My Father's Notebook (23 page)

I’d left my flat, got rid of the stencil machine, and abandoned the car. Next I had to dispose of myself. I’d never expected to be in a situation like this. Since I realised that the police might pick me up if I headed into town, I started walking in the opposite direction.

An hour’s walk put the city behind me. I saw the mountains, then the snowy peak of Saffron Mountain. I felt like an apple that had fallen from the bough. It could never be put back. My only option was to follow the path to the other side of Saffron Mountain. Flee my country? I’d never given it a moment’s thought.

How could I leave my father, my mother and my sisters? I hadn’t even said goodbye to my wife and daughter. No, the least I could do was to call Safa and let her know I’d be gone for a few months—maybe more, maybe less.

I retraced my steps to my old neighbourhood, where there was a phone box. I dialled the number of Safa’s grandmother. My wife would know immediately that it was me. Who else would call in the middle of the night? She picked up the phone after only a few rings.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said hurriedly. “How are you? How’s Nilufar? Listen, I’ve only got a couple of coins. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going away for a while.”

“Going away?” she said sleepily. “For how long? Where?”

“I don’t know. But I have to go. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m safe. Say hello to Grandma for me. I love you.”

“Me, too. Good luck.”

Reality was cruel. We had to keep the conversation short—she knew that. You had to put your emotions on hold. Political activists weren’t allowed to make long phone calls. You were supposed to deliver your message in a few short words, then hang up.

I always thought that at such a moment my wife would say, “Wait, you can’t just leave us like this! OK, I suppose I have only myself to blame, since you made your choice years ago. I should have known you’d sacrifice me so you could follow your dream!”

But she didn’t say anything of the kind. To my surprise, she was relieved that I was going. She must have instinctively felt that the path to Saffron Mountain was the only path to
her
liberation as well.

As I was leaving the phone box, I saw people walking down the street and realised that it was Friday.

My father, like all good Muslims, always went to the bathhouse before sunrise and then to Friday prayers in the mosque. It was a ritual he’d followed his entire life. When I was little, I used to go with him. He woke me every Friday morning and handed me his towel and various toiletries in a toilet bag. Then he set off at a brisk pace, with me following sleepily behind.

I looked at my watch. The sun would rise in half an hour. If I hurried, I could catch him somewhere between the bathhouse and the mosque. I headed for the mosque. It was no longer dangerous to walk or even run through the dark city, since everyone would think you were hurrying to prayers.

I went into the mosque along with the other men and peeked through the window of the prayer room to see if my father had arrived. He hadn’t. So I turned and walked back in the direction of the bathhouse.

What if today, of all days, he wasn’t coming to the mosque? What if whatever was going on in our house had kept him away?

As I came out of the side street, I suddenly saw his silhouette and recognised his footsteps. He walked with a kind of shuffle, especially now that he was old.

I ducked out of sight. He passed me by, lost in thought. I trailed after him, then gently tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. “Salaam,” I signed.

He looked at me in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” he signed back. “Have you been to the shop?”

“I need to talk to you,” I signed. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“What?”

“I’m going away.”

“Where?”

“To Saffron Mountain. And then to the other side.”

“The other side?”

He was silent. He knew what that meant. When he was a child, he used to see people sneaking through the almond grove in the dark and asking for food on their way to the other side. He’d also seen the gendarmes arrest numerous men and women, and watched as they were handcuffed, pushed into jeeps and driven away.

“When are you leaving?” he signed.

“Soon, before the sun comes up.”

“But you don’t have any food. Wait, I’ll go and get you some bread.” He hurried off towards the bakery, which was always open early on Fridays.

Did my father realise what it meant to flee one’s country? I hadn’t expected him to react so calmly. Perhaps he was going to the bakery to give himself time to think.

He came back with a long flat bread, which he folded in half like a newspaper and wrapped in a handkerchief before handing it to me. “Here, you’ll need this.”

We walked out of the city and headed towards the mountains.

In the glow of a streetlamp I told him briefly what had happened: that my comrades had been arrested and that the secret police would catch me if I didn’t leave. I explained that I’d left my car under the tree behind his shop and shoved the key and the vehicle registration papers through the window of his lean-to. I watched his face to see if he knew that someone was in the lean-to. There was no reaction.

I wanted to ask him about it, but decided not to. If he knew, he could have told me, and otherwise it was probably Golden Bell’s secret, in which case he didn’t need to know. So I let the matter drop.

