To another I am wed.
“Crazy drunks,” Ira said. She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Come inside, Mama.”
* * *
—
“Nothing will be enough for them,” Borya said after I told him what happened. “I’ll have no peace until I’m in the grave. I’ve already penned a letter to the Kremlin, asking for your permission to emigrate with me.”
“You asked them before you asked me? What if I don’t want to go?”
“You won’t?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I haven’t sent it yet.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I can’t leave without you. I’d rather be sent to the camps.”
“What about my family? What would they do?”
He told me we’d find a way. What I didn’t know was that he’d already discussed the matter with his wife. He didn’t ask me the same question he’d asked her until she’d told him she’d never leave, and while he was free to go, she and their son would have to denounce him once he was gone. “You understand,” she’d told her husband.
The following day, he told me he’d torn up the letter to the Kremlin. “How could I look out another window, in a foreign city, and not see my birch trees?” he asked.
It was his stand: not to let them drive him from his home.
I should have known that leaving was never a real option for him. In spite of everything, he’d be lost without Mother Russia. He could never leave his trees, his snowy walks. He could never leave his red squirrels, his magpies. He could never leave his dacha, his garden, his daily routine. He’d rather die as a traitor on Russian soil than live as a free man abroad.
* * *
They banned Borya from receiving mail, cutting off one of his only lifelines to the world. Shortly after, letters began appearing under my apartment door. Some were stamped, some not; some had return addresses, some not. Each morning, Ira and I would bundle the letters, wrapping them in butcher paper like cuts of meat. We’d take the train to Little House, where Borya would be waiting to read them. I had become his postmistress.
He received letters from Albert Camus, John Steinbeck, Prime Minister Nehru. He received letters from students in Paris, a painter in Morocco, a soldier in Cuba, a housewife in Toronto. His demeanor brightened as he opened each envelope.
One of his most treasured letters came from a young man in Oklahoma. The man wrote of his recent heartbreak and how much Doctor Zhivago had touched him. The man had addressed his letter to Boris Pasternak, Russia, in a small town outside Moscow.
Borya took his time replying to each, his soaring handwriting covering page after page in purple ink. He wrote until his hand hurt, until his back ached, but he refused to dictate his replies when I offered to help. “I want my hand to touch theirs,” he said.
But he received other letters too, letters to which he did not respond. Letters from detractors, letters from the State, letters meant to intimidate. Despite his renouncing the Prize, they wanted to see the cloud dweller brought back down to earth. They wanted him on his knees. They wanted him to grovel, to bow down. He would not, but neither would he confront them. His inaction was seen as weakness, both by those watching the affair unfold from afar and by me.
If he wasn’t going to do something, I would. I couldn’t wait for them to come to my door.
I met with the head of the authors’ rights division of the Writers’ Union, Grigori Khesin, an old contact of mine from Novy Mir.
He barely listened to me as I stated Borya’s case, and when I was finished, he said there was nothing to be done. “Boris Leonidovich is no longer a member of the Union and thus has no ‘rights’ to be upheld.” I stormed out of Grigori’s office and was immediately approached by a man offering another solution.
This man, Isidor Gringolts, was a distant acquaintance. I recalled having seen him at poetry readings but barely knew him. Young and handsome, Isidor had wavy blond hair and dressed like a European. For some reason, I found myself nodding as he told me he’d do anything in his power to help Boris.
We went to my apartment, where a plan was set in motion. After hours of debate with Ira, Mitya, and a close circle of friends, Isidor told us the only thing to do was to pen a public letter from Boris to Khrushchev, asking for forgiveness and not to be expelled from the Motherland. I balked, thinking Borya would never sign his name to such a thing or allow this stranger to put words in his mouth. But he was convincing, and in the end, we decided it was the only way.
Isidor wrote the first draft himself, and I adjusted the voice to sound more like Borya’s. Ira delivered the letter to Peredelkino. They’d worn him down so much that when Ira asked if he’d sign it, Borya could no longer raise his voice; all he could do was raise a pen. “Just let it be over,” he told her.
He offered only minor revisions. “Olya, keep it all as it is,” he’d written me in a note. “Write that I was born not in the Soviet Union, but in Russia.” Ira said his hand shook as he ended the letter with his own addition: With my hand on my heart, I can say that I have done something for Soviet literature, and may still be of service to it.
The next day, Ira and a friend from school took the revised letter to 4 Staraya Square. A guard outside the gate of the Central Committee building saw them approach. With a cigarette clenched in his teeth, he looked them up and down and asked what they wanted.
“We have a letter for Khrushchev,” Ira said.
He laughed, almost spitting out his cigarette. “From whom? You?”
“From Pasternak.”
The guard stopped laughing.
* * *
—
Two days later, Polikarpov phoned to say that Khrushchev had received Borya’s letter and that his presence was requested immediately. “Put on your coat and meet us on the street. You will be accompanying us to fetch the cloud dweller.”
Ten minutes later, a black ZiL idled outside my apartment building. Inside, Polikarpov was waiting. Already in my coat, I looked out the window, then at my clock. I waited fifteen more minutes before leaving the apartment.
