The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Azadeh almost laughed. As if there were someplace to go!

  Pari took a careful sip of the coffee. “This is so nice of you,” she said.

  Azadeh nodded, then sat down on the corner of the bed. The hut was so small that she could reach across the room and touch Pari’s knees.

  Pari took the tray and a plastic knife and began slicing the bread. The Iranian bread, or nân, was round as a pancake but thicker and brown and made of hard wheat, well cooked, without yeast. It had a brittle crust that crumbled in her hand, leaving a soft, spongy middle, which she then broke in two. The brown spread was half butter, half jelly, and heavy with spice. Azadeh smelled the jelly and her belly grumbled. Pari took a piece of the bread and smothered it in spice jelly, then handed it to her.

  Azadeh waited until the older woman had prepared her own piece before lifting the bread to her mouth.

  “Could we offer grace?” Pari interrupted before Azadeh could take a bite.

  Azadeh hesitated, not understanding.

  “Thanksgiving,” Pari explained.

  Azadeh nodded, and Pari bowed her head. Azadeh kept her eyes open, but she bowed her head too. “Father, I thank you for this meal,” Pari said. “I am grateful that I don’t have to be hungry today. And I thank you for sending me a new friend. Bless her for her kindness. In your Son’s name, amen.”

  Azadeh hesitated as Pari lifted the bread and took a small bite, then followed her lead and began eating. The crust was hard, almost bitter, but the inner portion was soft, the jelly sweet, and she savored each bit. The coffee was black and heavy with sugar, and she held her plastic cup tightly, letting it warm her hands.

  Looking around the small room, she noticed the young man’s picture on the bureau. “One of your sons?” she asked politely.

  Pari laughed. “Oh no, Miss Azadeh, that picture is much older than that. That is my husband, Yitzhak Nakash. Both of us were much younger when that picture was taken, as I’m sure you can see.”

  Azadeh leaned toward the picture, which showed a tall man standing between two marble pillars. A crystal-clear pool shimmered in the background, and exquisite granite tile was under his feet. She studied the man in his white suit and white hat. “He is very handsome,” she said.

  “Yes, dear, he was. And smart. Oh, so smart! He read everything. He had more books, oh, you should have seen them, his library reached up to the ceiling. I used to tease him that he loved them more than me. He assured me he didn’t. And I usually believed him; he could be so convincing, you know.” Pari stopped and smiled shyly, and Azadeh noticed her dancing eyes—those eyes with their secrets that Pari would never tell.

  “Yitzhak was such a beautiful talker,” Pari went on wistfully. “He was so smooth and sweet. He used to tell me—” she stopped suddenly, then took a slow bite of her nân. “It was a long time ago,” she concluded with a firm shake of her head.

  Azadeh hesitated. “He is not with you?” she wondered.

  “No, Azadeh. He died years ago.”

  Azadeh nibbled politely. “I’m sorry, madam Pari.”

  “No, no, it’s all right. In my prayers sometimes I ask God to scold him for leaving me alone for so long. It hardly seems fair, him leaving so soon and the way that he did. When I see him again, believe me, I’m going to let him know. But I’ll reprimand him only for a moment, and then I will rejoice.”

  Azadeh was silent a moment, then motioned to the silver cross over Pari’s bed. “You are a Christian?” she asked carefully, not knowing if it might be an inappropriate question.

  The old woman hesitated and Azadeh sensed her tightening up. Her shoulders had been slumping, but now she sat square and placed her arms on her lap. “Yes. I am a Persian Christian. There are a few of us left.”

  Azadeh took a bite of her bread and chewed slowly, still fearful of saying the wrong thing. But it was so . . . fascinating. She felt drawn to the cross, and she stood up and moved closer, leaning over the head of the bed. She touched it with both hands, running her fingers down both sides. It felt so solid, so heavy, as if it was ten pounds of pure silver. “This represents the suffering of the Great Prophet Jesus?” she asked.

  “Yes, child, it does.”

  “He was killed on the cross? Crucified?”

  Pari nodded in answer.

  “You celebrate the death of your God? I do not understand.”

