CHAPTER THREE

Months were speeding by. The children were growing up and their personalities were taking shape, becoming more distinct. Siamak was a proud, belligerent and mischievous boy who had a certain reserve in expressing affection. The slightest adversity agitated him and he would try to crush any obstacle in his way with the might of his fists. In contrast, Massoud was gentle, kind and mild-mannered. He expressed his love to the people around him and even showed affection for nature and the objects that surrounded him. His caresses soothed the pain left in me by the lack of Hamid’s love.

In their relationship, the two boys strangely complemented each other. Siamak gave the orders and Massoud implemented them. Siamak daydreamed and invented stories and Massoud believed them. Siamak would joke and Massoud would laugh. Siamak would hit out and Massoud would take the beating. I was often afraid that Massoud’s gentle and loving nature would be crushed by Siamak’s hostile and powerful personality. But I could never openly protect Massoud. The slightest move on my part was enough for Siamak’s rage and jealousy to explode and lead to even more fist fights. The only way to avoid these clashes was to distract him by something more interesting.

But Siamak was also an impenetrable shield that protected Massoud against others. He would so wildly and strongly attack anyone who posed a threat to his brother that Massoud himself would plead and beg to save his enemy from Siamak’s hands. Often the enemy was my brother Mahmoud’s son, Gholam-Ali, who agewise fell right between Siamak and Massoud. I don’t know why the three of them would start to fight the instant they came together. Hamid believed this was how boys played and communicated with each other. But I couldn’t understand or accept his reasoning.

 

Although Mahmoud had married three years after me, he already had three children. His first child was Gholam-Ali, the second was Zahra who was one year younger than Massoud, and his last child was Gholam-Hossein who was only one year old. Mahmoud was still foul-tempered and reclusive, and his obsessive nature was growing more pronounced from one day to the next. Ehteram-Sadat was constantly complaining to Mother about him. ‘Lately he has become even more confused and daft,’ she would say. ‘He repeats his prayers several times and he still wonders if he said them properly.’

In my opinion, Mahmoud was not suffering from anything. His mind was as sharp as ever; he was especially savvy when it came to work and financial matters and had made a success of his business. He had a store in the bazaar where he worked independently, and people considered him a first-rate expert in carpets. He was never uncertain or obsessive in his work, and the only role religion played in his professional life was his careful observation of a Muslim’s obligation to contribute one-fifth of his income to charity. Therefore, at the end of each month he would send his entire earnings to Ehteram’s father in Qum, who would take a small portion of it for almsgiving and return the rest to Mahmoud. By this ‘change of hands’, as they called it, all of Mahmoud’s money would become halal and he would have no reason to worry.

Ahmad had long since left the family. No one was more worried about him than Mrs Parvin who constantly said, ‘We have to do something. If he continues like this, he will not survive.’

His problem was no longer limited to his nightly drinking and drunken rowdiness on the streets. Mrs Parvin said he was using drugs as well. But Mother refused to believe her and tried to save him from the devil and bad friends by praying and resorting to superstitious mumbo jumbo. Father, on the other hand, had completely given up hope for him.

Ali had grown up, but he hadn’t managed to get his secondary-school diploma. For a while he worked in Ahmad’s carpentry workshop, but Father thought it wise not to delay matters and used all his power and influence to get him away from Ahmad. ‘If I leave him alone and don’t stop him right now, he will be lost to us like the other one,’ Father used to say.

Ali himself had gradually become disillusioned by Ahmad. He had built his brother into a strong and capable idol, and now he suffered to see him constantly drunk and in a stupor. Apparently this idol was finally shattered when one of the thugs at Café Jamshid gave Ahmad a good beating and threw him out into street; Ahmad was so drunk that he couldn’t even lift a finger to defend himself. And at the workshop, Ali’s colleagues, who not too long ago would have competed with each other for the honour of being Ahmad’s apprentice, now ridiculed and harassed him. In any case, given all this, Ali willingly, but ostensibly under pressure from Father, left Ahmad and went to work for Mahmoud, so that he too would turn out to be a pious and wealthy merchant.

Faati turned into a demure, shy and mild-mannered girl. She stayed in school until the end of year three and then, as prescribed for decent girls, she started going to sewing classes. She herself was not all that interested in continuing her formal education.

I went to extreme lengths to enrol Siamak in school a year earlier than the law required. I knew that he was mentally ready. I was hoping that school would instil discipline in him and he would expend his boundless energy with children his own age and be less difficult at home. But like everything else, his going to school became a trying experience. At first, I had to sit in the classroom with him and only after he was comfortable being there would he allow me to leave; then I would have to stand for hours out in the schoolyard so that he could see me from the window. He was scared, but he expressed his fear with violence. On the first day of school, when the school supervisor took him by the hand to walk him to his classroom, he bit her hand.

When Siamak’s rage peaked, the only way I could calm him down was to make myself the target of the waves of his anger. I would hold him in my arms and tolerate the blows of his kicks and small fists until he calmed down and started to cry. It was only on these occasions that he would allow me to hold, caress and kiss him. At all other times, he tried to pretend that he had no need for kindness. But I knew how deeply he hungered for affection and attention. I felt sorry for him. I knew he was suffering, but I didn’t know why. I knew he loved his father and his absence pained him. But why wasn’t he getting used to that situation? Could the absence of a father have that great an effect on a child?

I persistently read books on psychology and observed Siamak’s behaviour. When Hamid was home, Siamak behaved differently. He listened only to his father. Although he could not sit still for a moment, he would sit on Hamid’s lap for long periods of time and listen to him talk. And I learned too late that his refusal to sleep was because he was waiting up for his father. When Hamid was home, at bedtime he would stroke Siamak’s hair and he would fall asleep quietly and peacefully. Accordingly, I gave Hamid the nickname ‘Sleeping Pill’.

Fortunately, Father’s presence and the deep affection he and Siamak shared somewhat made up for Hamid’s absence. Even though Siamak didn’t like to cling to anyone, when Father came to visit he would stay close to him and occasionally sit on his lap. Father treated Siamak with great calm and like an adult. In return, Siamak listened to him and accepted whatever he said without any reluctance. At the same time, Siamak could not bear to see Hamid or Father express any affection towards Massoud. He had accepted the fact that others, even me, divided their attention between him and his brother, and might even show greater affection for Massoud, but he wanted his father’s and grandfather’s love all for himself and could not tolerate the presence of a rival. In Hamid’s case, this was not a problem; he never paid any particular attention to Massoud. But Father, who had a very clear understanding of this child, had to try hard not to express any love for Massoud in front of Siamak. This in itself made Siamak even more grateful to his grandfather and deepened his love for him.

Eventually, Siamak got used to going to school, even though not a month went by when I wasn’t summoned by the principal because he had got into a fight. Still, with his new schedule set, I again started thinking about my own education. I was unhappy that I still had not received my school diploma and had left such an important matter unfinished. I started waking up early in the morning to take care of my household chores. When Siamak left for school, Massoud would keep himself busy with his games and spend hours drawing with his coloured pencils, or if the weather was nice, he would ride his tricycle in the yard. And I would sit and quietly study. I didn’t feel the need to attend classes…

Every afternoon when Siamak came home from school it felt as if an earthquake had struck the house. Doing homework had become yet another problem. He would drive me to desperation until he finally finished his schoolwork. Over time, I understood that the more sensitivity I showed, the more stubborn he became. As a result, I tried hard to be patient and not to pressure him. And late at night or the following morning, he would start to write his homework.

 

One morning when I was home with Massoud, Mrs Parvin came to see me. She seemed excited. I immediately realised she had come to share some news. She liked delivering first-hand news in person. She would highly embellish it and relate it in great detail, then wait to see my reaction. If the news was ordinary, she would simply tell me over the telephone.

‘Well, what is the news?’ I asked.

‘The news? Who said I have any news?’

‘Your expression, your manner, your face, they all scream that you have some hot news!’

Excited, she sat down and said, ‘Yes! You won’t believe it; it’s so interesting… but first bring some tea. My throat is dry.’

This, too, was one of her habits. She would torture me to death before she told me what had happened and the hotter the news, the more she would prolong sharing it. I quickly put the kettle on the stove and hurried back.

‘Well, tell me, it’s going to take a while for the tea to brew.’

‘Oh my, I am choking with thirst, I can hardly talk.’

Annoyed, I went back to the kitchen and brought a glass of water for her and said, ‘Well? Tell me.’

‘Let us have our tea first.’

‘Ugh… as a matter of fact, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,’ I said with a pout, and I went back to the kitchen.

She followed me and said, ‘Now don’t sulk. Guess who I saw this morning.’

My heart sank, my eyes grew wide and I said, ‘Saiid?’

‘Oh come on, you still haven’t given up? I thought with two kids you would have even forgotten the guy’s name.’

I had thought so, too. I felt embarrassed. His name had just popped out of my mouth. I wondered, Does this mean he is still in my thoughts?

‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Now tell me, who did you see?’

‘Parvaneh’s mother!’

‘For the love of God, are you being honest? Where did you see her?’

‘Everything at its proper time. The water is boiling. Brew the tea and I will tell you everything. This morning, I went to the street behind Sepahsalar Park to buy shoes. Through a shop window I saw a woman who looked like Mrs Ahmadi. At first I wasn’t sure. To be honest, she has aged a lot. By the way, how long has it been since we last saw their family?’

‘About seven years.’

‘I walked into the shop and looked at her. It was Mrs Ahmadi. At first she didn’t remember me, but I thought at least for your sake I should talk to her. I said hello and finally she recognised me. We chatted for quite a long time. She asked about everyone in the neighbourhood.’

‘Did she ask about me?’ I asked, excited.

‘Honestly, no. But I led the conversation around to you and told her that I see you regularly, that you are married and have children. She said, “In that house, she was the only person worth socialising with. Of course, my husband says their father is a good, honourable man, but I will never forget what her brother did to us. He left us with no honour in the neighbourhood. No one had ever talked to my husband like that, and you can’t imagine the things he accused poor Parvaneh of. My poor husband was about to faint. We couldn’t hold our heads up in that area any more. That’s why we moved so quickly. But Parvaneh would have given her life for that girl. You have no idea how much she cried. She kept saying, They will kill Massoum. Parvaneh went over to their house a few times, but Massoumeh’s mother didn’t let her see the girl. My poor child; she suffered a hard blow.”’

‘I was there once when she came to the door and Mother didn’t let me see her,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know about the other times.’

‘It seems she even came to invite you to her wedding. She had brought an invitation card for you.’

‘Really? They didn’t give it to me. My God, I am so fed up with these people. Why didn’t they tell me?’

‘Your mother was probably afraid you would again live through the crush you had on that boy.’

‘A crush? With two kids?’ I said, exasperated. ‘I will show them. They are still treating me like a child.’

‘Oh, no,’ Mrs Parvin said. ‘Back then you still didn’t have Massoud. This was a long time ago; perhaps four years ago.’

‘You mean Parvaneh has been married for four years?’

‘Well, of course, otherwise they would have had to pickle her!’

‘What rubbish! How old could she be?’

‘Well, she is about the same age as you and you have been married for seven years.’

‘Wretched as I am, I was forced into it. They threw me down a well. But not everyone has to live through that hell. Well, whom did she marry?’

‘She is married to the grandson of her father’s aunt. Her mother said she had many suitors after she graduated from school, but in the end she married this guy. He is a doctor and lives in Germany.’

‘You mean she now lives in Germany?’

‘Yes, she moved there after they got married, but she spends most summers here with her family.’

‘Does she have children?’

‘Yes, her mother said she has a three-year-old daughter. I told Mrs Ahmadi how long you searched for Parvaneh, how terribly you missed her, and that your brother has lost his spunk and no longer poses a danger to anyone except to himself. Finally, I managed to get her telephone number, although she wasn’t very comfortable giving it to me.’

My mind travelled back to seven years earlier. The camaraderie and deep friendship that I had shared with Parvaneh, I had never developed with anyone else. I knew I would never have another friend like her.

I was too embarrassed to call her mother. I didn’t know what to tell her. But in the end, I did. I felt a lump in my throat the moment I heard her voice. I introduced myself and told her that I knew it was audacious of me to be calling her. I told her that Parvaneh had been my dearest friend, my only friend. I told her that I was ashamed of what had happened and asked her to forgive my family. I told her that I wished I could see Parvaneh again, that I still spent hours talking to her, that not a day went by without my thinking about her. I gave Mrs Ahmadi my telephone number so that Parvaneh could call me the next time she came to Iran to visit her family.

 

With two noisy children at home and a thousand chores and responsibilities, preparing for my final exams wasn’t easy. I had to study at night, after the children went to bed. Near dawn, when Hamid came home and found me still awake and studying, he would look surprised and comment on my tenacity and determination. I took my final exams after Siamak had taken his, and the dream I had had for so many years finally came true; a simple dream that girls my age had attained as their natural right, without having to become so obsessed with it.

 

Hamid’s activities were becoming more serious and dangerous. He had even come up with a security arrangement and had planned escape routes out of the house. Although I didn’t know what his group was doing or planning, I sensed constant danger around me. After his strange trip and long absence, their organisation seemed to be more cohesive, their goals more defined and their work more structured. At the same time, there were news reports of incidents around the city that I felt were somehow connected to them. But the fact was that I didn’t know and I didn’t want to know. My ignorance made life bearable and lessened my fear, especially for the children.

 

At six o’clock on a summer morning, the telephone rang. Hamid reached it before I did. He hardly said two words and hung up, but suddenly he looked pale and terrified. It took almost a minute for him to regain his composure. I stood staring at him with horror and didn’t have the nerve to ask what had happened. He rushed around, packed a few necessities in a duffel bag and took all the money we had at home. Trying to remain calm, I quietly asked, ‘Hamid, have you been betrayed?’

‘I think so,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what has happened. One of the guys has been arrested. Everyone is relocating.’

‘Who was arrested?’

‘You don’t know him. He is a new member.’

‘Does he know you?’

‘Not by my real name.’

‘Does he know where we live?’

‘Fortunately not. We didn’t have any meetings here. But others may have been arrested, too. Don’t panic. You know nothing. Go to your parents’ house if you think you will be more comfortable there.’

Siamak had woken up at the sound of the telephone and looking worried and startled he was following Hamid around. He had sensed our anxiety.

‘Where will you go?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. For now, I just have to leave. I don’t know where I will be. I will not contact you at all for a week.’

Siamak wrapped his arms around Hamid’s legs and begged, ‘I want to go with you!’

Hamid pushed him away and said, ‘If they come here, no matter what they find, just tell them it doesn’t belong to us. Luckily you don’t know anything that could put us in even greater danger.’

Again, Siamak clung to him and cried, ‘I am coming with you!’

Hamid angrily ripped him off his leg and said, ‘Gather your kids and take care of yourselves. Go to my father if you need money and don’t talk to anyone about this.’

After he left, I stood there in a daze for some time. Terrified, I wondered what destiny had in store for us. Siamak was in a rage. He was throwing himself against the walls and doors and then I saw him running towards Massoud who had just woken up. I ran and picked him up in my arms. He tried to break away by kicking and punching me. It was useless to try to pretend that everything was fine and nothing had happened. That perceptive and sensitive child could sense my anxiety with every breath that I took.

‘Listen to me, Siamak,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘We have to be calm and not tell anyone our secret; otherwise it will be very bad for Daddy.’

He suddenly grew quiet and said, ‘Not tell anyone what?’

‘Don’t tell anyone that Daddy had to leave like this today. And make sure Massoud doesn’t find out either.’

He looked at me with fear and disbelief.

