A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Which is what Khomeini preaches,” Anna said.

  “Exactly,” Baba-joon said. “For those who have nothing, Khomeini’s words and Shariah law are seductive.”

  “You sound almost sympathetic.”

  “I understand. There is a difference.”

  In the silence that followed, Anna heard the squeak of drawers opening in the kitchen, a blade chopping, the thwap of meat being pounded. Despite the warmth and familiarity of the sounds, she felt a chill.

  Seventeen

  It was in early November that events gathered speed, seeming to hurtle toward a still unknown end. The shah gave a speech in which he called the unrest a revolution for the first time, and seemed to extend an olive branch to the protestors. But this gesture was reversed when he appointed a military coalition to replace the civilian government. In Paris, Ayatollah Khomeini demanded that the shah abdicate the throne in favor of an Islamic republic. At home, Shi’ite religious leaders rejected the military government and urged the faithful to continue the struggle. But the government managed to break most of the strikes, and some people returned to work.

  Meanwhile, the rainy season arrived. It was cold and damp, with periods of steady rain or intermittent sprinkles. Occasionally, a cheerful sun broke out, as if apologizing for the dreariness, and life seemed almost normal. Going out, Anna encountered the jubes—man-made gullies that ran beside the sidewalks. Running from north Tehran down to the city center, they smelled of damp concrete, and at first she thought they were sewers, but Baba-joon told her they were built to handle the excess rain and snowmelt from the mountains. Sometimes, little boys and dogs played in them.

  Now that their house was more or less in order, Anna decided it was time to pursue a job. She took a taxi to a quiet, tree-lined street in north central Tehran, not far from the Samedis’ home. Taxis in Tehran were an adventure. They could be private or shared, and today Anna was squeezed between a man who, despite the cool weather, was sweating, and a woman whose hair gave off a sweet, fruity aroma.

  The taxi deposited her in front of the Iran-American Society, which occupied a modern, two-story building. Inside, on the first floor, were white-painted halls lined with oil paintings. Directly in front of her was a theater. She peeked in and saw seats for about two hundred. She took the stairs to the second floor and started down a hall flanked by offices, each with a nameplate on the door. The executive director’s office was at the far end. The door was open, but Anna knocked anyway.

  “Come in,” a voice called.

  Behind the desk sat a woman with dark hair, pale skin, a strong chin, and bright blue eyes, which probably looked bluer because of her turquoise suit. She wore little makeup, but her jewelry was something else. Bracelets tinkled, earrings bobbed, and Anna saw several rings on both hands, including a wedding band.

  The woman came out from behind the desk. “I’m Charlotte Craft, but everyone calls me Charlie.” She offered Anna her hand.

  Anna took it. “Anna Samedi.”

  Charlie waved her into a chair. “So, tell me about yourself. Your father-in-law said only that you are an exceptional young woman and that you want a job.”

  Anna jiggled her foot. A few days ago she’d finally confessed to Baba-joon that she didn’t want to work at the oil company, whereupon Nouri immediately told him about Hassan’s suggestion that she try the IAS. It turned out that Baba-joon knew people there, too, and he’d arranged the interview.

  “He is too kind,” Anna said.

  “Do you know what we do?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “We’re a cultural center. We try to strengthen the bonds between Iranians and Americans by exposing them to each other. We’ve been around for over twenty years, and I became director two years ago. I, myself, am married to an Iranian.”

  “I am, too.” Anna folded her hands in her lap.

  “Yes, I know.” Charlie smiled. “I understand you lived in Chicago.” When Anna nodded, she said, “I went to Notre Dame. Right around the corner, so to speak. But I’d visit friends at U of C. I miss Harold’s fried chicken.”

  Anna grinned and felt herself relax. “I miss Medici’s pizza.”

  Charlie laughed, and the sound was infectious: low, throaty, and raucous. “Oh, my god. Iranians are great chefs, but they have no clue about pizza.”

  Anna laughed too. “I know what you mean.”

