Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  And unlike many of the huts in Khorramshahr, this one had an air of permanence, as if Pari had accepted that this was the place she would die.

  Through the years, Pari al-Faruqi had seen many come and go from Khorramshahr—a thousand children, a hundred families, far too many to remember. She had known orphans, single mothers, tiny babies, and old men who had lost everything. Few of them spent more than two or three years in the camp before they were assigned a patron outside Iran or Iraq, someone who was willing to sponsor them in their country, provide them with a job, a little money, and someplace to live until they could get on their feet. But Pari hadn’t been so lucky and she never would be. She would die in Camp Khorramshahr, of that she was sure.

  Although she was only sixty-six, she looked older, with frail shoulders, thinning gray hair, and so many lines on her face that the creases seemed to fall into each other. But her neck was long and slender, her fingers thin and elegant, and she carried herself with such confidence that it was clear to anyone who studied her for more than a moment that Pari had been very beautiful. And though she was now an old woman, her eyes were bright and alive, and they danced as if she knew a secret that she would never tell.

  Resting on her cot, Pari coughed deeply again. She had been coughing all night and she held a small cloth sprayed with blood in the palm of her hand. She lay there and wondered if she should get out of bed. Maybe not. Not this morning. Not until the sun had warmed things a bit.

  Pushing herself against her pillow, she looked around the room and shivered. The inside of her hut was cast in a pleasant light from the sun filtering through the thin fabric over the window, but she still felt cold. Turning, she saw that the flame on the small propane heater in the far corner had gone out again.

  Wincing at the chill, she hacked through a coughing fit, then lay back again.

  * * *

  Azadeh followed the sound of the coughing.

  Behind her tent was a double row of huts, all of them identical, with rain-stained plywood walls, tin roofs that were now rusting, and small prefabricated doors. She had never spent any time in this part of the camp, and she made her way carefully, not knowing if she would be welcome.

  She listened, hearing the sound again, then stopped in front of the unpainted door. Knocking gently, she squared her shoulders and waited.

  A long moment passed, but no one opened the door. She knocked again, the sound echoing off the wood walls. Then she heard a voice answer, and she pushed back the door.

  Azadeh poked her head tentatively into the room and saw the old woman waiting on the side of her bed.

  “Hello, hello,” Pari said in a bright voice. She motioned with her hand, beckoning Azadeh to come in. “Well, well, what is this? Who is this beautiful girl?”

  Azadeh smiled shyly. “I heard—” she hesitated. “I heard you coughing and I wondered if you were all right?” She glanced around quickly, taking in the murals and flowers.

  Pari adjusted herself on the side of her bed, and then looked up, her dark eyes flickering in the morning light. She wore a deep blue cotton robe, which she pulled tightly around her waist. Azadeh watched her, standing shyly at the door. “I’m sorry,” she tried to explain. “I was just wondering if, you know, if there was anything I could do?”

  “Oh, how wonderful,” the old woman exclaimed. “I’ve been hoping to meet you. Your name is Azadeh, am I right?”

  Azadeh nodded in surprise. “Yes, my lady, but how did you know?”

  The old woman smiled. “I know most of the people in this camp. And someone as beautiful as you, well, it would have been hard for me not to take note.”

  Azadeh lowered her eyes. She was not used to being complimented so easily and she did not know how to respond. “Bânu—” she started, but Pari broke in.

  “Your last name is Pahlavi?”

  Azadeh looked up in surprise, instantly on guard.

  Pari read the worried look on her face. “Come in, will you, please,” she said, gesturing toward the younger woman. There was a single chair in the corner, near the portable loom, but Pari patted the cot beside her. “Come, Azadeh, please sit down.”

  Azadeh entered the hut carefully, leaving her shoes near the door, and stood in the center of the room.

  “I knew several Pahlavis,” Pari began gently. “It was many years ago. And a long way from here. I used to live in Tehran. When I was a little girl.” She studied Azadeh’s face as she spoke.

  Azadeh kept her eyes on the floor. “My father—” she started to say.

