Under a Red Sky (16 page)
Authors: Haya Leah Molnar
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TRUE TO HIS WORD, Uncle Natan gives my mother money to buy my blue velvet dress, which magically appears laid out on my bed before the party, complete with white lace collar and mother-of-pearl buttons. The dress is a perfect fit. The blue velvet is as deep and as soft as the view of the dusk sky from our terrace in early summer. How did Mama know the exact color I had been dreaming about? How did she figure my size without my trying on the
dress? When things go this well, I learn not to ask questions and just be happy. I put the dress on and linger in front of the armoire mirror. Nothing feels tight. Everything flows in the right places. I so wish I could wear this dress to school every single day. Then perhaps I could lift up the hem of my stiff uniform and show Andrei the color of my dress.
dress? When things go this well, I learn not to ask questions and just be happy. I put the dress on and linger in front of the armoire mirror. Nothing feels tight. Everything flows in the right places. I so wish I could wear this dress to school every single day. Then perhaps I could lift up the hem of my stiff uniform and show Andrei the color of my dress.
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GRANDMA'S SISTERS AND BROTHERS arrive with their children, who are not children at all; they are close to my parents' age, and they bring their children, my second cousins, whom I rarely see, except at birthday parties. But this is no ordinary birthday party, it is a big family celebration, and all of us kids run around, playing hide-and-seek behind the furniture, scaring each other with boos and horror tales, filling the entire house with new energy.
The food keeps coming out of the kitchen as steadily as the flow of gossip and the noise escalates. Political rumors, however, are uttered in whispers. “Have you heard that they might open up immigration to Israel?” my cousin Carol asks Uncle Max, who nods knowingly. “I heard Mrs. Mandelbaum is expecting a shipment of silk stockings from Hungary,” Aunt Fanny confides to Mama.
The men retire to the dining room, where the table is draped with a heavy needlepoint rug, one of Grandma's prized possessions from before the war that appears out of hiding. Bets are made and cigarettes are chain-smoked as the men play backgammon, chess, and cards.
The women move from bedroom to bedroom in small groups and talk fashion. Aunt Puica brings out two dog-eared French magazines from under her bed. Every seam on every dress featured in those magazines is carefully analyzed, the fabric's weight, texture,
and color are discussed in detail, the necklines scrutinized, the proportions of the hemlines in relation to the shoes assessed. Oh, the shoes! The shoes are the biggest heartache, because they cannot be made by hand by a clever Romanian seamstress with a good eye who can copy anything she is shown in a French magazine. The shoes have to be smuggled in from Italy at great cost, and you have to have money tucked away for just such a rare occasion, because you never know when a shipment might arrive. Good timing, in fashion as in life, is everything.
and color are discussed in detail, the necklines scrutinized, the proportions of the hemlines in relation to the shoes assessed. Oh, the shoes! The shoes are the biggest heartache, because they cannot be made by hand by a clever Romanian seamstress with a good eye who can copy anything she is shown in a French magazine. The shoes have to be smuggled in from Italy at great cost, and you have to have money tucked away for just such a rare occasion, because you never know when a shipment might arrive. Good timing, in fashion as in life, is everything.
My cousins eye my new velvet dress, but none of them comment on it until I bring it up. They all ask where I got the dress. I tell them that Uncle Natan bought it with money from his radio show winnings, but I don't know where my mother found it. We all run to find Mama and ask her. She says that it was custom-made by the same seamstress who makes the costumes for the national ballet corps. “I gave her your white cotton dress for size and told her to make it just a bit larger,” Mama says. “She did a great job, don't you agree?”
I am thrilled that my dress is so special you can't buy it in a cooperative store, and all my girl cousins touch the fabric with great longing and get in line to try it on when Mama intervenes. “You can feel the fabric as long as your hands are clean, but you may not try it on because I don't want the fabric to stretch or rip. This is Eva's dress, and only she is allowed to wear it.”
