Under a Red Sky (13 page)

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Authors: Haya Leah Molnar

BOOK: Under a Red Sky
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IN THE MORNING
my parents' bed is still empty. Instead of Grandpa Yosef, it is Sabina who wakes me with a knock on the door, bringing a tray with a small pot of hot chocolate and pouring me a frothy cup. I breathe in the steaming aroma before I take a sip. The anticipation of my first taste is more delicious than the entire cup. I love the thick chocolate mingled with fresh cream, love dipping my upper lip into the froth to create a mustache I can lick off. Sabina has cut a crusty baguette into even, buttered slices and arranged them on the plate in a flower pattern, adding a touch of color in the middle with a dollop of strawberry jam. Rather than retire to the kitchen, she sits on the edge of my bed and watches as I eat.
“Master Yosef and your grandma Iulia went out last night with the rest of them,” Sabina finally says, tucking a stray strand of hair into her turban. “I told Doamna Iulia that it's not a good idea for her to be standing in line all night in the cold, especially after her bout with phlebitis, but she wouldn't listen. She's bound to catch pneumonia and her legs will swell up again. Then she'll have to
contend with those ugly leeches all over, and Dr. Khan will be angry, but she's a stubborn one, your grandma.”
“Sabina, did you know that we're Jewish?”
Sabina stares at me blankly. “So? What's that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing,” I lie, trying to act as casual as possible. “I was just wondering if we'll get in trouble with the Party.”
“Don't you be worrying about the Party, Miss Eva. The Communists have only been around since the end of the war. Jews are nothing new around here.”
“Why does everyone hate Jews?”
“How should I know? I'm not a Jew, thank God.” Sabina crosses herself. “Maybe it's because Jews don't believe in Jesus,” she says, smiling and showing off her gold front tooth. “But then,” she adds with a huge grin, “neither do the members of the Communist Party, do they? So who are they to talk?”
“Do you believe in Jesus, Sabina?”
“Of course,” she answers indignantly. “What a question!”
“Who was Jesus?” I ask, guessing that Jesus must be the same Lord whom Andrei is always talking about with such reverence.
Sabina looks at me funny and crosses herself again. “Jesus Christ, how can you not know who Jesus is, even if you are Jewish? What a shame! Jesus is our Lord, our savior, and the son of God.” She puts her palms together as if in prayer and raises her eyes up past the cracks in our ceiling. “Even the poorest of the poor and the dumbest of the dumb from Bucovina, people who can't read and write, know that.”
I don't comment, knowing that Sabina herself can barely read and write. She rolls on. “Why aren't those Bolsheviks down on their
knees in church where they belong? If they're so high and mighty, why is everyone so miserable since they've come to power? I'll tell you why—because there's only one High and Mighty, and that's God. And Jesus Christ our Lord is His son, and this entire country has lost sight of that. That's why we are being punished with this Communist scourge. It's a damn shame when children like you don't even know who Jesus is. They ought to teach you about Jesus in school.” I have never heard Sabina express an opinion so passionately about anything before.
“They don't teach us religion in school, Sabina,” I try to explain, but she interrupts.
“I'll tell you who Jesus was. Jesus gave his life for you and me. He preached peace, and instead, his own people, the Jews, betrayed him.”
“Jesus was Jewish?” I ask, stunned.
“Yes,” Sabina answers.
“Then how come people hate Jews?”
Sabina doesn't seem to hear my question. “The Romans crucified Jesus and placed a crown of thorns on his head,” she continues. “He died on Good Friday for all of our sins, and he rose again on Easter Sunday.” She crosses herself again.
“They took him off the cross after he died?”
“Yes. But he was resurrected.”
“What's resurrected?” I ask.
“It means he came back from the dead.”
“Is that possible?”
“Only if you are Jesus.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely. Do you know anyone else who was resurrected?”
“No,” I have to admit, but I think that maybe there are other people who might have been resurrected and we just didn't know about them since they're not as famous as Jesus. I wonder why Jews don't believe in Jesus and why a Jew would betray another Jew. I save these questions for Grandpa Yosef. But I still don't understand why most people hate Jews, especially if Jesus was Jewish.
I wonder if Andrei will stop being my friend once he finds out that I'm Jewish. And I'm worried about how I can explain to him that Jews are just like everyone else when I don't even know the difference between a Jew and a Christian. All I know is that yesterday I wasn't Jewish and today I am. I am still the same person, yet everything has changed overnight.
“Sabina, do you hate me because I'm Jewish?” I ask, looking up at her turban.
Sabina crosses herself again before answering. “Hate you? Why would you ever think such a thing, Miss Eva? I love you,” she says, giving me a huge hug. “You didn't kill Jesus, even if your kind did.”
“Is that why people hate Jews?”
“I don't know why anyone hates anybody. I guess many people hate the Jews for killing Jesus, but I think they're wrong. We may as well hate the Italians, who are Catholic, just for being descendants of the Romans, because they were in power at the time and ordered Jesus' crucifixion. But that would be just as wrong as hating Jews. If you ask me, hating anyone is against what Jesus preached.” Sabina shakes her head, her turban slipping and settling a little crooked right above her forehead.
“Jesus said, ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' When you believe that, there's no room for hate in your heart.” Sabina tears a
piece of baguette and chews loudly, the few teeth left in her mouth having a hard time with the crust.
“Speaking of Jesus,” she continues in between bites, “I'm going home on Friday for my nephew's christening, so I'm counting on you to set the table while I'm gone. Agreed?”
“Are you coming back?”
“Of course. I'll be back in a week. Are you going to miss me?”
I wrap my arms around Sabina and give her a big hug, and as she hugs me back I feel her belly shaking up and down with laughter under the folds of her peasant skirts.
 
