Free Under a Red Sky by Haya Leah Molnar Page B

front panel. He completes his
ritual by checking to see that the clock’s hands are synchronized with those of his Russian-issue wristwatch. Then he turns around and is back in our little room as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. In the two weeks that follow, the clock resumes its ever-present background sound of our daily life.

TATA’S FRIENDS
    MY FATHER INSPIRES GREAT LOVE and loyalty from a small but important group of friends who gather regularly in our bedroom. Most of them work closely with him at Romania’s government-owned film studio, where Tata is the leading cinematographer. They call him Zimmy, short for Zimmermann, his last name. His friends are film and theater directors, actors, artists, writers, poets, and composers—all of them part of Bucharest’s talented elite.
    The one exception is Victor, a short man with thick, black-framed glasses, who survived all of the lagers, including the Russian POW labor camp. While all of these friends are close, none are as close to Tata as Victor. The two of them talk, laugh, smoke cigarettes, and drinkuic, strong Romanian plum liquor, often until daybreak. As the evening wears on, their laughter grows louder, their stories more colorful. These get-togethers usually take place on an evening when my mother has rehearsals, though Mama regards Victor as family.
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    â€œHEY, VICTOR.” Tata’s voice booms from the other side of the bookcase. “Remember when we got that shipment of aspirin in the labor camp in Siberia and you decided to dispense it to the entire prisoner population? You tried so hard to convince us that you had discovered the magic cure-all for every disease known to man.” Tata laughs. “Hey, guys, no breakfast? Why not pop one of Victor’s Vitamins instead? It’s guaranteed to bore an even bigger hole in your stomach than you’ve already got.”
    I crawl to the bottom of my bed and peek from under my covers. Victor is waving his shot glass at Tata. “Look who’s talking about holes in his stomach. You had a hole in your head, Zimmy, carrying a volume of Shakespeare around as if it were the Bible. Here’s to you, Mr. Hamlet”—Victor raises his glass—“may you make up your mind if you want to be or not to be!”
    â€œWatch your mouth, Herr Doctor.” Tata’s words are slurred from the liquor. “You’re mocking the greatest writer the world has ever known. You’re not fit to lick Shakespeare’s boots.”
    â€œYour performance is impressive tonight, Mr. Hamlet,” Victor snaps. “Shakespeare has no need for boots, because he’s dead. And he isn’t God.”
    â€œHe’s dead to you, you idiot, because you don’t read! As far as Shakespeare being God, he comes in a close second, if there is a God,” Tata answers.
    â€œYour Mr. Shakespeare nearly got us all killed,” Victor continues. “Need I remind you that your best friend, Yoni, would still be alive today if he hadn’t run back for your Shakespeare? It took us weeks to plan our escape from hell, and Yoni blows it by running back to retrieve a book!” Victor’s rant now sounds like machine-gun fire. “He paid with his life, poor schmuck, for your immortal ‘auteur’—he got
it square in the head over an English book!” Victor uses his hand as a gun. “Bang!” Then his voice goes flat. “Yoni’s gone. And the rest of us are running for our lives like a bunch of rats straight into the arms of the Bolshevik bastards who deported us to Mother Russia.” Victor’s voice trails off. “Zimmy! Are you listening? We’re just ghosts who refused to die, cigarettes still warm after they’ve been stubbed out on frozen Russian soil.” When my father doesn’t respond, Victor stops. “Hey, Zimmy my friend, you look like you don’t feel well. Do you want me to get you an