I am relieved, because I don't want to get undressed in our drafty bedroom and stand in my white underwear while my cousins gawk at me.
It isn't as easy with the race-car game. Mama mentions it to make my cousins feel better, and they start to screechâ“We want
to race! We want to race! We want to race!Ӊuntil Uncle Max brings the game to the dining room.
to race! We want to race! We want to race!Ӊuntil Uncle Max brings the game to the dining room.
Once the race-car game is set up on the dining room table, everything in the house stops. It's as if the game contains some kind of a magnet or silent siren that brings everyone together. Uncle Natan shuts his backgammon case while the men put out their cigarettes and gather around the table. The women drift in, their voices quieting to murmurs. Grandma and Grandpa emerge from the kitchen, with Sabina following close behind them. Even Andrei, who hasn't been invited because Mama told him the party is only for family, appears from upstairs.
Uncle Max sets up the game in silence. The motor under the track starts to whir as the cars pick up speed. We move our heads from side to side, following the bands of color looping around the track in a hypnotic trance. It is clear that the race-car game no longer belongs to me. We are all dreaming about what could be, yet the outcome of the dream is different for each of us.
NOW THAT UNCLE MAX
is our sole “provider,” everyone treats him with exaggerated politeness. Mama has stopped squabbling with Aunt Puica about favoring Uncle Max at dinnertime with a larger portion on his plate. And Aunt Puica is careful not to overdo it because she knows she'll get in trouble with Grandma Iulia.
is our sole “provider,” everyone treats him with exaggerated politeness. Mama has stopped squabbling with Aunt Puica about favoring Uncle Max at dinnertime with a larger portion on his plate. And Aunt Puica is careful not to overdo it because she knows she'll get in trouble with Grandma Iulia.
On the same day that my parents lost their jobs, all the other Jews in the city who had filed for passport applications got fired as well. Virtually overnight, the entire Jewish population in Bucharest became unemployed. The few exceptions were those who hadn't yet filedâJews without family who did not wish to leave the country, or those who held high-paying jobs in key positions within the Communist Party and who were content to stay. There were some who were too old or too sick to emigrate.
“Bucharest will have no cultural life once all the Jews have gone,” Tata jokes with Mama between drags on his pipe. “The Gentiles want to leave just as bad, but they don't have an excuse like we doâto be repatriated in their homeland. Look who's leaving: Jewish teachers and other artists like us, whom undoubtedly
no other country wants, except Israel. Also economists, lawyers, engineers, scientists, doctors, nurses, and architectsâmaybe other countries want them. Who knows? Maybe we've got a few loudmouth big shots sprinkled in, since we Jews certainly don't have a shortage of those. For now, whether we've been big shots or clerksâwe're all unemployed and unemployable. Our glorious Party has made certain that unemployment is the great leveler.” Tata's voice is bouncing off our bedroom walls while Mama listens. “Just as death was the great leveler during the war. Did you know, Stefica, that in America they have such a thing as unemployment benefits? Can you believe that there could ever be a benefit to being unemployed?”
no other country wants, except Israel. Also economists, lawyers, engineers, scientists, doctors, nurses, and architectsâmaybe other countries want them. Who knows? Maybe we've got a few loudmouth big shots sprinkled in, since we Jews certainly don't have a shortage of those. For now, whether we've been big shots or clerksâwe're all unemployed and unemployable. Our glorious Party has made certain that unemployment is the great leveler.” Tata's voice is bouncing off our bedroom walls while Mama listens. “Just as death was the great leveler during the war. Did you know, Stefica, that in America they have such a thing as unemployment benefits? Can you believe that there could ever be a benefit to being unemployed?”
Mama sits on the bed, listening in silence and knitting the sleeve of a sweater. Seeing that she has nothing to add, Tata concludes, “Of course, some of us are just too important and therefore indispensable to the Party, like Max. He gets to keep his job, at half pay. After all, the great proletariat needs a housepainter who can paint the Party's gathering halls spanking white for their committee meetings.”
