Once a week, I went to church for my catechism class: I had to ring the doorbell at the metal door that connected the street to the backyard of the church and be buzzed through. I would close the door behind me and walk along a narrow walkway wedged between the church and the brick walls surrounding the yard. Asphalt covered the ground. The church office and the priests’ residence were in a separate building adjacent to the church. The priest would welcome me warmly, and we would read the Bible and discuss it. After the lesson, I would open the heavy wooden door that connected the yard to the church building. The door always creaked, and its sound spread into the deep silence, bouncing off the tall, curving walls. I loved to sit on a pew and look at the framed image of Mary: her long pink dress, her blue cloak covering her hair, and the peaceful smile on her face. Candles flickered in front of her. She knew about loss. She had experienced this pain. Here, I somehow felt at home.
Twelve
EARLY IN THE AFTERNOON of May 1, 1982, Taraneh and five other girls were called to the office over the loudspeaker. Silence fell upon the prison. Everyone knew that the other five girls from this group were sentenced to death, but I was the only one who knew about Taraneh. As usual, Taraneh was sitting in a corner reading the Koran. She was the only one who had been called from our room. Everyone froze and stared at her. She stood up as if she were going for a little walk to stretch her legs. I went toward her, but she looked at me and shook her head. She grabbed her small bag, which was hanging from a hook, and her larger bag, which was on top of the shelf, walked over to me, and pushed them in my arms.
“You know I don’t have much stuff. This is it. Find a good way of getting them to my parents.”
I nodded. She put on her chador and walked out the door. I knew that my friend was going to her death. If I screamed until my throat bled, if I hit my head against the wall until my skull cracked, it would not save her. With Taraneh’s bags in my arms, I stood in the middle of the room for a long time until my legs gave out. All day, not a word was said. We preserved the silence as if it were capable of preserving life, of performing a miracle. We waited, prayed, and cried silently, our lips moving without a sound. But the day came to a silent end and the horizon filled with reds and purples and the night crawled into the air. We listened for gunshots, and soon they came, as if glass clouds were falling from the sky.
Thirteen
ABOUT FOUR AND A HALF MONTHS after my arrest, my name was called over the loudspeaker.
“Marina Moradi-Bakht, put on your hejab, and come to the office.
I didn’t know why they had called me. Maybe Hamehd had missed me again. I covered my hair with my shawl and went to the office.
Sister Maryam greeted me with a smile. “Brother Ali is back,” she said. “He’s asked for you.”
I put on my blindfold and followed her to another building, where I waited in the hallway. My breaths felt like stones in my throat.
“Marina, follow me,” said Ali’s voice, and I obeyed him. He closed the door behind us and told me to sit down and take off my blindfold. He seemed taller than I remembered, but maybe this was because he had lost some weight.
I looked around. We were in a windowless room, and there were no torture beds. On one of the walls hung a picture of Ayatollah Khomeini, who, as Ali had told me, had given the order to spare my life. The ayatollah’s dark eyebrows were knotted in a deep frown and his eyes stared at me with intense anger. He looked like a very mean old man. Next to Khomeini’s picture was a picture of the president, Ayatollah Khamenei, who, compared to the imam, had a rather kind expression.
Limping, Ali brought out a chair from behind a metal desk and searched my face with his eyes. I had almost forgotten what he looked like. There was a new scar on his right cheek.
“You look a lot better than the last time I saw you,” he said, smiling. “How have you been?”
“Well enough. How about you?”
“Are you just being polite or do you really want to know?”
“I want to know,” I said, not meaning it. I just wanted to get out of that room. I wanted to run back to 246.
He told me he had spent four months at the war front fighting the Iraqis but had to come back when he was shot in the leg. I said I was sorry to hear it, which was true. I would never have wanted him or anyone else to get hurt.
He was watching me carefully, his smile changing to a serious expression.
“Marina, I have to discuss something important with you, and I want you to listen to me and not to interrupt me until I’m done.”
I nodded, puzzled. He told me that his main reason for leaving Evin had been to stay away from me. He had believed that not seeing me would change his feelings, but it had not. He said he had had feelings for me since the moment we first met. He had tried to ignore them, but they had only become stronger. The night he walked me to the bathroom, he felt he had to save me at any cost, and this terrified him. When I didn’t come out of the bathroom, he called me, but I didn’t answer, so he came in to see what was wrong and found me on the floor. For a moment, he thought I was dead, but he took my pulse and realized I was alive. He knew that my name was on the execution list and that Hamehd didn’t like me. He tried to reason with Hamehd, but Hamehd wouldn’t listen. He said there was only one way for him to save my life and that was to go to Ayatollah Khomeini. Ali’s father had been a close friend of the ayatollah for years. So Ali went to the imam and begged him for my life, explaining that I was too young and that I needed a chance to change my ways. The ayatollah told him that the charges against me were serious enough to put me on death row, but he kept pleading with him. The ayatollah finally agreed to reduce my sentence to life in prison. Ali rushed back to Evin and asked the guards where I was, and they told him Hamehd had taken me for execution. He said he prayed as he rushed to the site.
