Assassins of the Turquoise Palace (20 page)

For the next three days, the prosecution presented its closing statement. Citing the testimony of Messbahi, the prose cutor implicated Iran’s leadership. When Jost rested, one of the attorneys for the accused attempted a rebuttal by offering to present yet several new witnesses, but Darabi interrupted. He rose to his feet and spoke, this time with a somber tone.

“No! I don’t want anyone to make any statements for me. I’ll make my own statement. Let’s face it, I’m the one who’s been used.”

Requesting the help of the best translator in court Darabi, with Zamankhan at his side, drafted a twenty-seven-page letter in his own defense. For the first time, defeat tinged the defendant’s voice. For the first time, he alluded to his own bad fortune, to having been used as a pawn. To those who had waited years to hear from him,
used
was itself a confession. He painted himself as an unknowing party to a crime others had committed.

“I didn’t know what I was getting into when I first got involved with these men here. I knew nothing of what they
had planned. Imagine a friend asking for the key to your car, saying he wants to go to the post office to pick up a big heavy parcel. Then you hear on the evening news that this friend has used your car to rob a bank. Are you to blame for the robbery if all you had done was to lend your car for what you thought was a good deed? This is my problem! First, the prosecutor built a case against me based on the lies of Yousef Amin. Then the members of the opposition in this audience poisoned this court against me. That fellow,” he pointed at Hamid, “over there, and all sorts of others, with their television friends and CNN crews and former presidents in tow, used this opportunity to trash me just because I’m ideologically opposed to them. But my being ideologically different from them doesn’t make me a murderer.”

Ehrig erupted the moment Darabi rested.

“At last, you speak, Mr. Darabi. And it’s your right to speak. But it’s not your right to choose only the portions you wish from a four-year trial. You, sir,
drove
the people who robbed the imaginary bank.”

The lawyers defending Rhayel no longer denied their client’s role in the murders. They only argued that the trial had proven that Rhayel, a devoted Shiite, had carried out the orders of his spiritual leader, who according to the prosecutor’s own statement resided in Tehran. Therefore, the defendant had not acted on his own, but had executed the command of a higher authority. It was that authority, the Supreme Leader, who had to be held accountable, not his mere follower. No sooner had they completed their plea on Rhayel’s
behalf than he countered them—denying their argument. He had followed no one’s orders but his own. There was no one responsible for the crime but him. Then he returned, as stoically as ever, to his seat.

With the end of the four-year act looming, Yousef also decided to address the court.

“I want to thank Judge Kubsch for being such a good judge, and Judge Zastrow, who’s not with us any more, may he rest in peace. And Judge Alban, who is also a very good judge, and Judge Noeldeke over there, who was here always and worked very hard, and Judge Klemt, who is very very nice, and the court doctor way over in the back, who came rain or shine. I also want to thank all the translators . . .” He went on to name each one by one, “. . . and the security guards by the door, who guarded this place so well, and the attorneys . . .” Another list of names followed.

His gratitude might have been sincere, but the endless catalog of names he had carefully rehearsed caused the usual uproar of laughter, striking everyone as Yousef’s last gag.

When there was no one left to thank, Yousef did what he knew best: he reversed his own previous testimony yet again.

“I also want to thank the prosecutor, Mr. Bruno Jost, and the police who first interrogated me. I am sorry I ever said that they paid or threatened me. The truth is that they didn’t. All I want is for this trial to finish, so that I can go home to my wife and child. That’s all. If you have no pity for me, please pity my little son.”

• • •

At last the time came for Ehrig to make his closing statement. To the attorney who had never missed a day of court, a summary of the four-year ordeal was the best last statement of all.

