The Moving Prison (4 page)

FIVE

Sepideh Solaiman pouted as she walked along the hallway. Khosrow had not met her by the stairway. She had waited for him for almost twenty minutes, until she feared being tardy.

As she approached the doorway of her classroom, she froze. Khosrow was there, surrounded by five or six other boys who were shoving and slapping him. Just as she was about to whirl and race in search of a teacher, a school principal came from the far end of the corridor, and Khosrow’s attackers vanished.

“Khosrow!” she screamed, dropping her books in a clattering pile as she rushed to him. He leaned against the wall by the doorway, panting. His shirt was torn and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. “I was going to surprise you here, instead of by the stairway,” he gasped. A curious crowd began to gather, students pausing on their way to classes to observe the unusual scene.

Her eyes wide in shock, Sepi gazed about her. Then she saw her desk, just inside the doorway. Someone had carved a series of jagged, angry letters across the wooden desktop: Infidel Jew.

The bell for classes rattled in the hallway, but the silent ring of students gathered about Khosrow and Sepi made no move toward their rooms.

Down the hall, the principal took in the scene. He watched them for a moment, then walked away.

In a daze, Khosrow said, “I saw what they were doing, and I yelled at them, but there were too many. One of them I have known since first grade….”

Sepi walked blindly into the classroom, oblivious in her shock to the stares as she passed through the students. She rubbed the heel of her hand across the splintered defacement on her desk, vainly trying to scrub the damning slogan from her life. But the boys had carved far too deeply for such easy removal. This would never be erased, she realized. She looked about her in consternation. Mute, unreadable faces returned her gaze. They seemed to be closing in on her, threatening her. She raced for the nearest door.

“Sepi, Sepi, come back!” Faintly she heard Khosrow’s voice through the fog of her panic. Then she was outside.

Esther tipped the threadbare delivery man, took the letter from his hand, and watched as he walked slowly away. Closing the gate behind him, she glanced down at the return address. The writing was in Moosa’s familiar, hurried hand, and she smiled as she eagerly tore open the thin red-and-blue-bordered airmail envelope.

Dear Mother and Father,

Each day the news from Iran is more and more disturbing. On the TV they show scenes of rioting in the streets of Tehran, of chanting crowds holding up posters of Khomeini. I am worried sick about you and Sepi.

I think you should all leave Iran at once. I will help you arrange everything. In fact, I will come there and help you get your affairs in order.

Please write me soon and let me know how you are. And think seriously about what I have said.

Love,

Moosa

Esther crumpled the envelope in her fist as angry tears stung her eyes. Now Moosa too! He wanted her to discard everything, as though their lives here were shed as easily as a worn garment! She teased at the thought that Ezra had written their son, enlisting his support in persuading her to accept this hateful uprooting.

Behind her, the gate rattled open and clanged shut. She turned just as Sepi, her chest heaving with great, wet sobs, flung herself into her mother’s astonished arms.

“Sepi! What is the matter, my darling? Why are you not in school?”

A wordless wail of fear and pain was her only answer, as Sepideh clutched herself tightly to her mother, her face buried in Esther’s shoulder.

Ezra stood on the sidewalk outside the mosque, feeling more conspicuous by the minute. Anxiously he scanned the faces of those entering and leaving the house of worship, searching for Mullah Hafizi. At last the aged clergyman came into view, rounding a corner and crossing the courtyard of the mosque toward Ezra, who now breathed a little easier. Then he remembered why he was here and again felt the bands of apprehension tighten about his chest.

Hafizi walked up to Ezra, carefully studying the nervous face of his Jewish friend. “Are you certain you are prepared to go through with this?” he asked.

Ezra nodded. “I am,
baradar
. I think it is necessary.”

A moment more the mullah searched the eyes of the druggist. “It is possible that your proposal may be received with suspicion, despite all demonstrations to the contrary,” he said. “I will do what I can, but …” Hafizi shrugged.

Ezra’s mind whirled. Like a sheep treading among wolves, he was about to enter the presence of a senior official of Islam. Would Hafizi betray the tenuous confidence placed in him? Would he revoke his intention to aid Ezra, or did he merely try to warn of the very real possibility of failure? Ezra took a deep, quavering breath before speaking.

