A Sliver of Light

by Shane Bauer

  Later in the day, he returns with a big white box. He opens it up, smiling. “Is this okay?” Inside, there is a big cake with coffee-colored frosting. There are thin pieces of carved chocolate and pink frosting flowers and glazed fruit on it. I thank him profusely.

  Josh and I set the cake on the floor, marvel at it, and laugh. Sometimes, we just stare at it and say “Wow” breathlessly. We have a cake for Sarah!

  We have to empty out our fridge to fit it inside. The next day I make little hors d’oeuvres. I smash walnuts and onions into the soft cheese we get for breakfast and I spread the mixture on digestive biscuits. I put a little plastic cup in the mouth of our thermos—the thermos Josh grabbed from the hallway months ago that they now fill with hot water for tea. The hot water warms the bottom of the cup and I drop a couple chocolate squares inside. I dip some almonds and cherries in the melted chocolate and set them out to dry. I love days like this, spent preparing little ways to make Sarah’s day better.

  We also sniff the bottles full of fermenting liquid that have been sitting under our bathroom sink. We discovered the possibilities of fermentation when, last winter, I went to take a date out of my box and it smelled vaguely like beer. We put the whole box of dates in a water bottle and by the end of the day, it was bubbling and frothing. But when we drank it two weeks later, it was vinegar, so we used it to make salad dressing by mixing it with yogurt. This time it smells right. We decided we let it go too long last time. Now it’s still fizzy. It’ll be like champagne.

  We get to hava khori before Sarah. When she arrives, I tell her to keep her blindfold on.

  “Happy birthday,” I say, kissing her on the lips. “Today, we are going on an adventure. I have a whole day planned for you. First, we wake up in bed cuddling.” I lie down next to her on a blanket I laid out ahead of time. “Now, we are going to go on a picnic, just you and I. I was going to suggest we ride our bikes, but it’s such a beautiful day, so I thought we should walk. We are at Lake Merritt in Oakland.” I guide her through one lap around hava khori, then sit her back down on the same blanket. Josh is sitting on the opposite side of the courtyard, quietly setting up the next stage. I feed Sarah the snacks I made, one by one. She marvels at each one and tries to guess its ingredients. I rub her belly and stroke her hair as if we were two lovers dallying in a park.

  “So, I thought we’d just go back to your mom’s apartment now and have a nice evening, just the two of us. She’s not there. Josh will probably stop by later on.”

  “Okay, that sounds nice,” she says in a self-aware play-acting voice, smiling. I walk her around the perimeter and sit her down by Josh. “All right, we are walking into your mom’s apartment. It’s so dark in here. Where is the light switch? Oh, there it is.”

  “Surprise!” Josh and I shout.

  “Wait, don’t take off your blindfold yet,” I say. “Look, everyone is here. Your aunt Karen is here. Jen is here. There’s Pato and Moriah. There’s Ben. And, oh, your mom is bringing you a cake. Okay, here it is in front of you. Now open your eyes . . .”

  She takes the blindfold off and gasps. For a few seconds, she just stares at it, as though she can’t actually see it. Her face is utterly bewildered. Taped on the box sitting next to the cake are all the pictures we have of our family and friends—our “guests.”

  “What?!” she exclaims. “I don’t—how?” She is starting to look more horrified than excited. “Did the interrogators bring this?” she asks, looking to Josh and me sharply.

  “No, we asked for it from the Food Guy.” I know that the interrogators approved it and that they will gloat about it later, demanding our gratitude, but I don’t want to think about that now. I don’t want it to be tainted, though it is.

  I can see her trying to forget that the sweetness we are about to experience was given to us by our enemies. She is trying to appreciate the pictures and memories of those we love and forget about how pitiful we are, all alone here and trying desperately to be happy.

  The cake is delicious. There is a layer of banana cream and walnuts. The frosting is some kind of coffee chocolate. We eat two large pieces each, smiling goofily with each bite.

  59. Sarah

  It’s the last day of the month of Ramadan. I saw on the ticker this morning that 2,800 prisoners will be shown Islamic clemency and released. I’m happy for them. Someday that will be us.

