That night we hid in caves but were afraid even to light fires. We tried the radio, using the special channel as Chardy had instructed. But there was nothing. I even tried, thinking my English might be recognized by listeners back in Rezā’iyeh, but there was nothing at all. We felt alone in the world. I looked at the mountains in new fright. They had been so beautiful to me once, and now they scared me. If the Iraqis closed in we could hardly defend ourselves. If snow came and sealed us in a pass, we would certainly starve, for we had no food except what we could carry. And several people were badly hurt, including the wife of Amir Tawfiq, the man who commanded after Ulu Beg.
We saw Iraqis the next morning but they were far beneath us. Still, Ulu Beg believed it to be a large formation in pursuit of us. He said it would take them hours to reach us, but by that time we’d be gone.
“Gone to where?” asked Amir Tawfiq.
“To the border,” Ulu Beg said. He said the Shah would give us safety.
Amir Tawfiq spat into the dust. The cartridges on his chest rattled. He was about 25. Amir Tawfiq said that the Shah was a black pig who suckled jackals. Ulu Beg told him we had no choice, and that was the end of the discussion.
We marched through the mountains for four days. Twice more we were shelled. The first shelling was the worst and three of the group were killed and several more wounded. They screamed to go along with us. But we had no choice. We had to push ahead.
My memories are quite indistinct. At one time Russian jets seemed to hunt us. We crouched in a long ravine and hid behind rocks — over a hundred people. We could see the shadow of the airplane passing over the ground and hear its roar, but could not see it because the sun was so bright. Apo, Ulu Beg’s oldest boy, hid with me.
The nights were very cold. We huddled together in caves or ravines and were still afraid to light fires. It was at these moments I felt the most alone. I wasn’t really a Kurd. I was an American, a foolish one, caught where she had no business to be. I didn’t think we really had a chance. We were on foot, running out of food and energy. There were no donkeys. We had come a terrible distance, we had a terrible distance to go and we were being pursued by men in machines who wanted to kill us.
I heard some men talking. They said we were doomed. It was all over. We’d never get out. Ulu Beg said no. He said we had friends. Jardi’s friends. Jardi’s friends would help us.
We were almost there. I asked Ulu Beg how much farther? He pointed to a gap just ahead between mountains.
Ulu Beg asked me to come with him to talk to the Iranians.
We went down the trail and over the dusty rock, the two of us. The trail began to rise to the pass and we climbed between the forbidding cliffs. I fought to keep up. I wondered how the children would make this last, hardest part of the climb.
We were so close! The nightmare would soon be over! But I was also terrified that something would happen, so late, so close to survival.
We came over the crest. The land here was scorched. Nothing grew. For miles and miles it looked dead. There was no vegetation, no anything. It was the defoliated zone where the Iraqis had poured chemical poisons on the earth to prevent border crossings and resupply from Iran. I looked and could see where a stream had been cemented over.
We went ahead. If a Russian plane or helicopter came and caught us in the open, we’d be killed. Still, we didn’t have the luxury of waiting for nightfall. We picked our way through this wasteland until at last, several hours later, I could see the wire fence and the border station — and green plants again. The station was a low cinderblock building, with the Shah’s flag billowing on a pole near it. There were several military vehicles parked there too.
We raced to the gate. They had seen us coming and were ready. The officer in charge was a young major of very stiff and correct bearing. His name was Major Mejhati — he wore it proudly on a tag on the chest of his battle tunic. His uniform was heavily starched.
He asked me in Farsi if I was an American. I said yes. He thought I looked American, even though I was dressed like a Kurd. He had been in America for a year and knew what American women looked like.
I explained to him that 100 people would be coming shortly, that some were wounded, some were children and all were hungry and exhausted. They were being pursued by Iraqis in Russian tanks, I told him.
He asked me what part of America I was from. I don’t know why he asked that. Anyway I told him.
He considered Boston a lovely town. He told me that he’d been to some Army college in Kansas. He told me he really liked America, America was a very great country and that he wished Iran was more like America.
I was afraid we’d be there for hours. Iranians love to talk and move slowly. They hate to be confronted with an actual reality.
Then he asked if these Kurds were of the Pesh Merga, the mountain fighters making a war against the Iraqis. I said yes. He said they could admit no Kurds. It was a new policy. He said he would be glad to have me come into his country but it was a new policy and the border was now closed to the Pesh Merga.
I wasn’t sure I’d understood him. I thought I’d misheard. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. I tried to get my composure back.
“There’s an arrangement,” I said. “Between the governments. Between my government and your government and the Pesh Merga.”
“There is no arrangement,” he said. Several of his officers and soldiers had their guns out and came over to us. They looked at us rudely.
I pointed to Ulu Beg. I remember that I said, “This man is famous. This is the famous Ulu Beg. He is a high officer in the Pesh Merga.”
Major Mejhati said the American lady was free to come into his country but that the Kurd was not. He said he’d have his men shoot if the Kurd didn’t move away from the border.
I told him there had been an American officer with us, an important man, with high connections in Tehran ….
But they told us that all the Americans were gone.
Ulu Beg turned and began to walk back to his people.
I ran after him.
Chardy set the manuscript down. She was sitting across from him. She had not even taken her coat off.
“You should have crossed the border, Johanna. That was a foolish thing to do.”
“I couldn’t, Paul. Keep reading.”
We ran all that day and most of the next. We headed north, farther into the mountains. Our new goal was Turkey, where the border was not heavily guarded. It was a bitter solution to our problem, since the Kurds — and most of the Middle East — hate nothing more than the Turks, who for centuries, in their Ottoman Empire, ruled in corrupt greed.
The plan was then to continue north, into Russia. I knew that in his mind Ulu Beg was retracing the journey of Mullah Mustafa Barzani, who fled Iran after the collapse of the Kurdish republic at Mahābād in 1947. Barzani had gone into exile for 11 years in the Soviet Union. The irony of fleeing the Iraqis — who were led and supplied by the Russians — for Turkey and then Russia, did not strike me at the time. Now it seems to illustrate to me a basic principle of Middle Eastern history and politics: ideology means nothing.
Finally, it was the sixth day, in the morning. We had found some caves and at last dared light a fire. We had even found a spring that was not cemented over.
Somebody turned on the radio — it was a standard procedure, for Jardi, as the Kurds called him, had always tried to make his contact with Rezā’iyeh in the morning — and suddenly, where for five days there had been nothing, there was a signal.