Six Thousand Miles to Home

by Kim Dana Kupperman

  She and her mother washed and dressed and found their way to the kitchen. Later, Suzanna laughed to think of their first day at the house on Avenue Pahlavi. She and Mama dressed in the plain, starched housekeeping uniforms. They went into the kitchen and surprised the cook and his helpers. No one knew what to say to the two foreign women, let alone how to say it. Mama went straight to the counter, picked up a knife next to a basket of onions, and proceeded to chop them. Suzanna took her place at the sink and started to wash pots and pans. Eventually, all the people in the kitchen settled into a work rhythm.

  Until, of course, Mr. Cohen discovered where they were. Later, Suzanna learned what had happened on the other side of the kitchen wall. Her host, dressed in a jacket and tie, had sat alone at the large dining-room table, growing increasingly perplexed when his guests didn’t arrive for dinner. After a half hour of waiting, he sent the housekeeper in search of them. She checked all the upstairs bedrooms first, even looked in the closets. Exasperated, she and the other servants checked the rooms downstairs, which brought the housekeeper finally to the kitchen. There of course, she located the two refugee women, working to prepare what was supposed to be their own welcome feast. Soleiman Cohen had come immediately once he was informed.

  “Non, mesdames,” he said gently. “As long as you are in my house, as long as you are in Tehran, for all the time you are in Iran, you are my guests. Les invitées ne travaillent pas. Guests don’t need to work.”

  Suzanna heard her mother speak, first thanking the gentleman, then saying something about not being able to accept his charity without losing her dignity. “Nous avons besoin de travailler. Nous voulons être independentes. Surtout pour ma fille.” Suzanna didn’t understand at that moment, in fact she was quite confused given the episode with the uniforms, but some days afterward, Mama explained. It was important to not depend on others, especially unmarried men. Furthermore, both she and Suzanna needed to work in order to support themselves. “One day, we will leave Tehran for London, Suzi,” her mother reminded her. “And we will need money to go there.”

  THAT POOR HOUSEKEEPER, SUZANNA THOUGHT, once dinner had ended and she had retired to the room designated as hers. She hoped the woman hadn’t suffered too much embarrassment. She opened the window. Below was the garden, a round pool, and the small, one-room gatekeeper house. The night air was cool and smelled like spring in the mountains, a familiar scent that comforted Suzanna and made her think of what was once home. But when the breeze picked up and carried with it a scent of jasmine, it was clear to the tall girl from Poland how far away from Teschen she was. Would she ever return? she wondered. She couldn’t picture such a thing because in her mind’s eye, her Teschen had become a Nazi town where everything was changed. These were Milly’s words in a letter, which survived the black ink of the censors. The end of the war still seemed impossible to Suzanna, and it was all she could do to believe she had been saved from the malevolence she had witnessed firsthand.

  Still, here she was in the present, able to turn her attention to beauty: The bed was made with freshly ironed sheets, a soft blanket, and a real pillow. A bouquet of cut flowers—roses, sprays of jasmine, lilies—stood, as if in relief to the rest of the room and its furniture. The vase and the blossoms had been chosen by someone; perhaps Mr. Cohen himself, Suzanna thought, understanding that the floral arrangement was a message of tenderness and promise, one meant to be safeguarded. The lavender soap was fragrant on her skin. To bathe in a proper tub, with hot water and towels—this was beyond any expectation. She was sure Mama appreciated it, too. Someone, probably that poor housekeeper, had set out on the dressing table a little blue tin of Nivea cream, a hairbrush and comb, and a small bottle of perfume. Such simple, special things, which, like the scented, spring air, seemed both customary and foreign at the same time. Suzanna touched each of these objects lightly, to make sure they were real. The smooth, dark blue metal of the Nivea tin, the silver handle and real bristles of the brush. The smooth teeth of the tortoiseshell comb. The atomizer bulb on the perfume bottle.

  Suzanna settled into the comfortable bed in a clean, soft nightgown. She contemplated the evening. The dinner, once she and Mama were finally seated at the dining table, had been like nothing she experienced. The candlelight refracted through the crystal glasses had cast liquid shadows on the place settings and the arrangement of flowers and bowls of fruit. The chairs were soft and welcoming and on the floors were the most exquisite hand-woven carpets Suzanna had ever seen. She wanted to take off her shoes and feel the blue and beige wool of those rugs against her bare feet.

