The Moving Prison Part 10

For the first time, she spoke. "So what do we do? Renounce our Judaism, become Muslim converts? Is that the way?" Her voice was a flat, inflectionless mirror of hopelessness.

"No!" The word came out sharper than he intended. "Sepi," he went on in a gentler tone, "there are three possible responses to what is happening to us right now. And it's very important that we choose carefully, and not simply allow the choice to be made by default."

She said nothing, but her eyes indicated her willingness to listen.

"First, we can despair. Give up, quit. Drift along pa.s.sively and allow events to knock us about however they may. That's the worst choice of all, I think. It means they've already beaten us. It means we've admitted that they really do have the right to do whatever they want, since we're unwilling to help ourselves."

She would no longer meet his eyes, but her dead expression of moments ago was s.h.i.+fting to one of indignation and perhaps a little anger. Good, Moosa thought. She's still got some fight left, down in there somewhere. "The second choice is to change to fit the circ.u.mstances," he went on. "To make plans, to figure out a way around difficulties-how to get away, perhaps. That's what Father is doing, Sepi. He has felt all the same pain, all the same fear, all the same persecution you've felt-only more. And his answer is to adapt. But at least he's moving, he's doing something. He hasn't quit, not for a second. It means he's still alive, still fighting in his own way."

There was a long silence. Despite her unwillingness, she found herself unable to resist asking the question, "And the third way? You said there were three possibilities."

Moosa turned his head away. Several more silent moments pa.s.sed before he again looked at her. "You can get angry," he said quietly. "You can push back."

The speed of her reply surprised him. "And which have you chosen?"

He stared at her for the s.p.a.ce of ten heartbeats. Then, without a word, he got up and left the room.

Ezra consulted the address he had written on the envelope, then looked again at the numbers painted on the dingy plastered wall beside the gate. The house stood on Avenue Ismaili, a small street in a slightly rundown neighborhood, and Ezra looked about him nervously as he knocked at the gate. He had not seen anyone following him or observing his movements, but he could not help feeling exposed. Again he knocked, anxious to get inside, away from pa.s.sing eyes.

Finally he heard the slap of leather-soled feet on the hard-packed dirt of the courtyard inside the wall. As the steps approached the gate, a low, cautious male voice asked, "Who's there?"

"I am Ezra Solaiman. Are Jahan and Maheen Ibrahim here?"

"Why are you here?" Suspicion hardened the tone of the voice inside the gate.

"I bring a message from Reuben, Jahan's husband."

"Reuben isn't here. For all we know, he's dead. Go away." Ezra heard the grinding sound the man's foot made as he turned to leave.

"Wait!" Ezra called. "Yes, you are right. Reuben is dead. We were cell mates in Evin Prison. Just before we went in to the mullahs, he gave me a message for Jahan. He gave me an envelope-here, let me put it under the gate."

He heard no more footsteps. Looking a last time at the envelope, he placed it on the ground, and scooted it under the gate with his toe. For five or six heartbeats there was no sound. Then he heard the man take two paces. His clothing rustled as he bent down to pick up the envelope. Then came a long silence. "Wait here," the man said at last, and he walked quickly back to the house.

Several minutes later, Ezra heard two sets of returning footsteps. He could discern the soft, m.u.f.fled sobs of a woman, even as the man demanded roughly, "Why have you come?" Ezra decided to appeal directly to the widow of Reuben Ibrahim.

"Jahan khanom," Ezra said earnestly, "for me, your Reuben was a blessing sent by the Eternal. His advice was of great help to me in prison. He made me promise to bring this message to you if I got out alive. And I have brought something else for you and little Maheen. Please let me in. I won't be able to fulfill my promise to your martyred husband if you don't."

A moment more she sobbed quietly. Then a key rattled in the lock, and the latch clicked back. Slowly the gate swung outward, and Ezra stepped into the courtyard of the father-in-law of Reuben Ibrahim.

