Under a Red Sky (2 page)

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Authors: Haya Leah Molnar

BOOK: Under a Red Sky
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“But, Grandpa, how do we know that he's got a chicken?”
“We don't know, but we have to have faith.”
“Faith?” I cry. “Grandpa, I want to know!”
“The only way you will know is if you have faith and patience.”
“But, Grandpa, what if he's lying?”
“Did he look like he was lying to you?” Grandpa's face turns serious.
“No, but what if—”
“There are no what-ifs. We just have to trust him and hope that we'll get a chicken.” Grandpa's voice is calm, but the grip of his hand feels tighter around mine.
“But what if he sold the chicken to someone else?” I imagine the aroma rising from a bowl of steaming chicken soup. My mouth waters in anticipation of the moment of that first sip of broth, which I've experienced only a handful of times since I was born. “Maybe he'll take the chicken back to the farm for his own family,” I say, tugging at Grandpa. “Or he might sell it to someone else.”
“Oh, my sweet, how you love to make up stories!” Grandpa says. “There can be no doubt. Ion will have a chicken for us.”
“You have no doubt?” I ask in astonishment.
“None whatsoever,” Grandpa says, throwing his cigarette butt on the ground and stepping on it.
When the line finally disperses, Grandpa and I approach Ion's stall as unobtrusively as possible. The farmers are packing up their baskets all around us. Ion motions to us to follow him behind a small building that houses some makeshift offices and the toilets.
“This way,” he says, and points with his chapped fingers. He leads us to a wooden shed. He takes an old metal key out of his pocket and unlocks the rusty padlock. It is very dark inside. Ion pulls on a string, and a bare bulb lights up. I adjust my eyes and see that we are standing on a dirt floor covered with sawdust. All the way in the back of the shed is a mound of hay, and perched on it is a white chicken with a red crest on top of her head and eyes that are as shiny as amber jewels. The chicken is clucking softly.
“You wanted a chicken?” Ion motions toward the bird with a flourish. “She's yours,” he says, beckoning me to come closer.
I climb the straw mound carefully, so as not to scare the chicken.
“Go ahead,” Ion tells me. “You can pet her.”
I put my hand out and barely touch the bird's feathers. They are softer than anything I have ever felt before.
“I brought two chickens from the farm,” Ion confides, “one for my brother, Petric
, who now lives here in the capital. Petric
picked his up at dawn, before the market opened. He didn't want anyone to see it and get into a fight over it.” Ion points at my chicken. “This one I was saving for whoever will pay top price.”
Grandpa nods. “How much?”
“Being that you have this beautiful young lady with you, Dom-nule Yosef, I mean Comrade Yosef, I'll take whatever you can offer. Within reason, of course.” Ion chooses his words carefully.
“I'll give you everything I've got on me,” Grandpa tells him, opening his coat and taking three loose cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He gives one to Ion, who places it between his lips without taking his eyes off Grandpa. In turn, Grandpa looks at Ion and takes his matchbook out again, ignoring Grandma Iulia's wish list on its inside cover. He strikes a match, shielding the flame with his hand for Ion to light up. Ion takes a deep drag on his cigarette and winks at me, his eyes smiling. Grandpa runs his hand across his chest, feeling for the small sewing needle with which earlier that morning he had pinned all his cash to the inside of his shirt pocket. His stiff fingers withdraw a bunch of folded lei bills. Without counting them, Grandpa hands over the entire wad of money. Ion takes the bills, also without counting them, and places them carefully inside his vest pocket, where they make a huge bulge.
“I'm sorry that I don't have more.” Grandpa's voice trails off, sounding genuinely regretful.
“No problem, Mr. Yosef. No need to apologize. You're not like all the rest.” Ion nods toward the now empty marketplace. “They take so much pleasure in haggling, they forget that farmers have to live too. They assume that we're lucky because we have food. Let them try to pay their bills while fulfilling the Party's cooperative quota! If this is all you can afford, Mr. Yosef, I'll take your word. It's enough,” Ion says, watching me squat by the chicken and run my fingers through her feathers. “Besides, it's a pleasure to see Miss Eva here so happy on her first day at the market.”
“You've made my entire family happy, Ion. We've got seven more mouths to feed at home,” Grandpa says, handing Ion the extra cigarette and shaking hands. Ion ties the chicken's legs with a thin piece of rope. The bird does not resist as he places her in a straw basket and covers her with a cloth.
We do not take the tram back. We walk home. Grandpa is afraid that someone on the tram might hear the chicken clucking and try to rob us. I am hungry and exhausted but too happy to complain.
 
