Читать книгу Taking Cover: One Girl's Story of Growing Up During the Iranian Revolution - National Kids Geographic - Страница 9

Everything started going wrong when I was eight years old. It wasn’t just on the streets of Tehran, but also at home, with math homework—which, let me just say in plain language, I hated more than anything else in the world. I remember one day in particular when I sat at my desk, struggling and fuming over another impossible math problem. Maman kept trying to help me, but she was a math genius. I, for some lame reason, had not inherited that gene from her.

“Let’s try this one more time,” Maman said. “If Reza reads forty pages of his book in one day, how many pages has he read in five days?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

I was on the verge of tears from frustration and humiliation.

“It’s a multiplication problem, right?” Maman said. “You need to multiply forty by…?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s not as hard as you think, chérie,“ Maman said. “All right, let’s start over. Now, if Reza…”

She was interrupted by loud banging noises, like fireworks.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

We ran to the living room to look outside. “Get away from the windows right now!” Baba said, storming inside at that very moment. He must have left the radio station where he worked early. “There are mobs of people in the streets. It’s a riot around Vanak Square.”

“What?” Maman said. “So close?”

“What are they doing?” I asked. “What’s a mob? What are those sounds?”

“There’s no time! Hurry, over here.” He motioned to the bathroom off the kitchen. “Get inside. We’ll wait until the noise dies down.”

Maman and I scurried into the bathroom. Seeing my father so nervous scared me more than all the sounds around us. He was talking to himself.

“There are no windows in the bathroom. We should be safe. Besides, we’re on the third floor. I’m pretty sure gunshots can’t reach that high up.”

He rolled the kitchen’s round table on its side and placed it in front of the bathroom to create a barricade. Then he closed the door.

We crouched under the bathroom sink and huddled in silence.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

“Baba, what’s going on?” I asked.

“Shh, Nioucha, not now,” Baba said.

I looked at Maman. She had squeezed her eyes shut as she held on to Baba’s hand. I had no idea what was happening, but my heart slammed in my chest so hard I had to gulp for air.

I wondered if all this had anything to do with the man with epilepsy who had had a seizure right under our living room window last week. Neighbors had run into the street to help him. Our landlord put a pencil in his mouth to stop him from biting his tongue. The landlord’s wife put a pillow under his head so he wouldn’t bang it against the pavement. I was terrified by the white foam coming out of his mouth and his eyes rolling back inside his head.

But these sounds had nothing to do with someone having an epileptic seizure. They seemed more serious and much scarier.

We heard a long series of loud bangs, some close, others far away. I kept straining my ears to gauge the distance of the racket.

From my vantage point under the sink, I counted 48 yellow tiles and 26 brown tiles going horizontally between the bathroom door and the shower. My eyes wide, I didn’t blink.

After what felt like a long time, the noise died down. I relaxed into Baba’s lap and began to doze off until Maman whispered to Baba, “What’s going on out there?”

“I think this is IT for the shah.”

Ah! Now the conversation I’d overheard at the party my parents hosted the week before began to make sense. Maman had sent me to bed, but I wasn’t sleeping. I couldn’t understand what I was hearing because people kept referring to “he” and I didn’t know who “he” was. Now I knew they had meant the shah. The tension in everyone’s voices had kept me glued to my door and awake long after I should have been asleep.

One of Baba’s friends had said, “Everyone says he is corrupt and a puppet of the United States.”

“People—his enemies—have been saying this for a long time,” Baba said.

“But he’s more unpopular than ever,” the friend continued. “There are more and more demonstrations against him around the country. I think this is serious.”

“It’ll probably blow over,” Baba had said. “Maybe he’ll leave the country for a while, and wait until things settle down.”

Remembering what I’d heard that night, I tried to keep still, pretending to be asleep in Baba’s arms.

Maman said, “What do you think will happen now?”

A note of hysteria crept into her voice. I couldn’t help stirring and opening my eyes. Baba shook his head, clasped me tighter against him, and said, “I’m not sure, but let’s hope that was the end of it.”

He stood up and opened the bathroom door. After listening for a few minutes, he said, “It stopped.”

He rolled the table back to its place in the kitchen, but Maman and I still hadn’t moved.

“Come on, my girls, it’s over now.”

We peeled ourselves out from under from the bathroom sink. Baba called family and friends to make sure they were safe. I sat in the TV room with Maman and Baba, afraid to stay alone in my room and trying to focus on my homework again. When Baba turned on the television, he drew his breath in and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. I dropped my pencil and stared at the screen.