  Pari thought a long moment. “We do not celebrate his death, but we remember it, yes. His death was important because he died for me.”

  “He died for you?”

  “He died for all of us, Miss Azadeh.”

  Azadeh shook her head. It seemed horribly cruel. What kind of religion believed that men would crucify their own god? What kind of religion would worship such a powerless being, a god who could not even defend himself against his own creations? And what kind of religion would worship a god who was dead? She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t question it now. Odd as it seemed, she didn’t see any particular evil in this belief; it seemed foolish, perhaps, but not wicked. And Pari certainly didn’t seem like a devil, though Azadeh knew that was what most of their people would have considered her.

  “There were no Christians in my village,” Azadeh continued after some thought. “But I went to private school outside of my village, and I had a friend who was a Christian. We called him Oman, but his mother called him David. He was a good friend. Bright but quiet. I thought he was honorable.”

  “So you can be honorable and still be a Christian?” Pari asked with a laugh in her voice.

  “My father said you could,” Azadeh quickly replied, anxious not to offend.

  A warm wisp of steam lifted from Pari’s cup, and she smelled it deeply before taking a sip. “There have been Christians inside Persia for more than 800 years,” she said. “We have been part of the government, business leaders, traders, craftsmen . . . most anything. We have flourished and we have famished, depending on who is in power. But since the rise of the ayatollahs, we have been nearly destroyed.”

  Pari glanced at her surroundings and concluded, “You realize that is why I am here.”

  Azadeh nodded. She had suspected that.

  “Our countrymen will no longer tolerate us,” Pari said. “We have been forced to leave our homes, cast out from our people. It has always been dangerous to be a Christian in Persia, but it is most deadly now. There is much to fear if you believe as I do.”

  Azadeh nodded sadly, thinking of her own village and her status of an outcast. She remembered her father and his whispered conversations with Omar in the night. Both of them feared. Everyone feared in Persia. It was the way that they lived. “Tolerance is anathema to their teachings,” she said, not needing to specify who she meant by they. “They believe there is a battle between Allah’s teachings and the influences of the world. There are true believers and heathens, and you must choose which side you are on. You are either with them or against them, but there is no middle ground.”

  Pari pressed her lips. “I guess that is a fairly accurate description,” she said. “But I had some neighbors, good friends, and they were not always so intolerant. A few of them were not good people, yes, but most were simply afraid. So they did what they had to. But there were some good people too.”

  Azadeh shook her head, thinking of her own people in Agha Jari Deh. “Not enough of them,” she replied bitterly, her voice hard and low. “They will betray you. They will hate you. They will take everything.”

  Pari watched her a moment, noting the look in her eye. There was a bitterness, a hard squint, that had not been there before. “Who are you talking about, Azadeh?” she asked quietly.

  Azadeh moved angrily to the edge of the bed. “I’m talking about everyone!” she said in a bitter voice. “Maybe there are some good people out there, but they are few and far between. And what chance do they have? They are always destroyed. The bad ones are stronger! They will always win. It is better to be quiet. It is better to hide. It is better to quietly do what it ta
kes to get by and live.”

  Pari took another slow bite of bread and studied her younger friend. “You know, little Azadeh, you are going to have to decide.”

  Azadeh moved her head to the side. “Decide what?” she asked.

  “Will your heart be softened, or will you let it become hard, like a wet stone in your chest, like an ice chip that is too cold to hold? Will you turn bitter—or will you remain happy despite the things you have had to endure?”

  Azadeh didn’t answer, though her eyes remained narrow. She shifted her weight on the side of the bed. “Sometimes I wonder,” she admitted. “Does God really love me? And if he does, then why this? My father was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. And did I really deserve this . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

  Pari watched her, then leaned forward on her chair and rested her rough hands on Azadeh’s knee. “I know you’ve been wronged, Azadeh,” the older woman said. “That is clear in your face. I’ve seen that look many times before. You are alone here, deserted. There is a long story inside you that perhaps one day you will tell. But regardless of your story, Azadeh, this much I know. You have to decide how you are going to respond. Will you let your heart grow hard and bitter or will you look to the future and remain able to love?”

