Under a Red Sky Page 3

  “Puica had better stop monopolizing this phone,” Mama shouts back. “We pay for half of it and we hardly ever use it.” Her tone turns to indignation. “Gyuri would never threaten anyone unless he was provoked.”

  “You’re as blind as a bat!” Uncle Max shouts back. “One day you’ll wake up and see that your sister is right.”

  “My sister had better stay out of my life!” Mama slams the door behind her as she enters our bedroom. I hold my breath and hope that Mama doesn’t notice I’m still awake.

  ABOUT BUTTERFLIES AND FLOWERS

  I’M SITTING ON A BENCH swinging my legs. It must be lunchtime because my stomach is making grumbling sounds, but I’m not hungry. I think about going back home, but I don’t want to see any of them. Dragonflies are making wide pirouettes in the hot summer air, displaying iridescent wings. Couples stroll hand in hand, too absorbed with each other to notice a six-and-a-half-year-old girl by herself. A dog lifts his leg and pees on his worn leather leash while his mistress tugs and grumbles. Students from the local middle school hurry by on their way home for lunch recess. Their gait is full of purpose, their black-and-white checkered uniforms are in stark contrast with the red silk scarves tied in square knots around their necks. I know this means they’re Pioneers—part of the Communist Youth Organization. They march past me, shoulders pulled back in self-importance. Next year I will be in first grade and walk through the park with a backpack filled with heavy books, just like them. Eventually, I will become a proud Pioneer and wear the red kerchief around my neck. I wonder what school will be like. It’s probably a lot better than staying home and listening to the grownups fight. I wish I could stop them from being so mean to each other. The park is so peaceful.

  A bee just landed on a marigold. I’m not afraid of bees. Bees make honey, and I love honey. I lie down on the bench, my eyelids heavy. A white butterfly flutters by as I fall asleep in the hot afternoon sun. Hushed voices full of dread pull me out of my sleep.

  “How did she get here by herself?” Mama’s voice is echoed by Grandpa’s “Thank God she’s all right,” and then Mama says, “This better not happen again,” to which Grandpa answers, “Then all of you will have to stop fighting.” Mama is now shaking my shoulders. The whole world is swirling as I sit up. The lines from the slats of the park bench are still pressed into my cheek.

  “We were so worried about you,” Mama says, continuing to shake me as if I hadn’t woken up. I rub my eyes. She looks relieved, but her lips are pursed in anger.

  “I wanted to go to the park,” I try to explain. “I’m all right.”

  “You can’t just take off by yourself,” she scolds, grabbing my hand. I can feel the full force of her anger as she starts walking me home, her grip hurting my arm. Grandpa’s feet are shuffling behind. When we get back, Grandma Iulia and Sabina are both waiting by the door with worried faces. Mama pushes me into the bathroom and says, “Go wash your face and hands. It’s past three o’clock. You must be starving.”

  The water feels cool on my cheeks. I dry my hands and then go into the dining room. The table hasn’t been set. That’s my job. I set the table and go back to our room, where I find Mama waiting. She’s sitting so straight on the edge of her bed, it looks as if she just swallowed a stick. Her posture is exactly the way she said mine ought to be in order to walk properly, except Mama is sitting.

  “I never, ever want this to happen again,” she starts. “Do you understand?” she asks, holding my chin and making me look into her eyes. I nod, deciding not to cry. “I thought I made it clear that you are not to go to the park without an adult. I don’t want to have to worry about your safety. Do you understand?” I nod again, but Mama doesn’t see me. “Isn’t it bad enough that even adults nowadays can’t go for a walk in the park without being afraid to have a simple conversation overheard?” She is half talking to herself and keeps asking, “Do you understand me?” over and over. Then, as if seeing my face for the first time, she gives up. “Let’s go and have lunch,” she says, getting up.

  Everyone is already seated at the dining room table except for Tata, who’s still off filming somewhere. The room is completely silent. I can sense their eyes following me as I walk around to my chair, which is between Mama’s and Grandpa’s seats. Grandpa pulls my chair out and places two large phone books on it so that I can reach the table comfortably. The chair makes a scraping sound as Grandpa pushes it forward. “Sabina,” Grandma calls from the head of the table, “please bring in the soup.”

