Under a Red Sky Read Free

of rope. The bird does not resist as he places her in a straw basket and covers her with a cloth.
    We do not take the tram back. We walk home. Grandpa is afraid that someone on the tram might hear the chicken clucking and try to rob us. I am hungry and exhausted but too happy to complain.
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    GRANDMA IULIA GREETS US at the door and follows us into the kitchen, her slippers making a flapping sound. Grandpa Yosef unpacks the potatoes, onions, and peas. He hands her the sugar and the flour. Grandma carefully takes stock of everything.
    â€œThat’s all?” Her question hangs in the air.
    â€œAlmost.” Grandpa’s voice is serious, but he winks at me.
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œTake a look.” Grandpa motions to the straw basket on the kitchen floor. Grandma’s eyes widen as she slides the cloth off the basket. “Oh my God, Yosef, it’s a chicken!” she cries.
    â€œOf course it’s a chicken, Iulia. But this is not just any chicken. This is Eva’s present, because she charmed Ion into selling it to me.”
    Grandma is not interested in the details of the sale. She lifts the basket with great care, places it on the kitchen counter, and examines the bird closely. With her left hand she holds down the chicken while she feels for the body fat under her wings. She touches the bird from the top of her red crest down to her scrawny legs and her sharp, pointy toes. It is clear that Grandma is figuring out how to make the most out of my chicken, but her eyes are still incredulous. The
chicken ignores Grandma’s excitement and fills the kitchen with soft clucking sounds.
    â€œYosef,” 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.
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œGod 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œSure I do, but I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no shochet. You expect merciful butchers from the Communists, Iulia?”

    â€œJust be swift,” she pleads.
    â€œI will,” Grandpa promises, “and I will have mercy in my heart and say a prayer just for you.”
    â€œNow 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œDon’t hang around here,” Grandpa tells her. “You make me nervous.”
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