The sun would soon be up and for the first time ever my father would miss his Friday prayers.

“Aren’t you going to the mosque?” I asked.

“No,” he replied.

I realised then that he understood what my going away meant.

We came to the cemetery, the one the mothers went to early in the morning. They arrived with carpets under their arms to visit the graves of their executed sons and daughters.

In those days, many of the young men and women who opposed the mullahs were being executed. At first the families weren’t allowed to bury their children in a cemetery. Later on, this rule was changed, but the families were forbidden to visit the graves, which is why the mothers stole through the darkness to the cemetery on Friday mornings.

I walked hesitantly beside my father to the grave of my
recently executed cousin and friend Jawad. I knelt by his grave and tapped his headstone with a pebble to wake him up. “Good morning, Jawad,” I said. “I’m going away.”

The sun rose above Saffron Mountain. My father took off his coat.

“Here, take it. It’s cold on the other side of the mountain,” he signed.

“No, you keep it, or else you’ll catch cold,” I signed back. He refused.

To this day I still have his coat—his worn black coat—in my wardrobe.

He pointed towards the mountains. “You know the way. You won’t have any trouble getting to the top of Saffron Mountain. When you get to the other side, keep moving, because the sun never shines on that side in the afternoon and the wind blows hard at night.

“Don’t stop and rest when you get tired, but keep moving. You mustn’t forget that. And stay away from the railway, otherwise the gendarmes will be able to follow your tracks.

“When you get to the top, take the other path, the one the mountain goats use. Then no one will be able to see you, not even with binoculars.”

I wanted to say that I was only going away for a little while and that I’d be back soon, but the words stuck in my throat. I wanted to look into his eyes, but he never gave me the chance. Instead, he looked down at my feet and said, “You aren’t wearing the right shoes, but you’ll manage.”

I wanted to hug him, but he didn’t give me the chance to do that, either. He pointed to the top of Saffron Mountain and said, “Go!”

I started climbing and at every turn I looked back at my father, still standing at the cemetery gate.

Ishmael left. He took the path to Saffron Mountain and Aga Akbar remained standing at the cemetery gate until he could no longer tell the difference between Ishmael and the rocks.

Akbar knew from experience that once people vanished to the other side of the mountain, they never returned. But where did they all go?

If Ishmael thought there was no alternative, he had to leave. But what was Akbar going to tell Tina?

The sun had risen and the mothers had slipped away from the cemetery. An old woman with a cane hobbled over to Akbar. “Good morning, Aga!” she said. “What on earth have you been staring at for so long?”

“Salaam,” Akbar gestured. “I’ve been watching the sun rise over Saffron Mountain. You can see dark clouds on the other side. It’s snowing over there.”

He had to hurry home. He’d never come back from the mosque so late. Tina would be worried.

She was waiting for him at the door. “Where have you been?” she cried. “Where’s your coat? Why didn’t you buy any bread? Where’s your toilet bag?”

Oh, the toilet bag! Where had he left it?

“I’ll tell you inside,” he gestured. “Come in, shut the door and lock it! Where’s Golden Bell? Call her! I have something important to tell you. He climbed the mountain. He left. He’s gone.”

“What are you talking about? Who climbed the mountain? Who’s gone?”

“He disappeared into the mountains. To the place with the red flags. Where’s Golden Bell? Call her! I told him to stay away from the railway tracks, otherwise the gendarmes would be able to see him through their binoculars.”

“Golden Bell!” Tina called. “Come here, I don’t understand what your father’s saying. He came home without his coat or toilet bag, he didn’t bring us any bread and he’s rambling on about someone who’s gone. God help me, that man comes home every day with a different story! Akbar, what did you do with your coat?”

Tina immediately knew what he was talking about, she just didn’t want to believe it. She needed to have it confirmed by someone else. Golden Bell came in.

“He’s gone,” Akbar signed.

“Really? When?”

“He’s on his way to Saffron Mountain.”

“Ishmael’s gone, Mother,” Golden Bell said.

Tina sat down and burst into sobs.

“You should be glad he’s gone. Imagine what would happen if the mullahs got hold of him. I mean it, Mother, don’t cry. If he takes the right route, the gendarmes won’t catch him and he’ll be free. He can do it. He knows the way, he knows how to stay out of sight. Don’t cry, Mother. You should be praying for his escape with all your heart. Sit down, Father. Here’s a glass of tea. Drink it, it’ll warm you. Tell me what happened.”