“My friend,” he began in a low voice, “I have opened my mind to you. Already you know enough to cause the failure of my plans. When I spoke with you in your house, by that very act I was committed to this attempt.” His eyes darted nervously, then came to rest imploringly on Hafizi’s face.

The mullah again shrugged and beckoned Ezra inside. “Wait!” hissed Hafizi, pointing at Ezra’s feet. “You must not enter holy ground wearing shoes!”

“Of course,” laughed Ezra nervously, when he regained his voice. “You would think a descendant of Moses would remember such a thing!” Cautiously he retraced his steps to the outside, removed his shoes, and reentered the mosque, placing first his right foot inside the portal, then his left, in accordance with Islamic custom. Hafizi took his arm and led him toward the chambers of the
mojtahed.
“In the name of Allah the Merciful and Compassionate,” Ezra whispered under his breath as they walked down the colonnade.

The phone jangled in its cradle. Firouz paused in his sweeping, leaning the broom against a wall. He picked up the receiver, waiting for the caller to identify himself.

“This is Nijat,” crackled the voice on the other end. “I am calling to inquire about the ad placed in the newspaper. Is this the Nasser Pharmacy?”

“Yes,” replied Firouz cautiously, “but I am Marandi, the assistant. The owner is not here. What ad is it you speak of?”

“The ad in this morning’s paper,” said the caller, impatiently. “When will your boss be back?”

“I don’t know,” said Firouz, cradling the phone with his shoulder as he opened the desk drawer. The newspaper was gone—the old Jew had taken it with him. “He left about an hour ago—he had to meet someone. He said he would be back before closing time.”

After a few seconds of silence the caller said, “All right. Tell your boss that I called. Here is my telephone number.” Firouz scribbled a note on the blotter pad atop the desk. The line went dead. His eyes squinted in thought. Firouz replaced the phone in its cradle.

“… and so, Ayatollah,” finished Hafizi, “I have brought
Aga
Solaiman to you, for I felt confident you would want to know of his generosity.”

The
mojtahed
crouched on his carpet like a wizened old lizard. He might have been a painted statue but for his dark eyes that flickered between Hafizi and Ezra in a mute appraisal that seemed to last for hours. Finally, from within the tangled white bush of his beard, a raspy voice issued.

“You are here of your own free will?” The dark eyes squinted calculatingly at Ezra.

Hesitantly, Ezra cleared his throat, glancing at Hafizi before replying, “Yes, Ayatollah, I am.” He fell quiet, his eyes resting on the feet of the
mojtahed
. He reminded himself not to look directly into the eyes of the mullah, for this was considered ill manners.

After another eternal silence, the old mullah asked, “And why should a Jew suddenly have a burning desire to donate one million
tomans
for the expansion of a Muslim graveyard?” The suspicion made the old man’s voice brittle. Ezra entreated Hafizi with his eyes.

“As I told you, Ayatollah Kermani,” Hafizi said, “
Aga
Solaiman has for some time been known to me for his generosity. I have told you of his kindness to me.”

“… and that is why I wish to help, Ayatollah,” inserted Ezra earnestly. “I have always respected the servants of Allah, whether they study the
Koran
, the
Towrat
—the Torah, or the
Injeel
—the Gospels or New Testament
.
When Mullah Hafizi told me of the need, I asked him to bring me here.”

Another uncomfortable hush fell in the room as the
mojtahed
, still unmoving as a piece of masonry, turned Ezra’s proposal over in his mind. Outside in the street, the faint sounds of traffic could be heard. But here, in the darkened room of the mullah, Ezra fancied he could hear the sweat trickling down his back as he awaited the all-important decision of the senior cleric.

Finally the old man stirred enough to signal an attendant who had waited, unseen, behind them during the interview. “Ahmad,” he said in his rusty voice, “bring me the stamp and a receipt book.”

Ezra felt his insides unwinding with relief. Trying not to grin, he reached into his coat for his wallet. He saw that Hafizi was smiling.