As I approached, Polikarpov stepped out of the car. He was wearing a thick black jacket that came down to his ankles, the cut of it foreign, the wool heavy and luxurious. “You’ve kept us waiting.”
I didn’t apologize. My anger mimicked a bravery I could not contain. He ushered me into the backseat of the car. He sat in front with the driver, whose eyes never left the road. The car took the middle lane, reserved for government vehicles. As we sped through traffic, civilian cars pulled over to the side.
“What more do you want from him?” I asked.
Polikarpov turned to face me. “This whole affair, which he has brought unto himself, is not yet finished.”
“He declined the Prize. He renounced Zhivago. He begged forgiveness. What more do you want? This ordeal has stolen years from him. He’s an old man now. Sometimes I barely recognize—” I stopped myself. Polikarpov didn’t need to know more.
He turned back around. “We do thank you for your help in getting Pasternak to sign the letter. We won’t forget it.”
“It was Boris’s letter, not mine.”
“My friend Isidor Gringolts—I believe you know him? He told me personally it was you who wrote most of the letter. His work on the matter has also been recognized.”
Of course Gringolts had been sent by them. How could I have been so stupid?
“We’re now relying entirely on you to put this matter behind us,” Polikarpov continued.
* * *
—
Big House was dark, except for the light in Borya’s study. The car pulled up and I saw his silhouette in the window. The light shut off and the downstairs light turned on. I wanted to go to him but did not dare leave the car. I could see another figure walking back and forth, sho
rter and hunched. Zinaida wouldn’t allow me even to stand on her porch.
Borya emerged, wearing his cap and jacket, an odd smile on his face as if he were about to embark on a holiday. The driver got out and opened the door for him. He didn’t register any surprise at seeing me in the backseat. Nor did he express worry when Polikarpov confirmed we were indeed on our way to meet with Khrushchev. The only uneasiness Borya relayed was that he wasn’t wearing suitable trousers for the occasion. “Should I go back inside and change?” he asked, when the car was already headed down the road. Polikarpov chortled. Even stranger, Borya joined in, laughing hysterically. His laughter infuriated me and I shot him a look, which he pretended not to see, which infuriated me even more. At a stoplight, I felt like opening the door and getting out, leaving these men to deal alone with what they’d wrought.
We arrived at Entrance No. 5 of the Central Committee building and followed Polikarpov through the gate. Borya stopped at the heels of a guard. “Identification,” the guard said.
“The only identification I had was my Writers’ Union membership card, which they’ve just revoked,” said Boris. “Thus I am without identification completely. Worse, I’m without proper trousers.” The guard, a young man with full lips and freckles across his cheeks, chose not to engage and waved us through.
Polikarpov left us in a small waiting area, where we sat for an hour. Borya touched my gold bracelet, which he’d given me three New Years earlier. “Should you be wearing this?” he asked. He brushed a piece of my hair behind my ear. “And the pearl earrings? And the lipstick? It might give the wrong impression.”
I opened my purse. Instead of taking off my jewelry and wiping off my makeup, I took out a small vial of valerian tincture and drank it down to calm my nerves.
Finally Borya’s name was called and we stood. “You are not needed,” the guard said to me. Ignoring him, I took Borya’s arm and we walked down a long corridor and into an office where Polikarpov sat waiting. The strong scent of aftershave greeted us. Polikarpov appeared to have showered, shaved, and put on a new suit. He acted as if he had been waiting all day for us. It was another intimidation tactic; we would not be meeting with Khrushchev at all. He cleared his throat as if to give a speech. “You will be allowed to remain in Mother Russia, Boris Leonidovich,” he said.
“Why did we have to come here when you could have told us this hours ago?”
He ignored me and raised a finger. “There is more.” He pointed to two chairs. “Sit.”
I could hear Borya grind his custom-made teeth. “There is nothing more!” he exploded. Finally, the anger I’d longed to hear. He was standing up for himself at last.
“You have caused so much anger from the people, Boris Leonidovich. There is little I can do to calm them. You have no right to muzzle them. They have a right to express themselves. Tomorrow, Literaturnaya Gazeta will include several of these voices. There is nothing we can do about that. The people have their right. Before you will be given permission to stay, you must first make peace with the people. Publicly, of course. Another letter is needed posthaste.”
“Have you no shame?” Borya asked, his voice still raised.
“Come.” Polikarpov motioned toward the chairs again. “Let’s sit and talk like gentlemen.”
“There is only one gentleman here,” I said.
Polikarpov chuckled. “Would the great poet’s wife agree?”
“I will not sit,” Borya continued. “This meeting is over. You speak of the people. What do you know about the people?”
“Now look, Boris Leonidovich, this whole business is almost over. You have a chance to make things right with me and with the people. I’ve brought you here to tell you everything will soon be right again as long as you cooperate.” He came around the desk, placing himself between Borya and me. He put a hand on Borya’s shoulder and patted him as one would a good dog. “Goodness me, old fellow. What a mess you’ve landed us in.”
