“What do you think, Nouri? Would you vote for a woman?”
He chewed and swallowed his meat, then laid down his knife and fork. He clasped his hands together. “I don’t think I will have the opportunity to vote for the mayor of Chicago.”
“Well, of course not. The election is over a year away, and you’re not a US citizen, anyway.”
“Even if I was a citizen, I would not vote.”
Anna frowned. “Why not? Don’t you believe a woman can do the job?”
He smiled broadly. In fact, he looked like he was going to burst. Anna frowned, puzzled. “What is it, Nouri?”
Nouri backed his chair away from the table, scraping the floor with its legs. He stood up. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you. I was offered a job in Tehran. It’s an engineering job with the company that’s building the Metro.”
“I didn’t know they were planning a metro,” she said cautiously. She wanted to share his joy, but her stomach was suddenly queasy. This meant he’d definitely be going back to Iran. She’d always known it would happen, but she’d preferred not to think about it.
He came around the table and grabbed both her hands. “Anna, this is my chance.”
She ran her tongue around her lips. What was he really saying? “What about bringing electricity and running water to rural villages?” she asked. “All your plans to help your countrymen? Get rid of the shah?”
“That hasn’t changed. Not at all.” He rubbed his thumbs over the backs of her hands. “But I will need a job, and this is an excellent place to start. My father knows the man in charge. He’s a good man. Assuming I pass the engineering exam back home, it is the chance of a lifetime.” He paused. “But that’s not what I want to say.”
Anna steeled herself. In just a couple of months she’d graduate and Nouri would have his master’s. It was clear she hadn’t prepared herself.
Nouri started to laugh.
He was behaving in a highly inappropriate way, she thought. She was about to tell him so when he knelt at her feet.
“Anna Schroder, I can’t live without you, and I don’t want to. Will you give me the greatest honor a man can possibly have? Will you come with me to Iran? Will you be my wife? Bear my children? Live with me forever?”
Her mouth flew open. She couldn’t speak.
He rose and pulled her to him.
She slipped into the crook of his arm. Her eyes filled.
He brushed her tears away. “Why are you crying? This is supposed to be a happy time.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose. This had been her dream. To marry a wonderful man. Raise a family. Live a life surrounded by warmth and love and security. It was a life she’d never known, a life she didn’t think she deserved. Now it was coming true.
“Is that a yes?” he asked.
A tear rolled down her cheek and she hugged him tight. “Yes, Nouri.” She sobbed. “Oh, yes.”
*****
But Anna’s joy was short-lived. Over the next few weeks, her anxiety came back. What if it was a dream? A mirage that would disappear the closer it approached? “Didn’t you say your parents aren’t sure you should come home right now? Didn’t they say things are deteriorating, with all the demonstrations and riots?”
Nouri made a dismissive gesture. “We live in the safest neighborhood in Tehran. Nothing will happen.”
Anna sat on the bed. “What neighborhood is that?”
“My parents live in north Tehran. We will live near them in Shemiran. It is all arranged. You will see—it is very beautiful. And safe.”
“But I don’t speak Farsi, except for the few words you’ve taught me.” He’d taught her hello, goodbye, and how to write his name using the Arabic alphabet.
“You won’t have to. There are so many Americans in Iran that most Iranians speak at least some English. Believe me, you’ll hear it on TV, in music, in the shops. You’ll feel right at home.”
She gulped. “Nouri…” She bit her lip. “What if your parents don’t like me?”
“Don’t be silly. They will love you, just as I do.” A puzzled look came over him, as if he wasn’t sure why she was so wracked with doubt. “And in Tehran you will be closer to Paris and your mother. You can visit her anytime you like.”
Anna started to jiggle her foot.
“Look,” Nouri said. “If it makes you feel better, consider our visit there temporary. If you don’t like it, we’ll come back to the States.”
Her foot stopped jiggling. “You’d do that? Come back to America for me?”
“I would do anything for you, Anna.” But his expression was not quite as certain, his voice not as sure. “What is it? Why are you so upset?”
She couldn’t keep it from him any longer. “There is something I need to tell you. Let’s go for a walk.”
*****
The Midway Plaisance, a strip of park sandwiched between 59th and 60th Streets, had been built for the Columbian Exposition in the 1890s. As Anna and Nouri strolled down it, the setting sun was molten gold. Stately university buildings flanked both sides of the park, and flowering bulbs shared the dirt alongside trees and shrubs. But Anna wasn’t focused on the architecture, or the flowers, or the lush carpet of grass.
“There is something I haven’t told you,” she said. “About my father.” She hesitated. “It might make a difference in…well, everything.”
“Nothing could make a difference in how I feel about you, Anna.”
“Don’t…until you’ve heard me out.”
They passed a statue of Carl Linnaeus, the father of modern taxonomy, which Anna knew was the method of classifying organisms by categories such as genus and species. With his long, curly marbled hair and bookish appearance—although he looked rather pale—he resembled a young Benjamin Franklin.
“Even if your father was a mass murderer, I couldn’t love you less.”