  “At any rate,” Charlie went on, “we have a dynamic organization, if I do say so myself. It’s friendly, it’s substantive, it’s creative. We showcase some of the most exciting work being done by Iranian and American artists. We stage theater events, plays, concerts—you saw our gallery downstairs?”

  Anna nodded. She liked Charlie, even if she did talk at eighty miles an hour.

  “We also teach classes in English and American culture—mostly for professionals or Iranians moving to the States. As you might imagine, interest in the US is at an all-time high, so we have programs for young people, too. Especially students with promising careers. Do you have a teaching degree?”

  Anna’s stomach turned over. “I graduated with a degree in literature. No teaching.”

  Charlie leaned forward, plopped her elbows on her desk, and studied Anna. “Most of our teachers are instructors at Tehran University or someplace comparable. They moonlight here.”

  Anna looked at the floor.

  Charlie was quiet for a moment. Then, “But given the current demand, we have more students than we can accommodate.”

  Anna looked up. “Even with all the unrest?”

  “Because of it.” She smiled again. “Don’t believe everything you hear. The floodgates have opened. Everyone wants to learn English. Right away. I suppose, in one way, we can thank the shah for that.” She smiled. “Tell me something. Would you like to teach young people? Teenagers? We don’t currently offer classes to Iranians that young, but we’ve had a number of calls. If you can handle it, I think we can make room for you.”

  Anna sat up. “Are you kidding? I would love it.”

  “It’s just part time, you understand.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  “Because you need time to devote to your husband and family.”

  “Exactly.” Anna grinned. They were complicit, she and Charlie. In fact, for one of the first times since she’d been in Iran, she felt comfortable. Charlie was the kind of woman she would like to become. Dare she think this woman might one day be her friend?

  “Charlie, thank you so much. This is so much more than I expected!”

  Charlie peered at her. “It’s just a job.” But she looked pleased as she rose and strolled to a set of file cabinets in the corner. She rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a folder. “Here are some sample curricula from past classes. They were designed for adults, so you’ll have to adapt them. Can you do that?”

  Anna nodded eagerly.

  “Good.” Charlie handed them over. “We’ll gear up in January. December is a month of mourning here, and, of course, all the Americans are consumed with Christmas. Does that sound workable?”

  Anna nodded, thanked Charlie again, and took her leave. She practically skipped down the steps. She was already dreaming up a syllabus. Poetry, she thought. She would track down an English translation of Rumi. And e e cummings. She was so absorbed she barely remembered the trip home. She couldn’t wait to tell Nouri.

  “How much will you be paid?” he asked that night.

  “Sixty tomans an hour,” she said. About nine dollars.

  “Not bad. In fact, it’s quite good.”

  She wasn’t doing it for the money, she wanted to reply. She was doing it because someone wanted her, and she could contribute. And maybe make a friend in the process. But she didn’t tell Nouri that. She just dipped her head and beamed.

  *****

  As November came to an end, Anna tried to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for her Iranian family. She couldn’t find a turkey to roast so she made do with a chicken. But the ongoing unrest had red
uced shopkeepers’ inventories, and the bird was scrawny and tough. Anna hoped her rice and currant stuffing would hide its flaws.

  The Samedis pretended to like the chicken, but the way they scarfed down the kababs and curried meatballs she also cooked, told her they were just being polite. Over dinner Anna chattered about her new job, the students she hoped to teach, the texts she was thinking of adapting. Nouri’s family asked all the right questions, but after dinner—like an open wound that couldn’t be ignored—the conversation turned to politics.

  Baba-joon said he’d talked to the shah. There was a moment of awestruck silence, during which Anna decided Baba-joon must know everyone in Tehran.

  Nouri asked what he said.

