The Screaming Eagles (24 page)

That bastard stole everything from me. He stole away my three best friends, their futures as well as mine. He made my bed a place of memories, and my children’s rooms’ silent tombs of promises and a potential that could never be fulfilled. Death was not supposed to part us until I was very old. Nothing had prepared me how to bury a husband and children. I was not taught this at school or college. I had never read a book or been instructed on how one buries ashes that were your family a day ago.

I was a survivor that did not want to survive.

Ghosts whispered in my sleep as they did tonight. I pleaded for mercy, begged for silence, but the whispers continued to shriek and scream their torture and torment. Even through drugged sleep, I saw his face?saw the mocking, disinterested way he looked at me in the courtroom, saw him smile and wink and then blow a kiss in my direction as he was escorted out of the courtroom still smiling.

For the first few years I saw him nightly in my nightmares. The nightmare always ended with him laughing as he smashes into our car. As soon as I saw the twitch of a smile starting in the corner of his mouth, I knew that my family only had seconds to live.

In my dreams, I always tried to divert them from the lane they were driving in. I shouted, I screamed, I yelled warnings, I tried anything; but they never heard my desperate screams or me. In panic, I watched his smile become a laugh and I knew they were dead.

I wanted revenge. I wanted to kill him so badly. I bargained with God, promising him anything if he would only show me how to kill him. But God was busy in some other room dispensing and directing pain on other people like me and his door must have been tightly closed because he never heard me, never even acknowledged me. All my life I had been a good daughter; when I married I was a good wife. Then when my children were born, I was a good mother. Was the agony, the hell I was experiencing reserved only for ‘good people’? If so I didn’t want to be a ‘good people.’ I wrestled with the hypocrisy of my faith and slowly drifted away from it. I did not deserve my punishment, so I punished God. I deserted him. I stopped praying and left his house that I had visited nearly every Sunday of my life.

I have not had that dream for years, but a few hours ago while I slept, I saw that drunkard start to laugh and I knew the car was going to crash. This time it was not my husband driving, it was you.”

She had turned to him crying, and said, “You scare me, but I don’t want to lose you.”

As much as he wanted to, he hadn’t told her about his past life or the panic attacks. There were voices in his brain only he could hear which drained his soul, and left him lost and fearful. He trusted her but wasn’t sure if he could trust her to stay once he exposed his imperfections.

His ex-wife had thrown him out of their home and demanded a divorce when he’d lost their money in Iran. She’d called him a loser and a man who would always fail because he was so utterly stupid. She warned their children to distance themselves from being contaminated by his stupidity. Silently his sons had moved away standing next to their mother, clinging to her as she held them close.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to his sons in years, preferring not to interfere in their lives. He continued to punish himself for letting them down and ached at the emptiness of his life. Every time they contacted him, he sent their letters back unopened. Eventually they stopped writing. These were the scars on his heart and blackness in his soul that made him fear that Julie’s love would be replaced by rejection.

Gently she tried on numerous occasions to get him to talk to her. Defensively, he’d change the subject. If she continued and was persistent, he became defiant and withdrawn. He knew that she was hurt when he kept her at arms-length, but dark torturous feelings held him back. “Let’s keep it light,” he’d say.

They called each other a dozen times a day sharing something they thought the other would enjoy. He slept over weekends but insisted on going home to his own apartment if they made love during the week. Another hurt. He knew she was growing impatient with his self-imposed barriers.

He finished dressing. Silently she watched him as he prepared to leave. He began to feel uneasy without the usual banter and teasing which had always been there to ease the tension of his leaving her bed. He began picking up the sheets and blankets off the carpet preparing to put them on the bed.

“Leave them.”

He looked at her.

“Michael, I have no idea what fucking wall you’ve built around yourself or how high you plan to build it, but I’ve decided to take things one day at a time. No commitment on either of our parts just sex lust and more sex. That’s fine by me. If something more develops, so be it. I’m enjoying our relationship too much to let anything spoil it?for now. If you want to change the rules, let me know. Maybe I’ll agree to it, maybe I won’t.” She was trying to be defiant, but the hurt and anger in her blue eyes were evident. She pulled the robe around herself tighter.

