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, shorter 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.”