A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Curious glances came her way. She shuffled awkwardly to a corner of the room and gingerly lowered herself to the floor. She slipped off the thongs, and extended her feet. They touched the back of another woman who twisted around with a scowl. Anna bent her knees and placed her feet on the floor so they were no longer touching the woman, but a fresh stab of pain shot through her. Trying to breathe through it, she distracted herself by looking around.

  The first thing she noticed was the women’s clothing. They were dressed in t-shirts, jeans, and dresses. No hijab or chadors. The next thing she noticed was that despite the lack of space, there was a sense of order in the room. Blankets and spreads were folded in one spot, books and shoes in another. Chadors and bags hung on hooks. She leaned back against the wall. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see more. She knew what was ahead. Interacting with this place, and the people in it, would bring her closer to death. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  She wasn’t sure how much time passed when she felt a gentle tug on her chador. Her eyes snapped open. A young woman with riotous auburn curls tamed only by a yellow headband was smiling at her. It was the first real smile Anna had seen since she was arrested. She examined the girl. Widely-spaced eyes the color of ochre, lashes so light they looked invisible, and a spill of freckles on her nose and cheeks. She held strips of cloth and dangled them in front of Anna. “Let me help you bandage your feet,” she said in English.

  This simple kindness was the breaking point. Anna couldn’t hold it together any longer. She started to weep, long wrenching sobs. She thought maybe she would cry forever.

  Forty-one

  Nousha was a political prisoner, she explained when Anna’s tears finally stopped. She’d been found guilty of spying for the enemies of the revolution. When Anna asked which enemies, she shrugged. “I am a Kurd. And a Sunni Muslim. The Ayatollah has declared a holy war against us.”

  Anna knew about the problems between Iran and the Kurdish people. The Kurds were mostly Sunni Muslims and lived in Northern Iran. They wanted independence from Iran and, since the shah’s downfall, they’d been bitterly fighting for it. Iranians, on the other hand, were mostly Shi’a Muslims and considered the Kurds a threat.

  “Even so,” Anna asked, “hasn’t there always been a Kurdish community in Persia?”

  “That is true. Sometimes they persecute us, sometimes they leave us alone. Now, though…” Nousha blew out a breath. “We are not a part of the new society—even though we fought for the shah’s downfall. They think we are being exploited by foreign powers, that we want to destabilize the new regime. So they are trying to crush us. Many Kurds have left Iran.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “My fiancé was teaching at a Kurdish school. He pledged to stay as long as the school remained open. I chose to stay with him.” She sighed. “They closed the school a month ago. We tried to leave for Mahabad, then Turkey, but they stopped us outside Tehran. They accused us of conspiring to bring down the Islamic government. We weren’t, of course, but it didn’t matter. My fiancé was executed, and I am sentenced to death.”

  A swell of anger rolled over Anna. How could Nousha sound so calm? Why wasn’t she fighting the trumped up charges? Scratching, clawing for justice and a chance to stay alive?

  As if she knew what Anna was thinking, she said, “I have no way to fight back. This is my life now. For as long as it lasts. It will go better for me in Paradise.”

  Anna understood. She felt that way herself. “I am a Christian.”

  Nousha nodded. “They will pressure you to convert.”

  “Technically I did. When I got married.”

  Nousha studied her, then tilted her head. “Why are you here?”

  “They say I murdered my husband.”

  “And because you are an American, and there are Americans being held hostage, it has become political.”

  Anna nodded.

  Nousha touched her shoulder. “Be brave, my American friend. I will say a prayer for your feet.” She stood, faced the wall, and whispered words Anna didn’t understand. Only afterwards did Anna realize that Nousha had never asked her if she had killed Nouri.

  *****

  Over the next few days Anna’s feet healed. They were still stiff and sore, but it no longer hurt so much to walk. As she settled into the ward, a routine of sorts emerged. A bell woke the women before dawn for prayers, but since she was not Muslim, no one forced her to participate. Tolerance came at odd times and places, she thought. And yet the only books in the room were the Qur’an and religious tracts, and they were all in Arabic.

