Under a Red Sky Page 2

  “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.

  Grandpa sighs. “We’ll hide her in the pantry until tomorrow afternoon. Here, help me put her back in the basket,” he says. “Open the handles wide and I’ll lift her.” The chicken flutters her wings as I open the basket.

  “Look, Grandpa!” A perfect white egg is nestled amid the straw at the bottom of the basket.

  “Now, that’s special,” Grandpa says. “You know, I think she did that just for you.”

  “Do you think so?” I can’t take my eyes off the egg.

  “Absolutely. That’s the freshest egg you’ve ever seen. Watch.” Grandpa walks across the kitchen and holds up the egg against the light from the window. “Can you see the yolk?” he asks, pointing at the shadow beneath the shell.

  “It’s round like the sun.” I am in awe.

  “It certainly is. We’ll tell Grandma Iulia that this chicken’s earned herself an extra day of life. You can have the egg for breakfast tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Maybe she’ll lay another egg, Grandpa,” I say, hoping to save my chicken from her fate.

  “God knows, anything’s possible.” Grandpa answers with a straight face, but his eyes are full of laughter.

  THE CHILD

  MY MOTHER CALLS ME EVA, after the first woman in the Bible and also to carry on the initial E for Grandpa Emile, Tata’s father, who died in Auschwitz.

  Grandpa Yosef also calls me Eva, but once in a while when the two of us are alone, he refers to me as his Leah, the name he gave me in memory of my great-grandmother, his mother-in-law.

  Grandma Iulia calls me Evushka, a Romanian endearment.

  Aunt Puica, my mother’s younger sister, calls me Evioar, also a Romanian endearment, but only when she is in a good mood, which is seldom.

  Uncle Natan, Mama’s older brother, refers to me as “the Little Girl.”

  Uncle Max, Aunt Puica’s husband, the only one to whom I’m not blood-related, calls me “the Child.”

  My father is hardly ever home, so he seldom has a need to address me.

  I am the only child in a family of seven adults who live together under one roof along with Sabina, our live-in maid. Before the Communists took over, Grandma had an entire staff—a maid, a cook, a washerwoman, a gardener, and a footman. Grandma says Sabina is now the one extravagance she refuses to live without. Everyone in our household contributes to Sabina’s upkeep without an argument—one of the few things they don’t argue about.

  Each member of the family, with the exception of Sabina, feels that he or she is my one and only true parent. Every one of my parents loves me, but they don’t all love each other.

  “You took forever to be born and almost killed your mother,” Aunt Puica tells me with great gusto. “You are living proof of why I won’t have children, so you’ll have to do. Your mother was ashen after losing a ton of blood from laboring with you for over thirty-two hours.” Seeing that I am watching every word that’s coming out of her mouth, Aunt Puica does not hold back the gory details of my birth.

  She continues with a smile. “She looked like one of the cadavers I used to autopsy in nursing school. I was so convinced that she would die, I even checked her breathing while she lay there after the delivery, to make sure you hadn’t killed her. I promised myself then that no baby is ever going to do that to me. Max can whine all he wants. You’re all the children he’s ever going to get. Men! After you
r mother busted her butt to give you life, I called your father to let him know that his wife had just given birth to a baby girl. When he heard that you were not the boy he had hoped for, he hung up without saying a word. What else can you expect from that Hungarian son of a bitch?”

  I don’t know why Aunt Puica despises Tata so much. I am too young to argue with her but feel guilty for not defending my father. Besides, I am afraid that she may be telling me the truth.

  “Of course,” she continues, “that didn’t stop you from looking just like him, a miniature Gyuri—with that same jaundiced monkey face, those huge shit-brown eyes, and a shock of hair as black as a raven’s feathers. What made it worse is you had soft facial hair too. Thank God your monkey hair fell out within a week of your birth and your eyes turned out to be blue. You look a whole lot better now,” she says, patting my cheek, the gap between her two front teeth showing as she smiles.

  Uncle Max comes to my defense, his eyes looking over the paper. “Puica, stop upsetting the Child. Eva was the most beautiful baby ever born in all of Bucharest. I was green with envy the first time I saw her pink, wrinkly face. She was so radiant, I wished she were mine.”

