The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Page B

Jew. And are you rich?” he queried.
    Ezra looked at the man, open-mouthed. “What has that to do with—”
    The prisoner nodded to himself. “As I thought. A rich Jew. I figured they’d get around to your neighborhoods pretty soon. You and I are the first minorities they’ve brought into this stinking place.”
    Ezra’s eyes widened as he studied the other man’s face carefully. “Then … you are …”
    “Jewish,” the other fellow answered matter-of-factly.
    “ Mazel tov , Ezra Solaiman,” he said wryly, holding out his hand. “I am Reuben Ibrahim. Pleased to meet you.” Incredulous, Ezra shook the hand of his newfound comrade.
    Ezra looked around at the tangle of arms and legs in the cell, then back at his comrade. “Why did you assume the pasdars would begin arresting rich Jews?”
    Reuben shrugged. “Simple. The pasdars are controlled by the mullahs, and the mullahs want money. You are rich, so they arrested you. They will try you, shoot you, and confiscate your estate.”
    Ezra shuddered, remembering the phone call, and the news about Abraham Moosovi. He brushed his hand across his pant leg, feeling the rustle of the paper concealed there. “Why did they arrest you?” he asked. “I presume from what you’ve said that you aren’t rich. What do the mullahs want with you?”
    Reuben sighed and looked away. “No, indeed, I’m not rich.” He gave a sad little chuckle. “And I don’t guess it would make any difference now if I were.” He looked up at Ezra. “I am here for not chanting slogans against the Shah.”
    Glancing away, Reuben continued. “Like everyone else, I’ve got my opinions, which I kept to myself. But some neighbor or business competitor with a grudge denounced me to one of the revolutionary committees. So here I am.” Bitterly he continued, “I don’t know the name or face of my accuser, and yet I am trapped in this plague-infested prison, while by wife and daughter cower at home, not knowing whether I am alive or dead.” Reuben covered his face with his hands. “This country has gone mad, and I am trapped within its hallucinations.”

    Esther wandered through the house like a lost soul. Her throat was raw and sore from weeping, and her eyes felt bruised with fatigue. She had been unable to sleep the night before. Each time her eyes closed, her imagination tortured her with grotesque scenes of Ezra’s fate. So she tossed upon her bed, crying until she could cry no more; then she lay exhausted, too overwrought to sleep.
    Idly she paced into the study, flipping on the television. As she expected, there was nothing to watch except some wizened old mullah reading the Koran in Arabic—a language neither she nor the majority of the Farsi-speaking population understood. Since Khomeini had come to power, many of the TV producers and directors had been arrested, and the remainder were afraid to schedule any programming that could be deemed remotely offensive to the fundamentalist regime. So all one could watch now was the reading of the Koran or brief news programs, which were hardly more than Shiite propaganda.
    She snapped off the set and went into the kitchen, drawn by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Glancing at the clock, she surmised that Sepi had already gone to school. She thought Moosa had left for the bazaar or to look for Mullah Hafizi.
    As she poured a cup of coffee, she wondered about the wisdom of relying upon a mullah for deliverance from Ezra’s peril. Weren’t the mullahs responsible for much of the mayhem now tearing the country apart? Why should Hafizi be any different? Yet Ezra seemed to place some trust in the man.
    She took a sip of coffee and glanced out the window toward the side yard. The branches of the cherry trees were beginning to swell with the nodules that would become blossoms in a few weeks. In this season of returning to life, she felt nothing but despair and desolation. At this moment, Ezra’s trust in his precious receipt and Hafizi’s