  The door opens, and Nargess and Maryam tell me to get dressed. The two of them stand there and watch as I frantically throw on my clothes. I’m thrilled to be leaving my cell for whatever reason. I already saw Josh and Shane this morning—maybe we’re going to get an extra visit.

  “Are we leaving the prison?” I ask, thinking perhaps Salem has come to celebrate Eid with us. Maryam arches her eyebrows and Nargess rolls her eyes. As usual, they know nothing.

  “Where are the two American men?” Nargess asks the guard at the end of the hall. He picks up the receiver on his desk and talks to someone on the other end. “Only the woman,” he says. “She’s going alone today.”

  “What?” I say. “Where are Josh and Shane?”

  “Only you,” Nargess says angrily, grabbing my arm. “Hurry.”

  When we get downstairs, a group of men in suits is in the hallway. When we pass by, one of them says, “Hello, Sarah.”

  “Salaam,” I reply. “Eid Mubarak,” I continue. Happy Ramadan.

  “Eid Mubarak,” he replies. “Are you happy, Sarah?”

  “No,” I say, accustomed to these kinds of smug, insinuating questions from faceless men in suits, “I am not happy.”

  “Your Farsi has become good,” he replies. “You should be happy.”

  Nargess leads me outside. Tonight, the world’s Muslim population will break its month-long fast at the end of Ramadan. It’s the second-biggest holiday of the year. The prison clinic will be closed; so will any government office. Where can she be taking me? Whatever this is, it’s not fair that I’m out here while Shane and Josh are still in their cells.

  After walking a few minutes, we stop in front of a building I’ve never seen before. I’m led up the stairs into a large conference room. There are cameras on tripods on one side of the room. Nargess takes me into an adjacent office, closes the door, and locks it behind me.

  I tear off my blindfold and scan the room. There’s no one here. Shit, I think, will they try to coerce me into making some sort of public confession? If they think they can single me out and bully me, they’re wrong. I’ll refuse to say a word until Shane and Josh are brought here. I walk over to the desk and rustle through a pile of paperwork, all written in Farsi. I open the desk drawer, see a pencil, grab it, and quickly hide it, along with three paper clips, inside my bra. I can hear the conference room filling up with more and more voices.

  About twenty minutes later, the office door opens and I’m told to come forward. At the far end of a long table, flanked by ten to fifteen men, is the Omani envoy we met for the second time a few weeks ago, Dr. Salem al-Ismaily. I rush toward him.

  “What’s happening?” I ask. His proud face looks tired and worn, his eyes distressed.

  “Sarah,” he says, “I like to think I’m a reasonable person. But I don’t understand why your Hillary can’t keep quiet!” I understand implicitly that he’s saying this more for the benefit of the people in the room than for me.

  “What is happening, Salem? I have no idea what’s happening!”

  “Sarah, you are going to deliver a speech tomorrow. You will ask President Ahmadinejad for a pardon.”

  “What? A pardon? Salem, why aren’t Shane and Josh here? Where are they?”

  “Sarah, I came here to bring you all home. I’ve been working very, very hard on this, but many things have gone wrong. For example, your Clinton insists on saying insulting things about the Islamic Republic at the worst possible time. You think this puts them in a giving mood?”

  “Look, Salem, I can’t do this. I can’t leave here without Shane and Josh. You can’t expect me to do this.”
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  “Sarah.” He looks at me and his eyes soften. We’ve been talking as if we’re the only two people in the room when in fact there are dozens of eyes and three video cameras glued to us.

  “Sarah,” he says, lowering his voice, “you are going to help me get them out. You’re going to have to trust me. I need you on the outside. We will get them out together.”

  I look at him strangely. A thousand thoughts race through my mind, but I drown them out. Salem’s eyes are big and warm. I feel like I’ve known this man for a long time. It suddenly dawns on me that this feeling is the sign I’ve been looking for. He’s part of my destiny, I think. I have to trust him.

  “What do I need to do?”

  “You need to write your speech, quickly. You will deliver it tomorrow, early.”

