Under a Red Sky Read Free Page A

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.
    â€œWhat are you doing in here?” Grandpa asks, carrying the basket with my chicken in both his arms.
    â€œThinking.”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œNothing.” I sigh, then add, “My chicken.”
    Grandpa places the basket down and lifts me up.
    â€œYour chicken is a great, great present,” he says. “Thank you.”

    â€œNot anymore,” I answer, glaring at him. “You’re going to kill her!”
    â€œYou can’t eat a live chicken,” Grandpa says, “but I promise to slaughter her as mercifully as a shochet.”
    â€œI don’t feel like eating chicken anymore. What’s a shochet?”
    â€œWhen 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.”
    â€œWhy don’t we have a shochet?”
    â€œThe Communists don’t allow it.”
    â€œOh. Grandpa?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI hate you having to slaughter my chicken.”
    â€œI know, me too. But we have to eat.”
    â€œCan I say goodbye to her?” I ask.
    â€œWhy, 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.”
    â€œGrandpa, you can’t hide the chicken from Grandma. She’ll hear the clucking and be angry that you didn’t kill her yet.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Grandma won’t mind.”
    â€œYes, she will. What are we going to tell her?”
    â€œI don’t know. We’ll think of something,” he murmurs.
    â€œCan I pet my chicken?”
    â€œOf course,” he says, lifting the bird out of the basket and placing her on the counter next to me.
    â€œI don’t like her legs tied up,” I whisper as I run my fingers through the feathers.

    â€œShe 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.
    â€œLook, Grandpa!” A perfect white egg is nestled amid the straw at the bottom of the basket.
    â€œNow, that’s special,” Grandpa says. “You know, I think she did that just for you.”
    â€œDo you think so?” I can’t take my eyes off the egg.
    â€œAbsolutely. 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.
    â€œIt’s round like the sun.” I am in awe.
    â€œIt 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?”
    â€œMaybe she’ll lay another egg, Grandpa,” I say, hoping to save my chicken from her fate.
    â€œGod 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