The Screaming Eagles (3 page)

For the men about to die, the whistle was the last sound they would hear.

The second man, head bowed, followed ten paces behind. The third condemned man emerged through the door following the others up the ramp, his head held high. The boy next to Michael gasped and took deep breaths. Defiantly, the third condemned man looked around, recognized people, smiled and shouted to them. He walked to the ramp standing erect. He showed no shame or fear. This was his road to martyrdom.

Michael felt as if he had been slammed on the head. He experienced panic, involuntarily gasping, sucking in air deeply as he saw the black hair with the patch of white hair in the middle.

The man walking up the ramp was Dara.

Michael’s heart jumped, hammering his ribs. Stunned he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Dara, chief of the Kurds known as the Hawk, was his friend. Michael looked around. How could he be so stupid, so fucking stupid? How could he stop the execution? He had to stop it, but how? Panicked he turned seeing the jeeps and soldiers on the rooftops. More soldiers had appeared. Slowly it sunk in that there would be no rescue attempt unless the Kurds could come in with helicopters. Anxiously he looked at the sky. He knew he was being foolish. The soldiers would never let the condemned men escape. They’d shoot them before anyone could rescue them.

Sadegh, where was he? He could stop it. How could Michael find Sadegh? Then it dawned on him. Sadegh wanted to kill Dara. Sadegh had called Dara a communist. Sadegh wanted to watch him die, squash him, stop being irritated by him.

Numb, he stood paralyzed, not blinking, face and body rigid, a sledgehammer pounding mightily behind his eyes. Watching in anguish, he saw Dara walking toward the platform. Despair washed over Michael cloaking him with the weight of sure defeat for he knew he would do nothing, could do nothing; he was helpless. Instead with the knowledge of no escape possible, he watched with a heart breaking as his friend walked toward his death.

Dara, his eyes searching the crowd, was looking for his son. Suddenly he saw Michael. They stared at each other. Sick with fear, Michael silently begged Dara to forgive his cowardice, to absolve him for his silence. Dara walked closer and closer toward where Michael was standing. His eyes narrowed and he watched as Michael tentatively put his hand on his son’s shoulder.

Dara and Michael searched each other’s eyes, they touched through their eyes, they were soldiers, comrades. They understood each other. As they acknowledged their trust, their friendship, their sorrow, Michael saw his friend, this incredible brave man, standing tall and fearless. This is how he had always remembered him, a giant, a leader of his people. He saw a husband, a father, a man of passion, a man of great courage, a man who had saved Michael’s life. Years fell away, memories flooded back. Too soon, Dara’s eyes said goodbye. Though Michael still stared at Dara’s face, Dara never looked at him again.

Dara never saw the tears falling from Michael’s eyes or saw his lips moving as Michael recited the ancient Hebrew prayer, Shema-Yisrael, the prayer for the dying.

Once the condemned men reached the platform, each man was placed a few feet behind his noose, and a leather body belt was clasped around his waist. One strap was tied around the elbows, another two inches below the knees. Only then were they lifted and carried to the noose, which was placed behind the left ear.

With the prisoners secured and standing in place, the policemen were no longer required. They turned, saluted the hangman and marched smartly away down the ramp. Carefully, the hangman mentally went through his checklist, examining straps, ropes and positions of their feet on the trap doors, making necessary adjustments here and there. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he climbed down the rungs at the back of the gallows.

The condemned men now stood alone, shirts and trousers fluttering in the breeze. The sun was setting behind them, warming their backs, buttocks, thighs and calves. The victims stood equally spaced from each other, high above the crowd, unable to touch or comfort each other. They would drop at the same time, but they would each die alone.

Dara, his eyes still searching the crowd, shouted, “Sadegh Muzahedi, where are you? You filth, you loathsome snake, you hide away in the crowd. Stand up, you coward, let me see you one last time so that I can spit in your face. My hands are tied. Have no fear, you vulture, you coward, stand up like a man. Walk onto this platform and look me in the eyes as you murder me. If I could have caught you, I personally would have hanged you. Come, there is still time. Hang me. I will laugh in your face you coward.”