Jahan was short and slightly overweight. Her round, pretty face was ringed by jet-black curls. She wore a somber gray dress and daubed grief-reddened eyes with a wrinkled handkerchief. Just behind her stood her father, a round, balding man with a thick, wiry gray mustache. This man now gestured toward the house.

"I am your humble servant, Ismail Menachim," he said. "Come in, Aga Solaiman," he said. "I apologize for being rude to you. These days, one can't be too careful."

"Please. I, of all people, understand your caution," Ezra a.s.sured.

"When I saw Reuben's handwriting on the envelope ..." Jahan began. Her voice caught. After taking several deep breaths, she went on. "... I knew for certain he was dead. In my heart I have been trying to prepare for this moment, but ..." She leaned against the door frame of her house and covered her face with one hand.

Tenderly, Ezra patted her shoulder. "I am so very sorry, Jahan khanom. Your husband was a brave man, a true hero. He didn't deserve the treatment he got from the mullahs." He felt sympathetic tears burning the corners of his eyes.

Presently, Jahan's father pushed the door open. "Please, come in. Our house is humble, but you are welcome here."

A few moments later, Ezra perched uneasily on one of the two chairs in the spa.r.s.ely furnished parlor of Ismail Menachim's home. The room was small, but very clean. Floral drapes covered the windows, and a.s.sorted rugs, the stock and trade of Reuben Ibrahim, covered the linoleum floors. Seated across from Ezra, Jahan trembled with silent sobs as she held her face in her hands. The sorrow in her parents' faces, as they stood silently on either side of her, was a faint echo of the anguish that covered the grieving young widow like a shroud.

Ezra longed to comfort her, to a.s.suage the pain of Reuben's unjust death, but the only words he could summon to his mind seemed so shallow, so empty. What could he say, after all? That he was sorry? That her husband's death was senseless? How could such inanities heal the raw, gaping wound in Jahan Ibrahim's heart?

He stirred and heard the rustling of the paper sack in his coat pocket. He had stopped by a candy store on his way here, to get a treat for the child. Now he produced the bag of gaz-i-Isfahan.

"Where is Maheen?" he asked. "I brought her a present."

Jahan dabbed at her eyes with a saturated kerchief, struggling gamely to smile. "How kind of you, Aga Solaiman! Maheen, come in here, darling. Aga Solaiman has brought you a gift!"

The child timidly peeked around the frame of the doorway from the hall. Eyes downcast, she remained where she was, one thumb in her mouth. She appeared to Ezra to be no more than three years old. Her face was a heartbreakingly familiar version of her father's, and her mother's dark ringlets circled the shy, pudgy face. Clearly Maheen was uncertain of Ezra and, though intrigued by the notion of a present, was unwilling to enter the room with a stranger.

"Come here, Maheen," her mother urged. "come meet Aga Solaiman."

Maheen glanced worriedly from Ezra to her grandparents and mother, the thumb still lodged in her mouth.

"Please, Maheen, come here," said Jahan. Then, to Ezra, she explained, "The pasdars came here looking for Reuben. She was very badly frightened. Even now, when we must go out, she hides her face in my shoulder when we encounter any man she does not know. And sometimes in the night, she awakens screaming...." Jahan's voice faltered.

Ezra felt his heart breaking with pity for this child, this innocent one rendered fatherless by the ruthless ambitions of men. Maheen, hugging the wall, edged into the room, her eyes fixed warily on Ezra. Reaching her mother, Maheen climbed onto her lap. Only from that sanctuary did she extend a hand toward the bag Ezra held on his knee.

Slowly, with what he hoped was a kind smile on his face, Ezra handed the bag of candy to the child. Maheen peered inside, her fear overcome at last by curiosity. Taking a piece of the white crunchy confection, she at last withdrew her thumb from her mouth, popping the gaz-i-Isfahan inside and chewing noisily.

Jahan smiled down at her daughter, then at Ezra. "Pistachio nut candies are her favorites," she said. Placing her mouth close beside Maheen's ear, she admonished, "What do you say to Aga Solaiman, little one?"