He took the tea, sat down and signed: “I was on my way to the mosque this morning when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw Ishmael. He said he was going to the mountains, but he didn’t have any warm clothes, or any bread, either. Oh, I think I left my toilet bag in the bakery … Anyway, he’s not wearing the right shoes.”

Golden Bell sat down beside him. “It’ll be all right. He’ll manage.”

They were sitting so close together that Tina couldn’t follow their sign language. “What are you two talking about?” she said angrily. “Are you trying to keep something from me? Is this another of your father –daughter secrets?”

“Sorry, Mother, I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, yes, you did,” Tina snapped. “I’m fed up with all the secrets in this house. I’ve had enough of father–son secrets. And of your secrets, too, Golden Bell. Where will all that secrecy lead to? Nowhere. Just look at what’s happened to your brother. He’s probably in the hands of the gendarmes right now! Oh, my God! Ishmael!”

“Mother, please don’t shout. Before you know it, the neighbours will be at the door.”

“Let this be a lesson to you, Golden Bell. Wake up, open
your eyes! Your brother, your great example, is gone. You’ll be next. I wish—” She burst into loud wails.

“There’s no need for hysterics, Mother,” Golden Bell said. “Ishmael hasn’t reached the border yet. He’s still got a long walk ahead of him. Here’s your chador. Go and pray for him. That’s all you can do for him now. Father, go to your shop as usual. I’ll be along in a little while.”

Akbar got to his feet. “He’ll phone us when he reaches the other side,” he signed. “The people over there are different, you know, and they … where’s the map?”

“This is no time for maps!” Tina shrieked. She took her chador and stomped out of the room.

Ishmael didn’t phone. Nor did they get a letter from him. He wasn’t allowed to write or make phone calls. People who fled to the Soviet Union knew better than to get in touch with their families. A letter from the Soviet Union? A hammer-and-sickle postmark? A Lenin stamp? It was unthinkable!

Every time the phone rang and Tina rushed over to pick it up, Akbar looked at her.

“No?”

“No.”

Every time the postman went by the shop, Akbar gestured: “No letter?”

“No, no letter.”

However, they were almost certain that he hadn’t been arrested. Safa’s friends had told her to expect neither letters nor phone calls.

Three days after Ishmael’s departure, Akbar went to Saffron Village. He took a mule and rode from village to village, asking the elders if the gendarmes had made any arrests in the last few days. No, they hadn’t, and the elders would surely have heard about it if they had.

Months later, in the middle of the night, when they were
least expecting it, the phone rang. Tina clambered out of bed and picked up the phone. “Salaam,” she said.

“Salaam,” a man replied. “Are you Ishmael’s mother?”

“Yes,” she said, terrified. She thought it was the police.

“I’m a friend of Ishmael’s. I’m calling you from Berlin. I wanted to let you know that he’s all right. He’s in Tadzhikistan. He might be coming to Berlin, but not for a while. When he does, he’ll contact you himself. Would you please pass the news on to his wife? Goodbye.”

Before Tina could say a word, he hung up.

“Who was that?” Akbar enquired.

“Ishmael! Oh, my God! No, it wasn’t Ishmael himself. Yes, he’s all right. We’ve got to call Safa right away.”

In those days the Soviet Union was struggling with problems of its own. Gorbachev was trying to salvage whatever he could with his policy of glasnost. Russia could no longer welcome comrades from its neighbour to the south and international solidarity was a thing of the past. Comrades like Ishmael who had escaped to the Soviet Union used to be the responsibility of either the government or local party officials. They were offered a wealth of opportunities. They could attend a university, for example, or they could visit collective farms and factories and broaden their horizons. Now there was no question of opportunities. The entire social system had been turned upside-down. All across the country people were busy trying to save their own skins. Ishmael ended up in a small flat with seven other Iranian refugees, all stuck in the Soviet Union with no future. So much for his dreams. It took him months to realise where he was and what had happened to him.

Russia was going downhill fast. He had to get out.

A fellow refugee told him how to exploit the chaos to travel to East Germany. Thanks to an old comrade who’d
lived in the GDR for years, he managed to obtain a temporary travel permit.

The moment he set foot in East Berlin, he went to a post office and called his wife. Her grandmother picked up the phone.

