The Secrets We Kept

by Lara Prescott

  “That’s impossible, I’m afraid. The translation has already begun. Feltrinelli said so himself, that it would be a crime not to publish this novel.”

  “A crime? What do you know of crimes? What do you know of punishment? The crime is for Boris to have it published outside the USSR. You must understand what you’ve done.”

  “Mr. Pasternak gave me his permission. I wasn’t aware of any danger.” He stood and retrieved his briefcase from the entryway. Inside was a black leather journal. “See, I wrote it down the day I visited him in Peredelkino. I’d found his words so eloquent.”

  I looked at the open page. Inside, D’Angelo had written: This is Doctor Zhivago. May it make its way around the world.

  “See? Permission. And besides”—he paused, and I sensed the Italian did feel some culpability—“even if I wanted to bring it back, it’s out of my hands now.”

  * * *

  —

  It was out of my hands as well. Borya had granted his permission, and had lied to me about having done so. Zhivago had made its way out of the country, and things were in motion. All I could do was try to push forward with the plan to have the book published in the USSR before Feltrinelli published it abroad. It was the only way to save him, to save myself.

  Borya signed the contract with Feltrinelli a month later. I was not there when he signed his name. Nor was his wife, who, for the first time, was in total agreement with me: the novel’s publication could only bring us pain.

  He told me he thought a Soviet publisher would publish with the added pressure from abroad. I didn’t believe him. “You haven’t signed a contract,” I said. “You have signed a death warrant.”

  * * *

  I did my best. I pleaded with D’Angelo to pressure Feltrinelli to return the manuscript. And I saw every editor who’d meet with me to ask if they’d publish Zhivago before Feltrinelli could.

  Word had gotten out the Italians had the novel, and the Central Committee’s Culture Department demanded its return from Feltrinelli. I found myself in the new position of having to agree with the State. If Zhivago was to be published, it must be published first at home. But Feltrinelli ignored the requests, and I feared what might come next. So I met with the Department’s head, Dmitri Alexeyevich Polikarpov, to see if I could soften their position.

  Polikarpov was an attractive man whom I’d seen many times at events in the city but had never spoken with. He wore Western-cut suits with pegged trousers that brushed the sides of his shiny black loafers. He was known as an enforcer within the Moscow literary community, and my breath shortened as Polikarpov’s secretary ushered me into his office. But even before I sat down, I took a deep breath and began the plea I’d rehearsed on the train. “The only thing to do is publish the novel before the Italians do,” I reasoned. “We can edit out the parts deemed anti-Soviet before publication.” Of course, Borya knew nothing of my negotiation. I knew better than anyone that he’d rather his novel not be published at all than have it hacked apart.

  Polikarpov reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small metal tin. “Impossible.” He took out two white pills and swallowed them dry. “Doctor Zhivago must be returned at all costs,” he continued. “It cannot be published as is—not in Italy, not anywhere. If we publish one version and the Italians another, the world will ask why we published it without certain sections. It will be an embarrassment to the State and to Russian literature as a whole. Your friend has put me in a precarious position.” He put the tin back in his pocket. “And you as well.”

  “But what is to be done?”

  “You can ask Boris Leonidovich to sign the telegram I will give you.”

  “What does this telegram say?”

  “That the manuscript Feltrinelli possesses is but a draft, that a new draft is forthcoming, and that the original manuscript must be returned posthaste. The telegram is to be signed within two days or else he will be arrested.”

  That was the stated threat. The unstated threat was that my arrest would soon follow. But I knew Feltrinelli wouldn’t refrain from publication even if he received such a telegram. Borya had arranged to communicate with the Italian only in French and had instructed the publisher to disregard anything sent under his name in Russian. Plus, I knew it would cause Borya much shame to sign such a document. “I will try,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  And I did. I asked him. I asked him to send the telegram to Feltrinelli asking for his manuscript back, as Polikarpov had instructed. I asked the man I loved to stop the publication of his life’s work. And when I did—over dinner at Little House—he just sat back in his chair. His hand went to his neck as if he were suffering a muscle spasm, and he was quiet for a long moment. Then he spoke.

  “Years ago, I received a phone call.”

  I put my fork down. I knew where he was going.

  “It was shortly after Osip had been arrested for his poem against Stalin,” he continued. “He hadn’t even written it down, only committed it to memory. But even that proved to be a grievous mistake. Even the words in one’s head could be an arrestable offense during those dark times. You were but a child, too young to remember now.”

  I refilled my wineglass. “I know how old I am.”

  “One night he recited the poem to a group of us on a street corner, and I told him it was akin to suicide. He didn’t heed my warning, and of course they soon arrested him. Not long after, I received the phone call. Do you know who it was?”

  “I’ve heard the stories.”

  “Of course you have. But never from me.”

  I moved to refill his wineglass, but he waved me away. “Stalin began without greeting, his voice immediately familiar. He asked if Osip was my friend, and if he was, why I hadn’t petitioned for his release. I had no answer for him, Olya. But instead of making the case for Osip’s freedom, I made excuses. I told the head of the Central Committee that even if I had petitioned on Osip’s behalf, it would never have reached his ears. Stalin then asked if I thought Osip was a master, and I told him that was beside the point. Then do you know what I did?”

