My Name Is Mahtob

by Mahtob Mahmoody

  Even after my dad declared he was sending Mom to America, his threats on her life continued. He oscillated between shouting that he would kill her and pronouncing that he would lock her in a basement and she would never again see me or the light of day.

  By then our family had moved into our own apartment. I had my own room filled with toys. For my sixth birthday, my parents had given me a ballerina that sat daintily upon a swing suspended from my bedroom ceiling by ropes adorned with pink bows. The bombings still came at night, and I hated my dad for making me sleep in my own room. I felt much safer tucked in between my parents. There I could protect Mom from my dad if he lost his temper, and Mom could protect me from the bombs.

  I remember lying in bed at night, sobbing because I felt so betrayed by Mom. For eighteen months she had promised me every day that she would take me home, that she would never leave Iran without me. Even as the final preparations were made for her departure, she kept telling me what I was sure were lies.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mere days before Mom was to leave for the States, an ambulance arrived at our apartment to take my dad to the hospital where he was employed as an anesthesiologist. Because of the war, the purchase of automobiles was rationed. We did not have a vehicle, so when his services were needed he was driven to the hospital by ambulance.

  In the days preceding he had become increasingly violent and suspicious of Mom’s every move. And he was right to be suspicious. Just that morning he had unknowingly thwarted our most recent escape plot.

  Through the shopkeeper, Mom had met a man who had dedicated himself in earnest to helping us. Over the months he had staged several well-intentioned but unsuccessful escape attempts. That morning, as Mom walked me to the bus stop, someone was supposed to snatch us off the street. But my dad, throwing one of his customary tantrums, had taken me instead. Now he refused to go with the ambulance, even though there was a woman visiting who said she would stay with us until he returned. There was no way he was letting us out of his sight.

  The ambulance driver was insistent, though, and my dad reluctantly gave in to his urging. This must have been an uncomfortable exchange for our unsuspecting visitor. The woman, who had been thrust into the unsought role of prison guard by my father, had a daughter around my age. We played on the floor while our moms sat on the couch making small talk.

  Shortly after my dad left, Mom excused herself and went upstairs. She was gone for what felt like an eternity.

  One thing both of my parents agreed on was the importance of being a good host. My anxiety grew as the minutes passed and Mom hadn’t returned to sit with our guests. I shot furtive glances towards the stairs hoping to see Mom emerge. Finally I, too, excused myself and ran to see what had happened.

  Mom was in her bedroom frantically shoving items into a giant purse. I climbed onto the stationary bike at the end of the bed and watched as I pedaled. I was confused. We had guests in the house. Why was she not visiting with them? Mom brushed off my concerns and shooed me back downstairs to announce that she would soon follow.

  When at long last I spotted Mom tiptoeing down the stairs, I was greatly relieved, until I realized she was carrying the bag I had just seen her pack. My dad wasn’t the only one whose suspicions were growing.

  During our entire time in captivity, Mom and I had been a team. We had counted on each other and had trusted each other implicitly. We had talked about our dreams of freedom and the lengths to which she was going to find a way to take me home. I knew the people who were trying to help us. I had often been at Mom’s side when she went to see them. We had kept no secrets from each other. But now, all of a sudden, I could tell she was hiding things from me, and I didn’t like it. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I couldn’t trust her anymore. Maybe she really was abandoning me to go back to America.

  “We’ve been invited to dinner this evening,” Mom briskly announced to our guests, “I need to go buy the flowers.” There may have been a war going on, but when someone was invited to dinner, it was unconscionable to show up without a bouquet of flowers.

  “That’s no problem,” she offered graciously. “I’ll drive you.”

  “Thank you,” Mom answered. “Mahtob, bia inja. Come here,” she directed, holding out my montoe and macknay. Her eyes did not meet mine. She hurried to put on her own montoe and covered her head with a roosarie, a large scarf that she knotted below her chin. Taking me by the hand, she marched toward the door.

