The Secrets We Kept(86)
“That’s impossible,” he said, shaking his head. He took my hand, and without another word, we went inside and to my bedroom and made love in the slow and steady way we’d grown accustomed to.
He spent most of the night with me, not leaving my bed until the blue light of morning peeked between my curtains. In that light, I saw new moles and black hairs and yellow marks on his back, then looked at my own skin. Our ages hit me as if jumping into a freezing river, and I wondered if we had anything left in us to sustain all that was to come.
As I watched him leave my bed, I was seized with a deep longing for something I hadn’t lost yet, but knew I would soon.
* * *
After Boris sent his telegram to Stockholm, the Kremlin issued its official response to the Academy. “You and those who made this decision focused not on the novel’s literary or artistic qualities, and this is clear since it does not have any, but on its political aspects, since Pasternak’s novel presents Soviet reality in a perverted way, libels the socialist revolution, socialism, and the Soviet people.”
Their message was clear: Boris’s defiance would not be tolerated. And it would not go unpunished.
We were told couriers were going door to door, from Peredelkino to Moscow, summoning every poet, playwright, novelist, and translator to an emergency meeting of the Writers’ Union to address the issue of the Nobel. Attendance was mandatory.
Some writers were undoubtedly elated that the narcissist, the overrated Poet on the Hill, was finally getting his due. Some, we were told, said justice should’ve been served long ago, the questions about why Boris had been spared by the hand of Stalin during the Great Terror still unresolved. Other writers were apparently nervous, knowing they’d have to fall in line to denounce their peer, their friend, their mentor—hoping their protests would appear genuine when they were called upon.
Borya didn’t read the newspapers, but I did.
They called him a Judas, a pawn who’d sold himself for thirty pieces of silver, an ally of those who hated our country, a malicious snob whose artistic merit was modest at best. They deemed Doctor Zhivago a weapon heralded by enemies of the State, and the Prize a reward from the West.
Not everyone spoke out; most just kept quiet. Friends who previously sat rapt at Little House listening to Borya read from Zhivago made themselves scarce. They did not send letters of support, nor did they visit, nor did most admit to having a friendship with Borya when asked. It was these silences, the taped mouths of friends, that cut the deepest.
One day, Ira returned from school with news that a student demonstration had taken place in Moscow. Borya was sitting in his red chair as Ira, still in her coat and squirrel hat, paced in front of him. “Professors told students that attendance was mandatory.”
Borya stood up and put some wood into the stove. He faced the fire, warming his hands over the flame for a moment, before closing the metal door.
“The administration handed out placards for us to carry, but I hid in the toilets with a friend until they left.” Her eyes looked to Borya’s for approval, but he didn’t return her gaze.
“What did the placards say?” Borya asked.
Ira took off her hat and 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.