  Their host, this generous Mr. Cohen, was a man possessed of what her parents called character, a quality visible in his posture, grace of movement, the angle of his head as he listened intently, a way of speaking that was considered. Mr. Cohen was a gentleman, and in the sense of the word Suzanna had learned from her family—he was both refined in manner and robust—of opinion, of mind, of body. Suzanna had felt instantly at ease during their meal.

  As they dined, from the radio came the sounds of classical Persian music, featuring a single vocalist, a drum, and melodies whose notes were made by plucked and hammered strings. Suzanna discerned the simple rhythmic patterns of the music, its rapid tempo and dense ornamentation. The emphasis was on cadence, symmetry, and repetition at different pitches. She pictured the piano at home—would she ever set her hands on one again? Even though she ached to sit in her house in Teschen, to have everything suddenly return to what it was, just then she felt content to listen to the rich melodies of another culture, the songs bright and crisp and infused with a formal, poetic structure.

  In his amiable manner, Mr. Cohen had explained the instruments: They were called dombak, tar, and santour. The dombak was the drum. The tar, he said, was like a lute. And the santour was a hammered dulcimer made of walnut wood with seventy-two metal strings. “It is the national instrument of Iran,” he said.

  The house at Avenue Pahlavi had a heart, which radiated happiness through the man who had received Suzanna and her mother in his home and at his table. His breadth of knowledge and genuine courtesy intrigued her. She took in the welcoming atmosphere, and it recalled her former life in Poland. While Suzanna was grateful for the food, the hospitality, and her gentlemanly host, she was saddened her brother wasn’t seated at this lovely welcome table. Peter should be here, she had thought, to share this first real meal with her and Mama, to commemorate their freedom. Papa would also have loved this house, the way Mr. Cohen dressed, the shiny automobile he drove. And her father would have appreciated Mr. Cohen’s way of making her and Mama feel at home. Suzanna knew Papa was no longer alive, though she never dared to speak of it. She had no idea, no instruction, as to how one carries such knowledge. She could place no stone on his grave because she didn’t know where he was buried … or if he was buried. None of them talked about his death. But she and Mama and Peter each had guessed, privately, at Papa’s suffering and eventual demise.

  When the first course was served, Suzanna was brought out of her reverie by the earthy scent of turmeric accompanied by a sunny, citrus smell. Mr. Cohen had called the dish chelow abgusht. Neither stew nor soup, it started with tah-dig, the coveted, crisped-in-ghee rice from the bottom of the pot, over which was ladled a steaming broth filled with pieces of tender chicken. Garnished with dried lemon powder, the dish was delectable and nourishing. Suzanna understood immediately, perhaps from the way Mr. Cohen carefully described what they were eating, that this was her host’s favorite comfort food. Later, once she was married with children, Suzanna made her own flavorful and unique soup from a chicken stuffed with turmeric-seasoned rice and cumin seeds. But now she was a guest, being served as if she were an important dignitary visiting the court of a modern-day prince. She was intoxicated by the aroma of the steaming Basmati rice—like bread baking—and the unmistakable scent of the saffron with which it was seasoned. And she was enthralled by the various tastes of the Persian stews called khoresh, all served on large
platters. Suzanna and her mother sampled them all, and Mr. Cohen patiently explained each dish.

  Dessert consisted of petits fours and custard-filled, millefeuille pastries from Patisserie Park, served with tea. For a moment, Suzanna forgot she wasn’t at home. She stopped thinking about who wasn’t there or, even, where she had been, or how she had arrived here. In that instant, she was content.

  “Joyeux anniversaire, Mademoiselle Suzanna,” said her host. He was wishing her a happy birthday. She smiled.

