The Secrets We Kept - Lara Prescott Page 0,114

back of my closet. The bundles were wrapped in plastic, stacked neatly in rows under two pairs of trousers.

D’Angelo had arranged for the transfer—first from Feltrinelli to an account in Liechtenstein, then to an Italian couple living in Moscow. The Italian couple would phone my apartment and say a delivery for Pasternak was waiting at the post office. I would then collect the suitcase, take the train to Peredelkino, and store it at Little House for safekeeping.

Borya didn’t want it. Not at first. With the State having cut off his ability to publish or make a living through his translations, he said we’d find other ways to support ourselves. I reasoned with him that it was but a fraction of what he was owed. Feltrinelli had sold so many copies, he’d already had to reprint it twelve times in Italian; it was a bestseller in America too. The film rights had even been sold to Hollywood. In the West, Borya would’ve been a very wealthy man. When he said we’d make do with what we have and we should be grateful we have each other, I asked him to imagine what would become of me and my family once he was gone.

He eventually came around.

To say I pushed him to accept the foreign royalties would be an understatement; to say I had anything in mind other than ensuring my family would be taken care of, a lie. But why not get something for myself? Why not? After everything I’d done. After everything I’d been through.

But with the money came even more surveillance. They were still watching. I saw no one but always felt their eyes. I shut the windows, closed the drapes, and obsessively checked the locks to Little House. At night, every branch breaking, every gust of wind rattling the door, every screech from some distant car made me jump. Sleep was out of the question.

Seeking relief, I left Little House to stay at my Moscow apartment. It was difficult to be away from Borya, but for the first time in my life, I was glad for the five flights of stairs, the onionskin-thin walls, and my many neighbors who lived on top of one another. If something were to happen, surely someone would hear it and come to my aid. Wouldn’t they?

I was also glad to be with my family. I was seized with the feeling that I needed to be near my children, something I hadn’t felt so strongly since they were young. But Mitya and Ira stayed out of the apartment, making excuses about friends and school. When they were home, they treated my mother with the respect they denied me. Mitya, who had always been such an obedient child, began acting out. Not coming home when he said he would, sometimes smelling of liquor. Ira chose to spend most of her time with a new boyfriend.

Borya was warned by friends to leave Peredelkino for the safety of the city, but he refused. “If they come to stone me, let them. I’d rather die in the country.”

The first night I spent back in Moscow, a neighbor knocked on our door and told us that Vladimir Yefimovich Semichastny was giving a speech on television about Boris. Ira and I followed her back to her apartment and stood with her family around the tiny television propped up on a cold radiator. The black-and-white picture flickered in and out, but we could hear the leader of the Young Communist League loud and clear. “This man went and spat in the face of the people,” Semichastny railed. “If you compare Pasternak to a pig, a pig would not do what he did, because a pig never shits where it eats.” The camera panned to the crowd of thousands. “I am sure the society and government will not place any obstacles in his way, but would, on the contrary, agree that his departure from our midst would make our air fresher.” The audience erupted in applause. Khrushchev himself, sitting on the dais, stood and clapped. Ira looked at me with fear in her eyes. I took her hand and led her back to our apartment.

Later that night, Mitya woke me. A drunken party had gathered in front of our building. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, went to the balcony, and looked down. Three men wearing dresses, no doubt sent by the KGB, were dancing and singing “Black Raven,” an old drinking folk song I’d always hated.

Raven black,

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