Sky of Red Poppies Read online

  PRAISE FOR SKY OF RED POPPIES

  "FOR MANY YEARS I HAVE HAD THE PRIVILEGE of publishing Ghahremani's charming, nostalgia-laced words of wisdom on the pages of iranian.com. Now it's time for a broader audience to enjoy a heartfelt journey into a fascinating life."

  —Jahanshah Javid, iranian.com

  "GHAHREMANI IS THAT WONDERFUL KIND OF WRITER who tells compelling stories in rich and lyrical language. Sky of Red Poppies is an illustration of her mastery of both."

  —Judy Reeves, author of A Writer's Book of Days

  "GHAHREMANI UNDERSTANDS the many conditions of the human heart... Sky of Red Poppies is a compassionate story of universal truths."

  —Yvonne Nelson Perry, author of The Other Side of the Island

  "SKY OF RED POPPIES is the moving story of relationships tested under the most stressful of human conditions, that of a repressive government. Ghahremani writes with warmth, humanity and a poet's vision."

  —Claire Accomando, author of Love and Rutabaga

  "SET AGAINST THE BACKDROP of a pre-revolution Iran, Sky of Red Poppies is a poetic epic and a powerful read."

  —Jonathan Yang, author of Exclusively Chloe

  Other books by Zohreh Ghahremani

  SHAREEK-E GHAM (PERSIAN, 2000)

  THE MOON DAUGHTER, AVAILABLE 2011

  Zohreh Ghahremani

  Sky of Red poppies

  A NOVEL

  urquoise BOOKS

  Author's Note: Although parts of the story were inspired by the recent history of my homeland, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  SKY OF RED POPPIES. Copyright © 2010 by Zohreh Ghahremani.

  All rights reserved.

  Also available in paperback. First trade paperback published in the United States of America by Turquoise Books. Turquoise Books and the "t" logo are trademarks of Turquoise Books.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  For inquiries, please contact:

  Turquoise Books

  P.O. Box 178595

  San Diego, CA 92177

  Please visit our Web site at www.turquoisebooks.org

  Cover painting, Sky of Red Poppies © 2004 Zohreh Ghahremani.

  Book layout design by Anton Khodakovsky

  Cover design by Susie Ghahremani

  Author photograph © Elvee Froehlich

  Digital media publishing services: www.sellbox.com

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint "The Poppies" from translation of Coins in a Fountain © Manouchehr Neyestani. Translated from Persian to English by Zohreh Ghahremani.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010932442

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TO MY DEAR FRIEND SHAHIN,

  who taught me the true meaning of devotion...

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DEEP GRATITUDE WOULD REQUIRE ME TO THANK EVERYONE who has helped me along the way. However, this book evolved over a span of a quarter century, which in turn makes it impossible to name everyone who has contributed.

  First, and foremost, I am grateful to my sister, Ladan Khazai, my very first reader, whose encouragement turned me into a writer at a very young age. Also, I might not write if it weren't for the lessons of Mrs. Pouyan and Mrs. Mahmoudi, my schoolteachers, who put me under the class spotlight. Wherever they may be today, I hope they'll see this long overdue product of their hard work.

  Thanks to my husband Gary, for giving me the chance to pursue my lifelong passion. His subtle presence has been my column of strength.

  My children, Lilly, Susie and Cyrus, used their immense talents to help Mom in every way they could. They have been my inspiration and, in a role reversal, it was their 'pep talks' that at times gave me the strength to go on. Each day they continue to teach me something new and for that, I love them even more.

  I am indebted to Yvonne Nelson Perry for teaching me the "craft" of writing, to Shelly Lowenkopf for telling me I was born a writer, Sid Stebel for showing me where the story begins, and to John Daniel and other Santa Barbara friends and conference leaders for believing in me.

  I AM GRATEFUL to Jahanshah Javid for publishing my articles only hours after they reached him. Deep gratitude goes to Judy Reeves and the entire crew at the SDWI for catching me each time I was about to fall and to Dr. Ali Gheissari for walking me through the corners of history that seemed otherwise obscure.