  After prayers, breakfast—or what they called breakfast—was served. Usually it was tea and bread. The first time she drank the tea, it was tinged with a distinct taste. It took a moment to identify. Vicks Vapo-Rub.

  “This tastes like the salve they used when I got sick as a child,” she said to Nousha.

  “It is camphor. They add it to the tea.”

  “Camphor? Why?”

  “It will stop your period.”

  Anna frowned.

  “They don’t want to spend money on sanitary napkins.”

  Anna stiffened. If camphor stopped periods, what would it do to someone who was pregnant? She wanted to ask, but she didn’t know Nousha well enough. What if she was a spy or an informant? She spit the tea out.

  “Some of the girls don’t mind,” Nousha said. “They say camphor is soothing. It dulls pain.”

  “What do you say?”

  “It’s hard not to drink it. It is the only beverage we have. I think it makes me lethargic. Sometimes it causes swelling. Others say it makes them depressed.” She shrugged. “Then again, what does it matter?”

  Anna eyed the tea suspiciously.

  After breakfast the women made an effort to tidy up, stacking blankets and other things, and washing up with cold water. Nousha told her they got hot showers only once every two to three weeks, and then only for a few minutes.

  The rest of the morning was spent reading, talking, and gossiping, except for the “crazies,” as Nousha called them, women who had lost their sanity and were comatose or talked gibberish. Lunch was sometimes soup, sometimes stew, but was always thin and watery. Once in a while someone found a chunk of meat in her bowl and showed it off to the others.

  More prayers, and then, most days, the women went out to the courtyard for an hour of air. Inmates from each cellblock were taken out separately; there was no interaction between wards. Or, of course, the sexes. Which meant Anna had no idea how many prisoners were housed here. Or if, like her, Baba-joon might also be imprisoned at Evin.

  Anna noticed some women seemed to have more than others: clothes, cigarettes, even bits of extra food. She asked Nousha about it.

  “Most of the girls who have more than the rest of us are prostitutes, thieves, con artists. They know how to work the system and get what they need.” Nousha rubbed her fingers together.

  “How do they get the stuff?”

  “From family. During visits. Then they hide it and only bring it out when it’s time to bribe the Guards.”

  “Where do they hide it?”

  “They sew it into the lining of their chadors.”

  Anna’s eyebrows arched. She had much to learn.

  Dinner was usually fruit, more tea, and sometimes cheese. Anna had to drink the tea; no other beverages were offered. The lights were turned off at eleven, but with fifty girls in a room designed for twenty, sleeping space was at a premium. They jammed together on the floor or in the hall. Sometimes they took turns lying on their backs. Nousha carved out a tiny space for Anna next to her.

  The third night Anna was there, a series of loud cracks woke her. “What was that?” she asked shakily.

  Nousha swallowed. It took her a moment to answer. “Executions. They are shooting prisoners.”

  Anna couldn’t go back to sleep.

  Forty-two

  The only thing Anna had was plenty of time. Time to ruminate, to regret, to relive the past.
She tried to pinpoint the moment she knew her life was in tatters. Was it the first night that Nouri had deserted her for one of his endless meetings? Was it the morning when he woke up, rolled over, and stared at her with disgust? Was it when he refused to let her stay alone and kept her a virtual prisoner?

  She recalled a book written about the five stages of grief, and decided she was passing through them now, except she was doing so out of order. She’d already passed denial—she went through that when Nouri first started to change. Then she’d skipped to bargaining—if she tried to please, if she tried hard, everything would still work out. But of course, it didn’t, and she sank into a depression, the fourth stage.

