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Midnight stillness surrounded the small Iranian village of Hamzeh Qasem. Outside the Mazanderani house, soldiers lined the street. Awaiting a signal, they prepared to burst in the door.
Inside, Mahasti Mazanderani slept peacefully. At age fourteen, she remained with her parents. Her sister, BahAr, traveled to San Francisco. Mahasti considered her lucky. Unhappy at home, she wished to flee as her sister had. Her father was too strict, her mother too placid. Like her sister, she longed for freedom.
Mahasti had not seen her older brother in three years. Her father proudly proclaimed that Arastoo worked for the Ayatollah. Gulzar Mazanderani expressed his great admiration for his only son. A notice from the Great Leader of Iran seemed highly significant. Around the small village, her father proclaimed the family’s good fortune.
Dreaming of following BahAr to America, Mahasti lay back against her pillow and stared at the low ceiling. Then, a sudden crashing sound shook the house. The girl screamed and leaped to her feet.
As she screamed, a soldier burst through the door. With wide eyes, the youngest Mazanderani daughter stared at him. He petrified her. He grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her into the main room. Her father stood amid the armed soldiers; her mother clung to his side.
“What is the meaning of this?” Gulzar indignantly demanded. His face glowed red with fury.
“Where is your son Arastoo?” the leader questioned in return.
"My son is on a secret mission. The Ayatollah gave him a special assignment," the Mazanderani patriarch returned. His chest puffed out in pride. "Leave my house and my family in peace."
“The Ayatollah has never heard the name Arastoo Mazanderani,” the officer sneered, poking his assault rifle into Gulzar’s protruding stomach.
“I tell you…” the father began again.
Mahasti backed against the wall. Fearfully, she watched the scene unfold. Her scared eyes captured the commotion. Did the soldier intend to kill her father?
Hastily, the soldiers rushed the family outside. Two vans waited outside the house. Prodding them with their assault rifles, they pushed Gulzar into the lead one. Anahita and Mahasti entered the second.
Embarrassed, Mahasti pushed her long black hair behind her ears. Remaining in her nightdress, she felt naked without her hijab. Fearfully, she glanced at her mother. Dressed in similar attire, Anahita also did not wear her head covering.
Tears glistened in Anahita Mazanderani's golden eyes. She felt ashamed of being forced from her home. The faces of her friends gawked at the family as the soldiers paraded them outside. Many were long-time acquaintances, even old school friends. As soon as the vans disappeared, the gossip would begin. Anahita shrunk against the cold metal bench she sat on.
Mahasti grasped her mother’s hands. She wanted to comfort her but could not form the words. Trembling, she leaned against her mother and cried.
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“I tell you, my son works for the Ayatollah,” Gulzar shouted, slamming his fist into his open palm. “How many times must I tell you.”
“Your son, Arastoo, is responsible for the plague outbreak,” the military officer remarked. Grasping the arms of Mazanderani’s chair, he leaned menacingly over him. “Get it through your thick head. The Ayatollah does not know your son. The Ayatollah never sent your son on a mission.”
Gulzar hung his head in shame. He had taught his son to follow Mohammad. He thought of himself as a gentle father. Sure, he expected much from his son. He expected his family to obey him. His brilliant son studied chemistry and excelled. His wife and two daughters were demure and submissive. Never did he detect either fanatism or rebellion.
Trusting his son, Gulzar believed in the remarkable attention of the Ayatollah. Arastoo was a credit to the family. Now, however, doubt crept into his mind. How naïve he had been. Gulzar chided himself on his stupidity.
"Where is Arastoo?" the officer questioned, leaning in closer.
“I do not know where my son is,” the father responded, tears brimming his brown eyes. “I only know what he told me. The…”
“Yes, I know about the Ayatollah,” the military official responded. Shrugging, he backed away. “Your son lied to you and your family.”
Striding through the reinforced door, the soldier slammed it hard. The crashing sound echoed throughout the corridor.
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Thrusting open the door, three armed soldiers entered. Frightened, Mahasti Mazanderani cast her eyes downward. A curtain of straight black hair hid her facial features. A tear clung to the corner of her brown eye and slid down her cheek.
“Put this on,” a young soldier ordered, handing her a brown hijab.
Trembling, Mahasti clutched it. The dull material felt rough in her fingers. It smelt of sweat and greasy hair. Swiping her long tresses back, she adjusted the hijab onto her head. Her tears waterfalled down her face.
“Where is your sister?” the first soldier barked.
“I…I don’t know,” the youngest Mazanderani stammered.
“Where is she?” Her capturer sneered at her.
