A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Where were you?”

  He told her.

  She crossed one leg over the other. She was still wearing her coat. “You went to another woman’s apartment? An Iranian woman?”

  “Yes. There were six of us…no, seven.”

  Anna’s leg started to jiggle. Whenever she was worried or upset, she couldn’t sit still. Something—an arm, a leg, a finger—was always in motion. She would have made an excellent whirling dervish.

  “It was not what you think,” he said quickly. “It was just a dinner party. You know we don’t celebrate Christmas. It was a way for us to be together.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it when I called?” Anna had called every day.

  “Fatimah…she just called yesterday afternoon. It was—how do you say it—spur of the moment.”

  Anna’s leg was still jiggling. He should have soothed her. Taken her in his arms. Whispered how much he loved her. But he didn’t. She was the one who’d left him. He’d had to fend for himself while she was with her father. The unfairness of it all gnawed at him. “That’s not who you should be concerned about, anyway,” he blurted out.

  Anna’s face went white. “What do you mean?”

  As soon as it came out, he realized it was the wrong thing to say. He tried to roll it back. “Nothing.”

  “No, it’s not nothing.” Worry lines creased her forehead.

  Nouri’s head was throbbing. He felt nauseous.

  “Nouri. Tell me. Who should I be concerned about?” Her eyes bored into him, and she looked like she might cry

  What box had he just opened? He’d never seen her like this. He wished he hadn’t had so much to drink last night. He wished Anna had never left. He wished he could turn back the clock. “It is not important.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  He took a long breath. He had no choice, she wouldn’t let it go. “All right.” He exhaled slowly. “There are still some arranged marriages in Iran. Not as much now, since we are quite modern. But when I was little…”

  Anna’s voice was as sharp as a blade. “What are you telling me, Nouri?”

  “There is a girl. She is nothing to me…really. Her name is Roya. She is friends with my sister. Our parents are friends. We always thought…well, it was assumed…”

  “That you would marry her? That you’d get your fancy American education and go back to little Roya?”

  Nouri’s eyebrows shot up. Anna sounded bitter. It was an emotion he’d never heard from her before. He took another breath. “It was never a formal arrangement. Just a…” He shrugged and let his voice trail off. “But now that I’ve met you, it will never happen.”

  Anna tilted her head. “How do I know that?”

  “Anna, you are the only woman I want. Our souls are meant to be together.”

  “What about Roya?”

  “Anna, I have not talked to her, or even thought about her, in years. I care only about you. You must believe me.”

  Anna’s leg stopped jiggling. She peered at him for a long time. Then she rose, took off her coat, and nodded. “All right.”

  Just like that, it was over.

  That night Anna did things to him she hadn’t done in a long time. Nouri decided maybe a little jealousy was good for the soul.

  Seven

  How is your research on the thesis coming along?” Anna asked one night in January.

  Nouri didn’t want to talk about it. It was not going well. The desalination proposal had turned out to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. For one, it was not realistic to build a plant in the rocky soil of a mountain village. Even if it could be built, and the water treated, there was no existing infrastructure through which to pipe the water from the plant into homes or wells or cisterns. He might have to abandon the topic, but he wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

  A few days later an article in an Iranian newspaper attacked Ayatollah Khomeini, which sparked a mass demonstration in Qom, perhaps the holiest city in the world for Shi’ite Muslims. Several demonstrators were killed. A little over a month later, more anti-shah protests, this time in Tabriz, Iran’s fourth largest city, turned violent. It took two days before order was restored.

  Nouri went to a hastily called meeting of the student organization. Just getting to the meeting was proof of his commitment: snow was piled in banks over six feet high, with more blanketing the city almost every day. The harsh Chicago winter was unprecedented. On some streets Nouri’s feet were level with the roofs of cars—cars which wouldn’t be dug out until spring. Anna joked that it was the start of Armageddon.

  At the meeting, the students made plans to show solidarity with their Iranian brethren. They agreed that letters, resolutions, and declarations aimed at restoring constitutional rule were not enough. The system—and the shah—had to go.

  “We need to purify and purge Iran of corruption and repression,” said one student.

  Nouri agreed. “We need to empower workers and farmers. They need to share in Iran’s wealth. It is not just for the privileged few. The first—”

  “But that’s only part of it,” another student cut in. “We need to purify ourselves of Western influences and imperialism. That will only happen if we create a government based on Marxist principles.”

  “No!” another student protested. “We need to create a structure based on Islamic law. An Islamic republic.”

  Nouri frowned. “Wait!” His hand shot up. “Not everything should be cast out. The shah is evil, and he needs to go. But he did build roads, and he brought electricity and water to many villages. Education too. We need to make sure that progress continues. That is what will enrich our people.”

  “What about the land he stole from the mullahs and farmers?” one of the students shouted. “Is that enriching the people? His so-called reforms have brought nothing but misery. Meanwhile, he and his cronies get rich at our expense. And anyone who disagrees with them ends up in prison to be tortured. Or worse.” The student spoke with passion. Others joined in, and a frenzy of shouting erupted.