  “What, Boris? Tell me what you did.” I drank the rest of my wine.

  “I changed the subject. I told Stalin I’d long wanted to have a serious conversation with him about life and death. And do you know how he responded?”

  “How?”

  “He hung up.”

  I rolled a pea around my plate with the back of my knife. “But what does this have to do with now? That was years ago. Stalin is dead.”

  “I’ve long regretted what I did. Or, rather, what I didn’t do. I was given the chance to stand up for my friend, to save him, and I didn’t take it. I was a coward.”

  “No one blames you for—”

  Borya pounded his fist on the table, rattling the plates and silverware. “I won’t be a coward again.”

  “This is not the same—”

  “They’ve asked me to sign letters before.”

  “This is different. Feltrinelli already knows to ignore anything you send that’s not written in French. You’ve prepared for this. It won’t be a lie. It’s simply a measure of protection.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  My anger grew. “What about me, then, Boris? Who will protect me?” I paused before unleashing everything. “They sent me to the Gulag once before. Because of you.” I’d never laid the blame for my arrest directly at his feet, and he looked aghast. I said it again: “They sent me to that place because of you. Do you want to be responsible for sending me back there?”

  Boris went quiet again.

  “Well? Do you?”

  “You must think very little of me,” he finally answered. “Where is it?”

  I went to my bedroom and returned with Polikarpov’s telegram. He took it from me, and without reading it, signed his name. I sent it to
Milan first thing in the morning, followed by a telegram to Polikarpov saying it had been done.

  Borya and I didn’t speak about the telegram again after that, and in the end, it didn’t matter anyway. Feltrinelli ignored it, as we knew he would, and a date for publication in Italy was set for early November.

  I had tried my best, but my best was not enough. Doctor Zhivago was a speeding train that could not be stopped.

  WEST

  Fall 1957–August 1958

  CHAPTER 12

  The Applicant

  THE CARRIER

  Sally Forrester arrived on a Monday. I’d gone to Ralph’s with the typing pool, at Norma’s pleading. I knew she was only interested in getting the scoop on my relationship with Teddy, but I’d agreed when she offered to buy me a burger and a chocolate malt, knowing I had soggy tuna on Wonder Bread waiting for me at my desk.

  The typing pool’s usual booth was a tad cramped, so I sat with my long legs turned out to the aisle. As soon as we ordered, Norma volleyed questions at me. “Come on, Irina. You’ve been dating for what, a year? And you don’t tell us anything. We don’t know anything.”

  “Eight months,” I said.

  “I was engaged to David after three,” Linda chimed in.

  I smiled politely. Fact was, Teddy and I had become a real couple without my even realizing it. Our first dinner at Rive Gauche turned into dinner and a movie the following weekend, which turned into dinner and dancing, which turned into dinner at his parents’ expansive home in Potomac. Teddy had introduced me as his girlfriend, and not wanting to hurt his feelings, I hadn’t corrected him—even after months passed. Maybe it was because we got along well, or because Mama loved him and he had an impressive knowledge of Russian culture and mastery of the language. “You speak better Russian than my cousins, and they were born there!” she’d told him.

  Plus, I was comfortable with him in a way I’d longed to be with a friend my entire life. I didn’t have to analyze my every word and move with him. It was a friendship, but I hadn’t yet given up hope that it could turn into something more. I was waiting for that lightning bolt, that electric shock, that weak-knees moment—every cliché I’d only read about.

  There were other perks too. Teddy was seen as an up-and-comer at the Agency, a potential member of an inner circle that, as a woman, I could only hope to see the outskirts of. He’d take me to the Sunday dinner parties in Georgetown and the fancy cocktail parties at the Hay-Adams Hotel. And he wouldn’t send me off to chat with the wives and girlfriends; he’d pull me from conversation to conversation with the men, and squeeze my hand when he felt proud of a point I’d made.

  Teddy was a Catholic and never pressured me to do anything I wasn’t ready for. It wasn’t that he was against sex before marriage—he’d lost his virginity to a substitute teacher his senior year at prep school and had three more partners in college—but he was respectful of my boundaries. I wasn’t against sex before marriage either, although I’d let him believe I was more of a prude than I actually was. Teddy didn’t know it, but I was no virgin. I’d lost—or rather, given away—my virginity to a friend my junior year. I’d approached it as something to get over and done with, and invited him to my dorm when my roommate was away. He came through the door and I asked if he’d have sex with me. Poor guy was so taken aback, he initially tried to talk me out of it, but he relented when I took off my blouse.

  I’d always approached sex as an anthropologist. Instead of turning the gaze on myself, I was most interested in observing the man and his reactions. And I liked how Teddy responded to touching me—even more than how it made me feel. His restrained desire made me feel powerful, and that was a revelation. Teddy was everything I should’ve hoped for—and yet.

  Norma’s questions came to a halt when Sally breezed into Ralph’s. Linda alerted the group by widening her eyes. “Who is that?”

  I looked at the same time the rest of the Pool did.

  “Way to be inconspicuous.”

