“The lot of them were starving,” one of the British soldiers said.
“I hear those Soviets make the ladies work as hard as their sons and husbands,” said the other.
The first man shook his head. His expression was somber.
“And now we’re chums with Joe Stalin,” the second man said, “the bloke who sent them to those camps.”
The other man took a long draft of his water and then stirred the glass of tea in front of him with the precise motion of someone winding a small clock. “Guess we’re lucky,” he said.
The two men fell silent.
SOLEIMAN PARKED IN FRONT OF HIS MOTHER’S apartment and turned off the car. The relative silence of dawn was giving way to the first sounds of day. The warbled birdsong and quickening light pleased him.
“A man who listens to the music of the world awakening and then sees the dawn alight,” his father used to say, “is a man who accomplishes great things.” Haji Rahim Cohen was one of those men, always awake and dressed, breakfasted, and out the door before the sun came on in full, shining on the morning orchestra of people, machines, animals, and materials. It was a good way to get your bearings before anything was done or said, before any decisions were made.
Sitting in his vehicle, one gloved hand resting on the steering wheel, Soleiman considered how the world had changed and was still changing. During his lifetime—less than four decades—Jews in Iran had been separated from their countrymen by decrees and ghetto walls. By the time he was twenty, Jews were liberated from restrictions that kept them living in the mahalleh, or Jewish quarter. There Soleiman had grown up with his nine siblings in a two-room house with no electricity or plumbing. In the mahalleh, water was withheld, never free of burden (it had to be let in, stored, kept clean, distributed, boiled). Once the laws changed in the mid-1920s, his family moved into a large house on the corner of Avenue North Saadi and Hadayat Street.
Eventually Soleiman and his brothers made their own homes on the city’s most fashionable streets, in neighborhoods once forbidden to Iran’s Jews. Their new houses were equipped with indoor plumbing and electric lights and appointed with carpets and antiques. They planted glorious gardens. They employed gardeners, cooks, housekeepers, drivers, and in all but Soleiman’s home, nannies for the steadily growing next generation.
Though they lived well now, his family remembered the hunger days. They had seen firsthand how the spread of the Great War left their country: Farmland was ruined by the invading Russian and Turkish armies, irrigation systems were destroyed, livestock was pillaged, stores of food were left to rot. All of it ended in an inevitable famine, which killed one-fifth of the Iranian population. And before all that, they had been chased—when they were near starving and impoverished—by people who falsely accused them of causing deaths, storms, the perishing of livestock. They had run through the narrow passageways of the mahalleh to the doors of their dwellings. Doors built so low you had to bend to pass through them. Doors built low to be easily barricaded when they were under attack.
After the war ended in 1918, the British and the Russians remained in Persia. There was the matter of oil, discovered in the southwestern part of the country ten years earlier, which the English wanted to control. And there was also the matter of the northeastern frontier, gateway to what was then called the Russian Socialist Federative Republic and was now the Soviet Union. Soleiman was a boy of thirteen at the time, with no honorific yet attached to his name. Though he lived in the mahalleh, he attended one of the schools established in Tehran by the Alliance Israelite Universelle, an organization whose mission was the betterment of Jews in countries such as Iran, where Jews continued to live separately and unequally.
Soleiman excelled in French, the language of instruction in the Alliance schools. French was also the language of his father’s commerce, and France the country where Haji Rahim and his partner and brother-in-law, Dai Yousef, purchased the fabrics they sold in Tehran. After the Great War ended in 1918, Haji Rahim took notice of his son’s sharp thinking and skill for business. Even as a small boy, Soli was observant, obedient, curious. He asked the right questions and understood the answers. His wit was quick as water. With peace finally declared, Haji Rahim sensed a change coming. Modernization was the first step to liberation from both poverty and the anti-Semitism which persisted, despite the thousands of years Jews had lived in Persia. He knew it was imperative for his family to bring their business into the new century. They would need to understand Western practices in order to succeed. Soleiman was young, eager, loyal, and most of all, acutely intelligent. Thus, he was the son chosen to attend school abroad, and Haji Rahim sent Soli to the Ecole Pigier in Paris, where he earned a certificate in commercial studies and business English.