‘And we shouldn’t be afraid. We have to be brave and strong. Daddy is very strong and he knows what to do. Don’t worry, no one will find him. We are his soldiers. We have to be calm and keep his secret. He needs our help. Do you agree?’

‘Yes.’

‘So let us promise each other that we will not say anything to anyone and we will not make a fuss. All right?’

‘All right.’

I knew he couldn’t really understand the weight of what I was telling him, but it didn’t matter. With his young and imaginative mind, he filled the gaps and exaggerated the heroic aspects of the story to his liking.

We never again talked about any of it. Sometimes when he saw me lost in thought, he would quietly take my hand and without saying a word he would look at me. I would try to banish my worries, and I would smile confidently and whisper in his ear, ‘Don’t worry. He is in a safe place.’ And he would run off, raise a racket and pick up his game where he had left off. He would leap behind the sofa at the speed of lightning and make strange noises while shooting his water pistol in every direction. He was the only one capable of changing his mood and behaviour so dramatically.

 

Those anxiety-filled days seemed endless. I tried hard not to do anything rash and I didn’t tell anyone what had happened. I had a little money in my wallet and I did my best to make do with it. I constantly asked myself, What will they do to him if they catch him? What has his group been involved in? What if the destruction I read about in the newspaper was their doing? I had never felt fear that close and that serious. In the beginning, I had thought of their meetings as an intellectual game, a pastime, a means for childish self-aggrandisement, but now everything had changed. The memory of that summer night when they had stashed things in the cellar amplified my fear. After that night, there was always a large padlock on the door of the room at the back of the cellar.

A few times I complained to Hamid about it, but he would only retort, ‘Why are you constantly nagging? Why is this bothering you? You hardly ever go down to the cellar. It is not as if your space has been cramped.’

‘But I’m afraid. What is down there? What if it puts us in danger?’

Hamid kept reassuring me that there was no need to worry and that whatever was down there was not dangerous. But before he left, he had said that if they found anything in the house I should just say it was not ours and that I knew nothing about it. Then, there were things down there that he did not want discovered.

 

A week later, in the middle of the night, the sound of the front door woke me from my light and troubled sleep. I ran into the hall and turned on the light. Hamid whispered, ‘Turn it off, turn it off!’

He wasn’t alone. Two strange-looking women, tightly clad in chadors, were standing behind him. I caught sight of their feet. They were wearing rugged men’s boots. The three of them went into the living room. Then Hamid came back out, closed the door behind him, and said, ‘Now you can turn on that small lamp and give me the news.’

‘There is no news,’ I said. ‘Nothing has happened here.’

‘I know that. But have you noticed anything suspicious?’

‘No…’

‘Have you gone out?’

‘Yes, almost every day.’

‘And you didn’t feel you were being followed? Do we have any new neighbours?’

‘No, I haven’t noticed anything.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I don’t know; I haven’t sensed anything out of the ordinary.’

‘All right. Now if you can, go bring something for us to eat. Tea, bread and cheese, last night’s leftovers, whatever you have.’

I put the kettle on the stove. Even though I knew danger was still hovering around him, I felt a certain joy; I was relieved that he was unharmed. As soon as the tea was ready, I put cheese, butter, fresh herbs, the preserves I had recently made, and all the bread we had at home on a tray and took it to the living room door. I quietly called Hamid. I knew I should not go in. He opened the door, quickly took the tray and said, ‘Thanks; now go to bed.’

He seemed to have lost some weight and his beard looked slightly salt and pepper. I wanted to kiss him.

I went to the bedroom and closed the door. I wanted them to be able to comfortably use the bathroom. Again, I thanked God that once more I was seeing him alive and well. But a sense of foreboding gnawed at me. Drowned in vague imaginings, I finally fell asleep.

 

The sun had just risen when I woke up. I remembered that we had no bread. I got dressed, washed my face, went to the kitchen to turn on the samovar and returned to the hall. The children had woken up, but the door to the living room was still closed.

Siamak followed me back into the kitchen and quietly whispered, ‘Is Daddy back?’

Taken aback, I asked, ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s weird here. The living room door is locked and there are shadows behind the glass.’

The living room door was made of matte, honeycomb glass.

‘Yes, my dear. But he doesn’t want anyone to know, so we shouldn’t say anything.’

‘He is not alone, is he?’

‘No, he has two friends with him.’

‘I will make sure Massoud doesn’t find out.’

‘That’s good, my son. You are a man now, but Massoud is still young and he may say something to others.’

‘I know. I won’t let him go near the living room door.’

Siamak stood guard at the living room door with such determination that Massoud grew more and more curious, wanting to know what was going on. They were about to get into a fight when Hamid walked out of the living room. Massoud stood there looking stunned while Siamak ran to him and clung to his legs. Hamid hugged and kissed them both.

‘Sit with your children while I prepare breakfast,’ I said.

‘All right, let me wash first. And prepare something for our friends, too.’

When the four of us sat together at the breakfast spread, I suddenly felt like crying.

‘Thank God,’ I sighed. ‘I was afraid we would never be together again.’

Hamid looked at me tenderly and said, ‘For now, everything is fine. You haven’t talked to anyone, have you?’

‘No, I haven’t even told your parents. But they have been very curious. They keep asking about you. Remember to call them; otherwise, as you like to say, there is going to be a big fuss.’

‘Daddy,’ Siamak said, ‘I didn’t tell anyone either. And I was careful for Massoud not to find out.’

Hamid looked at me with surprise. I gestured to him that there was nothing to worry about, and I said, ‘Yes, Siamak has been a big help. He is great at keeping secrets.’

In his sweet, childish tone Massoud said, ‘I have a secret, too. I have a secret, too.’

‘Forget it,’ Siamak snapped. ‘You are still a kid, you don’t understand.’

‘I’m not a kid, I understand.’

‘Boys, be quiet!’ Hamid chided. Then he turned to me and said, ‘Look here, Massoum, put something on the stove for lunch, then go to your father’s house. I will call you and let you know when to come back home.’

‘When will you call?’

‘You will definitely have to stay there tonight.’

‘But what am I going to tell them? They will think we have had a fight.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Let them think you are sulking. But you are not to come back under any circumstances until I call you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I understand. But all this is finally going to get us into real trouble. I have been sick with worry all week. For the love of God, whatever you have stashed in this house take it all away. I am afraid.’

‘Leave the house and we will do just that.’

Angry and upset, Siamak said, ‘Daddy, let me stay.’

I motioned to Hamid to talk to him and took Massoud with me to the kitchen. The two of them sat facing each other. Hamid was talking in a serious tone and Siamak was listening intently. That day my six-and-a-half-year-old son behaved like a responsible adult who knew he had a duty to perform.

We said goodbye to Hamid and left to go to Father’s house. Calm and quiet, Siamak struggled to carry the heavy duffel bag I had packed. I wondered what was going through his young mind. At Father’s house, too, Siamak neither played nor made a sound. He sat on the edge of the reflecting pool and watched the red fish in the water. He didn’t even get excited when Ehteram-Sadat brought Gholam-Ali to the house that afternoon; he didn’t start a fight or create mischief.

‘What is wrong with him?’ Father asked.

‘Nothing, Father. He has become a gentleman!’

I looked at Siamak and smiled. He looked up and smiled back at me. There was such serenity on his face. Now Siamak, Hamid and I shared a secret, a very important secret. We were a close family and Massoud was our child.

 

As I had expected, Mother was surprised by our unannounced visit. All the way there, I had thought about what I should tell her and what excuse I should offer for wanting to stay the night. The moment we walked in, she said, ‘God willing, it is good news. What brings you here? And with luggage?’

‘Hamid has a men’s gathering,’ I explained. ‘Some of his friends and the printing house employees are coming over. He said they would all be more comfortable if I’m not there. And a few of them are coming from the provinces and staying for a few days. Hamid said I shouldn’t go back as long as they are there. He will come and pick us up after they leave.’

‘Really?’ Mother said. ‘I didn’t know Hamid Agha is so honour-bound that he doesn’t want his wife in the house when unfamiliar men are present!’

‘Well, when men get together they want to feel free and talk about things they can’t discuss in front of women. Besides, I have a few lengths of fabric and I have been meaning to ask Faati to make a dress for me; this will be the perfect opportunity.’

 

My stay at Father’s house lasted three days and two nights. Although I was worried, I still had a pleasant time. Mrs Parvin made an elegant shirt and skirt for me and Faati made two floral house dresses. We talked and laughed. Mother, who had returned from Qum a week earlier, had plenty of fresh news about the family, our old neighbours and acquaintances. I found out that Mahboubeh had a daughter and was pregnant with her second child.

‘This one is probably a girl, too,’ Mother said. ‘I can tell by the way she looks and acts. You can’t believe how jealous they all were when I talked about your sons and Mahmoud’s sons. And Mahboubeh’s daughter looks just like Mahboubeh when she was that age, pale and plain.’

‘Oh, Mother!’ I chided. ‘Mahboubeh was adorable when she was young; remember those blonde ringlets! And in this day and age there is no difference between sons and daughters for them to be jealous because Mahmoud and I have boys.’

‘What do you mean there is no difference? This is so typical of you; you don’t value what you have. In any case, they were as arrogant as you can imagine. Now that they are rich, they put on such airs that I wouldn’t be surprised if they give fancy names to the lice that crawl on them! They almost burst with envy when I told them about Mahmoud Agha’s success and the money he makes.’

‘Come on, Mother. Why would they be jealous? You just said they are very rich.’

‘True, but they still can’t stand the sight of us; they want us to go without. By the way, your aunt was saying that Mahboubeh’s husband wanted to take her on a trip to the West this year, but Mahboubeh didn’t want to go.’

‘Why? What an idiot!’

‘Not at all. Why would she want to go? Over there everything is impure. How would she say her prayers? By the way, you should know that Ehteram-Sadat’s uncle has been arrested. Mahmoud is very upset. He is afraid it might be bad for business.’

‘What? Who arrested him?’

‘It’s obvious! The secret police… it seems he gave a talk at the mosque.’

‘Are you serious? Bravo! I didn’t think he was that brave. When did they take him?’

‘It has been a couple of weeks. They say they are tearing his flesh into tiny pieces with a pair of tweezers.’

A chill ran up my spine and I thought, God have mercy on Hamid.

 

Late in the afternoon on the third day, Hamid came to pick us up in a yellow Citroën 2CV. The boys were excited to see him and the car. Unlike other times, Hamid was not in a hurry for us to leave. He sat with Father on the wooden bed out in the yard and they drank tea and talked.

While saying our goodbyes, Father said, ‘Thank God, my mind is at ease. I thought perhaps you two had had a fight, God forbid. I was worried. But I have to say, I really enjoyed these three days. Seeing you all in this house restored my soul.’

Father wasn’t in the habit of saying such things. His words deeply moved me. On the drive back home, I gave Hamid the news about my relatives, especially about Ehteram-Sadat’s uncle having been arrested.

‘The damned SAVAK has got so strong,’ he said. ‘They are going after all the organisations.’

Not wanting the conversation to continue in front of Siamak, I said, ‘Where did you get the car?’

‘For now, it’s mine to use. We have to purge a few locations.’

‘Then, please start with your own home.’

‘It’s all done. I’m not worried about the house any more. I was really nervous… If they had raided the house, we would have all been tagged for execution.’

‘For the love of God, Hamid! Have pity on these innocent children.’

‘I have taken every possible precaution. For the time being, our house is the only safe site.’

Although the car’s engine was loud and we were whispering, I noticed Siamak listening intently.

‘Sh! The kids…’

Hamid turned and glanced at Siamak, then smiled and said, ‘He is not a kid any more. He is a man. He is going to take care of you when I’m away.’

There was a glint in Siamak’s eyes; his entire being had swelled with pride.

As soon as we arrived home, I went down to the cellar. There was no sign of the padlock on the door and there was nothing in the back room other than ordinary household odds and ends. I thought to myself, Tomorrow morning I must do a thorough inspection, just in case they have left something behind.

Siamak was constantly following Hamid around. He wouldn’t even let me give him a bath.

‘I am a man,’ he said. ‘I will take a bath with Dad.’

Hamid and I looked at each other and laughed. The two of them took a bath after Massoud and me. Their voices echoed in the bathroom and I could hear some of what they were talking about. It was so pleasant. Although Hamid had spent little time with us, the father and son had a deeply intimate relationship.

 

Hamid was very busy for several days, but then he started spending much of his free time at home. It seemed he had nowhere to go and there was no sign of his friends. Like all men, he spent his days at work and his evenings at home. He was getting bored and frustrated. I took advantage of the opportunity and often asked him to take the boys to the park or out for a walk – something he had never done. I think those were the best days of my children’s lives. The experience of having a father and a mother and a normal life, which for other children was not something extraordinary or something to be especially grateful for, meant the world to them, and to me. Gradually, I became so bold that one day I even suggested we go on a trip for a few days.

‘Let’s go to the Caspian coast,’ I said, ‘like we did the year Siamak was born.’

Hamid looked at me gravely and said, ‘No, we can’t. I’m waiting for news. I have to be either at home or at the printing house.’

‘Just for two days,’ I insisted. ‘It’s been two months and there has been no news, and schools open next week. Let the kids have some fond memories. Let them at least go on one trip with their parents.’

The boys clung to him. Massoud begged Hamid to take us on a trip, even though he didn’t know what a trip was. Siamak didn’t say anything, but he held Hamid’s hand and looked at him with hope-filled eyes. I knew that look would weaken Hamid’s resolve.

‘Did you know Mansoureh’s husband has bought a villa on the Caspian coast?’ I persisted. ‘Mansoureh is always telling me that everyone has gone and stayed there except us. If you want, we can take your parents with us. After all, they deserve it, too. They dream of going on a short trip with their son. And we can drive there.’

‘No, the car isn’t sturdy enough for the Chalous road!’

‘Then we will take the Haraz road. You said the car is new; why wouldn’t it be sturdy enough? We will drive slowly.’

The children were still pleading with him, but it was all over when Siamak kissed Hamid’s hand. We had won.

Hamid’s parents didn’t join us, but they were happy to see that after all these years we were going on a family trip. Mansoureh was already up north. She spoke on the telephone with Hamid and happily gave him the address. And finally, we set off.

 

Leaving the city, we felt as though we were stepping into a different world. The children were so mesmerised by the mountains, valleys and meadows that for a long time they each remained glued to a window and didn’t make a sound. Hamid was humming a song and I was singing along with him. My heart was brimming with joy. I said the prayer that is customarily recited prior to travelling and I asked God not to take away the good fortune of our being together. The car struggled up the steep inclines, but it didn’t matter. I wanted that trip to last for ever.

I had made meat cutlets for lunch. We stopped in a scenic area and ate. The children chased after each other and I relished the sound of their laughter.

‘It’s strange,’ I said. ‘Siamak’s behaviour has changed so dramatically. Have you noticed how calm he is? He has become obedient and pleasant. I can’t remember the last time I scolded him, while in the past, not a day would go by without us having a big fight.’

‘I really don’t understand what your problem is with this child,’ Hamid said. ‘To me he is a wonderful boy. I think I understand him better than you do.’

‘No, my dear. You only see the way he is when you are at home. His personality is completely different when you are not there. He is worlds apart from the boy you have seen every day for the past two months. You are like a sedative for him, a tranquilliser.’

‘Ugh… don’t say that! No one should be that dependent on me.’

‘But a lot of people are,’ I said. ‘It isn’t something you can control.’

‘Even the thought of it bothers me and makes me feel anxious.’

