Kallepache and the Danger Men

When I was assigned to set up equipment at the air base in Esfahan, friends recommended a restaurant called the Feed House, known for serving excellent Kallepache.

There was a group of very strong men in Esfahan called “Danger Men,” by the people of Esfahan. These guys swung objects that looked like giant bowling pins around with their hands and they did it as a group, combining slow, artistic movements with ancient Iranian music. It was like a dance. I had seen them on television, performing for the Shah. They would practice in the very early hours of the morning. Turns out they also breakfasted regularly at The Feed House, and they all ate Kallepache.

The first day I went there for breakfast, they all stared at me, but no one spoke. The second day, they were much more friendly. On the third day, it was like old home week. Suddenly, it was like I was an old friend. They all stood up and insisted that I be served the best part of the head of the sheep (Kallepache is made from the head and feet of a sheep). The server complied. Actually, it was very good. From that time on, they all stood up when I came in. Now I was their buddy. It was a very good feeling. There was no danger for me at that place. No one ever saw my gun, even though it was always with me. If they knew that, people would have stayed away from me and I would have missed out on this beautiful experience. Iranian people are very friendly and respectful to people who they think deserve it. These strong men thought that I deserved respect.

The Iranian people that worked with me at the various electronic equipment stations knew I was having breakfast at the Feed House. Something had changed. Now, when I came near them, they would move towards a wall and put their backs to the wall. I noticed it and after a while, I asked a close friend why they were doing this. Reluctantly he explained: it was well-known that people who ate Kallepache for breakfast became more agressive and — well, let’s just leave it at that.

Kallepache – a favorite dish from Iran, made from sheep’s head and feet.

Another bit of info to add to the cultural differences all around me.

Slovakia, Pennsylvania, Iran: From One Generation To The Next

As a young child, I learned some Slovak from my Aunt Nana. Her parents had moved to the Lehigh Valley from Slovakia and handed that spirit of adventure on to me. I loved to be out on my own, exploring unknown territory. The oldest of four girls, I was a top student and spent my summers at Camp Moseywood. I always wanted to be a nurse; I became a good one.
At 27, I moved with Mike and our four little girls to Iran, eager for a new adventure. I learned some Farsi; we rented a house in north Teheran. Everything bought at the market had to be washed and soaked in bleach and water. Vendors walked through the alleys, crying their wares. The children clamored for camel rides. I took them to the Officer’s Club for swimming lessons and a host of activities. Our family enjoyed vacationing at the Caspian Sea.
Now I was moving in high society as a queen bee. Mike and I had two boys and another girl. I began teaching English to officers at Doshen Toppeh. For a mom with seven children, busy wiping noses and bottoms, it was nice to put on a clean outfit, work with grown-ups and be treated with respect.
In 1972 I began taking classes, long distance, through the University of Maryland. It was fun to take a class on “Politics of the USSR,” then go to a cocktail party and talk with ambassadors’ wives about politics and international relations. I was delighted to find I could hold my own; that really boosted my confidence.
Aunt Nana died while we were in Iran. One night, I woke up, elated, from a dream about her. One thing was clear; the lessons she’d learned from her family would be passed on to my children.

What Happens After The Book Is Published: Zehbel, The Clever One

I thought, once I published the book, that was it. I’d send it out there and let it find its own way in the world. Then I found out books need attention, just like children. So I told my friends about it, and many rushed out to buy this masterpiece on Amazon and Kindle. That was encouraging. Friends told others, especially in military circles, and more copies of Zehbel The Clever One were sold. That was wonderful. I gave a talk at our local library and more books sold. 

I was delighted to find so many people enjoyed Zehbel The Clever One. Many emailed or called me with glowing reviews on the extraordinary experiences I shared in Zehbel. But as the book’s author, I felt dissatisfied. The book didn’t fully capture the unremitting stress I’d been under for all those years. Back then, I was always looking around to gauge the level of danger in each situation. I looked at people — what was their agenda? Were they a danger to me, to my men, to my family? Each day I had to summon up the determination to face whatever lay ahead. There was constant danger, wearing me down, like water dripping on a rock. 

Corruption throughout Iran was so pervasive in the sixties and seventies (I doubt this has changed much, given the restrictions Iranians operate under the current regime.) . People did what they could, to provide for their families. Greed was borne out of desperation and centuries of repression. 