  Our guard was a gentle woman, and she suspected nothing. To her, going to buy flowers was an established custom. There was no reason for her to question. Without complaint, she and her daughter joined us at the door.

  When we pulled up to the curb directly in front of the flower shop, Mom motioned for me to get out of the car. “Thank you,” she said to the woman. “We will walk home.”

  “No,” the woman countered, “I will wait for you.”

  “No,” came Mom’s polite reply, “That’s not necessary, We’ll can walk.”

  “No, really, I don’t mind.”

  “No, please, go on. We’ll be fine.”

  They went on like this until finally Mom leaned over and hugged her, saying, “Thank you for everything.”

  I wonder sometimes if, in that moment, the woman may have understood. If she did, she gave no indication. Mom stepped out of the car and took me by the hand. We walked toward the flower shop, and our gentle guard drove away.

  There was a pay phone at the corner, and as soon as the coast was clear, Mom turned and sprinted for the booth. As she turned, a silvery hand-crocheted silk skirt fell from her bag. An old man passing by stopped and picked it up. He handed it to me, and I ran after Mom, more befuddled than ever. We were going to buy flowers. Why had she brought a skirt along?

  She was fishing in her pocket for a dozari when I handed her the skirt. Taking it from me with no explanation, she stuffed it back into the bag. She dialed the familiar number and waited impatiently for the man who was helping us to answer. There was a resolute desperation in her voice when she whispered into the receiver, “I have Mahtob. I’m out of the house, and I’m not going back.” There was a pause as Mom listened to his response. Her eyes darted nervously about, scanning for any signs of danger.

  There was no plan in place. The man who was helping us wanted us to return to our apartment and wait while he tried to organize something. Mom argued back. There was no time to wait. We might not get another chance. Every day my dad insisted even more vehemently that Mom’s days were numbered. At that point it was immaterial whether he locked her in the basement to die, killed her outright, or forced her onto a plane bound for the United States. It was clear that time was of the essence.

  The man knew our situation well, and he understood the urgency in Mom’s voice. He had no reason to help us except that his heart was filled with compassion. He had no responsibility to us except that we were fellow human beings who were suffering a cruel injustice. Despite his initial hesitation, he gave Mom an address and said he would meet us there.

  Returning the receiver to its cradle, Mom knelt to talk with me. She looked me straight in the eye, and I knew instantly that I had been foolish to doubt her intentions. She was not leaving me. She was fighting harder than ever to find a way for both of us to escape.

  “Mahtob, we may have an opportunity to go home. Do you want to go home?”

  I nodded enthusiastically.

  “But if we leave now, I don’t know when or if you’ll ever see your daddy again.”

  As her words sank in, tears filled my eyes. I tried to hold them in, but they spilled over and rolled down my cheeks. My shoulders rose toward my ears as I fought to control the sobs that were building inside.

  “I will understand if you want to go back to your daddy,” Mom offered with loving sincerity. “It’s okay if that’s what you want. But if we go back now, I don’t know if we’ll have another chance to go to America.”

  My chin quivered, and my body heaved with sobs that had broken fr
ee despite my best efforts to contain them.

  “We’ll do whatever you want to do,” Mom gently assured me.

  “I want my bunny.” I finally managed to utter between gasps. “I want my bunny.” I wasn’t concerned about my dad. I wanted more than anything to be free of him. But aside from Mom, my bunny was my closest companion. I couldn’t just leave him behind.

  I could see in Mom’s eyes that she understood how much my bunny meant to me. She thought carefully before responding. “If we go back to get him, we won’t be able to get out of the house again. If you want to stay here, that’s what we’ll do. If we’re going to go to America, we have to leave your bunny. When we get home, I’ll buy you a new one.” She let the options sink in before she asked for my decision. “What do you want to do?”

  The choice was mine and mine alone.

