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insane.”
    When she looked up again, Ezra was not there. She found him at the desk in his study, with paper and pen, making drafts for a newspaper advertisement. Looking over his shoulder, she read, “For Sale: Profitable Business in a Prime Location.”
    Pruning.

    Ezra unlocked the door to his shop and went inside. Placing his briefcase on the desk behind the counter, he unfolded the newspaper he had purchased and turned hurriedly to the advertisements. Running his finger along the columns, he found the ad he had placed.
    He heard the tinkling of the small brass bell over the front door and looked up to see Firouz entering. Quickly he folded the paper, sliding it into the lap drawer of his desk.
    “Good morning, Aga Solaiman,” mumbled Firouz, looking at the floor.
    “Good morning,” returned Ezra. “It’s good to see you back at work. Are you feeling quite well?”
    Firouz quickly glanced up at his employer, but he could find no trace of irony in Ezra’s look or demeanor. Again his eyes fell, “Yes, Aga … I think I had a case of the flu.” He shuffled his feet and thrust his hands into his pants pockets. “But I feel fine now.” He coughed slightly, for effect.
    Ezra eyed him for a moment. “Good. Then you may begin unpacking the consignment we just received from Sandoz—the large boxes in the back. Be sure to check the invoices against the packing lists.”
    Firouz shuffled toward the back of the store. From the corner of his eye, Ezra thought he saw his assistant toss a glance at him over his shoulder.
    From just inside the storeroom door, Firouz peeked back inside the shop, at Ezra seated at his desk. He wondered what the old Jew was so nervous about and watched as Ezra quietly slid open the lap drawer and carefully produced a newspaper. He eased open a page, looked for a moment, then just as quietly folded the paper and replaced it in the desk drawer.
    Thoughtfully, Firouz turned to the task Ezra had assigned him. He decided to keep his eyes open. Something was going on.

FIVE
    Sepideh Solaiman pouted as she walked along the hallway. Khosrow had not met her by the stairway. She had waited for him for almost twenty minutes, until she feared being tardy.
    As she approached the doorway of her classroom, she froze. Khosrow was there, surrounded by five or six other boys who were shoving and slapping him. Just as she was about to whirl and race in search of a teacher, a school principal came from the far end of the corridor, and Khosrow’s attackers vanished.
    “Khosrow!” she screamed, dropping her books in a clattering pile as she rushed to him. He leaned against the wall by the doorway, panting. His shirt was torn and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. “I was going to surprise you here, instead of by the stairway,” he gasped. A curious crowd began to gather, students pausing on their way to classes to observe the unusual scene.
    Her eyes wide in shock, Sepi gazed about her. Then she saw her desk, just inside the doorway. Someone had carved a series of jagged, angry letters across the wooden desktop: Infidel Jew.
    The bell for classes rattled in the hallway, but the silent ring of students gathered about Khosrow and Sepi made no move toward their rooms.
    Down the hall, the principal took in the scene. He watched them for a moment, then walked away.
    In a daze, Khosrow said, “I saw what they were doing, and I yelled at them, but there were too many. One of them I have known since first grade….”
    Sepi walked blindly into the classroom, oblivious in her shock to the stares as she passed through the students. She rubbed the heel of her hand across the splintered defacement on her desk, vainly trying to scrub the damning slogan from her life. But the boys had carved far too deeply for such easy removal. This would never be erased, she realized. She looked about her in consternation. Mute, unreadable faces returned her gaze. They seemed to be closing in on her, threatening her. She raced for