These were some of the elements missing from Zehbel The Clever One. But I didn’t have the time, or the energy to write another book. Instead, I had my editor write a screenplay for me, based on Zehbel, but with a more dynamic approach. We called it Mercenary To The Shah. And another project was underway. Now we had to pitch the screenplay to producers, managers, agents in Hollywood. This is ongoing: people like the project, but I don’t know how long it will take to get the screenplay sold. One industry professional is providing coverage to ensure the script has all the elements needed to attract the right buyer. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we flew out to LA and pitched the script to a slew of producers with many favorable responses. My editor followed up with additional pitches to a few more producers. Two asked to read the script, so we’re waiting to see what will happen next. 

Fortunately, my editor handles that for me. She compares the project to lighting a fire. You strike a match, the flame catches, but getting the big logs to ignite takes a bit of patience and tact. So, no overnight success, but through persistence and following a well-organized protocol, my editor feels we will succeed. 

One thing hasn’t changed over the years. I’ll still do everything I can to help my family. Zehbel, The Clever One is just one aspect of that story. 

Beaufort and Back to Business

Lucretia and I down in Beaufort last fall.

I’m enjoying a well-deserved vacation with my extended family down in Beaufort, South Carolina. We got to see some incredible fireworks at Port Royal (the Marines cancelled theirs due to the sequestration, citing limited funds), and I’ve been spending time fixing up my boat, taking the grand-kids here and there, eating great food, swimming and just relaxing in the sun.
Three of my daughters just came back from their much-anticipated Teheran American School Reunion in Las Vegas, so I got to hear how amazing it was to reconnect with all their friends from forty years ago. The girls and everyone who lived in Iran for a time carries the memories of living in a foreign land and falling in love with the place and the people.
Really getting to know the Iranian people involves letting go of past misconceptions.
They are a warm and wonderful people — aside from a few bad guys.
But the memories grab on to you and won’t let go.

We get so insulated in this country. America is big and our borders are open to all kinds of people from around the world. Many of them speak English, so we never really get into the rich knowledge of another person’s culture. The best way to do that is to go there and live among them for a time.
Once you do, you are forever changed.
That’s what my book, Zehbel The Clever One is about: accepting change, and learning a new culture. Keeping true to who you are and what you stand for, even in the face of rampant corruption and the death of people you love.
We are more connected than we know, to everyone on the planet.
My story is a part of theirs too, and I have changed their lives as well.
Read Zehbel. It may shatter a few illusions, but the message is a good one.
Know who you are and what matters to you.
Stand by that, and pass it on to your family.

Funny Hats and Beautiful Women, New Year’s Eve 1967

Along with the hazards of living in the Middle East, Lucretia and I soon discovered the many delights of working and living abroad — including free tuition for our children, a Dangerous Living Allowance, wonderfully low prices at the PX Commissary (imagine paying just $3 for a bottle of premium-label Scotch like Johnny Walker), and a whole new circle of friends. My FAA assignment included all the perks accorded to a major in the USAF, including membership in the Officer’s Club.

We enjoyed getting acquainted with new faces, some of whom became lifelong friends. Sure, it meant occasionally wearing funny hats and dressing up in ridiculous outfits (I’m hoping none of my friends have a picture of me in those skin-tight lederhosen from one memorable evening!), but I’d say it was worth it. A true friend is a treasure beyond price. Here’s a picture of a few of them from New Year’s Eve, 1967. Lorie Hartquist is next to me. Her husband, Fred is across the table from me, next to Laurie Hemp.