  I deeply appreciate friends and colleagues who took the time to read the entire manuscript and share their reflections: Rebecca Sloan, Barbara Sack, Bryna Kranzler, Michele Yeppiz, K. Ryan, Mike Sirota and my own Lilly and Susie. Thank you all for helping me to clarify those otherwise vague passages.

  Finally, I say to Anne, Claire, David, Katherine, Nirmala, Michele, Patrick, Pennie, Lita, Bill and many more writer friends: Thank you for being the best co-travelers on this journey and for your guidance while understanding my accent!

  My Iranian-American friends throughout the country, specifically those in Chicago and San Diego, you have been my sanctuary and have provided me a venue for my work long before this book. You are my family away from home.

  If I have not mentioned your name, it is simply to limit the length of this page. Please know that by holding this book in your hands, you are showing your lasting support and for that I will forever remain grateful.

  NO ONE EVER TOLD ME I WOULD REMEMBER the hands that sculpted me or that words could be carved into my soul. Now, decades later, I reminisce, sometimes with affection but often not. It is the flexibility that I miss the most about my childhood. It is the remembrance of that innocence which helps me to forgive myself for who I have become.

  Part I

  The CLAY

  One

  AT SIXTEEN, I WAS CURIOUS about many things, but the activities of the Shah's secret police weren't among them.

  Mashad, my hometown in northeastern Iran, had awakened to a rainy day in the spring of 1968. Taking hurried steps, my ponytail bouncing, I skipped over the puddles along the sidewalk. There were no students on the street, which could only mean I had already missed the first bell. Just as I was about to cross the street, a car sped past me, splashing rainwater over my clean shoes. I looked up and saw a black Mercedes making a u-turn. It parked in front of my school. Two men got out, wearing huge sunglasses that covered half their faces - the kind that had become a trademark of the secret police. The mere sight of them was alarming, though I had no reason to think their presence had anything to do with me. Instinctively, I ducked into the small bookstore across from the school.

  Warm air and the smell of a kerosene heater filled the shop. As I barged in, the old clerk rose halfway from his chair.

  Trying to catch my breath, I forced a smile despite the pump, pump of blood rushing to my ears. I turned to the display window and picked up a book of calligraphy. I was familiar with those books and their curved letters, for I had stopped by many times to admire their colors, ornate frames, and miniature designs. But on that day, I looked beyond the case and watched those men across the street. They passed under the blue and white sign, Shahdokht High School For Girls, hanging over the tall wooden doors that led to the walled-in schoolyard. One of them pushed the heavy door, and they both disappeared behind it.

  "Don't be scared, Miss Roya." The clerk's voice gave me a jolt and I dropped the heavy book.

  A bookworm by reputation and a frequent visitor to his shop, I was no stranger to the old clerk. "They're not looking for you, are they?" he asked, his calm tone indicating
he already knew the answer.

  I shook my head and wondered if he could hear the crazy beat of my heart.

  The headline I had seen the previous week in the paper flashed before my eyes, "Following Tehran University's riots, SAVAK arrested two students." The acronym SAVAK referred to a security establishment, but to me it had a frightening resonance. They seemed to have nothing better to do than put students in jail. That morning, while my father listened to the news on the radio, I had overheard something about a possible execution sentence for the arrested students, calling them "the enemies of the crown and throne." I did not dare ask Pedar any questions as he had strictly forbidden such discussions, but now wondered if there could be a connection. Lately, university students had organized too many demonstrations, and I'd heard the demonstrators distributed pamphlets insulting the Shah. But that was in Tehran. What could SAVAK possibly want in my school?

  "These days they are everywhere." The clerk said. "It's enough to horrify even an old timer like me."

