me a copy of one of the Soviet brochures he’d translated. Inside was a map of the entire fairgrounds spanning two pages. I laughed as I noticed that the American and Vatican pavilions were markedly absent.
Speaking Russian again brought Mama to the forefront of my mind, and I longed to see someone who reminded me of her, even a little. But most of the Soviets who came were members of the intelligentsia—educated, well-spoken, and in favor with the State. Others were young and out of the country for the first time—the musicians and dancers and other artists performing at the fair. All were city people, their hands soft and uncalloused. They could afford to travel, and even more important, were given permission to. They dressed like Europeans, in their tailored suits and French couture day dresses and Italian shoes. And although I’d never been to the Motherland, these were Russians I didn’t recognize; they were so unlike my mother, and the thought pained me.
In the afternoon, Ivanna came into the library to tell us there was an influx of Russians viewing The Thinker and she believed word had spread. “Should we slow down?” she asked.
“If anything, we should speed up,” I said. “We won’t have much time now that word has gotten out.”
“She’s right,” Father David said. “Keep them coming.”
When we’d given out a hundred copies, Ivanna stuck her head behind the curtain, holding one of the blue linen covers that had been ripped off the front of the novel. “They’re littering the steps with them.”
“Why?” I asked.
“To make them smaller,” Father David replied. “To hide them.”
* * *
We had planned to be at Expo 58 for three days, but we gave out our last copy of the Good Book midway through the second day.
Blue linen book covers littered the fair. A prominent economist removed the pages of an Expo 58 souvenir book and replaced them with Doctor Zhivago. The wife of an aerospace engineer concealed it inside an empty tampon box. A prominent French horn player stuffed the pages inside the bell of his instrument. A principal dancer for the Bolshoi Ballet wrapped the book in her tights.
Our job was done. We’d sent Zhivago on its way, hopeful Mr. Pasternak’s novel would eventually find its way home, hopeful those who read it would question why it had been banned—the seeds of dissent planted within a smuggled book.
Father David, Ivanna, Father Pierre, and I parted according to plan. Ivanna would return the following day, staying at Expo 58 to distribute her religious materials. But the rest of us were to leave the fair and not return. There were no grand goodbyes, no pats on the back, no job-well-dones, no mission-accomplisheds. Just some nods as we left the City of God one by one. No further contact was allowed. Where the Fathers were headed, I didn’t know; but I was to board a train to The Hague the next day, where I’d meet with my handler for debriefing and my next assignment.
EAST
September–October 1958
CHAPTER 22
The Cloud Dweller
THE PRIZEWINNER
Boris stands behind a split-rail fence, tending a patch of earth where he had planted winter potatoes, garlic, and leeks. A visitor arrives, and Boris props his hoe against a birch tree.
“My friend,” the visitor says, extending his hand to Boris over the fence.
“It’s here?” Boris asks.
The visitor nods and follows Boris inside.
They sit across from each other at the dining room table. The visitor opens his rucksack and places the book, still in its blue linen cover, in front of its author. Boris reaches for his novel. It is much lighter than the hand-bound manuscript he’d entrusted to foreign hands two years earlier, and much different than the glossy published volume that had become an international bestseller in Europe—a volume he’s seen only in photographs. He runs his dirty fingernails across its cover. His eyes fill with tears. “It’s here,” he says again.
The visitor takes out his second gift—a bottle of vodka. “A toast?” he asks.
“Who did this?” Boris asks.
The visitor pours himself a drink. “They say it was the Americans.”
* * *
Boris takes his morning walk. It’s raining, so he takes the tree-covered path through the birch forest back to his dacha instead of his usual route through the cemetery, over the stream, and up the hill. The few dead leaves still clinging to the forest canopy are enough to shield him from the rain. He’s dressed appropriately for the weather, in his raincoat and cap and black rubber boots;