“Ladies and gentlemen! This crime had been ordered. How do we know this? We know this because since the fall of the Soviet Union and the establishment of the no-fly zone by the U.S. forces over northern Iraq, Iran has quashed the demands of its own Kurds for independence more vehemently than ever. There are also ideological reasons at work here. As one of our experts quoted, Ayatollah Khomeini had demanded that ‘the Kurds choose between being Muslims following the orders of Allah and their Kurdish nationalism.’ Further evidence? The assassination of Abdulrahman Ghassemlou in 1989 in Vienna. Or the statement by Minister Ali Fallahian on Iranian television days prior to the assassinations, in which he sets targeting the Democratic Party of Kurdistan as one of the ministry’s top priorities and reminds the viewers of the past blows the party had been dealt and the future ones that are yet to come. Or the meeting between Mr. Schmidbauer and Minister Ali Fallahian prior to the start of this trial; and Iran’s foreign minister’s repeated request for the better treatment of the prisoners. Not just for Kazem Darabi, the only Iranian citizen in custody, but also for the other four accused who are not Iranians. Iran has extended citizenship to the Lebanese men here, in the same way that Stalin declared the Soviet Union the paternal home of all the downtrodden. Or in his testimony, Yousef Amin quotes Abbas Rhayel as
having said, ‘If you are ever arrested, don’t worry! Iran is behind us.’ Or the statement of Mr. Jalal Talebani, the Iraqi Kurdish leader, about the intelligence his men had gathered on a plan to assassinate the main victim in this case, Dr. Sharafkandi. Or the source of the weapons used in the assassination, which the ballistic studies proved to have been Iranian in origin. Or the source of the silencers, also Iran. Or the fact that two Iranians were involved in this operation. And that the main gunman shouts an expletive at the victims, not to mention the myriad evidence provided by the German intelligence, and then the damning testimony of Witness C, former president Banisadr, and others who have shown the court how the regime in Tehran has deemed this operation a victory.”

Attorney Otto Schily, whose firm had accepted the Doctor’s case from the start, followed Ehrig. The presence of Schily—a political celebrity—was a boost to Shohreh and the exiles in the courtroom who had feared their own anonymity all along.

“These men did not know their victims, nor did they harbor any personal enmity toward them. There is but one possibility for their motive: they killed because their masters in Tehran ordered them to do so. The assassination of Dr. Sharafkandi and his colleagues did not once move Iran to inquire why the lives of its citizens were not better protected when they were in Germany for an international conference, nor have there been any words of regret or sympathy sounded by Iran in response to this crime. The regime never
once took any steps to investigate. Nor has Iran shown any desire to cooperate with the investigation. To the contrary, Iran’s regime only moved into action when the accused were arrested, and tried its best to prevent them from standing trial. The mask fell off Tehran’s face when it tried to intervene on behalf of the accused. That alone is an admission of culpability.

“We cannot allow the hubbub in Tehran to disturb our peace, because only in peace can the judges arrive at their decision. The question is not only who committed these crimes. Names must be named, even those of the people who have evaded arrest and are not standing trial here. This will surely have political consequences for German-Iranian relations. That’s for the politicians to worry about. The court must tell the truth in all its clarity and disregard all other concerns. The terrorism Iran conducts is one of the most hateful forms of organized crime. Any concession would be a sign of weakness on our part, and great disrespect to our lawful way of life, and could only serve to embolden Tehran. The people of Germany want to have friendly relations with the people of Iran. We regard their culture and civilization highly. But the universality of human rights, our right to live according to our own lawful order, demand that we take the strongest stance against acts of terror.

“For much too long, European governments have watched Iran’s violent behavior. A regime that touts terror and even commands it must not be the recipient of our loans or red carpet receptions. After all Iran has done to stonewall this trial, in these last days we hear vulgar calls and unfounded
accusations coming from them again. Our federal prosecutors have been threatened with death. I fear such threats will only get louder in the days before the judgment. Which is why I must emphasize once more: we are indebted to the federal prosecutor. This gratitude is most heartfelt especially by the victims’ families. If there are those in Tehran who think it is possible to make threats against our prosecutors without impunity, they must know that doing so is a declaration of war against all of Germany. Soon the judges will issue their final judgment in the name of the people of Germany. I am confident their judgment will be a fair one. This is my greatest hope because we all have a shared duty. All of us—citizens, men and women, and even those who are our guests—must live in safety and without fear.”