  I studied him with caution. This was the first time someone outside school had talked to me about the secret police. Unsure if I could trust the man, I turned my attention back to the window. My father had cautioned, "Never discuss such matters in public, especially not with strangers." One never knew who might be a secret agent. "It could be a cab driver, a relative, even someone at your school," he had said.

  The shopkeeper took a step closer. "Don't worry, Miss Roya," he said, as if reading my mind, "I'm not one of them." I shot him an embarrassed glance.

  The second bell rang. The man picked up the book I had dropped and put it back in the window. Then he went to his chair behind the counter and said, "You better run along now."

  Outside, heavy rain had turned into drizzle, and a crisp morning breeze crept inside my overcoat. I clutched my books tighter and hurried past the back of the Mercedes. Its engine was idling and, for just a second, I saw the silhouette of the driver beyond the steamed-up rear window. I looked away before he could notice me and scurried in.

  No one was in the schoolyard, but I peeked through the glass doors to make sure the men weren't in the hallway. Once inside, I took the stairs two at a time and ran to my class.

  In the murmur of our classroom, other students didn't seem to notice my tardiness. It surprised me to see that our teacher was not yet present. Mr. Elmi always arrived a few minutes before the bell to write on the blackboard. In his curved calligraphy, he would inscribe a verse, a quotation or a topic to be discussed during his lessons of literature. Defying school's petty rules had gained our favorite teacher the nickname Jenab-His Excellency. Not only did he design his own curriculum, but he also didn't hesitate to break any rules he disagreed with. He even rebelled against the teacher's dress code by wearing a sweater, and he rolled his tie into a ball, which he stuffed into his pocket. Unpredictable as he might have seemed, he was never late to class.

  Small groups gathered in different corners of our classroom, chatting in hushed voices, even whispering. The acronym, SAVAK, mentioned here and there, created a frightening hiss. Before I had a chance to join in, someone shouted, "Jenab's coming!"

  We all shuffled to our seats and a charged silence filled the classroom.

  The door opened and there came Mr. Elmi, hauling his overstuffed briefcase and taking long, heavy steps. He did not bother to greet us and his face was tightened into a somber expression. I could not tell if he was anxious or just angry. He dropped his case on the desk and went straight to the blackboard and wrote in large letters: I think, therefore I am.

  Twenty-eight teenage girls stared back in silence. I counted on him to be bold enough to discuss what was going on downstairs. Coming directly from the office, he had to know. But as he continued to stare at the class without offering any information, I thought that perhaps he, too, had decided to be cautious.

  Gentle rain rapped on the window, and the smell of burning coal wafted from the corner fireplace. Our classroom rarely had enough heat and now the thought of secret agents being in the building made it impossible to feel warm. Jenab ran his fingers through what was left of his graying hair. With half-opened lids of droopy eyes, his expression held a permanent gloom, but now his eyes seemed darker than ever.

  "Some days do not begin on the best note," he said. "But I ask each one of you to remain in the present. Here and now. Because despite what's pouring out there," he nodded to the outside, "our jobs are within this classroom." He turned to the window, as if to mask his apprehension.

  I couldn't decide if his words were just a reference to the rain or if he had hinted at what went on in the office. Fierce wind outside pushed the raindrops in different directions and the little squares of glass created a jigsaw puzzle of a gray, rainy day.

  Jenab was the only teacher who spoke his mind and earlier, I had feared it might be him that those men had come for. I ran a list of other teachers in my mind, but none stood out. It was no secret that any negative comments about the Shah or the slightest hint of sympathy for the oppositionists could bring in the SAVAK. But no one else at our school discussed such matters, nor had I heard of any demonstrations in our town.

  Someone coughed and, as if the sound had pulled Jenab out of deep thought, he shook his head and went back to the blackboard. Reading the phrase he had written, he tapped a finger under each word, leaving a clean dot with each tap. "Ifwhat Descartes said is true, then your existence began here." He smiled his crooked smile. "With me."

  I believed that, and took the deep silence of my classmates to mean they did too. Jenab thrived on his aptitude to mesmerize an audience and at sixteen, I adored those who could mesmerize me.