Muslims, Catholics and a Mission in Iran

There was a small Catholic church on Shemeron Road in north Teheran when we arrived there in 1967. We called it the Catholic Mission and went there every Friday. The Muslim day of rest began on Thursday evening, when one could no longer distinguish colors because it was too dark. It lasted until Friday evening. When I was away, installing equipment in other parts of Iran, I did my best to get home by Friday morning to attend Mass with Lucretia and the children. There weren’t many places where the Catholic Mass was celebrated in Iran. Most Catholic churches there celebrated Mass on Friday, so you could work or go to school the rest of the week.
Our pastor was Fr. Williams. He’d been a missionary in China, was arrested, tortured and imprisoned there for many years. He was very thin, aesthetic , with a gentle smile that lit up his lined face. We weren’t sure of his age and no one asked. He might have been in his 70s at that point. Fr. Williams offered Mass every Friday morning at the tiny church on Shemeron Road. The Second Vatican Council had concluded two years earlier and Fr. Williams celebrated Mass in the new style, facing the people. He used to say, “The Mass is the meal. The meal is Christ. ”
We knew he was poor; he didn’t seem to have anything to live on, and looked like he really needed a good meal himself. Naturally, Lucretia invited him to our house for dinner many times. Fr. Williams never talked about himself. We didn’t know where he was from, only that his order had sent him to Iran after he was released from prison in China. He was there at the Catholic Mission the whole time we lived in Iran. Most Americans were in the military. They came and went, putting in their 2 year overseas assignments, but Fr. Williams stayed. He was a holy man, a saintly man.
It was different when we first got to Iran, in 1967. Catholics were tolerated. Teheran was being westernized by Reza Shah Pahlavi. The Ayatollah Khomeini had been kicked out of Iran and the religious leaders, the mullahs, seemed to be afraid of the Shah. Nobody could attack a woman for wearing western clothes, under the Shah. The Iranian officers’ wives all wore western clothes; they wanted to look modern and up to date.
The Shah favored Zoroastrians; they had a free visa. Anyone of the Zoroastrian faith could enter the country without restriction. I don’t believe the Shah liked the Muslims at all. He’d have his picture taken kneeling in prayer, covered with a shawl. But he never made himself out to be a religious Muslim.
Poorer women out in the villages wore the traditional chadors. They seemed to be more religious, following Muslim customs. Wealthier people did not adhere to the Muslim faith at all. Some even mocked it, laughing at the poor villagers. The wealthy Iranians never talked about Christians; they ignored the faith. Maybe it was safer not to talk about it. We saw the contrasts between rich and poor, secular and religious Iranians, but in those days, our rights were respected. We were allowed to build up our church and practice our faith without restriction.
The hierarchy in Teheran was a French bishop who traveled around in a big limousine. He demanded money from the Catholic Mission. Fr. Williams encouraged people not to give “You can give what you want; I wouldn’t give anything,” he told us with a twinkle in his eye. He was at our house for dinner and Lucretia was heaping his plate with mashed potatoes. He was so thin. Naturally, as a nurse, Lucretia worried he wasn’t taking care of himself.
One of our American friends was a high-ranking officer. He was a Protestant, but married to a devout Catholic woman. Anyway, this officer got Fr. Williams a job as an auxiliary chaplain attached to the US military in Teheran. That guaranteed him a decent salary; it was a nice thing to do. It was the right thing.
The Americans in Iran were relatively young; there weren’t many old people. Fr. Williams would go around visiting sick people. Then we Americans built a school, a whole complex of buildings so the kids could attend religious education classes. And we took better care of Fr. Williams. He had a wonderful rapport with all the people; he loved them .
After Mass, while the kids went to CCD, we’d walk around the beautiful gardens with paved walks which surrounded the little church. It was a good time to catch up on the news, talking to other parents. That’s how we met our friend, sweet Livvy. She wasn’t a very knowledgeable Catholic, but she sent her kids to CCD. Her husband Ray wasn’t a Catholic. There was a bowling alley down the road, on another block. Sometimes the kids would sneak out of CCD and go bowling. I don’t think they did it very often. They told us about it, years later.
Out in the country, most villages were isolated. People were excited to meet Americans; they smiled and said hello. They were extremely friendly. The women wore their chadors because the mullahs came around to check on that. I think the mullahs had a lot more influence among poorer people and in the villages. But the people went out of their way to do things for you, in spite of what the mullahs ordered. They were told to stay away from Christians, but they liked me.
I worked with so many Iranians, every day. They thought I was special. We were working together on projects to help their country. They looked up to me because I seemed to have all the answers, all the time. I got very close to several people. When people get close to you they trust you and share all kinds of stories about their lives. That was when I really started to learn about the Iranian people, their warmth and generosity. They are an amazing people.

Carolyn’s First Holy Communion,
Catholic Mission,
Teheran, Iran 1968

What Really Happened In Teheran That Day

I went to see the movie Argo a few months ago. It was pretty boring, I thought. I mean, it was well-directed and edited; I know it won a lot of awards and all that. If you didn’t know the facts, you would have thought the movie was exciting. But all that really happened was, half a dozen US government employees sneaked out the back of the American Embassy on Takteh Jamshid Avenue and walked down the street to the Canadian Embassy. A few months later, an American agent got them out of the country. There was no shoot-out. It was disconcerting, too, seeing the scenes at the Embassy. I know it was really shot in Istanbul, but I was expecting to see the Hotel Caspian and other landmarks nearby. Naturally, since they couldn’t get permission to shoot in Iran itself, the exterior location shots weren’t that accurate.
Lucretia noted, the woman taking pictures as they walked through the bazaar — well, yeah, that was a real no-no. People wouldn’t like that. And it was true that they wouldn’t serve drinks on the plane until they were no longer over Iranian airspace. But everything else in the movie was over-dramatized.
Still, that’s what makes a good picture.
Barbara has started putting together the screenplay for Zehbel. Actually, I think she’s about halfway done. We have to get together and go over the scenes, to make sure everything is exactly right. The difference between Argo and Zehbel is, I’m a whole lot closer to the truth. And the truth, what I lived through during those ten years in Iran, is much more exciting than Argo.
I still miss all my wonderful friends back in Iran, but I have a good life here in Pennsylvania. And I’m grateful for that.

