A Bitter Veil (23 page)

The only way Anna could detect the passage of time was by the slit at the top of her cell. It became brighter. She assumed that meant it was daylight. But her internal clock was off kilter, and she was exhausted. The man with the pitted face made it a point to come to her cell—probably every hour, she guessed—to shine a bright light on her face and wake her from the little sleep she’d managed to grab. Each time he intruded he demanded to know whether she was ready to confess. Each time she said no. He would leave, only to return again later.

During one of the visits a new Guard appeared. He brought with him a cup of tea. She drank it greedily, then realized she had to pee. “Where is the bathroom?” she asked in Farsi.

“You’re in it.” He laughed.

She suppressed her disgust.

The light from the slit at the top of the cell faded. The sun must have been setting. She had been in jail almost twenty-four hours. Her stomach agreed. It had been growling in hunger, but now it felt like it was being squeezed by a steel band. Was there something in the tea? Did they put something in it to make her more miserable?

The Guard with the pitted face returned. This time Massoud was with him. They repeated the charade with the light, demanding to know if she was ready to confess. She shook her head. They didn’t retreat. Massoud unlocked the cell. They came inside, put on her blindfold, and walked her upstairs.

When they ripped off the blindfold, she saw that the other man who’d interrogated her had joined them, but she’d been taken to a different room. This one had a metal cot in one corner. A thin, tattered spread covered it, but Anna could see the crisscrossing of a metal frame underneath. Attached to the four corners of the cot were chains, which in turn were attached to metal cuffs. In the corner, she saw a thick black pole with a group of wires at one end. A whip. Fear streaked up her spine.

The Guard with the glasses saw her looking at the whip and smiled. “Did you think you were exempt from Shariah law because you are American? When you married your husband you became Muslim and an Iranian citizen. You are accountable to the laws of Iran.”

Anna kept her mouth shut.

“Chain her,” he said to Massoud and the man with the pitted face. They pulled her over to the cot. She tried to wriggle out of their grasp, but it was useless, and they seemed to know it was just a pro forma effort. She glanced at Massoud. He still would not make eye contact. They slammed her down on the cot. The metal frame bit into her skin. They clutched her arms and forced them over her head, then cuffed them to the bed, one on each side. They did the same with her feet.

The man with glasses peered over her. “Last chance to confess to your crimes.”

“I didn’t kill my husband.”

The man shrugged, picked up the metal whip, and came back. She turned her head to the side and saw Massoud. This time he was looking at her. His face was a mix of sorrow and shame. The man with the glasses flicked the whip back, then forward. She heard it swish, followed by a staccato crack as it lashed her feet. Her feet stung. At first she thought it wasn’t so bad, but then a wave of unbearably hot, sharp pain rushed up from her feet. She screamed.

He whipped her again. This time the pain took her breath away. She couldn’t take in enough air to scream. The man with the whip lashed her again, and somehow, she found enough air to shriek. Massoud bolted into the hall. Between her cries, the sounds of him retching, and the howls from other rooms, it was too much. Mercifully, a powerful force rose up and enveloped her in a soft black silence.

*****

Anna was running on a beach, but the sand was so hot it burned her feet. The cool, blue water was just a few feet away. She jogged toward it, knowing it would bring relief, but the closer she got, the farther the ocean receded, as if it was low tide in warp speed. “Stop!” she yelled to the sea. “I need you!”

Slowly, she came back to awareness. She was still strapped to the bed. Her first impression was that she was alone. The second was that her feet were on fire. Burning, blazing, pulsating flames licked her skin. She thought maybe someone had screwed her feet in backwards. She groaned and tried to lift her head, but she felt heavy and sluggish. She doubted she would ever walk again.

A dull pain throbbed against her temples. She needed to turn off her brain. Withdraw. She couldn’t be vigilant and aware—the pain was too agonizing. Where was the switch, she thought? Please, God. Turn it off. Turn
me
off. Maybe she
should
confess. It wouldn’t make much difference. They were going to kill her one way or another. Wasn’t she already half dead? The door opened. A Guard she hadn’t seen before eyed her, gazed at her feet, and flinched. He retreated, then came back with rubber thong sandals and dropped them on the floor. He proceeded to unfasten her arms and legs from the cuffs. Anna didn’t move. She didn’t know if she could.

“Come,” the Guard said. He looked young, maybe as young as Laleh. And embarrassed, as if he would rather have been anywhere on earth than here. She slowly raised herself. Her head whirled with dizziness, and she fell back on the cot. The metal bed frame felt like sharp spikes stabbing her back.

“Please,” she croaked. “I need help.”

The Guard nodded. It was the first acknowledgement by anyone that she was a human. She felt unaccountably grateful. He grasped her arm and helped her up. The world slowly settled upright.

“We need to go,” he said urgently, as if there was a schedule to which they had to adhere.

