A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  She had no sense of time passing, but the pitch of the noise around her changed. It wasn’t quieter. Just different. The screams didn’t seem as raw. Or was she getting used to them? Her thoughts tumbled out, jumbled and chaotic. It was clear someone was framing her. Just like they’d framed Nouri. But unlike Nouri, someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure she would be blamed.

  There weren’t a lot of possibilities. It had to be someone who came to the house. Who had the opportunity to steal the knife. Which meant Hassan, Laleh, Roya, Maman, or Baba-joon. Some of Nouri’s associates from the Metro had been to the house for dinner, but that was a long time ago. She would have noticed a missing knife. Charlie and Ibram had been at the house, too, but obviously Charlie wouldn’t have done it. She doubted Ibram would, either. When she thought through her relationship with each person, she kept coming back to Hassan. Hassan had always hated her—for marrying Nouri, for being American, for not being submissive. She imagined how he might have stolen the knife while she was in her room, or watering the chenar tree, and Nouri was in the bathroom.

  A sudden shout sliced into her thoughts. “Anna Samedi! Get up!”

  Between the blindfold and her hands, which were still cuffed, her balance was off. She lurched awkwardly to her feet, using the wall as a brace.

  “Take three steps forward,” the voice shouted. She did. “Now turn to your right and walk.” She obeyed. Eight steps later, she stumbled into a wall and knocked her head against it. She staggered back. A current of air wafted toward her. A door had opened. Another male voice called out in English. “Enter.”

  She stretched her hands out in front, like a child playing blindman’s bluff, and shuffled into a room. Someone grabbed her and pushed her into a chair. Hands snatched the blindfold and tore it off. The bright light pouring in blinded her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she squinted.

  Three men were in the room, two seated at a table. They were not the ones who’d brought her here. All three had scruffy looking beards. One had pitted skin where his beard hadn’t grown—he must suffer from a bad case of acne. The second looked older and wore glasses. Usually she liked men in glasses—they gentled a person—but this man’s eyes were cold steel. There would be no mercy from him. The third man stood behind the others. He fidgeted, shifted his weight, and seemed embarrassed. They made eye contact. He looked familiar. She knew this man. He looked away. Who was he?

  The man with the glasses tossed a pad of paper down on the table. And a pen. “If you make a confession, it will go easier on you,” he said in English. No introduction. No name.

  She pursed her lips. They were dry and cracked. She needed water. “What am I confessing to?”

  His eyebrows arched. “Please, do not take us for fools. We know you killed your husband. We know why. We know how. There is nothing more to investigate. Inshallah, justice will be served.”

  The men’s body odor drifted across the table. She forced herself not to react. “I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did. I’m being set up.”

  The eyebrows arched higher. A knowing look came into his eyes.

  “I would never kill my husband.” She considered telling them that she was pregnant, but decided it might backfire. They could accuse her of killing Nouri so she could take the baby back to America once it was born.

  “Of course you will deny it. Murder is a capital offense in Iran. You will pay the price with your own life.”

  Anna gazed steadily at the man. “I told you. Someone is framing me.”

  He didn’t answer her directly. “We have the words of a brave Iranian mother and daughter against an American. Whom do you think we will believe?” He fixed her with a penetrating glare. “You should know that your husband’s death has made him a martyr. As much as anyone, he has been a victim of the Great Satan and his minions. His death will be inscribed as that of a brave soldier, fighting against the oppressors.”

  Anna’s spirits sank. It was no use. This was a kangaroo court. She glanced at the other two men. The man with the pitted face wore a predatory leer, as if he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. But the third man, the man who was standing, still refused to make eye contact. Who was he?

  In a flash it came to her. Massoud. Chicago. Daley Plaza. The man who’d headed the Iranian Students Association. She stared at him. Yes—despite the beard and the uniform—it was him. He’d been with an American girl, Anna recalled, a blonde who helped him distribute flyers. Anna opened her mouth, about to address him by name, then hesitated. Something told her not to. But he knew she knew. She could see it in his eyes. She turned her gaze back to the man with the glasses. For some reason, she felt more confident.

