Under a Red Sky (28 page)

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Authors: Haya Leah Molnar

BOOK: Under a Red Sky
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FROM THE MOMENT
my parents open the letter, our lives go into fast forward. They are to report within a week to the offices of the National Commission for Visas and Passports. I'm relieved that I won't have to go, since children under eighteen travel on their parents' documents.
“Your passport will be stamped with your exit visa, and it will detail the route by which you will leave the country,” Uncle Max announces at breakfast one morning. “You must sell or give away whatever belongings you have and take care of any loose ends. I wish I could tell you to liquidate your assets, but you don't have any.” Uncle Max smiles. He is full of useful information because, unlike Tata, he is plugged in to the Jewish community grapevine.
Mama starts to plan everything, and Tata implements her plans without an argument. He puts in a call to one of his childhood friends who is the curator of the museum in Cluj and donates our Biedermeier chest of drawers and the ancient iron safe that has always served as my nightstand. Mama sells our armoire to the gentile couple living in my grandparents' bedroom. Our
books are distributed among my parents' friends. Mama goes through all of our clothing since we are allowed only fifty kilos each of luggage, less for a child under thirteen. Jewelry of any kind is forbidden to leave the country. The one exception is a married couple's gold wedding bands. Each person over the age of thirteen is allowed one watch. On the weekend Mama goes to the Bucharest flea market and sells the clothing we are leaving behind and the few knickknacks my parents had amassed over the years.
“What are we going to do about your father's clock and your mother's vase?” Mama asks Tata.
“And what about Mimi's portrait of Eva?” Tata's voice echoes strangely in the now almost-empty room. My parents look at each other, both thinking the same thing.
“I'll see what I can do,” Mama says. “I'll call Herman at the museum to see if he can pull some strings. What do the Communists need with your father's clock and your mother's broken vase?”
“You'd be surprised, Stefica, at how vindictive a lot of people can be.”
“You'd be surprised, Gyurica, at how kind some people can be,” Mama retorts. “I can't promise that Herman will help, but I'll ask him.”
Tata sighs. “Ask,” he says.
Mimi's husband, Herman, is not only kind—he is smart. He obtains the necessary papers for us to ship those items, including my portrait, out of the country legally. To be sure, these things hold no monetary value for anyone, but to us they are priceless.
 
THE BIG DAY has arrived. Mama and Tata are dressed in their best for their official meeting at the passport office. Even though this is
the beginning of the answer to all of our prayers, I'm scared. What if something goes wrong? What if the clerks at the passport office change their minds? What if my parents don't return home from their appointment?
Aunt Puica is in her bedroom as usual, reading. Uncle Max is still at work, and Andrei is nowhere to be found.
“Sabina,” I ask, sticking my head into the kitchen, “have you seen Andrei?”
“He went with his mother to the doctor,” she answers. I wish Andrei had told me. I would have gone with him just to keep myself from thinking about Mama and Tata at the passport office.
 