“That's enough, Gyuri.” Mama sighs, looking up from her knitting. “I won't have you speaking ill of Max. He's putting bread on the table for all of us. We're lucky he's working.” Tata looks at Mama in amusement but adds nothing more.
Mama and Tata have these talks often. She remains calm and steadfastly optimistic, never doubting that we are going to get out, that this suspended state of unemployment and life cannot last forever. She insists that the Communists will eventually come to their senses and issue us our passports. “We just have to be patient and wait our turn,” she says. “Why would the Romanian government
give us permission to apply for passports if they never intended to allow us to leave?”
give us permission to apply for passports if they never intended to allow us to leave?”
“Good question, Stefica,” Tata retorts, pressing the tobacco tightly into his pipe bowl with his thumb. “You are so naïve, but I love the fact that at least one person in Bucharest is still employing some form of logic.”
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ON SUNDAY MORNING Mama asks me to go and help clear out her things at the ballet school.
“How are you going to get in?” I ask.
“Easy,” Mama answers. “Esther, the principal, gave me this. See?” She dangles the key to the school in front of me. “Esther still trusts me, but she wants me to do it on a Sunday, when the place is empty, so that my presence won't upset the students and the rest of the staff.”
At the school Mama cleans out her locker and her desk in less than ten minutes. We are on our way out when she stops in front of the auditorium door. “Do you remember my students' ballet recitals, Eva?” she asks.
“Yes, Mama, the dancing was so beautiful,” I tell her, knowing this will make her feel better.
“Come on.” She grabs my hand and pulls me into the dark theater. Somehow Mama's feet know exactly where to go, and we find ourselves backstage. She flips on a switch, and the stage is suddenly flooded with light. “Go on,” she says, giving me a push. I am standing on the empty stage with the orchestra pit below and a sea of empty seats staring back at me from the darkness. “Dance,” Mama whispers. “Get up on your toes and keep your head high. Lift your arms, that's right,” she says. “Can you hear music, Eva? Hear the
music in your head and keep dancing.” Her voice is only a whisper, yet it resonates in the empty theater. I can't hear any music in my head, but I don't want to disappoint Mama, so I fake it. I twirl and twirl until I get dizzy. I leap across the stage with my legs and arms spread wide open like an eagle or a plane, and to my surprise, I land safely. I squint, trying to make out Mama's outline in the wings as I elevate myself onto my toes again and try to do a pirouette the way I had seen her advanced ballet students do it. When my own two feet stumble upon each other, I gasp for breath and run off into the wings, straight into Mama's arms. She catches me. “That was great!” she says. “Isn't it wonderful to dance, Eva? Even without music, it's marvelous to dance.”
music in your head and keep dancing.” Her voice is only a whisper, yet it resonates in the empty theater. I can't hear any music in my head, but I don't want to disappoint Mama, so I fake it. I twirl and twirl until I get dizzy. I leap across the stage with my legs and arms spread wide open like an eagle or a plane, and to my surprise, I land safely. I squint, trying to make out Mama's outline in the wings as I elevate myself onto my toes again and try to do a pirouette the way I had seen her advanced ballet students do it. When my own two feet stumble upon each other, I gasp for breath and run off into the wings, straight into Mama's arms. She catches me. “That was great!” she says. “Isn't it wonderful to dance, Eva? Even without music, it's marvelous to dance.”
“But, Mama, I have no idea how to really dance. I've never had any lessons!” I tell her.
“I will teach you.”
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TATA IS HOLED UP in the bathroom when we return home. He is hanging a black curtain on the window and installing shelves for trays and chemicals in the bathtub.
Mama takes off her coat and throws it on the bed. “Get out of the bathroom, Gyuri, I need to pee,” she says. “What are you doing in there?” she asks.
“What does it look like? I'm setting up a mobile darkroom,” Tata answers.
“You're what?”