Borya shrugged his hand off. “I am not your underling, some sheep you can direct to pasture.”
“I am not the one who has stuck a knife in the back of my country.”
“Every word I’ve written was truth. Every word. I am not ashamed.”
“Your truth is not our truth. I am only trying to help you rectify things.”
Borya started for the office door.
“Stop him, Olga Vsevolodovna!” Polikarpov’s bravado disappeared. He looked pathetic and desperate. It was clear he’d been ordered to quietly put an end to the whole affair but had wanted to puff out his chest first and was now failing at the task.
“You must first apologize for speaking to him like that,” I said.
“I apologize,” he said. “I do. Please.”
“End this now,” Borya said, still standing in the doorway. “I beg of you.”
* * *
—
The next day, twenty-two letters authored by “real” Russian people appeared in Literaturnaya Gazeta under the headline SOVIET PEOPLE CONDEMN B. PASTERNAK’S BEHAVIOR. Each one parroted the party line: Judas! Traitor! Fake! A construction worker from Leningrad penned that she had never heard of this Pasternak before, so why should we pay him any mind at all? A garment worker from Tomsk wrote that Pasternak was on the take from the West, funded by capitalist spies who’d made the writer a very rich man.
Polikarpov decreed that one last letter of apology, addressed to “the people,” was needed. I wrote the first draft, edited it to Polikarpov’s specifications, and persuaded Borya to sign it.
The night the final letter was printed in Pravda, he came to Little House wanting to make love. But the shining brave poet was gone. In his place stood an old man. He touched my waist as I stood at the sink peeling potatoes. And for the first time, I moved away.
WEST
Summer 1959
CHAPTER 27
The Applicant
The Carrier
The Nun
THE STUDENT
Most of it was waiting: waiting for the intel, waiting for the assignment, waiting for the mission to begin. I waited in hotel rooms, apartments, stairwells, train stations, bus stations, bars, restaurants, libraries, museums, laundromats. I waited on park benches and in movie theaters. I once waited for a message at a public swimming pool in Amsterdam for a full day, and left so sunburned I had to wrap aloe-soaked gauze around my shoulders and the tops of my thighs.
Nine months after the World’s Fair, I waited yet again—in a hostel in Vienna, for the seventh World Youth Festival to begin.
Set for late July, the festival would be ten days of rallies, marches, meetings, exhibitions, lectures, seminars, and sporting events. There’d be a Parade of Nations, the release of a thousand white doves, and a grand ball at the end—all dedicated to promoting “peace and friendship” among tomorrow’s leaders. During the fest, the expected twenty thousand international students attending from Saudi Arabia and Ceylon to Cambridge and Fresno could take part in union-led tours of an electrical plant, hear presentations from leaders in the voluntary work camp movement, or attend lectures on the peaceful use of atomic energy.
The Kremlin had invested an estimated $100 million to ensure the festival’s lasting influence on its participants.
But the Agency had other plans.
After Doctor Zhivago popped up across the USSR and Pasternak’s notoriety skyrocketed, the Soviets began searching for the banned book in the luggage of citizens returning to the Motherland after being abroad. It was a propaganda coup for the Agency, and as a result, they decided to double down—to print and disseminate even more copies. This time, instead of the blue-linen-covered edition printed in the Netherlands, we’d made a miniature edition ourselves—printed on thin Bible stock, small enough to fit in a pocket.
I’d gone to Vienna early, to await the arrival of two thousand copies of the tiny book. Animal Farm, The G
od That Failed, and 1984 were also designated for distribution, and dozens of us awaited the arrival of the books that would fill our “Information Booths” throughout Vienna, ready to hand off to student delegates taking in the sights. It was the Agency’s own way of spreading peace and friendship.
My hair had grown out a bit since Brussels and was dyed back to a brassy shade of its former blond. And I dressed as if on my way to a poetry reading: black turtleneck, black clam diggers, and black ballet flats. I’d become a student again.
My first location was to be the Wurstelprater. I was to scout out the amusement park prior to the start of the festival, to determine the most trafficked spot from which I could hand out the most books before inevitably being asked to leave.
After passing the ghost train, merry-go-round, bumper cars, shooting galleries, and biergartens, I decided the foot of the Wiener Riesenrad would be the most advantageous spot, as I could envision every student tourist wanting to take a ride on the world’s tallest Ferris wheel. Plus, I got a small thrill from standing so close to the ride featured in one of my favorite movies, The Third Man.
With my location set, my next step was to visit a dry cleaner on Tuchlauben, where I would tell the clerk I’d been sent to retrieve a suit for a Mr. Werner Voigt and ask if I could pay in Swiss francs. I’d then be given the bagged suit with a ticket noting the address where the first batch of miniature Zhivagos would be located. Dissemination would begin the following day.
But first, I was hungry. I decided to stop and buy two plate-sized potato pancakes before leaving the park—one for dinner and one for breakfast. The food stand was strategically placed next to the Riesenrad, a trap for everyone waiting in line. It was there, standing in line for food behind an American tourist wearing unflatteringly tight lederhosen, that I saw her.
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