  Azadeh looked away. “Sometimes I feel angry. I know that God has always helped me, but sometimes . . . I don’t

  know . . . ” She looked away sadly. “Sometimes I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t answer that, Azadeh. Many things I don’t know. Why we hurt. Why we suffer. I know that life isn’t fair. But I’ve also learned that there is more equity in our struggles than we may believe; there are hidden hurts in those around us that we may never see. Everyone has to suffer—that is part of the plan. But it isn’t the outcome and it isn’t why we are here. So remember that, Azadeh. There are better days ahead. Don’t give up. Don’t grow hard. That is not God’s will.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Azadeh got out of bed long before the sun came up and dressed quickly, then slipped out of her tent and moved up the hill. Keeping to the shadows, she waited outside for the U.N. contract workers to show up at the cafeteria. The head cook, a thin woman from Algiers, nodded to Azadeh as she plodded up the trail in the darkness, then held back the tent flap and let her slip inside.

  Putting on a stained apron, Azadeh went to work. She cleaned the grease drains and ovens, brought in and stacked thirty-pound sacks of flour and ten-pound sacks of sugar and salt, then prepared and kneaded huge blobs of dough. The ovens were warm by the time she finished the first batch, and she pulled off and shaped the nân into flat cakes, then set them inside. Two hours later, just as the sun was rising and the refugees were lining up for breakfast, Azadeh cleaned her hands, wiped the flour off her cheek, and turned to the head cook, who reluctantly paid her the agreed-upon wage.

  Azadeh stared at the commodities, then took the dripping pork sausage, scrambled eggs, and white cheese and arranged them carefully on a paper plate. She placed the food in a small box, covered it with a clean cloth, and slipped out of the tent.

  Walking quickly, she made her way past the line of hungry refugees, nervous in the knowledge that she was hiding a treasure. She hoped the smell of the sausage wouldn’t penetrate the box or she would be mobbed. Pushing through the crowd at the end of the line, she walked past the administration building, off the low hill, and toward the long row of plywood huts. It had rained the night before, a cold and misty drizzle, and a low fog hung over the hills on the east side of the camp. The ground was almost slimy from the powder-fine mud, and she walked carefully, occasionally slipping as if she were walking on ice.

  Down to the second row of huts she walked, then turned left past the latrine and showers, over the small bridge that protected the exposed water pipes and gas line, and east to the fifteenth hut on the right. She stopped in front of the shelter and noted the heavy moisture on the inside of the window. The propane heater created its own condensation, and it appeared that Pari had the heat turned up full blast again.

  Which meant Azadeh wasn’t the only one who had woken up covered in sweat in the night.

  As she pushed the door open, Azadeh was met by a warm wave of moist air. The older woman was still sleeping. The hut was built on a platform elevated six inches off the ground, and Azadeh stopped on the threshold to take off her muddy shoes, which she left outside the door. Stocking-footed, she stepped quietly into the hut and pushed the door closed.

  Pari rolled over to face her as Azadeh walked into the room, then struggled to push herself up on the side of the bed. Azadeh walked to the small bureau and placed the box down. “Good heavens, darling Azadeh, what are you doing here so early?” Pari said.

  “I brought you breakfast,” Azadeh smiled as she helped the older woman sit up. Putting her arms under Pari’s shoulders, she looked quickly around, searching for the handkerchief Pari always tried to keep hidden from her, seeing the tip of the red-tinted white cloth sticking out of her clutched hand. As she lifted her weight, Azadeh felt the dampness of the smaller woman’s night clothes. Pari’s gray hair was matted to her neck, and Azadeh reached for the small wash basin on the bureau. The water was cool, and she dipped a gray washcloth inside. “You didn’t sleep, Bânu?” she asked as she washed Pari’s face and neck.

  “I slept very well, Miss Azadeh,” Pari answered in a weak voice.

  Azadeh shook her head. “No, Bânu, I can see that you didn’t.”

  The older woman didn’t argue but sat, her shoulders slumping, while Azadeh washed her face and combed her hair. “That feels so nice,” she said simply.

  “I’m glad,” Azadeh answered.

  The two were quiet a moment until Azadeh said, “I brought you a surprise for breakfast.”