  From there she was supposed to find acceptance, the same resignation as Nousha. Except she couldn’t. Anna’s lifelong dream—to be part of a real family and have one of her own—had been destroyed. And that infuriated her. Indeed, her anger had bloomed like a hothouse flower, casting off petals of rage. But with it came clarity and a sense of purpose. Someone was framing her for Nouri’s murder. She could not permit that to continue. She must try to save herself. Or die trying.

  Anna came to trust Nousha and one day she talked about Nouri’s death. “The day the Guards took Baba-joon, Laleh and I raced over to the house. I wonder now if that was the setup. Maybe that was when someone broke into my house and took the knife.”

  “Yes, but who? Who wanted to kill Nouri? And who wanted to frame you?”

  “Maman-joon never liked me, I know that now. But I don’t believe she had anything to do with this. She just doesn’t seem capable of it. Why would she kill her own son? Surely she could think of another way to get at me. And Laleh wanted me to be her best friend. Of course, that was before things started…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  Anna shook her head. “No. I can’t believe Laleh is responsible. The most important person in Laleh’s life is Laleh. And she was determined to leave Iran for London to be with her boyfriend.”

  “So?”

  “If anything, Laleh would want to keep on Nouri’s good side. In Baba-joon’s absence, he would be the one to grant her permission to leave.”

  “If she is not married, she only needs a ghayyem—guardian—until she’s eighteen. After that she can get her own passport and go.”

  “She just turned eighteen,” Anna said, remembering that they’d marked the day about a month ago. Nouri had given Laleh a beautiful gold bracelet he’d bought in downtown Tehran.

  “Then there is no reason for her to care what her brother thinks.”

  Anna mulled it over.

  “Didn’t you say you thought your husband was working for the Foundation? Confiscating the assets and property of others?”

  Anna nodded. “Most were friends of the family.”

  “Well then.” Nousha flipped up her hands and flashed a triumphant smile. “There it is.”

  “What?”

  “It was one of them, taking revenge for what Nouri did to their family.”

  “You think so?”

  “What would you do if someone—who you knew and trusted your entire life—came to your house and stole everything of value? Perhaps arranged for one or two family members to be put in prison too, just for good measure?”

  Anna frowned. She hadn’t considered that. “But why would they frame me? Why not Nouri?”

  It was Nousha’s turn to frown. “Retribution. You know. An eye for an eye. The Qur’an exhorts Muslims to wreak vengeance on one’s enemies.”

  “It’s possible,” Anna said. But she still suspected Hassan. “Even after Nouri denounced his father, Hassan considered him a threat. Probably because he was married to me, an infidel.” She told Nousha her theory that Hassan had waited until he knew they were gone, come in, stolen the knife, then had one of his compatriots stab Nouri. “Murder is just another part of life in Iran today.”

  Nousha played with her lips, as if she was thinking it over. Then she shrugged. “Well, there is one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They won’t do anything to you until your baby is born.”

  Anna blanched. “How did you know I was pregnant?”

  “You get sick in the morning. Your skin has a rosy glow. And you have a bump on your stomach. With the food here, there is no way you are putting on weight.”

  Anna laid her hand on Nousha’s arm. “Please, don’t say anything. I haven’t told anyone.”

  Nousha’s eyebrows arched. “Oh, but you must tell them. How far along are you?”

  “I’m not sure. Three…no…maybe four months.” She was unwilling to recall the times Nouri had raped her.

  “But you must remember. You are carrying Nouri’s child. An Iranian child. If they know that, they will not kill you. It is against the law. In fact, they will take better care of you.”

  “Really?” Anna clasped her hands together. For the first time since she’d been in Evin Prison, she felt a surge of hope. Then she noticed Nousha would not make eye contact. She was looking down, as if something of acute interest had materialized on the floor.

  “What is it, Nousha? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Nousha looked up. Sorrow lined her face. “They will probably take the baby after it is born.”

  Anna stiffened.

  “They might give him to your in-laws. Or to a childless couple.”