"Thank you," the child said quietly, with the briefest of glances in his direction. Then she ducked her head, studiously inspecting the sack of candy "Reuben ..." Ezra began, and stopped. The name was big in the room, made huge by the absence of its owner. He could not say it without feeling a vast draft of sorrow blowing through his heart. His mouth struggled dryly for a way to continue. He realized Jahan was looking at him strangely.

"I'm sorry, Jahan khanom," he managed. "I hardly know how to begin. Your suffering ... it must be unbearable."

"No, Aga Solaiman," she said quietly, a look of saddened calm on her features. "It is not unbearable, not quite. I know Reuben is beyond all pain, all suffering. And that is of much comfort to me, even now." She drew a deep, quivering breath, then continued. "And ... as for Maheen and me, well ... we will be protected by the same grace which s.h.i.+elded Reuben."

Ezra puzzled the meaning of this enigmatic a.s.surance. Reuben ... s.h.i.+elded? "I'm sorry, Jahan khanom, but I ... fail to comprehend."

"Death is not the end of the story, Aga Solaiman," she said in a quiet voice, husky with conviction. Her eyes blazed with dark fire into his. "Reuben lives, because his Lord lives, and is faithful to His promises."

Ezra felt his face slackening with surprise. He had come here expecting to give comfort, to share the sorrow of a bereaved wife and child. And there was sorrow here, to be sure; anxiety, pain, and longing were evident in the manner and bearing of Jahan Ibrahim. But this ... this ardent undertone of a.s.surance, this foundation of confidence? So unlike the woeful, resigned fatalism Ezra remembered from the funerals of his parents and friends. Or the vengeful protestations of the s.h.i.+te martyrs' families. This was a faith that had nothing to prove to itself, nor to anyone else. For Jahan Ibrahim, it seemed a sufficiency, even in the midst of heartbreak.

"I ... heard Reuben speak-or, rather, pray ... about a Yeshua," he began.

"Yes," said Jahan, smiling through the tears coursing down her cheeks. "We have placed our trust in Yeshua, and He will be with us, no matter what may come."

Seeing Ezra's confused look, she continued softly, "Surely you have heard of Him, Aga Solaiman. Yeshua ... some call Him Jesus."

A look of astonishment burst across Ezra's features. "Jesus! But Reuben said he was a Jew!"

"Yes, we are Jews," interjected Jahan. "We are Jews who believe that G.o.d came to earth in the person of Yeshua Hamas.h.i.+ach. That doesn't make us any less Jewish. There is a difference between this belief and the Western Christian heritage which has persecuted and despised our people for so long. That heritage has much in which Yeshua has no part, things which we cannot accept. But we have placed our lives-and our eternal souls-in the hands of Yeshua, the Son of G.o.d, the Savior."

Ezra scarcely knew what to say. He was embarra.s.sed, nonplussed, and-he was strangely loath to admit-angry, as if Reuben had somehow deceived him. He had come here to fulfill a promise to one with whom he had supposed himself to have linkage, commonality. And now the man's widow preached to him about some strange, half-Jewish belief in the Christ! Surely the world was turning upside down, when Jews began calling on the name of Jesus! Instinctively, his eyes flew to the face of Jahan's father. Surely a man closer to his own generation did not tolerate such outlandish notions under his roof. But the intense, unwavering return gaze of Ismail Menachim, the quiet, a.s.sured att.i.tude of Jahan's mother, told him that the entire household was of a single mind on this subject.

Feeling more out of place than ever, Ezra stood. "Jahan khanom, I ... I wish, for the sake of your husband's kindness to me, to give you-this." He took an envelope from his coat pocket, proffering it toward the still-seated Jahan. She took it, her brow wrinkling in puzzlement. "That is 10,000 rials," he said, in answer to her unasked question. "Reuben said he had hidden money for you, with instructions contained in the envelope I brought from him. But, please take this money, as a sign of my grat.i.tude for Reuben's encouragement and bravery."

Her eyes widened, she stared at him in amazement. "Aga Solaiman ... why should you-?"