  It was a bitter decision to make. I wanted my bunny, and I wanted to go home to my brothers and my grandparents and aunts and uncles and friends. More than all of that, I wanted to get away from my dad and his threats, his beatings and the terrifying sound of his angry footsteps. I wanted to go home where I could go to sleep at night and know no bombs would fall under the cover of darkness. I wanted to go to a school with no more marching, no more stomping on my flag, no more screaming, “Maag barg Amrika.”

  I wanted to go home.

  Mom’s question hung between us. “What do you want to do?”

  I was too emotional to form the words.

  “Do you want to stay here?”

  Silently, I shook my head.

  “Do you want to go home?”

  Tears streaming down my face, I nodded resolutely.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mom and I stand at the phone booth.

  Click.

  We sit in the back seat of a taxi. The driver stands outside, shaking his finger accusingly at another man.

  Click.

  Before we went to Iran, I was captivated by my View-Master. Each pull on the lever brought into focus a new snapshot with a satisfying click. Click by click, the circular disk studded with slides rotated, bringing my favorite fairy tales to life. This red plastic toy that nearly every child in America played with is a good analogy for those memories for which I had no frame of reference. My mind is filled with a similar series of disjointed snapshots. The images are timeworn and distant, almost as if belonging to some other child who bears a striking resemblance to me. Some scenes are remarkably clear, while others prove almost entirely elusive—like glimpsing a dim star in my peripheral vision, only to turn my head and find it has vanished. There are details of our escape that I remember, yet much has mercifully been erased from my consciousness. There are experiences I know I endured but can’t quite visualize today . . .

  Crossing town to meet the man who was helping us, our taxi collided with another vehicle. In true Iranian fashion, both drivers jumped out and began to argue. This meant trouble. Horns were honking. Traffic was backing up. Authorities would be arriving at any moment. My dad might have already sounded the alarm. We couldn’t risk being spotted by the police.

  Quietly we slipped out of the car and blended into throngs of people hurrying on their way in the metropolitan darkness. It was a cold night in the dead of winter, and we weren’t dressed for the elements.

  An announcement blared over the city’s loudspeakers. Mom’s grasp of Farsi was limited to the words she had gleaned by observation or through makeshift sign-language exchanges with well-intentioned neighbors. I was fluent, but only at a first grade level. The announcement was troubling but neither of us was sure what it had said. It was either a message about a woman who was on the run with a child or it was a message about a bathtub. Judging by the seriousness of the tone, it wasn’t likely about a bathtub.

  Click.

  I see myself kneeling backward on the sofa in the dark apartment. Silhouettes of two figures huddle in conversation near the window.

  The presence of the man who was helping us soothed me. He and Mom were speaking softly but with urgency. The apartment was high up in an urban building, and below the world went on, oblivious to our angst.

  The couch delineated the border between sitting rooms. I knelt on the soft cushions and played with delicate glass figurines that lined the sofa table. Years later, I still hesitate to reveal further details of that apartment for fear I could inadvertently endanger the selfless man who came to our aid. Describing the figurines should be harmless, and yet I will not take that risk. They put me at ease, as did the hushed sounds of the brainstorming session wafting in from the next room.

  A silent witness to many such conversations over the months, I was filled with hope. The man who was helping us had pledged to get us out of Iran and, listening to him, I felt confident he would keep his promise.

  Others had offered to get Mom out of the country, but smuggling a child was far too dangerous. If caught, they would be executed. Despite the dangers, this man wanted me to grow up to be happy and safe. To him, risking his life to improve the quality of mine was a calling, not a decision.

  Click.

  I gaze apprehensively over my left shoulder as a woman slips in through the barely open front door. The hallway’s brightness renders her nothing more than a dark shadow.

  The door was quickly closed and bolted behind her. The atmosphere was tense and secretive. We were all aware of the danger we shared by virtue of our joint mission. Her greeting came as a clipped whisper.

  Click.

  The woman sits sideways beside me, her heavily bangled arm leaning over the back of the sofa. Together we play with the table decorations.