As soon as Soleiman tasted European modernity, he was determined to not only bring it home, but to fashion his life accordingly. When he returned from Paris, he carried with him images and stories of a modern, European metropolis: This was a place populated by people more interested in knowledge and culture than in superstitions or outmoded traditions. The men dressed in Western clothing, were shaved by barbers, played cards. The women were unveiled and wore their hair and dresses short. People embraced modernity and the elegance of past centuries at the same time. They danced, drank wine and spirits from cut crystal glasses, dined on finely prepared food, smoked cigarettes. They debated politics and international matters in the open spaces of cafés and salons. When they went out, they were remarkably attired: The men’s garments were tailored from the finest fabrics, and the women’s dresses were fashioned of velvet or satin. They wore lengths of pearls and earrings. If they smoked, their cigarette holders were intricately designed accessories. Intelligent conversations were politely but energetically exchanged among them.
Soleiman also brought home a typewriter, which would be the first step toward the efficient mechanization of the family’s business. Letters to European suppliers could be typed, inventories and invoices in other languages prepared. Those small details were a way to distinguish themselves in their business. The typewriter, like his convertible Ford sedan, aroused curiosity and respect among friends and family members. His father, of course, was delighted with his son’s ingenuity. Soleiman’s subsequent apprenticeship continued at Haji Rahim’s side.
The Cohen patriarch had witnessed great changes in his lifetime. Haji Rahim had started his business trading with other Jews in the mahalleh, cultivating the reputation and resources necessary to procure a hojreh, or office space, in the historic Grand Bazaar in Tehran. He and his partner, Dai Yousef, had traveled to Paris for many years, by caravan and train. In the early part of the century, these excursions often took up to nine months’ round trip. They procured false papers, which permitted them to leave the mahalleh and travel abroad. On the outbound trip, Haji Rahim and Dai Yousef packed suitcases with Persian rugs, antiques, and handicrafts. Once they sold these items, they purchased rich fabrics to sell in Tehran.
This is when Haji Rahim changed his family name from Kohan to the more Ashkenazi version, Cohen, which he used when conducting business in Europe. Haji Rahim saved his money. He insisted on high quality, and before long, the fabrics he brought back from France—used mostly to make women’s chadors—became renowned.
When Jews were freed from the restrictions of the ghetto, Haji Rahim was among the first to seize previously unavailable opportunities. He purchased property and built a large, modern store in the middle of a developing commercial neighborhood. He called it Magasin Kohan, using the more familiar-to-Persians spelling of the family name, and located it on Lalezar Street, whose narrow design encouraged pedestrian shoppers to cross from one side to the other, giving businesses on either side more traffic. Here, he and his sons catered to the upper-class families living in the northern part of the city under the snowy brow of the Alborz Mountains. They sold the finest French silks, by the centimeter. When a family needed to dress its daughters, all the girls came together. Mothers and aunts, to
o, all of them covered in chador from head to toe. Magasin Kohan overflowed with bolts of fabric. When new shipments arrived, women flocked to the store, eager to be the first to see and purchase the new stock. Even after 1937, when Reza Shah instituted laws allowing women to unveil, the matrons and daughters of Tehran still wanted for their fashionable new dresses the luxurious fabrics found only at Magasin Kohan.
On many occasions, Haji Rahim was summoned to the palace of Reza Shah, where he presented only the best silks to the ladies of the court. Eventually, Haji Rahim, purveyor of cloth to the royal family, was honored to become one of the few representatives of the Jewish community to participate in the Day of Salaam on the Occasion of the Shah’s Birthday, which was held at the palace. Thus he was protected, given opportunities, and allowed to thrive. But like the Biblical Esther’s cousin Mordecai, who had also served a Persian king, Haji Rahim kept his ear to the ground.
