we do not socialize. We keep each other at bay, since they are from the provinces and we are from Bucharest, every family a world unto itself, revolving around its own fears, needs, hopes, and dreams. The Israelis have paid for our passage. Our quarters are in a communal sleeping hall in the bowels of the ship. The portholes reveal that we are housed below the waterline. We sleep in single cots or bunk beds, each with a straw mattress and an army-issue blanket. There are no accommodations for couples. Each person is assigned a bed, and mine is a top bunk; Mama sleeps beneath me, and Tata is a couple of beds away. Our sheets are clean, but the pillows are hard.
To reach the dining room, we have to walk down several long and narrow passageways that are dimly lit by fluorescent bulbs, casting blue shadows on the walls, and up the stairs to the second deck. Long pipes run along the ceilings, and when I look up, I notice several black tails scurrying above. “Rats,” my father says, squeezing my hand. “There are no ships without rats. Remember that, Eva.” A shiver goes down my spine and lodges in my belly.
In the dining room there are beautifully set round tables decorated with flowers. The tourists onboard have cabins, some with private terraces and a view of the sea. They’re all having a good time—speaking in French, English, German, even some languages I do not recognize—laughing, getting dressed in fancy clothes for dinner, ordering drinks, and gorging themselves on desserts. We eat in the same dining room, but we live in another world. The tourists act like we are invisible.
I spend most of my time on the upper deck, looking out at the horizon. We sail from Izmir through the Aegean Sea. On the first day the waves swell and turn ultramarine, reflecting the sky. There are storm clouds everywhere, and the sea is choppy. One of the Turkish sailors offers me a fruit I’ve never tasted before. “Delicious,” he says, handing it to me. I bite into it just as my father appears from below. “That’s a fig,” the sailor tells me, looking at my father for his approval. When Tata smiles, the sailor asks me, “Do you like it?” I nod and savor the fruit’s delicate flavor.
On the second morning the storm intensifies. We are making our way through thousands of Greek islands, some as tiny as a single rock protruding through the water’s black surface. The ship sways fiercely from side to side. I am terrified of the raging sea, which feels like it’s about to swallow us up. At breakfast there is no one in the dining room, except for my father, who is enjoying his food. I sit next to him and watch him eat as the boat tips enough to make our water glasses tilt and our silverware rattle. Back on deck, we have to hold on to the railing while the ship rolls. A giant wave splashes the top deck and sprays both of us. The water is frigid. My stomach feels queasy. I notice several other passengers on deck, one of them rushing to the railing and vomiting overboard. Tata smiles, grabs my hand, and points. “Keep your eyes on the horizon and you won’t get sick,” he says.
Mama arrives, looking for us. She is wobbly as she waves. I reach out to grab her extended hand, but she turns around and vomits. The smell makes me so sick that I throw up as well. Tata keeps smiling calmly and looking out to sea.
The weather gets better once we are in the Mediterranean. The sun reappears on the third day, and everyone’s spirits lift. We stop in Cyprus to allow some tourists to disembark and others to come onboard, but we do not leave the ship.
WE SAIL INTO Haifa harbor at dawn. The sun is so bright it feels like a ball of white light rising against the clear blue of the sky. All of the immigrants are gathered on deck with their luggage. Two Israeli officials have set up a folding table in the middle of the deck, and there is already a line forming. Tata hands me a pair of red-framed sunglasses. Everything looks so much better without the glare from the sun. Mama leaves the line to talk to one of the other immigrants, a man who has just finished speaking with the Israeli officials. She returns and whispers to Tata, whose gaze is focused on the head of the line. “They’re separating white-collar workers from blue-collar. White-collar people go to live in central towns and get better housing.”
Tata answers her without
taking his eyes off the Israeli officials. “Don’t worry. We’re both white-collar.”
I slip free from Mama’s hand and go to the railing. People in the port are milling about like ants in slow motion. Passengers from our ship have already begun to disembark. Some look completely disoriented as they gather their belongings and take their first steps on Israeli soil. Others, met by relatives, are shouting in joyful recognition as they embrace.
From behind my new sunglasses, my eyes roam the crowd, searching until they rest on a man in a short-sleeved blue shirt. His hands are cupped in front of his eyes in binocular fashion, and he is focused up at the ship’s deck. It is Grandpa Yosef, and next to him is Uncle Natan, his thick eyeglasses reflecting the glare. My arms shoot up, and I start waving wildly. I take off my glasses and continue to wave until Grandpa Yosef points and waves back in recognition. There’s a rush of air into my chest like one of the giant waves I witnessed during the storm, except this time I’m flooded with joy.
I run back just in time to join my parents as they meet with the Israeli officials. I can hardly keep myself from telling my parents that Grandpa Yosef and Uncle Natan are waiting for us.
“What is the child’s name?” the Israeli asks.
“Eva,” Mama answers.
“This is Israel. In Israel she must go by her Hebrew name,” the official tells my parents.
My parents do not respond. The official stamps a bunch of papers and then announces matter-of-factly, “From now on she will be Haya. Welcome to Israel, Haya.” He looks up from his papers for the first time and smiles.