‘Well, let’s not dwell on it. We won’t talk about it, we will just enjoy the beautiful days we have together.’

 

Mansoureh had prepared an airy room with a view of the sea for us. With her there, Hamid couldn’t move his bedding to a different room and had to sleep next to me. We were all enjoying the sun and the sea. I wanted to get sunburned. I left my hair down and wore the colourful open-necked dresses I had recently made for myself. I wanted to again attract Hamid’s admiring looks. I wanted his affection and attention. On the third night, he finally caved in, broke his years-old promise and took me in his arms.

That memorable trip brought us closer together than ever before. I knew Hamid expected more of me than just being a housewife. I read as much as I could and started discussing with him what I had learned from his books over the years. I tried to fill the empty place of his friends by sharing ideas and talking about social and political issues. Little by little, he realised that I, too, had an awareness of politics and societal issues, and he even came to appreciate my intelligence and good memory. To him, I was no longer a backward child or uneducated woman.

One day when I recited a section of a book he had forgotten, he said, ‘It is such a shame that with all your talent you didn’t pursue your education. Why don’t you take the university entrance exams? I am sure if you continue studying you will make huge progress.’

‘I don’t think I will pass the exams,’ I said. ‘My English is poor. And besides, what would I do with the children if I were to go to university?’

‘The same thing you did when you were preparing for your school diploma. What’s more, the children are older now and you have more time to yourself. Take English classes, or, better yet, enrol in the preparatory classes for the university entrance exams. You can do anything you want.’

 

After eight years, I was finally experiencing a real family life and I was savouring every pleasant moment of it. That autumn I took advantage of Hamid being at home in the afternoons and I signed up for the preparatory classes. I didn’t know how long his circumstances would stay the same, but I tried to take full advantage of those precious days. I kept telling myself that their group had disbanded and that we could live as a real family for ever. Hamid was still constantly nervous, waiting for a telephone call, but I thought that, too, would soon end.

I still knew nothing about their organisation. Once, in the middle of a discussion, I asked him about it. ‘No, don’t ask about the guys and our activities,’ he said. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you or that you wouldn’t understand, it’s simply that the less you know the safer you are.’

I never again expressed any curiosity about their group.

 

Autumn and winter passed quietly. Hamid’s schedule gradually took on a different rhythm. Once a week or once every two weeks, telephone calls would be exchanged and he would disappear for a day or two. In the spring, he assured me that the danger had passed, that none of the members of his group could be traced, and that almost all of them had relocated to safe houses.

‘You mean, all this time they were practically homeless?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘They were on the run. After those early arrests, a lot of addresses were discovered and many were forced to abandon their homes.’

‘Even Shahrzad and Mehdi abandoned their home?’

‘They were among the first. They lost everything they had. All they had time to do was to save the records and documents.’

‘Did they have many things?’

‘Oh, Shahrzad’s family had given her so much in dowry that you could furnish two homes with it. Of course, over time she had given away many things, but there was still a lot left.’

‘After they left their home, where did they go, what did they do?’

‘Slow down! Don’t get into details and serious subjects.’

 

During the spring and summer, Hamid went on a few extended trips. He was in good spirits and I was careful to not let anyone find out about his absences. Meanwhile, I was studying hard and getting ready for the university entrance exams. As much as my passing the exams made Hamid and me happy, it took our families by surprise. Their reactions were all very different.

‘What are you going to university for?’ Mother asked. ‘It’s not like you want to become a doctor.’

In her mind, the only reason anyone would go to university was to become a doctor.

Father was happy, proud and astonished.

‘Your school principal told me how talented you are, but I already knew it,’ he said. ‘I only wish at least one of these boys had turned out like you.’

Ali and Mahmoud were of the belief that I still hadn’t given up my childish silliness and that my husband couldn’t control me because he didn’t have enough backbone, wasn’t man enough and lacked a sense of honour.

I was soaring. I felt proud and confident. Everything was going my way.

I threw a large party for Manijeh who had got married some time ago and I had not had time to have a celebration in her and her husband’s honour. After many years of estrangement, our families gathered together. Of course, Mahmoud and Ali used the excuse that women without hijab were going to be present at the party and they didn’t come, but Ehteram-Sadat came with her loud and boisterous children.

I was so happy that nothing could bother me or take that smile off my face.

 

My life took on a new direction. I enrolled Massoud in a kindergarten close to home and took care of most of my responsibilities at night so that in the morning I could go to the university with peace of mind, and without Hamid and the children lacking anything.

The weather had turned cold. The autumn wind was knocking the tree branches against the windows. The drizzling rain that had started that afternoon was now mixed with snow and it was coming down harder. Hamid had just fallen asleep. I was thinking to myself, Winter has arrived so suddenly; it is good that I have already got out my warm clothes.

It was almost one o’clock in the morning and I was getting ready for bed when the sound of the doorbell made me freeze to the spot. My heart started pounding in my chest. I waited for a few seconds and told myself I had misheard, but just then I saw Hamid standing in the middle of the hall looking panic-stricken. We stared at each other.

With a voice that barely rose from my throat, I said, ‘Did you hear it, too?’

‘Yes!’

‘What should we do?’

As he pulled his trousers on over his pyjamas, he said, ‘Hold them off as long as you can. I will get out over the rooftop and take the route I had planned; then open the door. If there is any danger, turn on all the lights.’

He quickly put on a shirt and a jacket and ran towards the stairs.

‘Wait! Take a coat, a sweater, something…’

The doorbell was ringing incessantly.

‘There’s no time. Go!’

He was halfway through the door that led to the rooftop when I grabbed a sweater that was within my reach and tossed it to him. I tried to regain my calm and look sleepy. I wrapped a coat around me and went down the stairs into the front yard. I was shivering uncontrollably.

By then whoever it was was pounding on the door. I turned on the light in the yard so that Hamid could see us better from the rooftop and I opened the door. Someone shoved the door open, dashed into the yard and closed the door. It was a woman wearing a floral chador that was clearly not hers, as it barely reached her ankles. Terrified, I glared at her. Her wet chador slipped down to her shoulders and I gasped, ‘Shahrzad!’

She quickly raised her finger to her lips for me to keep quiet and whispered, ‘Turn off the light. Why is it that the first thing you two think to do is to turn on the lights?’

I looked up at the rooftop and turned out the light.

She was drenched to the skin.

‘Come inside, you will catch a cold,’ I said quietly.

‘Shh! Quiet!’

We stood there behind the door and listened to see if there were any sounds coming from the street. There was only silence. After a few minutes, like someone suddenly drained of all energy, Shahrzad leaned against the door and slid down to the ground. Her chador spilled out around her. She put her arms on her knees and buried her head in them. Water was dripping from her hair. I held her under the arm and struggled to help her get up. She couldn’t walk. I picked up her chador and took her by the hand; it was surprisingly hot. Helpless and weak, she followed me and we climbed up the stairs.

‘You have to dry yourself off,’ I said. ‘You’re very sick, aren’t you?’

She nodded.

‘There is plenty of hot water; go and take a shower. I will bring you some clothes.’

Without saying a word, she went to the bathroom and stood under the shower for some time. I put together some clothes that I thought would fit her and took some bedding to the living room and prepared a place for her to sleep on the floor.. She came out of the bathroom and got dressed. She wasn’t speaking and had the lost look of a desperate child.

‘You must be hungry.’

She shook her head.

‘I have warmed up some milk. You must drink it.’

Silent and submissive, she drank the milk. I led her to the living room and she fell asleep before she could even make herself comfortable under the bedclothes. I pulled the blanket over her, walked out and closed the door.

It was only then that I remembered Hamid. Could he still be up on the roof? I quietly climbed up the stairs to the rooftop. He was hunkered down under the awning of the small alcove on top of the stairs.

‘Did you see who it was?’ I whispered.

‘Yes, Shahrzad!’

‘Then why are you still up here? She doesn’t pose any danger.’

‘As a matter of fact she poses a great danger. I have to wait and see if she was followed. How long has it been since she arrived?’

‘Half an hour… no, forty-five minutes. If she was being followed, something would have happened by now. Right?’

‘Not necessarily. Sometimes they wait for everyone to gather. They don’t raid a group house without plenty of planning and preparation.’

I was trembling again. ‘What if they raid our house? Will they arrest us, too?’

‘Don’t be afraid, you’re not involved. Even if they arrest you, you don’t know anything. They will let you go.’

‘But how would they find out that I don’t know anything? I guess by plenty of torture!’

‘Get these stupid thoughts out of your head,’ he said. ‘It’s not that simple. You must stay strong. You will lose your confidence if you keep thinking along these lines. Now tell me, how is she? What did she say?’

‘Nothing. She couldn’t talk. I think she is very sick. I think she has a terrible flu.’

‘Shahrzad and Mehdi had become too conspicuous. They had been identified. Their house was the first one that was raided. They have been living underground for a year and a half. They stayed in the provinces for a long time until we arranged a safe house for them. They must have been exposed again.’

‘You mean the poor things have been homeless for a year and a half?’

‘Yes!’

‘Where is her husband?’

‘I don’t know. They were together. Something must have happened to force them to separate… he might have been arrested.’

My heart sank. The first thought that crossed my mind was that Mehdi knew where we lived.

That night Hamid stood guard up on the roof until dawn. I took him warm clothes and hot tea. In the morning, I woke the children up a little earlier than usual, gave them breakfast and walked them to their school and kindergarten. On the way, I looked around me carefully to check for anything suspicious or unusual, searching for a hidden agenda in every glance and movement. After I dropped off the children, I bought some groceries and returned to the house. Hamid had come downstairs.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘Should I go to the printing house or not?’

‘I think it is better if we act normally and not attract any attention,’ I said.

‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary on the street?’

‘No, everything seemed normal. Maybe everything being normal is what is not normal. Maybe they don’t want us to be cautious and on our guard.’

‘Stop imagining things,’ Hamid said. ‘I think I have to wait and talk to Shahrzad and find out exactly what has happened. She may need me to do something for her. Aren’t you going to wake her?’

‘No, the poor girl is really exhausted and sick. Do you want me to call the printing house and tell them you are not going to work today? You can rest a little until she wakes up.’

‘No, you don’t need to call. They are used to me not showing up at work now and then. I never call to let them know.’

Shahrzad lay in bed looking almost unconscious until one in the afternoon. I cooked a large pot of turnip soup and marinated some meat for kebab. She clearly needed to regain her strength. She was half the size she had been the last time I had seen her. I went out and bought some sedatives, cough syrup and something to reduce fever. It was almost time for the children to come home. I went to her and gently put my hand on her forehead. She still had a fever. She woke with a fright and sat up with a jolt. For a few seconds she stared at me and her surroundings. She had no notion of place and time.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ I gently said. ‘Calm down. It’s me, Massoumeh. You are safe.’

Suddenly, she remembered everything. She took a deep breath and fell back on her pillow.

‘You have become too weak,’ I said. ‘Sit up. I have made some soup. Eat a little, take the medication and go back to sleep. You have a very bad case of flu.’

Her large eyes filled with sorrow and her lips trembled. I pretended I hadn’t noticed and walked out. Hamid was pacing the hall.

‘Is she awake?’ he asked. ‘I have to talk to her.’

‘Wait; let her pull herself together and eat something first…’

I took the soup and the medicine to the living room. She was sitting up. I took off the towel I had wrapped around her hair the night before. Her hair was still a little damp.

‘Start eating,’ I said. ‘I will go get a comb or a brush.’

She put a spoonful of soup in her mouth, closed her eyes and savoured it.

‘Hot food! Soup! Do you know how long it has been since I had something hot to eat?’

My heart ached. I said nothing and walked out. Hamid was still impatiently pacing up and down the hall.

‘What is the matter?’ I snapped. ‘Why are you in such a hurry? Wait a few minutes. I won’t let you talk to her until she has eaten something.’

I took a comb and returned to the living room. It was difficult combing her tangled hair.

‘A hundred times I wanted to go and cut it all off and be rid of it,’ she said. ‘But I never found the time.’

‘What? Why would you want to cut off all this beautiful, lush hair? A bald woman is really ugly.’

‘Woman!’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you are right. I had forgotten I am a woman.’

She laughed sarcastically and ate the rest of her soup.

‘I have made kebab, too. You have to eat some meat to gain strength.’

‘No, not now. I haven’t eaten in forty-eight hours. I have to eat slowly and in small portions. Give me some more soup later on… Is Hamid home?’

‘Yes, he is waiting to talk to you. I think he is running out of patience.’

‘Tell him to come in. I feel much better. I feel alive again.’

I gathered the dishes, opened the door and asked Hamid to come in. He greeted her so eagerly and yet so politely and ceremoniously that it was like he was talking to his boss. I walked out and closed the door.

They talked quietly for more than an hour.

When the children came home from school, Siamak walked in and like a dog that has smelled a stranger in the house he asked, ‘Mum, who is here?’

‘One of your father’s friends,’ I said. ‘Make sure you don’t tell anyone!’

‘I know!’

And then he started to observe everything carefully. He pretended he was playing in the hall, right behind the living room door, but he was all ears, hoping to hear something. I called him and said, ‘Go buy a couple of bottles of milk.’

‘No, not now.’

And he quickly resumed his game behind the closed door.

Hamid walked out of the living room, tucked the sheets of paper he was holding into his jacket pocket and while putting on his shoes he said, ‘Shahrzad is going to stay here for now. I have to go out. Don’t worry if I’m late or if I don’t come home tonight. I will definitely be back by late afternoon tomorrow.’

I went to the living room. Shahrzad was lying down.

‘Did you take the medication?’ I asked.

Looking embarrassed, she sat up and said, ‘Please forgive me; I know I am intruding. I will try to leave as soon as possible.’

‘Please! You need to rest. Consider this your own home. I will not let you leave until you have fully recovered.’

‘I’m afraid I may cause problems for you. All these years, we have tried to keep this house safe for you and your children, but last night I put that safety at risk. I had spent two entire days going from one hole to another and, as luck would have it, the weather suddenly turned cold. It started to rain and snow. And I wasn’t feeling well. I had a fever and it was getting worse by the hour. I was afraid I would collapse on the street. I had no other options; otherwise, I would not have come here.’

‘You did well to come. For now, please don’t worry about anything; just sleep and rest assured that nothing has happened here.’

‘For the love of God, don’t be so formal with me.’

‘All right!’

But I couldn’t help it. I didn’t quite know where I stood with her and what the nature of our relationship was. The children were peeking through the door and eyeing Shahrzad with curiosity. She laughed, wiggled her fingers and said hello to them.

‘God bless them,’ she said. ‘Your sons have grown so much.’

‘Yes! Mr Siamak is now in year three and Massoud is five years old.’

I handed her the pills and a glass of water.

‘I thought they were closer in age,’ she said.

‘We enrolled Siamak in school a year early. Come here, boys, come here and say hello to Sha—’ I suddenly noticed the alarmed look on Shahrzad’s face and realised that I should not mention her name. I hesitated a moment and said, ‘Come and say hello to Aunt Sheri.’

Shahrzad raised her eyebrows and laughed as if the name sounded silly to her.

The children came in and said hello to her. Siamak was scrutinising her with such curiosity that Shahrzad grew nervous. She even looked down to make sure her shirt buttons hadn’t come undone.

‘All right, that’s enough,’ I said. ‘Everyone out. Auntie has to rest.’

And outside the door, I told the boys, ‘Don’t make any noise and don’t tell anyone Auntie is visiting.’

‘I know!’ Siamak snapped.

‘Yes, son. But now Massoud has to know, too. Do you understand, dear? This is our secret. You cannot tell anyone.’