I felt a sense of panic rise inside me.
He said that after speaking with the ayatollah, he decided to send me to 246 and to go away. Since I had the imam’s pardon, Hamehd could no longer harm me. Ali had tried to forget me but had found himself thinking about me all the time, and he was glad when he was shot, because he had a reason to come back. He said his father had always told him to sleep on every important decision of his life and to think about it thoroughly. He said he had slept on his decision of marrying me, had thought about it for more than four months, and had made his decision.
“I want you to marry me, Marina, and I promise to be a good husband and to take good care of you. Don’t answer me now. I want you to think about it,” he said
I tried to understand all I had just heard, but I couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense. How could he even think of marrying me? I didn’t want to marry him. I didn’t even want to be in the same room with him.
“Ali, you have to understand that I can’t marry you,” I said, my voice shaking.
“Why not?”
“There are many reasons!”
“I’m ready to hear them. Don’t forget that I’ve thought about this for months, but you never know, I might’ve forgotten something. Go ahead and tell me your reasons.”
“I don’t love you, and I wasn’t destined for you.”
“I don’t expect you to love me. Love can come in time, after you’ve given me a chance. And you said you weren’t destined for me. Who were you destined for then? For Andre?”
I gasped. How did he know about Andre?
He told me that once when I was sleeping, he had stayed by my side, and I had called Andre’s name in my sleep. He said he had done some research and knew exactly who Andre was and where he lived. Although Andre didn’t have a political record, Ali said, he could arrange one for him if he had to.
Even though I knew I sometimes talked in my sleep, it was hard for me to believe what he had said. Maybe they had been watching me before my arrest, and this was how they knew about Andre. I had dragged Andre into this. What could I do?
“Do you want to see him here?” Ali asked. “Maybe on a torture
bed? Let him live his life. You have to accept the fact that your life completely changed when you were arrested. And don’t forget about your parents. I’m sure you don’t want to put them in danger. Why should they pay for you? I promise to make you happy. You’ll learn to love me.”
I told him he had no right to do this to me, and he said he did. He told me maybe I had forgotten that he had saved me from certain death. As an enemy of Islam, I had no rights. He believed he was doing me a favor. He said I didn’t know what was best for me.
I desperately searched for an escape. My death would solve many problems.
“I know you too well,” he said, his voice separating me from my thoughts. “I know exactly what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking of suicide. I can see it in your eyes, but I also know you’re not going to do it. You’re not the kind to give up. It’s against your nature. You’re a fighter just like me. Let go of the past, and we can have a wonderful life together. And just to be on the safe side, I promise you that if you put yourself in harm’s way on purpose, I’ll have your Andre executed. He’ll pay for you.”
How could I possibly have a “wonderful” life with him? He was threatening to execute Andre and to arrest my parents.
“I give you three days to think about this, but remember not to do anything stupid. I’m very serious about everything I said.”
I had put Andre and my parents in danger, and I had to do everything I could to protect them. I had to remember that I had a life sentence. For me, there was no escape. I almost wished I had never met Andre.
Fourteen
IMET ANDRE the very first time I attended the Sunday mass at my new Catholic church. That day, after the service ended, I went to the small office to chat with the priests. As I waited, Andre, who was the organist, came in. During mass, although I had sat at the back of the church, I had noticed that he was quite handsome. Now, I realized I was looking at the clothed version of Michelangelo’s David. His face was oval, with a long, aristocratic nose, curls of golden hair covered his wide forehead, and his eyes were the color of the Caspian on a calm day. He was beautiful. Blushing, I looked down, hoping my thoughts were not as transparent as I feared. We introduced ourselves.
The church served a very small community, so every newcomer attracted a great deal of attention and curiosity. He asked me if I was a university student and when I told him I was in the tenth grade, he turned scarlet. I told him about my Russian background, and he said he was an electrical engineering student at the University of Tehran, but since all universities had been shut down to undergo the Islamic Cultural Revolution, he had been teaching English, physics, and math at an Armenian school.
As our conversation progressed, I felt a wave of trembling excitement wash through me. He was poised and soft spoken. I told him I had enjoyed his music, and he told me he was a novice. After the revolution when the government took over the all-boys school that belonged to the church, many of the priests who had run the school were deported, accused of being spies. Andre had attended their school for twelve years. One of the priests awaiting deportation had been the organist for a long time. He gave Andre, who had never played any musical instruments, a few music lessons, and once he left, Andre took over his job.
“You should join our choir,” Andre told me. “We’re looking for new members right now.”
I said I couldn’t sing.
“Give it a try. It’s fun. Our next practice is on Wednesday night at six. You don’t have any special plans for that night, do you?”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ll see you on Wednesday night then.”
