Under a Red Sky by Haya Leah Molnar

with an amused smile that fades quickly. “I’d trade places with you if I could get out of it. It’s going to be tough to keep my eyes open at this thing, and if anyone notices me snoring in my chair your mother will evict me from my own bed. A fate worse than death.” Tata smirks as he offers me his cheek for a good-night kiss.
    â€œBut, Tata, I promise I won’t fall asleep!” I plead as I plant a kiss on his newly shaved face and get a whiff of his French cologne.
    â€œI’ll ask your mother if there is a matinee next week,” he says, slipping on his leather jacket. “Maybe you can go then.”
    After Tata leaves, I have trouble falling asleep.
    Â 
    A FEW DAYS LATER, Mama takes me to an afternoon dress rehearsal. The school auditorium is drafty. Each whisper resonates in the empty place as if it were directly spoken into your ear. Mama is holding court from the back of the auditorium. Ten adoring ballet students are squinting into the empty seats past the stage lights, all searching for her face. I slide down in my seat, hoping that the dancers are too intent on my mother to spot me. I feel very small, almost invisible, but I am safe because I don’t have to dance for my
mother. The accompanist’s head is turned toward my mother, waiting for his cue.
    â€œPlaces, people. Places. A one. A two. A three!” Mama’s voice is silenced by the music.
    The dancers move in a wave of color. Some of the ballerinas’ tutus are light lavender, others are pink, and the rest are white. Mama taps her long stick on the back of an empty seat. The music stops abruptly, and all the faces onstage are now at attention.
    â€œCarla, turn your head as you bend. Your arms are stiff. Curve them and tuck your thumbs into the palms of your hands.” Carla does as she is told.
    â€œThat’s better,” my mother says. “Now turn your head to the audience and smile.” Mama taps the back of the seat with her stick. “Don’t grimace! The audience doesn’t care if it hurts. Your job is to look as beautiful as a floating dandelion seed.” Carla soars through the air gracefully on the silent stage.
    â€œGood,” Mama says. “Again. Places, people!” The ballet dancers scurry to their spots. “A one, a two, a three.” The music begins again.

OF EARACHES AND LUCK—DECEMBER 1958
    IT’S SNOWING OUTSIDE. I cannot bear even to look at the silent snowflakes as they hit the ground because I have an earache. My head is throbbing and my cheeks feel hot. There are gurgling sounds in my head like water running through pipes. I can make my ear pop by opening and closing my mouth rapidly several times.
    They’re so worried about me, they’ve kept me home from school. Grandpa Yosef went to the market in search of lemons. He says I need vitamin C. Grandma Iulia brought me a cup of tea on a tray and then left our room as quickly as she came in. Mama says she will take me to the doctor as soon as she gets home from work. Tata’s not home, and Uncle Max is at work as well. Aunt Puica is probably reading in bed and smoking, as usual. The house is so quiet, I wouldn’t mind talking to her. I tiptoe to her room and scratch on her door. She opens it without a sound. She is still in her underwear with a cigarette hanging between her lips. She slides back into bed under her pink satin quilted down comforter and continues to read while I curl up in Uncle Max’s chair. The
room is thick with cigarette smoke. I start to choke and cough. Aunt Puica looks up from her book.
    â€œYou look like you have a fever,” she says. “Come over here and let me feel your forehead.” I stagger from the armchair to her bed. She places her fingers on my forehead.
    â€œYou’re burning.” She grabs a skirt from her armoire, zips it up, and runs to the bathroom. She comes back with a wet, cold towel that she wraps around my head, turban