AUNT PUICA'S ANXIOUS VOICE is the first sign that my parents are back. “How did it go? Did they give you your passports? What date will you be leaving? Did they tell you who will be living in your bedroom? When do they expect to move them in?”
I run into the foyer to greet my parents, and Aunt Puica is still bombarding them with questions. “What border town will you be leaving from? Is your exit visa to Vienna? Did they ask you any questions about Max and me? Did they give you any inkling of when they will issue us our passports?”
“Puica.” Mama is out of breath, as if she has just run home. “Let me take off my hat and coat and then we can talk.”
“What's the matter with you?” Aunt Puica snaps. “You can't take off your coat and talk at the same time?”
Uncle Max appears in the doorway. “How come no one responded to my I'm-home whistle?” he asks. “I see we have more important news to discuss. So how did it go?”
We all go to sit in the dining room. Tata does not look pleased. Mama is exhausted but hopeful.
“Here,” Tata says, retrieving two Romanian passports from his breast pocket and placing them on the table. Both Uncle Max and Aunt Puica reach for them at the same time. Everyone laughs nervously.
“We're leaving in ten days exactly,” Tata says, inhaling and momentarily holding his breath. “But unfortunately, we're not going to Vienna. We're leaving by train to Sofia, Bulgaria, and then to Istanbul.”
“Istanbul?” Aunt Puica screeches.
“Yes, Istanbul, as in the Ottoman Empire,” Tata answers, smirking at her.
“Don't get cute with me,” Aunt Puica growls.
“Children!” Uncle Max shouts. “No fighting! We've got ten days, during which I want all of us to create only peaceful family memories.”
They all laugh, except for me. Ten days is a long time. We're already packed and ready to go. Sabina's entrance interrupts my thoughts.
“Sabina, come sit with us,” Uncle Max says. “Soon you'll only have to take care of me and Doamna Puica.”
Sabina crosses herself before sitting next to Tata.
“I was hoping we could exit through Vienna,” Tata tells everyone, “but for some reason …” He opens one of the passports to show us. “See, they crossed out the stamped visa to Austria and restamped it with one to Bulgaria and then to Turkey. It makes no sense! I asked the clerk why, and all he would tell me was
that we are the first wave of immigrants to test out this new route.”
“Who cares?” Uncle Max snaps. “Be happy you're getting out! What difference does it make? You already went to Vienna before the war, so now you'll get to see Turkey by way of Bulgaria!”
My father rolls his eyes. “Max, this is not about being a tourist. I was hoping we could contact the American authorities in Vienna and make our way to the United States. But there is no Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society office in Istanbul, so we have no choice but to go to Israel.”
Now it's Uncle Max's turn to roll his eyes. “Aaaha … America! That's another story entirely. I had no idea that you had such lofty hidden ambitions, Gyuri. Too bad you'll have to settle for Israel, land of the Jews.”
My father doesn't answer. He takes out his pipe and stuffs tobacco in its bowl automatically, but he does not light up. “I don't have to answer to anyone about where I want to live, least of all to you, Max. I've paid more than my dues for being a Jew. Where we live from now on is our business.”
I am stunned. America? Tata and Mama have never mentioned America before. I want to go to Israel and live with my grandparents again! I am so relieved someone in the passport office has changed our visas that I am sending imaginary hugs and kisses to that person as I pinch my leg under the table until it stings and gets red.
“I thought we agreed that we're not going to fight for the next ten days,” Mama reminds everyone.
Sabina sighs and shakes her head. “Do any of you want tea?”
As Sabina retreats into the kitchen, Mama continues. “This is all a moot point, because we have no choice. We're leaving through
Bulgaria and Istanbul, and that's that. It's not the end of the world. I'll tell you what is bad, though. We are not allowed to take any money with us. Not Romanian lei or foreign currency. We will have to rely upon the Israeli authorities just as soon as we meet up with them in Istanbul. We also cannot take out any papers. No written material whatsoever—not Eva's birth certificate or ours for that matter, no marriage license, no diplomas, no nothing. Not even an address book with friends' phone numbers.”
Uncle Max and Aunt Puica are dumbfounded. “So what the hell are you supposed to do, memorize the phone book?”
“Precisely,” Mama answers.
“We have a real problem to resolve here. No papers can be taken out of this country.” Uncle Max is stating the obvious. “How the hell are you going to prove your education? Or that you even exist?”
“We don't know,” Tata admits.
“Good luck!” Uncle Max says. “Since we have no children, at least Puica and I won't have to prove that our child's not a mamser—bastard. Can any of you think of a way to legally send Eva's birth certificate abroad?”
 