Mahasti glanced up at the three men surrounding her. The one who spoke appeared rough, uncouth. Fearfully, she thought he might strike her. The second had kind eyes but stood rigidly against the wall. However, she recognized the third.
Danyal Mehri frequently patrolled the area. Often, he hung around the schoolyard fence. When BahAr attended the school, she and her friends repeatedly flirted with him. After her sister departed, Mahasti took her place. She and her girlfriend, Nazanin Zahra Iskandar, threw him surreptitious glances. He would return their smiles and then move away.
“I said I do not know,” the frightened teenager whispered. “I do not know,” she reiterated. Searching for help, she looked toward Danyal.
Danyal Mehri met Mahasti's eyes. Abruptly, he cast his downward. He knew her and recalled the older sister. He enjoyed BahAr’s teasing and wide inviting smile. At night, he dreamed of her sumptuous body. Nevertheless, he discovered her desire to become a pole dancer. At one time, he considered asking for BahAr's hand in marriage. Disgusted, he turned away from her.
Then, the younger sister caught his attention. Danyal might have approached her. However, the sudden arrest put a hold on his plans.
“Does San Francisco ring a bell?” the older soldier questioned.
Mahasti raised her eyes in surprise. Forcefully, the soldier slammed a series of photographs onto the table. His meaty hands covered them. Curious, the young girl peered at the pictures. Then, the hands raised. She stared at images of her dead sister. Shrieking, she covered her face and bawled.
Swiftly, Danyal stepped forward. Placing his hands on Mahasti’s quaking shoulders, he kneaded them. The girl leaned against him, taking comfort from his presence.
“Your brother, Arastoo, sent BahAr to the USA to spread the plague virus,” the second soldier announced. He turned a chair to face her and straddled it. “Your sister contracted the disease, and someone dumped her body near Alcatraz Island. Kasra Anvari is also dead.”
Mahasti knew the name Kasra Anvari—Arastoo's best friend. Fleetingly, she wondered why he traveled to San Francisco also. She guessed he had run away with BahAr. Her sister frequently talked about eloping with a man. However, she never mentioned the man’s name.
“Where is Arastoo?”
The question took Mahasti by surprise. Stunned by the two deaths, she had not expected a change in subject. Dumbly, she shook her head ‘no.’
"I do not know," the girl answered truthfully.
"WHERE IS ARASTOO?" the lead soldier shouted. Leering, he leaned forward.
When his nose touched hers, Mahasti pushed her chair backward. Its four feet screeched as it rushed across the tiled floor.
The second soldier advanced on her. Still straddling his seat, he hitched it forward. He placed his fingers beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. Mahasti's brown eyes met his, then reverted downward.
“Where is Arastoo?” he asked, his voice smooth and reassuring.
"Takht-e-Soleiman," the girl whispered. Long ago, she'd overheard her brother and his friend speaking about the mountain range. She did not know for sure Arastoo's location. Nevertheless, Mahasti felt it was the correct response.
Knowledgeably, the older soldiers exchanged a glance. They had the answer they sought. Danyal squeezed her shoulders and then patted them. Then, the three men departed.
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Hours passed since the soldiers departed. Mahasti Mazanderani sat in the cold, dank room. Alone, she shivered and wrapped her arms around her belly. Twice, she felt ready to vomit but held it back.
Remorse enveloped her petite form. The betrayal of her brother covered her like a shroud. Indeed, she felt as though she had destroyed him. The soldiers would capture him. Then, Arastoo would face the executioner. Spreading the plague virus and killing scores of people sealed his fate. Yet, Mahasti loved him as she loved her sister, BahAr.
Slowly, the door creaked open. Aghast, Mahasti stared at it. She trembled with fear. Perhaps she had been wrong about Arastoo. The soldiers returned to question her again. Bile rose into her mouth. Terrified, she covered her lips with her hands. If they entered, she would throw up.
Rough hands shoved Anahita through the door. The Mazanderani mother tripped over the threshold and sprawled across the floor.
Leaping up, Mahasti hastened toward her mother. She knelt beside her and cradled Anahita's head in her lap. Singing an old lullaby, she soothed the older woman's head.
“I’m all right, baby,” Anahita murmured, sitting up. Lovingly, she patted her youngest daughter’s hand. “You told them where Arastoo is?”
“Yes, mama,” Mahasti whispered, ashamed.
"Do not worry, my love," the mother responded. "You did the right thing. Arastoo has hurt many people. He was wrong to spread the plague."
“Yes, mama,” the child repeated. Her stomach rumbled loudly.
“When this is over, we will go home,” Anahita assured.
"Mama…BahAr…" Mahasti began.
“Yes, my dear, I know about BahAr.” A tear glimmered in the mother’s eye.
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