  NOW, LYING ON A BED IN A ROOM OF HER OWN, satisfied to have had such a splendid birthday, she fingered the linens, the comfort of their soft edges a thing she didn’t know she had missed so much. Suzanna wasn’t sure she’d be able to fall asleep. If she stayed up late, she could rest in the morning, as late as she wished. She didn’t have anywhere to be or any trains to catch; no one was waiting for her; no reveille would sound, nor would she be corralled into a head count in a space called the zona. Suddenly, she wondered if sleeping late—whenever late started—would seem disrespectful. What did her host expect of them? Of her? Into Suzanna’s mind rushed a dark tangle of thoughts. She was, once again, confused. Because she didn’t know how to act, she was afraid. Her heartbeat accelerated, and Suzanna found it difficult to catch her breath. She felt chilled and warm at the same time. Pain tightened in her chest.

  “Mama!” she called.

  It didn’t take long for her mother to wrap herself in a shawl and come to Suzanna’s side.

  She sat on the bed and held her daughter. “Suzi?” she said gently. The girl had learned to cry silently.

  The crying always started like that—a bolt of panic caused by not understanding how to behave or act lest she endanger or embarrass herself, Mama, or Peter. Distress followed the stab of anxiety, pushing up and out of her chest as deep, heaving sobs with no sound. Sometimes, Suzanna called out for help or screamed, waking herself from nightmares.

  Now she shivered. The jag had passed. Mama felt her forehead, just to be sure. But Suzanna knew she had no fever.

  “Maybe too much food,” her mother said softly. “Try to rest, Suzi.”

  Two Lives Come Together

  SUMMER 1942, TEHRAN

  JOSEFINA WAS GRATEFUL THAT SOLEIMAN COHEN wanted to shelter her and Suzanna unconditionally and for whatever amount of time was required to return to an existence similar to their prewar lives. However, she felt compelled to make it clear that her independence and dignity were at stake. When he offered her a position as manager of his household staff, Josefina was pleased with his graciousness. She rose to the occasion of directing the domestic affairs in the Avenue Pahlavi house, though the servants had already been meticulously instructed to carry out such tasks by Mr. Cohen.

  She woke early and accompanied Rahman the gardener to the bakery, though she deferred to his choices about bread. Simply to be in a place where bread was made and sold soothed Josefina, who as a child had spent as much time as possible in her father’s bakery. The last correspondence from her sister-in-law, Milly, contained nothing but bad news. The Eisner bakery and mill had been Aryanized, and Milly and her little daughter had been evicted from the apartment above the business. Worse, her father had died in December 1941. The details of Papa’s death had been blacked out by the censor’s pen, and Josefina didn’t learn the truth until after the war ended. Her father, Hermann Eisner, had fallen on the late-December ice, on Głęboka Street, where Josefina had lived with Julius when they were first married, and where Peter and Suzi both took their first steps. Because he was a Jew, Hermann Eisner had to wait for an ambulance to come from the Jewish hospital in Orlau. He spent six hours lying in the gutter in below-zero weather. Josefina could not dispel the terrible coincidence that Orlau was not only where her parents were married and first lived, but where their first three children, including her, were born. Just after arriving at the hospital in Orlau, Hermann died.

  Josefina accompanied the cook to the market, where they selected the best fruits and vegetables and, upon occasion, the most tender cut of lamb. What a pleasure, she thought, inhaling the fragrant melons and admiring the glossy eggplants. She saw to the flowers being arranged perfectly and introduced recipes for European dishes, delighting as Mr. Cohen sampled her schnitzel, strudel, and palachinki.

  As she acclimated to quotidian life in Tehran, Josefina also resumed parenting her daughter in a manner approximate to their prewar life. Suzanna’s formal education had been suspended, which was worrisome. Moreover, Josefina had become extremely sensitive to their living in a home with an unmarried man. Suzanna was an attractive young woman and, in this country, of an age to marry.

  “It is worth minding,” Josefina said to her daughter, “that a bachelor with means is likely seeking a bride.” She made it clear she wanted two things for Suzanna: First, not to count on marriage as a path to independence. Though a husband must be a good provider, it was best he be one’s peer—in age, custom, community, and language. It was Josefina’s firm belief that a woman should marry only after she had become a young adult, not before. Love, she told her daughter, not necessity or convenience, should guide two people to take such important vows. Secondly, it was important for any woman to learn a skill, and preferable if it were one you could practice anywhere. For Josefina, England remained the destination she had in mind for her and her children once this war was over, and didn’t Suzanna recall that Peter had suggested they meet there? Tehran was only a temporary stop for the two of them, she said repeatedly.