The news showed hundreds of people jamming the streets. On the screen, white smoke billowed and chants rang through the air, though I couldn’t distinguish words. People milled around in the intersection. Then suddenly came the same loud bangs we’d heard in our apartment. The crowd panicked and ran in all directions. Then there was black smoke. I didn’t recognize this area of Tehran. In the corner of the screen a van appeared, carrying soldiers with big guns. I began to feel nauseated from the jerky movement of the camera, but then Maman turned off the TV.

“It’s past your bedtime,” she said.

I went to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep. The sounds we’d heard, those scary bangs, kept ringing in my ears.

When Maman came in to kiss me good night, she said, “It’s all right that you didn’t finish your homework. That’s completely understandable. I can write a note to your teacher if you want.”

“Oh, I forgot I never finished it,” I said.

“Well, it’s been a…difficult day,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I guess so. But, what’s going to happen?”

“I wish I knew, chérie. It’s all a bit confusing right now.”

“But I’m scared,” I said.

“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

She hadn’t done that in years, but I felt relieved to have her there with me.

The next day, most teachers, including mine, didn’t come to school. With so few teachers present, the principal announced over the loudspeaker: “Good morning, children. Because of the unusual circumstances we find ourselves in today, so long as you behave yourselves, you are free to play games or study until your parents pick you up.”

—

Hearing the principal’s voice brought me back to my first day of school in Iran, three years earlier. I had stood outside my firstgrade classroom crying, clutching Baba’s hand and begging him not to leave. Dozens of children filled the courtyard and played under the large willow trees.

My new school was called Razi. It was for French-Iranian kids like me, or for Iranian kids who wanted to have a dual-language education. We had been given a tour of it when we came for registration. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the biggest school I had ever seen.

Before moving to Iran we lived in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. At the time of my school tour we had been in Iran only a few weeks. Back in Pittsburgh, Baba had explained to me that he wanted to live near his family, that he missed his homeland. I was sad to leave the friends I had made in my preschool class. My preschool was in a room at the back of a church in our neighborhood.

By contrast, Razi had a large swimming pool, four tennis courts, a track field, a gymnasium, and a theater. The school was divided into several areas for preschool, kindergarten, elementary, middle, and high school. As soon as the bell rang, the children rushed into their classes, leaving Baba and me alone in the concrete hallway. With a gentle nudge toward the classroom, Baba said, “I’ll wait right outside this door until recess, all right?”

“But I don’t belong here!” I said.

“Nioucha, we’ve gone over this. You do belong here. Now go on.”

Reluctantly, I picked up the schoolbag at my feet and flung it over my shoulder. Baba pulled out his handkerchief, the one he used for wiping his glasses and his balding head. Gently he dried my tears and runny nose, being careful not to drop the newspaper and book tucked under his left arm.

I sniffled deeply and gave Baba one last pleading glance. It had worked so well with him before, but not this time. He smiled, turned me around, and gave me a light but firm push. I walked into class and took my assigned seat in the front row.

Mrs. Darvish opened her large notebook and began roll call.

“Anahita A., Jean-Louis D., Bianca G.”

She checked off names with a red marker and nodded curtly to each student after they called out, “Yes” in Persian, the language of Iran.

“Nioucha H.,” she said.

I knew she was looking at me through her thick glasses, but I kept staring at my desk and fingering the strap of my schoolbag.

“Nioucha,” she repeated, this time raising her voice.

I shared a school bench with Anahita. She elbowed me and whispered, “Say baleh.“

I didn’t want to.

Mrs. Darvish exhaled loudly and scribbled something in her notebook. When she finished calling everyone’s name, she rose from her seat. She smoothed her pleated black skirt and turned it around to make sure the seams were placed properly on her ample hip bones.

She took a piece of blue chalk and said, “Is class ready for their lesson?”

She smiled and her glasses moved up against her forehead.

“Yes, Mrs. Darvish,” the classroom answered.

She turned her back to us and began to write on the blackboard. All the kids in class took out their notebooks and pencils, ready to copy what the teacher wrote. Except me. I slipped my hands under my legs and rocked myself on the bench.

Anahita whispered, “Why aren’t you doing anything?”

“Because I don’t want to,” I whispered back.

“But you’ll get in trouble,” she warned.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said.

She shrugged and returned to her notebook, her long braid swinging down her shoulder.

