‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘You may have misunderstood. I have to go there myself.’
‘No, you don’t have to,’ Mansoureh said. ‘When Shirin came to my apartment in a state, I called them myself. Massoud’s name and all his information is on the list. They said he will soon be exchanged.’
I don’t know what I did. Perhaps I danced like a lunatic and genuflected in prayer on the floor. Fortunately, Mansoureh was there and pushed everyone out of my office so that they wouldn’t see me behaving like a madwoman. I had to go somewhere holy. I needed to ask God’s forgiveness for all my blasphemy; otherwise, I was afraid that happiness would run through my fingers like water. The closest place Mansoureh could think of was the Saleh Shrine.
At the shrine, I clung to the enclosure around the tomb and repeated over and over again, ‘God, I was wrong, forgive me. God, you are great, you are merciful, you must forgive me. I promise to make up for all the prayers I have missed, I will give alms to the poor…’
Now that I look back at those days, I realise I had really gone insane. I talked to God as a child talks to her playmate. I defined the rules of the game and I watched carefully to make sure neither one of us broke those rules. Every day I begged him not to turn away from me. Like a lover who had made up with her beloved after a long separation, I was both eager and scared. I constantly pleaded with him in the hope that he would forget my past ingratitude and understand my circumstances.
I was alive again. Joy had returned to my home. The sound of Shirin’s laughter was once more ringing through the rooms. She would run and play, throw her arms around my neck and kiss me.
I knew that being a prisoner of war was harsh and gruelling, I knew Massoud was suffering, but I also knew that it would pass. All that mattered was that he was alive. I spent every day waiting for his freedom. I kept cleaning and tidying the house and rearranging his clothes. Months passed, each month becoming more difficult than the one before, but the hope of seeing him again kept me on my feet.
At last one summer night they brought my son home. For many days beforehand, the neighbourhood streets were decorated with lights and banners, congratulating him on his return, and flowers, sweets and syrups bathed our home with the scent of life. The apartment was crowded with people. I didn’t know many of them. I was thrilled to see my cousin Mahboubeh and her husband. When I saw her father-in-law had also come, I wanted to kiss his hand. To me he was the personification of piety and love.
Mrs Parvin was in charge of the reception. Mansoureh, Faati, Manijeh and Firouzeh, who was now a beautiful young girl, had been busy for several days preparing everything. The day before, Faati had looked at me and said, ‘Sister, colour your hair. If that boy sees you looking like this he will faint!’
I agreed. I would have agreed to anything. Faati coloured my hair and plucked my eyebrows. Firouzeh laughed and said, ‘It’s as if Auntie is getting married! She looks as beautiful as a bride.’
‘Yes, my dear, it’s as if it is my wedding. But it’s much better than that. I wasn’t as happy as this the day I got married.’
I put on a beautiful green dress. It was Massoud’s favorite colour. And Shirin wore the pink dress I had just bought for her. By early afternoon we were both ready and waiting. Mother came with Ali and his family. Ehteram-Sadat also came. She looked shattered. Her repressed grief was growing deeper with time. I tried to avoid looking into her eyes. I was somehow ashamed that my child was alive and hers had died.
‘Why did you bring Ehteram?’ I asked Mother.
‘She wanted to come. Is something wrong?’
‘The envy in her eyes makes me uncomfortable.’
‘What nonsense! She is not envious at all. She is a martyr’s mother; her status is much higher than yours. God holds her in the highest esteem. Do you really think she would be jealous of you? No, my dear, she is actually very happy and you don’t need to worry about her.’
Perhaps Mother was right, perhaps Ehteram-Sadat’s faith was so strong that it kept her going. I tried to not think about her any more, but I continued to avoid her eyes.
Shirin kept lighting the small brazier for burning wild rue, but it kept going out.
It was past nine o’clock and I was running out of patience when the caravan arrived. With all the sedatives I had taken and all the time I had had to prepare for that moment, I started shaking violently and I fainted. How beautiful that moment was when I opened my eyes and found myself in Massoud’s arms.
Massoud was taller but very thin and pale. The expression in his eyes had changed. What he had endured had matured him. He had a limp and was often in pain. From his behaviour, his insomnia and the nightmares he had when he did manage to sleep I realised how much he had suffered. But he did not like to talk about it.
Wounded and barely alive, he had been captured by the Iraqi army and treated at several hospitals. He still had wounds that had not healed. At times he suffered excruciating pain and broke into a fever. The doctor said his limp could be corrected by complicated surgery. After he had regained his strength he underwent the procedure and fortunately it was successful. I took care of him and fussed over him like a child. Every moment with him was precious to me. I would sit and watch him sleep. His handsome face looked like that of a child when he slept. I gave him the nickname God-given. God had really given him back to me.