Nouri was closer than he knew. Anna halted at the base of the statue. They had been holding hands, but she withdrew hers and squeezed her palms together. “My father is a physicist. He works for the government at a secret lab in Maryland that doesn’t officially exist.”
Surprise crossed Nouri’s face.
“He started out in genetics. Studying and deciphering genomes within cells. You’ve probably heard about it. They’re calling it gene therapy. When the techniques are perfected, it will supposedly cure cancer and everything else.”
They started walking again. “It sounds like a noble occupation,” Nouri said.
Was he trying to be helpful? If so, it wasn’t working. Anna swallowed. “The thing is, I don’t know exactly what my father does. He won’t tell me. It’s classified.” She made a little snort. “For all I know he’s working on some genetically engineered virus or bacteria that will wipe out the human race.”
Nouri frowned. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Because of his background. He was…this is hard for me to talk about, Nouri.”
Nouri kept his mouth shut.
“My father was born, raised, and educated in Germany. During World War II he was conscripted and forced to join the Nazi Party. He…well…he worked with scientists who were trying to engineer the Master Race. You know, the pure Aryan.”
Nouri’s eyebrows shot up. He started to say something, but she cut him off.
“Yes. Aryan.” She rolled the word on her tongue with only a trace of contempt. “The same word that the name of your country comes from. The same race, too.” She let out an uneven breath. “You see, eighty years ago the eugenics movement was considered a promising science. Everybody was interested in improving human beings. Wiping out the flaws that cause disease. But Hitler turned it into something else.”
Nouri nodded.
“There were massive sterilizations. Especially of the mentally and physically disabled. What they called the mongrel population. Then, Hitler decreed that Jews possessed ‘bad’ genes and were a threat to racial purity. You know the rest.”
“What part did
your father play?”
Anna hesitated. She had seen the films, read the books about that time—at one point she’d been obsessive about it. She had to know every detail, decision, and incident of the war. After a while, though, the need faded. Whether it was the natural consequence of maturity, or some psychological block that prevented her from absorbing more, she never knew. Nor did she make an effort to find out. Her impressions of that era faded into the hazy residue of knowledge most students retain once the course is finished, the exam over. She could now watch The Diary of Anne Frank, Casablanca, even Triumph of the Will, which her professor screened during a course in Twentieth Century European History, with a curious, almost ironic, detachment.
Now she said, “I can only guess. Probably some kind of medical or chemical experimentation, because toward the end of the war, he was sure he would be caught by the Allies and tried. Maybe even executed. Then an American came to see him. It was all very secret—my father had to go to three separate locations before he actually met the man.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know. Someone high up in the OSS, maybe. Or the War Department. At any rate, he wanted to know if my father was interested in bringing his work to the US. The government wanted to revisit eugenics—not to create a Master Race—but to manipulate genes for other purposes.”
“What purposes?”
“I told you. I don’t know. But given my father’s background, and what they’re talking about today, I suspect it was some kind of germ warfare program.” Anna nervously cleared her throat. “This man offered to smuggle my father out of Germany and bring him here. He would avoid prosecution and imprisonment. In fact, there would be no consequences. None at all.” She paused. “Of course, my father said yes.”
Anna stopped walking. They had almost reached the western edge of the Midway. “So you see, Nouri, my father was a Nazi.”
Nouri was silent.
“I was in middle school when I discovered it. One of my teachers left an article on my desk. I took it home and my father admitted it.”
“Is that why your parents divorced?”
She shaded her eyes against the setting sun. “I’m sure of it. They met at an embassy party in Washington after the war. I don’t think my mother knew who he was or what he was doing, but when she found out—which had to be when I was quite young—she left.”
“And you? What do you think?”
“I was just a little girl. I didn’t know why my mother left and didn’t take me with her. I still don’t. But she did leave, so my father was the only parent I had.” She was quiet for a moment. “I never had many friends, you know. It wasn’t that they shunned me…” her voice trailed off. “Or maybe it was. People tend to keep their distance from the daughter of a Nazi. My father was the only person who understood. And accepted me. At least on some level.” Her throat tightened. She faced Nouri. “So. Now you know. I can understand if you want to call it off. I wouldn’t blame you. After all, I am—what do they say?—‘damaged goods.’”
They turned around and walked back east up the Midway. Nouri didn’t say anything. Anna hung her head. She was afraid to look at him, afraid to breathe. It occurred to her that this must be what an innocent person accused of murder felt like just before the jury rendered a verdict. They walked past the statue again. Past leafy trees stirring in the breeze. Finally, Nouri turned to her. She froze, unsure what she would do if he said the wrong thing. She steeled herself for the worst.
“Well, then, it’s a good thing we’re moving to Iran.” He smiled down at her and squeezed her hand. “You will have a real family to care for you.”
Nine
Anna graduated in June. She skipped the ceremony, but she and Nouri celebrated by going out to dinner. It was, in fact, a double celebration: Nouri would be granted his master’s degree after he handed in his thesis. He told Anna he planned to finish it back in Iran and send it over. Anna didn’t pursue it; she was busy shopping and packing their things, which would be shipped to Iran. She bought a set of steak knives in a wooden block, jars of peanut butter, and boxes of tampons—all items she’d been told were hard to find in Tehran.
