The Moving Prison (12 page)

Ezra stirred restlessly and opened his eyes. So. It was not a nightmare, but real; he was still in the cell. He raised his head and began pulling his shoes on. Remembering Reuben’s advice of the evening before, he pulled out the laces and scuffed the toes against the concrete floor, to make the shoes look older and more worn than they were. Reuben had told him that the guards sometimes took a fancy to some of the good clothing worn by certain prisoners. They would come into the cell without warning, stripping the unfortunate one and leaving him shivering in the chill air of the unheated prison. Resistance to such raids usually resulted in summary execution, Reuben said.

As a further precaution, Ezra had turned his overcoat inside out, ripping the lining to make it look less conspicuous. He pulled it about him now, looking next to him to see if Reuben was still asleep.

His bladder was painfully full, but he loathed the thought of using the stinking toilet, and having to creep past all the disheveled bodies between him and it. When he could bear the discomfort no longer, he got to his feet and began making his way toward the grimy commode.

He raised his foot to step over a man and realized, to his horror, that the poor fellow was dead. His chest was still, and his eyes were fixed in a death stare that seemed to be locked on Ezra, as if to say, “Soon, friend. Soon.” Quickly Ezra moved on.

When he got back to his corner. Reuben was stirring. In shocked tones, Ezra related his discovery of the corpse. Reuben seemed unsurprised. “In this place,” he said, “everyone dies. Either sickness, torture, or the firing squad. No one gets out of here alive, Solaiman. No one.”

THIRTEEN

Moosa walked along Naderi Avenue, his head hanging in dejection. Again he had pounded on Hafizi’s door and gotten no answer. He was beginning to suspect the clergyman had wind of his father’s arrest and had left town to avoid a potentially embarrassing entanglement.

A truck rumbled past him along the busy avenue, a troop of
pasdars
seated on benches in the cargo area. With smoldering eyes, Moosa watched them go by, his hand brushing the Beretta concealed by his jacket. With all that was within him, he hated these illiterate, swaggering pawns of Khomeini. They, along with their mullah masters, would be responsible for the death of this nation. Moosa already held them responsible for the persecution and humiliation of his father. And if he died in that prison … Moosa’s teeth ground together and his nostrils flared in concealed rage.

On this way home, he went into the covered bazaar. He felt more confident today than yesterday, bolstered by his success with the moneychanger. Today he had brought 600,000
tomans
.

Walking past the gun booths, he saw a familiar figure. Nathan Moosovi stood at a display case, attended by an unctuous merchant who watched eagerly as Nathan peeled off
rial
notes from a wad of currency. Satisfied, the merchant grabbed six double handfuls of ammunition cartridge containers and placed them in a cardboard box, sliding it toward Nathan. “Thank you,
baradar
,” the merchant grinned. “may all your enemies perish.”

Nathan gave the overly solicitous vendor a withering glance, then grasped the box with both hands, grunting as he lifted it.

Moosa eased up beside him. “Nathan, what in heaven’s name are you doing with all that ammunition? Starting a war, or what?”

Nathan’s eyes went wide as his face jerked around toward Moosa’s. For an instant, the stare was the same one he had given the merchant. Recognizing Moosa, he relaxed slightly. Nathan glanced about him, then back at Moosa. “Come,” he said in a low voice. “Help me carry this to my car.”

When they were outside, Nathan said, “You scared the life out of me in there. I thought you were a
pasdar
or something.”

“Sorry,” said Moosa. “I dealt with that same merchant a few days ago.”

Nathan and Moosa eased the heavy box into the trunk of a battered green Volvo. Nathan closed the lid, then looked thoughtfully at Moosa. “You bought a gun?”

Moosa nodded. Looking surreptitiously about, he briefly pulled his jacket back to expose the handle of the Beretta, protruding from his belt.

Nathan took a pack of Turkish cigarettes from his pocket. He offered it to Moosa, who declined. With a practiced gesture he shook the pack to expose the end of one of the unfiltered smokes and pulled it from the wrapper with his lips. He cupped his hands around a match as he lit it, then drew the smoke deeply into his lungs, feeling the hot-cool vapor sending its soothing tendrils through his chest. He glanced up at Moosa. “What brings you to the bazaar?”

Moosa looked away. “I have come on an errand—for my father.”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed. “I heard the news about your father last night.”

“And I the news of yours,” Moosa replied. After an uncomfortable pause, he continued, “I am sorry, Nathan. He was a good man.”