“I told you, Stefica, I'm building a darkroom that I can easily assemble and disassemble so that I can print photographs. Victor was here earlier to offer his condolences about my losing my job. He also offered help. He came armed with optimism and a list of
artists who need portraits right awayâstarting with most of the actresses and actors from the film studio. I'm setting up a darkroom so I can process the film and print the photos right here.”
artists who need portraits right awayâstarting with most of the actresses and actors from the film studio. I'm setting up a darkroom so I can process the film and print the photos right here.”
“Have you lost your mind, Gyuri? You can't do that! This is a shared bathroom for the whole family. There are seven of us, plus Eva, Gyuriâ”
“I can count, Stefica, and I'm well aware of the drawbacks,” Tata interrupts while fitting a rubber tube onto the bathtub spout.
“Gyuri, it's illegal. All private enterprise, including freelancing, is illegal, you know that! You'll get arrested if you get caught, and I can't live like that.”
Tata keeps working, but his body turns toward Mama. “Can you live without food, Stefi? Can you live beholden to your darling little sister's husband? Is that okay with you?”
Mama looks blankly at him and finally says, “Have you at least asked their permission?”
“Whose permission? If you mean have I asked your parents' permission, then the answer is no. It's not their business. And if you mean have I asked your darling little sister's permission, then that's a definite no. And, Stefica, please don't even dream of telling me to ask Max for anything, because then surely we will have a war in this house. I'm not going to ask anybody's opinion or permission about what I should or shouldn't do in order to support my family. They're all just going to have to knock whenever they need to use the loo.”
“That's not fair,” Mama mutters.
“Don't talk to me about fair,” Tata snaps.
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TATA BUILDS HIS mobile darkroom in our common bathroom, and miraculously no one raises an objection. His loyal friends begin
showing up right away for photo portraits. Most are well-known actors and actresses. They sit for him either in our bedroom, where Tata sets up lights and his camera on a tripod, or, on sunny days, on the terrace.
showing up right away for photo portraits. Most are well-known actors and actresses. They sit for him either in our bedroom, where Tata sets up lights and his camera on a tripod, or, on sunny days, on the terrace.
Tata processes the film in the bathroom, and a few days later he meets with his “clients” in our bedroom over Turkish coffee to show them contact prints and proof prints of the best shots. If his clients visit in the afternoon when I'm home from school, I listen to the conversation while pretending to do my homework. Everyone raves about Tata's work and pays him in cash. Tata sometimes sheepishly refuses payment, but invariably each one of his models insists, “I am lucky to have such a great artist shoot my portrait. Please accept this as a small token of my appreciation.” The folded money is pressed gently into Tata's hand, and then he graciously accepts it as he puffs on his pipe and smiles.
When things are slow because people are on vacation, Victor gets on the phone and drums up new clients. I don't know how he does it, since he's risking his hide because this is all illegal, but Victor gets results without getting caught. Friends and friends of friends ask for family portraits and photographs to mark birthday celebrations, weddings, and anniversaries. Victor acts as Tata's agentânever taking a penny for his services. Though not an artist himself, Victor is in awe of art and the people who produce it. Despite all he has endured in the lagers, and the fact that he lost his entire family during the war, Victor remains one of those human beings who sees good in everyone.
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EVENTUALLY, Mama stops talking about how Tata could be arrested for carrying on an illegal freelance business, but I'm sure
that the thought is lurking in the back of her mind, as it is always gnawing at me. We both know that a single phone call from an unfriendly or anti-Semitic acquaintance could land Tata in jail indefinitely. Whenever Mama alludes to being fearful, Tata reminds her that we simply have no choice but to trust our friends. One winter evening when the sun has set early, Grandpa comments over a bowl of vegetable broth at suppertime that we have to trust God. Tata makes no comment and continues to sip his soup.
that the thought is lurking in the back of her mind, as it is always gnawing at me. We both know that a single phone call from an unfriendly or anti-Semitic acquaintance could land Tata in jail indefinitely. Whenever Mama alludes to being fearful, Tata reminds her that we simply have no choice but to trust our friends. One winter evening when the sun has set early, Grandpa comments over a bowl of vegetable broth at suppertime that we have to trust God. Tata makes no comment and continues to sip his soup.
