The Book of Fate (47 page)

Three days passed with fear and anxiety until we received word that the boys had safely crossed the border. Ten days later, I spoke to Siamak. He had arrived in Islamabad. He sounded so sad and so far away.

And then for me there was the pain of separation. Massoud missed Siamak terribly and my crying every night upset him even more. Mansoureh was in far worse condition. She had never been separated from her son for even a day and was now inconsolable. I kept telling her, and myself, ‘We must be strong! In these times, to save our children and for the sake of their future, we mothers must bear the sorrow of their absence. This is the price we have to pay; otherwise we will not be good mothers.'

Four months later, Parvaneh called from Germany and handed the telephone to Siamak. I screamed with joy. He had arrived. Parvaneh assured me that she would take care of him, but he had to spend a few months in a refugee camp. Unlike others who idled away the days, Siamak spent the time learning German and was quickly accepted in school and eventually to the university. He studied mechanical engineering and never forgot his promises.

Parvaneh had arranged for him to spend his holidays with her family and she diligently kept me informed of his progress. I was happy and proud. I felt I had accomplished one-third of my responsibility. I worked with great energy and gradually repaid my debts. Massoud took meticulous care of me and our lives. While studying, he also played the role of the family's father and with his unfailing love engulfed me in happiness and hope. And Shirin, with her playfulness, her antics and her sweet-talk brought spirit and joy to our home. I had found peace, albeit a temporary one. There were still problems and worries circling us and the ruinous war with Iraq seemed eternal.

In the days when I had again learned to laugh, Mr Zargar, gravely and with his eyes glued to the coffee table, proposed to me. Although I knew his daughter and his French wife had left Iran several years earlier, I didn't know he was divorced. He was a wise and learned man and suitable in every way. Life with him could solve many of my emotional as well as material needs. And I was not indifferent to him. I had always liked and admired him as a man and a dear friend and companion, and I could easily open my heart to him. Perhaps he could give me the love and affection that Hamid had never completely given me.

After Hamid's death, Mr Zargar was the third man to propose to me. In the case of the first two, I had said no without a moment's hesitation. But in Mr Zargar's case, I wasn't sure what to do. From both a logical and an emotional point of view, marrying him seemed the right thing to do, but for some time I had noticed how Massoud was carefully observing me, seeming restless and on edge. One day, without any overture, he said, ‘Mum, we don't need anyone, do we? Whatever you need, just tell me and I will provide it. And tell Mr Zargar not to come around so often. I can't stand him any more.'

And so I realised I should not disrupt the newly gained peace in our lives nor divert my attention away from my children. I believed it was my duty to be at their service with my entire being and that I should be the one filling their father's empty place, not a stranger. Mr Zargar's presence might have been welcome in my life, but it was very clear that it would make my children, especially my sons, uncomfortable and unhappy.

A few days later, with profound apologies I said no to Mr Zargar, but asked him to never deprive me of his friendship.

The events in my life unfolded in such a way that I always had a chance to breathe and fortify myself in the interim, and the longer the period of calm, the worse the shock of the next incident. Believing this, I was plagued by hidden anxieties even in the best of times.

With Siamak safely gone, it seemed my gravest concern had been resolved. Although I missed him terribly and at times my longing to see him seemed unbearable, I never regretted sending him away and never wished that he would return. I talked to his photograph and wrote long letters to him about everything that was going on in our lives. Meanwhile, Massoud was so gentle and kind that he not only didn't create any problems for me, but was often my problem solver. He went through the difficult and turbulent years of adolescence with patience and poise. He felt a deep sense of responsibility towards Shirin and me, shouldering much of what needed to be done in our daily lives. I had to be careful not to take advantage of all that kindness and self-sacrifice and not to expect more from that young man than he was capable of.

Massoud would stand behind me, massage my neck and say, ‘I'm afraid you will get sick working so hard. Go to bed and rest.'

And I would say, ‘Don't worry, my dear. No one gets sick from hard work. The fatigue goes away with a good night's sleep and two days' rest each week. What makes you sick is idleness and useless thoughts and anxieties. Work is the essence of life.'

More than being my son, Massoud was my partner, my friend and my adviser. We talked about everything and we made decisions together. He was right, we didn't need anyone else. My only concern was that later in life, people would take advantage of his goodness and his willingness to give way; just as his sister could make him do anything she wanted with a kiss, a tear, or a plea.

Massoud acted like a responsible father towards Shirin. He went to enrol her in school, talked to her teachers, walked her to school every day and bought whatever she needed. During the air raids he would pick her up and hide her under the stairs. I delighted in their loving relationship, but unlike most mothers, I was not happy that they were growing up. In fact, it frightened me and my fear deepened as the war dragged on.

