The Book of Fate

by Parinoush Saniee

  Massoud acted like a responsible father towards Shirin. He went to enrol her in school, talked to her teachers, walked her to school every day and bought whatever she needed. During the air raids he would pick her up and hide her under the stairs. I delighted in their loving relationship, but unlike most mothers, I was not happy that they were growing up. In fact, it frightened me and my fear deepened as the war dragged on.

  Every year, I told myself the war would end by next year and before Massoud would have to serve in the military, but the war wasn’t ending. News of our neighbours’ or friends’ children having been martyred terrified me even more and learning that Gholam-Ali, Mahmoud’s son, had been killed at the front made me lose heart. I will never forget the last time I saw him. I was shocked to see him standing at the front door. I had not seen him in many years. I don’t know whether it was the army uniform or the strange glint deep in his eyes that made him look much older than he was. He was not the old Gholam-Ali.

  I greeted him with surprise and said, ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Does something have to happen for me to come and see you?’ he asked reproachfully.

  ‘No, my dear, you are always welcome. I was just surprised because this is the first time you have ever come here. Please come in.’

  Gholam-Ali seemed uncomfortable. I poured him a cup of tea and started casually to ask about the family, but I said nothing about the uniform he was wearing or the fact that he had voluntarily enlisted in the army and had been at the front. I think I was afraid of talking about it. The war was steeped in blood, pain and death. When I finally stopped talking, he said, ‘Aunt, I have come to ask for your forgiveness.’

  ‘For what? What have you done, or what are you about to do?’

  ‘You know I have been at the front,’ he said. ‘I am on leave and I will be going back. Well, it’s war and, God willing, I may become a martyr. And if I am to be so fortunate, I need you to forgive me for the way my family and I have treated you and your sons.’

  ‘God forbid! Don’t say such things. You are just starting life. May God never bring the day that something bad happens to you.’

  ‘But it won’t be bad, it will be a blessing. It is my greatest wish.’

  ‘Don’t say these things,’ I chided. ‘Think about your poor mother. If she ever hears you talk like this she will be devastated… I really don’t understand how she could let you go to war. Don’t you know that the consent and approval of your parents is more important than anything else?’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I have her approval. At first she kept crying and weeping. Then I took her to the hotel where some of the victims of war are housed and I said, “Look how the enemy has destroyed people’s lives. It is my duty to defend Islam, my country and our people. Do you really want to stand in the way of my religious obligation?” Mother is really a woman of faith. I think her belief is far stronger than my father’s. She said, “Who am I to challenge God? I am satisfied with his satisfaction.”’

  ‘Fine, my dear; but wait until you have finished school. God willing, the war will be over by then and you will be able to build a comfortable life for yourself.’

  He snickered and said, ‘Yes, just like my father. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes. What is wrong with that?’

  ‘If no one else knows, you certainly do. No, that is not what I want! The front is something else. It is the only place where I feel close to God. You have no idea what it’s like. Everyone willing to give his life, everyone sharing the same goal. No one talks about money and status, no one boasts, no one is after greater profit. It is a contest of devotion and self-sacrifice. You cannot imagine how the guys try to overtake each other to be on the front line. True faith is there, without hypocrisy, without deceit. It was there that I met true Muslims who put no value on worldly goods and material things. I am at peace when I am with them. I am close to God.’

  I was looking down and thinking about the words of deep belief coming from that young man who had found his truth. Gholam-Ali’s sad voice broke the silence.

  ‘When I started going to Father’s shop in the afternoons, the things he did troubled me. I was starting to question everything. You haven’t seen the new house, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. But I have heard it is very large and beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, it’s big,’ he said. ‘It’s as big as you can imagine. You can get lost in it. But, Aunt, it is expropriated property, stolen, do you understand? With all his talk about faith and devoutness, I don’t know how Father can live there. I keep telling him, “Father, this house is not religiously sanctioned; its rightful owner has not given his consent.” And Father says, “The hell with its owner, he was a swindler and a thief and he ran away after the revolution. You are worried that Mr Thief doesn’t approve?” The things he says and does confuse me. I want to run away. I don’t want to be like him. I want to be a real Muslim.’

  I kept him there for dinner. When he said his evening prayer, the purity of his faith and belief made me shiver. As we were saying goodbye, he whispered to me, ‘Pray that I become a martyr.’

  Gholam-Ali’s wish came true and I grieved for a long time. But I could not bring myself to go to Mahmoud’s house to extend my condolences. Mother was angry with me, saying that I had a heart of stone and harboured a grudge as stubbornly as a camel. But I just could not step into that house.