  Nouri remembered Anna saying how politics and religion didn’t mix. He raised his voice above the din. “I’m not defending the shah. I’m just saying—”

  “Not defending the shah? Your father works for the oil company,” a student spit out. “He is nothing but a lackey.”

  Nouri was taken aback. How did they know that?

  As if reading his mind, the student went on. “Do you think we don’t know who you are? We make it a point to identify everyone who comes to our meetings.”

  Nouri swallowed. “Surely you would not denounce me because of my family. Many of us come from wealthy families, but we are not our fathers.”

  “Prove it,” a student cried, his voice dripping with scorn. “Prove to us that you are not a spy for the CIA or SAVAK.”

  Nouri didn’t know how to respond, but to his surprise, the leader, Massoud, came to his defense. He held up his arms in a placating gesture. “Nouri is no spy.” He turned to the others. “He may come from privilege, but he understands things must change.” He looked back at Nouri. “And you are correct. I, too, am from a family of means. My father works for the government.” He turned back to the others. “If you honor me with your trust, you must honor Nouri as well. We must work together to destroy the evil and repression caused by the shah. We must bring freedom to our people. Of course we cherish our Islamic traditions, just as we cherish our Persian culture. Whether we are mullahs or Marxists, engineers or workers, rich or poor, we want the same thing.”

  His speech seemed to mollify the students, and the bickering subsided. They changed subjects and started to discuss plans for the spring, when Iranian students from all over the Midwest would converge on Daley Plaza for a massive protest. Some students were told to organize campus demonstrations, others to write speeches, and still others to distribute leaflets. Finally, the meeting ended, the participants exhausted but fueled with fervor.

  When he arrived back home, Nouri tol
d Anna about the meeting. “I still have no idea how they knew about my family.”

  “Perhaps they are better organized than you thought.”

  “But still…”

  “It isn’t unusual. If I were studying abroad, I’d check out any Americans I ran across. You know, ask around.”

  “But who? Who would have that information?”

  “It could come from anywhere. Maybe one of them works in the university’s admissions department. Or maybe someone recognized your last name.” She frowned. “Is your father well known?”

  Nouri shrugged and changed the subject. “What do you think about the protest? Should I do it?”

  He was surprised by her response. “Of course you must. And I’ll help.”

  Nouri gazed at her.

  “You seem surprised. Did you think I wouldn’t support you?”

  Maybe he didn’t know her as well as he thought. “I…I wasn’t sure.” He paused. “Do you really think it’s okay to oppose the shah so…so openly? What if it causes problems back in Iran?”

  “Nouri, sometimes there is no choice. You have to do what you think is right. I’m proud of you.” Anna beamed. “You know, if the group needs a place to meet, you can use the apartment.”

  “Really?”

  She laughed. “Tell them it’s their safe house.”

  Nouri gathered Anna in his arms, aware of how much he loved her. And needed her. He pressed against her. He wanted her. Right then. Right there. He was just about to lift off her sweater when she whispered.

  “There is something we need to talk about.”

  Nouri was still kissing her neck. “Your skin tastes so sweet.”

  “No, really.” She pushed him away. Just a little, but it was enough. Frustration spilled over him. “What is it?”

  “We need to make a few changes.” Anna needed help around the apartment, she said. She could not do all the housework and still have time to study. She would cook and shop and clean the kitchen, but he would have to do the laundry and clean the rest of the apartment.

  “Is that all?” Relief coursed through him. “You are becoming a liberated woman,” he joked.

  She peered at him as if she didn’t see the punch line. “Liberated or not, I’m exhausted. Even my father commented on how washed out I look. I just can’t do it all.” She hesitated. “If I didn’t have so much work for school it would be different. I would be happy to cook and clean and make our house…,” she motioned with her hand, “…the perfect refuge. But right now…it’s just too much.”

  Nouri tilted his head. When they first met, her only goal was to please him. Nothing was too small or troublesome. Since she’d returned from Maryland, however, a subtle change had come over her. She wasn’t as subservient. Plus, the apartment, which she’d always kept compulsively neat, was less so. Nouri decided he didn’t mind if it made her feel and look better. Tonight, in fact, she did. With her bright eyes, her hair like spun gold, and that half-smile that drove him crazy, she was ravishing. He pulled her close, inhaling her sweet smell.

  “I will do whatever you want.”

  She curled up in his arms. “Thank you, Azizam,” she murmured, using the Persian word for sweetheart.

  *****

  Over the next few weeks, the Iranian students created their flyers and signs, and the manifesto that Massoud was to deliver at the demonstration. Although they declined to meet at Anna’s apartment, Nouri offered to help draft the manifesto, and because her English was more idiomatic, Anna ended up writing most of it.

  The demonstration at Daley Plaza came just before the Iranian New Year, which coincided with the first day of spring. The crisp March day was sunny but cold. Anna cut class, something she was usually loath to do, so she could go with Nouri. Nouri grabbed a few paper bags, and Anna made holes in them for their eyes. They packed up their signs and leaflets and rode the El to the Loop. When they reached the plaza, a crowd had already gathered. Nouri guessed there were over two hundred students.

  Anna’s eyes grew wide. “Where did they all come from?”