19

At dawn on April 10, all the streets leading to the Moabit court were blocked from a mile away. Snipers had been stationed on the rooftops overlooking the entrance. Police and military personnel paced the vicinity in pairs. Iranian expatriates from all over Europe had converged on Berlin. For all they had suffered, this day would be a reckoning. Hundreds were circulating at the four corners of the intersection surrounding the court, preparing for a demonstration. The trial that had lasted nearly four years, placed 176 witnesses on the stand in 246 sessions, and cost three million dollars was about to end.

That morning, Shohreh, still in black, wore her brightest smile. For the first time, Sara accompanied her. The presence
of her daughter at her side heartened her. She was no longer the vulnerable little girl but a blossoming fourteen-year-old young woman. The night before, Sara had returned home, cutting her school trip short. The thought of her inexhaustible mother alone on the last day of court had moved her to leave. Away from Shohreh, she had been able to see her mother in a new light. The steady flow of her mother’s presence had lightened the burden of her grief. She was joyous that morning.

“What will today bring?” Shohreh kept saying under her breath. But Sara hardly cared. She had not come for the judgment. She had come to watch the end of the trial that put her mother’s life on hold. She had come to see the future begin. She had come to say farewell to her mother in black. She tried not to think about the next hour, when she would be in the same room as the killers, breathing the same air. She tried not to think of their eyes meeting, her stomach churning. April 10 was not a day for the unpleasant. She had come to collect her share of peace.

Parviz waved to the women from the sidewalk. He had arrived too late and the audience section was already full to capacity. He paced the pavement as nervously as he had once paced the waiting room of the hospital where his daughter was delivered. The accused were about to get their sentence, and he was about to be relieved of his. Waging war had come at a great cost to him. He had done many things he was not proud of. Restless in bed again the night before, he had counted the days since that night at the restaurant: one thousand six hundred and sixty-five
days. He had not bothered with weeks or months because time’s other denominations diminished the immensity of his experience. A question had kept him awake and fueled his anxious steps on the sidewalk. What would this day bring? He clung to hope and paced.

Hall 700 had been mobbed in the past, yet never had the crowd included the ranks of Germany’s deputy foreign minister or the U.S. ambassador. Among the reporters, even members of Iran’s official radio and television were present. For the first time in decades, the balcony, which was once reserved only for nobility, had been opened to accommodate the overflow. The spectators were excited and bolder than ever before, offering their unsolicited views to the reporters.

“We’ve come to see if the engine of your justice works as well as the ones in your cars!”

They, too, had come to pass a judgment. They wanted to know if the busts lining the halls and the portraits hanging on the walls would prove to be more than mere decor.

Bruno Jost sat next to his deputy, both in the same crimson robes. The night before, the two had celebrated their final evening on the case at a Yugoslav restaurant. The ordeal of his life, the case that had kept him in hotel rooms away from home for half of every week for nearly five years, was about to end. That he was there to see it, alive despite all the threats, was what many might have called a miracle. Jost, being a rationalist, only called it extraordinary. Sitting exactly where he had for so many days, he had not a single regret. He felt content. He had done all he could in the precise way a conscientious prosecutor should have.
He would change nothing, take nothing back. All that remained for him to do was to hope and delight in the thought of returning home and resuming his life’s old rhythms. He would sleep for the first few days, hibernate like a bear. Throughout the trial nothing, not the threats to his safety or the indignant treatment of colleagues or the endless hours of work, weighed on him as much as the gaze of the exiles in the courtroom did. Those voiceless men and women kept their punishing stare on him every day. It had been arduous being besieged by their presence, but in the end, their unspoken expectation had driven him out of the com fort of what he knew, into the folds of unknown but consequential things. He was content, indeed, and also grateful for the journey, already wistful, but relieved, too, to see it end.