“Fine with me,” said Michael, relieved as he kissed her and said good night. She opened the door for him. He touched her cheek, once again saw the hurt in her eyes, hesitated, then, walked to his car without looking back. She hadn’t returned his kiss?her lips were stiff and unyielding. She was signaling loud and clear.

*

Driving to his apartment he felt the uneasy stab of her disappointment once again. He knew that sooner, rather than later, their relationship would have to move in one direction or another. She was the most exciting woman he had ever met, but her words a few minutes ago had unmistakably been a veiled threat. She was losing patience. He wondered how long he had before she gave him an ultimatum. What would he do? He didn’t want to lose her.

Locking his car in the parking garage Michael took the elevator to the ninth floor. Walking along the passage toward his apartment, keys in his hand, he saw a man with a suitcase standing outside his door watching as he approached. Fear contracted his stomach and chest. Pivoting, he ran back to the elevator ducking as he ran. He heard his name called but continued running bracing himself as he waited for the sound of a shot.

“Michael, it is me, Jalal,” shouted the man. In mid-stride Michael stopped. Turning, he moved back against the wall, ready to run again. He peered carefully straining to get his eyes to focus. He saw the white patch of hair on the man’s forehead. It suddenly clicked.

Michael recognized Jalal the Kurd. Jalal had once again come to his apartment and found him.

Dara’s son was visiting him in Chicago.

*

Jalal had aged with deep lines furrowing his entire face. His eyes, sunken black coals, stared intently at Michael. The likeness between Jalal and his father Dara was incredible. It was as if Dara not Jalal was sitting in front of Michael once again.

“Jalal, haven’t heard from you now for a couple of years. Do you still live in the village in the mountains near Irbil?”

“Yes. I now have three children. My wife’s name is Shareen.”

“What’s up Jalal? I’ve known you far too long to know that you wouldn’t turn up at two o’clock in the morning just to scare the bejeesus out of me.”

“Michael, the president of Iraq, Abdel Amir, arrived here two days ago as a guest of the president of the United States. They are now good friends and are discussing the New World Order. Iraq will become the de facto leader of the Arab nations.

Amir sent his Iraqi kamikaze pilots masquerading as Iranians and blew up the jumbo jets. Their speaking Farsi completely fooled the Americans into thinking that they were Iranians. In actual fact, Iraqis blew up the planes and caused your Congress to go to war with Iran. Amir tricked the Americans into destroying his enemies when they were about to enter Baghdad and capture Iraq. The Americans bombed the wrong people.” Michael frowned, shook his head. “Nonsense Jalal, that’s crazy talk. No one here or anywhere else that I know of will believe you. Why don’t you move into my spare room, get some sleep and we’ll talk again tomorrow?”

“Michael, listen to me please. I am not a child, I am not mad. I have proof. If I show you proof, proof that cannot lie, will you help me?”

“Jalal, you’re not making sense. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.” Quietly Jalal said, “If my father asked you to listen, would you deny him that? Would you tell him to go to sleep?”

“You’re trying to blackmail me, you little shit.”

“If necessary, yes. If I have to blackmail you or do anything to get you to listen, I will do it. I want you to listen, and I want you to listen now, not tomorrow, not the next day, but now. If I cannot convince you, I will leave immediately, not in the morning but immediately.”

Michael was furious. “I don’t like the way you brought your father into this, I don’t like blackmail.”

“Michael, when you stood next to me at the gallows as they hanged my father, you stood up for something. You became my guard, making sure those boys would not hurt me. I was only fourteen years old waiting to see the man I loved die in front of my eyes. He was a patriot, a man who stood up for what he believed was right. He fought a vicious, evil man who tried to kill off all of the Kurds. My father was betrayed by one of his own men, tortured and yet died an honorable death. He believed in his cause, believed he was right. He died regretting only that he could not fight them anymore. You saw him. He was not afraid on the gallows. Abdel Amir and your president, when they hear what I have to say will also try to kill me. Will you be my guard just one more time?”

