A Bitter Veil (22 page)

Whenever the words “Evin Prison” were mentioned during a conversation, a hush descended. Iranians fidgeted, looked anxious, tried to change the subject. Years ago, the property occupied by the prison had belonged to a pro-Western prime minister. After his death, the estate passed to the shah, and SAVAK turned it into a prison for criminals and political prisoners. Evin officials were known to treat inmates harshly, doling out punishments that included torture. Many went in, few came out. It became the most feared place in Iran. After the overthrow of the shah, the management of Evin fell to the Revolutionary Guards and it became even more brutal.

Still, Evin was a study in contrasts. Nestled in the foothills of the Alborz Mountains, the prison wasn’t far from Shemiran. Anna had driven by many times when returning from central Tehran. And the fact that it was once an estate gave it a patina of elegance. Of course, the buildings were “remodeled,” with a thick wall now surrounding them. But the grounds, sprawled across a few acres, were known to be dotted with trees, and the prison yard was clean.

When the Guards came in the middle of the night to arrest her for Nouri’s murder, Anna knew without asking that she would be taken to Evin. It was the closest prison to the house, and it was the place that everyone had nightmares about. The Guards who came to the door were armed not only with machine guns but wore knives on their waistbands. One brandished the steak knife from America. They wouldn’t let her touch it, but they claimed the rusty brown spots on the blade were Nouri’s blood.

They ordered her to get dressed and cover herself with her chador. Then they cuffed her wrists and dragged her out to the black Mercedes. Anna followed their orders without protest. For some reason she couldn’t summon up the fear she knew she should. She wasn’t sure whether she was in shock or if it was something else, but once they were on their way, her hands rested placidly in her lap. She almost smiled, anticipating how she would tell them that the steak knife was from the Great Satan’s factories. She wondered if they would drop it like a red-hot poker. At the same time, she noted the irony of her plight—given what was probably coming, this might be the last time she found anything humorous.

It was a short ride. They turned onto a narrow twisting road, then drove through a gate. Night painted the property in a swath of black. In daylight the walls were sandy, Anna recalled. Now the blackness was slashed by the sharp white beam of spotlights, strategically placed near the prison buildings. Armed guards were stationed every few yards. The enormity of her situation settled over her. She was going in. The question was whether she would ever come out.

The men who brought her slipped a blindfold over her eyes, and hauled her out of the car. One seized her arm and marched her across an open space. A courtyard, perhaps? It was the height of summer and still hot, but the night breeze raised goose bumps on her skin. Anna tried to count the steps to the entrance, and, once inside, down the hall. But they made too many twists and turns, and she lost count. Finally, they pushed her against a wall and pressed down on her shoulders. She dropped awkwardly to a stone floor. She could just make out a thin ribbon of light below the blindfold, and she had the impression of boots. Someone ordered her not to move. They spoke in Farsi, but that much she understood.

She leaned her head against a wall and tried to get her bearings. The smells—body odor, urine, and, for some reason, onions—assailed her, but another odor, acrid and salty, was layered over them. The smell of fear. She breathed through her mouth. What tightened her stomach, though, were the sounds. The shuffling of boots. The snap of a whip followed by a piercing scream. Mysterious thwacks, doors being slammed, the cries of people begging for mercy.

Anna shivered. Unfamiliar sensations coursed through her. The cool hard floor was comforting one instant, unbearable the next. Was she sick? Was it the pregnancy? She wondered if this was how Nouri felt when he was arrested. Her earlier bravery vanished. She’d been a fool to imagine she could survive this.

Nouri. Nouri was dead. Living with him had been hell for the past six months, but before, when they’d first connected, she’d never loved anyone more. And been loved in return. She remembered how they’d met in the bookstore. Their year in Chicago. How he couldn’t keep his hands off her. How she felt the same way. She doubted she would ever love anyone with the same abandon. God, or Allah—or whoever decided these things—had given her a chance. But then he’d destroyed it. She lowered her head. Despite the anger—no, the hate—she and Nouri had shared, Anna felt a hot tear roll down her cheek.

She had no sense of time passing, but the pitch of the noise around her changed. It wasn’t quieter. Just different. The screams didn’t seem as raw. Or was she getting used to them? Her thoughts tumbled out, jumbled and chaotic. It was clear someone was framing her. Just like they’d framed Nouri. But unlike Nouri, someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make
sure
she would be blamed.

There weren’t a lot of possibilities. It had to be someone who came to the house. Who had the opportunity to steal the knife. Which meant Hassan, Laleh, Roya, Maman, or Baba-joon. Some of Nouri’s associates from the Metro had been to the house for dinner, but that was a long time ago. She would have noticed a missing knife. Charlie and Ibram had been at the house, too, but obviously Charlie wouldn’t have done it. She doubted Ibram would, either. When she thought through her relationship with each person, she kept coming back to Hassan. Hassan had always hated her—for marrying Nouri, for being American, for not being submissive. She imagined how he might have stolen the knife while she was in her room, or watering the chenar tree, and Nouri was in the bathroom.

A sudden shout sliced into her thoughts. “Anna Samedi! Get up!”

Between the blindfold and her hands, which were still cuffed, her balance was off. She lurched awkwardly to her feet, using the wall as a brace.

“Take three steps forward,” the voice shouted. She did. “Now turn to your right and walk.” She obeyed. Eight steps later, she stumbled into a wall and knocked her head against it. She staggered back. A current of air wafted toward her. A door had opened. Another male voice called out in English. “Enter.”

She stretched her hands out in front, like a child playing blindman’s bluff, and shuffled into a room. Someone grabbed her and pushed her into a chair. Hands snatched the blindfold and tore it off. The bright light pouring in blinded her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she squinted.