  “He is moody and depressed and sees enemies everywhere. First he thinks his foes are the oil companies. Then he blames the CIA and Carter, because they stopped the secret subsidies paid to radicals and clerics. Then he decides it’s the Communists, and, of course, Khomeini. Then it’s the treachery of his own ministers.” Baba-joon sighed. “One day he frees political prisoners. The next his troops shoot people in the street.” Baba-joon shook his head. “I just don’t know anymore.”

  Everyone went quiet. If someone as prominent as Baba-joon was despondent, what hope was there?

  “Does the shah think he can weather the crisis?” Nouri finally asked. His tone seemed to beg for reassurance.

  “I believe he does,” Baba-joon said. It was clear Baba-joon did not.

  Nouri didn’t say anything. Didn’t he believe his father? Anna wondered. Or was he unwilling to face reality?

  Apparently, Laleh didn’t want to face it either. “I hope he does survive. I don’t like being restricted. I can’t go to nightclubs, can’t go shopping, can’t take the car for a drive. What kind of life is that?”

  Anna kept her mouth shut, but it was a relief when the family piled into the Mercedes to go home. As she cleaned up, Nouri turned on the news, which, like in the US, came on late at night. Troops in Shiraz had killed fifteen people who were rioting. More ominously, over two hundred high-ranking politicians and royal family members were discovered to have sent their savings, estimated at over two billion dollars, out of Iran.

  Nouri sucked in a breath.

  Anna came out of the kitchen. She watched the riot scenes for a moment, then said quietly, “You didn’t expect this, did you?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think it would be so…violent. Then again, when a government deserves to be replaced, I suppose violence is the most efficient way to do it. And when people have nothing to lose…” His voice trailed off.

  Anna was quiet. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, she asked, “What about Hassan?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he someone with nothing to lose?”

  Worry lines popped up on Nouri’s brow. “Why do you ask?”

  “His father committed suicide because of the shah. That can be a powerful motivation for revenge.”

  “It’s not that simple, Anna.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Hassan’s politics aren’t based on retribution. He truly believes things must change. He always has. You’re insinuating that no one can advocate for change if they’re not miserable. But what about us? We’re not miserable, but we certainly want change.”

  Anna realized the hole she had just dug. “I didn’t mean that. I just…”

  “I love this country. I want to see progress. If the shah is not moving us forward, and he clearly isn’t, then someone else should. I will gladly support them. Just like Hassan.”

  “Would you really?”

  “What are you getting at, Anna?”

  “What if you were required to give up something in order to move forward?”

  His brow furrowed, and he looked around. “What would I possibly have to give up?”

  Eighteen

  December marked the beginning of Muharram, which, next to Ramadan, was the most sacred month of the Islamic calendar. Fighting was supposedly prohibited during the month, but violent riots broke out in Tehran, and other cities, three nights running. Demonstrators seized government buildings, shut down businesses, and attacked government officials. Even in Esfahan, the city Anna recalled with so much affection, protestors attacked SAVAK offices, and burned down the cinemas. A number of people were killed. Chants for the return of Khomeini choked the air. Foreigners, including many Americans, fled the country.

  Anna decided the whole world had gone crazy. Three weeks earlier, over nine hundred people in Jonestown, Guyana, had committed mass suicide on the order of one man. And November 27th saw the assassination of San Francisco gay leader Harvey Milk. Maybe there was something to the concept of Armageddon.

  It got worse. On December 7th, US president Jimmy Carter was asked at a news conference whether he expected the shah to survive. He replied that it was a decision the Iranian people would have to make, not the US. This stunning about-face, coming after months of proclaiming the shah one of his staunchest allies, sealed the shah’s fate. His remaining support was now in tatters.

  On the 11th of December, the Day of Ashura—a sacred Islamic day of mourning and fasting—nearly a million people gathered in Tehran’s Shahyad Square to call for the shah’s ouster. The protest spilled over to Shahyad Tower—the “gateway to Tehran”—the landmark Anna had marveled at as she and Nouri drove from the airport only four months before. The shah refused to use force and did not order his troops to disperse the crowd. His military government resigned. The unrelenting pace of events distorted Anna’s perception of time; it felt like four years, not four months.