Nathan’s jaw clenched as twin streams of tobacco smoke issued from his nostrils. “Yes,” he said finally. “He was far too good to die as he did.”

Wordlessly Moosa nodded, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the pavement beside the car.

Nathan took a long last drag at the cigarette, thumping it into the middle of the street. Decisively he peered at Moosa. “Go and do your errand,” he said. “I’ll wait for you here. When you’re finished, come with me to my place. I want to talk with you about something.”

Moosa studied Nathan’s intense eyes. After seconds, he nodded. “All right. I won’t be too long.” He turned and went into the bazaar. Nathan watched his back until he disappeared into the crowds at the bazaar entrance, then opened the driver’s side door of the Volvo and got inside to wait.

The back of Ezra’s throat swelled in nausea as he looked into the bowl of filth the guards had given him to eat. Moldy rice swam in rancid pools of grease, and the hunk of cheese in the bowl was old and as hard as shoe leather. Despite the pangs gnawing at his entrails, he could not force himself to eat this slop. As he laid the bowl aside, another prisoner, glancing furtively from the bowl to Ezra, began scooping the rice into his mouth with his fingers.

The sound of booted feet slapped down the corridor outside the cell, and a party of guards halted, looking inside.

“Reuben Ibrahim,” called one of the guards, “and Ezra Solaiman. Prepare for trial. You have fifteen minutes to make your peace with Allah.” The guard detail marched away.

Ezra sat wide-eyed, fear and hope chasing each other in a tangled frenzy through his breast. He was relieved to be leaving this dung heap, and perhaps the receipt would carry the day. But inevitable doom lay like a thick shroud over this place, and it was hard to believe in tomorrow. Suppose the mullahs did not believe his receipt was genuine—suppose it was confiscated in the courtroom?

He heard a soft sob beside him. Reuben was half-weeping, half-praying. Over and over, Ezra heard him mutter a word that sounded like the Hebrew name Yeshua.

Ezra reached over and gripped the shoulder of his cell mate. He tried to smile, failing miserably.

Reuben looked at him, tears streaming down his face. “God help us, Ezra,” he sobbed. “We are next to die.”

Ezra gripped his cell mate by the arms. “You must have hope, Reuben!” he said sternly. “With your last breath, you must cling to hope. Perhaps—”

“It is no use,” said Reuben, shaking his head. “The mullahs don’t listen to anyone except Khomeini. They do entirely as they please, and justice means nothing to them. They will find me guilty, and they will shoot me, and nothing on earth can change that.”

Reuben drew a long shuddering breath before fixing Ezra with an intent stare. “But death doesn’t frighten me, Solaiman, as much as knowing that my wife and daughter will be left alone.” He bowed his head, and again Ezra heard the whispered word, “Yeshua.”

Drawing a tremulous breath, Reuben looked up at Ezra. “I wonder, Solaiman, if by some miracle you should survive, would you do me a last favor?”

“My friend, you only need to ask,” said Ezra with quiet fervor.

“Would you go to my wife, Jahan—she has moved, with my daughter Maheen, to the house of her father—and give them this? He drew a folded, grimy envelope from his pocket and passed it to Ezra. He muttered the address, which Ezra carefully repeated. “There is a note inside,” Reuben continued, “giving instructions about where I hid some money. They will be needing it.” He struggled to control his voice. “And … one more thing.”

Ezra waited, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes.

“Tell Jahan …” Reuben’s chest heaved with emotion. “… tell her that I love her as I have never loved anyone on this earth—to my dying breath this was so. And tell her I have prayed that Yeshua might protect her.”

The two men gripped each other’s arms. Ezra had time to puzzle only briefly over Reuben’s enigmatic last words. And then the guards were outside the door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Ezra and Reuben shook hands, then turned to go.

As they walked down the dark corridor, Ezra for the first time since his boyhood, began silently reciting a psalm of David, half-forgotten until this moment:
“In You I trust, Oh my God; do not let me be put to shame. Do not let my enemies triumph over me.”

One of the offices in the prison complex was used as a courtroom. Six benches for the accused were lined up on one side of the door. Ezra and Reuben were seated on the front left corner, closest to the trial committee. Thirty-odd wretches crammed the benches already, but they were seated farther back; plainly their cases were to be decided after Ezra’s and Reuben’s.