Dara slowly turned his head, glaring at the crowd, cursing the Shah, his voice resonant and strong. The crowd was quiet, surprised and uneasy at his lack of fear. They listened as he cursed the Peacock Throne, cursed the house of Pahlavi, Princess Farah and her children. They would all die like dogs, and dogs would lick their blood from the cobblestones. Dara looked at them, unafraid, his eyes flashing, challenging them all. Over and over he cursed them all. The crowd was hushed, and some of them began to back away from the gallows. This had never happened before. They feared this man; they feared his lack of fear.

“Little Father” blew his whistle long and loud.

*

As the little boy moved toward a wheelbarrow, Michael grasped his hand and gave him his card. “Show your mother my card,” he said. “She knows me. My address is on it.” Michael knew this boy and he would meet again. Where or when, he wasn’t sure, but his father and Michael had a bond of blood. The bond had now been transferred to Dara’s son. When the time was right, and their karma ordained they should meet, they would surely meet.

Looking down at the card, Dara’s son glanced at the name, pocketed it, and walked to his father’s body.

Sitting in his Jeep, Sadegh saw the boy take Michael’s card. His eyes narrowed. He made a mental note to look into it later just as the sergeant appeared in front of him. Distracted, Sadegh returned his salute. “Cancel the high alert, but keep your men here until all spectators have left. I do not want any demonstrations. None, understood?”

“Yes, General. No demonstrations.”

*

The little boy’s dignity and courage haunted Michael for many years, as did Dara’s execution and his inability to rescue Dara as they put him to death.

Michael didn’t contact Sadegh again and on the few occasions that they bumped into each other at social events, they greeted each other with just the correct amount of formality and politeness.

One night, five years later, a young man appeared at Michael’s door. He resembled the little boy he remembered at the hanging. Michael recognized the patch of white hair in the middle of his forehead as he gave him back his business card. Instinctively, he knew this was Dara’s son. The likeness was uncanny. “Mr. Lawrence, sir, my name is Jalal. You stood by my side when they killed my father.”

Michael grabbed his hand, pulled him inside and gave him a bear hug, lifting him off his feet as he swung him around. “Welcome to my home, Jalal. You are the son of my friend Dara, welcome. You honor me by visiting my home. I have waited a long, long time for this day. I knew one day you would come to me, one day you would find me. With all my heart I welcome you, Jalal.”

Jalal never spoke about his father, his family or about the hanging. It was a topic untouched, always in the background, a dark cloud, but it was not intrusive to their relationship. His family was his closed door, a barrier between them. Michael was excluded, locked out. It was the way of the mountain people, and he understood. Having lived in Dara’s village years ago for a few weeks, Dara had taught him to be patient when dealing with his people. He understood the importance of not prying, or trying to force an issue. Dara readily acknowledged theirs was a closed society. Their culture had ground rules about when topics of importance could be discussed.

He had to wait him out. Jalal had to initiate a conversation, but Jalal never did. If Michael tried to, it would be considered not only rude but, discourteous and a blow to their friendship and his loss of face would be great. The Shah played power politics every few years, dangling independence to the twenty million Kurds, knowing Iraq would never agree. The Kurds could never be anything but pawns. Iran knew it, so did Iraq, and so too did the Kurds. Only Jalal didn’t believe that. He had a hunger for knowledge and an ear for languages. He studied hard and was a straight A student. He read anything he could get his hands on. Jalal planned to educate himself into the twenty-first century. Michael had no doubt he would one day be a leader of his people. Obviously he wasn’t in Iran by chance. He was there, to learn as much as he could about Iran and the Iranians. He wondered how many other Kurds were learning about their enemies in the same fashion. Jalal never told him where he went after school. Michael had never asked.

His family had been expelled when Iraq decided to carve a security zone along the Iranian border. When the West complained, Iraq said that the relocation of two hundred thousand Kurds was only a communal program to preserve the grazing land for cattle. The West soon forgot about the relocation. The Kurds couldn’t, because thousands of them died from starvation.