  As the new year began, the shah appointed yet another government, but that did little to stem the turmoil. Demonstrations and riots persisted, each more violent than the one before. On the 16th of January, the shah flew his own plane to Egypt for what he told the country was a vacation. Everyone knew he would not be back.

  Millions of Iranians poured into the streets, this time in jubilation. From Paris, Ayatollah Khomeini said the shah might be gone, but the need to create an Islamic republic still existed. Two days later, despite the opposition of the new government, the crowds poured out onto the streets again, demanding just that. A flurry of communiqués passed between Khomeini and Bakhtiar, the new prime minister—who had only been in office a few weeks. On February 1st, Khomeini flew back to Tehran.

  PART TWO

  Nineteen

  Come, Nouri.” Hassan called up the stairs. “We won’t get close if we don’t leave right now.”

  Anna zipped up her jacket and draped a muffler around her neck. She and Hassan were waiting for Nouri. They were going to the southern part of the city to see the Ayatollah, whose plane had just landed at Mehrabad Airport. He was now en route to Behesht-e Zahra Cemetery where he would give a speech. According to the radio over two million people were already lining the streets. It promised to be one of those days people would tell their grandchildren about.

  Hassan shuffled his feet impatiently. “Where is he?”

  “Probably still shaving,” Anna said.

  Hassan scowled.

  Finally, Nouri clattered down the stairs, trailing the scent of aftershave and toothpaste. Anna loved the way Nouri smelled after he showered. She wanted to burrow into his arms but settled for a quick kiss.

  They piled into Nouri’s BMW, another wedding present from his parents, and drove south toward the cemetery just outside Tehran on the road to Qom. As they got within a mile of it masses of people swarmed the streets, making further progress impossible. They abandoned the car and started walking. Nouri looked around in wonder. “I’ve never seen such huge crowds.”

  “Inshallah, it is the beginning of a new dawn,” Hassan said.

  Anna wanted to roll her eyes at the cliché. It was a mild day for February, and she unwrapped her muffler and unzipped her jacket. The atmosphere was festive; people sang and hugged each other. They even smiled at Anna. Some had cut the shah’s
picture out of their money, and they waved their shah-less rials and tomans. Shopkeepers flung candy and sweets into the crowd. Children scampered to retrieve them. Others distributed flowers. Every so often they saw soldiers, but they didn’t appear to be menacing. At one point, a girl inserted flowers in the barrels of the soldiers’ rifles. If not for the clothing, Anna thought, she might have been walking through Haight-Ashbury during the height of the Vietnam War. The men were, for the most part, in Western dress, but many of the women were wearing chadors.

  “Look!” Hassan pointed.

  Someone wielded an ax, and was chopping away at a statue of the shah. He’d clearly been at it for a while; the statue wobbled precariously.

  Nouri took Anna’s hand. She squeezed it.

  The throng of people thickened as they approached the cemetery, but the gates were wide open, and the crowd poured through. Anna, who had never been inside a cemetery, wasn’t sure what to expect. She was oddly relieved as she walked into a bucolic setting with tree-lined streets and broad plazas and terraces.

  A big banner just inside the gates proclaimed something in Arabic. “What does it say?” Anna asked Nouri.

  “The Communist Party welcomes the Ayatollah back onto Iranian soil!” He answered cheerfully. Other people waved Iranian flags. Some held up green banners.

  “Why green?” Anna asked.

  “Green is the color of Islam.” Hassan grinned.

  Nouri picked up on his mood. “I’ve never seen you so happy, Hassan.”

  Hassan clapped his hands. “We did it, Nouri! The shah is gone, and the Imam will lead us into a new age.”

  The trace of a frown came across Nouri’s face. “The Imam is a learned man, and a holy one, but he is not part of the ruling structure. We have a constitutional monarchy. Shapour Bakhtiar is our prime minister. And the Army is still loyal to the government.”