Three men were in the room, two seated at a table. They were not the ones who’d brought her here. All three had scruffy looking beards. One had pitted skin where his beard hadn’t grown—he must suffer from a bad case of acne. The second looked older and wore glasses. Usually she liked men in glasses—they gentled a person—but this man’s eyes were cold steel. There would be no mercy from him. The third man stood behind the others. He fidgeted, shifted his weight, and seemed embarrassed. They made eye contact. He looked familiar. She knew this man. He looked away. Who was he?

The man with the glasses tossed a pad of paper down on the table. And a pen. “If you make a confession, it will go easier on you,” he said in English. No introduction. No name.

She pursed her lips. They were dry and cracked. She needed water. “What am I confessing to?”

His eyebrows arched. “Please, do not take us for fools. We know you killed your husband. We know why. We know how. There is nothing more to investigate. Inshallah, justice will be served.”

The men’s body odor drifted across the table. She forced herself not to react. “I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did. I’m being set up.”

The eyebrows arched higher. A knowing look came into his eyes.

“I would never kill my husband.” She considered telling them that she was pregnant, but decided it might backfire. They could accuse her of killing Nouri so she could take the baby back to America once it was born.

“Of course you will deny it. Murder is a capital offense in Iran. You will pay the price with your own life.”

Anna gazed steadily at the man. “I told you. Someone is framing me.”

He didn’t answer her directly. “We have the words of a brave Iranian mother and daughter against an American. Whom do you think we will believe?” He fixed her with a penetrating glare. “You should know that your husband’s death has made him a martyr. As much as anyone, he has been a victim of the Great Satan and his minions. His death will be inscribed as that of a brave soldier, fighting against the oppressors.”

Anna’s spirits sank. It was no use. This was a kangaroo court. She glanced at the other two men. The man with the pitted face wore a predatory leer, as if he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. But the third man, the man who was standing, still refused to make eye contact. Who was he?

In a flash it came to her. Massoud. Chicago. Daley Plaza. The man who’d headed the Iranian Students Association. She stared at him. Yes—despite the beard and the uniform—it was him. He’d been with an American girl, Anna recalled, a blonde who helped him distribute flyers. Anna opened her mouth, about to address him by name, then hesitated. Something told her not to. But he knew she knew. She could see it in his eyes. She turned her gaze back to the man with the glasses. For some reason, she felt more confident.

“I moved to Iran to marry Nouri. He was my husband.” She gave him a sad smile. “I never loved anyone like I loved him.”

The man flicked his hand dismissively. “You wanted to go back to America. He wouldn’t let you. You failed to become a good Muslim wife. He had every right to divorce you or take another wife. But he did not. He gave you every opportunity to prove yourself. Still, you wouldn’t obey. You refused to wear the chador, to submit to Shariah law. You were plotting to escape. He discovered it. And so you killed him.”

Who had he been talking to?

“Do you deny it?”

Anna laced her hands together to keep her temper—and fear—under control. “I didn’t kill him. And I won’t sign anything that says I did.”

Meanwhile, her thoughts were racing. How had Massoud ended up as a Guard at Evin Prison? He must have moved back from the US not long after they had. And decided to take the path of least resistance. He
had
been an anti-shah activist. Anna wondered briefly what happened to his blonde girlfriend. She probably married a doctor and was living on the North Shore.

Then another thought occurred to her. Perhaps Massoud and Nouri had been in contact. No, Nouri would have said something. Perhaps, perhaps not. But even if they were, what good would it do now?

The man with the glasses seemed to know her mind had wandered. He cleared his throat. “If you will not confess willingly, we must ‘encourage’ you to change your mind.”

Her focus snapped back.

He stood, lowered his voice, and murmured to the others. They went to her, flanking her on both sides. They slipped her blindfold and cuffs back on, grabbed her under her armpits, and walked her out of the room. Was Massoud’s hold just a little gentler than Pitface’s? Or was she imagining it? Either way, she tried to shake them off. “It’s all right. You don’t need to do that. I’m coming.”

They tightened their grip.

*****

The men walked Anna out of one building and into another. This one had a linoleum floor. Her shoes thudded on the tiles. They walked down a set of stairs, making so many turns that she lost her orientation. She wondered if they did that on purpose. Finally, they stopped. Something swung open with a metallic squeak. They unlocked her cuffs and shoved her inside. The gate shut with a clang.

The first thing that assaulted her was the fetid smell, a combination of urine, feces, and vomit. She took off her blindfold. She was in a small cell, no bigger than a closet. Barely enough room to stretch. She spotted a tiny slit at the top of wall. A feeble light struggling to break through told her that she was in a basement. There was no sink or toilet. No bed or blankets. Nothing except a cement floor. The walls were concrete.

At first it seemed quieter here, but the silence was deceptive. As she acclimated to the space, Anna picked up whimpers and soft cries. Other people were nearby. People in misery and pain. Had they been tortured? Was that what was in store for her?

She bit her lip and looked around. Did anyone even know she was here? Maman-joon and Laleh must know, as they were apparently the ones accusing her. They would be no help. They would be preoccupied with their own grief, anyway, and were probably planning Nouri’s funeral. Muslims buried their dead within twenty-four hours. Tears welled up. She would not be there.

She thought about her parents. They had no idea that Nouri was dead. Unlike in America, here there was no opportunity to make a phone call when you were arrested. Indeed, unless her jailers allowed her to contact them, there was a good chance no one would ever know what happened to her. She would simply disappear, like so many others, just swallowed up. Her jailers would say that she’d died trying to escape, she had an accident; maybe she’d committed suicide. No one would dispute it, because no one would know the truth.

The isolation swelled and became overpowering. Anna pulled her legs to her chest and rocked back and forth. She suspected it was only a matter of time before her own sobs joined the quiet chorus of grief around her.