The Russian Jerusalem by Elaine Feinstein

called ‘the old Jew’ by her interrogators, that they insisted it was impossible for a young Russian beauty to love a Jew.
    Someone enters the room and he knows without turning round that it is Zinaida. He can hear her bustling about, attending to this chore or that. She, too, is angry with him, because of his foolishness in sending the novel abroad. Sheknows little of the literary world, but shakes her head when he tries to reassure her that he has chosen a Communist publisher. He does not argue with her.
    Pasternak has been writing the same novel for nine years, sometimes with the hope of publication in Soviet magazines. Why should he not hope for publication now? Not so very long ago he signed a contract with a journal for the first part of Zhivago . The worst times are over. There is no more talk of rootless cosmopolitans. Noviy Mir has published the first part of Ehrenburg’s The Thaw . Poems of Tsvetaeva – and Ehrenburg’s essay praising them – have appeared in Moscow journals.
    But that was before the revolts in Hungary and Poland. Now, liberalisation no longer looks such a good idea. That is why Pasternak shows his manuscript to D’Angelo of Feltrinelli. He knows it is risky, which is why he tells D’Angelo, laughing: ‘You are hereby invited to watch me face a firing squad.’
    Olga is alarmed when he tells her D’Angelo took the manuscript away with him. Unlike Zinaida, she is, however, resourceful. She can negotiate with those in power, suggest compromises, wangle concessions. He is glad to have her act for him. ‘Negotiations are a game of bluff ,’ he tells her, and smiles, as if he were optimistic about the outcome. All spring and summer the manuscript has been with Goslitizdat, after all. His poems are being published, and have been treated as important. He has even begun to write new poems.
    Sometime in August, however, Ehrenburg visits him. He has spoken up publicly for the novel, but he tells Pasternak in private what he does not like. He disapproves of Pasternak’s enthusiasm for the Orthodox Church. He is offended by the way he writes about Jews. His candouris scalding. He uses harsher words than Akhmatova has done.
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    Pasternak shows the novel to several younger writers, including Yevgeny Yevtushenko, who comes respectfully to the dacha to return it.
    Yevtushenko is twenty-seven, dressed in slim jeans; his eyes are ice-blue. He puts the parcel he is carrying on the table, and stares into Pasternak’s calm face. He has dealt with members of the KGB, met Khrushchev and has read his poems to stadiums of admirers. Nothing frightens him. But now he is agitated. He has brought a bottle of the best Georgian wine. Pasternak receives it with approval, pulls the cork, and brings glasses.
    â€˜You know I love your poems,’ Yevtushenko begins. ‘I have them by heart. And I am honoured that you trust me with your manuscript … but –’
    Pasternak smiles.
    â€˜You do not like the novel,’ he observes equably.
    â€˜There are passages of great beauty. Of course. But what you say about the Civil War… you question the very foundation of the Soviet State.’
    Pasternak voices no denial. His face remains impassive. He pours them both another glass of Georgian wine, retrieves the copy of Zhivago , and they talk of other matters.
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    When a few poems from the novel come out in an émigré Munich magazine, and the Italians advertise the forthcoming novel, Pasternak is asked to send a telegram halting publication. Zinaida cannot imagine what insanity makes him hesitate. Yet hesitate he does. Only when he hears from D’Angelo that no telegram will influence himdoes Pasternak send the instructions the authorities require. It is too late, as he knows it would be. Fury breaks around him in waves. He is told the novel will never be published in the Soviet Union.
    But the Writers’ Union has made a huge miscalculation