Ezra suddenly had the desperate need to be away. "Please, khanom. Allow me to do this. As for the other things you had to say ... I ..." His mouth opened and closed, his fingers made grasping motions, but his thoughts eluded him, evaporating into the thin air of his confusion. "I ... should go now," he stammered finally, putting his hat on and turning toward the door.

He felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned. Jahan was standing, holding the silent Maheen on her hip. "Aga Solaiman," she was saying, "I ... I hope I didn't frighten or offend you. Perhaps I spoke more freely than I should have, to one whom I have only just met. But somehow...." Her eyes misted over, her chin quivered as she looked away, then back at him. "You were the last to see my Reuben alive. Perhaps I thought that somehow, in telling you, I was also telling him." Her lips trembled out of control. She brought a hand to her mouth. Hesitantly, her father placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly.

A moment more her eyes held Ezra. He cleared his throat awkwardly, breaking the spell. "Yes, well ..." he said, looking away, "I really must go now, and leave you alone. Good-bye, Jahan khanom, and good-bye, Maheen." The child managed a little wave, still without looking at him. "I am truly sorry for your loss," he finished. "May ... may G.o.d protect you and Maheen."

"He will, Aga Solaiman," she averred quietly. "He will."

After another uncomfortable pause, Ezra smiled weakly and nodded. "Thank you, Aga Menachim, for your hospitality." Jahan's father nodded.

Then Ezra was out the door and striding across the small courtyard. Closing the gate behind him, he took several deep breaths. After glancing about, he walked quickly away.

As Ezra rounded the corner, a man who had been leaning against the wall at the opposite end of the block took a final drag at his cigarette and dropped it to the pavement, grinding it with his foot. Glancing back at the small house where he had just met with the revolutionary committee's go-between, Firouz Marandi once again patted the envelope in his pocket. Not a bad day's pay for informing on an unsuspecting Baha'i sc.u.m, he thought. After a final look about, he sauntered casually along in the same direction Ezra had taken. As he followed at a safe distance, he thought to himself, What is that old Jew up to now?

Moosa pushed his plate away. "That was good, Mother," he said, appreciatively. He stood up from the table and walked toward the front foyer.

"Where are you going?" he heard his mother ask, as he reached for his jacket. Carefully, deliberately, he put on and zipped the leather jacket before turning to face her.

She was standing between him and the table. The others, still seated, were frozen in a tableau of tense antic.i.p.ation. She gripped her elbows to her sides with the palms of her hands; her face was a tightly pinched portrait of worry and disapproval.

"I'm going out-with some friends," he said quietly. As he was starting out the door, he remembered the gun. He turned and went upstairs toward his room. As he reached the top landing, he heard quiet, terse voices in the dining room below ... his parents' voices.

When he came downstairs, his father stood in the foyer. Moosa saw his eyes flicker from his face to the bulge in his jacket. "What do you have in your coat?" his father demanded.

Slowly, Moosa unzipped his jacket. "I bought it in the covered bazaar," he explained, closing his hand over the Beretta, bringing it into the open as if it were a precious jewel-or a vial of explosive gas. "I thought ... perhaps ... it was something ... we might need." Holding the gun on his open palm, he displayed it to his father.

Ezra stared at Moosa as if he held a live snake in his hand. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked.

Moosa's stare challenged his father's. "The pasdars may come back while you are gone. They came last time for you; they may come for Mother or Sepi. I ... I thought it my duty to protect-"

"Protect?" shouted Ezra. "By taking on the pasdars single-handedly? This is folly, boy! What could you be thinking of?"

Moosa stared over his father's head, his jaw grinding and his nostrils flaring in silent resentment. "Father," he grated finally, his eyes averted, "I have seen the pasdars' interrogation methods. I saw them beat Nathan Moosovi, for nothing other than reporting a crime against his property. They have killed Nathan's father. Perhaps your mullah friend-if indeed he is such-would again intervene, perhaps not. But-"

"Is this what you have learned in America?" said Ezra, incredulous. "To carry such things about like ... like some kind of bandit?"