  “Imbecile liar,” my aunt blurts, pounding his back with her fist and coughing uncontrollably between drags on her cigarette.

  Uncle Max knows better than to argue with his wife, especially while she’s having a coughing fit, so the details of my birth are settled.

  AT THE DINNER TABLE

  EVERYONE IS ON A DIFFERENT SCHEDULE. Mama and Tata (when he’s home) come and go throughout the day at different times, as do Uncle Max and Uncle Natan. My grandparents, Aunt Puica, and Sabina are always at home with me.

  The day Sabina came to us she appeared seemingly out of nowhere like an illustration in one of my fairy-tale books. Her egg-shaped face is marked by deep wrinkles and warts; her eyes bulge slightly like a frog’s. Her hair is completely hidden beneath a white cotton turban that’s tightly wrapped around her head. At night before going to bed in her tiny room under the eaves, Sabina unravels her turban, exposing a thin braid of graying hair neatly coiled like a long mouse tail around her head. During the day she wears layers of multicolored peasant skirts that brush the floor with every step she takes. Her apron is always spotless and ironed. The bow, tied neatly at the back of her waist, bobs up and down as she moves. I have never seen anyone wear such an outfit, so on my first encounter with Sabina I duck under her skirts, curious to see the view from beneath her large tent. To my surprise, Sabina whirls around and is clearly embarrassed. I am too stunned for words, because she isn’t wearing anything underneath!

  “What are you doing, Miss Eva?” she asks, startled.

  “How come you’re not wearing underwear?” I blurt.

  “We don’t have toilets on the farm where I come from. How do you expect me to go to the bathroom with bloomers on in the fields?” she asks, laughing.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “How do you go to the bathroom?”

  “I just pull up my skirts like this.” She demonstrates, opening her legs and squatting. “That’s how I do my business,” she explains.

  “You can pee without sitting on the toilet?” I ask, stunned.

  “Certainly.” She smiles. “You wouldn’t have time to go to the toilet if you worked in the fields.”

  From that moment on Sabina and I become good friends. I am so curious about the world she came from that secretly I lock myself in our bathroom, take off my undies, pull up my skirt, and try to pee standing in our bathtub. It isn’t any fun since I get my legs wet and then have to scrub the tub after myself, before Mama has a chance to find out.

  Despite my questions about the farm, it’s clear that Sabina feels the past must be left behind. She never speaks about her family, her friends, or her life before joining us unless asked a direct question. She has a thick accent that I have trouble understanding at first, but eventually she and I forge an alliance with few words because we have something in common. As the Child, I am adored by all, while Sabina, the Maid, is ignored by all. We are both outsiders looking in on the lives of others.

  “Sabina! Set the table, please,” Grandma Iulia calls from the kitchen.

  Within minutes our dining room table is dressed in a white tablecloth and the china and silverware magically appear in their proper places. My grandparents and I eat our lunch together. Then Grandma’s voice is heard again. “Sabina, please clear the table.”

  The tablecloth is lifted, revealing the dark, heavy oak grain of our dining table. Half an hour later Grandma’s voice sounds the dinner bell again. “Sabina, set the table for Max,” and then, “Set the table for Natan,” followed by “Set the table for Stefi,” and so on. This ritual repeats itself in order to accommodate everyone’s schedule until one day Grandma Iulia puts an end to all of this commotion and our life changes.

  “I’m sick and tired of ‘Set the table and clear the table’!” she declares one evening over tea. “What do you think this is, a restaurant? From now on, lunch will be served between the hours of two and four p.m. And I warn you, you’d better show up if you want to eat. After four p.m., Sabina will clear the table and the kitchen will close for the evening. You’re all welcome to help yourselves to a light supper as long as you do your own dishes. Does everyone understand this?” Grandma’s words hang in the air as eight pairs of eyes watch her in silence. Clearly this topic is not open for discussion. Encouraged by our response, she concludes, “And from now on, Eva will set the table so that she can learn how to do it properly.” I look up at Sabina to see her reaction. She is leaning against the dining room wall; I can’t tell what she’s thinking, so I tug at her skirts and she grasps my hand and squeezes it. I’m relieved, because this means Sabina will teach me.

