Under a Red Sky (22 page)

Authors: Haya Leah Molnar

BOOK: Under a Red Sky

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“Because Nina had converted to Judaism in order to marry him, that's why. But you see, in her heart at the end, she was still Christian.”

“Then why did she convert?” I had never heard of anyone wanting to be Jewish before.

“Because she was in love with my brother and he wouldn't have married her unless she became a Jew. It was the only way to ensure that their children would be Jewish.”

“I don't understand, Grandma.”

“A child is not Jewish unless the mother is Jewish. That's the law.”

“But if Mimi's mother wasn't really Jewish in her heart, how can Mimi be Jewish? And how could a Jewish man not have enough heart to allow his wife her last wish?”

“You're too young to understand the Halacha, Eva.”

“What's the Halacha?”

“The Jewish code of law.”

Grandma is right. I don't understand the Halacha yet.

FEATHERS

THERE'S A BALLERINA
in a pink tutu in our foyer. She is practicing lifting her leg up in the air, but I can tell that she's not very good because she's wobbly. She is wearing toe shoes, a sure sign that she hasn't yet been scrutinized by my mother. Mama would never allow a beginner to go up on pointe. I wonder where my mother is and why she's allowed a stranger to practice in our home without her. Since she lost her job, Mama has taken on a few select students who are applying to Bucharest's famous ballet school. She is training them to take the entrance exam. The referrals always come through a trusted friend from the school.

The ballerina's back is turned, and she doesn't see me standing behind her as she concentrates on walking straight across a length of string laid out on our foyer floor. Her back is muscular, as are her arms, and one of the thin satin straps has fallen off her shoulder. Her calves are thick and hairy, and when she lifts her arms, I notice her unshaved armpits. I wonder if Mama is so desperate for money that she'll take anyone on for private lessons, even the clearly untalented and cloddy. Quietly, I tiptoe toward the dining
room, homework in hand, but the ballerina becomes aware of my presence.

“My dear young lady, would you mind standing on the end of this rope to hold it down? I'm afraid I may lose my balance.” Uncle Max's voice resonates out of thin air. I stop in my tracks as the ballerina whirls around and bursts into laughter. “Aha! Fooled you, didn't I?” Uncle Max booms, but I'm still confused. I take another look at the ballerina's face and recognize the laughter in his eyes, but something's very different. Then I see itâUncle Max has shaved his mustache and he's wearing a blond wig!

“Uncle Max, what are you doing?”

“I'm having a dress rehearsal for next week's Purimspiel. How do you like my outfit?” He adjusts the fallen satin strap on his shoulder and tucks in a few cotton balls that have flown out of his brassiere. “I had to bribe your mother to borrow this from the ballet school,” he tells me. “If I've fooled you, I'm sure to fool everyone at the Purim party. Do you think your mother will approve of my ballet performance? I thought it would be a good idea to add a little suspense by walking a tightrope, even if it is on solid ground.” Uncle Max spreads his arms and demonstrates his walk across the floor. I'm hooting so loudly that Aunt Puica appears from the bedroom with curlers in her hair and Sabina rushes out of the kitchen.

“Max, you crazy fool!” Aunt Puica yells between coughing fits and laughter. “You forgot to shave under your arms!”

“I'm sure you're looking forward to helping me with that, darling,” Uncle Max says, then plants a kiss on her cheek. “You know, I'd just as soon wait until Purim to shave so I won't have to do it again. I dread getting a rash under my delicate armpits,” he says,
pinching Aunt Puica's rear end. Sabina goes back into the kitchen, her turban lopsided from laughter.

“Can I go with you to the Purim party?” I ask.

“As long as your mother gives you permission,” Uncle Max says.

“You can't take the Child, Max. I'm not even going,” Puica says, as if her presence must determine anyone else's attendance.

“And why not take the Child?”

“Because.” Aunt Puica glares at Uncle Max.

“Because why?” he asks.

“You know very well why she can't go,” Puica pleads.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because there are going to be a bunch of Jews gathered in one place, and if the Securitate gets wind of it, they're not going to like it,” she answers.