  I love the smell of the vegetable soup as the steam rises from my bowl. Grandpa Yosef breaks off the end of the baguette and hands it to me. The crusty end is my favorite part. I dunk the crust into my soup and let it soak up the delicious broth. We all sip in silence, our spoons clicking against the porcelain bowls. Grandpa slurps his broth with great satisfaction. There is a sense of relief in the room as Sabina gathers the bowls and then comes back from the kitchen with a platter of steaming frankfurters and a cauliflower casserole dish.

  “Where’s my knife?” Uncle Max asks.

  Aunt Puica tells him, “Take mine,” then stops abruptly. “I don’t have a knife either.” She looks bewildered at the empty spot next to her plate. I pick up a frankfurter with two fingers and bite into it. They all stare at me.

  “Eva, did you forget to set the knives?” Grandma Iulia demands.

  I shrug and keep nibbling at my frankfurter.

  “Sabina,” Grandma Iulia says, “go get some knives please.”

  Sabina pulls out the sideboard drawer, searching for the knives. “Madam,” she says, “the knives are all gone.”

  There’s lots of commotion as everyone gets up from the table in search of the missing knives. I stay in my seat and keep nibbling.

  Aunt Puica’s puzzled voice drifts in from the kitchen. “They’re not in here either.”

  “Where have all the knives gone?” Uncle Max’s question hangs in the air.

  “Eva, do you know?” Grandpa Yosef ’s voice is gentle. I nod, still playing with my food. “Show me,” Grandpa says. I slide off the phone books and walk to the sideboard. I open the doors to the shelves where our table linens are stored. I take out a tablecloth heavy with the hidden silverware and place it on top of the sideboard. Grandpa unfolds it, revealing all of our knives tucked in its folds.

  “What’s this all about?” Uncle Max asks.

  “I didn’t want you to stick a knife into Tata’s throat,” I whisper, without looking up at him. Everyone watches me in silence as I set the knives in their proper places at the table. When each of them has a knife and I’m back in my seat, Uncle Max taps his fork on his glass to get everyone’s attention and addresses the room as if he were making an announcement over a loudspeaker:

  “From now on, no one is to speak about anything in front of the Child,” he says, his cheeks flushed as his glance catches mine. “Except about butterflies and flowers.”

  THE HOUSE

  WE LIVE ON A QUIET, tree-lined street, wedged between two of Bucharest’s loveliest parks. Grandpa Yosef found the two-family house and rented the second-floor apartment shortly after the Communists nationalized all private property, including Grandpa’s businesses and the several houses he owned before the war.

  A Russian family with no children lives in the ground-floor apartment. I’ve been given strict orders by Aunt Puica never to converse with the Russians, as if that explains everything. They own a gray cat with yellow eyes that is always perched on their stoop, but the cat is off-limits too.

  “Having the Russians downstairs is far from ideal,” Grandma Iulia reminds us every chance she gets. “But it’s a whole lot better than having to live with strangers inside our home. That would be like sleeping with the devil!”

  No one dares contradict Grandma Iulia, even though I know that there are days when my parents desperately want to move out and secretly talk about looking for better quarters. Mama and Tata never act on this dream, primarily because they know that, as soon as we leave
, the Communists will place strangers in the tiny bedroom the three of us share. This would put our entire family at great risk from informers and the Securitate, Romania’s secret police.

  “Look at what’s happened to Fanny.” Grandma Iulia’s voice interrupts the slurping sounds around the dinner table. “Her son and daughter-in-law moved out, and now my poor sister has to share her stove and her toilet with a couple of hicks from Bucovina, with such heavy provincial accents, Fanny says she’s not even sure that they’re speaking Romanian. The wife fries everything, so Fanny’s entire house now reeks of onions, garlic, and bacon fat!” Grandma wriggles her nose in disgust. “My sister’s clothes smell so bad that, no matter how many times she does the wash, she can’t get the cooking stench out. Fanny’s frightened that these people will denounce her for making slurs against the Party. She says she bites her tongue three times before she opens her mouth in her own home.”