“Hello, it’s Ishmael.”

“Who?”

“Ishmael. Safa’s husband.”

“Oh, Ishmael! How are you? Safa’s not home right now. She’s at work. Nilufar’s here, but she’s asleep. I’m taking care of her. Yes, she’s fine. What about you? Is everything all right?”

“I’m in Berlin now. I’ll call again tonight.”

Next, he dialled his parents’ number. Tina answered the phone.

“Salaam, Tina. It’s me, Ishmael.”

Poor Tina, she nearly fainted.

“Can you hear me, Tina? How are you? Sorry I didn’t call before, but I couldn’t. Anyway, I’m in Berlin now. I have to keep this short. Where’s Father? Where’s Golden Bell?”

Tina wept.

“Why haven’t you said anything? I can’t talk long. Is Father there?”

“No, he’s at the shop.”

“What about Golden Bell?”

“She isn’t home, either.”

“Just my luck. Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll call again soon. I’ve got to hang up now. So, everything’s OK? Good. I promise I’ll call back.”

Tina didn’t tell him that the reason Golden Bell wasn’t at home was because she was in prison. Or that Aga Akbar was sick and everything was far from “OK”. His call came so unexpectedly and went so fast that Tina didn’t have a chance to
tell him anything. But she wouldn’t have told him the truth even if she’d had more time. He couldn’t do anything about it and it would only have upset him. Bad news could wait, Tina reasoned. In the meantime, there was no need for Ishmael to know.

She hung up, flung on her chador and hurried to the shop to tell Akbar the good news.

“He called!” she signed to him through the window.

“He did?”

“Yes!” she said and went in.

“What did he say? Is he all right?”

“Yes, he’s fine. He asked about you. And about Golden Bell.”

“Did you tell him that Golden Bell—”

“No.”

“Why not? He’s her brother. He should be told.”

“I just couldn’t do it. I cried and forgot what I was supposed to say. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.”

“Is he going to call again?”

“Yes. He can phone us now. Golden Bell will be so happy to hear that he’s called. I’ll tell her on Friday. No, wait, why don’t you tell her in sign language? That way, the guards won’t be able to understand. Just say that he phoned. Keep it simple. I’m going to Marzi’s and Enzi’s now to tell them that he called. There’s no need for you to stay in the shop. You look pale, Akbar. Do you feel sick? Come on, let’s go home. I’ll go to Marzi’s later.”

Golden Bell had been arrested six weeks after Ishmael’s escape. No one knew exactly how it happened.

One evening she simply didn’t come home. Tina immediately feared the worst. She’d always known there was a chance that Golden Bell would be rounded up one day, like
all the others. But she’d expected the police to come in a jeep and drag her daughter out of the house.

Now that Golden Bell hadn’t come home and no jeeps had pulled up to the door, Tina was even more frightened. What should she do? Should she alert the rest of the family or should she sit back and wait? Don’t panic, she thought, it’s early yet.

Tina and Akbar stayed up until long after dark. Golden Bell didn’t come home, nor did she phone.

Tina had heard from people whose children had been arrested that the secret police immediately sent a couple of agents to search the house. It suddenly occurred to her that she should get rid of any incriminating evidence. She jumped to her feet.

“Go and get a cardboard box,” she signed to Akbar. “We have to get rid of Golden Bell’s books. The police will be here soon. Hurry, we need that box!”

Tina had learned how to read, but the books in Golden Bell’s room were far too difficult for her. Which books were all right and which were dangerous?

“Put them all in the box!” she gestured.

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them!”

She got down on her hands and knees, felt around under Golden Bell’s bed and pulled out a bag. It was filled with papers. She glanced through them to see what they were about, but they were too complicated, so she stuck them in the box, too. Then she searched the wardrobe.

“Don’t just stand there, Akbar! Look in the pockets of her clothes! Take everything out.”

While Akbar inspected Golden Bell’s clothes, Tina rolled up the carpet and checked to see if anything was hidden underneath. No, nothing.

“Come on, let’s go! We have to take the box somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. We can’t keep it here, though. Pick up the other end, I can’t carry it by myself. No, wait. We can’t throw away the books. What if Golden Bell comes home? S he’ll never forgive me for throwing them out. I know, we can put them in the shed in the almond grove. If she does come home, we can always go and get them again, and if she doesn’t … Lift up your end of the box, Akbar, and be careful.”