  “—was a grandson of the Shah?” Pari finished the sentence. Although the raising inflection in her voice indicated it was a question, it seemed she already knew.

  Word spread easily through the camp; among people with little to do, there was plenty of talk. Badguyi. Gossip. Everyone knew everything. Azadeh had heard some of it already, the quiet whispers, the sideways looks. But she lifted her head defiantly. She would not apologize, nor would she try to hide who she was. She nodded, her lips pressed firmly, her chin held high.

  “They were good men.” Pari offered in a soft voice. “A good family.” She paused and stared at Azadeh, choosing her words carefully. “I knew some of your family, Azadeh Jan, a very long time ago. My husband was a very—” she stopped, thinking, then continued slowly. “Your grandfathers were treated poorly, very poorly, I’m afraid. I think they had the best intentions for our country, but most of them are gone now.”

  Azadeh nodded but didn’t say anything.

  Pari patted the cot again, motioning once more for Azadeh to sit down. “OK, Azadeh Jan, that is all we will say of that for now. We will talk of it later, if you want to, but come and sit down.”

  Azadeh motioned to the door, still uncomfortable. “Bânu, I was just—I heard your coughing and I thought I might be of some help.”

  Pari smiled. “Yes, well, that is a coincidence. You see,” she pointed to the propane heater in the corner and coughed. “I’m afraid I’ve taken a chill. It feels so cold in here. Yet I can’t seem to get the flame on my heater to be anything more than a flicker.”

  Azadeh moved toward the propane heater and knelt down. It was very similar to the heater her father had kept in his bedroom, and she saw instantly what the problem was. Reaching around to the back of the unit, she turned off the gas. “Have you got a file? A toothpick, perhaps?” she asked. Then she saw a broom in the corner and quickly stood up, removed a single straw, and went back to the heater. “Your outlet is clogged,” she explained as she worked. “We had a heater like this at my home. You have to clean the gas outlet every once in a while.” She ran the strand of straw carefully through the propane outlet, rubbing it against the sides of the valve, then broke it in two and ran both straws through the narrow outlet. After several moments of this, she reached behind the heater and turned the propane on again. Pushing the igniter, she heard a sudden snap as the igniter clicked and the pilot light fluttered, a light blue flame at the base of the porcelain retainer. She turned up the valve and the flame kicked on, spreading a bright yellow flame across the base of the unit. She felt the heat instantly, stepped back and smiled.

  Pari clapped her thin hands in delight. “Do you know how long, my dear Azadeh, I have been trying to get that heater to work? Too many nights I have shivered under the blankets in the cold.”

  Azadeh smiled. “It was easy, Bânu.”

  “Thank you, thank you. You have really brightened my day.”

  Azadeh moved away from the heater. “You know, Bânu—” she paused, not knowing her new friend’s name.

  “I am Pari al-Faruqi.”

  Azadeh bowed politely while bending her knees and holding her hands across her chest. “Bânu al-Faruqi.”

  “You don’t have to call me madam. Pari Jan will be fine. We are all equals here, Azadeh Jan. There is no rank in Khorramshahr; we all tread the same ground.”

  Azadeh smiled, beginning to feel comfortable. “Pari Jan, were you intending to eat breakfast this morning?�
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  The older woman’s shoulders slumped. “I was feeling a little tired. And cold, as you know. I was thinking I might skip breakfast today.”

  Azadeh looked at her new friend. She was so small and frail. The last thing she needed was to skip another meal. “I was just going up,” Azadeh offered. “I would be happy to bring you something.”

  Pari smiled instantly. The warmth from the heater was beginning to spread through the small room, and she already felt better knowing she could get warm if she wanted without having to crawl under the quilts on her bed. She turned to Azadeh. “Perhaps it would be nice to eat. If you will bring me something, I would be very grateful. And we could eat here together. Would that be OK with you?”

  Azadeh smiled. “What would you like?” she asked.

  “Do I have a choice this morning?”

  “Probably not,” Azadeh said. The breakfast menu was very basic.

  “Then I’ll have a wheat roll and spice jelly, if you really don’t mind.”

