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the nearest door.
    “Sepi, Sepi, come back!” Faintly she heard Khosrow’s voice through the fog of her panic. Then she was outside.

    Esther tipped the threadbare delivery man, took the letter from his hand, and watched as he walked slowly away. Closing the gate behind him, she glanced down at the return address. The writing was in Moosa’s familiar, hurried hand, and she smiled as she eagerly tore open the thin red-and-blue-bordered airmail envelope.
    Dear Mother and Father,
    Each day the news from Iran is more and more disturbing. On the TV they show scenes of rioting in the streets of Tehran, of chanting crowds holding up posters of Khomeini. I am worried sick about you and Sepi.
    I think you should all leave Iran at once. I will help you arrange everything. In fact, I will come there and help you get your affairs in order.
    Please write me soon and let me know how you are. And think seriously about what I have said.
    Love,
    Moosa
    Esther crumpled the envelope in her fist as angry tears stung her eyes. Now Moosa too! He wanted her to discard everything, as though their lives here were shed as easily as a worn garment! She teased at the thought that Ezra had written their son, enlisting his support in persuading her to accept this hateful uprooting.
    Behind her, the gate rattled open and clanged shut. She turned just as Sepi, her chest heaving with great, wet sobs, flung herself into her mother’s astonished arms.
    “Sepi! What is the matter, my darling? Why are you not in school?”
    A wordless wail of fear and pain was her only answer, as Sepideh clutched herself tightly to her mother, her face buried in Esther’s shoulder.

    Ezra stood on the sidewalk outside the mosque, feeling more conspicuous by the minute. Anxiously he scanned the faces of those entering and leaving the house of worship, searching for Mullah Hafizi. At last the aged clergyman came into view, rounding a corner and crossing the courtyard of the mosque toward Ezra, who now breathed a little easier. Then he remembered why he was here and again felt the bands of apprehension tighten about his chest.
    Hafizi walked up to Ezra, carefully studying the nervous face of his Jewish friend. “Are you certain you are prepared to go through with this?” he asked.
    Ezra nodded. “I am, baradar . I think it is necessary.”
    A moment more the mullah searched the eyes of the druggist. “It is possible that your proposal may be received with suspicion, despite all demonstrations to the contrary,” he said. “I will do what I can, but …” Hafizi shrugged.
    Ezra’s mind whirled. Like a sheep treading among wolves, he was about to enter the presence of a senior official of Islam. Would Hafizi betray the tenuous confidence placed in him? Would he revoke his intention to aid Ezra, or did he merely try to warn of the very real possibility of failure? Ezra took a deep, quavering breath before speaking.
    “My friend,” he began in a low voice, “I have opened my mind to you. Already you know enough to cause the failure of my plans. When I spoke with you in your house, by that very act I was committed to this attempt.” His eyes darted nervously, then came to rest imploringly on Hafizi’s face.
    The mullah again shrugged and beckoned Ezra inside. “Wait!” hissed Hafizi, pointing at Ezra’s feet. “You must not enter holy ground wearing shoes!”
    “Of course,” laughed Ezra nervously, when he regained his voice. “You would think a descendant of Moses would remember such a thing!” Cautiously he retraced his steps to the outside, removed his shoes, and reentered the mosque, placing first his right foot inside the portal, then his left, in accordance with Islamic custom. Hafizi took his arm and led him toward the chambers of the mojtahed. “In the name of Allah the Merciful and Compassionate,” Ezra whispered under his breath as they walked down the colonnade.

    The phone jangled in its cradle. Firouz paused in his sweeping, leaning the broom