The five judges appeared at the threshold of the gallery’s entry and the room came to order. The whispers died out. Excitement had never betrayed the expressions of the judges until that day. They walked to their seats led by Judge Kubsch, whose steps seemed rushed. Perfect silence blanketed the room. An expatriate shifted in his seat and others glared at him. Any sound that did not emanate from Judge Kubsch tested the nerves. Silence, usually the sign of calm, was only a levee that morning against the swelling waves of anticipation lapping behind it.

He spoke in a voice that quivered for the first time. Looking in the direction of the audience, he addressed them first.

“Before I announce the judgment, I must ask a few things of you. This is a courtroom. Please do not interrupt. We have copies of your passport pages and know
your identities. The guards have been instructed to escort out those who upset the proceedings immediately. Hold your applause and protests. As you well know, there are many in line downstairs wishing to get in. So, if there are any interruptions, though there have hardly been any throughout this trial, you’ll be removed from the court to let the others get in.”

Then he turned to Shohreh and added, “I also ask the family members of the victims and the accused not to get emotional. The translators will be given a copy of the judgment, which they will translate for them, if need be.”

No one stirred. All eyes were still upon him. It was nine-thirty in the morning when Judge Kubsch rose to his feet. Everyone followed his lead. He forgot to begin, as he always had, with the words “in the name of the people.” Instead, he began with the sentences:

“For their role in killing four people, Kazem Darabi and Abbas Rhayel are sentenced to life in prison. Their two accomplices, Yousef Amin and Muhammad Atris, are sentenced to eleven and five years, respectively. Attaollah Ayad is free, however, the court will not compensate him for any fees or losses. Now you may be seated.”

Everyone settled into a seat. Yousef Amin was smiling. Rhayel and Darabi slumped, their eyes cast down, perfectly defeated. Judge Kubsch continued.

“It was clear from the beginning that this would be a long trial. And so it was. The defendants exercised their right not to speak and so they added to the court’s burden to work even harder on their behalf. There were many other unforeseen
complications, too, that prolonged the trial. The proceedings had to be translated into at least two other languages at all times. Some witnesses were presented much too late and, furthermore, they were only available in other parts of the world—Iran, Canada, Lebanon. It took a long time to find, train, and send judges and reporters to hear their testimonies.

“The media says that it is Iran that is on trial in this courtroom. This is not true. We do not try anyone in absentia. When a defendant had a toothache, we canceled the trial because our court could never convene in the absence of a defendant. We do not try anyone who cannot be present. So ‘governmental terrorism’ has never been on trial in this courtroom.”

The statement sent a jolt of anxiety through Hamid, who, fearing what Judge Kubsch might say next, shut his eyes. He had spent the night before preparing for the two possibilities of this day. Were the judges to rule in the exiles’ favor, he would unfurl the banners that read:

CUT ALL TIES WITH IRAN
!

RECALL AMBASSADORS FROM TEHRAN
!

MINISTER KINKEL: YOUR COLLEAGUE IS A TERRORIST

And if they were to rule otherwise, he would display different ones:

A DARK AND SHAMEFUL DAY

FOR THE GERMAN JUSTICE SYSTEM

JUDGES COWED BY POLITICAL PRESSURE

The room was silent for a few moments until Judge Kubsch resumed.

“But!” he emphasized the word on which his reasoning turned. “We can talk about acts that have taken place against the backdrop of governmental terrorism, even if that government is not present to defend itself. According to the law, we must explore crime in its proper context. Our goal here was never to explore the context, but it became necessary as we tried to understand the motives behind these crimes. Within the framework of this investigation, finding the culpability of others, including individuals and institutions, also became necessary. The accused here are not the true culprits of this crime . . .”

Hamid opened his eyes. He sat up and inhaled deeply, at once suffused with ease. Ehrig pressed Shohreh’s arm and she leaned against him. For the next several minutes, Judge Kubsch traced the history of the Kurds’ persecution, since the rise of the Ayatollah, to the killings at the Mykonos restaurant. By then, tension had fallen away from him and he was speaking in the same measured and deliberate voice everyone knew. Speaking the lines the exiles had never thought he would, never believed any foreigner capable of understanding their tale well enough to compose, Judge Kubsch uttered what to their exhausted ears was a lullaby, one of vindication.