  SIXTEEN

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

  Azadeh set a plastic plate and two cups of steaming coffee on the bureau. While she had gone for their breakfast, Pari had put on a white dress with overly extravagant blue trim and white lace. She sat by the heater now, her feet near the flame, a thick, woven sweater covering her lap. Her hair was combed back and tied with a blue ribbon, and she looked a bit more alive than she had just twenty minutes before.

  “You look lovely,” Azadeh said as she stirred the hot coffee. “Blue is a good color for you, Pari Jan.”

  Pari looked proud as she pressed the long trim. “You think so?” she asked, moving her hand to the ribbon in her gray hair.

  “Oh, yes,” Azadeh smiled, and bit her lower lip. The ribbon and lace looked oddly out of place in the bare hut, but then so did the flowers and the colorful quilt. She handed her new friend a coffee, noticing as she bent toward her that Pari had applied some foundation to cover the crow’s-feet at her eyes. Azadeh tried not to stare as she set the tray down. Makeup was forbidden, didn’t Pari know?

  “It’s been so long since I’ve had a visitor,” the older woman said excitedly as Azadeh placed a warm cup in her hand. “I’m getting too old now. It’s harder and harder to get out anymore.”

  Azadeh almost laughed. As if there was someplace to go!

  Pari took a careful sip of the coffee. “This is so nice of you,” she said.

  Azadeh nodded, and then sat down on the corner of the bed. The hut was so small that she could reach across the room and touch Pari’s knees.

  Pari took the tray and a plastic knife and began slicing the bread. The bread, or nân, was round as a pancake but thick and brown and made of hard wheat, well cooked, without yeast. It had a brittle crust that crumbled in her hand, leaving a soft, spongy middle, which she then broke in two. The brown spread was half butter, half jelly, and heavy with spice. Azadeh smelled the jelly and her belly grumbled. Pari took a piece of the bread and smothered it in spice jelly, then handed it to her.

  Azadeh hesitated as Pari lifted the bread and took a small bite, then followed her lead and began eating. The crust was hard, almost bitter, but the inner portion was soft, the jelly sweet, and she savored each bite. The coffee was black and heavy with sugar, and she held her plastic cup tightly, letting it warm her hands.

  Looking around the small room, she noticed the young man’s picture on the bureau. “One of your sons?” she asked politely.

  Pari laughed. “Oh no, Azadeh Jan, that picture is much older than that. That is my husband, Yitzhak Nakash. Both of us were much younger when that picture was taken, as I’m sure you can see.”

  Azadeh leaned toward the picture, which showed a tall man standing between two marble pillars. A crystal-clear pool shimmered in the background, and exquisite granite tile was under his feet. She studied the man in his white suit and white hat. “He is very handsome,” she said.

  “Yes, dear, he was. And smart. Oh, so smart! He read everything. He had more books, oh, you should have seen them, his library reached up to the ceiling. I used to tease him that he loved them more than me. He assured me he didn’t. And I usually believed him; he could be so convincing, you know.” Pari stopped and smiled shyly, and Azadeh noticed her dancing eyes—those eyes with their secrets that she would never know.

  “Yitzhak was such a beautiful talker,” Pari went on wistfully. “He was so smooth and sweet. He used to tell me—” she stopped suddenly, and then took a slow bite of her nân. “It was a long time ago,” she concluded with a firm shake of her head.

  Azadeh hesitated. “He is not with you?” she wondered.

  “No, Azadeh. He died years ago.”

  Azadeh nibbled politely. “I’m sorry, Bânu Pari.”

  “No, no, it’s all right. In my prayers sometimes I ask God to scold him for leaving me alone for so long. When I see him again, believe me, I’m going to let him have it.” Pari flashed a teasing smile.

  Azadeh was silent a moment, then motioned to the silver cross over Pari’s bed. “You are a Christian?” she asked carefully, not knowing if it might be an inappropriate question.

  The old woman hesitated and Azadeh sensed her tightening up. Her shoulders had been slumping, but now she sat square and placed her arms on her lap. “Yes. I am a Persian Christian. There are a few of us left.”

