Then They Came for Me_ A Family's Story of Love, Captivity, and Survival - Maziar Bahari [125]
I didn’t want to reply, but then I considered that it wasn’t defiance that had gotten me to this point.
“Understood?” he repeated, squeezing harder.
Let him hear what he wants to hear, I thought. You’ll be jogging in Regent’s Park with Paola and the baby soon.
“Yes,” I said. “Understood.”
PART THREE
Survival
Chapter Eighteen
On the morning of October 17, I was taken to Judge Mohammadzadeh’s office. If the number of files on his desk was any indication, the Islamic Republic had managed to make many more enemies for itself in the months since my arrest. I wondered how many innocent lives were in the hands of this vicious, hypocritical judge.
Unlike the first time I’d met him, when he’d made rude, sexual gestures, today his manner was businesslike and efficient. He quickly read aloud the thirteen charges against me, which included everything from the still undefined “media espionage” to taking part in illegal demonstrations and undermining the security of the state. When he finished reading, I spoke up.
“When will I be freed?”
“Inshallah, within a couple of hours,” answered Mohammadzadeh. I’d come to hate the expression inshallah—“God willing”—which may be the most overused and least meaningful phrase spoken by Muslims. It allows individuals to pretend that they care, while doing nothing.
“Possibly within a couple of hours? Or within a couple of hours for sure?” I asked.
My question clearly angered Mohammadzadeh. “What did you say, you little spy?” he barked. “Do you want me to tear up your release order and let you rot here for the rest of your life?”
“I just wanted to know, sir,” I said quietly.
“If it was up to me, I would execute you and everyone like you. You’re lucky that our Islamic regime has been kind enough to let you join your family temporarily. But don’t worry: I will make sure that you receive the harshest sentence possible.” He closed my file. His next words hit me harder than any of Rosewater’s punches.
“Actually, I’m going to call the court to ask them to annul your bail order,” he said. “Now put the blindfold on and get out of my office before I kick the life out of you.”
Was he serious? I thought of my mother and Paola, who must’ve heard the news of my imminent release and would now have their hopes dashed. My knees felt so weak that I could hardly walk.
I went back to my cell at nine thirty-seven A.M. I lay down and waited to see what decision the judge—in all of his “Islamic kindness”—was going to make about my case. As I shut my eyes, trying to think of nothing, I could feel the excruciating pain of each passing second. Each one felt like a day. I couldn’t think of anything except for my hatred of the Islamic Republic, its potentate, and his servants.
Trying to pass the time, I reviewed all the things I would have to do as soon as I got out of prison. I would buy a ticket for the first available flight to London. I wondered if my travel agent had heard about my ordeal. How about my other friends and acquaintances? I went through their faces and names one by one. I would contact my friends on Rosewater’s list, and check on them to make sure they had not been imprisoned.
But among the long list of things I needed to do, one particular task weighed most heavily: I had to find a way to tell the world of the atrocities I had witnessed during the demonstrations and what I’d experienced at Evin. I knew that in hundreds of other cells lining the dusty hallways of this prison, innocent people were