‘OK,’ Massoud said cheerfully.

A few days later, Shahrzad had almost recovered, except that she still had a dry cough which kept her awake at night. I tried to stimulate her appetite by cooking various tasty dishes, hoping that she would regain some of the weight she had lost. Hamid was constantly coming and going, reporting to Shahrzad behind closed doors, and leaving again with new instructions.

A week went by. Shahrzad paced the rooms and tried to stay away from the windows. I had stopped going to my classes at the university and we were not sending Massoud to the kindergarten for fear that he would inadvertently say something about what was going on at home. He spent the days quietly playing, making houses with the new Lego Hamid had bought for him, and drawing beautiful pictures that were too advanced for his age and reflected a special talent. Emotionally, too, he was displaying the creative spirit of an artist. He looked at objects intently and discovered things in them that none of us had noticed. When the weather was nice, he would keep himself busy for hours with the plants and flowers in the yard. He would even plant seeds and, surprisingly, they would all grow. He lived in a different world. It was as if earthly matters had no value for him. Unlike Siamak, he was quick to forgive and adapted to any situation. He reacted with his entire being to the smallest kindness. He was aware of all my emotions and if he sensed that I was upset, he would try to cheer me up with a sweet kiss.

Massoud’s relationship with Shahrzad quickly escalated to a deeply loving tenderness. They liked to spend all their time together. Massoud watched over her like a guard and constantly drew pictures and built houses for her. He would sit on her lap for long periods of time and in his sweet childish language weave strange stories about the things he had built. Shahrzad would laugh wholeheartedly and Massoud, feeling encouraged, would continue with his sweet-talking.

Siamak, on the other hand, treated Shahrzad with respect and reserve; the same way Hamid and I treated her. I liked her very much and tried to be relaxed and friendly with her, but for some reason I always felt like a schoolgirl around her. To me she was the symbol of competence, political astuteness, courage and self-reliance. All these characteristics had escalated her to a superhuman in my mind. She was always kind and comfortable with me, but I couldn’t forget that she was twice as perceptive and intelligent as my husband, even giving him orders.

Hamid and Shahrzad were constantly talking, and I would try not to disturb them or show any curiosity. One night after I put the children to bed, I went to the bedroom and sat down to read. Thinking that I, too, had gone to bed, they sat in the hall and talked comfortably.

‘We are very lucky that Abbas never came to this house,’ Hamid said. ‘The rascal didn’t even resist for forty-eight hours.’

‘I knew from the start that he was weak,’ Shahrzad responded. ‘Remember how he was constantly nagging during training? It was as clear as daylight that his conviction wasn’t strong.’

‘Why didn’t you tell Mehdi?’

‘I did, but he said it was too late to put him aside, Abbas knew everything. Mehdi said we should try to bring him around, that he had the right foundation. But deep in my gut, I was always wary.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ Hamid said. ‘Even when we had gone as far as the border, you objected to his going with us.’

‘That’s why Mehdi never gave him any sensitive information and I tried to have him meet as few people as possible. Just the fact that he knows nothing about you, not even your real name, or where you live and where you work, has really helped us.’

‘Yes, but our greatest luck was that he didn’t live in Tehran. Otherwise, he would have eventually figured it all out.’

‘If the good-for-nothing had held out for just forty-eight hours, we could have saved everything. Still, thank God the central nucleus and the guys in Tehran weren’t caught. And what’s left of the ammunitions should be enough. If the operation goes well and according to plan, we can seize the enemy’s weapons.’

I felt a chill run up my spine and cold sweat settled on my forehead. Questions rushed through my mind. What were they planning to do? Where had they been? My God, where and with whom had I been living? Of course, I knew they were working against the Shah’s regime, but I didn’t know that the scope of their activities had widened to that extent. I always imagined their actions to be limited to intellectual debates, printing leaflets, writing articles, newsletters and books, and giving lectures.

That night when Hamid came to the bedroom, I told him I had overheard their conversation. I broke into tears and begged him to give it all up, to think about his life and his children.

‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘I should have never built a family. I told you this in a thousand different ways, but you didn’t accept it. I am alive because of my ideals and my duty to live up to them. I can’t just think about my own kids and forget about the thousands of wretched children living under the tyranny of this executioner. We have sworn to save the people and to set them free.’

‘But what you are planning is very dangerous. Do you really think that with a handful of people you can go up against the army, the police force and the SAVAK, destroy them all and save the people?’ I asked.

‘We have to do something so that the world will stop believing that this country is an island of peace and stability. We have to shake the foundations so that the masses wake up, stop being afraid and start believing that even this mighty power can fall. Then, they will gradually join us.’

‘You are all too idealistic. I don’t believe that any of what you say will ever happen. You will all be destroyed. Hamid, I am terrified.’

‘Because you don’t believe. Now stop making a big fuss. What you overheard was just talk. We have had hundreds of these plans and none of them were ever carried out. Don’t ruin your own and the children’s peace of mind over nothing. Go to sleep; and don’t ever mention this to Shahrzad.’

After ten days of Hamid going and coming, taking messages and orders to unknown people and places, the decision was made that Shahrzad was not to leave our house until further notice and that we should try and resume our normal life. The only problem was that we had to find a way to stop people from coming to the house.

Although we usually didn’t have that many callers, the occasional visits by our parents, Mrs Parvin and Faati could still create difficulties. We decided to take Bibi and the boys to visit Hamid’s parents regularly so that they wouldn’t want to come to the house to see them. And I told my own family that I had classes at the university every day and that I would visit them whenever I could. I also told them that I would leave the children with them when I had afternoon classes. Despite all this, we did occasionally have unannounced visitors. On these occasions, Shahrzad would stay in the living room and lock the door from the inside, and we would tell our visitor that we had lost the key and couldn’t use that room.

 

Shahrzad stayed with us. She tried to help me around the house, but she knew nothing about housekeeping and laughed at her own incompetence more than anyone else. Instead, having grown close to the children, she took care of Massoud with love and affection. And in the afternoon when Siamak came home from school, she worked with him on his homework, reviewed his lessons and practised dictation with him. In the meantime, I went to my classes at the university and started taking driving lessons. We had agreed that if I learned how to drive, it would be helpful in emergencies as well as vital to the children’s safety. The Citroën was still covered and parked in the yard. Shahrzad and Hamid believed that there was no suspicion directed at the car and that it was safe for me to drive it.

Massoud hardly left Shahrzad’s side and was constantly busy doing something for her. He drew a picture of a house and told her that it was their house, that when he grew up he would build it so that they could get married and live there together. Shahrzad pinned the drawing to the wall. Whenever Massoud came shopping with me, he would ask me to buy all his favourite foods so that he could give them to Shahrzad. On sunny days, he would search around the yard for interesting gifts for her. Since there were hardly any flowers in bloom at that time of year, he would often pluck a few blossoms from the thorny wintersweet bush and with bloody fingers offer them to Auntie Sheri who kept them as one would keep a precious object.

The longer she lived with us, the more I learned about her. She was a very simple woman. One could not describe her as beautiful, but she was attractive and charming. One day after she had taken a shower she asked me to cut her hair short.

‘Let me instead blow-dry it for you,’ I said. ‘It will dry faster and it will look beautiful.’

She didn’t object. Massoud stood and watched intently as I styled Shahrzad’s hair. He loved beauty and enjoyed observing women tend to themselves. Even when I wore the lightest shade of lipstick, he would notice and say something nice about it, but he preferred it when I wore red lipstick. After I finished blow-drying Shahrzad’s hair, he picked up a red lipstick and said, ‘Auntie Sheri, put this on.’

Shahrzad looked at me.

‘Well, put it on,’ I said. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

‘No, I’m too embarrassed.’

‘Embarrassed in front of whom? Me? Massoud? Besides, what is wrong with wearing a little lipstick?’

‘I don’t know. There is nothing wrong with it, but it’s inappropriate for me. It’s a bit too frivolous.’

‘What rubbish! You mean you have never worn make-up?’

‘I used to, when I was younger. And I liked it, but it’s been years…’

Massoud again insisted, ‘Auntie, put it on, put it on. If you don’t know how, I will put it on for you.’ He took the lipstick and put some on Shahrzad’s lips. Then he stood back and looked at her, his eyes full of admiration and joy. He clapped, laughed and said, ‘She looks so pretty! Look how pretty!’ And he leaped into her arms and gave her a big kiss on the cheek.

Shahrzad and I burst out laughing, but suddenly she grew quiet, put Massoud back down on the floor, and with utter simplicity and innocence she said, ‘I am jealous of you. You are a fortunate woman.’

‘Jealous of me?’ I said, surprised. ‘You are jealous of me?’

‘Yes! I think it is the first time I have felt this way.’

‘You must be joking. I am the one who should be jealous of you. I have always wished I was like you. You are an amazing woman: well educated, brave, a capable decision maker… I always think Hamid wishes he had a wife like you. And then you say… Oh, no! You must be joking. I am the one who should be jealous, but I don’t think I even deserve to be envious of you. I would be like the commoner who is jealous of the Queen of England.’

‘Nonsense. I am a nobody. You are far better and more complete than me. You are a lady, a good and loving wife, a kind and wise mother, eager to read and learn, and willing to make sacrifices for your family.’

Looking terribly sad, she sighed and got up from the chair. Instinctively, I knew she was longing to see her husband.

‘How is Mr Mehdi?’ I asked. ‘Has it been a long time since you saw him?’

‘Yes, almost two months. The last time was two weeks before I came here. Given the situation, we had to take two different escape routes.’

‘Do you have news of him?’

‘Yes, poor Hamid is constantly taking our messages back and forth.’

‘Why doesn’t he come here one night, in the middle of the night, so that you can see each other?’

‘It’s too dangerous. His coming here could make this house no longer safe. We have to be careful.’

I threw caution to the winds and said, ‘Hamid says your marriage was arranged by the organisation, but I don’t believe him.’

‘Why not?’

‘You two love each other like a husband and wife, not like colleagues.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I am a woman, I can recognise love, I can sense it. And you are not the type of woman who could share a bed with a man you don’t love.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have always loved him.’

‘Did you meet through the organisation?… Oh, I am sorry, I am being nosy. I take it back.’

‘No… it’s all right. I don’t mind. I haven’t had a friend to talk to in years. Of course, there were people close to me, but I was always the listener. It seems the need to talk is always there. You are perhaps the only friend I have had in recent years with whom I can talk about myself.’

‘I have had only one true friend in my life and I lost her years ago.’

‘Then it seems we need each other; me more so than you. At least you have your family, I don’t even have that. You cannot imagine how much I miss them, how much I miss the gossip, the family news, the simple chit-chat and the everyday issues. How long can one talk about politics and philosophy? Sometimes I wonder what is going on in our house and I realise that I have forgotten the names of some of the children in the family. They must have forgotten me, too. I am no longer a member of any family.’

‘But don’t you all believe that you belong to the masses and to the global family of the working class?’

She laughed and said, ‘You have learned quite a lot, haven’t you! Still, I miss my own family. But what was the question you asked?’

‘I asked, where did you and Mehdi meet?’

‘At the university. Of course, Mehdi was two years ahead of me. He had a great ability to lead and an astute, analytical mind. When I found out that the leaflets that were being distributed and the slogans that were appearing on the dormitory walls were his handiwork, he became my hero.’

‘You were not interested in politics at the time?’

‘Yes, I was. How could a university student claiming to be an intellectual not be interested in politics? Being a leftist and opposed to the regime was almost like an official duty for the students. Even those who weren’t true believers used politics to pose as intellectuals. There were very few real devotees like Mehdi. I still hadn’t read and learned enough. I didn’t really know what I believed in. Mehdi shaped my thoughts and beliefs. Although he came from a religious family, he had read the works of Marx, Engels and others, and he analysed them very well.’

‘So he tempted you to join the organisation?’

‘At the time, there was no organisation. We started it together much later. Perhaps if it wasn’t for Mehdi, I would have chosen a different path. But I am sure I would not have veered too far from politics.’

‘How did you end up getting married?’

‘The group was starting to take shape. I was from a traditional family and, like most Iranian girls, I couldn’t go out whenever I wanted to and I couldn’t stay out until late at night. One of the guys suggested that for me to be able to dedicate all my time to the cause, I should marry someone in the group. Mehdi agreed and like a real suitor he came to our house with his family and asked for my hand in marriage.’

‘Were you happy in your marriage?’

‘What can I say? Perhaps I did want to marry him, but I didn’t want the reason for our marriage to be the organisation and I didn’t want to be proposed to like that… I was young and romantic and under the influence of stupid bourgeois literature.’

 

On a foggy and freezing February night, at one o’clock in the morning and despite all the danger they had talked about, Mehdi quietly crept into the house. I had just fallen asleep when I was jolted awake by the sound of the front door. Hamid was relaxed and reading his book.

‘Hamid! Did you hear that? It was the front door. Someone has opened it!’

‘Go to sleep, it isn’t any of our business.’

‘What do you mean? Are you expecting someone?’

‘Yes, it’s Mehdi. I gave him the key.’

‘Didn’t you say it was too dangerous?’

‘They lost track of him some time ago. And we have taken every precaution. He needs to talk to Shahrzad; they’re at odds over a few issues and need to make certain decisions. I couldn’t be their go-between any more and we were forced to arrange a meeting.’

I wanted to laugh. What a strange couple! A husband and wife who used any excuse other than love and missing each other to be together.

Mehdi was supposed to leave early in the morning, but he didn’t. Hamid said they still hadn’t come to an agreement. I laughed and went about my work. Late in the afternoon when Hamid came home, the three of them talked and argued for hours behind closed doors. Shahrzad’s cheeks were rosy and she seemed more lively than usual, but she was avoiding my eyes and, just like a shy schoolgirl whose secret has been exposed, she was trying to act as if nothing had happened.

Mehdi stayed for three nights and in the middle of the fourth night he left as quietly as he had come. I don’t know if they ever saw each other again, but I am certain that those few days were the sweetest days of their lives. Massoud shared their seclusion and went from Mehdi’s arms to Shahrzad’s embrace, making them laugh with his sweet-talk and all the games and tricks he knew. From behind the honeycomb glass, I even saw Mehdi’s shadow going around the living room on all fours with Massoud riding on his back. It was so strange. I never thought a man who was so serious that he hardly ever smiled could develop such a close relationship with a child. Behind those doors, Mehdi and Shahrzad were themselves; their true selves.

After Mehdi left, Shahrzad was depressed and irritable for several days and kept herself busy reading. By then she had read almost all our books. She used to sleep with a volume of Forough’s poetry under her pillow.

Towards the end of February, she asked me to buy for her a few shirts and trousers and a large handbag with a strong shoulder strap. Every handbag I bought, she said it was too small. Finally, I gave up and said, ‘Then you want a duffel bag, not a handbag!’

‘Bravo, yes! And it shouldn’t be too big, it shouldn’t attract attention, it should be easy to carry, it should be just large enough to hold everything I have.’

I thought to myself, Including your gun? From the first day she arrived, I knew she had a gun and I was always terrified that the children might find it.

Shahrzad was getting ready to leave. She was just waiting for an order or a piece of news, which arrived in the middle of March and before the new year. She set aside her old clothes and bag and asked me to get rid of them. She packed her new clothes and other belongings in her new duffel bag and carefully arranged Massoud’s drawings at the very bottom, next to her gun. She was in a strange mood. She had grown tired of living in secret, staying indoors and being immobile; she craved fresh air, being on the street and among people, but now that the time had come for her to leave, she seemed sad and depressed. She kept hugging Massoud and saying, ‘How can I tear myself away from him?’ She would hold him tight and hide her tearful eyes in his hair.