Anna blinked. With a great effort she bent over and checked her feet. She wasn’t sure what she expected—her skin in shreds, or a bloody pulp—so she was surprised to see it wasn’t. The most noticeable thing was that her feet were swollen, almost twice as large as normal. They were blue and purple, too, but there was no blood. The whip had not broken her skin. She had trouble actually believing it—the pain had been so excruciating.

She slipped the thongs on, slid off the bed, and shifted her weight onto her feet. A fresh wave of pain engulfed her. She cried out and rolled her feet to their outer edges. But the young Guard’s support was firm, and she managed to hobble to the door. The Guard opened it, but then froze, as if he’d forgotten something, and shut it. For an instant Anna wondered if this had all been a ruse, and something even more horrible was about to happen. But it was only the blindfold. He retrieved it from the floor and slipped it over her eyes.

Together they shuffled down halls that seemed endless. They exited a building and crossed the courtyard. A soft rain was falling. Anna lifted her arms and face into it. She caught a whiff of her own unwashed body. She hadn’t showered in days.

A moment later they were inside yet another building.

“Where are we going?” she asked in Farsi.

A grunt was his response.

He led her down a hall with linoleum floors into a small room. He took off her blindfold. Anna blinked. The office was bare, save for a desk and two chairs. Behind the desk sat a woman in a chador. She was thin, almost gaunt, and her face was shaped like a triangle, with a broad brow—above which not a strand of hair escaped her rusari—and a narrow, pointed chin. Bushy eyebrows framed a stern expression. She nodded at the Guard and he retreated. Anna clutched the back of a chair for support. The woman gestured her into it.

As Anna sat, the woman folded her hands. “I am Sister Azar,” she said in English. “You will be under my supervision until you are sentenced.”

“Sentenced? What sentence? There has been no trial,” Anna said.

Sister Azar’s gaze turned calculating. “Oh, but there was. The night you were brought here. You were not present, but you were found guilty of murder.”

Anna’s jaw dropped. “They can’t do that! I didn’t kill him. I have a right—”

The woman laughed. “This is not America, with your endless system of justice that protects the guilty. Here, justice is swift. And final.”

“I want to lodge a protest.” Even as she said it, though, she understood how naïve she sounded.

Sister Azar didn’t bother to reply. “I will take you to the ward.”

She got up and went to the door. Anna sank back in the chair. “How long until I’m sentenced?”

She shrugged. “Everyone is preoccupied with the hostages. And you are American. They will be careful.” She waggled a finger. “Do not give them a reason to hurry.” It was a warning.

She marched down the hall, with Anna limping behind. She blew out a breath, seemingly impatient that Anna couldn’t keep up. They made a few turns, and eventually came to a door. Sister Azar unlocked and opened it, and they continued down the hall.

The room they came to wasn’t much larger than the Samedis’ living room, Anna guessed, but at least forty women, maybe more, were crammed into it. Most sat on the floor in small groups reading or talking quietly. It was so crowded that they were practically on top of each other. A few sat by themselves. One rocked back and forth, muttering in silence. Sister Azar gave Anna a little shove, and she stumbled in. Anna heard a metallic click as the door was locked behind her.

Curious glances came her way. She shuffled awkwardly to a corner of the room and gingerly lowered herself to the floor. She slipped off the thongs, and extended her feet. They touched the back of another woman who twisted around with a scowl. Anna bent her knees and placed her feet on the floor so they were no longer touching the woman, but a fresh stab of pain shot through her. Trying to breathe through it, she distracted herself by looking around.

The first thing she noticed was the women’s clothing. They were dressed in t-shirts, jeans, and dresses. No hijab or chadors. The next thing she noticed was that despite the lack of space, there was a sense of order in the room. Blankets and spreads were folded in one spot, books and shoes in another. Chadors and bags hung on hooks. She leaned back against the wall. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see more. She knew what was ahead. Interacting with this place, and the people in it, would bring her closer to death. She squeezed her eyes shut.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed when she felt a gentle tug on her chador. Her eyes snapped open. A young woman with riotous auburn curls tamed only by a yellow headband was smiling at her. It was the first real smile Anna had seen since she was arrested. She examined the girl. Widely-spaced eyes the color of ochre, lashes so light they looked invisible, and a spill of freckles on her nose and cheeks. She held strips of cloth and dangled them in front of Anna. “Let me help you bandage your feet,” she said in English.

This simple kindness was the breaking point. Anna couldn’t hold it together any longer. She started to weep, long wrenching sobs. She thought maybe she would cry forever.

Nousha was a political prisoner, she explained when Anna’s tears finally stopped. She’d been found guilty of spying for the enemies of the revolution. When Anna asked which enemies, she shrugged. “I am a Kurd. And a Sunni Muslim. The Ayatollah has declared a holy war against us.”

Anna knew about the problems between Iran and the Kurdish people. The Kurds were mostly Sunni Muslims and lived in Northern Iran. They wanted independence from Iran and, since the shah’s downfall, they’d been bitterly fighting for it. Iranians, on the other hand, were mostly Shi’a Muslims and considered the Kurds a threat.