  “Downstate, Indiana, Iowa, Wisconsin, even Michigan,” Nouri said. He spotted Massoud and the Iranian student group from UIC. He and Anna worked their way through the crowd toward them. “Hey!” Nouri shouted. He was reluctant to shout out Massoud’s name; SAVAK could be watching.

  Massoud spun around, saw Nouri, and waved. Nouri took Anna’s arm and pushed closer.

  “Massoud, this is Anna. She helped write the manifesto.”

  Massoud’s eyes tracked her up and down.

  “Hello,” Anna said. “I’m impressed with the organization. How did you get so many people to participate?”

  “We had help. People like Nouri here, but others too. We have—”

  A tall brassy-looking blonde with an armful of signs grabbed Massoud’s jacket. “Massie baby,” she interrupted. “Where do you want these signs?”

  He turned around, scanned the area, then pointed in the general direction of Clark Street. The woman smiled, planted a passionate kiss on his mouth, then trudged in the direction he’d indicated. Massoud turned back to Nouri, who was still eyeing his blonde American girlfriend. They exchanged awkward smiles, each recognizing themselves in the other.

  Massoud cleared his throat. “Thank you for your contributions,” he said formally to Anna. She replied with a cool nod, but her gaze was following the blonde, too. What did she think of her? Nouri wondered.

  “As you can see, we have all sorts of alliances.” Massoud gestured to the police. “Except with them.”

  Nouri craned his neck. There had to be over fifty uniformed cops edging the plaza’s perimeter. Some held shields in front of their bodies. Nouri tried to spot the spies he’d been warned about. He saw a TV news crew and several men with cameras, but he couldn’t tell whether they were journalists or something less benign.

  The protest began a few minutes later. The students put on their paper bags, waved their signs, shouted, and chanted. Anna and Nouri slipped on their bags and joined in. Someone handed Massoud a megaphone. He unfolded a piece of paper and began to speak.

  “We, the Iranian Students Association, wish to make known to the American people the sins of Muhammad Reza Shah Pahlavi. He has created a military state that brutally oppresses and persecutes his subjects. He has stolen millions of dollars in oil revenues that belong to the people. His secret police have imprisoned and tortured and killed thousands of people, whose only sin was to speak out against his policies. He has…”

  Every sentence Massoud spoke was followed by clenched fists and cheers, each round louder and more intense than the last. Nouri stole a glance at Anna. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that, beneath the paper bag, she approved. When Massoud finished, another speaker took the megaphone and picked up where Massoud left off. A third speaker followed him.

  As the speakers proliferated, the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the day grew warm. It was becoming hard to breathe under the bags. Nouri kept fidgeting with his. So did Anna. Finally, Nouri tapped her on the shoulder.

  “I can’t breathe. I’m taking it off.”

  “You can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I don’t care.” In a sweeping gesture, he tore the bag off his face and gazed around defiantly.

  Anna froze. He knew she wasn’t sure what to do. A moment later another student nearby stripped off his bag. Nouri and he exchanged nods. A third student, then a fourth slowly took off their bags. Soon, everyone around Nouri had ripped off their bags. Some congratulated each other and clasped hands. Others hugged. They all cheered Nouri. He dipped his head.

  As the crowd cheered and pushed in, Nouri and Anna were separated. When he realized she was not behind him, he whipped around. He spotted her, four or five people away. He gestured to her. He could see her trying to slip through the throng to get to him. As she did, she slowly removed her bag as well. Her eyes were wet, but she was smiling. Nouri sucked in a breath. She was telling him how much she loved him.
How proud of him she was. He didn’t think he could love her more.

  His joy was short-lived, though. A moment later a scuffle broke out on the other side of the plaza. A student and an on-looker, Nouri thought. As if it was a signal, the police started to move in. Shouting erupted, followed by more scuffles. The police grabbed some of the protestors. Nouri, in the middle of the crowd, couldn’t get away. The police were closing in, heading straight toward him. He turned around and saw Massoud slinking off in the opposite direction with his brassy, blonde girlfriend. Nouri wanted to yell at him to stop. Everything was coming apart, and Massoud was their leader. He should do something. Nouri turned back to see a beefy police officer brandishing his club ten yards from where he was standing. He was going to be arrested. Then what? He would be thrown in jail. His life would be over. He swallowed nervously, edging toward panic.

  Suddenly, Anna was beside him. She snatched his hand and pushed through the crowd. Nouri followed, stumbling at first, then steadier. Together they wove through the hordes of people, Anna still clutching his hand. He couldn’t tell how far they’d gone, but he lost sight of the police. By the time she guided him to the other side of Washington Street they’d left the demonstration behind.

  Eight

  The warmth of spring eventually came to Chicago, and cars that had been buried in snow for months were finally dug out. The warmer weather brought with it hot political rhetoric, and a female politician decided to challenge the mayor in the next Chicago primary. Anna thought it was long overdue.

  “There’s no reason in the world a woman shouldn’t be mayor,” she said to Nouri at dinner one night. “Israel had Golda Meir. India, Indira Gandhi. And Margaret Thatcher may be the next prime minister of Britain. As usual America lags behind.”

  Nouri sliced his chicken and took a bite.