  “Dressmaking would be ideal for you, Suzi,” she said. “You are already quite skilled with the needle. And here, at last, we have quality fabrics and thread.”

  Suzanna nodded.

  “Mr. Cohen has found a lady who will take you on as an apprentice,” Josefina said. “Her name is Madame Lya, and she is a very sought-after dressmaker.” Josefina saw an eagerness in her daughter’s face.

  “Does she speak French?” Suzanna asked. She had been practicing her French daily with Mr. Cohen’s youngest sister, Talat, who was also educating Suzanna about Persian cuisine. She loved visiting with Talat, who was ten years her senior, already wise, patient, and gentle. She was a woman who liked to laugh a lot, and her sisterly company brought not only cheerfulness, but a normalcy to Suzanna’s interrupted life.

  Madame Lya was a Romanian Jew, Josefina explained, and yes, like the majority of Eastern European women in Tehran, she spoke French.

  ONCE JOSEFINA AND SUZANNA established a comfortable routine, an introduction to members of the Cohen family was planned. Soleiman did not want to overwhelm his two charges with all nine of his siblings and their respective spouses and children; thus he suggested they gather for an informal meal with his mother, his two older brothers and their wives, and Talat and her husband. He insisted that Josefina and Suzanna attend the small gathering as les invitées; he wanted them to enjoy, as honored guests, one of the luncheons he often hosted for his family.

  For such midday meals, Soleiman usually served poulet rôti and frites, followed with a salad of sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and slivered onions dressed with olive oil, lemon, salt, and pepper. Afterward, he offered his guests an assortment of fruit and European-style desserts served with his special blend of tea made with Earl Grey, Darjeeling, and Assam, seasoned with cardamom and a gentle splash of rosewater.

  Gohar arrived early with Talat and her husband, Rouhollah, whom Soleiman took into the parlor, where they drank Scotch, chatted, and waited for the two older Cohen brothers to arrive. Josefina and Suzanna and the women repaired to a sitting room. Talat helped her mother settle into a large armchair.

  “We finally meet,” said Gohar in Farsi to the refugees, fixing them with her penetrating but welcoming regard. Talat translated.

  Josefina smiled. Suzanna bowed her head and did not see the tender expression on the elder lady’s face.

  “Child,” said Gohar gently, “you do not have to defer to me.” Talat laughed softly and nudged Suzanna to raise her head.

>   The girl from Poland was no longer a girl, Gohar saw when Suzanna’s dark eyes met the older woman’s. In fact, she was quite a lovely young woman, so respectful and warm, in spite of the terrible things she had endured. She saw in her a quality she called not fragile: Suzanna’s robust yet innocent and quiet demeanor was a kind of talisman you wished you could touch, not for luck but for sustenance. Some of the Persian girls could learn a thing or two from such a young lady, Gohar thought. She liked Suzanna immediately, and she could see in her face a gratitude for being so unconditionally accepted into a home and culture so vastly different from hers. For the first time, Gohar understood something about her son Soli: because of his dedication to his family and culture and because of his education in France—which took place at roughly the same age this Suzanna was now—he had become entangled between cultures. He must have recognized in the girl from Poland something in himself that once needed protection when he was a sojourner in a foreign land all those years ago.

  Gohar thought it providential: Suzanna had come into her son’s life in a seamless way; everything about her seemed to fit the present circumstance. Talat had nothing but praise for her, and Gohar could see why. Would my Soli now consider marriage? she wondered. This Polish girl—a woman, really, Gohar corrected herself—would make a perfect bride. Suzanna and Soli would come to such a union bringing uniquely formed yet similar sensibilities. They would complement one another’s strengths and weaknesses, just as she, a traditional Jewish woman from Kashan, had complemented the modern ways of her worldly, mahalleh-born Tehrani husband. And besides, thought Gohar, the world needed the kind of tolerance that permitted Mizrahi and Ashkenazi Jews to marry; this was a condition for repair of the world, of that she was certain.