Charshanbe Souri

It is almost Spring and Nowruz is just around the corner. I left Iran more than thirty years ago, but Iran has never left me.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly — and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing. –Omar Khayyam

I remember the Nowruz celebrations: a few days before, on Red Wednesday, people would light fires in courtyards and on the flat roofs of their houses. The fires were meant to be seen by others. People would jump over the fires saying “out with the old, in with the new.” There were all kinds of traditions, like hiding money around the house for the kids to find, giving away candy to anyone who visited, and all the family members would go to each others’ houses. The younger ones had to visit first, then the older relatives would return the visit. On the last day, people would have picnics everywhere,all over the country. You even saw them spreading a cloth and setting out food along the highways, wherever there was a bit of grass. As Nowruz ended, the kids learned at school to sprinkle greens on the roof of our car; others did this too. You would see the greens flying off the cars as they moved down the street. I think it meant leaving your troubles behind.

Nowruz was a time of joy and celebration. Families had fun together. I miss those times!

Eid-i shoma mobarak! (May you have an auspicious New Year!)

Sacred Heart Nursing School, Allentown, PA

In 1912 the Missionary Sisters of the Most Sacred Heart came to Allentown, PA . They moved into a working class neighborhood and started caring for the poor. Allentown, at the time, was suffering from a serious outbreak of diphtheria. The nuns nursed people back to health. Slovak immigrants began flooding into the area, working in the coal mines. Some of the nuns began teaching the Slovak children.
I was accepted into Sacred Heart Nursing School in Allentown right after graduating from Central Catholic High School. I always knew I wanted to be a nurse; this was my dream. I had just turned 18, so my parents were able to cash in an insurance policy they’d purchased for me as a baby.Some of that helped towards the $300 I needed for my first year. We apparently weren’t eligible for a scholarship from Sacred Heart. The school only gave out one scholarship for the year, and another student got it. She had more brothers and sisters than I did. Anyway, I got through that first year.
Sr. Antoinette Martinko was a Franciscan nun, German, very strict, and very smart. She was tall, well-built but not heavy, maybe 5’9.” She wore black rimmed glasses; I would guess she was in her mid 50s when I attended Sacred Heart Nursing School in 1957-1960. Sr. Antoinette was head of the whole hospital, and the nursing school. She was the last word.
I know everyone was scared of her. She just instilled that feeling of being unapproachable. But one day, I had to see her. She called me into her office and questioned me about working at Camp Moseywood. I had been helping out the camp nurse that past summer, and Sr. Antoinette felt that violated some code. Sacred Heart nursing students weren’t supposed to work in nursing until they graduated. I didn’t think helping out at the camp was really nursing. I made myself speak up to Sr. Antoinette; I felt I had to put myself on the line. I think she respected that. I didn’t tell anyone except my mom, but I was so relieved when she decided to let me stay on in the nursing program. She really cared about her nurses. The Sacred Heart nurse was THE nurse, to her. She was very proud of her nurses; any misbehavior was unacceptable.
She policed our dorms. We were housed in a red brick building right next to the hospital. We had to live there; we could not go home. There was an underground entrance into the hospital itself. We ate at the hospital and our classes were there. Some doctors taught us, and some German nurses. They were all very strict. I think they were recruited right from Germany. The one who taught microbiology had a very thick accent but she knew her stuff. She was like a super-nun, really way ahead of her time. There is so much she taught us that I still remember and I put it all into practice. She talked about cancer and how cells grew. Wow, what an education.
We wore a blue, long-sleeved dress, then a big, pale blue starchy apron down to our ankles. There was a bib buttoned onto the skirt, very starchy. It tied to our waist. The collars were separate. Then, there was a white cap too. Your shoes had to be polished. If you did not present yourself like you were supposed to, Sr. Antoinette would take you down. Hair had to be a certain length or pulled back into a bun. We had a white Sacred Heart cap. We were capped the first year, after six months, then we got a beautiful dark navy blue cape with a red lining. We didn’t go out on the floor until six months; before that we were in the classroom.
The next summer, before my second year, again I needed money to pay for school. What could I do? I was determined to finish nursing school; nothing was going to stand in my way. So I found the local military recruiting station and applied to go into the Army, like Mike. The recruiter said “yes you can join. Finish nursing school and then you’ll be a second lieutenant.”
Sr. Antoinette heard about my plans. To this day, I have no idea how she found out. Again, she called me into her office. She said “no Sacred Heart nurse is going to join the military. I will give you the money and you will pay me back.”
In 1960, 60 nurses graduated from Sacred Heart School of Nursing in Allentown PA. I was one of them.
I would pay Sr. Antoinette $20 dollars or so from every paycheck. When I got married I still owed her $150. I paid that off. I had a guaranteed job with Sacred Heart Hospital and it was worth every penny. My dream had come true.