  “I moved to Iran to marry Nouri. He was my husband.” She gave him a sad smile. “I never loved anyone like I loved him.”

  The man flicked his hand dismissively. “You wanted to go back to America. He wouldn’t let you. You failed to become a good Muslim wife. He had every right to divorce you or take another wife. But he did not. He gave you every opportunity to prove yourself. Still, you wouldn’t obey. You refused to wear the chador, to submit to Shariah law. You were plotting to escape. He discovered it. And so you killed him.”

  Who had he been talking to?

  “Do you deny it?”

  Anna laced her hands together to keep her temper—and fear—under control. “I didn’t kill him. And I won’t sign anything that says I did.”

  Meanwhile, her thoughts were racing. How had Massoud ended up as a Guard at Evin Prison? He must have moved back from the US not long after they had. And decided to take the path of least resistance. He had been an anti-shah activist. Anna wondered briefly what happened to his blonde girlfriend. She probably married a doctor and was living on the North Shore.

  Then another thought occurred to her. Perhaps Massoud and Nouri had been in contact. No, Nouri would have said something. Perhaps, perhaps not. But even if they were, what good would it do now?

  The man with the glasses seemed to know her mind had wandered. He cleared his throat. “If you will not confess willingly, we must ‘encourage’ you to change your mind.”

  Her focus snapped back.

  He stood, lowered his voice, and murmured to the others. They went to her, flanking her on both sides. They slipped her blindfold and cuffs back on, grabbed her under her armpits, and walked her out of the room. Was Massoud’s hold just a little gentler than Pitface’s? Or was she imagining it? Either way, she tried to shake them off. “It’s all right. You don’t need to do that. I’m coming.”

  They tightened their grip.

  *****

  The men walked Anna out of one building and into another. This one had a linoleum floor. Her shoes thudded on the tiles. They walked down a set of stairs, making so many turns that she lost her orientation. She wondered if they did that on purpose. Finally, they stopped. Something swung open with a metallic squeak. They unlocked her cuffs and shoved her inside. The gate shut with a clang.

  The first thing that assaulted her was the fetid smell, a combination of urine, feces, and vomit. She took off her blindfold. She was in a small cell, no bigger than a closet. Barely enough room to stretch. She spotted a tiny slit at the top of wall. A feeble light struggling to break through told her that she was in a basement. There was no sink or toilet. No bed or blankets. Nothing except a cement floor. The walls were concrete.

  At first it seemed quieter here, but the silence was deceptive. As she acclimated to the space, Anna picked up whimpers and soft cries. Other people were nearby. People in misery and pain. Had they been tortured? Was that what was in store for her?

  She bit her lip and looked around. Did anyone even know she was here? Maman-joon and Laleh must know, as they were apparently the ones accusing her. They would be no help. They would be preoccupied with their own grief, anyway, and were probably planning Nouri’s funeral. Muslims buried their dead within twenty-four hours. Tears welled up. She would not be there.

  S
he thought about her parents. They had no idea that Nouri was dead. Unlike in America, here there was no opportunity to make a phone call when you were arrested. Indeed, unless her jailers allowed her to contact them, there was a good chance no one would ever know what happened to her. She would simply disappear, like so many others, just swallowed up. Her jailers would say that she’d died trying to escape, she had an accident; maybe she’d committed suicide. No one would dispute it, because no one would know the truth.

  The isolation swelled and became overpowering. Anna pulled her legs to her chest and rocked back and forth. She suspected it was only a matter of time before her own sobs joined the quiet chorus of grief around her.

  Forty

  The only way Anna could detect the passage of time was by the slit at the top of her cell. It became brighter. She assumed that meant it was daylight. But her internal clock was off kilter, and she was exhausted. The man with the pitted face made it a point to come to her cell—probably every hour, she guessed—to shine a bright light on her face and wake her from the little sleep she’d managed to grab. Each time he intruded he demanded to know whether she was ready to confess. Each time she said no. He would leave, only to return again later.