  Ralph’s was a place for regulars: the typing pool gossiping in the back booth, the old-timers dipping their toast in their sunny-side-up eggs at the counter; the college students studying at the round-tops, having ordered only a coffee or a chocolate malt; the occasional lawyer or lobbyist who took clients there when they wanted to be incognito. Any newcomer to Ralph’s got the Pool’s attention—but this woman demanded it.

  Judy pretended she was getting something out of her purse. “She looks familiar.”

  Marcos had already come around from behind the counter and was pointing out each and every pastry in the case to the woman. Athena leaned against the register, her eyes on her husband, his eyes on the woman. She was of medium height but wore heels that hiked her up a few inches. She looked young but was far too sophisticated for someone in her twenties in her bright blue knee-length coat with red silk lining and fox fur collar. Her hair was a deep red and perfectly curled—the kind of hair that makes you want to say the color aloud. My own hair resembled the color of an underbaked oatmeal cookie.

  “Politician’s wife?” Norma asked.

  “Downtown at this hour?” Linda added. She wiped ketchup from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her napkin.

  “Besides,” Kathy jumped in, “those heels sure as hell don’t belong to a politician’s wife.”

  Judy dangled a French fry from her finger like a cigarette. “That’s an understatement.”

  “Is she famous?” I asked. From where I was sitting, the woman could’ve passed for Rita Hayworth, but when she turned and I got a better look at her face, I realized she didn’t look like Rita at all—her beauty was her own.

  “Hmmm,” appraised Linda. “Was she in that movie? The one that was banned? Baby Doll?”

  “You’re thinking of Carroll Baker,” I said. “She’s blond, but I guess she could’ve dyed her hair.”

  “Too old,” Kathy said at the same time Judy said, “Too curvy.”

  Norma licked a spot of mustard off her finger. “That’s no Carroll Baker. Was she in that Garfinckel’s ad? You know, the one with the”—she lowered her voice—“magic inserts?”

  “She doesn’t look like she needs any magic inserts,” I said, then covered my mouth as the typing pool burst out laughing.

  The woman pointed to a cherry turnover and Marcos boxed up two. She paid Athena and shot Marcos a wink. She turned to leave, but not before a quick nod to our table. We all looked away, pretending we hadn’t been looking in the first place.

  * * *

  —

  That was the first time I saw Sally Forrester, before I knew her name.

  The second time I saw Sally Forrester was at HQ. We’d returned from Ralph’s and there she was, standing at reception chatting up Anderson. Anderson, who usually greeted us with some reference to working off the calories we’d consumed at lunch, didn’t give us a second glance as we passed and went to our desks.

  “Why’s she here?” Judy asked.

  “Someone important?” Norma said.

  “One of Dulles’s?” Linda asked with a smile. The spy chief’s dalliances were no secret, and his affairs numbered well into the dozens. It was even rumored he’d dipped into the typing pool. But if that was true, none of us ever owned up to it.

  “If that’s the case, no way she’d be standing in SR with Anderson,” Gail said. Anderson had eaten one of the woman’s cherry turnovers, evidenced by a glob of jelly on his baby blue sweater vest. He leaned against the reception desk, trying to look important or maybe casual—a sad attempt at flirting. But the woman wasn’t rolling her eyes like we would’ve. She just smiled and laughed and touched his arm.

  She took off her blue coat and handed it to Anderson, who draped it over his arm like a waiter. Underneath, she wore a woolen mauve dress with a gold braided belt. I looked down the front of my navy shift dress and noticed a stain smack in the center of my ches
t—remnants of toothpaste I thought I’d gotten out that morning. I opened my bottom drawer and took out the brown cardigan I kept for when the building’s heat got spotty. Horrid, I thought, putting it on and rolling the sleeves into cuffs.

  “New typist?” Gail asked.

  “Nah,” Kathy said. “We’re full now with the Russian.”

  “Russian American,” I corrected.

  Judy tossed a broken eraser at me. “Go find out, Anna Karenina.”

  But Anderson and the redhead were already moving toward us. He led the way, pointing out mundane features of the office, stating that the Xerox machine was “a year away from being released to the public” and the water cooler distributed “both hot and cold.” They reached my desk first.

  “Sally Forrester,” the woman said and stuck out her hand.

  I shook her hand. “Sally,” I said.

  “You’re Sally too?”

  “This is Irina,” Anderson said for me.

  Sally smiled again. “Pleasure.”

  I nodded dumbly, and before I could say it was a pleasure to meet her as well, they’d already moved on down the line, shaking hands with every member of the Pool.

  “Miss Forrester is our new part-time receptionist,” Anderson said to everyone. “She’ll be in the office occasionally, helping out as needed.”

  * * *

  —

  We debriefed in the ladies’ room.

  “Those clothes!”

  “That hair!”

  “That handshake!”

  Sally’s handshake had been firm. Not like some of the men whose grips crushed our fingers, but enough to make us notice. “Firm, but not too firm,” Norma said. “That’s how the politicians do it.”

  “But why’s she here?”

  “Who knows.”

  “Well, I know they don’t put women like that behind a reception desk,” Norma said. “And if they do, it’s for a reason.”