Taking Cover: One Girl's Story of Growing Up During the Iranian Revolution. National Kids Geographic

      “Nioucha! We’re waiting for you!”

      It was our teacher, Mrs. Ganji, standing on the steps of the theater about 30 feet away. We must not have heard the bell ring because we were the only kids left on the playground.

      “I’m coming! Sorry, Mrs. Ganji.”

      Anahita and I darted toward her, hoping Mrs. Ganji hadn’t seen us talking to Keyvan.

      I noticed Anahita wiping her eyes, and I paused.

      “Anahita?”

      She turned around, the rims of her eyes red.

      “I can’t believe Bianca’s father’s been killed,” Anahita said.

      I couldn’t think of anything to say. It all seemed too much to even comprehend.

      “I mean, we’ve heard about all these executions, right? But I didn’t know anybody in person.”

      Anahita sniffed and dabbed her eyes. “Let’s go, Nioucha.”

      “Are you sure?” I asked. “Do you need another minute?”

      “Thanks, I’m good. Come on.”

      When we entered, our class was already getting into costume, rehearsing our upcoming play. I loved this theater. It could seat 150 people, and the walls were decorated with burgundy velvet. When I looked up, a giant gold sun smiled down at me, its rays extending out to the edges of the ceiling.

      That’s when I noticed that a large framed picture of Ayatollah Khomeini, our new leader, had been centered above the stage to replace the one of the shah and Farah. They had looked so friendly, smiling in their photo. But Khomeini frowned, and with his long white beard, he looked permanently angry. As a religious leader, he wore a turban.

      From the minute he arrived in Tehran I hadn’t liked him. He had turned our lives upside down. Now I saw him as something worse. As a killer. An executioner. I looked at that picture, willing him to notice me, but his eyes were downcast. He may have thought that he was a holy man and destined for heaven, but I had no doubt he was going to hell for giving the order to kill Bianca’s father and dozens of other people whose only crime had been to serve a man that Khomeini despised.

      “That’s right,” I thought, “don’t meet my stare. The hatred in my eyes can surely burn a hole in your skull right now.”

      “Nioucha, get on stage and stop daydreaming,” Mrs. Ganji said.

      I snapped out of it and blinked. I had been so wrapped up in hating Khomeini that I couldn’t remember what I was doing here. That morning, Mrs. Ganji had asked me to replace a classmate who had gotten sick the night before.

      “You’ll play the part of the king’s brother,” Mrs. Ganji had said.

      “I’m playing a boy?” I asked.

      “Seeing as our school isn’t coed anymore, yes, you are.”

      “But, Mrs. Ganji, I don’t look like a boy.”

      “With a big turban and a fake mustache, you will. Now, let’s rehearse.”

      A few months before, I had heard her say to another teacher, “Let’s organize a play to keep the kids distracted from everything that’s happening.” I vaguely remembered Mrs. Ganji asking for volunteers to perform in a tale from The Arabian Nights. Most of the class had raised their hands high, nearly falling over their benches. Anahita had not, so even though I wanted to be in it, I didn’t volunteer either. I didn’t want her to feel left out. Later she told me she felt too shy to stand in front of a crowd, even if our performance was only going to be for students and a few teachers.

      Now I understood her reluctance. In fact, I felt terrified to have been chosen. I tried to back out, but when Mrs. Ganji said I had no lines to memorize, I agreed to do it. My part as the king’s brother was to sit next to him and eat what the servants presented on trays.

      That seemed simple enough, and I did well during rehearsal just sitting there on my chair and pretending to eat invisible cookies. The following day after our lunch break, the entire elementary school filed into the auditorium for our performance. I was all dressed up in a green velvet robe and sat proudly onstage. At one point in the play, a servant brought a platter of raisin cookies and I ate two, careful not to get any crumbs on my fancy outfit. During the rehearsal, the tray had been empty, so this was a nice surprise. Before I knew it, the play ended with tremendous applause from the packed auditorium. I felt a little embarrassed to bow my thanks along with all my classmates because I knew I hadn’t done anything to deserve such a warm reception.

      Backstage, Mrs. Ganji greeted us with hugs and kisses. She then asked us to line up behind the curtain and get ready to return to the stage, introduce ourselves, and say what part we played.

      I was the first to go, except I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. All this time I’d thought I had no lines, and now faced with this new piece of information, I stood completely frozen. Mrs. Ganji must have noticed the panic in my eyes because she took my hand and said, “Nioucha, don’t be scared. Just go out there, say your name, and the role you played.”

      “And how do I do that?”

      “Well, you take the microphone and say ‘Nioucha H. in the role of the prince.’“

      I couldn’t feel my tongue. My ears were warm and made strange noises. I walked onstage and stared out into the crowd as I held the microphone to my mouth. My heart was pounding furiously. I couldn’t remember what I had to say. I looked back to Mrs. Ganji for help, but she only motioned for me to hurry up.

      “Hi! I am the prince playing the role of Nioucha H.”

      With all the buzzing in my ears, I barely heard my own voice. I glanced over at Mrs. Ganji, pleased to have gotten words out of my mouth. When I looked back at the audience to bow, I saw that everyone was laughing. Anahita covered her mouth to hide the fact that she wanted to laugh too.

      She winked, waved with her other hand, and shrugged as if to say, “It’s no big deal.”

      Mrs. Ganji came out, took the microphone from me, and looking very amused, whispered, “It’s all right, Nioucha. At least everyone will remember you now.”

      I returned backstage and hid in the dressing room until it was time to go home. When I thought most of the school had emptied, I ran out to meet Baba, who was picking me up. Baba asked about the play, but I refused to answer him at first, not wanting to relive the shameful experience. But then he gave me his coaxing look and his wink, and I relented. When I finished, I glanced over and caught him smiling.

      “It’s not funny, Baba,” I said a little too loudly. “Everyone was laughing at me!”

      “It’s a little funny.”

      He reached across the gearshift and gently pinched my cheek.

      “Try to see the humor in it and laugh along with your friends.”

      I couldn’t let my embarrassment go. And then I felt worse than embarrassed. I felt ashamed that I’d been so caught up in the play that I’d forgotten about Bianca and her father.

      “Baba, I have something to tell you.”

      I told him what Keyvan had said. Baba drove quietly for so long that I finally asked, “Did you hear me?”

      “I did. I’m sorry about your friend and her father.”

      His lips were very thin, like they got when he was angry or concentrating on something. His hands gripped the wheel hard, turning his knuckles white. I didn’t know what to say or do, so I slouched inside my collar and closed my eyes. I soon realized we weren’t on our way home.

      “Where are we going?” I asked.

      “To Minoo’s.”

      When we reached my aunt’s house, Baba rushed up the driveway. I followed him inside. After exchanging greetings,