NO ONE FIGHTS for the next three days. Aunt Puica is quieter than I have ever seen her. I think she is worried that she will miss me, but she doesn't mention it. Mama is restless. Tata is the happiest I have ever seen him. He runs around visiting each and every one of his friends, who are thrilled for us but still cry when they come to our little room for just one more long goodbye. Beard, the film director from Tata's Studio days, takes Tata out to lunch. When they return from their outing, Tata holes himself up in the bathroom
and processes some film. A few hours later he prints a beautiful black-and-white photograph of the two of them standing in front of a giant gilded mirror in a grand, ancient mansion. In the photograph, Tata is smiling faintly and looking straight into the camera, but Beard has a long, sad face, and his right hand rests upon his heart.
“That is an extraordinary photograph,” Mama remarks, looking at the still-wet print.
Tata nods, pleased.
“Gyuri, what are you going to do with all your film negatives?” she asks.
Tata shrugs. “Burn them. There's no way they're going to allow me to take film out of the country when we can't even take a piece of paper with us.”
“That is not acceptable!” Mama cries.
“What do you want me to do?” Tata's face looks so pained and helpless that Mama answers him with just one word.
“Nothing,” she says.
I should have known that my mother is not the kind of person who would ever do nothing about anything—but I didn't. Yet Mama trusts me and no one else with her secret plan.
IT IS NOT YET DAWN.
Mama is getting dressed in the dark while Tata is still snoring lightly. I open my eyes and wait until the shadows in the room become discernible shapes. Mama goes into the bathroom and pees without flushing. That's not like her. She leaves the bedroom soundlessly.
I get up and rush to the bathroom, where I splash water on my face, dry myself quickly, and tiptoe out into the foyer. The light from the dining room casts giant shadows in the foyer. Mama is sitting at the dining room table, sipping coffee and going through a lot of papers. She is so intent on what she's doing that she does not notice me.
“What are you doing up so early?” I ask.
“What are you doing up so early?” Mama answers.
“Looking out for you,” I tell her.
“Come here,” she says, opening her arms. I go sit on her lap, and she kisses my head, but my eyes are riveted on the papers she's sorting through.
I pick up a yellowed piece of paper. “What's this?” I ask.
Mama smiles. “That's my marriage license to your father,” she says as I start reading the document. She gently takes it out of my hands. “Eva, I'm going to ask you to keep a secret, all right?”
“Yes,” I promise.
“I'll be going out now, before anyone else wakes up. I want you to be a good girl and go back to bed and act as if you didn't see me this morning. Don't tell anyone, not even Tata.”
“But where are you going?”
Mama looks at me, and it is clear that she is trying to decide how much to tell me. When she finally speaks, she exudes calm and complete control.
“I'm going to ensure that these papers and your father's photo negatives get to Israel, where we will need them.”
“How?” I know just as well as she does that we can't take any papers out of the country.
“By placing them into the hands of someone who will get them out safely,” Mama answers simply.
Grandpa's face suddenly pops into my mind, and I'm reminded of the conversation we once had about the definition of a sin of omission.
“It's too dangerous for you to do that! Where are you going with these?” I ask, pointing at the papers.
Mama places her index finger to her lips. “Don't worry. I promise I'll be very careful. But you must promise me not to tell. Remember what Uncle Max said? We don't want any more fights in this house before we leave.”
I watch her as she quickly selects which papers and negatives to take and which to leave behind. She places the ones she's taking in a flat envelope that she pins to the inside of her bra. Then she
unrolls Tata's film that is already in acetate sleeves and winds it around her waist. She tucks in her blouse and puts a very wide belt on over her skirt. “It's a good thing I'm thin,” she says, laughing. In the foyer she puts on her black overcoat and her navy blue French beret. “Bye,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I'll be back before breakfast.” And then she's gone.
I go back to bed. The light from the terrace is beginning to fill our room. The sound of Tata's clock is as reassuring as ever, but the clock is no longer resting on the Biedermeier chest. It is now standing on top of our luggage.
 