I long for the days when both my parents went to work. Tata still gets up at the crack of dawn. He showers and gets dressed as if he had somewhere to go. Grandpa Yosef, who is used to being the first one up, has a hard time adjusting to Tata's presence in the kitchen.
“I'll make coffee,” Grandpa says, gently shooing him out. But Tata doesn't want to hear of it. “Thanks, Papa, but I prefer to make my own coffee.” Grandpa Yosef is hurt and mentions the incident to Mama, who in turn confronts Tata.
“Stefica darling,” Tata argues, “you simply don't understand. The way I was raised is that one doesn't expect an elderly gentleman such as your father to cater to me. I am fully capable of brewing my own coffee. Besides, I do a better job of it.” Tata smirks and draws on his pipe.
“You just hurt Papa's feelings, Gyuri,” Mama pleads.
“I did no such thing,” Tata insists. “Your father chose to feel hurt.”
Mama rolls her eyes and sighs.
It's been six months since my parents lost their jobs, but it feels much longer. Our bedroom is even smaller since Tata camps out in it all day. He sits on the bed and fills his pipe with tobacco, never
finishing the bowl before tapping the half-smoldering ashes out. Between smokes he cleans his pipe meticulously, pulling a thin brush through the narrow pipe stem, then refilling the still warm bowl. He does this with his nose stuck in a book, ignoring anyone who enters the room. In the afternoons, he occasionally takes long walks, with his camera always strapped around his neck. He never takes Mama or me along, but sometimes he meets friends from the Studio for coffee. On those days, his mood lifts, and when he returns home he is more like his old self.
finishing the bowl before tapping the half-smoldering ashes out. Between smokes he cleans his pipe meticulously, pulling a thin brush through the narrow pipe stem, then refilling the still warm bowl. He does this with his nose stuck in a book, ignoring anyone who enters the room. In the afternoons, he occasionally takes long walks, with his camera always strapped around his neck. He never takes Mama or me along, but sometimes he meets friends from the Studio for coffee. On those days, his mood lifts, and when he returns home he is more like his old self.
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I TURN EIGHT in the spring, and I am close to completing second grade in June. My friends know nothing about my parents being unemployed. In school, I become more indoctrinated in Communist ideology, while at home I'm a Jewish girl in hiding, waiting to leave the country for Israel, a place I know nothing about. I try to imagine what Israel looks like, but I have no pictures of the land or books about it. Even though no one in my family has ever been there, Israel is now the center of our dreams and hopes. Sometimes I shut my eyes tight and wait for a glimpse of the place to come to me, but all I ever see is a glow of gold light that makes me feel warm and safe. Israel is more a feeling than a place.
The thought of leaving home makes me terribly uneasy, yet it doesn't matter. What choice do I have? The adults are going to leave with or without my permission, and they are going to take me with them. None of them, not even Grandpa, asked my opinion about whether they should stand in line all night for passport applications. None of them ever thought they would be unemployed because of it either. I'm tired of their lack of work and their long faces, and I'm tired of their tiptoeing around the house as if
nothing's happened. Even more, I'm tired of being afraid of being discovered as a Jew by the other kids in school. How can I defend myself if I don't even know what I've done wrong? It's not my fault that I was born Jewish. What is a Jew anyway? More than anything, I wish the world would stop hating Jews because I'm still the same person I was before I knew I was Jewish.
nothing's happened. Even more, I'm tired of being afraid of being discovered as a Jew by the other kids in school. How can I defend myself if I don't even know what I've done wrong? It's not my fault that I was born Jewish. What is a Jew anyway? More than anything, I wish the world would stop hating Jews because I'm still the same person I was before I knew I was Jewish.
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