Massoud slowly regained his physical health, but emotionally he was not the energetic and lively young man he used to be. He didn’t draw or sketch any more. He had no plans for the future. Sometimes his friends, fellow soldiers and former cellmates came to see him and he would be distracted for a while. But again he would grow quiet and withdrawn. I asked his friends not to leave him alone. Among them there were men of every age.
I decided to discuss Massoud’s depression with Mr Maghsoudi, who in time would come to play a pivotal role in my son’s life. He was about fifty years old, had a kind face and seemed worldly; Massoud had a lot of respect for him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘All of us were more or less the same way. And this poor boy was badly wounded, too. He will gradually recover. He has to start working.’
‘But he is very talented and smart,’ I said. ‘I want him to study.’
‘Of course he should. As a war veteran, he can go to university.’
I was ecstatic. I gathered his books and said, ‘Well, recuperation time is over. You have to start planning for your future and finish everything that has been left unfinished. And the most important of these is your education. You have to start this very day.’
‘No, Mum, it’s too late for me,’ Massoud said quietly. ‘My brain doesn’t work any more and I don’t have the patience to study and prepare for the entrance exams. There is no way I would be admitted.’
‘No, my dear. You can use the quotas and benefits that allow veterans to go to university.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘If I don’t qualify academically, it doesn’t make any difference whether I am a veteran or not. I will not be admitted.’
‘If you study, you will be more qualified than anyone else,’ I argued. ‘And being able to get a university degree is a right they have given to all veterans.’
‘In other words they have given me the right to take away someone else’s right. No, I don’t want it.’
‘You will be taking what is yours by right; a right that was unjustly taken away from you four years ago.’
‘Just because they took my right from me back then, now I should do the same to someone else?’ he contended.
‘Right or wrong it is the law. Don’t tell me you have got used to the law always being against you? My dear, sometimes it is for you. You have fought and suffered for these people and this country. Now these people and this country want to reward you. It’s not right that you should reject.’
Our seemingly endless arguments finally ended with me as the victor. Of course, Firouzeh was very instrumental in this. She was in her last years of school and came over to the apartment ev
ery day with her books so that Massoud would help her with her homework, forcing him to study as well. Her kind and beautiful face brought the joy of life into Massoud’s face. They studied, talked and laughed together. Occasionally, I would insist that they leave their books and go out for some fun.
Massoud applied to the Department of Architecture at the university. He was accepted. I kissed him and congratulated him. ‘Between you and me, it wasn’t my right,’ he said, laughing, ‘but I am very happy!’
Massoud’s next problem was to find a job.
‘It is embarrassing for a guy my age to still be a burden to his mother,’ he often said. And a few times he even mumbled something about dropping out of university. I again turned to Mr Maghsoudi who had a relatively senior position at a ministry.
‘Of course there is work for him,’ he said with confidence. ‘And it doesn’t have to interfere with his studies.’
Massoud easily passed the required exams, the selection process and the interviews, which were mostly a formality, and he was hired. The stigma we had been branded with seemed to have been suddenly erased. Now, he was a precious gem. And as the mother of a war veteran, I was extended every respect and offered jobs and resources that at times I had to reject.
That drastic change was comical. What a strange world it was. Neither its ire nor its kindness had any substance.
CHAPTER NINE
My days were quiet and had a normal routine. My children were all healthy, successful and busy with their work and education. And we had no financial difficulties. I had a relatively good income and Massoud was earning a higher than standard salary. As he was a veteran, there was also financial aid available to him to buy a car and a house. Siamak, who had finished his studies and was working, constantly offered to help us financially.
After the war ended, Parvaneh started travelling to Iran regularly. Each time we saw each other, the distance of years vanished and we returned to our youth. She was still funny and playful and made me feel faint with laughter. I could never forget my debt to her. For ten years, she had taken care of my son like a loving mother. And Siamak still spent all his holidays with her family. Parvaneh regularly filled me in on the details of his life and I would close my eyes, trying to build in my mind the time I had lost with my son. My longing to see him was the only sadness that occasionally darkened my horizon.
For two years, Siamak had been insisting that I go to Germany to see him. But my concerns for Massoud and worries over Shirin, who was still quite young, had stopped me. Finally, I could no longer bear not seeing him and I decided to go. I was terribly nervous. The closer I got to the date of my departure the more restless I became. I was surprised that I had endured ten years of being away from him, becoming so immersed in the difficulties of life that days would pass without my even looking at his photograph.
