As you know, I don't keep a diary. Whenever I write something, it seems to be written for you. Moreover, in such a special environment, I can't take much care of it. I just hope that the war will end as soon as possible, and I will go to Tehran to find you. Remember when we met the Nazis on the street, when you were scared and I could clearly feel your trembling on my shoulders. I took advantage of the crowd to hold you, and somehow I wanted to laugh, you are younger than me, and you feel more like a mature adult than me. I know you are insightful and have never seen you have a moment of "uncertainty". I also know that I am not an ordinary neurotic. With you, I would like to be a child forever. I'm just a cook, you know, just taller and look like a real officer. When I was still working in the kitchen, one of those commanders was going out for an outing and ordered them to prepare special dishes for twenty-five people. I was quite able to be on my own, but the foreman suddenly fainted that night, and I asked everyone to change the recipe in a hurry, so that the officers could have food to eat. To be honest, I am a little proud. When it was time for dinner, I received news from the intelligence officer and immediately moved. The officers had already withdrawn, and it seemed that they had been raided again. The kitchen was a mess again, and the delicacies that were served in exquisite porcelain plates, porcelain pots, and purple sand utensils turned into leftovers in an instant. I was stunned as I chased the back of the commander's head. Who is he under command? For the first time I saw some kind of "rules", the ones that we have to obey when we die on weekdays - just an empty house that keeps being filled, vacated, filled, vacated, and finally the house collapses as if nothing never existed. On the way to the emergency transfer, my companion and I were both physically and mentally exhausted. I stared at the ring on my ring finger and took it off very slowly. Soon after I got the rank, I installed a closet in my office, full of meat jars, wine, bread... full of rules. The big rule is to hate the Jews, the small rule is to love the meat pot. It was while talking to an old scout in the woods behind the prison that the idea of doing business in Tehran after the war was over. I knew before you left that you probably stopped being a driver for a long time. As for how you make a living now, I don't know, but I want to open a restaurant where you live, you know what I mean.
On the morning of Tuesday and Tuesday, I had just listened to the misty report from the female assistant when the soldiers brought over a Jew who claimed to be a Persian. Of course he's a Jew, no "I think", "maybe", "maybe"...he is. Age gives a person this ability to judge intuitively, just like when I just mentioned you to the old man in the woods, he understood and understood everything, so he didn't ask. Yes, there are so many questions that we should ask ourselves first, and if we don't have an answer, neither does anyone else. The Jew in front of me claimed to be able to speak Persian, which made me feel like I had caught a life-saving straw, so I decided to keep him by my side. I miss you most every night when I review Persian before bed. You understand morphemes, stems, affixes - those rules, I don't understand, if you teach me, I will learn faster. Now I learn words first, then prepositions, and then connect words into sentences. When I talk to Zare, it's okay. I asked Zare how to say "I love you" in Persian? He bit his voice and demonstrated to me. At that moment, I felt the magic of language. When we express the most common concepts in our mother tongue in another language, it seems to dilute the pressure and cleanse the mood inside. "I love you" is "I love you" without hesitation, without expecting an answer.
3. Are you in Tehran or not? My eyes are on the roster. "Yuan" is such a beautiful surname, "Yuan Zare", "Yuan Oik", "Yuan Maas"... Anyway, you are not on it. After the turmoil in the dormitory, Zare was obviously much weaker. I know he is also trying to escape, and I want to help him. I think you will support me in doing so too. And I know he won't let me help him. We all have places we can’t control, we can’t avoid, we have to go no matter what, whether it’s a person’s fate or the direction of a war. This is the only reason we win or lose, parting or reuniting. But as long as I speak our "common language", I don't have to persuade him, I can just say "follow me", which is better than an order. Otherwise he would rather die. Look at him, wearing a jacket marked with Jewish symbols, wearing a name that does not belong to him, trying to live in a hundred and a thousand ways and preparing to die... That's how you and I got lost! I stopped him.
Sizare's quarrel with me reminds me clearly of my quarrel with you. It turns out that we have been learning "language" all our lives. We learn each other's "language", from unfamiliar, to skilled, to sublimating the meaning of the language, until we find that we can't really communicate - who is Was it wrong from the start? Is anyone right from the start? Still, that was the last time this "fake Persian" came into play. When I was mobbed at the airport, I accepted - it's not that I shouldn't be here, it's that you're not in Tehran.
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