The family became quite successful in this new era of reform and Jewish emancipation. The older Cohen sons married and moved out of the family home. They purchased vacant parcels, demolished any structures on these properties, and built new houses. Haji Rahim approved when his unmarried third son, Soleiman, talked of building his own home and living in it as a bachelor. Such a move was unprecedented, and though Gohar privately wished for her son the blessing of a wife and children, Haji Rahim convinced her such forward thinking would result in great prosperity. “A wife and children will come,” he assured her, “but Soli must find his way alone first.”
AND THEN TRAGEDY STRUCK. In 1932, Haji Rahim Cohen fell ill. Gohar woke late one night to find her husband sick with fever.
“I feel chilled,” he told her.
His wife bundled him in blankets. Just as quickly, he peeled off the layers, sweating and aching everywhere. And then she bundled him again. She gave him little sips of water, applied poultices, tended to him without rest. When the rash appeared on his torso, she knew it was typhus. Day after day, the rash advanced, sparing only Haji Rahim’s face, soles, and palms. There was nothing Gohar could do to make him better. As the illness progressed, he grew sensitive to light and became delirious. One night, he looked up at his wife for the last time, smiled, and closed his eyes. When Soleiman arrived at their house the next morning, he found his mother cradling his father’s head in her arms. Haji Rahim looked peaceful, but Soleiman could feel the sorrowful weight of his death.
Mourners came from near and far to pay respects to the leader of the Jewish community and the Cohen family. It was true what they said, Soleiman thought: when a person dies, a library burns. With Haji Rahim’s passing, volumes upon volumes had turned to dust: A story about being a Jewish man in a Muslim country. A story about a man with a vision. A story with long histories, things that didn’t make sense, such as hatred, and things that meant perseverance, such as love. As one of Haji Rahim’s five sons, Soleiman was responsible to live new stories, make new pages, chapters, and books; gather and preserve new collections.
Thus he lived according to a code of ethics he had learned from his father, older brothers, and certain elders in the community. Mostly, it was a way of being he had inherited, to be present no matter where he was. In paying attention, he attended to what he saw needed doing. If he saw suffering, he provided consolation with discretion and grace. If he came upon neediness, he shared what he had. If he saw something that was broken, he made sure it was fixed. And when he encountered beauty, he protected and nurtured it.
He spoke several Western languages, kept abreast of modern culture, and practiced refined living. From his family he had learned to value the honesty of good relationships and the loyalty they inspired. Living in Paris had allowed Soleiman to forge deep and long-lasting alliances with other Persian Jews who had gone to France or had been sent there by their families to explore economic opportunities. Being so far away from home taught him to always remember all that was good about who he was and where he was from. From his sojourns in France he had learned, too, the art of socializing and entertaining: he developed charm and with it, a taste for card games, music, dancing, good food, and spirits. Because he was both Persian and Jewish, moderation tempered Soleiman’s enjoyment. Thus, he liked to play cards, but only for small stakes; the focus was not on winning or losing but rather gathering with his friends to celebrate a good life. The combination of his joie de vivre and sense of propriety distinguished him.
Soleiman understood the importance of distinction. It was something you couldn’t overdo lest it become disingenuous or abrasive. Without it, you’d be ignored. Too much, you’d be avoided. But to be distinct, distinguished in just the right measure—that was the mark of a dignified man. Yet because he had traveled, lived, and studied abroad, Soleiman knew distinction was different in the two worlds he inhabited. He had grasped the notion that for Ashkenazi Jews, distinction was linked to assimilation, whereas for Mizrahi Jews, it was a matter of preserving tradition but being able to do so in an environment of tolerance. Moreover, distinction in Iranian culture had to do more with a man’s honorable character, in particular, his good deeds; in Europe, one’s achievements were often defined by material wealth.
To negotiate these two spheres, Soleiman cultivated himself as a businessman with a reputation for being fair, honest, and convivial. He developed a property, a corner lot on Avenue Pahlavi, which he called his “little Paris.” There he oversaw the construction of a complex of his own design, influenced by architecture he had seen in French cities. A commercial structure, with stores in front and apartments above, was built on the part of the parcel facing the avenue. Above were two floors of large apartments, all equipped with indoor plumbing, wood- or charcoal-burning stoves, and oversized chimneys. Behind these apartments was a courtyard.