“The orders for the crime that took place on September 17, 1992, in Berlin came from Iran’s Supreme Leader.”

Hearing the judge list the names, Hamid shot up. Other exiles followed suit. They could not act against the judge’s wishes and burst into cheers, so they remained silent but
standing. Joyous, Hamid began to tap on the back of the bench before him. Others, who had looked to him for a sign, did the same. The happy drumming of the spectators filled the air. Shohreh burst into tears. She wrapped her arms around her daughter and the sound of their weeping mingled with the tapping knuckles. Her kisses—fast and numerous—trickled on her daughter’s head and cheeks. For so many years, the expatriates in the courtroom, refugees in an unknown territory, had knocked on Berlin’s doors, breathed Berlin’s air, walked upon Berlin’s pavements, slept in Berlin’s nights. But belonging, ever mercurial, had never taken hold of them, for without justice, belonging never does. They were knocking because with that judgment, they had finally been affirmed and met by dignity. They were knocking no longer to get in, but to announce that they had, at last, arrived.

Bruno Jost darted out of the room to call his office in Karlsruhe with the news. So did several journalists who rushed out to file their stories: “History made in a German Court” the next day’s headlines would read. “Unprecedent in the History of the World.” For the first time, a court had implicated in crime leaders who were still in power.

Outside, the mobile phone in Parviz’s hand rang and the voice at the other end said, “They named names, Parviz. They named everyone.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“All of them.”

“Darabi, Rhayel, Amin, you mean?”

“No, the bosses.”

“No, no! Wait! You’re excited and are getting ahead of yourself.”

“Parviz, listen to me! We won!”

“You’re mistaken. Don’t interpret what the judge said. Tell me verbatim what you heard!”

“Kubsch named—”

But before Parviz could hear the words, the crowd outside erupted. Screams of joy filled the air. Parviz wept. Several journalists ran to him, microphones and cameras in hand, and asked, “Mr. Dastmalchi, what do you think about today’s judgment?”

“I . . . I . . .” But the ever articulate survivor could not complete his sentence. He tried to regain his composure once more and began again: “I . . . I . . .” But four and half years of tears kept welling up in his eyes. He only wept. That morning, tears made up his entire lexicon. They were all the statement he could offer for an answer.

The droves that had come to protest no longer wished to shout their tired slogans. They threw aside their placards, set down their bullhorns, and rolled up their banners. Now was not the time to protest. From the several large speakers that had been hauled to the corners of the intersection earlier that day, a familiar music began to blare. Man and woman, young and old, teamed in twos, extended their arms into the air, knees bent, hips slowly gyrating to the lyrics of “Baba Karam,” the most decadent Persian dance tune. They circled each other in slow steps, arching their necks,
throwing an eyebrow up to strike their most flirtatious looks, then laughed. They kicked the air and laughed. Those with hats tipped their hats to cover their foreheads and undulated their shoulders as they rounded their partners, all the while laughing.

Outside Hall 700, Hamid, who had smuggled two stacks of flyers inside, threw them over the banisters of the mezzanine by the fistful. The pages shimmered like confetti against the gilded air of the court’s interior. He rolled out a banner and hung it over the banister.

CUT ALL TIES WITH IRAN

The guards rushed to stop him. Tearful and delirious, he barely resisted as they handcuffed him. Ehrig, seeing Hamid, hurried forth. He threw his arms around Hamid and pressed him in his embrace, their shoulders bobbing as they cried. It was only when Hamid began to slip from his hold that Ehrig became aware of the guards and entreated them to release him.

Those streaming out of Hall 700 lingered at the entrance. Shohreh wrapped her arms around whoever came to shake her hand. She had nothing to say. The last time joy had so intoxicated her she was in white, dancing with Noori at their wedding, feeling nothing but a blur of light and weightlessness, hearing only the music of her own beating heart.

A journalist walked up to Sara and asked how she felt. Sara, who had never answered a question from a reporter, beamed and spoke her first public statement.

“I’m so glad it’s all over!”