Massoud had sensed that Shahrzad was preparing to leave. Every night before going to bed and every day before leaving the house with me, he would make her promise not to leave while he was gone, and at every opportunity he would tell her, ‘You want to leave? Why? Have I been bad? I promise not to come in your bed in the morning and wake you up any more… If you are going away, take me with you, otherwise you will get lost; you don’t know the streets around here.’ And with all this, he was making Shahrzad even more unhappy and uncertain, and he was not only making her heart ache, but mine as well.

On her last night with us, Shahrzad slept next to Massoud and told him stories, but she couldn’t hold back her tears. Massoud, who like all children saw and understood things through his heart’s eyes, held Shahrzad’s face in his small hands and said, ‘I know when I wake up in the morning you will be gone.’

At half past midnight, Shahrzad left the house as planned. From that very moment, I missed her and felt the void she had left behind.

Before leaving, she held me in her arms and said, ‘Thank you for everything. I leave my Massoud in your care. Watch over him. He is very sensitive. I am worried about his future.’ And then she turned to Hamid and said, ‘You are a fortunate man; value your life. You have a wonderful family. I don’t want anything to disrupt the peace and serenity of this home.’

Hamid looked at her with surprise and said, ‘Do you know what you are saying? Come on! Let’s go, it is getting late.’

The next day, when I went to clean and tidy up the living room, I took the volume of Forough’s poetry from under her pillow. There was a pencil tucked in it. I opened the book to that page and saw she had underlined these verses:

 

Which summit, which peak?

Give me refuge you flickering lights,

you bright mistrusting homes

on whose sunny rooftops laundered clothes

sway in the arms of scented soot.

Give me refuge you simple wholesome women

whose soft fingertips trace

the exhilarating movements of a fetus beneath your skin,

and in your open collars

the air forever mingles with the smell of fresh milk.

A tear rolled down my cheek. Massoud was standing in the doorway. With sorrow in his eyes he asked, ‘She’s gone?’

‘Good morning, my dear. Well, sooner or later she had to go back to her own home.’

He ran into my arms, put his head on my shoulder and cried. He never forgot his darling Auntie Sheri. Even years later, when he had turned into a vigorous young man, he would say, ‘I still dream of the house I have built for her and we live in it together.’

 

After Shahrzad left, I got busy preparing for the new year – spring cleaning, new clothes for the children, sewing new bed sheets, changing the living room curtains. I wanted the new year celebration to be a fun and exciting experience for the children. I tried to observe all the traditional customs and rituals and hoped that it would all be etched in their minds as a sweet memory of their childhood. Siamak was responsible for watering the seed sprouts we were growing on plates, Massoud was painting eggs, and Hamid would laugh and say, ‘I can’t believe you are doing all this. What are you wasting all this energy for?’

But I knew that, deep in his heart, he too was excited and happy about the new year. Ever since he had started spending most of his free time with us, he could no longer avoid being involved in our daily lives and unconsciously expressed his pleasure.

I hired someone to help me clean the house from the rooftop all the way down to the cellar. The scent of a new year wafted through the house.

For the first time, we went on the new year social calls as a complete family. We participated in new year events and even spent the traditional thirteenth-day celebrations on a picnic outside of town with Hamid’s family. After the holidays, happier and more energetic, I again became busy with my own and Siamak’s studies and the end of the school year exams.

Hamid was spending even more time at home, waiting for a telephone call that wouldn’t come. He was restless and impatient, but there was nothing he could do. I didn’t mind; I was pleased to have him home. With the end of the exams and the start of the summer, I planned various entertainments for the children. I wanted us to spend the entire summer together. Now that I had a driver’s licence, I had promised them that in the afternoons I would take them to the cinema, or the park, or to a party, or an amusement park. They were happy and content and I felt a strong sense of fulfilment.

 

One afternoon, on the way home from the park, I bought a newspaper, some bread and a few other groceries. Hamid had still not come home. I put everything away and started cutting the bread, which I had laid on top of the newspaper. As I cut the bread, the newspaper headline gradually emerged. I shoved the bread aside. The words stabbed into my eyes like daggers. I couldn’t fully grasp their meaning. As if struck by a bolt of electricity, I was frozen to the spot and trembling. I couldn’t take my eyes off the newspaper. There was a storm in my mind and a riot in my stomach. The children noticed my strange state and came over to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Just then, the door opened and Hamid rushed in, looking distraught. Our eyes met; so it was true, there was no need to say anything.

Hamid fell to his knees, pounded his fists on his thighs and hollered, ‘No!’ Then he keeled over and put his forehead on the floor.

He was in such a state that I forgot my own horror. The children were staring at us with fear and confusion. I collected myself, pushed them out and told them to go play in the yard. Looking back at us, they walked out without protest and I hurried over to Hamid. He put his head on my chest and wept like a child. I don’t know how long we sat there and cried. Hamid kept repeating, ‘Why? Why didn’t they tell me? Why didn’t they let me know?’

After a while, his rage and grief sparked him into action. He washed his face and ran out of the house like a madman. There was nothing I could do to stop him. All I said was, ‘Be careful, you may all be under surveillance. Be alert.’

I read the newspaper article. In the course of a military operation, Shahrzad and a few others had been trapped. To avoid falling into the hands of the SAVAK, they had all committed suicide by holding exploding grenades. I read the article over and over again, thinking that looking at it from different angles I might discover the truth, but the rest of the article was all the usual insults and the damning of traitors and saboteurs. I hid the newspaper so that Siamak wouldn’t see it. In the middle of the night, Hamid returned home exhausted and desperate. He threw himself on the bed still fully dressed and said, ‘Everything is in chaos. All the lines of communication have been severed.’

‘But they have your telephone number. They will call if it becomes necessary.’

‘Then why haven’t they called all this time? It has been more than a month since any of them contacted me. I knew about the operation; I was supposed to be part of it, I had been trained for it. I don’t understand why they put me aside. If I had been there, this would have never happened.’

‘You mean you would have single-handedly fought that massive military force and saved everyone? If you had been there, you would have been dead, too.’

And I thought to myself, Why did they not include him or contact him? Was it Shahrzad’s doing? Was she protecting Hamid’s family by excluding him?

 

Two or three weeks went by. Hamid was nervous and chain-smoking. He was waiting for news, jumping every time the telephone rang. He went to extreme lengths to track down Mehdi and the other key players, but he couldn’t find the slightest lead. Every day, there was news of more arrests. Hamid again checked the various escape routes. The printing house was purged and certain employees were dismissed. The days were fraught with events and incidents; danger floated in the air. We spent every second expecting a disaster or news of one.

‘Everyone is in hiding,’ I said. ‘Maybe they have all left. Go on a trip for a while and come back when everything has calmed down. You still haven’t been identified; you can leave the country.’

‘I will not leave the country under any circumstance.’

‘Then at least go to a small village, to one of the provinces, go somewhere far away and stay there until all this unrest quietens down.’

‘I will not be away from the home or office telephones. They may need me at any moment.’

I did my best to resume our normal routines, but nothing was normal. My soul was grieving and I was terrified for Hamid’s life. Shahrzad’s face and the memories of the few months we had spent together did not leave me for one instant.

The day after the news broke about the military operation, Siamak found the newspaper, took it to the rooftop and read the article. I was in the kitchen when he walked in looking pale and clutching the newspaper.

‘Did you read it?’ I asked.

He laid his head on my lap and cried.

‘Don’t let Massoud find out,’ I said.

But Massoud had figured it all out. He grew sad and quiet and often just sat in a corner. He stopped making things and drawing pictures for his Auntie Sheri. He stopped asking about her and was obsessively careful never to mention her name. A short time later, I noticed that his drawings now featured dark colours and strange scenes; colours and images that I had never seen in his pictures. I would ask him about them, but he wouldn’t tell a story or offer any explanation. I was afraid that the sadness that he neither spoke about nor forgot would permanently affect his gentle and cheerful soul. He was made to laugh, love and comfort others, not to grieve and suffer.

There was little I could do to shield my children from life’s painful experiences and the bitter realities that they would have to face. This, too, was part of their growing up.

 

Hamid was in an even worse condition than the boys. He aimlessly wandered around, sometimes he would disappear for a few days, but he would return no less distraught and I would know that he had not found what he was searching for. The last time he left, we had no news of him for more than a week. He didn’t even call to see if anyone had tried to contact him.

I was constantly anxious. Ever since Shahrzad’s death I no longer liked to buy the newspaper, but now every day, earlier than the day before, I would hurry to the news-stand and wait until the daily newspapers were delivered. I would stand on the street and leaf through each issue with trepidation and when I was certain there was no bad news, I would calm down and walk back home. In reality, I didn’t read the newspaper to learn the news, I wanted to make certain there was no news.

 

Towards the end of July, I finally read the news that I had dreaded. The twine that held the bundle of newspapers together had still not been cut when the large, black headline made me freeze. My knees started to shake and I gasped for air. I have no memory of how I paid for the newspaper and how I made my way back home.

The boys were playing in the yard. I quickly went upstairs and closed the door behind me. Right there behind the door, I sat down and spread the newspaper on the floor. I felt as though my heart was about to leap out of my throat. The article stated that the leadership of a terrorist organisation had been decimated and that our beloved country had been cleansed of those traitors. The list of names marched before my eyes. There were ten of them. Mehdi’s name was among them. I read the list again. No, Hamid’s name wasn’t there.

I felt faint; I didn’t know what emotion I was experiencing. I mourned those who had lost their lives, but there was a spark of hope gleaming in my heart. Hamid’s name wasn’t there. I thought, Then he is still alive, perhaps he is on the run, perhaps he has not even been identified and can come home. Thank God. But, what if he has been arrested? I was dazed and confused. Without much hope, I called the printing house; there was still an hour left of the work day, but there was no answer. I felt I was going to lose my mind. I wished there was someone I could talk to, someone I could consult with, someone to console me. I told myself that I had to be strong, that one single word of what was inside me could destroy us.

I spent the next two days in darkness and fear. Hoping to distract myself, I worked like a madwoman. On the second night, what I had subconsciously expected happened.

It was past midnight, I was about to fall asleep. I don’t know how they suddenly appeared in the middle of the house. Siamak ran to me, someone tossed Massoud who was screaming into my arms, a soldier was aiming a rifle at the three of us huddled on my bed. I don’t know how many they were, but they were all over the house, grabbing and throwing everything they could get their hands on into the middle of the rooms. I could hear Bibi’s terrified voice downstairs and it added to my panic. They threw the contents of every dresser, cabinet, closet, shelf and suitcase in a heap; with knives they tore through sheets, mattresses and pillows. I didn’t know what they were looking for. I kept thinking, This is good news, Hamid must still be alive, he has not been arrested, that is why they are here… But what if he has been caught and they are gathering all these books and documents and letters as evidence… and who gave them our address?

All these thoughts and a thousand other vague ones were rushing through my mind. Massoud clung to me and stared at the soldiers, Siamak sat quietly on the bed. I took his hand; it was ice cold and trembling faintly. I looked at his face. He was all eyes; he was monitoring their every move. I saw something on his face other than fear and it made me shudder. I will forever remember the flames of rage and hatred that blazed in the eyes of that nine-year-old boy. I thought of Bibi and realised that I hadn’t heard her voice for some time. I wondered what had happened to her. I wondered if she was dead. The soldiers told us to get off the bed. They tore through the mattress, then again told us to get back on the bed and to stay there.

The sun had risen by the time they left our home, carrying documents, papers and books. Massoud had been asleep for about half an hour, but Siamak still sat there, pale and silent. It took me a while to muster the courage to climb down from the bed. I kept thinking one of them must be hiding somewhere, watching us. I searched the rooms. Siamak followed me everywhere. I opened the door and walked outside. No, there was no one there. I ran down the stairs. The door to Bibi’s bedroom was wide open and she lay sprawled sideways on her bed. I thought, My God, she is dead. But when I reached her, I heard her rasping and trying to breathe. I propped her up on a couple of pillows, poured a glass of water and tried to trickle some in her mouth. There was no longer any need to try to conceal anything. There was no secret left for me to be afraid of divulging. I picked up the telephone and called Hamid’s father. He tried to remain calm and I sensed that the news wasn’t all that startling to him; it was as if he expected it.

I went through the house. Everything was in such disarray that I thought I could never put things back in order again. My house was in ruins. It looked like a ravaged country after the enemy has left. I wondered, Do I now have to sit and wait for casualties?

There were such huge piles of odds and ends in Bibi’s few rooms that I wondered how she had fitted in so many useless things. Old curtains, hand-stitched tablecloths with stains that had not come out after multiple washes, old decorative pieces of cloth, small and large pieces of leftover fabric from clothes that had been sewn, worn and thrown away many years ago, warped and yellowed old forks, chipped and broken plates and bowls waiting for a china repair man who never came… Really, why did Bibi keep all those things? What part of her life was she searching for in them?

There was true mayhem down in the cellar – broken chairs and tables, empty bottles of milk and soda scattered around in the dirt, mounds of rice that had poured out of slashed burlap sacks…

 

Hamid’s parents walked into the house and looked around in disbelief. Seeing the state everything was in, his mother screamed and burst into tears. She kept crying, ‘What has become of my child? Where is my Hamid?’

I looked at her with surprise. Yes, one could cry, but I was as cold and hard as ice. My brain would not cooperate with me. It refused to grasp the magnitude of the disaster.

Hamid’s father quickly carried Bibi to the car and forced Hamid’s mother to follow them. I had no will or energy to help or console anyone or to answer any questions. I was void of emotion. All I knew was that I couldn’t sit still and I kept walking from room to room. I don’t know how long it took for Hamid’s father to come back. He took Siamak in his arms and broke into tears. I watched him with indifference. He seemed to be miles away from me.

Massoud’s unrelenting and terrified screams finally brought me back. I ran towards the stairs and picked him up. He was drenched in sweat and trembling.

‘It’s all right, son,’ I said. ‘Don’t be afraid. It’s all right.’

‘Gather your things,’ Hamid’s father said. ‘You will stay with us for a few days.’

‘No, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I am more comfortable here.’

‘You can’t stay here. It’s not wise.’

‘No, I’m going to stay. Hamid may try to contact me. He may need me.’

He shook his head and firmly said, ‘No, my dear. There is no need. Collect your things. If you are more comfortable at your father’s house, I will take you there. I guess our house isn’t all that safe either.’

I realised he knew more than he was saying, but I didn’t have the courage to ask. I didn’t want to know. Amid all that chaos and confusion, I managed to find a large duffel bag. I grabbed any piece of the boys’ clothing that I could see and stuffed them in the bag, then gathered a few things for myself as well. I didn’t have the energy to change my clothes; I just threw on a chador over my nightgown and walked down the stairs with the boys. Hamid’s father locked the doors behind us.

I didn’t speak a word during the entire drive. Hamid’s father talked to the boys and tried to distract them. As soon as we arrived at Father’s house, the boys jumped out of the car and ran inside. I looked at them. They were still wearing their pyjamas. They seemed so small and defenceless.

‘Look, my girl,’ Hamid’s father said, ‘I know you are scared, you are in shock, it has been a terrible blow, but you have to be strong, you have to face reality. How long are you going to sit there dazed and silent and in a world of your own? Your children need you. You have to take care of them.’

At last, my tears started to flow. I wept and asked, ‘What has happened to Hamid?’

He leaned his forehead on the steering wheel and remained silent.