MAMA AND TATA are home from work on a Monday, but we're not going on vacation. Uncle Max shows up early for lunch, and even Uncle Natan is resting on his cot, hiding as usual behind his newspaper. Aunt Puica hasn't emerged from her bedroom, and Grandma Iulia has disappeared into the kitchen. Grandpa Yosef is taking a nap. The house feels just like it did the night they were all standing in line at City Hall, waiting to fill out passport applications so we can leave the country. Except now the house isn't empty. Everyone is home and the mood is somber.
Since Sabina is away at her nephew's christening, Grandma Iulia has brought in Margareta, a temporary housekeeper from Transylvania, to help with the laundry. Margareta takes a big knife and starts hacking away at a huge bar of brown soap. She places the soap slices in a glass bowl, eyeing me.
“What are you staring at, Miss Eva? Doesn't your Sabina slice soap for the washing machine?” Margareta asks.
“Nope. She grates it like Parmesan cheese,” I whisper.
“Is that so?” Margareta smirks. “Let Sabina work harder, if she's got nothing better to do. Soap dissolves just as quickly when it's sliced in chunks as when it's grated. Too much work.”
I notice that Margareta is younger that Sabina, and she doesn't wear a turban or peasant skirts. She's wearing a khaki army skirt and matching shirt with buttoned lapels at the shoulders. A small golden pin with sheaves of wheat, Romania's Communist crest, is pinned onto her shirt collar. Her two thick braids meet in a crown that's neatly pinned at the top of her head.
“Eva,” Grandma Iulia's voice calls from the kitchen, “please set the table.”
I leave Margareta with her bowl of soap slices by the washing machine and run into the dining room. Everyone except Grandma Iulia is already seated at the table, but eating seems to be the last thing on their minds. They don't notice me as I lay out the tablecloth and place the silverware and plates in front of them. After I set out the water glasses and napkins, I sit at my place, but still no one mentions food.
Mother is sitting across from Grandpa Yosef, with her hands folded on the table. “I don't know what else to tell you, Papa,” she says. “It happened so quickly. Maria, the principal's secretary, came into the ballet studio and apologized for interrupting my class. She told me to report to Comrade Nicolai's office right away. When I got there, Comrade Nicolai just handed me a letter she had received early this morning from the Ministry of Education. The letter states that any citizen who has recently filed for a passport to emigrate to Israel is to be dismissed from work immediately.” Grandpa is speechless, waiting for my mother to continue. “Comrade Nicolai
started crying as she hugged me goodbye,” Mama says. “That's all there is to it, Papa. I don't have a job anymore.”
“That makes two of us,” my father whispers as his fingers press some loose tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.
“Make that three,” Uncle Natan chimes in, making a snorting sound from behind his paper.
“Stop that!” Aunt Puica snaps. “It's so disgusting.”
“I can't help it,” Uncle Natan says, embarrassed. “I've got allergies.”
“And I thought I had it bad.” Uncle Max sighs. “They told me that due to my indispensable function as an expert housepainter, I get to keep my job at half pay at the Ministry of Construction.”
“This isn't funny, Max. What are we going to do?” Aunt Puica's voice is filled with panic.
“Survive,” Grandpa Yosef answers.
“How?” Aunt Puica's voice is shrill. “Do you propose that all seven of us, plus the Child, live on Max's half salary? What about Sabina?”
“I don't know yet how we will survive,” Grandpa says, “but we will. Iulia and I still have our pension. We didn't receive any notices.”
“Your pension will buy us just enough food to impale on a toothpick,” Aunt Puica says with a smirk.
“And we all have some savings,” Grandpa continues.
“How long do you think our savings will last?” Aunt Puica asks. “A week? A month, if we all go on a diet? What about the rent and the phone? Or maybe you think we should give up the phone and live in the dark ages all over again?”
My parents reach for each other's hands. Uncle Max finally speaks, choosing his words carefully. His mustache twitches with each word. “With all due respect, Papa, we are not living in the old days, when you could replace a job with another job. Today there's only one employer, the Communist Party.” His words hang in the air.
“I am well aware of that,” Grandpa Yosef answers. “We're just going to have to be creative.”
“Creative? Papa, have you lost your mind?” Aunt Puica raises her voice. “Do you want us to get so creative that we all land in jail for working illegally?”
“Sweetheart,” Grandpa Yosef says to her, “why get upset? It's not going to help the situation. Let's eat. I'm hungry. We'll all feel better with a little bit of food in our stomachs. Eva, go into the kitchen and help your grandmother bring out the food.”
 
IN THE MORNING, my parents are in bed, since they have nowhere else to go. It feels like a holiday, but I am late for school. I wash quickly and run into the kitchen for my hot chocolate. Still tasting the sweetness in my mouth, I slide my schoolbag straps over my shoulders and race down the stairs, jumping the last two stairs into our yard, where I nearly knock Margareta over.
“Watch yourself,” she mumbles indignantly as she struggles with a huge valise.
“I'm sorry, I'm late!” I answer breathlessly and run off wondering why Margareta is leaving before Sabina has returned.
 
AT SCHOOL no one mentions anything about their parents losing their jobs, so I assume that my parents must be the only ones. I am so relieved I never told any of my friends that I'm Jewish.
When I come home, I find Tata sitting on the terrace floor with a bunch of newspapers laid out in front of him. He is holding the vase that usually stands on top of our Biedermeier chest of drawers, the vase that once belonged to his mother, which curiously still smells of lilac branches and roses. The vase is broken into many pieces; the only part intact is the base. Tata is so intent on gluing the pieces back together that he doesn't even look up when I step onto the terrace.

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