  The next day everyone in the household has mysteriously synchronized their watches. They all appear on time for lunch, which is served promptly at 2:00 p.m. I set the table under Sabina’s supervision, and now forks and knives can be heard clicking against the porcelain plates. Aunt Puica dishes an enormous helping of mashed potatoes onto Uncle Max’s plate. My mother’s left eyebrow goes up like the tight bow of an arrow.

  “What are you ogling at?” Aunt Puica snaps. “You’re welcome to serve your own husband.”

  “My husband can help himself,” Mama snaps back.

  Uncle Max coughs uncomfortably.

  “I will not have any arguments at this table,” Grandma Iulia warns while Grandpa Yosef winks and smiles at me.

  “Thanks for the food,” Uncle Natan says from behind his thick glasses. He pushes back his chair and leaves the table, grabbing the newspaper from the top of his nightstand, which is located at the end of our dining room. He lies down on his cot and buries his head in his newspaper as if an invisible wall has just descended between him and the rest of us.

  The phone rings. Both Tata and Aunt Puica get up to answer it at the same time. Aunt Puica reaches it first. “It’s for me,” she says, waving my father off with one hand and pulling the phone into her bedroom. She shuts the door with the black phone cord stretching tightly between the foyer and her room.

  “Tell your darling little sister not to monopolize the phone,” Tata whispers to Mama. “Beard will be calling to let me know when he needs me at the Studio.”

  A little later, both Uncle Max and Uncle Natan have gone back to their offices for the afternoon shift. Grandma and Grandpa are taking a nap in their bedroom. On her way out to teach her afternoon ballet class, Mama taps on Aunt Puica’s door. Her knock is ignored as the black phone cord is pulled tighter into Aunt Puica’s bedroom. Mama sticks her head into our room. “Sorry. I tried to get her off but couldn’t. You’re on your own with the phone, Gyuri. I’m late for class.”

  Tata glances at his watch and goes back to reading a thick hardbound book in French. I pretend I don’t notice him and continue to flip the pages of my comic books. The black clock on our Biedermeier chest is marking time. Tata looks at his watch again and goes into
the bathroom. I hear him running the water. He emerges clean-shaven, looks at his wristwatch again, and goes out into the foyer.

  Tata’s loud knock is followed by Aunt Puica’s shrill voice. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone? You’ll just have to wait your turn.”

  “You’ve been on the goddamn phone for nearly an hour.” My father’s voice is raised but controlled. “I’m expecting an important call from the Studio.”

  Aunt Puica’s curly head pops out her bedroom door; the phone receiver is still glued to her ear. “I bet you’re expecting a very important call from the Studio, from one of your lady friends,” she says, smirking.

  “You bitch,” my father mutters under his breath as he returns to our room. I want to duck under my covers, but I am too afraid to move.

  Aunt Puica slams the phone down and appears in our doorway. “What did you call me?”

  Tata looks up from his book and answers calmly, “I was wrong to call you a bitch. I should have called you a viper with a forked tongue. Get out of my room, viper!” he says in a soft voice, glaring at her.

  Aunt Puica remains standing in our doorway, red-faced and speechless.

  “You heard me,” Tata says in a controlled voice, then shouts, “Get out!”

  “Max is going to kill you,” Aunt Puica hisses.

  Tata gets up and confronts her at the door. “Oh yeah? Let him try. Get out, viper, before I throw you out. It’s a wonder no one has murdered you yet.”

  Aunt Puica’s bedroom door is slammed shut so hard the walls quiver. As I scurry toward the kitchen pantry, I notice Grandpa’s face peering from behind the lace curtain of the French door to his bedroom.

  IT’S NIGHTTIME. I’m tucked in bed behind our bookshelf room divider. Tata has gone off to the Studio and won’t be back for the night. I hear loud voices from the foyer. “If that Hungarian son of a bitch ever dares to threaten my wife again,” Uncle Max shouts, “I swear to you, Stefi, I’ll take a knife to his throat!”