Under a Red Sky Page 5

  We shout, “Yes, Comrade Popescu, we understand!” Then we stand and march toward the door. Comrade Popescu is waiting as we walk past her single file into the yard. I’m close to the door when I notice a notebook on one of the desks nearby, its white pages turning with the breeze from the yard. I place my hand on the page to caress its smooth whiteness and quickly close the notebook when I feel the sting of Comrade Popescu’s ruler on my knuckles. “I didn’t tell you to touch anything,” she says in a calm voice. I nod and step into the blinding light of the courtyard, where my eyes well up and my head swims backward.

  WHAT THE COMMUNIST PARTY MEANS TO ME

  COMRADE POPESCU is droning on. “Religion and superstition are one and the same thing.” This makes me uncomfortable because it reminds me of Tata, who sneers whenever the subject of religion comes up. “The Communist Party”—Comrade Popescu’s voice sounds as if she’s speaking from the bottom of a wooden barrel—“is our savior because it defines our economic existence and our ideological reality. All comrades can participate in the decision-making process because each and every one of us is a Romanian and a member of the Proletariat. We are all workers, united and equal in the eyes of the Party. Your homework for tomorrow is to write a short composition entitled ‘What the Communist Party Means to Me.’”

  I’ve been waiting for the recess bell, but instead the church bells down the street start to peal, making the windows and wooden desks vibrate.

  “Please remember that you will be graded on your penmanship as much as on the content of your composition,” Comrade Popescu continues as she crosses herself automatically at the ringing of the church bells. If religion is just superstition, I wonder, why does the Party allow the church bells to ring? I decide at that moment that when it comes to religion and the Communist Party, nothing makes sense.

  AT RECESS EVERYONE IS JUMPING around in the yard. A bunch of girls are playing hopscotch on the chalk squares drawn on the gray asphalt. Another group of kids are jumping rope and singing a tune I know, but I don’t hum along. Instead I stand alone, leaning against the cool bricks of the building, and watch everyone else play. There are lots of questions in my head, questions I know I cannot ask because the answers may lead to trouble for me and my parents, the way Mama warned me on my first day of school. But I really do want to know why Comrade Popescu crosses herself when the church bells ring. What does the Party have against religion, and why does Tata believe in math and science instead of God?

  SCHOOL TURNS OUT to be a lot more demanding than I expected. When Mama comes home from work, she spends at least two hours every night going over homework assignments with me. I dread doing this, not because the homework is so difficult, but there’s so much of it, I have no time left for any reading—and that’s the best part about going to bed at night.

  “Don’t complain, Eva. You started first grade after you turned seven, so you got to play for an extra year. When I was growing up, first grade started when we were six.” I roll my eyes, but Mama ignores me as she continues to check each answer in my math assignment.

  Everyone in the class is terrified of Comrade Popescu, yet despite my fear of her, I find her lectures interesting. I love listening to her stories about Romania’s past, about how we were once ruled by the greatest civilizations on earth—the Greeks, the Romans, and the Ottomans. Throughout our history, Comrade Popescu tells us, Romanians have survived invasions by many tyrants, including the Mongols, the Tatars, and the Huns—all savage tribes that pillaged the land, raped our women, and oppressed our people. She goes on to explain that even though our conquerors brought with them a lot of suffering, they also enriched our culture with many contributions.

  “Do any of you know where black Kalamata olives, stuffed grape leaves, and feta cheese come from?”

  Claudia, a girl with a huge white ribbon in her hair, raises her hand.

  “Yes?” Comrade Popescu motions to Claudia to speak.

  “All of these products come from our Cooperative Farmers’ Market,” Claudia replies.

  The look on Comrade Popescu’s face is of utter disgust as she corrects Claudia. “Yes, of course. However, I didn’t ask you how we purchase these products in modern times. I asked you where they originated from, culturally. You must listen carefully before you answer a question. Does anyone know from which country we inherited these foods?” We are silent. “Very well,” she continues. “Kalamata olives, feta cheese, and stuffed grape leaves all came from our Greek ancestors. They also brought with them baklava, our sweet pastry. But more important, they brought with them the way we reason, the way we think; philosophy, mathematics, and our love of theater all come from the Greeks. Anyone care to guess which food that we consider the most basic Romanian fare was brought to us by our Roman conquerors?”