Michael was sure Jalal knew how his father and he had met. His mother must have told him how Michael had saved Dara’s life, yet Jalal shied away from any personal questions or observations about his mission in his village in 1967.

The 707 touched down at Merhabad Airport. Immediately on either side of the plane, two cars with Israeli security guards, Uzi machine guns pointing out of all four windows, drove parallel to the plane as it taxied along the runway. For security reasons, El Al planes were directed to the farthest end of the terminal. Today there were five passengers.

These five Israelis however, had urgent reasons to return. Michael was one of the five. The dozens of clever ones had already liquidated their assets and left a long time ago. This was Michael’s last chance. If he couldn’t get his money and sell his properties, he would be, broke?flat, fucking broke.

Michael had decided this would be his last trip here for awhile. He clung to the hope that the Shah against all odds would somehow soon regain power.

Kameran Samimi, Michael’s partner, had called Tel Aviv three days ago. He and Fardiba, his wife, were in Shiraz, five hundred kilometers north of Teheran, as their daughter was expecting their first grandchild. He would not be in Teheran for at least a week.

The 707 would be returning to Tel Aviv two hours after refueling. Normal passenger load was 119. Against I.A.T.A. rules, El Al would be returning with about 175 people, mainly women and children. Each adult had one suitcase, none for the children. No food or drink would be served on the flight. Each person was allowed one plastic bag of food. Small children had to sit on their parent’s laps with a seat belt around both of them. All armrests were raised between uprights allowing for more space. The Israeli government repeatedly requested permission to send large 747’s so that they could fly out all of their nationals within a twenty-four hour period. Iran refused, allowing only the 707’s to land once a day, maintaining a semblance of normalcy to the outside world.

Flying time to Tel Aviv should be two hours, but this journey would be five hours. El Al was banned from flying direct as they could not fly in Arab airspace. Instead, they flew around the bulge to just south of Russia over Turkey, then south over the Mediterranean to Israel.

The plane came to a halt; the door swung open. A man came up the stairs, asked each passenger their names and made notes on a clipboard. He was in his mid-twenties, probably an Israeli paratrooper in civilian clothes. He spoke Hebrew to the passengers.

“Unless your reason for being here is absolutely and unquestionably necessary, the Israeli government strongly suggests that you stay on board. Teheran is, for all intents and purposes, in a state of civil war. Martial law has been declared. The curfew is from eight p.m. to six a.m. Civilians of all nationalities have been ambushed. Many have been shot or killed in crossfire. Hospitals are overflowing with the injured. We cannot guarantee your safety. If you insist on disembarking, take this card. It has a 24-hour direct line to the Israeli embassy. We can do very little for you, but if you can make it to the embassy, we will try to protect you for as long as we can. It is better if you stay on board. Go back home.”

No one said that they would stay on board. All were desperate men, desperate to survive. They could not run away from possible death. In their hearts, knowingly and with deliberation, they had to return to hell. Each of the five men, Michael included, had waited too long. Each in their own way had misread the signs of the impending disaster.

Losing all of their money was another kind of death for these men. The paratrooper gave them a justification to stay on the plane. His speech gave them a chance to return to their families with honor and not be accused of cowardice.

The paratrooper turned and led them down the steps. Michael put the card into his wallet. Eight men with Uzi’s were facing away from them, looking warily at the terminal, guns at the ready. They were also dressed in civilian clothes, a small Israeli army guarding an Israeli plane and its five passengers.

The paratrooper said, “The workers are on strike. You will have to unload your own suitcases.”

“I don’t have a suitcase. I have only a briefcase,” said Michael.

“Okay, follow me. How come no luggage?” asked the paratrooper.

“I live in Tel Aviv and also have an apartment here. I have clothes in both places. It makes life easier.”

The other passengers walked toward the security guards that instructed them how to unload their suitcases. Michael walked alongside the paratrooper. Even in his civilian clothes, the paratrooper looked tough and dangerous. He exuded self-confidence in the way he held himself. For him, Teheran was no different than walking into the Gaza Strip, Bequa Valley or Golan Heights.