WHEN I WAKE, I find Mama having breakfast with Tata in the dining room. I give her a great big hug, and she holds on to me tightly before releasing me and offering me a cup of hot chocolate.
“I'm going to meet with Victor today,” Tata says. “He's got a connection that can arrange for me to get permission to take one of my cameras with me. If we can pull that off, it will come in very handy for freelance work in Israel.”
Mama nods and smiles. “Good luck,” she tells him.
Since we are so close to our departure date, Mama allows me to skip school. “The less your school friends know about our leaving for Israel, the better,” she says, and I agree. Except for saying goodbye to Claudia, and of course to Andrei, I have no desire to explain anything to anyone. I am so anxious about Mama's safety that I cannot wait for us to leave. Each morning I cross off another day on the calendar next to my bed. There are only four days left. I wonder how long it will take for us to travel to Israel. I am going to see Grandpa Yosef and Grandma Iulia again! This morning, as every day this week, I wait to see Andrei off to school.
I run to the foyer as soon as I hear the sound of the front door latch, but instead of hearing Andrei's cheerful “Good morning,” I am met by a man with a stone-cold face who didn't bother to knock.
“I am looking for a woman,” the man says without introducing himself. “She is about five feet tall, with curly brown hair and light eyes—most likely blue, but could be green. Do you know anyone who fits that description?”
I freeze and stare up at him. He is describing my mother, who I know is in our bedroom, but something tells me not to call her.
“Just a moment,” I tell him, and run to get Sabina. I find her in the kitchen drying a skillet with a dish towel, grab her by the hand, and barely have time to breathe into her ear, “There's a bad man in the foyer who says he's looking for someone that sounds just like my mother.”
Sabina adjusts her turban before greeting the man. “Bun
diminea
a
—good morning,” she says in a casual, almost bored manner as she continues to wipe the skillet. “The girl here says you're looking for someone?”
“Yes,” the man answers, his tone impatient. “A woman in her mid to late thirties, slender, curly hair, pretty. She was observed entering and leaving the Israeli Consulate earlier this morning, and I am here to ask her some important questions.”
Sabina stops wiping the skillet and sets it on the counter. “I don't know anyone who looks like that, and neither does this child. You must have the wrong address,” she says in her heavy provincial accent, then turns on her heels.
The man is visibly annoyed. “No, I have the correct house. The woman I'm looking for was followed here by my colleague very early this morning.”
“Your colleague must have given you the wrong information,” Sabina tells him.
“Is the lady of this house at home?” he asks.
“I don't think so,” Sabina says.
“Very well then. I shall have to come back and speak with someone who has enough brains to give me some answers. Please inform all the occupants of this house that the woman I'm looking for was wearing a black overcoat and a navy blue beret, exactly like these.” The man points to my mother's coat and beret that are hanging on the coat rack.
Sabina's eyes harden. “Ah, I see you must be looking for Doamna Stefi, but you have no business here because she is leaving the country this week for Israel. That might explain why your colleague saw her at the consulate. But she doesn't look anything like the way you described her.”
“She may not leave for anywhere until after I've had my talk with her,” the man says, turning to go. “You can be sure of that.”
“Just a moment,” Sabina says, spitting in her palms. “I don't think so. Let me tell you something, Mr. Comrade. Don't you come into this house threatening my mistress, because I promise you I will flatten your face flatter than the flattest pancake with this skillet and your mother will feel sorry she ever gave birth to someone as ugly as you. And don't think that I'm afraid to do it! I was born and raised here on a farm that you and your Party made poorer. I am the Proletariat you all brag about so much, and I swear that there are no better, kinder people than these people I have been working for for more than five years. Now get out of here and don't come back!” Sabina spits in her palms again and adjusts her turban. Then she grabs my hand and pulls me into the kitchen.
 
 
THE SECURITATE MAN comes back the next day. By now, however, Sabina has told my parents everything about her encounter with him, and they've prepared a story everyone agrees upon. Mama tells him that her parents live in Israel and that her mother is gravely ill. We have no way of contacting her parents to let them know that we will be coming, since they have no phone. And once we are in transit we won't be able to send letters and await a reply, which is why she had to go to the Israeli Consulate before our departure. The Securitate man seems to buy Mama's story. He calls the National Commission for Visas and Passports to check that my grandparents have indeed emigrated to Israel. Once that information is confirmed, he leaves our house, but not before going into the kitchen and spitting in Sabina's face. “Jew lover!” I hear him call her. When he emerges from the kitchen, there are red welts on his cheeks from Sabina's hand.

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