  My parents are well aware that neighbors, colleagues, even friends and family members—especially children—often do become informers, intentionally or unintentionally. They roll their eyes at Grandma’s tirades, but it’s clear they’re in agreement with her, because they are so careful about every word that crosses their lips outside the house. At home, they let loose as if we’re safe. We all know that moving out has grave consequences, which is why virtually all families in Bucharest stick together, tight quarters or not.

  Still, Grandma Iulia never misses an opportunity to drive home her point.

  “If they hold a grudge against any of you,” she says, shaking her soup spoon at us without explaining who they are, “they can report you for saying something against the Party, and the Securitate is sure to pick you up in the middle of the night. Whether their accusation is true or not, you’re guilty. And may I remind you, from the place where the Securitate takes you, trust me”—Grandma stops in midsentence to make sure that her message has sunk in—“you will never return. You will disappear from the face of this earth just as if you had never been born.”

  We live in fear of the Securitate knocking at our door, day or night, and I am so tired of it that sometimes I wish I had never been born. Of course, I don’t let any of them know just how exhausted I feel, since I am the only one in the house who can make every one of them smile.

  MY GRANDPARENTS share the largest bedroom. The other adults hardly ever enter this room, which is one of the reasons why I love it so much. It is my sanctuary and also the only place in the house where I feel that my voice is fully heard. It is a dark, quiet room that faces the back alley. Despite its location, this room is proof of lovelier times. Unlike the bedroom that I share with my parents, which contains makeshift furniture, my grandparents’ room has a bedroom set made of beautiful blond fruitwood. There is a queen-size bed with a graceful curved headboard. A stack of books and a glass of fresh water are always on Grandma’s night table. The full-length mirrors on her armoire gleam, reflecting little rainbows off the bevels. Inside, she stores her precious monogrammed linens, always ironed and folded. She tucks dried lavender in the drawers, and everything smells like spring.

  Grandma has trouble sleeping. She often reads through the night, every novel she can get her hands on. After breakfast, I find her rubbing her red, teary eyes, which have swollen from straining to read by the light of the bedside lamp. Grandma is fluent enough in German and French to read books in these languages as well as in Romanian. She also speaks Yiddish, but only with Grandpa, when they’re trying to keep a secret from me. Grandpa Yosef doesn’t read anything except the papers, but he loves the movies and knows the names of all the stars: who played in what movie, what role, in what year.

  The two of them seldom argue except about the past, and then it is mostly Grandma arguing with the past.

  “I hope you’re happy now, Yosef,” she starts in on him. “If you had listened to me before these Communist snakes nationalized everything including the skins on our backs, you would still be wealthy.” She sighs.

  Grandpa replies, “And if my grandmother had wheels, Iulia, I too would be a bicycle.” This comment doesn’t make Grandma smile.

  “Remember the day,” she goes on, ignoring his remark, “right after the war when you came home with a briefcase full of money?” Grandpa Yosef sits on the edge of their bed, waiting for her words to spill out. Grandma hardly catches her breath. “Didn’t I tell you, now’s the time to get out? If you had listened, we would all be landowners in the land of milk and honey. Instead, thanks to Lazr, your genius of a brother, you took all of our money and sank it in this country that’s overrun by Communist parasites who have nationalized everything. Nationalized! It’s highway robbery and now we’re stuck forever. I hope you’re happy, Yosef. It serves you right, and if you’re miserable you have only yourself to blame.” At this point Grandma’s finger is shaking in the air, her face flushed. “Too bad that I was stupid enough to come along for this lousy ride! I should have left that day, just as I threatened.” Grandma pulls out a handkerchief that’s tucked under her cardigan sleeve and blows her nose gently. She takes stock of Grandpa as he waits for her tirade to subside. “I’m sure you would have followed me, Yosef. Perhaps on a bicycle.”

  Grandpa never argues with Grandma when she gets going like this. Instead, he lets her unwind until she falls into a hard silence. On one such occasion, I saw him sitting on the edge of their bed, stroking her head. “You’re right, Iulia,” he said, trying to calm her and tucking in a stray strand of her silver hair. “You’re always right, but what can I do now? I’m grateful that you stayed. There’s no use crying over the past.”

  Grandma Iulia always has the last word. “What do you expect me to cry about, Yosef, the future?”