  During one of the visits a new Guard appeared. He brought with him a cup of tea. She drank it greedily, then realized she had to pee. “Where is the bathroom?” she asked in Farsi.

  “You’re in it.” He laughed.

  She suppressed her disgust.

  The light from the slit at the top of the cell faded. The sun must have been setting. She had been in jail almost twenty-four hours. Her stomach agreed. It had been growling in hunger, but now it felt like it was being squeezed by a steel band. Was there something in the tea? Did they put something in it to make her more miserable?

  The Guard with the pitted face returned. This time Massoud was with him. They repeated the charade with the light, demanding to know if she was ready to confess. She shook her head. They didn’t retreat. Massoud unlocked the cell. They came inside, put on her blindfold, and walked her upstairs.

  When they ripped off the blindfold, she saw that the other man who’d interrogated her had joined them, but she’d been taken to a different room. This one had a metal cot in one corner. A thin, tattered spread covered it, but Anna could see the crisscrossing of a metal frame underneath. Attached to the four corners of the cot were chains, which in turn were attached to metal cuffs. In the corner, she saw a thick black pole with a group of wires at one end. A whip. Fear streaked up her spine.

  The Guard with the glasses saw her looking at the whip and smiled. “Did you think you were exempt from Shariah law because you are American? When you married your husband you became Muslim and an Iranian citizen. You are accountable to the laws of Iran.”

  Anna kept her mouth shut.

  “Chain her,” he said to Massoud and the man with the pitted face. They pulled her over to the cot. She tried to wriggle out of their grasp, but it was useless, and they seemed to know it was just a pro forma effort. She glanced at Massoud. He still would not make eye contact. They slammed her down on the cot. The metal frame bit into her skin. They clutched her arms and forced them over her head, then cuffed them to the bed, one on each side. They did the same with her feet.

  The man with glasses peered over her. “Last chance to confess to your crimes.”

  “I didn’t kill my husband.”

  The man shrugged, picked up the metal whip, and came back. She turned her head to the side and saw Massoud. This time he was looking at her. His face was a mix of sorrow and shame. The man with the glasses flicked the whip back, then forward. She heard it swish, followed by a staccato crack as it lashed her feet. Her feet stung. At first she thought it wasn’t so bad, but then a wave of unbearably hot, sharp pain rushed up from her feet. She screamed.

  He whipped her again. This time the pain took her breath away. She couldn’t take in enough air to scream. The man with the whip lashed her again, and somehow, she found enough air to shriek. Massoud bolted into the hall. Between her cries, the sounds of him retching, and the howls from other rooms, it was too much. Mercifully, a powerful force rose up and enveloped her in a soft black silence.

  *****

  Anna was running on a beach, but the sand was so hot it burned her feet. The cool, blue water was just a few feet away. She jogged toward it, knowing it would bring relief, but the closer she got, the farther the ocean receded, as if it was low tide in warp speed. “Stop!” she yelled to the sea. “I need you!”

  Slowly, she came back to awareness. She was still strapped to the bed. Her first impression was that she was alone. The second was that her feet were on fire. Burning, blazing, pulsating flames licked her skin. She thought maybe someone had screwed her feet in backwards. She groaned and tried to lift her head, but she felt heavy and sluggish. She doubted she would ever walk again.

  A dull pain throbbed against her temples. She needed to turn off her brain. Withdraw. She couldn’t be vigilant and aware—the pain was too agonizing. Where was the switch, she thought? Please, God. Turn it off. Turn me off. Maybe she should confess. It wouldn’t make much difference. They were going to kill her one way or another. Wasn’t she already half dead? The door opened. A Guard she hadn’t seen before eyed her, gazed at her feet, and flinched. He retreated, then came back with rubber thong sandals and dropped them on the floor. He proceeded to unfasten her arms and legs from the cuffs. Anna didn’t move. She didn’t know if she could.