“So? Aren't we already a bunch of Jews gathered in one place right in this house? Do you think the Securitate likes that?”

But Aunt Puica's not buying it. “Let's not involve the Child, Max. If you get into trouble, that's your business, but the little girl is another matter.” Aunt Puica retreats into their bedroom. “You know what I mean.”

“No. I don't,” he answers, making a clumsy rat-tat-tat sound with his toe shoes as he follows her.

“No one else is bringing children. It's an adult Purimspiel.” My aunt's voice can be heard through their closed door.

“So what?” Uncle Max has never had the last word before.

I HAVE NO IDEA what Purimspiel means. All I care about is going to the party. I wonder if I could wear a costume too. That would be
so much fun! Still, when Uncle Max emerges from his bedroom dressed once again as himself, I ask him what this dress-up party is all about.

“Aha! Just as I thought,” he says. “No one's bothered to tell you the most important thingâthe Purim story.”

“No.”

“Purim is great because you can laugh, get drunk, and make a total fool of yourself. Show me a Jew who can't laugh at himself and I'll show you a Jew in trouble.”

Uncle Max begins his story. “Once upon a time there was a man by the name of Mordechai, who lived in Persia. He was one of many Jews who lived in exile more than a thousand years ago.”

“Uncle Max,” I interrupt, “what does exile mean?”

“Oy.” Uncle Max's forehead is a river of creases. He finally answers with a heavy sigh. “Exile. Exile means ânot at home, not living in your own country.' Exile. Like the way we are living now, Eva, waiting and praying to get back to Israel.”

“But, Uncle Max,” I argue, “I was born here. I'm not living in exile!”

“You are, Eva. A Jew can be born anywhere, but unless you're living in Israel, you are in some fashion living in exile, even if you are doing well and you're rich, as was the case with my family when we lived in Spain.”

“You come from Spain, Uncle Max?”

“I was born here just like you, but my family was from Spain. They were Sephardic Jews who were expelled from Spain during the Inquisition.”

“Uncle Max, I don't understand.”

“Jews have been living in exile all over the world for more than two thousand years. Some of us have been feeling so at home in foreign lands that we forget where we came from. But sooner or later, a Haman or a Hitler tries to wipe us off the face of the earth. Purim is about laughter because, despite all of our hardships and the pogroms, and even after what happened during the war, God has never abandoned Jews and Jews have never abandoned God. Or maybe it's the other way around. In any case, being alive is certainly something for us to celebrate. Even here.”

I am uncomfortable with what he's telling me, since I've always thought of Bucharest as my home. “I see what you mean by âoy,' Uncle Max.”

Uncle Max cracks up. “Not just âoy,' kid, but âoy, vey, zmir'!”

We start to laugh and make faces at each other. “So what happened with Mordechai?” I ask, giggling.

“Mordechai had no children of his own,” Uncle Max continues, “but he took care of his beautiful orphaned cousin, whose name was Esther.” He pauses and looks at me. “Anyway, there was a very rich king in Persia who got tired of his wife, Queen Vashti, so he asked his courtiers to find him a new, younger, and more beautiful wife.”

“And Esther got chosen?” I guess.

“You got it. Except there's one problem.” Uncle Max's index finger goes up in the air. “Esther is Jewish, and King Ahasuerus is not.”

“Why is that a problem?”

Uncle Max rolls his eyes. “Eva, do they like Jews around here?”

I shrug.

“All right then, what makes you think that it was any different back then?” Uncle Max continues: “So Mordechai tells Esther to
do the only sensible thingâhe tells her to hide the fact that she is Jewish.” Uncle Max pauses.

“Just like you guys hid it from me?”

“What are you talking about, Eva?”

“Uncle Max, I didn't know that I'm Jewish until everyone lost their job,” I tell him, and then I add quickly, “Except for you.”

“Eva, there are times when hiding being a Jew is a good idea, as Queen Esther proves. In any case, the king marries Esther. Shortly after the wedding, Mordechai uncovers a plot to kill the king, reports it, and saves the king's lifeâbut the king is completely unaware of this. Instead of rewarding Mordechai, the king appoints Haman, an evil man, to become his prime minister. Mordechai refuses to bow down to Haman, so Haman builds a gallows in order to hang Mordechai. Haman also plans to kill the entire Jewish community.”

