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, shorter and hunched. Zinaida wouldn’t allow me even to stand on her