Under a Red Sky

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Authors: Haya Leah Molnar

BOOK: Under a Red Sky
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In memory of my parents, Stefanie and Gyuri Zimmermann,
and for my family—past, present, and future
Table of Contents
Title Page
WHAT CAME FIRST—BUCHAREST, ROMANIA—NOVEMBER 1957
THE CHILD
AT THE DINNER TABLE
ABOUT BUTTERFLIES AND FLOWERS
THE HOUSE
THE ORPHANAGE
ALL EYES, ALL EARS, NO TONGUE—SEPTEMBER 1958
WHAT THE COMMUNIST PARTY MEANS TO ME
THE BOY UPSTAIRS
THE CLOCK THAT STOPPED
TATA'S FRIENDS
DANCING
OF EARACHES AND LUCK—DECEMBER 1958
A QUICK MARRIAGE AND A QUICK DIVORCE
THE HIDDEN TORAH
THE MOLE
OUT OF THE DARK
DURING SABINA'S VACATION
CINE
TIE
C
TIG
—THOSE IN THE KNOW ARE IN THE DOUGH
TATA BUILDS HIS DARKROOM
“IF ALL JEWS WERE LIKE YOU”
THE GRAY DOOR
THE EMBROIDERY LESSON
TOURIST BOXES
ALEPH
TATA'S SECRET
MY PIONEER OATH—JUNE 1959
COUSIN MIMI PAINTS MY PORTRAIT
FEATHERS
PURIMSPIEL—MARCH 1960
THE SEARCH FOR GOLD ROOSTERS
“EYES THAT DO NOT SEE EACH OTHER”
LETTER FROM ISRAEL
CHRISTMAS 1960
JUST LIKE MOSES
BUCKETS OF RAIN—SPRING 1961
ANDREI
TRAVELING PAPERS—AUGUST 1961
SABINA'S WRATH
ACROSS THE FRIENDSHIP BRIDGE—SEPTEMBER 1961
NEW FRIENDS IN SOFIA
THE BOSPORUS STRAIT
HAIFA HARBOR—OCTOBER 1961
UNDER A RED SKY
AUTHOR'S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Copyright Page
GRANDPA YOSEF TAPS
on our bedroom door. Mama helps me dress in the early morning silence, her index finger crossing her lips, urging me to keep quiet so I won't wake up Tata—my father—who is snoring lightly in the bed next to mine. I am sleepy but excited. Mama has agreed to let me go with Grandpa to Bucharest's old outdoor farmers' market for the first time.
In the dining room Grandpa has set out for me a plate with two slices of buttered crusty bread and a cup of tea with a wedge of lemon. Next to it is a small bowl filled with sugar cubes. I pop a sugar cube in my mouth, tucking it behind my two front teeth with my tongue, the way Grandpa Yosef has taught me, and sip my tea. Grandpa sits with me sipping his tea and dragging on his cigarette, its tip glowing in the early morning light.
“You were a lovely baby,” Grandpa says, surveying me from across the table. “You are growing more beautiful every day.” I make a face at him between bites, and he smiles back. “Just as long as you know that beauty is only skin-deep, you'll be all right. Raw intelligence isn't enough.” I roll my eyes still heavy with sleep at him, but
he goes on, ignoring me. “You'll need common sense, wisdom, and luck. I hope you will have luck. Luck is the most important thing of all.” He stops abruptly and looks at his watch. “It's almost five. We have to go, or there won't be anything left at the market for us to buy.”
I run to the entrance hall closet. Grandpa holds my coat as I slip each arm in. He bundles me in my muffler and makes sure that my wool hat covers my ears. “Let's go,” he says, taking my hand.
It is chilly outside. A satchel made of strong white netting hangs out of Grandpa's overcoat. His pants pockets are stuffed with bits of string, small pieces of rope, and carefully folded sheets of newspaper. “Only fools or foreigners go to the market without their wrapping,” he says, handing me a hard candy in cellophane. “Save it for later, in case you get hungry while we wait in line.”
We walk hand in hand to the tram. Grandpa's hands are rough except for his smooth gold wedding band, which is loose enough for me to twirl around on his finger but too tight to slide past his gnarled knuckle. Grandpa is wearing his usual hat, with the brim turned down just enough to cast a shadow over his eyes. He calls it his Humphrey Bogart hat. I've never seen a movie with Humphrey Bogart because he is an American movie star and we are not allowed to watch American film propaganda, but Grandpa says that Mr. Bogart is a great actor. Of course he would know, since Grandpa used to own the best movie house in all of Bucharest. His Humphrey Bogart hat is one of his reminders of life before the war.
The sun has not yet risen, but a hint of purple as deep as the skin of a plum is turning pink at the horizon. The tram is approaching
from the distance. Electric sparks light up like fireflies above a spiderweb of wires. I am fascinated with how smoothly the tram glides into the station on its thin metal rails. The doors open, and we climb up into the car and find seats. I wonder silently how come Grandpa never complains that he's no longer being driven around Bucharest like a rich man in his fancy horse-drawn carriage.
“Who shopped for you before the war?” I ask him.
“The cook's helper, shhhhh,” he whispers, his eyes roaming the tramcar to make sure that our conversation isn't overheard. Everyone looks half asleep. Grandpa sighs and gazes out the window.
“Yes, but did the cook's helper buy what you needed?” I press on. “How did she know what to buy if you weren't there?”
“She didn't.” Grandpa smiles. “I do a far better job than she ever did.” He winks at me as if that's our secret. “I'm friends with all the farmers. That's why I always get the best goods at the best prices. Unfortunately, there isn't much to buy nowadays.”
“Why not?”
“Because the farmers aren't producing as much as they used to,” Grandpa continues, his eyes still scanning the car to make sure that no one's listening.
“Why aren't the farmers producing?”
“Because there's not enough money in it for them and because there's no love in working for someone else,” Grandpa answers in a lowered voice.
“I don't understand,” I whisper back, tugging at his coat.
“It's better that you don't,” Grandpa says curtly, but then he tries to explain. “There was a time not that long ago when farmers sold their goods and the profit was theirs to keep. Now that they work for the Party cooperatives, they only get to keep a small percentage.”
I have no idea what profit and percentage mean, but I understand that the farmers aren't happy because the Communist Party is now in charge.
 
