The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Page B

your mother,” he tossed over his shoulder as he frantically dialed the combination. “Tell her to come here.” Flinging open the safe door, he scratched through the documents and valuables in the small space, until with audible sigh of relief, he found the envelope containing the receipt signed by the mojtahed for his contribution to the cemetery. He spun about, and saw Moosa still staring, dumbfounded.
    “Go, boy!” he lashed, as his son rushed away. As Moosa ran toward the kitchen, he realized it was the first time he had ever heard his father shout.
    Esther came into the study as Ezra, seated behind his desk, was spreading the receipt in front of him. Her face went white as he told her of the phone call he had just received.
    “Esther, every second is of the essence. This,” he said, indicating the receipt, “could save my life.”
    “What is it?” she asked, trying to see the writing.
    “Never mind! There is no time to explain. But you must know that if the pasdars come and arrest me, they will certainly search me, and find anything I might try to conceal in a pocket. You must help me find a way to sew this into my clothing so that it cannot be easily discovered. If it is taken from me, I have no hope.”
    Esther wavered on her feet, then seemed to catch herself. Nodding, she said, “Do you still have that old pair of black trousers with the watch pocket?”
    Slowly Ezra nodded. “I believe so.”
    “Good. Get them and bring them to me. I’ll get my sewing basket.” She turned and half ran from the study.
    Ezra was standing to leave as Moosa came back into the room. “Moosa,” he said, “I want you to go to the address on Javid Street.” He tore off a corner of notepaper and scribbled a number on it. “This is the home of Mullah Nader Hafizi. You must tell him that I need his help most desperately. Bring him back here with you, if at all possible.”
    Moosa nodded, jamming the paper into his pocket as he turned toward the front door. He grabbed a coat and was gone.

    Esther ripped at the seam of the watch pocket in a frenzy of haste. She would fashion the pocket into a pouch long enough to conceal the receipt, then baste the flap closed. As she worked, tumultuous thoughts cascaded through her mind. So , she thought, Ezra’s worst fears are realized. With vicious suddenness, she knew the measure of her vain hopes. She felt empty, dead inside. He had been right all along. And she was too foolish to accept it. She tried to push from her mind the thought that Ezra might not return from his arrest. Abraham …. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sudden sob. Taking several deep breaths, she returned to her work on the pocket.

    Over an hour later, the front door opened. Ezra bounded down the stairs to see Moosa coming in—alone.
    “Would Hafizi not come?” Ezra asked, the blood freezing in his veins.
    Moosa shook his head. “It’s not that. He wasn’t home. I waited by his door for nearly an hour, but no one came. I left a note for him to call.”
    “Of course, he has gone with his wife to Isfahan to visit their daughter,” mused Ezra. “Why, on this day of all days? Very well,” he said, returning to himself. “Perhaps he will come back within the next day or so. You must keep trying to reach him, Moosa.”
    Moosa nodded. Esther came down the stairs just then, holding the altered trousers for Ezra’s inspection. “Get your paper, Ezra. See if this pocket will serve.” She had made a pouch of a thick material, to mask the cracking of the paper if a guard passed a hand over the concealed pocket. She hoped desperately that the ruse would work.
    Ezra went into the study and came out moments later, wearing the dark, nearly threadbare pants. Thoughtfully he ran his hand over the pocket. “I think this will serve, Esther,” he said slowly. “Let’s pray it does.”

    Firouz Marandi tapped the driver on the shoulder. “This is the house,” he said. The driver stopped the Mercedes