GRANDMA IULIA
is sick in bed, her body propped up against her monogrammed, down-filled pillows. She is leaning against the headboard, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and her novel is turned facedown on her crisp, embroidered linens. Her feet are raised on three stacked pillows, her unpolished toenails are yellowing. There are dark brown, almost black leeches placed all over her legs. The shiny worms swell up as they suck the blood out of Grandma Iulia's thin veins. I am so disgusted, I want to run out and scream until all the walls of our house shake the worms off of Grandma's legs, but she isn't frightened. Instead, she smiles and takes my hand. Her hand is so soft and thin you can see the blue of her veins beneath her skin.
“Don't worry, the leeches are doing a fine job,” she says, adjusting one of my braids.
“Do they hurt?” I ask her.
“No, not really,” she says serenely. “The leeches are helping thin the blood in my legs to prevent a clot.” She motions for me to sit next to her. “Last night I had my first phlebitis attack since the war,”
Grandma explains. “Dr. Khan is coming to check on me and remove the leeches soon.” I can't take my eyes off the slick leeches as they grow fat with her blood like inflated black balloons. Two minutes later, Grandpa comes in to announce Dr. Khan's arrival.
Â
LUNCH IS WAITING for me in the dining room. Sabina has prepared my favorite sandwich, Sibiu salami sliced paper-thin and served with butter on crusty black bread. I usually love having lunch alone at our dining room table, but today I don't feel much like eating. I can't stop thinking about the leeches that are attached to Grandma Iulia's swollen legs, and I wonder how Dr. Khan will ever make those bloodsuckers let go of her. I am sipping my tea with lemon with a sugar cube tucked in behind my teeth when Grandpa comes in and sits across from me. He is hiding something in his right fist as he waits for me to finish eating.
“I'm not hungry, Grandpa,” I tell him, sliding the plate away.
“That's all right,” he says. He watches me intently as I sip my tea. His dark brown eyes are moist, and there are deep wrinkles etched beneath them, just above his cheekbones.
“I have a present for you, my little Leah.” I wonder why he's using my middle name, but before I have a chance to ask, Grandpa opens his hand, revealing a small metal container nestled in his palm. I stare at it from across the table. Grandpa rises abruptly and comes over to my side. He places his present in my right hand and closes my fingers around it, his hand cupping mine.
“What is it?” I feel the cool, smooth metal in my hand.
“It's better than magic,” Grandpa whispers.
I open my palm and look curiously at a metal cylinder. I know the name of the shape because we have just started to learn geometry in school.
“What's inside?”
“The truth,” he answers. “If you hold on to this truth, always, your innermost and highest wishes will unfold. Open it up,” he says. I pull off the cap and peer inside the small tube, where I can barely see the edges of a scroll rolled up tightly. Grandpa takes the cylinder out of my hand and taps it lightly onto the table until the top of the scroll emerges. He slides it out, unfolds the thin parchment with great care, and lays it flat on the table. The entire scroll is smaller than the palm of my hand. The text is in ink, but it isn't Romanian. The tiny black letters stand out against the cream of the parchment, and they are very beautiful.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“I told you, the truth,” he says, without taking his eyes off my face. “And when you learn to read it, study it, and believe it, what is in your highest interest comes true. Always.” Grandpa cups his hand over mine and curls my fingers around the metal container. “Not to be taken lightly, but to be held in your heart at all times.” He takes both my hands and taps them on my chest.
“How can I hold this in my heart, Grandpa, when I don't even understand what's written on it? Tell me what it means.”
“I have trouble reading the text myself, but you will have to take my word for it, on faith. If you wish, you will study and understand the meaning of this writing in good time,” he answers, and leaves the dining room as quietly as he entered.
I examine the scroll. It feels powerful, even though it is so small. I roll up the thin parchment and slide it back into the metal tube. I decide then and there not to tell anyone about this; not Mama or Grandma Iulia, not Uncle Max, certainly not Tataânot even Andrei. I kiss the cylinder and decide to put the magic powers of its contents to an immediate test.
I tiptoe to Aunt Puica's room and scratch lightly on her door, expecting her to bark back her usual “What do you want? Go away. Can't you see that I want to be left alone?” But instead, a calm voice I barely recognize answers.
“Come in,” Aunt Puica says.
I enter her bedroom, where the black curtains are drawn as usual and my eyes have to adjust to the dark and blink against the sting of her cigarette smoke.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Aunt Puica looks up from her thick novel, her hand picking away at an ingrown toenail.
“Nothing,” I answer, walking backward toward the door. “I just wanted to see how you are doing.” Aunt Puica smiles at me as I depart, still clutching the hidden metal tube in my hand. It works! Grandpa's right. Even the most unlikely wishes, like Aunt Puica behaving kindly, come true when you believe they're possible. This is better than magic. This truth works.