  "There's a unique substance in each one of us," my favorite teacher finally began. "A raw matter known as the child, pure and impressionable, flexible enough to be molded. Like clay." His hands slid around an imaginary mound in the air. "Unfortunately, in the heat of the kiln we call life, that clay hardens and before we know it we've become the unchangeable adult." He went back to the window and stared out at the sky hanging there like a wet sheet. "If an adult is dissatisfied with the outcome, he can take on a variety of colors to disguise his true identity. But deep down, the hardened clay maintains its true form."

  Jenab went back to his desk and extracted a book from his briefcase. I studied him amid the shuffling sounds of notebooks and pens as my peers prepared for a lesson in literature. Jenab opened his book, cleared his throat and began to read in his slow, deliberate manner. He may have distracted the rest of the class, but I felt let down. On any other day I would have considered his monologue a true lesson. His philosophical approach to literature gave flavor to the monotony of textbooks, but this time he wasn't persuasive enough. I didn't grasp his clay metaphor. Too young to fathom the end, I could not believe my free spirit would ever be caged.

  "Think about that," he concluded, tapping on the side of his head with an index finger. "Think!"

  "Isn't thinking forbidden?" A husky voice rose from the back of the classroom.

  I turned to find Shireen Payan, one of the two girls who shared my bench, had just arrived. Seeming to be in no rush to take her seat, she leaned against the wall with her arms folded across her chest. Her question, and especially the sarcastic tone, sounded like a hint at our social restrictions, perhaps even a bold reference to that morning's incident. With the secret police entering the fortress of our school, her remark had a chilling resonance.

  "Miss Payan, please take your seat," Jenab said. "There will be plenty of time for discussion." And he turned his attention to the roll call.

  Shireen wove her way through the desks and sat on the edge of her seat.

  Our classrooms had rows of old wooden benches fixed to the floor. Each bench would seat three and seats were designated based on the height of students. Consequently, my small size had placed me in the first row, next to Shireen Payan. On my left side sat Tahereh Ahmadi, a shy and quiet girl, who most of the time seemed almost invisible. I only heard her speak whe
n a teacher called on her, and even then she sounded as if she had to will her voice to come forth. Shireen was also the quiet type, but she showed confidence and was great with words, as if saving her gift of speech for serious matters. She often arrived late, and was one of the first to leave, so we seldom spoke. Sometimes I wished they had paired me with a fun student, someone with whom I had more in common.

  Impressed by Shireen's courage, I studied her with newfound interest. Her headscarf had slipped back, revealing silky, shining brown hair. I had seen her coming to school wrapped in her chador, the dark cloth that covered her head to toe. In Mashad, many girls from fundamentalist families observed their hejab, wearing a similar wrap in public. But chadors were not allowed inside the walled-in school, so most of them exchanged their chador for a headscarf, while a few didn't bother to cover their hair at all.

  As if sensing the weight of my stare, Shireen looked up. Her defiant question had sparked a connection, and as our eyes met, the clarity in her brown eyes reminded me of pure water that allows one to see all the way through.

  "Miss Roya Afshar," Jenab called on me. "Would you take this down to the office?" He signed the attendance form and tossed it on my desk.

  Normally, the vice-principal wanted that form on her desk no later than fifteen minutes after the bell. This had been my job every morning, but on that particular day the office was the last place I wanted to be. I hesitated and, when Jenab did not return my worried gaze, I rose, took the form and left.

  Shireen's words echoed in my mind. For nearly a year, this girl had shared my desk like a stranger. How bizarre it was to hear my own thoughts in someone else's voice. Halfway down the hallway, I could hear other teachers from behind the doors, and the knowledge that school was in order gave me a semblance of security.

  As I reached the staircase, I heard strange hushed noises downstairs. The sound of hurried, small footsteps in the hallway below, a screech as something was dragged, followed by a hushed cry. A voice rose above it all, "Shush, you!"