Michael sighed deeply, then nodded.

Jalal talked. Skeptically, Michael watched him and heard him describe what really had happened.

Michael continued to listen hour after hour, hardly interrupting him.

When Jalal had finished, Michael wasn’t skeptical or cynical anymore.

*

“If you want me to help you, I’ll need you to repeat your story one more time to two of my friends. I can’t help you on my own. I’m still amazed that Sadegh is alive and living in Chicago. We’ll get to him later. However, you need to know that I nearly suffered a nervous breakdown and I’m not sure that at a crucial moment I won’t suffer a panic attack.” “Who are your friends?”

“Perry Blatt is one. He’s a policeman, head of an anti-terrorist squad. Hanan is also here in Chicago. You remember him from Teheran?”

“Yes, the Israeli security man.”

“Hanan is now the assistant to the head of Mossad in America as a special liaison to both governments to coordinate the fight against international terrorism. He also might be able to help you. I trust them both with my life. Anything you need, I will surely try to help you with, but you will have to trust them.”

“Explain about your nervous breakdown to me first. I would prefer just the two of us handle this situation.”

“Okay I hear you, but listen to what I’ve got to say first. Want some more coffee?”

“I’ve not told anyone what I’m about to tell you now, but I think it’s important enough and you’ll see why I need the help of the others,” said Michael.

“About six months after the end of the Six Day War in Israel, I suddenly began having terrible nightmares. I had never experienced nightmares before and I became too scared to sleep. I nearly suffered a complete nervous breakdown.

Israel has been under attack since it became a state in 1948. One of the strengths of the Israeli military has always been the finest possible psychiatric therapy which is made available immediately to families of wounded soldiers or civilians injured in a terrorist attack. It doesn’t matter if the injury is physical, mental or emotional, the state has set up crisis centers in every city for those that need therapy. In Israel being in therapy is not considered a stigma or cause for alarm. It is considered one of the realities of living with life threatening danger every hour of every day no matter if you are at home, at work, watching a movie, shopping in a supermarket or riding a bus. Even young children at school are monitored and evaluated each week by their teachers who watch out for erratic or unusual behavior.” Michael looked into his coffee cup, swirled the coffee then swallowed a mouthful.

“The army provided a psychiatrist to try to help me work through and understand that the men who died screaming in my nightmares were not my fault. It took a long time for the therapy to work. I had been a witness to their deaths. I was usually the last patient that the psychiatrist saw in the evening and after many months of what I felt was no progress, I suggested to him that maybe we should try different techniques and a different approach. He answered that we were progressing on the right course for the massive remorse and guilt problems that I suffered from. He said that it was a common problem, and that I needed to be patient and continue practicing the mental exercises he had prescribed. The man always conducted our sessions dressed in a long, starched, white coat. This was, I supposed, the standard uniform that all psychiatrists wore when conducting therapy sessions. I had never seen him dressed in any other clothes. I gathered my notes and got ready to leave when for the first time in all the months I had been a patient of his, he took off his coat, hung it on the hook behind the door and went back to his desk. He sat down and began writing. He had a short-sleeved shirt on and I could see as he wrote in my file that he had numbers tattooed on his forearm. I was shocked that a holocaust survivor was my psychiatrist and was unsure if I should say something. Instead I counted that he had eight evenly spaced numbers, said good night to him and left.

The next day I went to the library to see if I could find which Nazi concentration camps tattooed their prisoners with eight digits. I was not able to find the answer. He never mentioned the numbers or showed them to me again by taking off his coat. He didn’t need to. Both of us knew that he’d shown them to me. From that session and the tattoo I saw on his arm, I finally came to the realization and understanding of my true situation as opposed to what he had gone through as a child in a concentration camp. I was able to come to terms with my guilt and realized I needed to move on with my life in the same way as the psychiatrist had moved on with his life. He, by hiding the numbers tattooed on his arm, me, by not talking about it.