Authors: Bernard Malamud
The Fixer (17 page)
The fixer then slowly wrote two letters, one to Shmuel, and another to Aaron Latke, the printer who had rented him a room in his flat.
“Dear Shmuel,” wrote Yakov. “As you predicted I got myself into serious trouble and am now in the Kiev Prison near Dorogozhitsky Street. I know it's impossible but try to help me as soon as you can. Who else can I appeal to? Your son-in-law, Yakov Bok. P.S. If she's back I'd rather not know.”
To Aaron Latke he wrote, “Dear friend Aaron, your recent boarder Yakov Bok is now in the Kiev Prison, in the thirty-day cell. After thirty days God knows what will happen to me. What's happened already is bad enough. I am accused of killing a Russian child by the name of Zhenia Golov, who I swear I didn't touch. Do me a favor and take this letter to some Jewish journalist or maybe to a sincere philanthropist, if you happen to know of one. Tell them if they can get me out of here I'll work hard my whole life to pay them back. Only hurry because it's a desperate situation and getting worse. Yakov Bok.”
“Good,” said Gronfein, accepting the sealed letters, “that should do it. Well, the best of luck to you, and don't worry about the ten rubles. You can pay me when you get out. Where there's that there's more.”
The guard opened the cell door and the counterfeiter hurriedly disappeared down the corridor, the prison guard trotting after him.
Fifteen minutes later Yakov was called to the warden's office. He handed the remnant of Gronfein's package to Fetyukov to watch, promising to divide it with him.
Yakov hurried through the hall with the guard's gun at his back. Maybe it's the indictment, he thought in excitement.
Warden Grizitskoy was in his office with the Deputy Warden and a stern-faced inspector in a uniform like a general's. In the corner sat Gronfein, his hat on and eyes shut.
The warden waved the two letters, out of their envelopes, that the fixer had just written.
“Are these yours? Answer truthfully, you son-of-a-bitch.”
The fixer froze, his heart sinking. “Yes, your honor.”
The warden pointed to the Yiddish script. “Translate these bird droppings,” he said to Gronfein.
The counterfeiter opened his eyes long enough to read the letters aloud in Russian, in a quick monotone.
“You Zhid bloodsucker,” said the warden, “how dare you break prison regulations? I personally warned you not to try to get in touch with anybody on the outside without my express permission.”
Yakov said nothing, staring, sickened to the pit of his stomach, at Gronfein.
“He turned them over to us,” the Deputy Warden said to the fixer. “A law-abiding citizen.”
“Don't expect a moral man,” Gronfein said to nobody in particular, his eyes still clamped shut. “I'm only a counterfeiter.”
“You bastard stool pigeon,” Yakov shouted at him, “why did you trick an innocent man?”
“Watch your language, you,” warned the warden. “A foul heart, a foul tongue.”
“It's every man for himself,” Gronfein muttered. “I have five small children and a nervous wife.”
“What's more,” said the Deputy Warden,” we have it in writing that you also tried to bribe him to poison the yardkeeper who saw you attempting to kidnap the boy
in the brickyard, and also to pay Marfa Golov not to testify against you. Isn't that the truth?” he asked Gronfein.
in the brickyard, and also to pay Marfa Golov not to testify against you. Isn't that the truth?” he asked Gronfein.
The counterfeiter, sweat trickling from under his hat down his dark lids, nodded once.
“Where would I get the money to pay for those bribes?” Yakov asked.
“The Jewish Nation would supply it,” answered the inspector.
“Get him out of here,” said the old warden. “The Prosecuting Attorney will call you when he needs you,” he said to Gronfein.
“Stool pigeon!” Yakov shouted, “bastard traitorâit's a filthy lie!”
Gronfein, as though blind, was led out of the room by the Deputy Warden.
“This is the sort of assistance you can expect from your compatriots,” the inspector said to Yakov. “It would be best for you to confess.”
“We won't have our rules flouted by such as you,” the warden said. “To strict confinement you go, and if you have any more letters to write you'll write them in your own blood.”
He was being boiled alive in the smothering heat of the small solitary cell they had thrust him into, the sweat drenching his back and flowing from his armpits; but on the third night the bolt was shot back, a key grated in the lock, and the door opened.
A guard ordered him downstairs to the warden's office. “Get a move on, you fuck, you're more trouble than you're worth.”