  Pari’s eyes brightened up. “What? Extra jelly?”

  “Even better,” Azadeh said. “And you’d better eat it now before it gets cold.” She washed her own hands in the clay bowl, then picked up the box and removed the cloth covering, exposing the sausage, eggs, and melted white cheese that had been hidden inside. The aroma immediately filled the room, and Pari leaned forward, a sudden smile on her lips. “My goodness, Miss Azadeh, how did you arrange that?”

  “I guess even we homeless refugees deserve more than bread and jelly once in a while,” she said.

  The older woman stared at her. “They are serving this for breakfast?” she asked in a disbelieving tone.

  “They are this morning,” Azadeh replied.

  Though she had gotten up at 3:00 a.m. and worked in the kitchen for two weeks for this single meal, she didn’t tell Pari. The woman would not have enjoyed it, would perhaps even have refused to eat it, if she had known.

  Pari stared at the scrambled eggs and sausage, then up at Azadeh, her eyes wide with excitement. “I haven’t had eggs for . . . I don’t know . . . years and years. And sausage. I can smell it. It makes my mouth water. How could we be so lucky!”

  Azadeh spread a paper napkin on Pari’s lap, then settled the single plate in front of her and sat on the bed.

  “Oh, no,” Pari said as she saw the plate, “you have to eat too!”

  Azadeh looked at the scrambled eggs and the finger-thin rolls of pork sausage. “I ate at the chow tent,” she said.

  Pari shook her head, then took a clean fork and divided the eggs in two, moving one of the sausages toward the second pile. “Then you will eat again. You must eat with me, Azadeh, or I won’t feel comfortable.”

  Azadeh glanced at the eggs and anxiously nodded yes. The two said grace, then ate slowly, savoring each bite of the special meal. “Delicious!” Pari murmured as she tasted the egg.

  “So good!” Azadeh agreed as she took a bite of sausage.

  They ate in silence. It took only a few minutes before all the food was gone.

  While Azadeh cleaned up, Pari got dressed (same old dress with blue trim), and then they sat together, Pari on her chair, Azadeh on the corner of the bed.

  “
Bânu Pari,” Azadeh said, looking her square in the eye. “I want to ask you something, and I need you to be perfectly honest with me.”

  The older woman smiled. “Now, Miss Azadeh,” she teased, “you know a lady of proper upbringing and stature can never be perfectly honest. There are always a few secrets one must keep to herself.”

  Azadeh smiled, but only barely. “Don’t worry, Bânu Pari, I’m not going to ask your age.”

  “As well you shouldn’t, my dear friend, or I would have to ask you to leave.”

  Azadeh looked stern. “Bânu, I need to be serious for a moment.”

  Miss Pari sat back “All right, Miss Azadeh, what can I do for you?”

  Azadeh nodded toward the red-tinted handkerchief Pari still hid in her hand. “You are sick. You try to hide it. But in the little time I have known you, I have watched you grow frail. I touch you, you have a fever. And the cough. That horrible cough. Now I want you to tell me what is wrong.”

  Pari leaned forward. “Don’t worry for me, Miss Azadeh. I’m not contagious, I promise, or I would never have let you come into my home. Yes, I am sick, but there’s nothing you can do. So let’s not worry about my health, dear. There are other things we can talk about, other things to plan: getting you back in school, getting you out of Khorramshahr, what you will do with your life. So many good things to talk about, so many interesting things. Things of promise and optimism. There are many things we can discuss, but my health is not one of them. We must speak of something else.”

  “No,” Azadeh said firmly. “We will talk of this. I want to know what is ailing you. I want to know why you have come to accept that you will never leave this camp.”

  “Miss Azadeh, why waste our time—”

  “Bânu, you must tell me. And I want to know now!” Azadeh’s eyes grew fierce with a hard light from the fire within. She sat on the edge of the bed, determined, her lips pressed and tight. She had learned—she knew now—that sometimes she had to fight, and she wasn’t going to sit passively and let this thing pass. “You are my friend, Bânu Pari. I trust you. I hope you trust me. But if you feel any affection for me, if you have any feeling for me at all, then I deserve to know.”