The Book of Fate (49 page)

It was useless. No one knew what had happened to my son. The phrase ‘missing in action' was like a sledgehammer that kept pounding on my head. On my way back to Tehran, the load of pain I was carrying seemed a thousand times heavier. I went home in a daze and walked straight into Massoud's room as if I had forgotten to do something. I went through his clothes. I thought a few of his shirts needed ironing. Oh, my child's shirts were wrinkled! I started ironing as if it was the most important task I had. My entire focus was on the invisible wrinkles on his clothes. Each time I held them up to the light they still looked creased and I had to iron them again…

Mansoureh was talking non-stop, but only a small part of my brain was aware of her presence. And then I overheard her say, ‘Faati, it is worse like this. She is really losing her mind. She has been ironing the same shirt for two hours. It would have been better if they had told her he was martyred. Then she could at least mourn for him.'

I tore out of the room like a wild dog and screamed, ‘No! If they tell me he is dead, I will kill myself. I am only alive with the hope that he is alive.'

But I, too, felt that I was not far from losing my sanity. I often found myself talking out loud to God. My relationship with him had severed; no, it had transformed into the hostile relationship between a merciless power and someone who had been beaten and had given up on life. A defeated person who had no hope of being saved and in her final moments had found the courage to say whatever was in her heart. I spoke with irreverence. I saw God as an idol that demanded sacrifice and I had to carry one of my children to the altar. I had to choose between them. I sometimes delivered Siamak or Shirin to be sacrificed instead of Massoud and then, with a guilty conscience and deep hatred for myself, I would again grieve and ask myself, What would they think of me if they ever found out that I would sacrifice one of them for the other?

I was incapable of doing anything. Mrs Parvin had to bathe me by force. Mother and Ehteram-Sadat offered advice and talked about the honour and eminence of martyrs. Mother tried to instil a fear of God in me. ‘You have to be content with his pleasure,' she said. ‘Everyone has a fate. If this is his will, you have to accept it.'

But I went mad and screamed, ‘Why should he give me this fate? I don't want it! Haven't I suffered enough? How long did I go from prison to prison, wash blood from my loved ones' clothes, mourn, work day and night, and raise my children despite a thousand miseries? All for what? For this?'

‘Don't speak evil!' Ehteram-Sadat cried. ‘God is testing you.'

‘How long do I have to pass his tests? God, why do you keep testing me? Do you want to prove your power to someone as wretched as me? I don't want to pass your tests. I just want my child. Give me back my child and give me a fail grade!'

‘May God spare you!' Ehteram-Sadat scolded. ‘Don't raise God's wrath. Do you think you are the only one? All these mothers, every woman who has a son the same age as yours is in the same situation. Some have had four or five children martyred. Think about them and stop being so ungrateful.'

‘Do you think I thank God when I see other people's misery?' I screamed. ‘My heart breaks for them. My heart breaks for you. My heart breaks for myself for having lost my nineteen-year-old son and for not having even a corpse to hold in my arms…'

I was starting to accept Massoud's death. That was the first time I mentioned his corpse. But those fights and arguments were making me feel much worse. I lost count of the days and months; I took sedatives by the fistful and thrashed about in a world between sleep and wakefulness.

 

One morning I woke up with my throat so dry that I thought I would choke. I made my way to the kitchen and saw Shirin washing dishes. I was surprised. I didn't like her to do housework with those tiny hands.

‘Shirin, why aren't you in school?' I asked.

She stared at me with a reproachful smile and said, ‘Mum, schools closed for the summer a month ago!'

I stood there aghast. Where had I been?

‘What about your exams? Did you take the final exams?'

‘Yes!' she said grudgingly. ‘That was a long time ago. Don't you remember?'

No, I didn't remember and I didn't remember how thin, sallow and sad she had become. I had been so selfish. In all those months wallowing in my own sorrow, I had forgotten she existed; I had forgotten the little girl who was perhaps grieving as much as I was. I held her in my arms. It was as if she had long wished for that moment. She was trying to bury herself deeper in my embrace. We were both crying.