At the beginning of August they flew to Baltimore, rented a car, and headed west to Frederick. Once off the highway, they drove through rural Maryland farmland. Nouri, who had never been in this part of America, was surprised by the gently rolling hills and acres of crops. Anna explained that the land had been continually farmed since the 1700s, well before the American Revolution.
“What are those mountains in the distance?” Nouri asked.
“The Blue Ridge. They are part of the Appalachians.” She remembered a trip to Catoctin Mountain with her father where the view had been spectacular.
“They are so…blue.” Nouri marveled. “In Iran, our mountains are brown and rocky.”
“It has to do with the trees and the hydrocarbons they release into the atmosphere. My father could tell you exactly how and why.”
Eventually they pulled up at an old white clapboard farmhouse surrounded by several acres of land. It was comfortable looking, but not opulent. As she slid out of the car, the bright August sun, the heat-baked smell of the dirt, and the chirr of insects triggered a sharp memory of her childhood. The memory, both tender and full of longing, was so intense it took her breath away. She leaned against the car.
Her father was not home, but Anna had a key. They went up to her old bedroom. She’d attended boarding school after she turned fourteen, only coming back for vacations, but the room was much the same, with a huge, four-poster bed, crisp white spread, an antique armoire, and lace curtains. She took Nouri into the guest room across the hall, which was utilitarian more than decorative.
“You’ll have to sleep in here,” she said apologetically. “My father is very traditional.”
“That’s fine.” He grinned. “As long as you keep your door unlocked.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. After unpacking, they went outside. The memories were less overpowering now, and she showed him where she used to play hide and seek, where she’d fallen out of a tree and broken her arm, where her cat had kittens. As the afternoon wore on, though, she grew more agitated. She was in constant motion, arms pinwheeling, tongue licking her lips. Even Nouri noticed.
“Anna, don’t be nervous. He is your father, but he doesn’t control your life. Not anymore.”
She flashed him a grateful smile. Nouri was right. Nouri was her frame of reference now, her refuge, her joy. She could go about life without her father’s approval, without the doubts as to whether he loved her. Without fear about the secrets of his past. In Iran she would have a happy, fulfilling life. She would not have to yearn for a normal family, the kind on those silly TV shows she’d watched as a child, like Father Knows Best or Leave it to Beaver.
Anna was making tea when a long, black car sailed up the driveway. Her father had used a driver for as long as she could remember. She and Nouri went outside and watched him climb out of the car. She wondered what Nouri saw. To Anna, Erich Schroder was a distinguished looking man well into his sixties. His flowing white hair was long but neatly combed. His piercing blue eyes could burn a hole in Anna’s soul if she allowed it. He had a strong chin, which Anna inherited, and shaggy eyebrows, which, thankfully, she did not. He was not tall, but he was sturdy. If he hadn’t become a physicist, he might have been a boxer. Although people dressed less formally now, her father wore a suit, crisp white shirt, and silk tie.
He embraced her and dropped a perfunctory kiss on her forehead. He clasped Nouri’s hand, smiled, and introduced himself. They trooped into the house. Inside, her father took off his jacket and loosened his tie. They sat in the room Anna always called the front parlor—the formal room. Anna served tea. Her father took two sugars, she remembered. Nouri liked three. Her father quizzed Nouri about his family, his education, his interests. He nodded after every response. Nouri seemed subdued, and Anna wondered what he was thinking. Was he having doubts? Recons
idering?
“And what of your future, young man?” her father asked. “What will you do back in your country?”
Nouri told him about the Metro job. “It is the chance of a lifetime. To be at the center of the shah’s progress and modernization.”
“I see.” Her father took a sip of tea, placed the cup and saucer back down on the tray. “And how do you feel about the shah?” Her father’s eyes were bright and measuring. Anna’s stomach twisted.
Nouri’s response was nuanced. Anna wondered if her father could tell. “He’s done good. A lot of good, actually, in bringing modern life to Iran. But at the same time, his record on human rights…,” Nouri had adopted the term from observing American politics, “…is a failure. SAVAK is an abomination.”
Her father bent his head. “Do you not believe that the end justifies the means? If poverty is erased, and the people are better off, does it really matter how it came to be?”
A frown line appeared on Nouri’s forehead. Was this a trick? Anna wondered.
“If people cannot express themselves without fear of reprisals by the state,” Nouri replied, “what good is prosperity?”
“But your shah is promising a car for every Iranian.”
“Exactly. I stand by what I said.”
Her father’s smile was speculative. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you’re a progressive—perhaps even a Marxist—in capitalist’s clothing.”
Nouri grinned.
Her father pressed his fingertips together. “Then again, everyone is a Marxist when they’re young.”
Anna was miffed. Nouri kept a neutral expression on his face.
“Of course…,” Anna’s father said, “history has shown Iran to be quite…flexible. The father of your shah tilted toward Hitler during the war. At least until the British and the US stepped in. Then his son tilted just as easily the other way. Did you know that?”
Nouri shook his head.
“They probably deleted it from your textbooks. Persians rival the French in their…elasticity.”
A Bitter Veil Page 5