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.

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.

 

Book is Almost Finished

I wrote a first draft of this book a few years ago, and set it aside, awaiting feedback from family and friends. Last spring set myself the task of revising all the chapters and getting the book ready to send out to agents and publishers. It will be coming out on Amazon in a few weeks. In going over my notes, finding pictures and revisiting the stories, I often find myself in tears, remembering so much… I hope others will enjoy Zehbel: The Clever One.

He Saved My Life

In 1969 we were setting up a TACAN (Tactical Air Navigation) at Tabriz, near the Iraqi border. Essentially, we were working in a war zone, as trouble was brewing between Iran and Iraq.The Imperial Iranian Air Force (IIAF) fighter planes were there, sitting on the runway all day long, loaded with armament. Sometimes, they would take off. When they returned, the armament was gone. I didn’t know exactly what was going on. That was not a good feeling, I thought. On the other hand, maybe it was better that way. I knew a lot of the pilots; I would wave to them and they would wave back. The pilots were from all over the country, from other bases. Our work location was on the side of the runway near touchdown. All of this entertainment was free.

The commander of the Air Force Strike Group came over to see how things were going and asked how much longer it would take. He told me how grateful he was that we were setting up the TACAN. The commander’s name was Lieutenant Colonel  (LC) Amir Hosein Rabii. He would later become commander of the IIAF. He was a very friendly person and from that day on, we became close friends.
One night, I heard a lot of noise outside. A great many vehicles were speeding by, one after another, but it was too dark to see exactly what was going on. I could see trucks and artillery pieces. “What’s happening?” I wondered aloud. I left late but was back before the sun rose. Then, when the sun rose, I saw what it was all about. There were about two hundred artillery pieces in a line. Then it all started. They opened up. The shells were hitting in the mountains that partly surrounded the base. What a sight! The mountains were coming down. The noise from the guns was fracturing to the ears and body. My body was constantly shaking and vibrating. So was the ground. Something was happening. No matter what it was, I had my work to do.
By the fifth day, almost all of the essential work had been completed. The FAA people left but I had to stay until everything was completed. The Flight Check aircraft soon arrived and were ready to go. Flight Check was finished very quickly and the TACAN passed with flying colors. The aircraft landed and I took a jeep over to the tarmac to say good bye and thank the Flight Check people for their work. That turned out to be a very bad mistake. As I left the aircraft and headed for the jeep, I heard a loud shout.
My nightmare had begun. I found myself standing in front of a machine gun nest. There was one machine gun and eight riflemen. They were shouting at me and all guns were pointing at me. They sounded angry and crazy. I couldn’t understand what they were saying.
I shouted in Farsi, “I’m an American.” That didn’t seem to matter. Unknown to me at the time, they did not speak Farsi. They were less than fifty yards from me. I could see everything that was going on and it was not nice. They were ready to fire. My 9MM was strapped to my chest but that was of no use to me now. I was out in the open. It would be all over for me in a second if I had done something.
“Why does it have to end like this?” I asked myself. After all of the work that I had done for them, it didn’t seem right. I started to pray and I had the feeling that my soul was rising out of my body. I guess I didn’t want to feel the bullets hit my body. “My poor wife and kids,” I thought, “They will lose their daddy.”
A blue jeep was approaching. The gunners turned the guns towards the jeep. The jeep was driven by LC Rabii. He must have been warned by the pilots. Most of them knew me and were constantly sitting in their planes near the runway, ready to go. When he reached me, he asked what was happening. I told him. He said, “stay where you are.” I had no intention of moving. He talked to them for a few minutes.
“They are speaking Turkish,” LC Rabii said, “They want to shoot me too.” Now what! I couldn’t imagine them wanting to shoot a Lieutenant Colonel in a flight suit, but they were Conscripts and not too smart. After a few more minutes of talking to the soldiers, he said, “Go like hell, Michael!” I asked “Are you sure?” He responded “Go now!” So I did. He saved my life that day.

THURSDAY NIGHT CELEBRATION

CLOSE FRIENDS CELEBRATING A SIGNIFICANT EVENT

Our close friends gathered to show their excitement when they heard I had been chosen for a high ranking position with the Imperial Iranian Air Force (IIAF). I was now the  advisor to the DCS/CEM (Deputy Chief of Staff/ Communications Electronics and Meteorology). This was the highest position held by any American working in the IIAF,  and carried the equivalent rank of Major General.

This is a picture of ‘Cretia and I with them at a posh nightclub in Teheran. The job seemed to be a great thing but I had no idea what I was getting into.

I am the second on the left and Cretia is across the table from me. The year was 1972.