‘Forgive me, my dear,' I said. ‘Forgive me. I had no right to forget you.'

Seeing Shirin so unhappy, so thirsty for love and so helpless, pulled me out of my apathy and stupor. I had another child for whom I had to live.

 

Heartbroken and alone, I resumed my daily life. I tried to stay at work longer and drove myself harder. I could not concentrate on anything at home. I decided never to cry in front of Shirin. She needed a normal life, she needed fun and joy. That nine-year-old girl had been harmed enough. I asked Mansoureh to take her with them when they went to their villa on the Caspian coast. But Shirin didn't want to leave me alone and so I went with them.

The villa was the same as it had been ten years earlier and the northern coast, with the same beauty as before, was waiting to transport me back to the best days of my life. The sound of the boys playing together echoed in my ears. I felt Hamid's eager gaze following me. I sat for hours and watched him play with the children. Once I even picked up their ball and threw it back to them. These beautiful images would suddenly end with an intrusive sound. God, how quickly it had all passed. Those few days had been my share of a sweet family life. The rest had all been filled with pain and suffering.

Everywhere I looked brought back a memory. Sometimes I would instinctively open my arms to embrace my loved ones and I would suddenly come to, look around me with shock and wonder if anyone had seen me do that. One night, when I sat on the beach drowned in my thoughts, I felt Hamid's hand on my shoulder. His presence seemed so natural. I murmured, ‘Oh, Hamid, I am so tired.' He squeezed my shoulder, I laid my cheek on his hand, and he gently stroked my hair.

Mansoureh's voice made me jump.

‘Where have you been? I've been looking for you for an hour!'

I could still feel the warmth of Hamid's hand on my shoulder. I wondered, What sort of fantasy is it that seems this real? If madness means breaking with reality, I had reached it. It was so pleasant. I could surrender to it and live the rest of my life in sweet illusions, in the freedom of insanity. The temptation drove me to the edge of the cliff. It was only Shirin and my responsibility for her that forced me to resist taking the plunge.

I knew I had to go back home. I was suddenly afraid the fantasies would defeat me. On the third day, I packed my things and returned to Tehran.

 

One warm August day, at two in the afternoon, everyone at the office suddenly started running and shouting with joy. They were all congratulating each other. Alipour opened the door to my office and yelled, ‘The war is over!' I didn't move from my chair. What would I have done if they had given me this news a year ago?

 

I had not gone to make enquiries at any military department in a long time. Even though as the mother of a soldier missing in action I was extended every courtesy, the officials' expressions of respect were as painful to hear as the insults I had endured behind the prison gates as the mother of a Mujahed and the wife of a communist. I could not tolerate them.

 

More than a month had passed since the end of the war. The schools had not yet reopened. At eleven in the morning, the door to my office flew open and Shirin and Mansoureh burst in. I leaped up in horror, afraid to ask what had happened. Shirin threw herself in my arms and started to cry. Mansoureh stood there staring at me with tears streaming down her face.

‘Massoum!' she said. ‘He is alive! He is alive!'

I fell in my chair, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. If I was dreaming, I wanted never to wake up. Shirin was slapping me with her small hands. ‘Mum, wake up,' she pleaded. ‘For the love of God, wake up.' I opened my eyes. She laughed and said, ‘They called from headquarters. I talked to them myself. They said Massoud's name is on the list of prisoners of war; on the United Nations' list.'

‘Are you sure?' I asked. ‘You may have misunderstood. I have to go there myself.'

‘No, you don't have to,' Mansoureh said. ‘When Shirin came to my apartment in a state, I called them myself. Massoud's name and all his information is on the list. They said he will soon be exchanged.'

I don't know what I did. Perhaps I danced like a lunatic and genuflected in prayer on the floor. Fortunately, Mansoureh was there and pushed everyone out of my office so that they wouldn't see me behaving like a madwoman. I had to go somewhere holy. I needed to ask God's forgiveness for all my blasphemy; otherwise, I was afraid that happiness would run through my fingers like water. The closest place Mansoureh could think of was the Saleh Shrine.