  I found comfort in the jingle of her bracelets. I hoped that someday my arm would be lined with beautiful jingling gold bangles just like the women on the Persian side of my family. At the moment I wore two.

  The woman spoke tenderly to me, running her fingers through my thick curls, assuring me that everything would be all right and that soon Mom and I would be safe at home with our family in America.

  Click.

  Everything is dark save for what is within the window’s boxy frame, illumined by the city lights from outside. The man sits leaning forward, his hands held before him, pleading with Mom to remain calm. Mom, the base of a rotary phone in one hand and the clunky receiver pressed to her ear with the other, paces anxiously. The long, coiling cord droops out of sight below the window’s ledge.

  “No, you listen to me!” she growled.

  The words woke me with a start. In an instant, I was leaning over the back of the sofa to see what was wrong. Confused and frightened, I wondered who was on the other end of the line. I recognized by Mom’s tone that the danger was escalating.

  “I have a lawyer,” she warned, her voice firm and unyielding.

  She had a lawyer? How could I not know that? Doug and Karen, our friends from Michigan, were the only lawyers I knew. Were they here? Had they come to help?

  “No, Moody. I’m not bringing Mahtob back until we’ve settled things.”

  What? She was talking to my dad? How could she? And how could she say she would take me back?

  “My lawyer and I will meet you on Saturday.”

  How could this be? Plans had already been made. We were departing for home on Friday, going over the mountains into Turkey even though the peaks were covered with snow.

  It was common knowledge that when snow was visible atop the Zagros Mountains from Tehran, the passage was closed for winter. We were going over the mountains anyway.

  Click.

  The man who is helping us rushes Mom and me out of the apartment and toward a car that waits with its back door open.

  It was Friday. The man who was helping us was saying good-bye. I could tell that he was sad to see us go. One last time he raced through our instructions. He seemed to be under great pressure to tell us everything we needed to know without delay. There was no time to linger on an emotional farewell. He hugged us both as we climbed into the car.

  “How can I ever repa
y you?” Mom asked.

  “The only payment I want is to know that there’s a smile on Mahtob’s face.”

  With that he closed the door, and we sped off. Desperately longing for him to make the journey with us, I never would have dared to say so.

  Click.

  A busy square—or perhaps a circle—in Tabriz. Traffic everywhere, absolute chaos. Mom and I sit in the backseat.

  Screeching to a halt, our driver jumped out and began arguing with a police officer. Simultaneously, another man opened the back door and grabbed Mom by the arm. Raising his index finger to his lips, he ordered us to remain silent as he whisked us from the car. “Zood bash. Hurry.” He put us in a truck, and off we went.

  We changed vehicles repeatedly. Sometimes we were crammed in among many other people, staged to look like one big, happy family. Mom held me close as she hid in plain sight behind her flowing black chador.

  Click.

  Mom and I hunker on the side of a mountain. A blizzard swirls around us. Everything is white. Above us is a road, but no vehicles in sight.

  The jagged, powdery peaks of the Zagros Mountains were our refuge. The snow that signaled the end of travel for the season now hid us from view. Shivering, we huddled together to conserve our warmth and we waited.

  We had been riding in the back of a Red Cross vehicle when a bullet rang through the air, narrowly missing us. Our guides had stopped and made us get out. Not speaking Farsi or English, they’d used hand gestures to instruct us to hide and to wait. It felt like hours had passed since then. Mom and I were nervous. Were they coming back?

  We waited.

  Just as Grandpa had taught Mom to find her way home from deep in the heart of the forest, she had taught me what to do if I were ever lost. Through the tale of Hansel and Gretel, who left a trail of crumbs in the woods, Mom had coached me to sit and wait. She would come to me. How would two people ever find each other, she had asked, if both kept moving? Likewise, if both sat still, they wouldn’t find each other. So if I ever get lost, I should stay still, and Mom would locate me. Whatever it took, she would find me. She would never stop looking.