Every year, I told myself the war would end by next year and before Massoud would have to serve in the military, but the war wasn't ending. News of our neighbours' or friends' children having been martyred terrified me even more and learning that Gholam-Ali, Mahmoud's son, had been killed at the front made me lose heart. I will never forget the last time I saw him. I was shocked to see him standing at the front door. I had not seen him in many years. I don't know whether it was the army uniform or the strange glint deep in his eyes that made him look much older than he was. He was not the old Gholam-Ali.

I greeted him with surprise and said, ‘Has something happened?'

‘Does something have to happen for me to come and see you?' he asked reproachfully.

‘No, my dear, you are always welcome. I was just surprised because this is the first time you have ever come here. Please come in.'

Gholam-Ali seemed uncomfortable. I poured him a cup of tea and started casually to ask about the family, but I said nothing about the uniform he was wearing or the fact that he had voluntarily enlisted in the army and had been at the front. I think I was afraid of talking about it. The war was steeped in blood, pain and death. When I finally stopped talking, he said, ‘Aunt, I have come to ask for your forgiveness.'

‘For what? What have you done, or what are you about to do?'

‘You know I have been at the front,' he said. ‘I am on leave and I will be going back. Well, it's war and, God willing, I may become a martyr. And if I am to be so fortunate, I need you to forgive me for the way my family and I have treated you and your sons.'

‘God forbid! Don't say such things. You are just starting life. May God never bring the day that something bad happens to you.'

‘But it won't be bad, it will be a blessing. It is my greatest wish.'

‘Don't say these things,' I chided. ‘Think about your poor mother. If she ever hears you talk like this she will be devastated… I really don't understand how she could let you go to war. Don't you know that the consent and approval of your parents is more important than anything else?'

‘Yes, I know. But I have her approval. At first she kept crying and weeping. Then I took her to the hotel where some of the victims of war are housed and I said, “Look how the enemy has destroyed people's lives. It is my duty to defend Islam, my country and our people. Do you really want to stand in the way of my religious obligation?” Mother is really a woman of faith. I think her belief is far stronger than my father's. She said, “Who am I to challenge God? I am satisfied with his satisfaction.”'

‘Fine, my dear; but wait until you have finished school. God willing, the war will be over by then and you will be able to build a comfortable life for yourself.'

He snickered and said, ‘Yes, just like my father. That's what you mean, isn't it?'

‘Well, yes. What is wrong with that?'

‘If no one else knows, you certainly do. No, that is not what I want! The front is something else. It is the only place where I feel close to God. You have no idea what it's like. Everyone willing to give his life, everyone sharing the same goal. No one talks about money and status, no one boasts, no one is after greater profit. It is a contest of devotion and self-sacrifice. You cannot imagine how the guys try to overtake each other to be on the front line. True faith is there, without hypocrisy, without deceit. It was there that I met true Muslims who put no value on worldly goods and material things. I am at peace when I am with them. I am close to God.'

I was looking down and thinking about the words of deep belief coming from that young man who had found his truth. Gholam-Ali's sad voice broke the silence.

‘When I started going to Father's shop in the afternoons, the things he did troubled me. I was starting to question everything. You haven't seen the new house, have you?'

‘No, I haven't. But I have heard it is very large and beautiful.'

‘Yes, it's big,' he said. ‘It's as big as you can imagine. You can get lost in it. But, Aunt, it is expropriated property, stolen, do you understand? With all his talk about faith and devoutness, I don't know how Father can live there. I keep telling him, “Father, this house is not religiously sanctioned; its rightful owner has not given his consent.” And Father says, “The hell with its owner, he was a swindler and a thief and he ran away after the revolution. You are worried that Mr Thief doesn't approve?” The things he says and does confuse me. I want to run away. I don't want to be like him. I want to be a real Muslim.'

I kept him there for dinner. When he said his evening prayer, the purity of his faith and belief made me shiver. As we were saying goodbye, he whispered to me, ‘Pray that I become a martyr.'

Gholam-Ali's wish came true and I grieved for a long time. But I could not bring myself to go to Mahmoud's house to extend my condolences. Mother was angry with me, saying that I had a heart of stone and harboured a grudge as stubbornly as a camel. But I just could not step into that house.

A few months later, I saw Ehteram-Sadat at Mother's house. She looked old and broken and her skin sagged on her face and neck. Seeing her, I started to cry. I hugged her, but I didn't know what to say to a mother who had lost her child and I muttered a customary condolence. She gently pushed me away and said, ‘There is no need for condolences! You should congratulate me. My son has been martyred.'

I was stunned. I looked at her with disbelief and wiped away my tears with the back of my hand. How does one congratulate a mother who has lost her son?

When she left, I asked Mother, ‘Is she really not pained by her son's death?'

‘Don't say that!' Mother said. ‘You have no idea how she is suffering. This is how she consoles herself. Her faith is so strong that it helps her tolerate the pain.'