  Azadeh took a bite of her bread and chewed slowly, still fearful of saying the wrong thing. But it was so fascinating. She felt drawn to the cross, and she stood up and moved closer, leaning over the head of the bed. She touched it with both hands, running her fingers down both sides. It felt so solid, so heavy, as if it was ten pounds of pure silver. “This represents the suffering of the Great Prophet Jesus?” she asked.

  “Yes, child, it does.”

  “He was killed on the cross? Crucified?”

  Pari nodded in answer.

  “You celebrate the death of your God? I do not understand.”

  Pari thought a long moment. “We do not celebrate his death, but we remember it, yes. His death was important because He died for me.”

  “He died for you?”

  “He died for all of us, Azadeh Jan.”

  Azadeh shook her head. It seemed horribly cruel. What kind of religion believed that men would crucify their God? What kind of religion would worship such a powerless being, a God who could not even defend Himself against His own creations? And what kind of religion would worship a dead God? She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t question it now. Odd as it seemed, she didn’t see any particular evil in this belief; it seemed foolish, perhaps, but not wicked. And Pari certainly didn’t seem like a devil, though Azadeh knew that was what most of their people would have considered her.

  “There were no Christians in my village,” Azadeh continued after some thought. “But I went to private school outside of my village, and I had a friend who was a Christian. We called him Omar, but his mother called him David. He was a good friend. Bright but quiet. I thought he was honorable.”

  “So you can be honorable and still be a Christian?” Pari asked with a laugh in her voice.

  “My father said you could,” Azadeh quickly replied, eager not to offend.

  A warm wisp of steam lifted from Pari’s cup, and she smelled it deeply before taking another sip. “There have been Christians inside Persia for more than eight hundred years,” she said. “We have been part of the government, business leaders, traders, craftsmen, almost anything. We have flourished and we have famished, depending on who is in power. But since the rise of the ayatollahs, we have been nearly destroyed.” Pari gestured to her surroundings. “You realize that is why I am here.”

  Azadeh nodded. She had suspected.

  “Our countrymen will no longer tolerate us,” Pari said. “We have been forced to leave our homes, cast out from our people. It has always been dangerous to be a Christian in Persia, but it is most deadly now. There is much to fear if you believe as I do.”

  Aza
deh dropped her eyes, thinking of her own village and her status of an outcast. She remembered her father and his whispered conversations with Omar in the night. Both of them feared. Everyone feared. It was the way that they lived. “Tolerance is anathema to their teachings,” she said, not needing to specify who she meant by the pronoun. “They believe there is a battle between Allah’s teachings and the influences of the world. There are true believers and heathens, and you must choose which side you are on. You are either with them or against them. There is no middle ground.”

  Pari pressed her lips. “I guess that is a fairly accurate description,” she said. “But I had some neighbors, good friends, and they were not always so intolerant. A few of them were not good people, yes, but most were simply afraid. So they did what they had to. But there were some good people too.”

  Azadeh shook her head, thinking of her own people in Agha Jari Deh. “Not enough of them,” she replied bitterly, her voice hard and low. “They will betray you. They will hate you. They will take everything.”

  Pari watched her a moment, noting the look in her eye. There was bitterness there, a hard squint, that had not been there before. “Who are you talking about, Azadeh?” she asked quietly.

  Azadeh moved angrily to the edge of the bed. “I’m talking about everyone!” she said in a bitter voice. “Maybe there are some good people out there, but they are few and far between. And what chance do they have? They are always destroyed. The bad ones are stronger! They will always win. The good will always die. It is better to be quiet. It is better to hide. It is better to quietly do what it takes to get by and live.”

  Pari took another slow bite of bread and studied her younger friend. “You know, little Azadeh, you are going to have to decide.”

  Azadeh moved her head to the side. “Decide what?” she demanded in a hard voice before she could catch herself.

  “Will your heart be softened, or will you let it become hard, like a wet stone in your chest, like an ice chip that is too cold to hold? Will you turn bitter—or will you remain happy despite the things you have had to endure?”