I decide I must learn the meaning of the words written on the hidden parchment. I kiss the cylinder again, and this time I wish for Grandma Iulia to recover from phlebitis. I hide the metal tube along with all of my treasures in my new turquoise toiletry box that Renée gave me. It is always within reach on my nightstand. Sometimes I take it out and place it under my pillow, my hand warming the smooth metal before I drift off to sleep.
A FEW DAYS LATER
we have a visitor. Silviu, Uncle Max's closest friend and co-worker at the Ministry of Construction, is sunk into the most comfortable armchair in Aunt Puica's bedroom. Aunt Puica is at the dressmaker's, the only place she ever goes without Uncle Max. I am sprawled on the Oriental carpet with my drawing pad and colored pencils nearby. Neither Uncle Max nor his visitor takes any notice of me, and that's just fine by me.
Silviu is a quiet man with big hands and giant feet. He doesn't look as tall as he really is because he slouches. His knees are bent uncomfortably in the low chair with his hands resting on the arms. A cigarette dangles from his yellowed fingertips, and the rest of his hands are curved tightly around the chair fabric. He has a dark complexion and hair that's slicked back. His eyelids are so heavy, he looks half asleep, but his voice does not match his face. His lips are thin and curved at the corners into a fixed smile as his words shoot out.
“There are rumors, Max. There's going to be a crackdown at the office. It's time you cooled it with the Party jokes.”
“Yeah, right,” Uncle Max answers, dragging on his cigarette. “You are such an alarmist, Silviu. Do me a favor and mind your own business.”
“It's time to keep your big mouth shut, Max. I'm telling you this for your own good.”
“Are you threatening me, Silviu? I'm not even a Party member. That privilege is yours. What are they going to do, expel me from the Party I don't belong to?”
“Cut the sarcasm, Max, and listen. I'm risking my neck to keep you out of trouble.” Silviu's Adam's apple moves up and down as he speaks, but his body does not flinch. “Max! You're not listening.”
“Who asked you to risk anything?” Uncle Max snaps. “Perhaps you have delusions of grandeur and think that you're in charge at the office.” Uncle Max pauses for a moment to inhale the smoke from his cigarette, his eyes riveted on his friend. “It was Comrade Manciulescu, wasn't it, who started this idiotic rumor?”
“The consequences, Max, are severe and serious,” Silviu hisses back, blowing smoke in Uncle Max's direction. “A joke is only funny once, and yours are getting tired. Your job is at risk.”
“Your mother, and your Communist Party!” Uncle Max shouts, smoke billowing out of his mouth. “Don't ever threaten me, Mr. âSevere and Serious,' and don't play the mysterious informer with me!” he says, waving his cigarette.
“For God's sake, Max, this is not a threat. It's fair warning.” Silviu leans forward in his chair. “I happen to know that the Securitate has recruited a mole within the department. That's a factânot a rumor, Max.” Silviu's face is flushed. “Manciulescu doesn't have a clue about any of this.” Silviu falls back into the armchair and waits for the news to register.
“And you do? That's interesting, Silviu. Moles infiltrating our office?” Uncle Max's tone is nasal.
I open my mouth to ask what a mole is, but Uncle Max seems completely unaware of my presence. I thought moles were furry animals that burrowed underground. I pick up my pencil and start to draw a mole running through a tunnel. I color the earth brown, but above the ground, I add flowers and a house with people in it who are holding their hands over their ears.
Uncle Max scrutinizes his friend's face. “Do you expect me to believe any of this, Silviu?”
“Don't say I didn't warn you,” Silviu snaps. “What do I have to do for you to believe me, Max, prove it?”
“Yes.”
“You are so goddamn predictable, Max. I knew it would come to this.” Silviu takes off his jacket. He rolls up his left shirtsleeve, revealing a wire connected to his wristwatch and leading to a hidden tape recorder in his shirt pocket. He presses the button. Uncle Max's voice cuts through the heavy smoke and echoes in the room. “Severe and serious.”
“Turn it off.” Uncle Max's voice sounds as if it belonged to someone else.
“I warned youâ” Silviu starts to speak.
“Turn it off. And get out of here,” Uncle Max interrupts.
“Don't worry, Max, I'm not going to turn you in,” Silviu pleads, rewinding the tape. “Here, we'll erase this crap together. Don't freak out. I promise you, this conversation never existed. I'm your friend, you idiot! Do you think I'm the only mole? There are thousands of people planted in every ministry. Every office is covered. I just happen to be assigned to ours. If I wanted to turn you in, I
wouldn't stick my neck out and expose myself to you. Promise me, Max, you'll watch what you say. Okay?”
Uncle Max has stopped listening. He looks up at his friend and sighs. “How much are they paying you for this, Silviu?”
Silviu glares at Uncle Max, his face hard, his thin lips still curled into the same fixed smile.