  “Right. Can I please have Shane and Josh help me with the speech?”

  “No, Sarah. This is your speech. You will speak for them.”

  “Okay.” I pause and close my eyes. “Give me a pen.”

  Salem and I work on my speech for half an hour. I know exactly what I want to say, but I’m finding it hard to battle with the voices in my head. What do Iran’s leaders want me to say? How can I please my captors? What can I say to make them release us all together?

  There are no magic words. For Salem, the only essential point is that I thank the Supreme Leader and President Ahmadinejad. I agree without hesitation. I will ask the government to pardon Shane, Josh, and me. I will say that we never meant to cross the unmarked border between Iran and Iraqi Kurdistan, but if we did, we’re very sorry. Shane and I came to live and work in the Middle East. After we’d been there over a year—when our good friend Josh came to visit—we wanted to show him the side of the Middle East we love—far different from the violent, depressing headlines we’ve grown accustomed to in the United States. Ironically, Shane, Josh, and I are now the subjects of those sensational headlines, but this story can still have a happy ending. Please, I’ll say, let Shane, Josh, and me go home to our families. End this misunderstanding. We’ve suffered enough. We meant no harm. Let us go home together.

  When the speech is complete, I’m taken back to my cell.

  60. Shane

  I hate it when this happens—when dinner comes and we eat and there is still no word of us going to hava khori. I used to go ballistic and pound on the door when they were late. I’ve gotten a lot more patient. They always come eventually, but it’s really late now. The sun has gone down. We pressed the button a half-hour ago and no one has come. Something is up. Earlier today they brought us downstairs, stood us in front of a bunch of men in suits, and brought us back to our cell with no explanation.

  “I think I want to knock,” I say to Josh, whose nose is in his book. He nods.

  I knock loudly, but not harshly—with just the edges of my knuckles, three raps at a time. Eventually, a guard comes.

  “Chi?” he says.

  “Hava khori mikhaam,” I say.

  “Neestish,” he says. No hava khori. Josh jumps up and we crowd the door. The guard walks away as we start to argue with him.

  This time I use the butt of my fist and pound the door hard. He comes back and tells us that hava khori is out of service. The door is broken and they are fixing it. I feel that thing happening—where they tell a lazy lie and I start to believe it, because if I believe it, I don’t have to be worried. But Josh is better at not playing that game. He insists that we must go.

  The guard leaves. We wait five minutes. We pound on the door again. He returns. “Sarah is sick,” he says this time. “She can’t go outside.”

  “I want to see her anyway,” I say.

  “You can’t. She says she doesn’t want to see you.” He says it as if he were saying, “Fuck you.”

  We don’t give up and eventually the warden comes. It’s not going to happen, he says. We are not going to see Sarah. If we want to go outside, the two of us can go to one of the small open-air rooms. But no Sarah. Inside, I’m in tumult and my body wants to keep going, to make a scene. But some part of me somehow knows that something good is happening. It’s Eid.

  61. Sarah

  I spend the next fifteen hours pacing my cell and performing my speech again and again. By 3 a.m., I can go through it ten times without a single mistake. The dots of sky I can see through the perforated metal over the windows are turning a dark gray. As the sun comes up on September 11, 2010, it hits me that the Iranian government chose this day, of all days, to make a statement. We’re more benevolent than America? We held this woman as revenge? Even I don’t understand what the message is supposed to be.

  When the breakfast tray comes, I jump up and prepare to go. I have no idea when they’re coming. All I can eat is a few bites of bread before I hear Shane and Josh whistling from hava khori. They must have seen the ticker, “American Woman to Be Pardoned by President.” What do they think? I hear them whistle the melody of Bob Dylan’s “Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll.” We agreed a long time ago that that song would be our code in case we were separated. It means Shane and Josh are hunger-striking.

  At some point during the night I’ve completely accepted my fate. I’ve never felt so confident, ready, and clear. Shane and Josh have kept me alive the last fourteen months; without their love and selfless support I would have lost my mind and probably hurt myself many times by now. Now it’s my turn to return the favor by getting them out of this prison.

