A Bitter Veil

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “This and the money should get you through to Bazargan. Remember, once you get off the bus, the Kurdish man should still be outside the customs terminal. He will be dressed as a cleric. He will have a passport for you. An Iranian passport.”

  “I understand.”

  “Listen to me, Anna. That passport will have a proper exit stamp, which—”

  “You mean a visa?”

  Bijan nodded. “Similar. It permits you to exit Iran. You will need it. Otherwise, the border guards in Bazargan and Turkey will question you. And because your Farsi isn’t good, they might discover you are American. If that happens, they may accuse you of espionage—of being a threat to the regime. They could lock you up again. You are not to talk to any customs officials under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

  Anna nodded.

  “You must find the cleric. He will take you across the border by…another…route.”

  “If he is smuggling me across the border, why do I need the passport? Can’t I just go to the American Embassy and tell them who I am?”

  “Once you’ve crossed into Turkey, Turkish officials may demand to see an Iranian passport with the proper exit stamp. If you do not have one, they can detain you, just like the Iranians. For as long as they want. Only after you arrive in Ankara can you apply for an American passport.”

  Anna held up the letter. “What name is on this letter?”

  “You are Roshni Omidi.”

  Fear suddenly slid around in her gut. She felt goose bumps on her skin. “Is that the name on the Iranian passport?”

  “That I do not know. But the Kurd will. Remember, only when you get to Ankara can you resume your true identity. Do you understand?”

  Anna nodded again. “A Kurdish man dressed as a cleric.”

  “You must connect with him.”

  “Who is this man? How did you find him?”

  “I do not know. He called me.”

  Anna frowned.

  “He was contacted by someone in America.” The hint of a smile flitted across Bijan’s face.

  “My father.”

  Bijan nodded.

  Her father hadn’t abandoned her. He had been working to get her out all along. Her stomach twisted with an unfamiliar feeling. She thought it might be joy. “How does my father know this man?”

  “How does anyone know the past?”

  Bijan gave her final instructions on their way to the bus station. When they arrived he parked and went inside to buy a ticket. As he walked her to the bus, he handed it to her. “Do not talk to anyone if you can avoid it. They must not find out you are American.”

  Once again she nodded.

  Bijan leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks. Anna threw her arms around him. His familiar scent—a mix of tobacco, soap, and saffron—wafted over her. She blinked rapidly. “You are a wonderful man. And father-in-law.”

  He shook his head, but his eyes filled.

  Her own vision blurred with tears. Then she turned around and boarded the bus. As she took her seat, she saw him watching her. She waved through the window. Her last image of Tehran was of a sad, broken man at a bus station, raising his arm in farewell.

  Forty-nine

  The bus had no air conditioning, and even though it was late September, Anna was sweating under her chador in minutes. It would have helped to take it off—she was wearing jeans and a t-shirt underneath—but that was impossible. She opened the window, but the bus was passing through the desert north of Tehran, and a hot breeze scalded her skin. She felt dizzy. She hadn’t totally recovered from the miscarriage. She leaned her head against the wall of the bus and tried to nap.

  An hour later, the scent of saffron and lemon drifted over her. She opened her eyes. The women around her were breaking out food. Chattering brightly, they passed around pita sandwiches, vegetables, and fruit. Anna’s stomach growled, and her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and she had no food of her own. She turned her back on the women and faced the window, but the aromas of the food, the women’s laughter, and her own hunger tormented her.

  A tap on her shoulder made her turn around. One of the women seated in front held out a sandwich. “Ghazâ?” she asked.

  Anna looked at the sandwich, then back at the woman, and nodded. The woman smiled.

  “Mamnoon.” Anna took the sandwich and wolfed it down. “Che khoob. It’s good.” The woman smiled again. It was just a simple kindness, but Anna was so grateful that tears stung her eyes.