  A few months later, I saw Ehteram-Sadat at Mother’s house. She looked old and broken and her skin sagged on her face and neck. Seeing her, I started to cry. I hugged her, but I didn’t know what to say to a mother who had lost her child and I muttered a customary condolence. She gently pushed me away and said, ‘There is no need for condolences! You should congratulate me. My son has been martyred.’

  I was stunned. I looked at her with disbelief and wiped away my tears with the back of my hand. How does one congratulate a mother who has lost her son?

  When she left, I asked Mother, ‘Is she really not pained by her son’s death?’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Mother said. ‘You have no idea how she is suffering. This is how she consoles herself. Her faith is so strong that it helps her tolerate the pain.’

  ‘You are probably right about Ehteram, but I am sure Mahmoud has taken every advantage of his son’s martyrdom to make a profit—’

  ‘May God take my life! What are you saying, girl?’ Mother scolded. ‘They have lost their son and you are making wisecracks behind their back?’

  ‘I know Mahmoud,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me he hasn’t benefited from his son’s death? It is impossible. Where do you think he gets all his money from?’

  ‘He is a merchant. Why are you so jealous of him? Everyone has their share in life.’

  ‘Come on, you know very well that honest and clean money doesn’t pour in like this. Isn’t Uncle Abbas a merchant, too? And he got started in business thirty years before Mahmoud. How come he still has that one shop and Ali who just got started is shovelling money in? I hear he has signed for a house worth several million tumans.’

  ‘Now you’re going after Ali? God be praised, some people are like my sons, clever and devout, and God helps them. Others are unlucky like you. That is how God wants it and you shouldn’t be so resentful.’

  I didn’t go to see Mother for a long time. I often went to Mrs Parvin’s house, but I never knocked on Mother’s door. Perhaps she was right and I was jealous. But I could not accept that at a time when people were suffering from war and hardship, my brothers were increasing their wealth from one day to the next. No! It was not moral or humane. It was sinful.

  I passed this quiet period in relative poverty, with hard work, and concern for the future.

  A year after Siamak left, Hamid’s mother passed away from a cancer that spread quickly. Her desire to die was palpable and I believed she herself was hastening the spread of her illness. Despite her critical condition, she did not forget us in her will and she made her daughters promise that the
y would not allow us to lose our home. I knew that Mansoureh had been instrumental in this, and later, she did everything she could to stay true to her mother’s wish, standing firm against her sisters.

  Mansoureh’s husband was an engineer and he quickly demolished the old house, replacing it with a four-storey apartment building. During construction, he made every effort to circumvent our side of the garden so that we would not have to move. For two years we lived with dirt, dust and noise until that beautiful building was complete. There were two apartments, each one hundred metres square, on each floor, except for the third floor that was one large apartment where Mansoureh and her family lived. They gave us one of the apartments on the ground floor and Mansoureh’s husband turned the other one into his office. Manijeh had the apartments on the first floor. She lived in one and rented the other one.

  When Siamak found out that we had an apartment, he irritably said, ‘They should have given us a second apartment so that you could rent it and have some income from it. Even that would have been half what is rightfully ours.’

  ‘My dear boy,’ I said laughing. ‘You are still not giving up? It is very kind and caring of them to have given us this apartment. They certainly didn’t have to do it. Think of it this way: we now have a beautiful new home and it did not cost us anything. We should be happy and grateful.’

  Our apartment was finished before the others so that we could move into it and the other side of the garden could also be renovated. We were happy that we each had our own bedroom. Shirin was a bad room-mate and I was pleased to be free of her fun and games and messiness, while Shirin was delighted to be free of my tidiness and constant complaints. Massoud was thrilled with his bright and beautiful bedroom and still considered Siamak to be his room-mate.

  The years were flashing by. Massoud was in the last year of school and the war still continued. Every year that he passed his final exams with excellent grades, my anxiety increased.

  ‘What is your rush?’ I griped. ‘You can go slower and get your diploma a year or two later.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I fail?’ he said.

  ‘What is wrong with that? I want you to stay in school until the war ends.’

  ‘God, no! I have to finish quickly and take some of the responsibility off your shoulders. I want to work. And don’t worry about military service. I promise you I will be accepted at the university and I will have several more years before I have to serve.’

  How could I tell him that he would not pass the universities’ selection process?

  Massoud graduated from school with excellent grades and studied day and night for the university entrance exams. By then he knew that given our family’s past, there was little chance of his being admitted to a university. To console me and perhaps to boost his own morale he would say, ‘I have no political record and everyone at school was pleased with me, they will support me.’

  But it was useless. His application was rejected because of his family’s past political involvements. When he heard the news, he pounded his fist on the table, hurled his books out of the window and wept. And I, who saw all my hopes for his future disappear, cried with him.