“Queen Esther knows this?” I ask.

“Of course! Mordechai asks for her help, and she risks her life by telling the king the truth about Haman's plans. She also divulges that she is Jewish.”

“What does the king do?”

“He has Haman hung on the very gallows he's prepared for Mordechai. He also signs a decree that the Jews are allowed to defend themselves.”

“Uncle Max?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“That's a scary story, but I'm glad that it ends well.”

“Yes, well enough for us to have a great party and get drunk!” Uncle Max laughs. “I'll see what I can do about having you join me.”

UNCLE MAX convinces everyone that I can go to the party with him. Mama volunteers to make a costume, and when Cousin Mimi hears about it, she offers to help and invites Mama and Aunt Puica to her studio to research ideas. Having to produce a unique costume in just a few days gets the three of them focused. But they forget to ask me what I want to wear.

“Take a look at these beautiful tribal African women,” Mimi says, opening up a giant book on her coffee table entitled Native Costumes of the World. “Don't these women look like magnificent sculptures?”

“They look like very tall, topless women to me,” Aunt Puica comments.

“So what?” Mimi snaps. “There's no shame in going topless in many countries, including on some of the best beaches on the French Riviera.”

“Bucharest is not the French Riviera or Africa, thank God,” Aunt Puica says, rolling her eyes.

“Look, I've got a tribal skirt that I brought back from Africa and lots of beads and bracelets. I've even got a very curly black wig. Let's just try it and see how she looks.” Mimi is not about to take no for an answer, so she rushes to her bedroom and reappears with armloads of stuff for my costume. Before I have a chance to protest, they pull off my clothes until I am standing in my underwear.

“Take off your undershirt,” Mimi orders, “and let's get some makeup on your body to see what you look like with black skin.” She dips her hands in a round jar of dark brown makeup. She examines my face as if it were one of her canvases, and in seconds my skin turns dark beneath her hands. I stand in front of the mirror and notice how the whites of my eyes suddenly seem to glow. I smile
at myself and notice that my teeth also look whiter. Aunt Puica pins up my hair and pulls Mimi's wig onto my head, tucking in every stray wisp of blond hair. The wig fits snugly. The tribal skirt is way too big, so Mimi wraps it around my waist several times, and Mama secures it with a brooch. Mimi slips brightly colored necklaces over my head and gold and silver bangle bracelets on my arms. Mama paints my lips bright red and darkens my eyebrows to match the wig. The three of them look at their creation in the mirror. I stand motionless and watch as I am transformed into an African girl. I have never seen a black person before. She is beautiful but topless. Inside, I feel the same: beautiful but naked.

“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Mimi gushes. Mama and Aunt Puica nod in agreement but I tell them, “No.” Three bewildered faces look back at me in the mirror. “What do you mean, âNo'?” Mimi asks.

“I'm not going anywhere naked like this,” I answer.

“You're not naked!” Mimi shouts. “You're wearing a magnificent African tribal skirt and gorgeous jewelry. It's the way they dress in Africa.”

I shrug. “I don't care,” I tell her. “I won't go without my undershirt.”

Mimi explodes. “Are you crazy, Eva? African girls don't wear ugly white undershirts. Take a look at how stunning you look,” she says, pointing at my reflection in the mirror.

Aunt Puica smiles. “She is beautiful, but she's got a point. I wouldn't want to go to a masked ball topless either, even if I was as flat as she is.”

“Flat or not,” Mama says, turning to me, “if you're not comfortable, you don't have to do it.”

Mimi glares at my mother. Aunt Puica smiles, waiting to see who will win out.

“I'm not going to the Purim party anymore,” I cry, pulling off the wig.

“Don't be such a crybaby,” Mimi says. “Of course you're going.”

I shake my head and try to push back my tears.

“We'll just have to make you a new costume!” Mimi declares, pulling me into her living room with Mama and Aunt Puica trailing us.