‘He is dead! Isn’t he? He has been killed, just like the others. Hasn’t he?’

‘No, my dear, he is alive. That much we know.’

‘Have you heard from him? Tell me! I swear I won’t tell anyone. He is hiding in the printing house, isn’t he?’

‘No. They raided the printing house two days ago. They turned it inside out and shut it down.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me? Was Hamid there?’

‘Almost… he was near by.’

‘Well?’

‘He is under arrest.’

‘No!’

For a while, I couldn’t say anything. And then I impulsively said, ‘So in fact, he too is dead. He was more afraid of being arrested than of being killed.’

‘Don’t think like this. Have hope. I will do whatever I can. I have called on a thousand people since yesterday. I have met with a few well-connected officials and lined up a whole lot of acquaintances, and I have an appointment with a lawyer later today. Everyone says we should be hopeful. I am optimistic. And you have to help me by staying in constant contact with us. For now, we should thank God he is alive.’

 

I spent the next three days in bed. I wasn’t sick, but I was so drained and exhausted that I couldn’t do anything. It was as if the fears and anxieties of the past several months, together with that final blow, had sapped me of all energy and strength. Massoud would sit next to me and stroke my hair. He would try to force me to eat and watched over me like a nurse. All the while, Siamak walked around the reflecting pool in total silence. He didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t fight, didn’t break things and didn’t play. There was a disquieting glint in his deep, dark gaze that scared me more than his temper tantrums and aggressions. Overnight, he seemed fifteen years older and had the temperament of a tense and bitter man.

On the third day, I finally got out of bed. I had no choice. I had to carry on with my life. Mahmoud, who had just learned what had happened, came to Father’s house with his wife and children. Ehteram-Sadat was talking incessantly but I had no patience for any of it. Mahmoud was in the kitchen, talking to Mother. I knew he had come hoping to gather more information. Faati came into the room, put the tea tray on the floor and sat down next to me. Just then, I heard Siamak’s thunderous and hysterical screams come from the yard. I ran to the window. With hatred in his voice, he was shouting obscenities at Mahmoud and hurling rocks at him. Then he suddenly swung around and with surprising force pushed poor Gholam-Ali into the pool, then picked up a flowerpot and flung it to the ground, shattering it. I didn’t know what had made him that furious, but I knew it wasn’t without cause. I actually felt relieved. After three days, he was finally releasing his emotions.

Ali ran over to Siamak, yelled at him to shut up and raised his hand to strike him in the mouth. The world turned dark before my eyes. ‘Put your hand down!’ I screamed. Then I jumped into the yard through the window and lunged at Ali like a tigress protecting her cub. ‘If you ever raise a hand to my child again I will tear you to pieces!’ I shouted.

I held Siamak in my arms. He was shaking with rage. Everyone was staring at me in silence and surprise. Ali took a step back and said, ‘I just wanted to shut him up. Look at the havoc he has raised. Look at what he did to this poor boy.’ And he pointed to Gholam-Ali who was standing next to his mother like a drenched mouse, sniffling.

‘Didn’t you hear the horrible things he said to his uncle?’ Ali said.

‘His uncle must have said something to make him this angry,’ I retorted. ‘He hasn’t made a sound in this house for three days.’

‘This urchin isn’t even worthy of me talking to him,’ Mahmoud scowled. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for selling out your brother for an imp of a child? You will never learn, will you?’

 

By the time Father came home, the house was again quiet. It was the calm after a storm that gives everyone a chance to take a measure of the damage. Mahmoud and his wife and children had left; Ali was in his room upstairs; Mother was crying and didn’t know whether she should side with me or with her sons; Faati was hovering over me and helping me pack the children’s clothes.

‘What are you doing?’ Father asked.

‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘My children shouldn’t grow up being mistreated and castigated, especially not by their kin.’

‘What happened?’ Father snapped.

‘What can I say?’ Mother lamented. ‘Poor Mahmoud was only showing his concern. He was talking to me in the kitchen and the boy overheard us. You won’t believe the hell he raised. And then the sister and brothers got into a fight.’

Father turned to me and said, ‘No matter what has happened, I will not let you go back to that house tonight.’

‘No, Father, I have to go. I haven’t enrolled the children in school and classes start next week. I haven’t taken care of anything yet.’

‘Fine, go, but not tonight and not alone.’

‘Faati will come with me.’

‘Wonderful! What a great protector! I mean there should be a man with you. The house may be raided again. Two women and two young boys shouldn’t be there alone. Tomorrow, we will go together.’

He was right; we had to wait another night. After dinner, Father asked Siamak to sit with him and he started talking to him the way he used to do when Siamak was younger.

‘Well, my son, now tell me what happened that made you so angry,’ Father quietly said.

And just like a tape recording, and unaware that he was imitating Mahmoud, Siamak said, ‘I heard him tell Grandmother, “The louse is a subversive. Sooner or later, they will execute him. I never liked him or his family. I knew they were up to no good. I guess we shouldn’t have expected any better from a suitor that Mrs Parvin introduced. How many times did I tell you to marry her off to Haji Agha…”’ Siamak paused for a few seconds. ‘Haji Agha something or other.’

‘Probably Haji Agha Abouzari,’ Father said.

‘Yes, that’s it. And then Uncle Mahmoud said, “But you said he was too old, that he had been married before, and you ignored the fact that he was a pious man and had a shop in the bazaar stocked with merchandise. Instead, you gave her to a faithless two-bit communist. That filth, he deserves what he gets. He should be executed.”’

Father held Siamak’s head against his chest and kissed his hair.

‘Don’t listen to any of this,’ he said gently. ‘They are not smart enough to understand. Your father is a good man. Rest assured that they will not execute him. I talked to your grandfather today. He said he has hired a lawyer. God willing, everything will work out.’

I spent the entire night thinking about how we were supposed to live without Hamid. What was I to do with the children? What were my responsibilities? How was I going to protect them from what people said?

 

The next morning we returned to our war-torn house with Father, Mrs Parvin and Faati. Father was shocked to see the state of my home. As he was leaving he said, ‘I will send the boys from the shop to come and help. This is more work than you three women can handle.’ Then he took some money from his pocket and said, ‘Take this for now and let me know if you need more.’

‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t need any money right now.’

But his offer made me think about our financial situation. How was I going to cover our expenses? Would I have to be forever dependent on my father or on Hamid’s father or on others? I was again overwhelmed with anxiety. I tried to comfort myself; the printing house would reopen and resume work, and Hamid was a shareholder.

For three entire days, Faati, Mrs Parvin, Siamak, Massoud, Father’s employees and occasionally Mother worked with me until we finally restored some order in the house. Hamid’s mother and sisters came to tidy up Bibi’s rooms downstairs. By then, Bibi had been released from the hospital and was convalescing at their house.

In the process, I went down to the cellar and threw away all the odds and ends.

‘God bless the SAVAK,’ Faati laughed. ‘They made you finally discover what’s in this house and forced you to do a major spring clean!’

 

The next day, I enrolled the boys in school. Poor Massoud started year one in such poor spirits and, unlike Siamak, he tried so hard not to give me any trouble. On the first day of school, I could read in his eyes his fear of that unknown environment, but he said nothing. When I was saying goodbye to him, I said, ‘You are a good boy and you will quickly find friends. I am sure your teacher will like you very much.’

‘Will you come to pick me up?’ he asked.

‘Of course I will. Do you think I will forget my kind and darling son?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just afraid you will get lost.’

‘Me? Get lost? No, my dear, adults don’t get lost.’

‘Yes, they do. And we can’t find them again; just like Daddy and Shahrzad.’

It was the first time since Shahrzad’s death that he had spoken her name, and her full name, not Auntie Sheri, which is what he used to call her. I didn’t know what to say. I wondered how he had interpreted their disappearance in his young mind. I took him in my arms and said, ‘No, my son. Mothers don’t get lost. They know the scent of their children and they follow it and find their children wherever they may be.’

‘Then, don’t you cry while I’m not there!’ he said.

‘No, son, I won’t cry. When did I ever cry?’

‘You always cry when you are alone in the kitchen.’

There was nothing I could hide from that child. With a lump in my throat, I said, ‘Crying isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes we need to cry. It makes our heart feel lighter. But I won’t cry any more.’

As time went on, Massoud proved to be just as trouble free at school. He did his homework on time and was careful to never upset me. The one effect of that night that remained in him and which he couldn’t hide from me were his terrified screams that would wake us up in the middle of the night.

 

Two months passed. The universities opened. But the last thing on my mind was going to classes. Every day, Hamid’s father and I went to see different people, made requests, pleaded and begged, lined up contacts and connections; we even wrote to the office of Queen Farah pleading that Hamid not be tortured and executed and asking to have him transferred to an ordinary prison. Several influential people made promises, but we were not sure to what extent our efforts were effective and what Hamid’s circumstances really were.

Sometime later, a trial was held and it was determined that Hamid had not participated in armed activities. He was saved from being executed and was instead sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Eventually, we were given permission to take him clothes, food and letters. Every Monday I would stand at the prison gates, holding a large bag of food, clothes, books and writing materials. Much of it was usually returned to me on the spot and of those items the prison guards did accept, I didn’t know what was in fact delivered to him.

The first time they gave me his dirty clothes to wash, I was startled by their strange smell. They smelled of stale blood, of infection, of misery. Terrified, I inspected every piece. The sight of blood and pus stains drove me insane. I closed the bathroom door, turned the taps on full and wept to the roaring sound of water pouring in the bath. What was he suffering in prison? Would it not have been better if he had died the way Shahrzad and Mehdi died? Was he spending every second praying for death? Over time, by carefully examining his clothes I learned about his injuries and their severity. I knew which ones were more serious and which ones were healing.

Time was passing and there was no indication that the printing house would be allowed to reopen. Every month, Hamid’s father gave me some money for us to live on, but how long could that go on? I had to make a decision. I had to find a job. I was neither a child, nor incapable. I was a woman responsible for two children and I didn’t want to raise them on the charity of others. Sitting still, whining and holding my hand out in front of this and that person was beneath me, beneath my children, and especially beneath Hamid. We had to live with honour and pride; we had to stand on our own two feet. But how? What work could I do?

The first thought that occurred to me was to become a seamstress and to work for Mrs Parvin, with Faati’s assistance. Although I wasted no time getting started, I hated the work, especially because I had to go to Mother’s and Mrs Parvin’s houses every day where I had to face Ali and occasionally Mahmoud, and I had to tolerate Mother’s reprimands.

‘Didn’t I tell you sewing is the most important thing for a girl?’ she would say. ‘But you didn’t listen and wasted your time going to school.’

Every night I read the employment classifieds in the newspapers and every day I went to different firms and companies to apply for a job. Most of the private companies were looking for secretaries. Hamid’s father cautioned me about work environments and certain issues that working women faced. His warnings were valid. In some offices I was leered at and appraised from head to toe as if they were selecting a lover, not an employee. It was in the course of these interviews that I realised having a school diploma was not enough. I needed other skills. I went to two sessions of a typing class and after I learned the basic rules I stopped going because I had neither the time nor the money to pay for the tuition. Hamid’s father gave me an old typewriter and I spent the nights practising. Then he introduced me to an acquaintance who worked in a government agency. The day I went for my interview, I found myself face to face with a man aged thirty-one or thirty-two with piercing, intelligent eyes who looked at me with curiosity and in the course of the interview tried to discover the information I was not volunteering.

‘You have written here that you are married. What does your husband do?’

I hesitated. I thought because Hamid’s father had made the introductions, he might know about my circumstances. I mumbled that my husband was a freelancer and unaffiliated with a company. I could tell by his look and his sarcastic grin that he didn’t believe me.

Weary and tense, I said, ‘I am the one looking for a job, so why is my husband any of your business?’

‘I was told you have no other source of income.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Mr Motamedi, the vice-president who recommended you.’

‘Would you not hire me if I did have another source of income? Aren’t you looking for a secretary?’

‘Yes, madam, we are. But there are many applicants who are better educated and more qualified than you. In fact, I don’t understand why Mr Motamedi recommended you, and so strongly!’

I didn’t know what to say. Hamid’s father had told me that when I went to job interviews I should never mention that my husband was in prison. Yet, I couldn’t lie, because sooner or later I would be found out. Besides, I needed a job and that position was well suited to me. I was desperate and losing hope. With tears rolling down my cheeks and in a voice that was barely audible, I said, ‘My husband is in prison.’

‘For what?’ he asked with a frown.

‘He is a political prisoner.’

He grew quiet. I didn’t dare speak and he didn’t ask any more questions. He started to write something and after a few seconds he looked up. He seemed upset. He handed me a note and said, ‘Don’t discuss your husband with anyone. Take this note to the office next door and give it to Mrs Tabrizi. She will explain your responsibilities to you. You start tomorrow.’

 

The news of my taking a job exploded like a bomb.

With eyes that seemed to be popping out of their sockets, Mother asked, ‘You mean in an office? Like men?’

‘Yes. There is no difference between men and women any more.’

‘May God take my life! The things you say! It’s the day of reckoning! I don’t think your father and brothers will allow it.’

‘It is none of their business,’ I snapped. ‘No one has the right to interfere in my life and the lives of my children. Everything they did to me in the past was enough. Now I am a married woman. It’s not as if my husband is dead. He and I have power over my life. Therefore, it is best that they don’t belittle themselves.’

This simple ultimatum closed everyone’s mouth. Although I didn’t think Father was too opposed to my working, as he had on several occasions expressed his pleasure that I was standing on my own two feet and not relying on my brothers.

The job proved effective in boosting my morale. I started feeling a certain sense of self and security. Although I was often exhausted, I was proud of not needing anyone.

 

At the agency, I was an assistant and an office manager. I did everything; I typed, answered the telephones, did the filing, oversaw certain accounts and sometimes even translated letters and documents. At first everything was difficult. I found every one of my duties confusing and overwhelming. But barely two weeks later, I had a better understanding of my responsibilities. Mr Zargar, who was now my supervisor, patiently explained everything to me and monitored my work. But he never again asked me about my private life or expressed any curiosity about Hamid. Gradually, I started correcting grammatical and stylistic mistakes in the texts I was given to type. After all, I had been studying Persian literature at the university and had spent half my time during the past decade reading books. My supervisor’s attention and encouragement gave me more confidence. Eventually, he would simply tell me what he wanted to express in a letter or a report and I would write it for him.

I enjoyed my work, but I was facing a problem that I had not thought of before. I could no longer go to the prison every week and it had been three weeks since I had had any news of Hamid. I was worried. I told myself, No matter how, I must go there this week.

The day before, I prepared everything. I cooked a few dishes and packed some fruit, pastries and cigarettes. Early the next morning, I went to the prison. The guard at the front gate rudely and sarcastically asked, ‘What’s the matter? You couldn’t sleep last night so you showed up at the crack of dawn? I’m not going to accept any deliveries this early.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘I have to be at work by eight o’clock.’

He started mocking and insulting me.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ I said. ‘What kind of language is this?’

It was as if he was waiting for me to object so that he would have an excuse to make every vulgar comment about me and my husband. Even though over time I had faced every insult and disrespect, until then no one had cursed us in that manner and shouted obscenities at me. I was shaking with rage. I wanted to tear him to pieces, but I didn’t dare utter a single word. I was afraid Hamid would no longer receive my letters and at least a small portion of the food I brought.