UNDER A RED SKY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Under a Red Sky is based on events that happened to my family from the late 1950s until we left Communist Romania in 1961. The story is filtered through my memory as a child of a time and place that no longer exist. Today, Romania is still very much on the map in Eastern Europe, but the country has undergone a major recovery—economically, culturally, and spiritually—from being under the thumb of a long line of tyrannical Communist rulers. Much of this book is based on my family’s oral history, documenting some of the horrific events that took place during World War II in Romania. Before the war, there were 800,000 Jews living in Romania and Transylvania. Nearly 400,000 perished in Nazi concentration camps and pogroms incited by fascist Romanian groups such as the Legionnaire Iron Guard. I grew up listening to my family’s stories of this time the way other children grow up hearing fairy tales, and while the dialogue may not be exact, the essence of what was said is true.
I owe a debt of gratitude to two books in particular, which confirm the historical background upon which one of my grandmother’s stories is based: Balkan Ghosts by Robert D. Kaplan and The Holocaust in Romania by Radu Ioanid.
With the exception of my immediate family and some well-known political figures, the names of the characters in this book have been changed to protect their privacy. Some characters, though not major, appear as composites of several people; some of the events happened in different time sequences. In brief, this is not a journalist’s rendition of historical events but my personal story about growing up in Communist Romania.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am lucky. There are so many amazing people who have sustained me in miraculous ways throughout the writing of this book to whom I owe far more than gratitude. To Frances Foster, my publisher and genius editor: your wisdom and kindness have exceeded my expectations. To Leigh Feldman, agent extraordinaire, for recognizing the merit of this book and fostering its growth. To Charles Baxter, bless you for helping an unknown writer! To Lisa Graff, for your insightful editorial advice. To Jay Colvin, for your flawless eye in the design of this book. To Richard Tuschman, whose jacket design is visual poetry. To Margaret Ferguson and the amazing FSG team, for minding every detail, big and small. To Victoria Wells Arms, for your editorial help and enthusiasm at the beginning, when I needed it most. To my steadfast first readers: Dee Birch, Ron Collins, Gary Derish, Molly Donahue, Penny Burrow Marwede, Sylvia Peck, Pauline Rothstein, and Yael Shapiro—for your friendship and candor. To Mark Chimsky-Lustig, for your unwavering friendship and sound advice. To Peg Walz, always a “tender button.” To Lisa Haliday, for encouragement on my first draft. To Susan Conceicao, my best friend, for insight on the last draft. To Sandy Serebin, for offering your country home as a writer’s sanctuary. To Karen Quinn, friend and trailblazer. To Rabbi Andrea Myers, Julie Standig, and Peter Albu, for help with Jewish research. To Rodica Belea for checking my Romanian language accuracy. To Ana Calmanovici and Max Albala for providing missing photographs. To Anna Perez, for trays filled with sustenance. To my teachers: Dr.Gerald Epstein, Dr.Elizabeth Barrett, and Denise Linn, for your love, support, and wisdom. To Monica Thakrar and my Soul Coaching sisters, for being the first to call me Haya. To Marvin Schneider, for repairing my father’s clock, and for your kind soul. To my Rodeph Sholom family, thank you for your prayers, your songs, and your continued presence in my life. To Susan Muller-Hershon, for being the sister I’ve always wanted. To my beautiful cousin Claudia, for your belief in me. To Mathilde Greenfield, for the strength of your presence. And to Alice Okada, for your unmatched grace.
Most of all, I owe this book to my daughter, Mika, who asked about the past ardently enough to compel me to write about it, and to my son, Jacob, whose advice during the writing process proved indispensable. Last but always first, to my husband, Tom, my anchor and best friend. Without you, I would not have persevered.
Although I never met Rabbi Moses Rosen, of blessed memory, Chief Rabbi of Romania, 1948–1994, I am humbled to have discovered almost fifty years later his heroic undertaking. Rabbi Rosen suffered great personal risk and endured much criticism for “brokering deals” between the anti-Semitic Communist regime and the State of Israel. In the end he persevered in orchestrating the mass exodus of almost 400,000 Romanian Jews to Israel. My family and I are indeed lucky to be among those he saved. It is a great gift that he gave us, and I am eternally grateful.
Copyright © 2010 by Haya Leah Molnar
All rights reserved
"For legal and/or contractual reasons, this digital book does not include certain images that were originally part of the print edition"
www.fsgkidsbooks.com
Designed by Jay Colvin
eISBN 9781429944427
First eBook Edition : December 2011
First edition, 2010
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Molnar, Haya Leah.
Under a red sky : memoir of a childhood in Communist Romania /
Haya Leah Molnar.—1st ed. p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-374-31840-6
1. Molnar, Haya Leah—Childhood and youth—Juvenile literature. 2. Family—Romania—History—Juvenile literature. 3. Romania—History—1944–1989—Biography—Juvenile literature. I. Title. DR267.5.M65A3 2010 949.803’1092—dc22 [B]
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