Under a Red Sky (8 page)
Authors: Haya Leah Molnar
MY FATHER INSPIRES GREAT LOVE
and loyalty from a small but important group of friends who gather regularly in our bedroom. Most of them work closely with him at Romania's government-owned film studio, where Tata is the leading cinematographer. They call him Zimmy, short for Zimmermann, his last name. His friends are film and theater directors, actors, artists, writers, poets, and composersâall of them part of Bucharest's talented elite.
and loyalty from a small but important group of friends who gather regularly in our bedroom. Most of them work closely with him at Romania's government-owned film studio, where Tata is the leading cinematographer. They call him Zimmy, short for Zimmermann, his last name. His friends are film and theater directors, actors, artists, writers, poets, and composersâall of them part of Bucharest's talented elite.
The one exception is Victor, a short man with thick, black-framed glasses, who survived all of the lagers, including the Russian POW labor camp. While all of these friends are close, none are as close to Tata as Victor. The two of them talk, laugh, smoke cigarettes, and drink
uic
, strong Romanian plum liquor, often until daybreak. As the evening wears on, their laughter grows louder, their stories more colorful. These get-togethers usually take place on an evening when my mother has rehearsals, though Mama regards Victor as family.
uic, strong Romanian plum liquor, often until daybreak. As the evening wears on, their laughter grows louder, their stories more colorful. These get-togethers usually take place on an evening when my mother has rehearsals, though Mama regards Victor as family.Â
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“HEY, VICTOR.” Tata's voice booms from the other side of the bookcase. “Remember when we got that shipment of aspirin in the labor camp in Siberia and you decided to dispense it to the entire prisoner population? You tried so hard to convince us that you had discovered the magic cure-all for every disease known to man.” Tata laughs. “Hey, guys, no breakfast? Why not pop one of Victor's Vitamins instead? It's guaranteed to bore an even bigger hole in your stomach than you've already got.”
I crawl to the bottom of my bed and peek from under my covers. Victor is waving his shot glass at Tata. “Look who's talking about holes in his stomach. You had a hole in your head, Zimmy, carrying a volume of Shakespeare around as if it were the Bible. Here's to you, Mr. Hamlet”âVictor raises his glassâ“may you make up your mind if you want to be or not to be!”
“Watch your mouth, Herr Doctor.” Tata's words are slurred from the liquor. “You're mocking the greatest writer the world has ever known. You're not fit to lick Shakespeare's boots.”
“Your performance is impressive tonight, Mr. Hamlet,” Victor snaps. “Shakespeare has no need for boots, because he's dead. And he isn't God.”
“He's dead to you, you idiot, because you don't read! As far as Shakespeare being God, he comes in a close second, if there is a God,” Tata answers.
“Your Mr. Shakespeare nearly got us all killed,” Victor continues. “Need I remind you that your best friend, Yoni, would still be alive today if he hadn't run back for your Shakespeare? It took us weeks to plan our escape from hell, and Yoni blows it by running back to retrieve a book!” Victor's rant now sounds like machine-gun fire. “He paid with his life, poor schmuck, for your immortal âauteur'âhe got
it square in the head over an English book!” Victor uses his hand as a gun. “Bang!” Then his voice goes flat. “Yoni's gone. And the rest of us are running for our lives like a bunch of rats straight into the arms of the Bolshevik bastards who deported us to Mother Russia.” Victor's voice trails off. “Zimmy! Are you listening? We're just ghosts who refused to die, cigarettes still warm after they've been stubbed out on frozen Russian soil.” When my father doesn't respond, Victor stops. “Hey, Zimmy my friend, you look like you don't feel well. Do you want me to get you an aspirin?”
it square in the head over an English book!” Victor uses his hand as a gun. “Bang!” Then his voice goes flat. “Yoni's gone. And the rest of us are running for our lives like a bunch of rats straight into the arms of the Bolshevik bastards who deported us to Mother Russia.” Victor's voice trails off. “Zimmy! Are you listening? We're just ghosts who refused to die, cigarettes still warm after they've been stubbed out on frozen Russian soil.” When my father doesn't respond, Victor stops. “Hey, Zimmy my friend, you look like you don't feel well. Do you want me to get you an aspirin?”
“Don't be funny,” Tata whispers. “I wish you wouldn't keep ranting like this. Every time you have a drink in you, your tongue gets loose about the camps.” Tata grabs the Shakespeare off the shelf from the other side of our bookcase, and I slide under my covers. “How could I forget? This book was so important to Yoni, it cost him his life.”
“Too high a price,” Victor answers flatly.
“Look,” Tata mutters, tapping the Shakespeare volume, “it's got Yoni's dried blood on some of the pages.” Tata leafs through the book. “I also risked my life for it when I ran back to get it after Yoni died. Only I got lucky. I lived. Why? I have no clue. I certainly don't deserve that privilege any more than Yoni. Maybe he was luckier.” Tata's voice is controlled. “Don't kid yourself, Victor. Yoni didn't run back to retrieve the book for me. He wanted the Shakespeare for himself. You can think what you want, and you can blame me if it makes you feel better, but Yoni and I are not the only two crazy people in the world who love Shakespeare so much we'd risk our lives for a book. You forget what's important, Victor,” Tata says, dropping the Shakespeare on the bed with a thud. The room turns silent except for the sound of our clock.
“Nothing's as important as your life, Zimmy. You ought to know that better than most.”
“I'm not sure anymore,” Tata says, half talking to himself. “What's life without books, art, or music? Or without the people you love?”
“Don't get maudlin and poetical on me,” Victor snaps. “I remember how terrified you were when that Nazi bastard played Russian roulette with your life. You almost shit in your pants when he waved his gun in your face. I bet you would have sold your mother just to stay alive, but they had already finished her off.” Victor's laugh is a dry bark.