A Wife Abroad

Mike started working for the FAA  in 1961, shortly after we got married. That was a government job, with excellent insurance. I did get tired of all the moving around we did, but the benefits were very good.  Then, a few years later, when he was in Pakistan, the children and I stayed in West Virginia. Fortunately, he was only gone for a few months. I was so happy when he told me he’d completed the project ahead of schedule; that meant he could come home after just three months. That was long enough, I thought.

There was so much planning involved in our move to Iran. I guess military families had more help with housing. Mike was with the FAA, but he had the equivalency of a U.S. Air Force Major, and we did get some help from the U.S. Consulate. We had commissary privileges in Iran; really, I had all the privileges of a military wife. We could order things from JC Penney and Sears, and just pay U.S. postage because we had APO (Army Post Office) privileges.

We had to stay in a hotel at first. It was close by the American Embassy, and the Embassy had a very nice restaurant with familiar American foods the kids liked, so we went there often. My initial focus was on feeding and caring for my children and my husband, while I looked for a house in Teheran.  We had brought $500 with us, but the money ran out so quickly! It was gone in a week or so. We were assigned an Iranian driver, since I didn’t have a car at that point.  N. would come and get us at the Hotel Caspian. He was our driver while we stayed at the Hotel, and we were there for two months, in one room, with our four little girls, and another child on the way. Later, after we moved into our own house, we hired him as a bartender for parties. He liked Scotch, so I would keep him happy with a bottle of Johnnie Walker. It only cost me about $3 a bottle, because I shopped at the Commissary. In a regular store, the best liquor would cost $30 a bottle.  When Mike started with the IIAF (Imperial Iranian Air Force),  he discovered that N.  was a snoop. Mike saw him in a room with a bunch of guys with submachine guns. We knew then, he was a snoop for the Iranian government. We hired him as a bartender, anyway, figuring we had nothing to hide.

Carolyn started kindergarten while we were still living at the Hotel Caspian. The bus would pick her up and drop her off in front of the Hotel.  It was such a relief when we finally found a house. The U.S. Consulate helped  by loaning us furniture  until we could arrange for our own things to be shipped over. Finally, our furniture arrived from the States, then our car, which made me very happy.

The children attended Teheran American School and their tuition was paid as part of our military benefits .  This was one thing I hadn’t considered before moving to a foreign country.  Five years later, when Mike went to work for the IIAF, the children’s tuition was also paid, over and above his salary. Some people didn’t have school tuition included in their contracts; their kids would end up in a regular public school like the Iran Zamin. That was considered a good school too, but we liked TAS. Children could attend TAS as long as one parent was an American citizen. They had excellent teachers; remember, most children attended there for just two years. Teachers had to be flexible and thorough in assessing each child. All our children did well at TAS.  They formed close, enduring friendships with fellow students, teachers and staff that has lasted for many years.

Teachers in TAS had good values, good morals. They were really concerned that the kids adhere to standards of good behavior. Recently, my oldest daughter, Carolyn, told the story of how she deliberately skipped a week of swim practice one time. She was the best swimmer on the team; they’d usually win when she was there. But then her coach wouldn’t let her swim at the next meet, because she’d missed practice. He knew they’d lose, but he put her on the bench anyway. She sat there and watched her team lose. Carolyn learned a valuable lesson that day; she never forgot it.

We look forward to re-connecting with all our TAS friends at the bi-annual reunions of Teheran American School, held here in the States.  Growing up in a foreign country, we all stay close and treasure the memories we share.