I glanced up and stared at the photo of the shah and his wife, Farah, displayed above the blackboard. They were the king and queen of Iran. In the picture, he wore a uniform with lots of medals, and she had on a gorgeous crown made of diamonds and pearls. They smiled down at us as if to say, “We are watching over you as you study.”

I looked at the clock, wishing I knew how to read it. I understood Baba’s digital watch because he’d taught me how it worked, but this one had the little arm and the big arm that confused me. I wondered how much longer it would be before the bell would ring and I could meet Baba. He hadn’t started his job yet, but Maman had, so he was the one bringing me to school. The first two days I had cried so much that Mrs. Darvish had let me leave so I could sit with him just outside the classroom.

My eyes wandered to the posters by the door: rows of animals and fruits with the name next to each one. The animal poster had a picture of a yellow-and-blue canary, and I kept staring at him, willing him to fly out and sit on my finger like Titi, the canary I had in Pittsburgh, used to do.

Suddenly, Mrs. Darvish was standing directly in front of me.

“What are you waiting for?” she said. “Start working! You’re supposed to practice writing alef.“

I followed her finger to where it pointed at the blackboard.

“Anahita,” Mrs. Darvish said, “tell Nioucha about alef.”

“Alef is the first letter of the alphabet,” she answered.

“Very good,” Mrs. Darvish said. Then to me, “So why aren’t you working?”

“Because I’m not Iranian,” I said. “I am French.”

“You are both,” Mrs. Darvish said. “And you are speaking Persian even though you’re pretending not to understand me.”

I sat staring straight ahead, thinking she’d eventually grow tired and walk back to her desk.

“Do you behave this way with Madame Martine in the afternoons too?” Mrs. Darvish continued.

“No,” Anahita said. “Nioucha is a good student in Madame Martine’s class.”

Mrs. Darvish didn’t like hearing this. Her eyebrows furrowed even more.

She leaned down, and through clenched teeth said, “Nioucha, if you don’t start writing this minute, I’ll break your hand.”

Anahita gasped. I knew from how quiet the classroom grew that all the kids were staring at the teacher and me. My heart beat very fast and my cheeks felt warm. Before Mrs. Darvish could see my eyes getting teary, I looked down and slowly unzipped my schoolbag. I found my notebook and opened it to the first page. I reached in again, took out my pencil box, and chose the one with the pointiest tip.

Satisfied, Mrs. Darvish clapped her hands a few times and said, “All right, class. Keep practicing!”

She returned to her desk in the front of the room, where she stood and rifled through some papers. Anahita slipped her hand under her desk and reached for mine, giving it a firm squeeze.

I looked at her and she smiled.

Anahita was about to whisper something, but we heard Mrs. Darvish scraping her chair and sitting down. We let go of each other’s hands. Mrs. Darvish looked around the classroom to make sure all students were working. I grabbed my pencil and pretended to be writing just as diligently as everyone else.

Finally, the bell rang for recess. I ran out as fast as I could. Baba was sitting on the low concrete wall that separated the courtyard from the soccer field. Bees flew around the yellow-and-purple pansies in the divider. When Baba noticed how flushed I was, he asked me what was wrong. I told him what had happened in class.

“I don’t belong here, Baba,” I said. The tears I’d been holding back through the class finally poured down my cheeks. “I don’t want to go back ever again. The teacher said she’d break my hand!”

“Calm down, Nioucha,” Baba said.

“But Mrs. Darvish is so mean to me,” I said.

“Hold on, did you just say she threatened to break your hand?” Baba asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s it. We’re going to the principal’s office right now.”

“Can I come with you?” It was Anahita. She stood a few feet away from where we sat on the wall, but she must have heard our conversation.

I jumped up and took her hand. “Baba, this is Anahita. We sit next to each other in class. Her mother is French too. Can she come with us?”

“Hello, Anahita,” Baba said. “Sure she can.”

“I’ll just walk with you a little ways,” Anahita said.

We walked, still holding hands. Baba led the way to the high school part of Razi to reach the principal’s office.

“You looked so sad in class,” Anahita continued. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m okay now.”

I realized I wasn’t crying anymore. Having Anahita there made me forget how miserable Mrs. Darvish had made me.

“Nioucha, why do you act like you don’t know Persian?” Anahita said.

“I think…” I started. I dropped my voice, worried Baba might hear, even though he was walking pretty far ahead of us. “I think that if I am a bad student, Maman and Baba will take me back home to Pittsburgh.”