Hamid used to say, ‘Groundless stress and melancholy are characteristics of the bourgeoisie… When your stomach is full, when you don’t care about the misery of others, you dredge up these wishy-washy emotions.’ Perhaps he was right, but I had always felt the pain of being separated from Siamak and because there was nothing I could do about it, I had stifled those emotions, not even admitting to myself how desperately I needed to see him. Now that there was relative calm in my life, I had the right to miss my son and long to see him.
When I was saying my goodbyes, Shirin looked troubled and with utter cheekiness said, ‘I am not upset that you are leaving; I’m just upset that they didn’t give me a visa.’ She was a fourteen-year-old know-it-all who, confident of the love she received, impetuously said whatever came into her head. Despite her objections, I left her in the care of Massoud, Faati, Mansoureh and Firouzeh, and I flew to Germany.
I walked out of the customs section at Frankfurt airport and looked around with breathless anticipation. A handsome young man walked over to me. I stared at his face. Only his eyes and his smile looked familiar. The tousled locks of hair on his forehead reminded me of Hamid. Despite all the photographs of Siamak I had put on display around the house, I still expected to see an immature young boy with a thin neck. But he was now a tall, dignified man standing there with his arms wide open. I put my head on his chest and he held me tight. What profound pleasure it is to hide like a child in the arms of your offspring. My head barely reached his shoulder. I inhaled his scent and wept with joy.
It took a while for me to notice the beautiful young girl who was rapidly taking photographs of us. Siamak introduced her. I couldn’t believe she was Lili, Parvaneh’s daughter. I took her in my arms and said, ‘You have grown up so much and you are so beautiful. I had seen your photographs, but they don’t do you justice.’ She laughed from the bottom of her heart.
We got into Siamak’s small car and he said, ‘We will first go to Lili’s house. Aunt Parvaneh has prepared lunch and she is waiting for us. Tonight, or if you want tomorrow, we will go to the town where I live. It is two hours away.’
‘Bravo!’ I said. ‘You haven’t forgotten your Persian and you don’t speak with an accent.’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. There are plenty of Iranians here. And Aunt Parvaneh refuses to talk to me if I speak in any language other than Persian. She is even more unrelenting with her own kids. Isn’t she, Lili?’
On the way to Parvaneh’s house I realised there was an attraction between Lili and Siamak that went beyond friendship and family ties.
Parvaneh’s home was beautiful and cosy. She greeted us with great joy. Khosrow, her husband, had aged more than I expected. I said to myself, It’s normal. It has been fourteen or fifteen years since I last saw him. He probably thinks the same about me. Their children had all grown up. Laleh spoke Persian with a thick accent and Ardalan who had been born in Germany could understand us, but would not reply in Persian.
Parvaneh insisted that we spend the night at their house, but we decided to drive to Siamak’s home and visit Parvaneh again the following weekend. I wanted at least a week to become reacquainted with my son. God only knew how much we both had to talk about, but when we were finally alone I didn’t know what to say, where to start and how to bridge the gap that years of separation had created. For a while, Siamak asked me about different family members and I would say they were well and send their love. And then I would ask, ‘Is the weather always this nice here? You won’t believe how hot it is in Tehran…’
It took twenty-four hours for the ice of unfamiliarity to melt and for us to start talking more intimately. Fortunately, it was the weekend and we had plenty of time. Siamak spoke about the hardships he had experienced after he left us, about the dangers he had faced when crossing the border, about his life in the refugee camp, about starting university and finally about his job. I told him about Massoud, about what he had suffered, about the days when I thought he was dead and about his return. I talked about Shirin, her mischiefs and her feistiness that reminded me more of him than of Massoud. There was no end to our conversations.
On Monday, Siamak went to work and I went for a stroll around the neighbourhood. I was amazed at how big and beautiful the world was and I wanted to laugh at how trivially we think of ourselves as the centre of the universe.
I learned how to shop. Every day I cooked dinner and waited for him to come home, and every evening he took me out to show me a different sight. We never stopped talking, but we did stop discussing politics. He had been away for so long that he no longer had a clear understanding of the new environment and the real issues in Iran. Even the vocabulary and the expressions he used were outdated and reminded me of the early days of the revolution. The things he said sometimes made me laugh.
One day he got upset and said, ‘Why are you laughing at me?’
‘My dear, I am not laughing at you. It’s just that some of the things you say are a bit odd.’
‘What do you mean, odd?’
‘They sound like things one hears on foreign radio stations,’ I explained.
‘Foreign radio stations?’
‘No!’ he said. ‘To be honest, I cannot accept or comprehend some of the things they do.’
‘Such as?’
‘Joining forces with the Iraqi army and attacking Iran; fighting against Iranian troops. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed with them and come face to face with Massoud on the battlefield. It is a recurring nightmare that jolts me awake in the middle of the night.’
The Book of Fate Page 44