The Investigating Magistrate was there, sitting in a chair, fanning himself with a wilted yellow straw hat. He wore a crumpled linen suit and a white silk tie, his pallid
face contrasting with his dark short beard as he talked earnestly with the Deputy Warden, an uneasy-eyed man with smelly polished boots, flushed, and self-consciously irritated when Yakov entered. When the prisoner, ghastly gray and close to shock, limped into the room, the two officials momentarily stopped talking. The Deputy Warden, gnawing his lip, remarked, “It's an irregular procedure if you ask my opinion”; but Bibikov patiently differed. “I'm here in the pursuit of my official duties as Investigating Magistrate, Mr. Deputy Warden, so there is nothing to fear.”
face contrasting with his dark short beard as he talked earnestly with the Deputy Warden, an uneasy-eyed man with smelly polished boots, flushed, and self-consciously irritated when Yakov entered. When the prisoner, ghastly gray and close to shock, limped into the room, the two officials momentarily stopped talking. The Deputy Warden, gnawing his lip, remarked, “It's an irregular procedure if you ask my opinion”; but Bibikov patiently differed. “I'm here in the pursuit of my official duties as Investigating Magistrate, Mr. Deputy Warden, so there is nothing to fear.”
“So you say, but why close to midnight when the warden's away on vacation and the other officials are sleeping? It's a strange time to come here on business, if you ask me.”
“It's a dreadful night after a dreadfully hot day,” the magistrate said huskily, coughing into his fist, “but much cooler at this hour. In fact there's a veritable breeze off the Dnieper once you are in the street. To be frank, I was already in bed, but the heat in the house was unbearable and the bedsheets perspired more than I did. I tossed and turned, then I thought, it's useless, I'll get up. Once I had dressed it occurred to me it would be helpful if I got on with official matters rather than lay around drinking cold drinks that give me gas, and curse the heat. Fortunately, my wife and children are at our dacha on the Black Sea, where I will go to join them in August. Do you know the heat rose to 40.5 in the shade this afternoon, and must now be hovering around 33.8? I assure you it was all but impossible to work in my office today. My assistant complained of nausea and had to be sent home.”
“Go on, then, if you want to,” said the Deputy Warden, “but I have to insist that I stay here as a witness to your questions. The prisoner's under our jurisdiction, that's clear enough.”
“May I remind you that your function is custodial and mine investigatory? The suspect has not yet been tried or sentenced. In fact there is no indictment up to now. Nor has he officially been remanded to prison by administrative decree. He is simply here as a material witness. If you will allow me, I am within my rights to question him alone. The time may be inconvenient, but it is so in a formal sense only; therefore I beg you to absent yourself for a brief period, say not more than a half hour.”
“At least I ought to know what you're going to ask him about in case the warden wants to know when he gets back. If it's about his treatment in this prison, I warn you flatly the warden will be annoyed if you ask about that. The Jew hasn't been made any exception of. If he follows the rules and regulations he gets the same treatment as everybody else. If he doesn't he's in for trouble.”
“My questions will not refer to his prison treatment, although I hope it is always humane. You may tell Warden Grizitskoy that I was checking some testimony of the accused made before me at a previous date. If he would like more precise information, let him telephone me.”
The Deputy Warden withdrew, casting a sullen glance at the prisoner.
Bibikov, after sitting a minute with two fingers pressed to his lips, moved quickly to the door, listened intently, then carried his chair and one for Yakov to the windowless far corner of the office, and motioned him to sit down.
“My friend,” he said hurriedly in a low voice, “I can see from your appearance what you have been through, and I beg you not to think me remiss or without feeling if I do not comment on it. I have promised the Deputy Warden to confine myself to other matters, and besides our time is short and I have much to say.”
“That's fine with me, your honor,” muttered Yakov, struggling with his emotions, “but I would like to know if you could get me a different pair of shoes. The nails in these hurt my feet though nobody believes me. Either let them give me a different pair or lend me a hammer and pliers so I can fix them myself.”
He sucked in his breath and wiped an eye with his sleeve. “Excuse me for being out of order, your honor.”
“I see we're wearing similar linen garments,” Bibikov joked, fanning himself slowly with his limp hat. He remarked in an undertone, “Tell me your size and I'll send you a pair of shoes.”
“Maybe it's better not to,” Yakov whispered, “or the Deputy Warden would know I complained to you.”
“You understand it wasn't I but the Prosecuting Attorney who ordered your imprisonment?”
The fixer nodded.
“Would you care for a cigarette? You know my Turkish beauties?”
He lit one for him but after a few puffs Yakov had to put it out. “Excuse me for wasting it,” he coughed, “but it's hard to breathe in this heat.”