  There are no raised hands.

  “What’s the matter with you all? Didn’t your parents teach you to take any chances? I said you may guess, so take a guess.” She is still met with silence. “Very well, then,” Comrade Popescu continues. “Our mmlig came from the Romans. In Italy they call it polenta. However, they do not serve it as we do, with feta cheese. They fry it or bake it. You see, we combined two culinary traditions, the Greek feta cheese and the Roman polenta, to make our very own Romanian mmlig cu brânz—polenta with cheese. The point I’m trying to make you understand is that our conquerors enriched us in many ways. We became more inventive, more versatile, because of them. Perhaps in spite of them,” she adds.

  When she speaks about our ancestors, Comrade Popescu’s blue eyes turn greenish. Her face relaxes and becomes almost kind, and her voice loses its edge. It is easy to see how much she loves many of the places that she is describing, how proud she is of the Romanian people.

  “To the northwest is Transylvania, where my father comes from,” she says, pointing with her ruler to that area of the map. “This part of the country was once under the Austro-Hungarian empire, which is why most of the population there speaks Hungarian and German in addition to Romanian.” Her voice trails off as if she’s lost her train of thought, and then she asks, “Do any of you know what we received from the Soviet Union, our Communist ally?”

  My hand goes up as if it has a mind of its own.

  “Yes?” Comrade Popescu motions to me.

  “The color red?”

  Everyone in the class starts to snicker, but Comrade Popescu isn’t smiling. Instead she ignores my answer entirely and continues, “I’d like you all to think deeply about what makes each of you Romanian. Tonight’s homework assignment is to answer the following question: What constitutes a true Romanian and how is our country influenced by our relationship to the USSR? I’m well aware that we have not discussed the Soviet Union yet, but I’d like to get your thoughts just the same. You are to write no more or less than one page. Any questions?” Comrade Popescu scans our blank faces, and since no hands are raised, she tells us to go home, think about this some more, and come back with our thoughts on the subject.

  I’M SO EXCITED about this assignment that I run home and tell Tata all about it, hoping to impress him with my new knowledge of history. But instead of giving me praise and help with my homework, Tata gets upset.

  “What kind of a loaded question is Comrade Popescu asking you about the USSR?” he booms into the thick air of our bedroom. “You tell her you have no idea what Mother Russia has to do with any of this. And don’t call it Mother Russia,” Tata says, waving his finger at me. “It’s absolutely unfair of her to ask you anything about Russia without first teaching you the proper, approved CURRICULUM.” Tata utters this word as if it were the most important thing in the universe, as if it weighed a ton. “You ask Comrade Popescu to define her relationship with the Soviet Union and watch her squirm when she gets into trouble with the almighty Party!”

  Tata stops for a moment and looks at Mama, who’s sitting in bed propped against her pillows, knitting a sweater. “Is Eva’s teacher crazy to ask a bunch of first graders such a politically charged quest
ion, Stefi?” Mama doesn’t say anything, but her ball of yarn rolls off the bed, its red string of wool looking much like one of the borderlines drawn on Comrade Popescu’s map of Romania. “Am I right, Stefi, or not?”

  Mama looks up and sighs. “You’re right, Gyuri, but I think you’re overreacting. I don’t believe that Comrade Popescu is trying to trap the kids into anything. I think she just wants to see what they come up with, that’s all.”

  But Tata goes on as if he never even heard her. “Well, we shouldn’t allow Eva to elaborate on such subjects. They’re way over her head. It’s too risky, Stefi. Do you have any idea what the consequences will be if Eva’s innocent answer gets her in trouble?”

  “It’s not over my head,” I blurt out, “and I don’t think it’s risky because—” Tata’s cold stare stops me in midsentence.

  My mother sighs. “Eva’s not going to say the wrong thing, Gyuri. She’s smarter than that.”