  I turn on the television, crouch down, and begin scanning the ticker at the bottom of the screen, as has been my habit every morning for nearly a year. A headline, seven words in length, crosses the screen, then disappears. I freeze. I don’t move an inch for the next five minutes, waiting for the headline I think I saw to come back after the others cycle through. Did I imagine it? No, there it is again. It’s real.

  “Pardon of American Spy Canceled by Judiciary,” I read again.

  The pain lasts only a few seconds. I’ve gotten very good at dealing with disappointment. Actually, a part of me feels relief. At least I’m going to see Shane and Josh soon, I think. We’ll get back to the old routine. I ball up my speech and throw it in the trash. Then, the door opens.

  “Sarah, get dressed.”

  I’m led outside our building, into sunlight, and along paved roads. We pass the building with the conference room where I wrote my speech yesterday. We walk by the locked gates leading out of Evin Prison, but instead of leaving the compound, we turn right and enter a small building.

  Inside, I’m taken into an office where there are four or five men seated around the room. I hear the voice of Dumb Guy.

  “Sarah, we have good news. Very good news.”

  “What are you talking about? Didn’t you see the news? My pardon has been canceled.”

  “No, Sarah, you are going home. You just have to do it the way the law says. You have to sign this paper.”

  “I’m not signing anything. Where is Salem? Where’s my lawyer?”

  “Sarah, don’t you want to go home? You have to trust us,” Dumb Guy whines.

  “I will never trust any of you.” I lean back in my chair. “If you want me to sign something, you’ll have to bring my lawyer here first.”

  “Sarah, this man is the judge—you don’t want to offend him.” It’s Father Guy’s voice—I didn’t even know he was here. “Sarah,” he says, “you must admit that I have never lied to you. If you have any trust left for me, please believe me now. If you sign this paper, you will be released. You will go home.”

  I cross my arms and say nothing. Is it true that he’s never lied? I decide it is, to the best of my knowledge. What does it matter? I don’t know if it makes sense anymore to leave here without Shane and Josh—I don’t know what signing this paper might mean. I resign myself to do nothing.

  “Okay, Sarah,” the “judge” says, “we will call your lawyer, but we don’t know if he will be able to come on such short notice.”

  In only fifteen minutes a man walks in the door. He greets each m
an in the room one by one, shaking their hands and kissing them on the cheeks. Then, he turns to me.

  “Hello, Sarah. I am very happy to meet you. I am Masoud Shafii, your lawyer.”

  “Can I take my blindfold off?” I ask. There’s no immediate answer, which I take as a yes and tear it off. I scrutinize the clean-shaven face, receding hairline, kind eyes, and nervous smile of the man standing in front of me.

  “How do I know you’re really my lawyer?” I ask. Indignant murmuring fills the room.

  “No, please,” the man says, “Sarah is right to ask.” He shows me his ID and business card that reads “Masoud Shafii, Attorney.” Below his name is the phone number I memorized nine months ago when we signed a paper accepting this unknown man as our lawyer. He sets his briefcase on an empty desk next to me, opens it, and removes a document. I can see our signatures are at the bottom next to those of our mothers, Nora Shourd, Laura Fattal, and Cindy Hickey.

  “Okay,” I say, “so you’re Masoud Shafii. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I advise you to sign the paper,” he says.

  “What does it say?”

  He sits next to me and does his best, in halting English, to translate the document line by line. The paper is an indictment for two charges—illegal entry and espionage.

  “So, after almost fourteen months in prison, you’re charging me with espionage and then releasing me?” I ask.

  “Yes, Sarah, exactly,” Dumb Guy says.

  “What does this mean for Shane and Josh?” I say, ignoring him and looking at my lawyer.

  “It means, well, hopefully they will meet you soon,” Mr. Shafii answers.

  “What do our parents want me to do?”

  “They want you to sign the paper.”

  “What does Salem want? The Omani envoy?”

  Mr. Shafii looks confused, talks to the others in Farsi for a few minutes, and says, “If you sign, he will be here to take you home soon.”