The magistrate put away his cigarette box. He reached into his breast pocket for his pince-nez, blew on them, and settled the glasses on his perspiring nose. “I would like you to know, Yakov Shepsovitchâif I mayâthat your case holds an extraordinary interest for me, and only last week I returned in a beastly stuffy, crowded train from St. Petersburg, where I had consulted the Minister of Justice, Count Odoevsky.”
He leaned forward and said quietly, “I went there to submit the evidence I had already gathered, and to request that the charge against you be limited, as I had already suggested to the Prosecuting Attorney, strictly to the matter of your residing illegally in the Lukianovsky
District, or perhaps even dropped altogether if you left Kiev and returned to your native village. Instead I was expressly directed to continue my investigation beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt. I will tell you in the strictest confidence what most troubled me is that although the Minister of Justice listened courteously and with obvious interest, I left with the unmistakable impression that he expects the evidence to confirm your guilt.”
District, or perhaps even dropped altogether if you left Kiev and returned to your native village. Instead I was expressly directed to continue my investigation beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt. I will tell you in the strictest confidence what most troubled me is that although the Minister of Justice listened courteously and with obvious interest, I left with the unmistakable impression that he expects the evidence to confirm your guilt.”
“Vey iz mir.”
“This was not stated so specifically, you must understandâit was an impression and I may possibly be misinterpreting, although I don't think so. Frankly, the matter seemed to revolve around an imprecise use of language, further confused by hints, hesitations, odd questions I did not fully understand, shadowy remarks, and so forth. Nothingâeven nowâis said absolutely directly, yet I am under pressure, as it were, to uncover evidence close to the prevailing belief. The Minister of Interior also has been telephoning me regularly. I will admit these pressures have made me nervous. My wife tells me I am more difficult than usual to live with, and there are signs of gastric disturbances. In her letter today she urged me to see a doctor. And tonight,” he went on, lowering his voice to the dimmest whisper, “I had the impression on my way here that my carriage was being followed by another, though no doubt I am suggestible in my present state of nerves.”
He thrust his pallid face close to Yakov's, continuing to whisper: “But that's neither here nor there. To return then to the facts: Count Odoevsky at one point offered to relieve me of the âburden' of this case if I felt âpressed or unwell,' or the work had become âdistasteful' or seemed to go against what he referred to as âyour creed.' And I believe I caught a clear hint that the purposes
of justice might better be served by an indictment of murder for ritual reasons, an accusation which is of course poppycock.”
of justice might better be served by an indictment of murder for ritual reasons, an accusation which is of course poppycock.”
“As for the murder,” said Yakov, “if I had a hand in it let me live forever a cripple in hell.”
The Investigating Magistrate fanned himself slowly with his hat. After again glancing at the door he said, “When I told the Minister of Justiceâquite directly told him, nothing minced or hedged, shadowy remarks do not explicate or uphold the lawâthat my evidence pointed in the opposite direction, towards acquittal of the major charge, he shrugged his shouldersâthe count is an imposing man, handsome, well-spoken, discreetly perfumedâas though perhaps to indicate I had not yet achieved true wisdom. And that's apparently where we left it, with a shrug that may mean much or little, but in any case a doubt. I can say in his favor that he is a gentleman. But I will tell you frankly that with the Prosecuting Attorney, my colleague Grubeshov, there are not even the slightest doubts. He has, I would say, convinced himself, perhaps almost before the fact. I say this after careful consideration. Grubeshov has more than once emphatically requested from meâin fact he has insisted on itâa severe indictment of you, mincing no wordsâfor Zhenia Golov's murder, and I have categorically refused. Of course that adds to my nervousness. Yet for all practical purposes you should know this matter can't go on in such a way much longer. If I don't draw up the indictment someone else will. They will get rid of me, if they possibly can, and then I'll be of no use to you whatever. Therefore I will pretend to cooperate with them while I continue my investigation, until I have a foolproof case. I will then once more submit the evidence to the Ministry of Justice, and if they insist on a prosecution, I may reveal my findings to the press, which could conceivably cause a scandal. I would hope so. In fact I am already
planning anonymously to give out selected information to one or two highly placed journalists as to the true state of affairs regarding the nature of the evidence against you, which up to now consists in nothing more than anonymous accusations and provocative articles published by the reactionary press. I decided this as I lay awake tonight. My visit to you, which I decided on impulsively, is to inform you of my plans so that you will not think you are without a friend in the world. I know you are falsely accused. I am determined to continue this investigation to the best of my ability and powers in order to discover, and if necessary, publish the whole truth. I am doing this for Russia as well as for your sake and mine. I therefore request, Yakov Shepsovitch, though I understand how difficult your trials are, your confidence and patience.”