“Better yet,” Max continues, “what the hell did they have on you to make you do such a thing? Did someone tell the Securitate that you're half a Yid and you can't be trusted with Party secrets?”
“Shut up!” Silviu yells, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “You're one lucky idiot because I still consider you a friend.” Silviu puts on his jacket and leaves.
Uncle Max remains sitting and smoking in his white T-shirt and boxer shorts for a long while, his hairy legs swaying heavily over the edge of the bed.
“Hey, kid.” He turns to me, becoming aware of my presence. “Hand me my pants and slippers from the armoire.”
I open the armoire door with a squeak and watch him slip his legs into his pants. “Don't breathe a word about this to your aunt Puica, or anyone, okay?” He winks and slides his belt through his pants loops. His face is the color of cigarette ashes. I nod to let him know that I know how to keep a secret.
“I love you, Uncle Max.”
“I love you too, kid.”
SOON AFTER SILVIU'S VISIT
things begin to change. The other adults still go about their business as usual. But Uncle Max stops whistling on his way home from work. Instead, his heavy footsteps in the yard are followed by the sound of the front door latch. I run to the foyer to greet him, but Uncle Max stands for a moment in front of his bedroom in silence, hangs his hat on the doorknob, and takes off his shoes. Sometimes he rumbles under his breath a few curse words that end with “that imbecile mole,” and when he catches me snickering, he asks, “So you think moles are funny too, huh?” I shake my head until my hair is in my eyes, but Uncle Max is already knocking lightly on his bedroom door and enters before an answer comes from within. He no longer asks me for his slippers, and I don't offer to fetch them. Aunt Puica and he remain in their room until suppertime.
At the dining table, the meal is eaten in relative silence, except for the occasional “Would you please pass the salt, the butter, or the bread?” Gone are the squabbles between my mother and Aunt Puica, as well as any political gossip exchanged by the men.
Something has shifted. There is a disturbing feeling of politeness in the air, the kind usually reserved for strangers.
On the few occasions when the grownups talk politics or anything that may compromise us, all the windows in the house are shut hermetically (Tata's word, not mine), and I am given the chore of covering the telephone with a giant down pillow as an added precaution. “Just in case the phone is tapped and the Securitate is listening in,” Grandma Iulia says. Even then, the conversations are whispered.
Â
THE NIGHT IS MOONLESS without any reflection from the terrace. Even the back of the bookcase that separates my bed from my parents' side of the room is invisible in the darkness, but I know it's there. The room is so quiet, it feels empty. I realize that Tata's even snores are missing. I call for my mother, but no one answers. I crawl out of my bed and into theirs, hoping to find the reassuring comfort of their bodies. The discovery that my parents are gone spreads through me from the pit of my stomach down to my toes and back up my spine all the way to where I feel my hair connect to my scalp.
I have been alone in our room before, but never at night. I listen for unusual sounds, but all I hear is my own shallow breath. I dart out from under the covers and run straight into Grandma Iulia and Grandpa Yosef's bedroom without knocking. I am met with the same stony silence, the same thick darkness. The dining room is empty as well. I can barely make out the outline of the dining table. Uncle Natan's cot is illuminated by the cinema's blinking blue light coming in through the window overlooking the back alley. His bedcovers are thrown back as if he has just gotten up. I
choke back tears, wiping my face with my pajama sleeve, tasting salt. My heart is pounding. I scratch on Aunt Puica's door as softly as a mouse.
“Come in,” a voice answers. I am relieved to hear Aunt Puica but wonder why Uncle Max is not in bed next to her. She is propped up against her giant pillows, the light from her cigarette barely illuminating her profile. “What do you want?” she asks.
“No one's home,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says, blowing the cigarette smoke out through her nostrils.
“Where is everybody?”
“Out. Standing in line at City Hall, waiting to file passport applications so that we can finally leave this hole. Thank God, Max can apply for both of us. I hate standing in line in the cold for anything.”
“Leave?” I swallow. “Where are we going?”
“To Israel, of course, where all Jews belong.”
“Jews?”
“Yes, of course, Jews, stupid. Do you think the Communists are dumb enough to let the goyim go too? No one would be left in this godforsaken country if they opened the borders to everyone.”
I remain standing by her bed. I want to sink into the comfort of her armchair or, even better, I'd like to slide under the covers next to her and go back to sleep. But instead, I ask the obvious:
“We are Jews?”
“What the hell do you think we are, Nazis?”
“We are Jews,” I repeat.
“Of course. Stop gaping at me and get back to bed,” she says, waving me out with her cigarette.
Â
Â
BACK IN BED I pull my covers around me and wait to warm up. In the dark, I reach for the surface of my nightstand and find my turquoise box. I open it and feel for the small cylindrical container that Grandpa Yosef gave me just a few days ago. Even with my eyes closed, I can see the black letters written on the cream parchment that's hidden inside. I clutch the cool metal tube in my hand until it gets warm, and finally I fall asleep.