THE SUN HAS JUST RISEN when we arrive at the market. It is a gray, chilly day that smells like snow may arrive sooner than expected. There are only a few farmers' stalls, with lots of people in gray overcoats milling about. Everyone is intent on finding out what's for sale. Grandpa grabs my hand and gets in a line without checking the stall first. We are fifth in line, and lots of people are hurrying behind us.
“Why are we standing here, Grandpa?”
“To buy something.” Ashes fall like snowflakes from the tip of his cigarette as he takes a deep drag.
“I know that,” I whisper back impatiently. “What are we going to buy?”
“I don't know. We'll find out when we get to the front of the line.” Grandpa looks anxiously past the people ahead of us. “We'll take whatever they're selling, just as long as it's something we can eat. Your grandma is counting on us.”
We wait for what seems like forever. The people in front of us are buying so many things, I am worried that nothing will be left for us. Then I set eyes on the farmer. He is a giant of a man wearing a black fur hat and a heavy khaki vest with brass buttons. His shrewd gray eyes are topped by a set of huge bushy eyebrows. He recognizes Grandpa instantly.
“Mr. Yosef, sir, how are you?” The farmer smiles at both of us, revealing a gold front tooth.
“Can't complain,” Grandpa answers. “So what have you got today, Ion?”
“Oh, we've got new potatoes and some onions,” Ion says, pointing at the baskets in front of him, rubbing his hands together, and blowing air into his fists to warm up. “I've also got peas,” he continues as he uncovers another basket filled with green pods.
I notice that some of the potatoes have sprouts growing out of them. The onions are small, but their scent is so strong I can smell them without putting my nose up close. I love the pea pods. Each is like a little boat holding its treasure of green pearls within. If Grandpa decides to buy these, I know that I'll have my work cut out for an entire afternoon since Grandma Iulia always asks me to shell them for her. Ion checks me out while Grandpa is scrutinizing the produce. I can feel his eyes upon me, so I hide behind Grandpa.
“Who is this young lady with you, Mr. Yosef?” Ion asks.
“This is my granddaughter, Eva.” Grandpa pushes me forward gently. “Eva, say hello to Comrade Ion.”
“Hello,” I whisper, looking down.
“What a pretty young lady you are.” Comrade Ion smiles and bows, taking my hand in his giant one and brushing his lips against my fingers. “
S
rut
mâna, domni
oar
—I kiss your hand, young lady.” He looks me over as if I were intentionally trying to charm him. I am mortified. No one has ever kissed my hand before! I've seen men greet my mother, my aunt Puica, and Grandma Iulia like that. But it has never occurred to me that someday a man might kiss my hand in greeting.
Grandpa rescues me. “Yes, Eva is as smart as she is lovely. That's why I want her to learn to shop properly.” Grandpa takes out his matches. He opens the matchbook cover and glances at Grandma Iulia's wish list, scribbled on the inside flap.
“How can I possibly help you, young lady?” Ion addresses me as if I were already a grownup.
“Hmm.” I consider his question, then blurt out, “I would like a chicken. Please.”
“A chicken?” Ion whispers and laughs, his narrow eyes widening.
“Yes, a chicken,” I repeat.
The people in line behind us stir. There's a short, uncomfortable silence before Ion answers me with conviction. “Well, how can we disappoint such a charming young lady on her first day at the market? Mr. Yosef, sir, would you mind paying for your potatoes and vegetables now?” Ion speaks softly, his eyes looking directly into Grandpa's. “Can you wait until I'm done with my other customers and come back later?”
“No problem,” Grandpa is quick to answer. “We'll check in with you in about an hour.”
Grandpa takes my hand and starts walking decisively away.
“Grandpa, I'm hungry,” I tell him the minute we leave Comrade Ion.
“Eat the candy I gave you.”
The sticky sweetness immediately fills my mouth with saliva and delicious orange flavor. We walk around happily hand in hand. Everyone nods in recognition when they see Grandpa. His gait has an assurance that few men carry, but his shoulders are slightly rounded. His head is bent in resigned contemplation; his dark brown eyes are moist and kind; his nose is big. He is clean-shaven. The hair he has left on the sides of his head has turned silver, but the top of his head is bald and shiny. What I love about Grandpa is that he exudes a quiet calm that's missing from everyone else in our house.
We stop at the sugar and flour stall. The line here is shorter.
“Grandpa, we've already got sugar and flour at home.”
“That's true,” he replies, unfolding a brown paper bag from his pocket. “But you never know when they're going to sell it again, and we don't want to run out.”
The lady who is serving us fills the bag with great care, making sure not to spill even a single grain of sugar.
“How much longer do we have to wait for the chicken?” I ask.
Grandpa glances at his watch and looks in the direction of Ion's line. “Just a little longer,” he says.
“I'm hungry.”
“I know. That's why we're waiting,” he says, smiling at me.

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