planning anonymously to give out selected information to one or two highly placed journalists as to the true state of affairs regarding the nature of the evidence against you, which up to now consists in nothing more than anonymous accusations and provocative articles published by the reactionary press. I decided this as I lay awake tonight. My visit to you, which I decided on impulsively, is to inform you of my plans so that you will not think you are without a friend in the world. I know you are falsely accused. I am determined to continue this investigation to the best of my ability and powers in order to discover, and if necessary, publish the whole truth. I am doing this for Russia as well as for your sake and mine. I therefore request, Yakov Shepsovitch, though I understand how difficult your trials are, your confidence and patience.”
“Thanks, your honor,” said Yakov with a tremor in his voice. “If you're used to stepping out of the hut once in a while to take a breath of fresh air in your lungs while you look at the sky to see if it's going to rain tomorrowânot that it makes any differenceâit's hard to go on living in a small dark solitary cell; still now I know there's somebody who knows what I did and what I didn't do, and who I trust, though I would like to hear what you mean about âthe true state of affairs' that you mentioned before when you were talking about the journalists.”
Bibikov went again to the door, opened it softly, peered out, closed it carefully and returned to his chair, once more bringing his face close to Yakov's.
“My theory is that the murder was committed by Marfa Golov's gang of criminals and housebreakers, in particular her blinded lover, one Stepan Bulkin, who, thus, perhaps, revenged himself on her for the loss of his eyesight. The boy was grossly neglected by his mother. She is a wicked woman, stupid yet cunning, with the
morals of a hardened prostitute. Zhenia had apparently threatened, possibly more than once, to expose their criminal activities to the District Police, and it is possible that the lover convinced her the child had to be done away with. Perhaps the incident occurred during a time of general drunkenness. The boy was killed, I am all but certain, in his mother's house, Bulkin taking the leading role in the beastly sacrifice. They obviously tortured the poor child, inflicting a large number of wounds on his body and soaking up the blood as it spurted forth, in order not to leave any telltale stains on the floorâI would imagine they burned the bloody ragsâand finally plunging the knife deep into the child's heart. I have not been able to determine whether Marfa witnessed his death or had passed out drunk.”
morals of a hardened prostitute. Zhenia had apparently threatened, possibly more than once, to expose their criminal activities to the District Police, and it is possible that the lover convinced her the child had to be done away with. Perhaps the incident occurred during a time of general drunkenness. The boy was killed, I am all but certain, in his mother's house, Bulkin taking the leading role in the beastly sacrifice. They obviously tortured the poor child, inflicting a large number of wounds on his body and soaking up the blood as it spurted forth, in order not to leave any telltale stains on the floorâI would imagine they burned the bloody ragsâand finally plunging the knife deep into the child's heart. I have not been able to determine whether Marfa witnessed his death or had passed out drunk.”
The fixer shuddered. “How did you find out about that, your honor?”
“I can't tell you except to say generally that thieves quarrel, and as I said before, Marfa is stupid, canny as she is. The true story will come out in time if we work patiently. We have reason to believe she kept her son's body in the bathtub for a week before it was removed to the cave. We are searching for one of the neighbors who is believed to have seen it there and soon thereafter moved out of the vicinity, frightened out of her wits I would guess, by Marfa's threats. To save their own necks, naturally the thieves are going along with the blood ritual accusation against you. How that originated we are not exactly sure. We suspect Marfa herself wrote an anonymous letter suggesting that Jews did the evil work. The original letter to the police was signed âA Christian.' I know that, though I have not been able to put my hands on the document yet. At any rate the thieves will do whatever they can to uphold the charge, even if it means testifying against you as eyewitnesses to your âcrime.' They are frightened and dangerous men.
And my assistant, Ivan Semyonovitch, has ascertained that Proshko and Richter burned down Nikolai Maximovitch's stable, though without the help of any Jewish demons.”
And my assistant, Ivan Semyonovitch, has ascertained that Proshko and Richter burned down Nikolai Maximovitch's stable, though without the help of any Jewish demons.”
“So that's how it is,” sighed Yakov. “Behind the world lies another world. Excuse me, but does the Prosecuting Attorney also know what you just told me?”
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