  Tata glares at my mother. I wish I had never told them about this assignment. I don’t want to contradict Tata, but now I’m really scared because I can’t go back to school and face Comrade Popescu with a bunch of questions instead of answers. What does he mean that all of this is “over my head”? I know very well that Romanians have no choice but to follow whatever the USSR dictates, even if those policies change from one day to the next. Does Tata think I’m stupid or something? I believe the Romanian history Comrade Popescu is teaching us shows that we’ve survived many tyrants. I think that maybe the USSR is just another tyrant like the rest of them, but I’m not going to tell anyone, because I’m afraid this is a dangerous thought, the kind that Mama warned me would get us all into trouble if I spoke it out loud. But I don’t believe for a second that Comrade Popescu would punish me for thinking it.

  Tata is so beside himself, he’s pacing up and down on the terrace. I excuse myself, saying that I’m going to get a slice of bread and jam from the kitchen, but instead I run to my grandparents’ bedroom. Grandpa Yosef is snoring in bed, and Grandma Iulia’s side is empty. She must be in the kitchen. I start to tiptoe backward toward the door, but Grandpa Yosef’s voice stops me.

  “Eva, is that you?” he asks with his eyes half open.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the matter?” How does Grandpa always know when something is wrong?

  “Nothing,” I lie, and then immediately blurt out my predicament about the school assignment. “Tata says Comrade Popescu’s wrong to be asking us loaded questions about our relationship with the Soviet Union. He says it’s over my head, but it’s not, and I don’t know what to do. I’ve got to have an answer by tomorrow, Grandpa, or I’ll get in trouble for sure.” My words tumble out as Grandpa sits up, his eyes wide open now.

  “That’s easy.” Grandpa chuckles. “Tell your teacher a Romanian is a person who’s born in this country. That covers just about all of us. You can’t go wrong with that answer. As far as the Soviet Union is concerned, tell her you’re looking forward to learning all about it when you have the honor of becoming a Pioneer. She’s the teacher.” Grandpa winks at me. “You let her do the hard work and point the way, and that’s that.”

  I run back into our room and tell my parents what Grandpa Yosef just advised, and they both look at me with blank faces. “That’s a good answer,” Tata finally concedes, and Mama’s shoulders relax as she continues to knit.

  THE BOY UPSTAIRS

  ON HIS FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, Andrei doesn’t say much. I don’t blame him, since it’s already November and he’s missed the beginning of classes and doesn’t know anyone. Comrade Popescu assigns him a seat in the row next to mine, directly to my right. When he finally opens his mouth to answer one of her questions, everyone snickers because of his provincial accent. Andrei brushes his hair off his forehead with the rough knuckles of his hand, but he doesn’t respond. Comrade Popescu warns us that the next student who laughs at Andrei will be detained after school.

  “Our comrades from the provinces are more Romanian than any of you,” she says with great passion in her voice. “Peasants are the true proletariat, the backbone of this country. They put food on your table and you’d better be thankful. I dare you to make fun of Andrei’s accent again.” She surveys all of us with her razor eyes, caressing her ruler. Suddenly, there is complete silence in the class. Still, Andrei is speechless for the rest of the week.

  After school we walk home together, because Andrei’s family has moved upstairs from us on the attic floor right next to Sabina’s room! I don’t know what his parents do for a living, but it’s clear that they are poor since they can only afford to live in servants’ quarters. They have two tiny bedrooms, one for his parents and the other for Andrei. They all share the bathroom in the hall with Sabina. Andrei is lucky because he has his own room, but I wouldn’t want to live up on the third floor, where the ceiling is so low his father has to slouch to avoid hitting his head. The heat is stifling up there.

  WHILE WE WALK HOME from school, we don’t talk to each other, except to say goodbye. When we finally get home, Andrei bolts up the stairs two at a time, his heavy-laced ankle boots making thud noises. I am curious about what it’s like to live in the country with cows that moo and chickens that cluck and lay eggs just like mine did, but it’s difficult to ask Andrei about any of these things, since he clearly doesn’t want to open his mouth. Then one evening after supper our phone rings and Aunt Puica answers it.