GRANDMA IULIA GREETS US at the door and follows us into the kitchen, her slippers making a flapping sound. Grandpa Yosef unpacks the potatoes, onions, and peas. He hands her the sugar and the flour. Grandma carefully takes stock of everything.
“That's all?” Her question hangs in the air.
“Almost.” Grandpa's voice is serious, but he winks at me.
“What else?”
“Take a look.” Grandpa motions to the straw basket on the kitchen floor. Grandma's eyes widen as she slides the cloth off the basket. “Oh my God, Yosef, it's a chicken!” she cries.
“Of course it's a chicken, Iulia. But this is not just any chicken. This is Eva's present, because she charmed Ion into selling it to me.”
Grandma is not interested in the details of the sale. She lifts the basket with great care, places it on the kitchen counter, and examines the bird closely. With her left hand she holds down the chicken while she feels for the body fat under her wings. She touches the bird from the top of her red crest down to her scrawny legs and her sharp, pointy toes. It is clear that Grandma is figuring out how to make the most out of my chicken, but her eyes are still incredulous. The
chicken ignores Grandma's excitement and fills the kitchen with soft clucking sounds.
“Yosef,” Grandma says, “you'd better get ready to slaughter this bird. And please do a better job than you did the last time. I can still see that poor thing running around without her head, splattering blood all over my kitchen. It took Sabina half a day to clean the mess off these walls. Who can have an appetite after such a thing? I didn't touch a bite from our last chicken.”
I tiptoe to the pantry, open the door slowly so that it won't squeak, and slide in. The pantry is my hiding place, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the house. I pull out a wooden stool from under a shelf and sit down in the cool darkness, where I can stretch my legs and think.
“Don't worry, Iulia.” Grandpa's voice drifts in from the kitchen. “I will be as swift and merciful as a shochet.” In the damp of the pantry I wonder what a shochet is, but I stop short of blurting out the question.
“God forgive us,” says Grandma, “we've been reduced to having to slaughter our own chickens! My parents must be turning in their graves, may they rest in peace.” Even though I can't see Grandma Iulia from my hiding place, I know that, right about now, she is shaking her finger at Grandpa.
“I know,” Grandpa Yosef says. “Once upon a time I corrupted you by marrying you and made you change your parents' kosher ways.” His voice holds a hint of sarcasm.
Grandma shoots back, “You have no respect, Yosef.”
“Sure I do, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm no shochet. You expect merciful butchers from the Communists, Iulia?”
“Just be swift,” she pleads.
“I will,” Grandpa promises, “and I will have mercy in my heart and say a prayer just for you.”
“Now you're praying? Where were you when we had a chance to get out of this godforsaken country? Don't pray for me, pray for the poor chicken.” Grandma sniffs.
“I'll say a prayer for the chicken and for you. I'll ask God to help us get out of here so that you can have your kosher chickens once again. Do you feel better now?” Grandpa laughs.
Grandma Iulia doesn't respond.
“Don't hang around here,” Grandpa tells her. “You make me nervous.”
 
I SIT IN THE DARK of the pantry for a long time and listen to the clucking of my chicken drift in from the counter. I can't imagine my beautiful bird with her soft white feathers and her glowing amber eyes transformed into a bowl of chicken paprikash with dumplings and chicken soup as well. I wish I had never asked for a chicken.
Grandpa's footsteps approach. The pantry door squeaks as I push it open a crack. A shaft of light enters the dark space.
“What are you doing in here?” Grandpa asks, carrying the basket with my chicken in both his arms.
“Thinking.”
“What about?”
“Nothing.” I sigh, then add, “My chicken.”
Grandpa places the basket down and lifts me up.
“Your chicken is a great, great present,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Not anymore,” I answer, glaring at him. “You're going to kill her!”
“You can't eat a live chicken,” Grandpa says, “but I promise to slaughter her as mercifully as a shochet.”
“I don't feel like eating chicken anymore. What's a shochet?”
“When you're hungry, you'll eat almost anything, especially delicious chicken. A shochet is a butcher who is trained to slaughter with mercy and prepare meat according to our laws.”
“Why don't we have a shochet?”
“The Communists don't allow it.”
“Oh. Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“I hate you having to slaughter my chicken.”
“I know, me too. But we have to eat.”
“Can I say goodbye to her?” I ask.
“Why, certainly,” he answers, sitting me down on the kitchen counter. “I won't slaughter her today, just so you can have an extra day with your chicken.”
“Grandpa, you can't hide the chicken from Grandma. She'll hear the clucking and be angry that you didn't kill her yet.”
“Don't worry, Grandma won't mind.”
“Yes, she will. What are we going to tell her?”
“I don't know. We'll think of something,” he murmurs.
“Can I pet my chicken?”
“Of course,” he says, lifting the bird out of the basket and placing her on the counter next to me.
“I don't like her legs tied up,” I whisper as I run my fingers through the feathers.
“She doesn't either,” he whispers back as I wrap my arms around my chicken and feel her chest heave with clucking sounds.

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