  By mid-afternoon the bus slowed and came to a fitful stop. A roadblock loomed ahead. The revolutionary government was flexing its muscle by setting up checkpoints in cities and highways in order to examine papers—ostensibly checking for rebels and spies. The door to the bus opened, and three young men boarded, machine guns at the ready. Anna slumped in her seat and jiggled her foot. What would happen when they got to her? Would they figure out that she was a foreigner? Would her pale complexion give her away? She tucked her hair in and pushed the rusari on her chador low on her forehead.

  Suddenly, the woman who’d offered her a sandwich poked her friend beside her and whispered in Farsi. The friend twisted around, stared at Anna, then whispered across the aisle to a young woman holding a baby. The infant was sleeping. The mother looked doubtful, but after a moment, got up and thrust the baby at Anna.

  Anna’s heart thudded. She knew what they were doing. She dipped her head at the young mother and cradled the infant. The child, swaddled in a light blanket, wiggled in its sleep. Anna held her breath that the baby wouldn’t wake up and cry.

  The officers, or whoever they were, stomped to the back of the bus. They appeared to be young, but youth, with its idealism and self-importance, could be dangerous. One demanded to see the papers of the woman whose baby Anna was now cradling. The mother handed them over. She refused to make eye contact.

  Oh, god, Anna thought. What if the mother’s papers indicated she was traveling with a baby? Would the soldiers figure it out? The soldier inspected the papers. He stared at them, frowned, then studied the mother, who still wouldn’t make eye contact with him. He handed the papers back. Anna sighed in relief. She wondered if the soldier had actually read them. Perhaps he wasn’t even literate. Maybe it was all bluster, like with so many of the revolutionaries. She focused on the baby but, out of the corner of her eye, she could tell the young man was watching her. His eyes flickered over her. The baby was squirming now, opening and closing its mouth. It was waking and wanted milk. Anna nuzzled the infant.

  The soldier turned and backtracked to the front of the bus just as the baby opened its eyes. The infant had probably sensed that Anna wasn’t its mother. Its features scrunched into a grimace and it let out a lusty scream. As its wail reverberated through the bus, the woman in the seat in front called out to the soldier.

  “Now look what you’ve done. You woke the baby.”

  Anna rocked the crying infant.

  The soldier shrugged as he disembarked from the bus. “Bebakhshid. I’m sorry.”

  Anna took a relieved breath and handed the crying baby back to its mother. Once again, she was reminded how kind Iranians could be.

  As the late afternoon sun dipped in the western sky, the bus arrived in Bazargan, a suburb of Maku, which occupied a rocky mountain gorge in northwestern Iran. She had imagined an isolated dusty border town and was surprised when they drove through crowded streets lined with sturdy buildings, past a cathedral and even a mosque—although its minarets and dome looked more Russian than Persian. Then again, they were almost as far north as Armenia.

  As they approached the customs checkpoint, traffic slowed. Bazargan was a major crossing into Turkey, and cars and trucks were lined up at least half a mile from the border. But the terrain had changed, and once more they were in the high desert with rocky cliffs and mountains. The women nattered on, sharing rumors about suspected border closings and red tape.

  Finally, the bus pulled into the terminal, a one-story building with a flat roof. E
veryone filed off and was immediately waved inside by uniformed officers. Anna searched for the cleric without success. She was supposed to wait for him outside, but the guards gave her no chance to step out of line. She was forced to follow the others inside. Her stomach pitched.

  She walked into a large room with a counter at one end. The counter was divided into five booths, each with a glass window, but only one of the booths was open. If she stayed in line, she would eventually reach the only customs official on duty. Bijan had told her to avoid talking to anyone, but if she broke out of line to go outside, the guards would ask her why, which, for a woman traveling alone in the Islamic Republic, was dangerous. Despite the letter from the Tehran komiteh, her stomach tightened into a hard knot.

  Thankfully, the line moved slowly. The man behind the booth screened each passenger, asking questions and scanning documents. He seemed overly thorough. One by one the women who had been so nice to her on the bus passed the official’s scrutiny. The young mother with the baby gave Anna a farewell nod.