Esther and Sepi sat at the table, their faces white with fear, waiting to hear what Moosa would say.

"In America, Father," Moosa said through clenched teeth, "I never knew the police to drag an honest citizen out of his house and throw him in prison. In Iran, things are different now, wouldn't you agree?" For ten, twelve heartbeats, the father and son stared angrily at each other. Moosa shouldered past Ezra and strode to the entry. He yanked the door open and was gone with a slam into the night.

Ezra stood rooted to his spot at the base of the stairs, feeling as if all the air had just left his body, sucked out by Moosa's belligerent exit. Unbidden, the memory of Jahan Ibrahim floated to the surface of his jumbled emotions. "We have placed our trust in Yeshua; He will be with us." Who, Ezra wondered, will be with Moosa tonight? What dark deity will s.h.i.+eld him as he walks in wrath, wielding a weapon of violence?

Dejection twined his heart like a choking vine. He realized that his escape from the clutches of the mullah at Evin Prison was only a beginning. There were yet many ways for insanity to win the day.

SEVENTEEN.

The sun was high in the sky; it was just past noon. Ezra was hungry and sweaty in the blazing summer heat, but he dared not leave his place in line. He had already been queuing outside the Swiss Emba.s.sy for two hours, and at least three dozen people stood impatiently behind him. Ahead, ten individuals waited for an appointment with the consul's representative. Swiss exit visas were in high demand these days.

Tedium finally got the better of him, and Ezra decided to strike up a conversation. He tapped the middle-aged man in front of him on the shoulder. The man turned and looked at Ezra with a pleasant, questioning look. "Yes, baradar, what it is?"

"How much longer do you think we will have to wait?" Ezra asked.

The man shrugged. "Who knows? We may have to come back tomorrow."

"And start all over?" asked Ezra, horrified at the thought of repeating his two-hour ordeal.

"Oh, no!" said the stranger. "Unlike our officials, the Swiss are experienced and well-organized." Both men chuckled at the unfortunate truth of the comparison. "They will give us a number before they close for the day," the man continued, "and we will keep our places in line for tomorrow. But," he said, glancing at his watch, "it's only 3:30. If they don't close until five o'clock, we may yet get in to the consul's representative."

Ezra nodded. Seeing two mullahs close to the front of the line, he nudged the friendly stranger. Pointing his chin at the mullahs, Ezra said, "Obviously this isn't an Islamic Republic office, or those two would already be inside."

"True," agreed the man ruefully. "Well, at least there's one place in Iran where they must wait their turn, like everyone else."

Ezra grunted in agreement, staring warily at the clerics.

"Any guess why they're getting Swiss visas?" asked the man softly, after a moment's silence.

Heartened by the man's apparent mistrust of the mullahs, Ezra snorted scornfully. Leaning closer to the stranger, he said, "Obviously they aren't going there to buy a new wardrobe." The two men chuckled softly together, glancing cautiously about.

Another moment pa.s.sed, and the fellow whispered close to Ezra's ear, "The Swiss banks."

Ezra reflected a moment, then nodded solemnly at his newfound ally. "I have seen the way they get their riches," he replied quietly. "You think they take this blood money to Switzerland?"

The man looked askance at Ezra, as if to say, "Can there be any doubt?"

As the line moved forward, the man murmured over his shoulder to Ezra, "You are emigrating because you are Jewish."

It didn't sound like a question. After several silent seconds of contemplation, Ezra whispered, "Yes."

Again the line halted and the man turned toward Ezra. Looking carefully about, he said in a low voice, "I'm leaving too."

Ezra glanced curiously at the fellow. "Why? You don't look or sound Jewish. Are you Baha'i or Christian?"

A slight smile skittered across the man's face as he looked into Ezra's eyes. "The religious minorities are not the only ones who suffer," he remarked sadly.

A silent question was etched on Ezra's face.

Looking over his shoulder, the fellow continued softly. "Until two years before the revolution, my brother was the officer in command of the Shah's bodyguard. Someone denounced him to the revolutionary committee, and he was arrested, tried, and shot."