“Don't bring up my mother, you drunken fool! What's wrong with you?”
“Zimmy, we're all capable of terrible things, but at least I admit it.”
“You talk too much,” Tata snaps. “Come on, Victor, you're out of here,” he says, helping his friend up. “Next time, less booze and more Radio Free Europe. Maybe we can catch the BBC news on Thursday night. Go home, Victor. I love you, but I need to sleep.”
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TATA'S FILM DIRECTOR PARTNER, whom Tata refers to as Beard, is his closest friend and collaborator at the film studio. Beard earned his nickname by risking jail for growing a beard. The Party considers growing facial hair a subversive activity. Beard plays cat and mouse with the authorities by shaving before every official meeting with Party members. The moment the meeting is over, however, he starts to grow his beard again. Everyone is aware of this, including the Party officials, since Beard bribes them with free tickets to
the film premieres. They laugh, enjoy the free movies, and refer to Beard as an “eccentric artist.”
the film premieres. They laugh, enjoy the free movies, and refer to Beard as an “eccentric artist.”
On cold winter nights after they finish work at the Studio, Tata and Beard show up at our house and hide themselves in our bedroom so they can discuss the day's shoot without being overheard by the rest of the crew. When Mama is home, she brings in a tray with tea and lemon and a few slices of cozonacâRomanian coffee cakeâand goes out to the dining room to spend time with my grandparents. Tata never asks me to leave our bedroom because my curfew is 8:00 p.m. I'm tucked in bed in my makeshift little corner, and they forget I'm there. Most of the time, I read and ignore their conversation, but there are times when I pretend that I'm asleep and I listen.
“We can't have a wide-angle shot of the lawn chairs with a single chair sticking out of line,” Beard tells Tata. “The Artistic Content Committee will claim that we're advocating dissent and capitalist individualism.”
“Nonsense,” my father argues. “They're too stupid to think that. Don't be paranoid, Beard. In order for them to cite individualism, they need a brain capable of interpretive powers. You give these imbeciles way too much credit.” Tata taps his pipe into the ashtray. I can smell the fresh tobacco from his pouch before he lights up.
“They're not all stupid, Zimmy,” Beard retorts. “Some have brains, and I guarantee that every one of them is mean-spirited. That's a lethal combination.”
Tata doesn't agree. “Why not throw their argument right back in their faces? We'll tell them that it's all in their filthy, small, Bolshevik minds. They're seeing things in the film that simply aren't there.” Tata smiles. “Art is subjective, after all.”
“Yeah, but it's a dangerous game to play, because they hold all the cards, Zimmy. They can put us out of business.”
“You have no idea how much I detest these clowns,” Tata grumbles, his teeth clicking on the stem of his pipe.
“Yes I do,” Beard says. “Your precious chair scene can stay in the film for now, just to keep you happy. We'll take another look at it when we do the final cut. Okay?”
Tata's answer is an unintelligible string of Hungarian curses.
Tata's conversations with Beard often sound like heated arguments to me, but Mama says neither makes a move without the other. Even in his personal life Beard relies more on my father than on all of his wives combined. Beard is in between wives, but he's in love with Renée, a Belgian puppeteer, who came to Romania for a children's theater festival. I only met Renée once, when she showed me how the strings of a puppet work.
“Refrain from getting married,” Tata advises Beard. “An official marriage certificate from the Communists will only complicate your life, and it will leave you in debt again after you divorce.”
“You know I'm crazy about Renée,” Beard whines.
“You are crazy. Why must you make it a habit to get married to every pretty woman you meet?” Tata asks. “Renée doesn't even live here. Be happy that you can still get laid without first obtaining permission from the Party. Do me a favor, Beard: don't get married again and don't make babies. Buy some condoms from Victor. He just got a shipment in from France.”
Beard sighs in response, but both of them know that Tata's lecture is useless. When it comes to women, Beard can't help himself. He is willing to marry every woman who's ever caught his eye
because he thinks all women are beautiful. “No wonder they're all crazy about you,” Tata says.
because he thinks all women are beautiful. “No wonder they're all crazy about you,” Tata says.
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A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER, Beard shows up early for one of his visits and waits for Tata in our room. I am thrilled because Beard is fun. He looks just like a picture Tata has shown me of Albert Einsteinâthe wild mane, minus the silver-white. Whenever Beard visits, he turns on the radio and tunes in to a classical concert. He loves music, and he once told me that, when he was a young boy, he wanted to become an orchestra conductor. As the music on our radio soars, Beard stands in the middle of our bedroom in his baggy pants and starts to conduct. His eyes are closed, and his face twitches in rhythm to the music.
Sometimes his arms move slowly and gracefully, while at other times he is punching the air with his fists and his wild mane gets wet with droplets of sweat. As the music fades, Beard stops and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Did you miss me?” he asks. “Close your eyes and open your hands. Renée has sent you a present from Belgium.”
My eyes are shut tightly. I'm secretly hoping that Renée has sent me a puppet, but the object that Beard places in my hands feels smooth, like a box.
“Open your eyes,” Beard says. In my hands is a turquoise plastic box with two arched handles.
“Want to see what's inside?” Beard asks, snapping the catch open.
It's a toiletry kit filled with the most amazing things! There is a bar of lavender soap, hand lotion, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, a comb, a hairbrush, and even lip pomade.
“Renée asked that I give you a big hug and kiss for her,” Beard says, taking me in his arms.
This is the best present I've ever received! I run to the bathroom and brush my teeth for the second time that day, this time with Belgian toothpaste that tastes like mint. Then I hide all of my most important possessions in my new toiletry box. My collection of stamps, my dog-eared French comic books, and my satin hair ribbonsâall fit inside. I place the box on my nightstand and run back to give Beard another hug.
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