  Almost an hour passed, but no cleric appeared. Anna was now at the front of the line. She rubbed the back of her neck under her chador. Her insides turned liquid with fear. She couldn’t see a way to avoid talking to the official.

  “Mitoonam komaketoon konam?”

  Anna went blank. What was he saying? She turned around. A woman behind her gave her a gentle shove. Anna took a tentative step forward.

  “Ajaleh kon!” the man gestured with an irritated wave.

  She knew what that meant. “Hurry up.” As she approached the counter, he let out a stream of Farsi, so fast she couldn’t understand. She looked at him, still blank. He repeated himself. She pulled out the letter from the komiteh in Tehran and slid it across the counter. He scanned it, frowned, shook his head, and spewed out another stream of Farsi. This time Anna forced herself to concentrate and made out a word here and there. He was asking for her passport. Which, of course, she didn’t have.

  She wanted to melt into the floor. Everything was falling apart. She would be sent back to prison. She looked for the women who’d helped her on the bus, but they’d left the building. She turned back to the official who suddenly spoke to her in English.

  “Where is your passport?”

  Anna couldn’t help register a jolt of recognition. She was about to reply when she realized her mistake. The customs official saw it too.

  “Where are you from?” he asked in a curt voice.

  She kept her mouth shut.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Man dar Iran zendegi mikonam,” Anna replied in Farsi.

  The official took a long look at her, then snorted. He cried out. “Guards. Come! Hurry!”

  Almost immediately, two men with machine guns flanked Anna. The customs official explained that she had no passport and that she seemed to understand English.

  “America?” one guard asked.

  The official nodded.

  “Bâ man biyâ,” one of them said. “Come with me.” The guards grabbed her and started walking her to the back of the building. Anna panicked. She hadn’t come all this way just to be apprehended again.

  Suddenly, a man dressed in a cleric’s garb rushed into the building. He was breathing hard, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He gazed around, saw Anna, and arched his eyebrows. He hurried over and gave her a big hug, all the while talking in a rapid stream of Farsi. Anna managed to catch a few words. “Khosh âmadid! Welcome. Finally. Where have you been?”

  “Who are you?” one of the guards barked.

  The man relinquished Anna and stepped back. He straightened up, his expression turning serious. “Salâm, barâdar! Good evening. I am Amir. This is my niece. I will be taking her on pilgrimage. I’m so sorry. Bebakhshid! I was lost. Man gom shodam. Trying to find the terminal.”

  The guard glanced at his companion, then at the cleric. “Why does your niece not speak Farsi?” His eyes were suspicious.

  “Yes, yes.” The cleric bobbed his head, as if he hadn’t quite understood the question. He spoke slowly in Farsi so Anna could understand. “She is French.” He pointed to her. “She speaks French, English, and German. But she is converting to Islam and, Inshallah, soon will speak perfect Farsi.” He smiled beatifically. “I am her uncle, you see. Her mother is French. She is married to my brother. Her mother, that is. They have just returned to Iran. But they visited the Ayatollah when he was in Paris, you know. He is acquainted with our family.”

  The official glared at Anna, but the cleric stepped in front of her, using his body as a shield between them. “Where have you been, my dear?” he asked in Farsi. “I expected you so much earlier. Yesterday, in fact. Dirooz.”

  “The bus. L’autobus était en retard. Et très lent.”

  He nodded approvingly.

  “Mamnoon, mamnoon. Thank you,” he said, bobbing his head toward the guards, “…for taking care of my niece.”

  “She has no papers, Amir. Just this letter. Where is her passport?”

  “Baleh. Baleh. Yes. Yes. Her mother has it.” He squinted through a window at the setting sun. “But it will soon be time for prayers. Inshallah, we will return tomorrow when we are ready to travel.” He motioned to Anna to follow him out.

  But the guards kept a firm grip on her while they conferred, talking over her head.

  The cleric intervened. “Brothers, we have snatched her away from the infidels. She will be one of us. A good Muslim woman. She has already started down the path. Allâho Akbar. Let me continue her education.”