  UNCLE NATAN has a presence no one can ignore. He is tall and as thin as a rail. He wears his belt tightened to its last hole so that his pants pucker in the front, making him look even thinner. His belt buckle digs into his ribs every time he coughs, his body convulsing uncontrollably. Despite this, he lights a new unfiltered cigarette before he finishes his last, which is why his fingernails have yellowed. His thick glasses magnify his blue eyes so that they bulge like the eyes of a fish out of water, gasping for breath.

  We all know that Grandma Iulia favors him—Uncle Natan is her firstborn and only son—but since he is also the only bachelor in our midst, he has been relegated to sleeping on a cot in the dining room. Even Sabina has her own tiny room on the attic floor above the pantry, yet Uncle Natan’s presence is a fixture in the dining room. After meals he hides behind his paper, smoke billowing from his cigarette toward the cracks in the ceiling. Everyone forgets that he is here because he rarely engages in conversation.

  UNCLE MAX is the first to leave for work in the morning and the first to get home for lunch. Every day except Sunday, I hear his familiar I’m-home whistle announcing his impending arrival from as far as two blocks away. Aunt Puica bounds out of bed in a panic the moment she hears him and rushes to her dressing table, where she pinches her cheeks until they blush appropriately in the mirror. She dashes a touch of red lipstick across her puckered lips and runs a sharp comb through her tangled curls. She accomplishes all of this in a flash while barking orders at me.

  “Max is coming! Evioar, get off your butt and grab his slippers.” She marches into the dining room, the belt of her fuchsia silk robe flying past me as I place his slippers by the door.

  “Sabina, Sabina!” Aunt Puica’s voice rings through the house like an alarm. “Master Max will be here any minute. Have you set the table?”

  After lunch, Aunt Puica and Uncle Max retire to their bedroom, a small room that Grandma Iulia refers to as the Bat Cave. All of their windows have black curtains so that Aunt Puica can sleep in for as long as she likes. While Uncle Max is at work, Aunt Puica smokes until the room is in a fog, reads thick romance novels with complicated titles, and talks incessantly on our new telephone. The room is so crowded with large pieces of furniture that even I have trouble moving about. Their ornately hand-carv
ed bedroom set is dark-stained walnut and was imported from Italy—a wedding present from my grandparents before the Communist takeover.

  “I’m a lot smarter than your mother,” Aunt Puica loves to remind me. “I made sure that I got a dowry. Your mother was happy to get her hands on that stubborn Hungarian mule, and conveniently forgot about material things, as she likes to call the finer things in life. Pretty stupid, if you ask me,” she mutters before striking a match to light her cigarette.

  Aunt Puica’s wedding portrait hangs opposite her bed. The white of her veil frames a radiant face. Looking at that photograph, you would never suspect the depth of rage waiting to surface from the smiling bride.

  My aunt’s favorite scent, Chanel No. 5, lingers in the stuffy room. “Too expensive for little girls,” she says, offering me a whiff of the bottle cap.

  MY PARENTS AND I occupy the second largest bedroom because there are three of us. Our room has private access to the bathroom that all eight of us share, a door to the only terrace, and natural light that streams in every afternoon. Opposite my parents’ bed is a new armoire, its corners adorned with hand-carved tulips.

  “Not the best quality,” Mama says, “but the best we could afford after saving from two salaries for four years.” Next to the armoire is the Biedermeier chest of drawers. It is quite beautiful, and, Mama says, it is museum-quality. A small oil painting is perched on top of the chest, leaning against the wall. It is a portrait of a woman with flaming red hair who looks the way I imagine courage might look, if it had a human face. The painting is a reproduction of a famous Degas portrait that my cousin Mimi has painted. Mimi is an artist well known enough to be allowed to travel abroad. Tata, however, loves to remind Mama that it certainly doesn’t hurt Mimi to be married to the director of the National Museum. “We’re artists too, Stefica, but we’re hardly allowed to travel past the Cimigiu Gardens in Bucharest,” he says, smirking. Sharing center stage on top of the Biedermeier chest are an ebony mantel clock with brass fittings and a hand-painted porcelain vase. The roses and lilac blossoms depicted on the tall vase look so real, I can almost smell them.