  All I could think of was how to protect him from the war. In a few months he would have to report for military service. Siamak and Parvaneh called and said that I had to send Massoud to Germany by any means possible. But I could not convince him.

  ‘I can’t leave you and Shirin alone,’ he argued. ‘Besides, how would we come up with the money? You have only recently finished paying back what you borrowed for Siamak.’

  ‘Money is not important. I will find a way. The important thing is to find someone trustworthy.’

  And that was not a simple matter. The only lead I had was a telephone number and the code name ‘Mrs Mahin’. I called, a man answered and said he was Mrs Mahin, but he did not have the same accent as the young man I had spoken to a few years earlier. Then he started asking strange questions and I suddenly realised that I was falling into a trap so I quickly hung up.

  I asked Mansoureh’s husband for help. A few days later, he told me the smugglers who had taken Siamak and Ardeshir across the border had all been arrested and severe border controls were now in force. And from others I heard about boys who had been arrested while trying to leave the country and about smugglers who had taken the money and abandoned the boys in the mountains or the desert.

  ‘What’s all the grieving for?’ Ali said maliciously. ‘Is your kid any better than other kids? Just like Gholam-Ali, they all have a duty to fight for their country.’

  ‘The likes of you should fight because you benefit from the blessings of this country,’ I retorted. ‘We are strangers here, we have no rights. You have all the money, status and comfort, but my son, with all his talent, does not have the right to get an education and to work. He is rejected by every selection committee because of his relatives’ beliefs, which he does not share. Now, tell me, in deference to which religion does he have to die for this country?’

  At the time, my only logic was that of protecting my child and I was at a loss. I could not find a safe and reliable means of sending him out of the country. And Massoud would not cooperate at all and constantly argued with me.

  ‘Why are you so panicked?’ he asked. ‘Two years of military service is not that long. Everyone has a duty to serve and I will serve, too. Afterwards, I can get a passport and leave the country legally.’

  But I could not accept that.

  ‘The country is at war! It’s not a joke. What will I do if something happens to you?’

  ‘Who says everyone who goes to war will be killed?’ he said. ‘There are all these kids coming back healthy and in one piece. In the end, there is a risk in whatever we do. Do you think escaping the country illegally is any less dangerous?’

  ‘But many boys also die. Have you forgotten Gholam-Ali?’

  ‘Come on, Mother. Don’t make things so difficult. What happened to Gholam-Ali has terrified you, but I promise to come back alive. Besides, by the time I am called to serve and have finished my training period the war may have ended. And since when have you become such a coward? You are the only woman I know who is not afraid of the sirens and the air raids. You used to say, “The chance that our house will be hit is as great as us getting into a car accident, but we don’t spend every day worrying about car accidents.”’

  ‘When you and Shirin are with me, I am not afraid of anything,’ I explained. ‘But you don’t know the horror I feel when the sirens go off and I am not with you. And now, if they send me to the front with you, I will have no worries and no fears.’

  ‘Really! What nonsense. Do you expect me to tell them I won’t go anywhere without my mother? I want my mummy?’

  It was always like this. Our arguments would end with jokes and laughter and a kiss on the cheek.

  Finally, the day arrived when together with thousands of other young men Massoud left for military training. I tried to remain optimistic. My days and nights were like an open prayer rug before God and my hands were raised in supplication for the war to end soon so that my son could return home.

  The conflict had been a part of our lives for seven years, but I had never so profoundly felt its horror. Every day, I witnessed the funeral processions for the martyrs and I wondered whether the number of casualties and wounded soldiers had suddenly increased, or whether there had always been that many. Wherever I went I now came across mothers in the same circumstances as me. It was as if I could instinctively identify them. Having surrendered to fate, we consoled each other in choked voices and with fear in our eyes, all knowing we were terrible liars.

  Massoud completed his training period, but there was no sign of a miracle and the war didn’t end. My efforts to have him assigned to a less dangerous location were useless, so one day I took Shirin’s small hand and we went to see him off to the front. Dressed in his uniform, Massoud looked older and his kind eyes were filled with apprehension. I could not hold back my tears.


  ‘Mum, please,’ he said. ‘You have to control yourself, you have to take care of Shirin. See how strong Faramarz’s mother is, see how calmly the rest of the parents are saying goodbye to their sons?’

  I turned and looked. To my eyes, the mothers were all weeping, even though they shed no tears.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ I said. ‘I will be fine. I will calm down in an hour and in a few days I will get used to you being away.’

  He kissed Shirin and tried to make her laugh. Then he whispered to me, ‘Promise me you will be as beautiful, healthy and strong by the time I come back.’

  ‘And you promise me that you will come back unharmed.’

  I kept my eyes on his face until the last possible moment and impulsively ran alongside the train as it moved out. I wanted to etch the lines of his image in my memory.