  “It’s Andrei’s mother,” she whispers. “She wants to know if it would be all right for him to do his homework with you.” She turns before I’ve had a chance to answer and speaks loudly into the receiver. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Ionescu, tell Andrei to come down. Eva will be happy to help him with math.”

  I can’t believe Aunt Puica just did that! I wish Mama were home because she would have asked me how I felt about it before saying yes. But it’s no use arguing with Aunt Puica.

  Andrei seems as nervous about us getting together as I am, and it is clear that this was not his idea either. He really is stuck in math since he’s missed two months of school. Instead of just giving him the answers to the assignment, I teach him how to do the calculations. He works very hard on each problem, and finally we compare answers. Andrei’s smart. He gets nine out of ten right, without peeking. After that, Andrei begins to talk to me in his funny provincial accent, and I smile but I make sure not to laugh. I notice his eyes are very blue. His hair is coarse and the color of wheat.

  “Back home”—Andrei speaks slowly, struggling to pronounce each word the way we do in Bucharest—“we used to go to church every Sunday, but we haven’t done that since we’ve arrived here. I really miss it. Where do you go?”

  “We don’t,” I confide.

  “You don’t go to church? What are you, a kike?”

  “I don’t know what a ‘kike’ is,” I tell him, but I’m sure that it’s a bad word. I once saw Tata get red in the face after seeing a man spit on the ground and call another man a “kike.”

  Andrei just stares at me as if I’m the one who moved to Bucharest from the provinces, but he doesn’t offer an explanation.

  “I’ve never been to a church, but I once saw a baby boy baptized in the monastery yard up in the country where my mother and I spent the summer,” I tell him, trying to prove that I’m not completely ignorant. “The priest wore a giant silver cross and a tall black hat. He looked like a chimney sweep with a beard.” I giggle, but Andrei isn’t laughing, so I continue quickly. “He held the baby by his feet and dunked him in well water. The baby started wailing and turned really red. The priest couldn’t chant the prayers because the baby was so slippery, he almost wiggled out of his arms.”

  Andrei finally laughs, and I am relieved. “Yeah, I’ve been to a few baptisms, they’re all the same,” he says, pausing. “Is it true that they don’t approve of religion in Bucharest? My parents told me that I shouldn’t talk about our Lord Jesus Christ in school. They say the Party is much stricter about this in the capital. We never had a problem
with it back home.” Andrei lowers his eyes and fidgets with the pencil between his fingers. “Please don’t tell anybody.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t say a word,” I reassure him. “I know how to keep a secret. Besides, I don’t even know who Jesus Christ is. My father doesn’t believe in God, and Mama doesn’t talk about religion.”

  “What does your father believe in, then?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Nothing, I suppose. I think he believes in science and math. What’s a kike?” I ask again.

  “What do you guys do at Christmastime?”

  “You mean, in winter?”

  “Of course, that’s when Christmas happens.” Andrei looks confused.

  “Well, Grandpa Yosef always gets a beautiful pine tree. I love the way the house smells when he brings it in. Mama and I make decorations for it. We put cotton balls on a string to make it look like snow, and we wrap colorful paper chains around the tree. Last year, my cousin Mimi gave me three beautiful glass balls, a red, a blue, and a gold. We hung them on the branches. Grandpa gets dressed up in his Santa Claus outfit and pretends that he’s traveling all the way from the North Pole. Then we clip candles onto the branches, that’s my favorite part, but we have to be very careful and watch the flames so that the tree won’t catch fire. That’s it. We blow out the candles and go to bed.”

  “You don’t go to church or exchange presents?” Andrei asks.

  “No. The Christmas tree is our present.”

  Andrei’s face shows that he doesn’t quite understand this. I can tell he’s worried that I might give him away by telling the kids in school that his family is religious, but of course I won’t, since I promised. Andrei missed the class when Comrade Popescu taught us that all religion is just superstition for ignorant, uneducated people. I suspect Tata agrees with this view despite the fact that he hates the Party. I don’t want to offend Andrei, and I remember Mama’s warning not to tell other children what I overhear at home, so I don’t share these thoughts with him.