With trembling lips and swallowing my tears, insulted and broken, I went to work, still carrying the bag. With his sharp eyes, Mr Zargar noticed how distraught I was and called me to his office. While handing me a letter to type, he asked, ‘What is the matter, Mrs Sadeghi? You don’t seem well today.’ I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand and I explained what had happened. He shook his head angrily and after a brief silence he said, ‘You should have told me sooner. Don’t you know what emotional state your husband will be in if he doesn’t hear from you this week either? Go quickly and don’t come back until you have delivered everything to him. And from now on, you will come to work on Mondays after you have dropped off his things at the prison. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, but sometimes I have to wait until noon. What can I do about my absenteeism? I can’t lose this job.’

‘Don’t worry about your job,’ he said. ‘I will write it down as you being away on office business. This is the least I can do for these selfless men and women.’

How kind and understanding he was. I saw similarities between him and Massoud and I thought my son would grow up to be like him.

 

Over time, the children and I adapted to the new routine of life. The boys consciously did their best to not create any new problems for me. We ate breakfast together every morning and got ready for the day. Even though their school wasn’t too far away, I drove them there in the same Citroën 2CV that had been a true saviour during this time. At lunchtime they walked home, bought bread on the way, warmed up the food I had prepared ahead, ate and took some downstairs for Bibi, too. The poor woman had been ailing terribly ever since her hospital stay, but she didn’t want to live anywhere other than in her own home, which meant we had to take care of her as well. Every day after work, I would do our shopping and then stop by to see her. I would clear away her dishes, tidy her room and chat with her for a while before going upstairs. And then the housework would start. Washing, cleaning, cooking for the next day, giving the boys their dinner, helping them with their homework and a thousand other chores that would take until eleven or twelve o’clock to finish. Finally, I would collapse like a corpse and sleep. Given all that, I no longer thought I could continue my education. I had already lost one year and it seemed I would have to lose many more.

 

That year, another event distracted us for a while. After many family fights and arguments, Faati got married. Mahmoud, who felt he had learned a lesson from my marriage, was determined to have Faati marry a devout bazaar merchant like himself. Faati, who unlike me was meek and easily bullied, did not dare object to the suitor Mahmoud recommended, even though she despised the man. Apparently, the punishments I had suffered had left such an impression on her that she seemed to have forever lost her self-confidence and the ability to voice her opinion. As a result, the responsibility of defending her rights fell on my shoulders, which once and for all confirmed my title as the family’s fighting cock.

This time, however, I acted with greater wisdom. Without engaging in any discussions with Mahmoud or Mother, I privately talked to Father. I shared with him Faati’s point of view and asked him to not bring about the misery of yet another daughter by consenting to a forced marriage. Although my footprints were later detected in Father’s decision and made Mahmoud loathe me more than ever before, still, the marriage did not take place. Instead, Faati married another suitor whom Uncle Abbas had introduced and whom Faati had taken a liking to.

Sadegh Khan, Faati’s husband, was a kind, handsome and educated young man who came from a cultured middle-class family and worked as an accountant in a government agency. Although he was not wealthy and Mahmoud contemptuously described him as a wage-earner, Faati was happy, and the boys and I liked him. Understanding my sons’ need for a father, Sadegh Khan developed a friendly relationship with them, often arranging entertainments for them and taking them on outings.

 

Our life had almost settled into a regular routine. I liked my job and I had found good friends who filled the lunch hours and idle times with jokes, laughter and gossip. Often our discussions were about Mr Shirzadi, one of the departmental directors, who disliked me and always found fault with everything I did. Everyone said he was a sensitive man and an excellent poet, but I saw nothing in him other than hostility and a foul temper, so I was careful not to cross paths with him or give him any excuse to criticise me. Yet he constantly made wisecracks and snide remarks, insinuating that I had been hired through internal connections and that I was not qualified for my job. My friends told me not to worry, that it was just his disposition, but I felt he was more ill-tempered with me than with anyone else. I knew that behind my back he called me Mr Zargar’s belle. Over time, I too developed a strong dislike of him.

‘The only thing he doesn’t look like is a poet,’ I would tell my friends. ‘He looks more like a Mafioso. Poetry requires a delicate soul, not all this arrogance, aggression and spite. The poems are probably not even his. Perhaps he threw a miserable poet in prison and now holds a knife to the guy’s throat to write poetry under his name.’ And everyone would laugh.

I think all this talk finally reached his ears. One day he used the excuse of a few small typographical errors to tear up a ten-page report that I had worked hard to prepare and he tossed the pieces on my desk. I lost my temper and I screamed, ‘Do you even know what is bothering you? You are constantly looking for excuses to criticise my work. What wrong have I ever done to you?’

‘Huh! Madam, you can’t do any wrong to me,’ he growled. ‘I have read your hand. Do you think I am like Zargar and Motamedi and you can wrap me around your little finger? I know the likes of you very well.’

I was shaking with anger and was about to answer him when Mr Zargar walked in and asked, ‘What is going on? Mr Shirzadi, what is the matter?’

‘What is the matter?’ he snarled. ‘She doesn’t know how to do her job. She is two days late and she hands me a report full of mistakes. This is what happens when you hire an illiterate woman just because she is pretty and has the right connections. Now you have to live with the consequences.’

‘Watch what you are saying,’ Mr Zargar snapped. ‘Control yourself. Please come into my office, I would like to have a word with you.’ And he put his hand on Mr Shirzadi’s back and practically pushed him into his office.

I was holding my head between my hands and trying hard not to cry. My friends gathered around me and tried to comfort me. Abbas-Ali, the janitor on our floor who always looked out for me, brought me a glass of hot water and candied sugar and I busied myself with work.

An hour later, Mr Shirzadi walked into my office, stood in front of my desk and while trying to avoid looking into my eyes, he begrudgingly said, ‘I am sorry. Please forgive me.’ And he quickly walked out.

Stunned, I looked at Mr Zargar who was standing in the doorway and I asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. Forget what happened. This is how he is. He is a good man with a kind heart, but he is also tense and sensitive about certain things.’

‘About me, for instance?’

‘Not you exactly, but anyone who he thinks has usurped someone else’s rights.’

‘Whose rights have I usurped?’

‘Don’t take it seriously,’ Mr Zargar said. ‘Before we hired you, he recommended we promote one of his assistants who had just earned his university degree. We had almost finished the process when you were referred to me for the position. Before I interviewed you, I promised Shirzadi that I would not be influenced by Motamedi’s request, but I hired you and he considers this unfair and prejudicial. Naturally, being as sensitive as he is, he can’t tolerate what he calls an “injustice”. Ever since then, he has become my adversary and yours. He already disliked Motamedi because he has an inherent animosity towards executives and superiors.’

‘It seems he is right,’ I said. ‘I really have taken someone else’s rights. But knowing all this, why did you hire me?’

‘Come on! Have I now ended up owing you something? I thought with his qualifications, the other candidate could find another job. As a matter of fact, he was hired a week later. But given your circumstances, you would have had a difficult time finding work. In any case, with my profound apologies, I had to tell Shirzadi about your husband. But don’t worry, he is a trustworthy man. Between you and me, he has been tangled up in politics all his life.’

The next day, Mr Shirzadi came to my office. He looked pale and sad and his eyes were red and swollen. For a while he stood there looking uncomfortable, but finally he said, ‘You know, I can’t help it. My anger runs too deep.’ And he went on to recite one of his poems about how rage has taken root in his soul and turned him into a rabid wolf. ‘I have mistreated you,’ he said. ‘To be honest, your work is actually quite good. I had a tough time finding errors in it, when the two-sentence letters these bosses and executives write are filled with a thousand mistakes.’

Mr Shirzadi became one of my best supporters and friends. Unlike Mr Zargar, he was very curious about Hamid’s political activities, the group he belonged to and the circumstances under which he was arrested. His passion and excitement to hear what I had to say made me open up when in fact I had no interest in talking about any of this. At the same time, his compassion was laced with such anger and hatred towards the regime that it frightened me. Once as I was talking, I noticed that his face had turned almost blue.

‘Are you well?’ I asked, concerned.

‘No, I am not,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, I often feel this way. You have no idea what goes on inside me.’

‘What?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps I feel the same way but I just can’t verbalise it.’

As usual, he started to recite a poem. This one was about a city mourning the massacre of the masses while he remained as thirsty for revenge as a fasting man thirsts for water on a scorching-hot noon.

No! I who had suffered the greatest blows had never experienced anger and sorrow this profound. One day he asked me about the night our home was raided. I told him a little about what had happened. Suddenly he lost control and fearlessly shouted in verse that the tribe of aggressors had turned the city into a city of wild dogs and the lions were nowhere to be found but in the pastures.

Terrified, I leaped up and closed the door. ‘For the love of God, people will hear you,’ I pleaded. ‘That SAVAK agent is on this floor.’ In those days, we believed that half our colleagues were SAVAK agents and we treated them with dread and caution.

From then on, Mr Shirzadi started reading his poems to me, just one of which would have been enough to result in the execution of whoever composed it or recited it. I understood and grasped their meaning with my flesh and blood and committed them to memory. Shirzadi was one of the survivors of the political defeats of the 1950s, which had left his young and sensitive spirit crushed and had led him into a life of bitterness. I observed him and wondered whether the harsh experiences of childhood and youth were always this everlasting. And I found my answer in one of his poems about the failed 1953 coup d’état, in which he wrote that, from that moment on, his eyes always perceived the sky as floating in a sea of blood and saw the sun and the moon only through the glint of a dagger.

The more I got to know Mr Shirzadi, the more I worried about Siamak. I often recalled the rage and hatred I had seen in his eyes on the night our house was raided and I asked myself, Will he become like Shirzadi? Will he, too, surrender to loathing and loneliness instead of embracing hope, joy and the beauties of life? Do social and political issues leave such permanent scars on susceptible souls? My son! I had to find a solution.

 

Summer had come to an end. It was almost a year since Hamid’s arrest. Given the court’s sentence, we had to live another fourteen years without him. We had no choice but to get used to our circumstances. Waiting had become the main objective of our lives.

The time for registering for classes at the university was getting close. I had to decide to either give up for ever on continuing my education and take that old wish to my grave, or sign up for classes and accept the hardship it would place on myself and on my children. I knew the courses would become more difficult each term. I also knew that with the limited time I had, I would not be able to coordinate my classes so that they would not interfere with my work. Even if my superiors didn’t complain, I felt I didn’t have the right to take advantage of their kindness and consideration.

Yet, my job had proven to me the value of higher education. Each time others bossed me around and felt that they could blame me for their mistakes simply because they were better educated than me, I felt sorry for myself and the desire to go to university rekindled in my heart. Also, for years to come I would have to single-handedly manage and support our lives, and I had been thinking about finding a means to earn a higher salary that would meet the future needs of my children. Clearly, having a university degree would make a big difference in my situation.

As I expected, everyone in my family believed that I should give up the idea of going back to university. But what I found surprising was that Hamid’s family felt the same way.

‘You are under a lot of pressure,’ Hamid’s father said sympathetically. ‘Don’t you think managing both a job and the university will be too much for you?’

With her usual anxiety, Hamid’s mother interrupted him and said, ‘You are at work from morning until late afternoon, and I guess you will then want to go to the university. But what about these boys? Why don’t you think about these innocent children who will be left all alone?’

Manijeh, who was in the last months of her pregnancy and who had for years failed the university entrance exams and had finally given up and got married, turned to her parents and said with her usual smugness, ‘Don’t you understand? It’s all about rivalry! After all, our Mansoureh went to university.’

I tried to control myself, but I had become less tolerant. I was no longer an awkward and clumsy girl from the provinces to put up with snide remarks and to have my needs and desires dismissed as unimportant. The anger that simmered inside me washed away my doubts and fears.

‘Now that I have to be both mother and father to my children and to financially support them,’ I said, ‘I have to think about earning a higher salary. My current income is not enough to pay for their future needs and their expenses are increasing from one day to the next. And please don’t worry; your grandchildren will not suffer from any lack of love and attention. I have thought of everything.’

In truth, I had thought of nothing. That night I sat with the boys and tried to explain everything to them. They listened carefully as I listed the pros and cons of my going back to university. When I said that the biggest problem was that I would have to come home later than I already did, Siamak pretended he was no longer listening to me and started playing with his toy car that made a hideous noise. I realised he was not willing to accept spending any more time alone than he already did. I stopped talking and looked at Massoud. With innocent eyes, he was observing the expression on my face. Then he got up, walked over to me, stroked my hair and said, ‘Mummy, do you really want to go to university?’

‘Look, my dear, if I go back, we will all benefit. It will be a little difficult, but it will end soon. And in return, I will be able to earn more money and we will have a better life.’

‘No… I mean do you really like going to university?’

‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘I worked hard to be able to go to university.’

‘Then go. If you like to, go. We will do our own chores and when it gets dark we will go downstairs and stay with Bibi so we don’t get scared. Maybe Dad will come back by then and we won’t be alone.’

Siamak threw his toy car across the room and said, ‘What a stupid child! It’s not like Dad is some place where he can come back whenever he wants to. He can’t!’

‘Look, my dear,’ I said gently. ‘We have to be optimistic and hopeful. Just the fact that Daddy is alive is reason enough for us to be grateful. And he will eventually come back home.’

‘What are you saying?’ Siamak snapped. ‘You want to fool a kid? Grandfather said Dad has to stay in prison for fifteen years.’

‘But a lot can happen in fifteen years. As a matter of fact, every year their sentence is reduced for good behaviour.’

‘Yes, then it will be ten years. What’s the use? By then I will be twenty, what would I need a father for? I want my dad now, right now!’

Again, I wallowed in doubt. At the office my friends believed I should not lose the opportunity to finish studying for my degree. Mr Zargar encouraged me, saying he would arrange for me to take classes during the day on the condition that I finish my work after office hours.

Coincidentally, it was during those days that the authorities finally agreed to my repeated requests for us to be granted permission to visit Hamid. I was both happy and nervous. I called Hamid’s father and he quickly came over to the house. ‘I won’t tell his mother and you shouldn’t tell the children,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what shape Hamid is in. If we see that he is presentable, we will take them next time.’

His words added to my anxiety. All night, I dreamed that Hamid was brought to me, broken and bloody, just so that he could spend the last moments of his life in my arms. Tired and nervous, we set out early the next morning. I don’t know whether the visiting room and its windows were all dusty or I was seeing everything from behind a veil of tears. Finally, they brought Hamid. Contrary to our expectations, he was clean and neat, his hair was combed and his face was shaven. But he was unbelievably thin and gaunt. Even his voice sounded different. For a few minutes none of us could speak. His father regained his composure before we did and asked him about the conditions in prison. Hamid gave him a sharp look that suggested he had asked an inappropriate question and said, ‘Well, it’s prison. I have got through the tough times. Tell me about yourselves. How are the children? How is Mother?’

Evidently, he had not received most of my letters. I told him that the boys were well and growing up fast, that they were both among the top students in their class, that Siamak had started year five and Massoud was in year one. He asked about my job. I told him that because of him everyone was good to me and watched over me. Suddenly, there was a gleam in his eyes and I realised that I shouldn’t talk about such things. Finally, he asked me about university and I told him about my doubts. He laughed and said, ‘Do you remember how you dreamed about getting your school diploma? Even a university degree isn’t enough for you. You are talented and hard working. You have to advance. You will even go for a doctorate degree.’

There was no time for me to explain what a heavy burden continuing my education would put on my shoulders and how much of my time it would devour. All I said was, ‘It will be difficult to study and work, and take care of the children, too.’

‘You will manage it all,’ he said. ‘You are no longer the clumsy girl you were ten or eleven years ago. You are a capable woman who can make the impossible possible. I am so proud of you.’