At the back of the Avenue Pahlavi property was Soleiman’s house; a round pool was centered in a lush garden. Oversized windows and doors defined the house; the staircases were wide with a shallow rise. The car was kept near the gatekeeper’s room where Rahman the gardener lived. In English, the car’s brownish crimson color was called maroon, from the French word marron, for chestnut. Soleiman loved the hue and, equally, the words in any language to describe it. Maroon recalled claret, and like the wine, suggested the sophisticated romance of those lands where grapes are grown. He kept the cabriolet polished and in good repair and never drove it if it wasn’t spotless on the inside and gleaming on the exterior. People would remember the car, he hoped, as a beacon of a new age and as the symbol of a man who had excelled in all ways.
Only one other full-time resident occupied the home on Avenue Pahlavi—Bijou, a medium-sized tan and white dog. She greeted Soleiman each morning when he awoke and each evening when he returned from work. She accompanied her master on most of his outings around Tehran and especially loved visiting his mother. Gohar always reserved a scrap or two on a small plate for the dog.
“She never leaves me but won’t follow if I go away,” Soleiman once told his mother. “When I come home, she’s happy to see me. We take walks together, and I’m left to pursue my own thoughts. If I desire company, she obliges me. So why do I need a wife, Nana Jan?” he asked, laughing. “I have Bijou.”
Soleiman thought of the dog as he sat in his car. Bijou was at home today, probably stretched out on the floor at the entrance to the kitchen, head on paws, eyebrows twitching as she watched the cook prepare breakfast for the other help in the house at Avenue Pahlavi. She was a patient dog, well behaved, and she understood the art of begging without ever appearing to beg. Eventually she’d get a taste of something good.
The day spread upon the city. The air smelled to Soleiman like April should smell—greening, but with snow capping the Alborz Mountains. Beyond those dramatic peaks was the Caspian Sea, and beyond its waters a whole world, one now dangerous with war. The first time he had crossed those mountains—before the Great War—Soleiman was a boy of seven or eight. He went all the way to Paris, with his father and uncle. The world was not yet at war.
Soleiman got out of the car. As soon as he walked inside his mother’s apartment, she would smile at him. Gohar’s warm and familiar welcoming face would one day be missed. Especially by him. But, he told himself, she is still here, and that day has not yet come to miss her smile, and anyway, today is a day to enjoy your life.
“Nana Jan,” he said, opening the door to his mother’s home, “I’m here.”
Go Tell It on the Mountain
2 APRIL 1942 / PESACH 5702, TEHRAN
SOLEIMAN HELPED HIS MOTHER into the maroon cabriolet parked outside her apartment. At the same moment, a girl from Poland stretched her long legs inside a tent pitched at a refugee camp. Both of these small actions took place on the first day of Pesach, in different parts of Tehran. In a small corner of the shelter, the girl arranged a variety of objects in a small circle. She’d be sixteen in one week, but she was already wise as a grandmother.
In her brief walks along the shore at Bandar-e Pahlavi, where the refugees landed before they were dispatched to Tehran and other Persian cities, Suzanna Kohn had collected a feather, a shell, a bit of grass, a date pit, some seaweed, and a tree leaf. All yesterday, these items had clicked in her pocket as she sat in the bus that slowly bumped along the treacherous road to Tehran. They symbolized for her the items placed on the seder plate: shank bone, egg, bitter herb, charoset, vegetable, and lettuce. To anyone who might have looked inside the tent, her arrangement was unrecognizable for what she intended. Just some random, beach-combed items, retrieved by a girl who had survived a Soviet forced-labor camp and was now a liberated refugee. But for Suzanna, who felt the sting of exile, the little things she laid down in the circle were part of a promise she had made, to set a seder table, no matter where she was, on her first Passover as a freed person.
Six Thousand Miles to Home Page 21