  “Come,” the Guard said. He looked young, maybe as young as Laleh. And embarrassed, as if he would rather have been anywhere on earth than here. She slowly raised herself. Her head whirled with dizziness, and she fell back on the cot. The metal bed frame felt like sharp spikes stabbing her back.

  “Please,” she croaked. “I need help.”

  The Guard nodded. It was the first acknowledgement by anyone that she was a human. She felt unaccountably grateful. He grasped her arm and helped her up. The world slowly settled upright.

  “We need to go,” he said urgently, as if there was a schedule to which they had to adhere.

  Anna blinked. With a great effort she bent over and checked her feet. She wasn’t sure what she expected—her skin in shreds, or a bloody pulp—so she was surprised to see it wasn’t. The most noticeable thing was that her feet were swollen, almost twice as large as normal. They were blue and purple, too, but there was no blood. The whip had not broken her skin. She had trouble actually believing it—the pain had been so excruciating.

  She slipped the thongs on, slid off the bed, and shifted her weight onto her feet. A fresh wave of pain engulfed her. She cried out and rolled her feet to their outer edges. But the young Guard’s support was firm, and she managed to hobble to the door. The Guard opened it, but then froze, as if he’d forgotten something, and shut it. For an instant Anna wondered if this had all been a ruse, and something even more horrible was about to happen. But it was only the blindfold. He retrieved it from the floor and slipped it over her eyes.

  Together they shuffled down halls that seemed endless. They exited a building and crossed the courtyard. A soft rain was falling. Anna lifted her arms and face into it. She caught a whiff of her own unwashed body. She hadn’t showered in days.

  A moment later they were inside yet another building.

  “Where are we going?” she asked in Farsi.

  A grunt was his response.

  He led her down a hall with linoleum floors into a small room. He took off her blindfold. Anna blinked. The office was bare, save for a desk and two chairs. Behind the desk sat a woman in a chador. She was thin, almost gaunt, and her face was shaped like a triangle, with a broad brow—above which not a strand of hair escaped her rusari—and a narrow, pointed chin. Bushy eyebrows framed a stern expression. She nodded at the Guard and he retreated. Anna clutched the back of a chair for support. The woman gestured her into it.

  As Anna sat, the woman folded her hands. “I am Sister Azar,” she said in Englis
h. “You will be under my supervision until you are sentenced.”

  “Sentenced? What sentence? There has been no trial,” Anna said.

  Sister Azar’s gaze turned calculating. “Oh, but there was. The night you were brought here. You were not present, but you were found guilty of murder.”

  Anna’s jaw dropped. “They can’t do that! I didn’t kill him. I have a right—”

  The woman laughed. “This is not America, with your endless system of justice that protects the guilty. Here, justice is swift. And final.”

  “I want to lodge a protest.” Even as she said it, though, she understood how naïve she sounded.

  Sister Azar didn’t bother to reply. “I will take you to the ward.”

  She got up and went to the door. Anna sank back in the chair. “How long until I’m sentenced?”

  She shrugged. “Everyone is preoccupied with the hostages. And you are American. They will be careful.” She waggled a finger. “Do not give them a reason to hurry.” It was a warning.

  She marched down the hall, with Anna limping behind. She blew out a breath, seemingly impatient that Anna couldn’t keep up. They made a few turns, and eventually came to a door. Sister Azar unlocked and opened it, and they continued down the hall.

  The room they came to wasn’t much larger than the Samedis’ living room, Anna guessed, but at least forty women, maybe more, were crammed into it. Most sat on the floor in small groups reading or talking quietly. It was so crowded that they were practically on top of each other. A few sat by themselves. One rocked back and forth, muttering in silence. Sister Azar gave Anna a little shove, and she stumbled in. Anna heard a metallic click as the door was locked behind her.