She didn’t say anything. So I asked, “Do you think they would?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Anahita said. “How did you learn Persian anyway?”

“Playing and watching TV with my cousins. We’ve been living at my aunt’s house, and I am always hanging out with them.”

“Okay,” Anahita said. After a slight pause, she asked, “Do you have a Barbie?”

“I have two. Why?”

“I thought we could bring them to school and play during recess together. There’s a clearing in the woods behind our building where we can play without anyone noticing. What do you think?”

“I think I’m bringing my Barbies to school tomorrow!” I said.

“Great! I’m going to go now, but I’ll see you later.”

“Okay, see you.”

She ran back in the direction we’d come from. I turned around and stared at the yard ahead of me. It had a shallow pool decorated with turquoise tiles, and water flowed down to the next pool below, and the next and the next. It looked like a waterfall.

I caught up with Baba where he was waiting for me by a large limestone building. When we reached the principal’s office, I remembered why we’d come, and my stomach squeezed. Baba asked the assistant for an immediate meeting. She nodded and, after a brief phone call, led Baba to a door and told me I had to wait outside. She gently put her hand behind my back and pointed to one of the chairs in the reception area.

A minute later, the principal burst out of his office and said to his assistant, “Ask Mrs. Darvish to come here straightaway. I need to speak with her.” Then he turned to me and said, “Nioucha, come with me.”

I followed him into his office. He was short and portly, with snow-white hair and a matching mustache. His office smelled of a pipe, the exact scent of the one Baba occasionally smoked.

We didn’t have to wait long before Mrs. Darvish walked in. She adjusted her glasses and after nodding hello to Baba, took a seat next to him, across the desk from the principal. I sat behind Baba at a children’s table strewn with books, coloring pages, and crayons. I absentmindedly picked up a green crayon to color in a frog sitting on a lotus leaf.

The principal relayed what he’d heard from Baba. He sounded angry and slammed his hand once on his desk.

“Mrs. Darvish, you know that this is not how we handle matters at Razi,” he said. “I will not tolerate threats of violence toward a child. What came over you?”

“How dare you threaten to break my daughter’s hand?” Baba said.

“I lost my temper,” Mrs. Darvish said, “and I’m sorry.” She looked down and fumbled with the pleats of her skirt. “But,” she paused, “Nioucha refuses to do anything in class. It confuses the rest of the children.”

“This child just moved here from America,” the principal continued. “She is already juggling with speaking both English and French, and now she has a third language to deal with. Everything is new to her—the language, the culture, the people, everything. You need to be more patient with her.”

“I will,” Mrs. Darvish said.

“Nioucha needs some time to adjust, that’s all,” Baba said. “I’m sure that as soon as she begins to understand and speak Persian, she’ll be a very good student.”

Mrs. Darvish turned around halfway in her seat and gave me a quizzical look. I felt heat rising in my face, realizing that now Baba would know my secret.

“But she already speaks Persian,” Mrs. Darvish said.

“No, she doesn’t!” Baba exclaimed.

“Mrs. Darvish, what are you talking about?” the principal asked.

“Well, every day Nioucha asks me what time it is and how much longer we have until recess.”

The room fell silent. I continued coloring the leg of the frog, pretending not to notice the three of them staring at me.

In that moment I admitted to myself that I was not just visiting Iran. We lived here now. I wished the frog could pull me into his pond and magically whisk me back to Pittsburgh. Reluctantly, I glanced at Baba. He winked at me and smiled. So he wasn’t angry with me after all. My head spun with relief and I ran into his arms. I whispered in his ear, “I promise I’ll practice writing alef in my notebook tonight.” Baba chuckled and squeezed me harder.

—

I giggled now, remembering what I had done three years ago when I pretended not to know Persian. Once I got used to it, I loved my school. But now no one knew what would happen next, and that made me worry. That night Baba walked into the living room and dropped a pile of newspapers on the coffee table. All of them read, “The Shah Left!” in large, bold letters. One had a picture of the shah and his wife, Farah, boarding an airplane. He’d been forced into exile.

Baba said, “I never thought I’d see the day.”

I couldn’t tell if he was glad or sad to see the shah go.

That night, I went to bed confused and stayed awake for hours. I heard Baba’s animated voice rise and fall as he spoke to his friends on the phone or to Maman. I tossed and turned, and shook under my blanket until sleep finally released me.