‘You are probably right about Ehteram, but I am sure Mahmoud has taken every advantage of his son's martyrdom to make a profit—'

‘May God take my life! What are you saying, girl?' Mother scolded. ‘They have lost their son and you are making wisecracks behind their back?'

‘I know Mahmoud,' I said. ‘Don't tell me he hasn't benefited from his son's death? It is impossible. Where do you think he gets all his money from?'

‘He is a merchant. Why are you so jealous of him? Everyone has their share in life.'

‘Come on, you know very well that honest and clean money doesn't pour in like this. Isn't Uncle Abbas a merchant, too? And he got started in business thirty years before Mahmoud. How come he still has that one shop and Ali who just got started is shovelling money in? I hear he has signed for a house worth several million tumans.'

‘Now you're going after Ali? God be praised, some people are like my sons, clever and devout, and God helps them. Others are unlucky like you. That is how God wants it and you shouldn't be so resentful.'

I didn't go to see Mother for a long time. I often went to Mrs Parvin's house, but I never knocked on Mother's door. Perhaps she was right and I was jealous. But I could not accept that at a time when people were suffering from war and hardship, my brothers were increasing their wealth from one day to the next. No! It was not moral or humane. It was sinful.

 

I passed this quiet period in relative poverty, with hard work, and concern for the future.

A year after Siamak left, Hamid's mother passed away from a cancer that spread quickly. Her desire to die was palpable and I believed she herself was hastening the spread of her illness. Despite her critical condition, she did not forget us in her will and she made her daughters promise that they would not allow us to lose our home. I knew that Mansoureh had been instrumental in this, and later, she did everything she could to stay true to her mother's wish, standing firm against her sisters.

Mansoureh's husband was an engineer and he quickly demolished the old house, replacing it with a four-storey apartment building. During construction, he made every effort to circumvent our side of the garden so that we would not have to move. For two years we lived with dirt, dust and noise until that beautiful building was complete. There were two apartments, each one hundred metres square, on each floor, except for the third floor that was one large apartment where Mansoureh and her family lived. They gave us one of the apartments on the ground floor and Mansoureh's husband turned the other one into his office. Manijeh had the apartments on the first floor. She lived in one and rented the other one.

When Siamak found out that we had an apartment, he irritably said, ‘They should have given us a second apartment so that you could rent it and have some income from it. Even that would have been half what is rightfully ours.'

‘My dear boy,' I said laughing. ‘You are still not giving up? It is very kind and caring of them to have given us this apartment. They certainly didn't have to do it. Think of it this way: we now have a beautiful new home and it did not cost us anything. We should be happy and grateful.'

Our apartment was finished before the others so that we could move into it and the other side of the garden could also be renovated. We were happy that we each had our own bedroom. Shirin was a bad room-mate and I was pleased to be free of her fun and games and messiness, while Shirin was delighted to be free of my tidiness and constant complaints. Massoud was thrilled with his bright and beautiful bedroom and still considered Siamak to be his room-mate.

 

The years were flashing by. Massoud was in the last year of school and the war still continued. Every year that he passed his final exams with excellent grades, my anxiety increased.

‘What is your rush?' I griped. ‘You can go slower and get your diploma a year or two later.'

‘Are you suggesting that I fail?' he said.

‘What is wrong with that? I want you to stay in school until the war ends.'

‘God, no! I have to finish quickly and take some of the responsibility off your shoulders. I want to work. And don't worry about military service. I promise you I will be accepted at the university and I will have several more years before I have to serve.'

How could I tell him that he would not pass the universities' selection process?

Massoud graduated from school with excellent grades and studied day and night for the university entrance exams. By then he knew that given our family's past, there was little chance of his being admitted to a university. To console me and perhaps to boost his own morale he would say, ‘I have no political record and everyone at school was pleased with me, they will support me.'

But it was useless. His application was rejected because of his family's past political involvements. When he heard the news, he pounded his fist on the table, hurled his books out of the window and wept. And I, who saw all my hopes for his future disappear, cried with him.

All I could think of was how to protect him from the war. In a few months he would have to report for military service. Siamak and Parvaneh called and said that I had to send Massoud to Germany by any means possible. But I could not convince him.

‘I can't leave you and Shirin alone,' he argued. ‘Besides, how would we come up with the money? You have only recently finished paying back what you borrowed for Siamak.'

‘Money is not important. I will find a way. The important thing is to find someone trustworthy.'

And that was not a simple matter. The only lead I had was a telephone number and the code name ‘Mrs Mahin'. I called, a man answered and said he was Mrs Mahin, but he did not have the same accent as the young man I had spoken to a few years earlier. Then he started asking strange questions and I suddenly realised that I was falling into a trap so I quickly hung up.