held it in her hands. “I didn’t see them. Not up close.”
* * *
—
The next day, a photograph of the “spontaneous demonstration” appeared in Literaturnaya Gazeta. A student held up a placard with a cartoon image of Borya reaching for a sack of American money with crooked fingers. Another placard stated in black block letters: THROW THE JUDAS OUT OF THE USSR! The article also printed a list of names of students who signed a letter condemning Doctor Zhivago.
Ira held up the newspaper. “Half these students never signed it. At least they told me they hadn’t.”
That night at dinner, Mitya asked if it was true that Borya was now richer than the greediest American. “The teacher said so in school. Are we rich now too?”
“No, darling,” I told him.
He rolled a kidney bean across his plate with his thumb. “Why not?”
“Why should we be?”
“He pays for our house. He gives us money. So if he has more, he should give us more.”
“Where would you ever get an idea like that?”
Ira shot her brother a look and he shrugged.
“It makes sense though, Mama,” Ira said. “Suppose you should ask him?”
“I won’t hear another word of it,” I told her, although I can’t pretend I hadn’t been thinking the same thing. “Now finish your dinner.”
* * *
It had been raining for five days when they met in the great White Hall of the Writers’ Union. With every seat filled, writers lined the walls. Borya was asked to attend, but I pleaded with him to stay home. “It will be an execution,” I said. He agreed that his presence would accomplish nothing and instead wrote a letter to be read:
I still believe even after all this noise and all those articles in the press that it was possible to write Doctor Zhivago as a Soviet citizen. It’s just that I have a broader understanding of the rights and possibilities of a Soviet writer, and I don’t think I disparage the dignity of Soviet writers in any way. I would not call myself a literary parasite. Frankly, I believe that I have done something for literature. As for the Prize itself, nothing would ever make me regard this honor as a sham and respond to it with rudeness. I forgive you in advance.
The hall echoed with jeers from the crowd. Then, one by one, each writer went to the podium to condemn Zhivago. The meeting lasted hours, every last person speaking out against him.
The vote was unanimous, the punishment effective immediately: Boris Leonidovich Pasternak was expelled from the Soviet Writers’ Union.
The next day, I gathered every book, every note, every letter, every early draft of the manuscript from my Moscow apartment. Mitya and I took them to Little House to burn. “They won’t take what’s mine again,” I told my son, as we gathered sticks from the forest. “I’d rather destroy everything.”
“How can you be sure?” Mitya asked.
“We’re going to need more wood,” I said, picking up a small log.
Borya arrived as we placed the rocks we’d hauled up from the creek in a ring. “Has it all been for nothing?” he asked, in lieu of a greeting.
“Of course not,” I said, and dumped a bucket of dry leaves atop the wood. “You’ve touched the hearts and minds of thousands.” I poured petrol onto the leaves.
He circled the fire pit. “Why did I write it in the first place?”
“Because you had to, remember?” Mitya said. “That’s what you told us. You said you were called to do it. Remember?”
“It was nonsense. Utter nonsense.”
“But you said—”
“It doesn’t matter what I said then.”
“When you handed it over to the Italians you said you wanted it to be read. Well, you’ve accomplished that.”
“I’ve accomplished nothing but putting us in danger.”
“You said the Prize would protect us. Do you no longer believe that? The whole world is watching, remember?”
“I was wrong. It’s my execution that the whole world will watch.” He raked his hands through his hair. “Am I what they say I am? A narcissist, someone who thinks—no, believes—fully believes, that he has been chosen for this task? That I’m fated to spend my life attempting to express what’s in the hearts of men?” Borya paced frantically. “The sky is falling, and I sought to write instead of building a roof to protect myself and my loved ones. Has my selfishness no bounds? I’ve sat at my desk for so long. Is it true I’m out of touch? Could I even know what is in the