He stood up and shook my hand.
Once he was gone, I had a chance to catch my breath.
Aram still walked home with me at least once a week. He was in the twelfth grade, his last year of high school.
“We’re planning to leave Iran in a few months and hopefully go to the United States,” he told me on a warm, sunny spring afternoon. I knew this day would come. We had been good friends for more than two years. I didn’t want to lose him, but I knew that the best thing for him was to leave and to start a new life away from all the painful memories we shared.
I told him I was happy for him. He stopped and looked at me; there were tears in his eyes. He said he wished I could go with him; he was concerned for my safety. Many kids from his school had been arrested and taken to Evin, and he had heard that no one got out of there alive. I told him he was being paranoid, but he argued that it had nothing to do with paranoia.
“Aram, there’s no need to worry,” I insisted.
“Arash used to say the same thing…Hey, wait a second; I just thought of something, but no, it can’t be…but on the other hand…”
He stopped in the middle of the narrow sidewalk in front of a small produce store. Boxes and baskets filled with fruits and vegetables blocked part of the sidewalk. The strong scent of fresh parsley, dill weed, chives, and basil thickened the hot afternoon air.
“You’re not trying to get yourself killed, are you?” he suddenly asked, almost in tears.
I told him I had no intention of committing suicide.
A large woman, who was trying to get past us to enter the store and tired of waiting for our conversation to end, said a frustrated “excuse me” and almost pushed both of us into a big box of onions. Regaining his balance, Aram looked at me. I stepped out of the way and onto the side of the road and again reassured him that I’d be fine. As we walked along, I reached for his hand. He shook me off.
“What’re you doing? We’ll get arrested!” he said, glancing around, his face a deep red.
“I…I’m sorry! I’m an idiot! I wasn’t thinking.” I swallowed my tears.
“I’m sorry, Marina. I didn’t mean to be rude. But how will I be able to live with myself if you get lashed for holding my hand?”
“I’m sorry.”
“See, this is another reason why you should leave. Holding hands is not a crime. You tell this to someone who lives in a normal country and they’ll think it’s a bad joke.”
A few minutes later, I remembered I had meant to ask him if he knew anyone who could translate Russian into Persian. I explained to him that my grandmother had written her life story and that she had given it to me before her death. I needed someone to translate it into Persian. He asked me why I didn’t ask my parents to do that and I told him that my grandmother had entrusted it to me. Maybe she didn’t want them to have it. I wanted someone who didn’t know me to help me with it. He told me that Irena had had a friend who was a little strange but spoke many languages and was fluent in both Persian and Russian. He promised to call her.
We were almost halfway home when I noticed that a storm was approaching. Dark clouds covered the sky. It was strange how a beautiful sunny day could change within a few minutes. We heard the first roll of thunder. It started to rain. We were still far from home, and there was no shelter. At first, it came slowly; I could see each drop of rain as it hit the ground. Maybe we could still make it home before the peak of the storm, but no, it was too late. Thunder roared and the perfect drops of rain mixed together. A strong wind bent the trees and transformed the rain into a fierce wave of water. We had to stop. The familiar street faded, and its warm colors disappeared. Unable to find our way, we stood confused, knowing we had to stand up to the storm. We had to close our eyes and believe that this was only a passing moment.
The next day, Aram phoned and told me he had spoken with Irena’s friend, Anna, and Anna had agreed to meet with me. A couple of days later, Aram accompanied me to Anna’s house, which was on a quiet street off Takht-eh Tavoos Avenue. We rang her doorbell, and a dog began to bark from behind the door that connected her front yard to the street. “Who is it?” a woman’s voice called out in Persian. When we answered, Anna opened the door. She was in her seventies, tall and thin, with beautiful thick black hair, which fell on her shoulders. She had large gray eyes, wore a silk white blouse and a pair of blue jeans, and greeted us i
n Russian. A German shepherd followed her. Her small, two-story house was filled with large and small tropical plants. We had to push their leaves out of our way in order to be able to follow her into the living room, where a colorful parrot sat on a perch, a couple of canaries sang in a cage, and a black cat rubbed herself against my legs. The air smelled of wet soil, and every wall in the room was covered with bookcases overflowing with books.
“Where is the text?” she asked me as we were sitting down. I gave it to her, and she sifted through the pages.
“It will take me a few hours to translate this.”
She stood up and motioned us toward the door. “Irena was very fond of you, Marina. You can come back for it tomorrow afternoon at four-thirty.”
The next day, almost as soon as we rang Anna’s doorbell, she opened the door and handed me my grandmother’s writings and the translation.
“There you go, my dear. Your grandmother was a sad but strong woman,” she said and closed the door on us.
“I told you she was a little strange,” Aram said and burst into laughter.
I read the translation as soon as I got home. It was about forty pages, was written in beautiful handwriting, and was grammatically perfect. If I didn’t already know, I would never have guessed that Persian was not its writer’s first language.
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