‘Do you really mean it?’ I said with tears in my eyes. ‘You are no longer ashamed of having a wife like me?’

‘When was I ever ashamed? You have been a dear wife and you have grown and become more complete with every day that has passed. Now, you are every man’s dream. I’m just sad that I and my children have tied you down.’

‘Don’t say that! You and my children are the dearest things in my life.’

I so desperately wanted to hold him in my arms, put my head on his shoulder and cry. Now I felt filled with energy. I felt I could do anything.

 

I registered for a few courses that were being held at times that were convenient for me. I talked to Mrs Parvin and Faati, and they agreed to help with the boys. Mrs Parvin’s husband was ill, but she said she could spend one or two afternoons with the boys, and Faati and Sadegh Khan agreed to take care of them three nights a week. Faati was in the last months of her pregnancy and it was difficult for her to come and go. So I gave our car to Sadegh Khan so that he could bring Faati to our home or take the boys to their house, and occasionally take everyone to the cinema or on outings. Meanwhile, I took advantage of every opportunity to study; during my free time at the office, early in the morning, and at night before I went to bed. I often fell asleep at my books. The chronic headaches I had suffered since my youth were getting worse and more frequent, but I didn’t care. I took painkillers and went on with my work.

My responsibilities now included those of a mother, a housekeeper, an office worker, a university student and the wife of a prisoner. And I tended to the last with the greatest care. The food and other necessities that I wanted to take to prison for Hamid were prepared by every member of the family with great ceremony, almost in a religious ritual.

Over time, I learned how to manage my workload and grew accustomed to it. It was then that I realised we are capable of far more than we believe. After a while, we adapt to life and our rhythm adjusts to the volume of our tasks. I was like a runner on the track of life and Hamid’s voice saying ‘I am proud of you’ echoed in my ears like the applause of spectators in a huge stadium, intensifying my strength and agility.

 

One day I was sifting through the previous day’s newspapers when my gaze fell on the funeral notices. I rarely paid any attention to these, but that day my eyes suddenly froze on a name. The notice was for the funeral of Mr Ebrahim Ahmadi, Parvaneh’s father. My heart ached. I remembered his decency and kind face. Tears welled in my eyes and memories of Parvaneh filled my mind. Time and distance could not erase my love for her and my desire to see her again. After the telephone conversation I had had with her mother several years earlier, I had never heard from them, and I was so overwhelmed with life that I didn’t try to contact her mother again.

I had to go to the funeral. It was perhaps the only opportunity I had to find Parvaneh. No matter where she was, she would certainly go to her father’s funeral.

Walking into the mosque, I was nervous and my palms were sweaty. I searched for Parvaneh in the row where the bereaved were sitting, but I didn’t see her. Could it be that she hadn’t come? Just then a rather fat lady whose blonde hair had escaped her black lace headscarf looked up and our eyes met. It was Parvaneh. How could she have changed so much in twelve or thirteen years? She threw herself in my arms and we spent almost the entire ceremony crying without speaking a word. She was mourning her father’s passing and I was pouring out all that I had suffered over the years. After the ceremony, she insisted that I go to their house. Once most of the visitors had left, we sat facing each other. We didn’t know where to start. Now that I looked at her, I saw that she was still the same Parvaneh, except that she had gained weight and dyed her hair lighter. The circles under her eyes and the puffiness of her face were because of all the crying she had done in recent days.

‘Massoum,’ she finally said, ‘are you happy?’

I was stunned, I didn’t know what to say. I was always confused when asked this question. As my silence grew longer, she shook her head and said, ‘Oh dear! It seems there is no end to your troubles.’

‘I am not ungrateful,’ I said. ‘I just don’t know what happiness means! But I have many blessings in life. I have my children; two healthy boys. And my husband is a good man, even though he is not with us. I work, I study… remember my undying dream?’

‘You are still not going to give up,’ she said, laughing. ‘This diploma isn’t all that valuable. What do you think I have done with mine?’

‘I received my diploma a long time ago. I am now studying Persian literature at Tehran University.’

‘Are you serious? That is excellent! You really do have perseverance. Of course, you were always a smart student, but I didn’t think you would still be studying with a husband and children. It’s good that your husband doesn’t object.’

‘No, he has always encouraged me.’

‘That’s wonderful! Then he must be a wise man. I should meet him.’

‘Yes, God willing, in ten or fifteen years!’

‘What do you mean? Why? Where is he?’

‘He is in prison.’

‘May God take my life! What did he do?’

‘He is a political prisoner.’

‘Are you serious? In Germany I often hear Iranians, the guys who are members of the Confederation and others who oppose the government, talk about the political prisoners. So your husband is one of them! People say they torture them in prison. Is it true?’

‘He hasn’t said anything to me, but I have often washed blood off his clothes. Recently our permission to visit him was again revoked, so I don’t know what condition he is in now.’

‘Then who supports you financially?’

‘I told you, I work.’

‘You mean you have to single-handedly manage your lives?’

‘Managing life isn’t that difficult, it’s the loneliness that is tough. Oh, Parvaneh, you can’t imagine how lonely I am. Even though I am constantly busy and don’t have a moment to rest, I always feel lonely. I am so happy I have finally found you. I really needed you… But now you tell me. Are you happy? How many children do you have?’

‘Life is all right,’ she said. ‘I have two daughters. Lili is eight and Laleh is four. My husband isn’t bad. He’s a man like all other men. And I have got used to life over there. But with Father gone, I can’t leave my mother alone any more; especially now that my sister Farzaneh has two young children and is busy with her own life. And you can’t count on the sons. I think we will have to come back and live here. Besides, my husband, Khosrow, had already been thinking about us moving back.’

Parvaneh and I had more to share than we could manage in one day. We needed many long days and nights. We planned for me and the boys to go to their house on Friday and spend the day with her. It was a wonderful day. I talked more than I had ever talked in my life. Fortunately time and distance had not severed our friendship. We could still talk to each other more freely and comfortably than with anyone else. Opening up to others had always been difficult for me and the need to keep Hamid’s life a secret had made me even less at ease with people. But now I could reveal the most secret corners of my heart to Parvaneh. I had again found my friend and I would never lose her again.

Fortunately, Parvaneh’s move back to Iran was quickly arranged and after a short trip to Germany her family relocated to Tehran. Her husband started to work and she found a part-time position at the Iran-Germany Society. I now had another person I could lean on. Parvaneh had shared my life story with her husband and having been moved by it, he somehow felt responsible for me and my sons. Our children grew to like each other and became good playmates. Parvaneh was constantly planning events for them and took them to the cinema, to the swimming pool, or to the park. The presence of Parvaneh’s family brought a different nuance to our lives and I started to see new joy and excitement in my dispirited sons whose days had become even lonelier and more unstructured after Faati gave birth and could no longer spend as much time with them.

 

Another year passed. We could again visit Hamid regularly and once a month I took the boys to see him. But after each visit they were out of sorts and it would take a week for them to return to their normal selves. Massoud would grow quieter and sadder, and Siamak would become wilder and more highly strung. Hamid looked visibly older each time we saw him.

I continued to go to university and took a few credits each term. I was now an official employee at the agency and although I still didn’t have a bachelor’s degree, I was doing more specialised and advanced work. Mr Zargar still watched over me and confidently gave me assignments. Mr Shirzadi and I had remained close friends. He was still disagreeable and bad-tempered, occasionally starting fights and arguments that made him more miserable than anyone else. I tried to lessen his deep sense of pessimism towards everything, assuring him that he had no enemies and that there was no hidden motive behind what people did and said. And to all this he would reply, ‘Fear banished trust from my mind, my only beloved is suspicion.’

He was not comfortable in any gathering, he would not join any group, he detected the footprints of traitor politicos in every action, and he believed everyone was a mercenary and a paid minion of the regime. His colleagues did not mind his company, but he always kept himself on the sidelines.

I once asked him, ‘Don’t you get tired of being alone?’

In response he recited one of his poems about being sorrow’s friend and loneliness’s beloved, his hopelessness being as eternal as the sun and as vast as the ocean.

One day Mr Zargar jokingly said, ‘Come on! Why do you take everything so hard? Things are not as bad as you think. These problems exist in every society. The rest of us are not satisfied either, but we don’t make a mountain out of a pile of hay and we don’t grieve all the time.’

Mr Shirzadi replied with one of his typical poems about how no one understands him.

After he started a heated argument with the director-general of the agency, stormed out of the man’s office and slammed the door behind him, everyone gathered around to mediate. ‘Give in a little,’ someone said. ‘After all, this is a government agency, not your auntie’s house, and we have to tolerate some things.’

Mr Shirzadi yelled in verse that he would never bend and bow his head.

I intervened. ‘Mr Shirzadi, please try to stay calm. You can’t just walk out of this company. You have to be able to hold on to some job.’

‘I cannot do it,’ he said.

‘So what are you going to do now?’ I asked.

‘I will leave. I must leave this place…’

He not only left the agency, but soon he left the country. The day he came to collect the last of his belongings, he said goodbye to me and added, ‘Give my regards to your hero husband.’ And he asked me to recite a poem to Hamid: that they take to the gallows those who speak the truth.

With Mr Shirzadi’s departure, calm was restored at the agency. Even Mr Zargar, who apparently did not have a problem with Mr Shirzadi, had towards the end seemed unable to tolerate him. Still, his memory, his profound sorrow and the torment he suffered stayed with me for ever and drove me to do all that I could so that my children would not turn out to be as bitter and as disheartened as he was.

At home, I tried to create an environment in which my boys would not forget laughter. I started a joke-telling contest. Anyone who could tell a first-hand joke would receive a prize. We would mimic and imitate each other; I wanted them to learn to laugh at themselves and at their problems and shortcomings. We tried speaking with different accents. I encouraged them to sing, to turn up the volume when they played music on the stereo or the radio, to listen to upbeat music to which we would dance. At night, despite being so tired I could barely move, I would play games with them and tickle them until they were faint with laughter, and we would have pillow fights until they would agree to go to bed.

It was exhausting, but I had to do it. I had to keep that gloomy environment lively, I had to make up for my hours of absence, I had to inject joy into them so that they would never look at the world through Mr Shirzadi’s eyes.

 

Soon after her marriage, Faati gave birth to a beautiful girl with sky-blue eyes. She named her Firouzeh (turquoise). The boys adored her, especially Massoud who was always eager to play with her.

Mrs Parvin’s husband passed away and she found peace and freedom; especially because she had managed to transfer ownership of their house to herself prior to his death. Still, she never spoke well of him and never forgave him for what he had done to her. After his death, she started spending much of her time with us. She stayed with the children if I had to work late and did most of the housework so that I would have more time to rest and to spend with the boys. In a way she felt responsible for my fate and my loneliness, and tried to make up for it.

On Mahmoud’s recommendation, Ali asked for the hand of a reputable bazaar merchant’s daughter. They became formally betrothed and plans were made for an elaborate wedding to be held that autumn in a hall that served men and women guests separately. The match was to Mahmoud’s liking and he promised all sorts of cooperation and assistance, agreeing to all the idiotic conditions the bride’s family laid down; all of which were more like ancient trade practices than arrangements for a marriage.

When Father complained, ‘We cannot spend this much money… what is all this nonsense?’ Mahmoud simply replied, ‘The investment will soon pay off. Wait and see the dowry she will bring and the deals we will make side by side with her father.’

Ahmad had completely left the family circle. No one liked to talk about him and everyone tried as far as possible to not even speak his name. It had been some time since Father had thrown him out of the house. ‘Thank God, he doesn’t know where you live,’ Father said. ‘Otherwise, he would create more scandals for you and come to you for money.’

Ahmad had crashed at such great speed that everyone had given up on him. Mrs Parvin was the only one who still saw him and she would secretly tell me about him.

‘I have never seen anyone so determined to destroy their own life,’ she said. ‘What a shame. He was such a handsome man. If you saw him now, there is no way you would recognise him. One of these days, they will find his corpse in a street gutter somewhere in the south part of town. The only reason he is still alive is because of your mother. Don’t tell anyone; if your father finds out he will really give her a hard time. But the poor woman is a mother and he is her beloved son. In the morning when your father leaves the house, Ahmad comes over and your mother feeds him, cooks kebab for him, washes his clothes, and if she can, she puts some money in his pocket. To this day, if anyone tells her Ahmad is a heroin addict, she will rip out their guts. The poor woman is still hoping he will recover.’

 

Mrs Parvin’s prediction soon came true. But along with himself, Ahmad destroyed Father, too. In his last stages of decline, Ahmad did anything for money. In a desperate moment of need and poverty, he went to Father’s house and was busy rolling up a carpet so that he could take it and sell it when Father arrived and got into a tussle with him. It was more than Father’s weary heart could take. He was taken to the hospital and we spent several days behind the doors of the intensive care unit. Father’s condition improved and he was transferred to an ordinary ward.

I took the children to the hospital every day. Siamak had grown taller and he could pass himself off as older than he was so he easily got a visitor’s pass, but even with a thousand tricks and plenty of begging, Massoud saw Father only twice. During his visits, Siamak would just hold his grandfather’s hand and sit next to him without speaking a word.

We were hopeful that Father would recover, but unfortunately he suffered another massive heart attack. He was returned to the intensive care unit where twenty-four hours later he surrendered his life to his life giver. And I lost my only support and refuge. After Hamid was sent to prison, I felt lonely and isolated. After Father’s death, I realised that his presence, even from a distance, had cast a cover of safety over me and that in my darkest moments the glow of his presence had brightened my heart. With Father gone, the bonds that had tied me to his house grew weak.

For a week, I could not stop my tears. But my instincts soon urged me to become aware of those around me and I realised that my tears were insignificant compared to Siamak’s profound sadness and silence. That child had not shed a single tear and was ready to explode like a balloon that did not have room for even one more puff of air. But Mother groused, ‘What a shame! With all the love Mostafa Khan gave this child, he didn’t cry a single tear when they put that man in his grave. The boy didn’t care at all.’

I knew Siamak’s emotional state was far worse than it appeared. One day I left Massoud with Parvaneh and I took Siamak to visit Father’s grave. I kneeled down beside the grave. Siamak stood over me like a dark and gloomy cloud. He was trying to look away and remain detached from the time and space he was in. I started to talk about Father, about my memories of him, about his kindness and the void his death had left in our lives. Slowly, I made Siamak sit down next to me and I continued to talk until he suddenly started to cry and poured out all the tears he had kept inside him. He cried until night fell. When Massoud came home and saw Siamak crying, he too burst into tears. I let them pour everything out. They had to rid themselves of all the pain that had piled up inside their small hearts. Then I sat them down and asked, ‘What do you think we should do to honour Grandfather’s memory? What does he expect of us and how should we live for him to be pleased with us?’ And in the course of all this, I, too, realised that I had to try to go on with my normal life while forever holding on to my memories of him.

 

Three months after Father’s death, Ahmad, too, rushed to the world beyond in the same wretched manner as Mrs Parvin had predicted. A street sweeper found his body on a road in the south section of the city. Ali went to identify the body. No funeral was held and other than Mother, whose back was bent with grief, no one cried. Hard as I tried to recall a fond memory of Ahmad, I couldn’t. I felt guilty for not being sorry that he had died. I did not mourn him, but for a long time whenever I thought of him a vague sorrow would press against my heart.

Given the circumstances, Ali could not hold a marriage celebration. Instead, he quietly took his wife to the family house, which Father had several years earlier legally transferred to Mother. Depressed and alone, Mother all but retired from life and relinquished the running of the household to the new bride. And thus, the door to the house that in hard times had been my only refuge was forever closed to me.