“Even so,” Anna asked, “hasn’t there always been a Kurdish community in Persia?”

“That is true. Sometimes they persecute us, sometimes they leave us alone. Now, though…” Nousha blew out a breath. “We are not a part of the new society—even though we fought for the shah’s downfall. They think we are being exploited by foreign powers, that we want to destabilize the new regime. So they are trying to crush us. Many Kurds have left Iran.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“My fiancé was teaching at a Kurdish school. He pledged to stay as long as the school remained open. I chose to stay with him.” She sighed. “They closed the school a month ago. We tried to leave for Mahabad, then Turkey, but they stopped us outside Tehran. They accused us of conspiring to bring down the Islamic government. We weren’t, of course, but it didn’t matter. My fiancé was executed, and I am sentenced to death.”

A swell of anger rolled over Anna. How could Nousha sound so calm? Why wasn’t she fighting the trumped up charges? Scratching, clawing for justice and a chance to stay alive?

As if she knew what Anna was thinking, she said, “I have no way to fight back. This is my life now. For as long as it lasts. It will go better for me in Paradise.”

Anna understood. She felt that way herself. “I am a Christian.”

Nousha nodded. “They will pressure you to convert.”

“Technically I did. When I got married.”

Nousha studied her, then tilted her head. “Why are you here?”

“They say I murdered my husband.”

“And because you are an American, and there are Americans being held hostage, it has become political.”

Anna nodded.

Nousha touched her shoulder. “Be brave, my American friend. I will say a prayer for your feet.” She stood, faced the wall, and whispered words Anna didn’t understand. Only afterwards did Anna realize that Nousha had never asked her if she
had
killed Nouri.

*****

Over the next few days Anna’s feet healed. They were still stiff and sore, but it no longer hurt so much to walk. As she settled into the ward, a routine of sorts emerged. A bell woke the women before dawn for prayers, but since she was not Muslim, no one forced her to participate. Tolerance came at odd times and places, she thought. And yet the only books in the room were the Qur’an and religious tracts, and they were all in Arabic.

After prayers, breakfast—or what they called breakfast—was served. Usually it was tea and bread. The first time she drank the tea, it was tinged with a distinct taste. It took a moment to identify. Vicks Vapo-Rub.

“This tastes like the salve they used when I got sick as a child,” she said to Nousha.

“It is camphor. They add it to the tea.”

“Camphor? Why?”

“It will stop your period.”

Anna frowned.

“They don’t want to spend money on sanitary napkins.”

Anna stiffened. If camphor stopped periods, what would it do to someone who was pregnant? She wanted to ask, but she didn’t know Nousha well enough. What if she was a spy or an informant? She spit the tea out.

“Some of the girls don’t mind,” Nousha said. “They say camphor is soothing. It dulls pain.”

“What do you say?”

“It’s hard not to drink it. It is the only beverage we have. I think it makes me lethargic. Sometimes it causes swelling. Others say it makes them depressed.” She shrugged. “Then again, what does it matter?”

Anna eyed the tea suspiciously.

After breakfast the women made an effort to tidy up, stacking blankets and other things, and washing up with cold water. Nousha told her they got hot showers only once every two to three weeks, and then only for a few minutes.

The rest of the morning was spent reading, talking, and gossiping, except for the “crazies,” as Nousha called them, women who had lost their sanity and were comatose or talked gibberish. Lunch was sometimes soup, sometimes stew, but was always thin and watery. Once in a while someone found a chunk of meat in her bowl and showed it off to the others.

More prayers, and then, most days, the women went out to the courtyard for an hour of air. Inmates from each cellblock were taken out separately; there was no interaction between wards. Or, of course, the sexes. Which meant Anna had no idea how many prisoners were housed here. Or if, like her, Baba-joon might also be imprisoned at Evin.

Anna noticed some women seemed to have more than others: clothes, cigarettes, even bits of extra food. She asked Nousha about it.

“Most of the girls who have more than the rest of us are prostitutes, thieves, con artists. They know how to work the system and get what they need.” Nousha rubbed her fingers together.

“How do they get the stuff?”

“From family. During visits. Then they hide it and only bring it out when it’s time to bribe the Guards.”

“Where do they hide it?”

“They sew it into the lining of their chadors.”

Anna’s eyebrows arched. She had much to learn.

Dinner was usually fruit, more tea, and sometimes cheese. Anna had to drink the tea; no other beverages were offered. The lights were turned off at eleven, but with fifty girls in a room designed for twenty, sleeping space was at a premium. They jammed together on the floor or in the hall. Sometimes they took turns lying on their backs. Nousha carved out a tiny space for Anna next to her.

The third night Anna was there, a series of loud cracks woke her. “What was that?” she asked shakily.

Nousha swallowed. It took her a moment to answer. “Executions. They are shooting prisoners.”

Anna couldn’t go back to sleep.