  Anna imagined Maman-joon or, even worse, a stranger raising the baby growing inside her. No, that would not, could not happen. It wasn’t until that very moment that she’d realized that, conceived in rape or not, she wanted this baby.

  “Then I will escape. Somehow. And take the baby with me.”

  Nousha smiled sadly, as if she knew Anna was simply spinning fantasies. “If the baby is born while you are still in Iran, it will be Iranian. You will not be permitted to take it out of the country.”

  “No!” Anna cried. At her outburst the other women turned and stared. She drew herself up. The baby was hers, she thought fiercely, and she would do whatever was necessary to keep it.

  *****

  Two days later the ward hummed with anticipation. The women washed and dressed in clean clothes. It was visiting day, the one day a month when prisoners could see close family members. Anna tried not to pay attention to the buzz. She would not be entertaining any visitors. Laleh and Maman-joon would never come to Evin willingly, unless it was to her execution.

  She sat on the floor as women’s names were called. One by one they put on their chadors and left the room. They returned about an hour later. Many were crying, their earlier anticipation replaced by grief or a gnawing look of anxiety. Anna was almost grateful she didn’t have to go through it.

  When they called her name, she sat up in surprise. Who could be visiting her? She rose slowly, put on her chador, and went to Sister Azar’s office where she was blindfolded. “You are going to a special place.” Anna went rigid. Where were they taking her?

  Nousha had told Anna about the visitation building. It was divided by a thick glass partition, with family members on one side, prisoners on the other. There was no phone through which to talk, and families communicated through sign language or reading lips. When Anna was finally told to sit down, she expected to be on the prisoners’ side of the glass. But when they removed her blindfold, she was in a small room, much like the room they’d interrogated her in when she was first brought to Evin. The Guard cuffed her hands and shackled her feet.

  Her pulse started to race, and her breath grew short. Were they going to interrogate her again? Lash her feet? Or something worse? Maybe Nousha was wrong about their policy of not executing pregnant women. Her mouth went dry. Terror seeped under her skin.

  The door opened and someone entered. Dressed in a Guard’s uniform, he kept his back to her. When he closed the door and turned around, Anna gasped.

  Hassan walked to the table and sat across from her. He did not smile.

  It took Anna a moment to regain her composure. �
��Have you come to gloat? You must be pleased how everything’s turned out.”

  He hesitated. Then, “I know that you hate me, Anna.”

  She didn’t answer him.

  He waved a hand. “You think I am responsible for this.”

  She still didn’t answer.

  “Anna, I am not your enemy.”

  Anna pressed her hands together so hard that her nails sliced into her skin.

  “I have come at Bijan’s request.”

  She reeled back. “Baba-joon?”

  “He has been released from prison. He is back home.”

  “What? How? When?”

  “They tell me that you already know that Nouri’s death is being treated as that of a martyr. Because of that, they took pity on the family and released Bijan from prison.”

  Anna’s anger welled up, strong and pure. “Are you saying that’s the price the family paid for Nouri’s death? That good came from it? Is that the way you fool yourself into thinking you didn’t commit murder? You disgust me, Hassan.” She would have spit on him, wheeled around, and stormed out of the room if she could have.

  Hassan remained remarkably calm. “There are things you do not know, Anna.”

  “I know you’re a killer.”

  “I didn’t kill Nouri.” Hassan’s words were slow and deliberate. “But it is true he and I argued.”

  “You were angry because I threw you out of the house.”

  “No,” he said after a long pause. “Not that.”

  She glared at him. How dare he try to dissemble? To manipulate the truth?

  Hassan cleared his throat. “Nouri did work for the Foundation. And I was instrumental in getting him the job. At the time I thought it was a good fit. Because of his family’s connections, he knew many wealthy people. He knew what to look for, what to take.”

  She snorted. “Including his parents’ home? Did you help Nouri betray his own family?”

  “No.” He paused. “I tried to stop it. But the Foundation demanded he prove himself.”