  The guards looked at the official. He scanned the letter again, wrote down the name in the letter, then clipped it to a clipboard. Anna could hardly breathe. She needed the letter. But the cleric seemed unperturbed, and the guards relinquished their grip. The cleric took Anna by the arm, and hustled her out of the building.

  Fifty

  A few minutes later, Anna was in a small green car driving away from the border crossing.

  “Thank you. Mamnoon,” Anna said. “You saved my life.”

  “You were smart to pick up on the French,” he said in well-spoken but accented English. Anna was surprised. He grinned and peered in the rear view mirror. “Khoob. Good. We are not being followed.”

  Anna started to relax, then sat up. “The letter. The one from the komiteh. We’ll need that, won’t we?”

  The cleric smiled. “Not anymore.”

  Anna was not sure whether to believe him. She was not sure of anything.

  As they neared Maku, the landscape slowly changed into an urban setting.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To my home. You need to eat. And rest. When it is dark, we will cross.”

  “Where?”

  “That I cannot tell you. But you will soon be on your way to Dogubeyazit.”

  She studied the man. Apart from the clerical garb, Anna saw a lined face, a salt-and-pepper beard and dark curly hair graying at the temples. His blue eyes were almost as turquoise as the peacock that had been smashed to bits at the Samedis. His cheeks were ruddy, as though he spent time outdoors. “What is your name? What should I call you?”

  He paused, then grinned and brushed his hand down his robe. “You may call me anything you want…but Amir will do.”

  They drove to a small stucco house in a residential section of Maku. As they got out and approached the door, Anna saw a tiny strip of wood at eye level on the side of the door. At first she thought it was just a decorative ornament, but when he pressed his fingers to his lips, then touched it, she asked, “What are you doing? What is that?”

  “It is a mezuzah.”

  Anna felt her eyes widen.

  Inside he stripped off the clerical robe, balled it up, and tossed it into a corner. “You may take off your chador.” He went into the kitchen.

  Anna took off the chador and sat on the couch. Unlike the nondescript exterior, the interior of the house was warm and comfortable. A Persian carpet covered the floor, and the walls were blue and pale yel
low, with a crown molding of repeating flourishes. A mirror with a gilt frame hung on one wall, and what looked like a mobile dangled in front of the window. When she got up to inspect it, she discovered it was actually an elaborate votive candle holder, with stained glass, stars, and crescent decorations. A breakfront in one corner contained photos of Amir and a woman, along with a younger woman, and a young man. They were all in Western clothing.

  She heard the rattle of dishes and the tinkle of metal coming from the kitchen. A few minutes later, Amir carried out a tray of food and two plates. Anna was ravenous and devoured the hummus, flatbread, chicken kababs, and a rice and vegetable dish. It was the best food she’d ever tasted. “Did you cook this?”

  He pointed to the photographs on the breakfront. “My wife. But she is not here. We thought it would be better for her to visit the grandchildren today.”

  “Please tell her how delicious it is.”

  He smiled.

  “How do you and my father know each other?”

  He chewed thoughtfully as if considering how much to tell her. “I am a Kurd. Many of us in this part of Iran are.”

  Anna nodded.

  “And I am a Jew. It is a rare combination. There used to be more of us, but…well…you did not come for a history lesson.”

  “But I’m interested.”

  His smile turned enigmatic. “You know the expression ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’? Certain circumstances came together some years ago.”

  “What would those be?”

  “It would be better for your father to tell you. Let me just say that I am in his debt. This is my way to repay it.”

  Anna wondered what sort of “friendship” had developed between a former Nazi scientist and a Kurdish Jew. The Kurds had been fighting for independence for centuries. The Nazis had allied themselves with the shah’s father during World War II. She frowned.

  Amir changed the subject and told her to rest in the living room while he filled the car with petrol. But Anna couldn’t relax. Her nerves jangled with the anticipation of finally leaving Iran. At the same time she was still wary. So much had gone wrong. For so long.