At the shrine, I clung to the enclosure around the tomb and repeated over and over again, ‘God, I was wrong, forgive me. God, you are great, you are merciful, you must forgive me. I promise to make up for all the prayers I have missed, I will give alms to the poor…'

Now that I look back at those days, I realise I had really gone insane. I talked to God as a child talks to her playmate. I defined the rules of the game and I watched carefully to make sure neither one of us broke those rules. Every day I begged him not to turn away from me. Like a lover who had made up with her beloved after a long separation, I was both eager and scared. I constantly pleaded with him in the hope that he would forget my past ingratitude and understand my circumstances.

 

I was alive again. Joy had returned to my home. The sound of Shirin's laughter was once more ringing through the rooms. She would run and play, throw her arms around my neck and kiss me.

I knew that being a prisoner of war was harsh and gruelling, I knew Massoud was suffering, but I also knew that it would pass. All that mattered was that he was alive. I spent every day waiting for his freedom. I kept cleaning and tidying the house and rearranging his clothes. Months passed, each month becoming more difficult than the one before, but the hope of seeing him again kept me on my feet.

At last one summer night they brought my son home. For many days beforehand, the neighbourhood streets were decorated with lights and banners, congratulating him on his return, and flowers, sweets and syrups bathed our home with the scent of life. The apartment was crowded with people. I didn't know many of them. I was thrilled to see my cousin Mahboubeh and her husband. When I saw her father-in-law had also come, I wanted to kiss his hand. To me he was the personification of piety and love.

Mrs Parvin was in charge of the reception. Mansoureh, Faati, Manijeh and Firouzeh, who was now a beautiful young girl, had been busy for several days preparing everything. The day before, Faati had looked at me and said, ‘Sister, colour your hair. If that boy sees you looking like this he will faint!'

I agreed. I would have agreed to anything. Faati coloured my hair and plucked my eyebrows. Firouzeh laughed and said, ‘It's as if Auntie is getting married! She looks as beautiful as a bride.'

‘Yes, my dear, it's as if it is my wedding. But it's much better than that. I wasn't as happy as this the day I got married.'

I put on a beautiful green dress. It was Massoud's favorite colour. And Shirin wore the pink dress I had just bought for her. By early afternoon we were both ready and waiting. Mother came with Ali and his family. Ehteram-Sadat also came. She looked shattered. Her repressed grief was growing deeper with time. I tried to avoid looking into her eyes. I was somehow ashamed that my child was alive and hers had died.

‘Why did you bring Ehteram?' I asked Mother.

‘She wanted to come. Is something wrong?'

‘The envy in her eyes makes me uncomfortable.'

‘What nonsense! She is not envious at all. She is a martyr's mother; her status is much higher than yours. God holds her in the highest esteem. Do you really think she would be jealous of you? No, my dear, she is actually very happy and you don't need to worry about her.'

Perhaps Mother was right, perhaps Ehteram-Sadat's faith was so strong that it kept her going. I tried to not think about her any more, but I continued to avoid her eyes.

Shirin kept lighting the small brazier for burning wild rue, but it kept going out.

It was past nine o'clock and I was running out of patience when the caravan arrived. With all the sedatives I had taken and all the time I had had to prepare for that moment, I started shaking violently and I fainted. How beautiful that moment was when I opened my eyes and found myself in Massoud's arms.

 

Massoud was taller but very thin and pale. The expression in his eyes had changed. What he had endured had matured him. He had a limp and was often in pain. From his behaviour, his insomnia and the nightmares he had when he did manage to sleep I realised how much he had suffered. But he did not like to talk about it.

Wounded and barely alive, he had been captured by the Iraqi army and treated at several hospitals. He still had wounds that had not healed. At times he suffered excruciating pain and broke into a fever. The doctor said his limp could be corrected by complicated surgery. After he had regained his strength he underwent the procedure and fortunately it was successful. I took care of him and fussed over him like a child. Every moment with him was precious to me. I would sit and watch him sleep. His handsome face looked like that of a child when he slept. I gave him the nickname God-given. God had really given him back to me.