The trial committee was comprised of a mullah, who presided, and four civilians. As Ezra looked at his judges, he recognized one of them, Barbar, a porter in the covered bazaar! How in the name of God could an uneducated fellow, such as Ezra knew this one to be, make life-and-death decisions? Yet there he sat, his chin tilted at an angle, which showed he was conscious of his lofty responsibility and not at all intimidated by it.

On the wall behind the committee hung the ubiquitous oversized portrait of the Imam Khomeini. A table separated the committee from the prisoners, who were guarded by six armed
pasdars
, ranged along the walls near the accused. The room stank of fear and stale cigarette smoke.

Unseen by Ezra, Firouz Marandi sat at the rear of the room, impatiently awaiting the beginning of the proceedings. It was he who had arranged for Solaiman’s case to be called early—the sooner to gain what was coming to him. He fidgeted in his chair, trying to catch the presiding mullah’s eye to urge him to get started.

Mullah Hassan sorted through the stacks of paper on the table in front of him. As presiding officer of the tribunal, he had reviewed these brief summaries of the accusations against each of the men to be tried today. They were the usual lot: former police officers who had taken bribes, merchants denounced for lack of charity to the poor, political operatives of the Pahlavi regime.

He could not find the abstract for the Solaiman fellow, and this was what he sought among the other papers before him. The Tudeh fellow—Marandi, was it?—had promised him a rich reward for calling this case early. Hassan was not averse to a reward, but how could he prosecute the case if he did not have the particulars before him? Annoyed, he continued to sift through the documents. Ah, there it was at last.

The mullah looked up, glanced quickly about the crowded room, and intoned in a bored voice, “Let the proceedings begin. In the Name of Allah the Merciful and Compassionate, on this twentieth day of
Rabi
, second of the 1,357th year of the
Hegira
of the Prophet Muhammad—blessings and peace be upon him—this tribunal of the Holy Revolution is called to order. Summon the first prisoner.”

A bailiff consulted the list in his hand. “Reuben Ibrahim, rise, bow to your judges, and take the witness chair.”

Reuben stood on unsteady legs and managed a bow toward the table. He walked stiffly toward the chair to the right of the committee’s table and sat down.

The mullah turned toward Reuben. “State your name.”

“Your humble servant, Reuben Ibrahim,” replied the accused in a unsteady voice.

“Your profession?”

“A small rug dealer, your honor.”

Ezra watched the mockery of a trial, horrified. No witnesses were called, no attorneys were present. Only the accused, the mullah, and the four other “judges.” No cross-examination took place, nor was the accused allowed to speak in his own defense. The mullah, alone and unchallenged, asked the questions and interpreted the answers.

“Ibrahim, I will ask you a very important question,” said Hassan. “Were you a supporter of the satanic Shah, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi?”

The other four members of the committee leaned toward Reuben, awaiting his answer.

The wretched fellow squirmed in his chair. “Your honor, my business was small, and I had to work hard to make a living for my family. I have no time for politics.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” insisted the mullah, his voice rising. “Did you or did you not support the Shah?”

“I have said I did not participate in politics.”

“Answer the question!” shouted Hassan, pounding his fist on the table. “Don’t waste the time of this court! There are many more criminals to be tried today, and I have no intention of allowing you to make an exhibition of these proceedings! Now answer!

Ezra groaned inwardly as Reuben seemed to shrink before his every eyes. “No, your honor,” came the half-whispered reply, “I did not support the Shah.”

The mullah leaned back, a self-satisfied smile flickering across his lips. “Very well,” he said. “You have said you did not support the Shah.” The cleric sifted through some papers at his elbow, glancing downward, then back at Reuben. “Please tell me how you got to your place of business each day.”

Dejectedly, Reuben said, “By bus.” He did not look up from the floor.

“And on the bus,” continued Hassan, “did you ever hear the patriotic chanting of slogans against the satanic Shah?”

Reuben nodded weakly.

“And did you take part in the chanting to show your solidarity with the revolutionaries of Holy Islam?”

“I … I don’t remember, your honor. It—so much has happened since—”

“Ibrahim,” warned the mullah, “I have here the sworn testimony of two witnesses, as prescribed by Islamic law, that you did not take part in the chanting. They testify, in fact, that you were invited to take part but refused to do so.”

“Perhaps,” shrugged Reuben, sweating profusely. “I can’t remember.”

With an inward shudder, Ezra remembered Noori’s warning: “
See that you are on the winning side….”

“Did you go to Mehrabad Airport to welcome the blessed Imam from fifteen years of exile?”