Authors: Bernard Malamud
The Fixer (20 page)
After his clothes were searched he was permitted to dress. It was the worst thing that happened to him and it happened twice a day.
He sank into deep gloom. I'll be here forever. The indictment will never come. I can beg on both broken knees but they won't give it to me. They will never bring me to trial.
In December, frost appeared on the four walls in the morning. Once he awoke with his hand stuck to the wall. The air was dead icy air. The fixer walked all day to keep from freezing. His asthma was worse. At night he lay on the straw mattress in his greatcoat, covered with the blanket, gasping, snoring thickly, wheezing as he desperately fought to breathe. The one listening at the peephole shut it and moved away. One morning Zhitnyak helped Yakov pile up a new load of bundles of wood almost chest high against the outer wall. And in the evening there were pieces of meat floating in the cabbage soup, and some round flecks of fat.
“What's happened?” the fixer asked.
The guard shrugged. “The higher-ups don't want you dying on them. You can't try a corpse in court, as the saying goes.” He winked and laughed a little.
Maybe this means the indictment is coming, Yakov thought in excitement. They don't want me looking like a skeleton in the court.
Not only was the food better, there was more of it. In the morning there were two extra ounces of bread and
the gruel was thicker, barley with watery hot milk. And there was a half lump of sugar for the tea, which diluted the rotten taste a little. The fixer chewed slowly, savoring what he was eating. A cockroach in the bowl no longer bothered him. He plucked it out and ate, afterwards licking the bowl with his tongue. Zhitnyak brought the food into the cell and left at once. But he sometimes watched Yakov eat, through the spy hole, although the prisoner as he ate usually sat on the stool with his back to the iron door.
the gruel was thicker, barley with watery hot milk. And there was a half lump of sugar for the tea, which diluted the rotten taste a little. The fixer chewed slowly, savoring what he was eating. A cockroach in the bowl no longer bothered him. He plucked it out and ate, afterwards licking the bowl with his tongue. Zhitnyak brought the food into the cell and left at once. But he sometimes watched Yakov eat, through the spy hole, although the prisoner as he ate usually sat on the stool with his back to the iron door.
“How's the soup?” Zhitnyak asked through the hole.
“Fine.”
“Eat hearty.” When Yakov had finished the guard was gone.
Though there was more to eat, the fixer hungered for more. The minute after he had eaten he was hungry. He had visions of Zhitnyak appearing one day with a huge plate of well-seasoned chicken soup, thick with broad yellow noodles, a platter of meat kreplach, and half a haleh loaf from which he would tear hunks of sweet foamy bread that melted on the tongue. He dreamed of rice and noodle pudding with raisins and cinnamon, as Raisl had deliciously baked it; and of anything that went with sour creamâblintzes, cheese kreplach, boiled potatoes, radishes, scallions, sliced crisp cucumbers. Also of juicy tomatoes of tremendous size that he had seen in Viscover's kitchen. He sucked a ripe tomato till it dribbled from his mouth, then, to get to sleep, finally had to finish it off, thickly salted, with a piece of white bread. After such fantasies he could hardly wait for the guard to come with his breakfast; yet when it came at last he restrained himself, eating very slowly. First he chewed the bread until its hard texture and grain flavor were gone, then bit by bit swallowed it down. Usually he saved part of his ration for nighttime, in bed, when he got ravenously
hungry thinking of food. After the bread he ate the gruel, sucking each barley grain as it melted in his mouth. At night he worked every spoonful of soup over his tongue, each pulpy cabbage bit and thread of meat, taking it in very small sips and swallows, at the end scraping the bowl with his blackened spoon. He was grateful for the somewhat more satisfying portions he was getting, and although he was never not hungry, after this somewhat better, more plentiful food, he was a little less hungry than he had been.
hungry thinking of food. After the bread he ate the gruel, sucking each barley grain as it melted in his mouth. At night he worked every spoonful of soup over his tongue, each pulpy cabbage bit and thread of meat, taking it in very small sips and swallows, at the end scraping the bowl with his blackened spoon. He was grateful for the somewhat more satisfying portions he was getting, and although he was never not hungry, after this somewhat better, more plentiful food, he was a little less hungry than he had been.
But in a week his hunger was gone. He awoke nauseated one morning and waited a long day for it to go away but only felt worse. He felt sick in his mouth, eyes, and in the pit of his bowel. It's not asthma, he thought, then if so what's wrong with me? His armpits and crotch itched, he was cold inside himself and his feet were ice. He also had diarrhea.
“What's going on here?” said Zhitnyak when he entered the cell in the morning. “You didn't eat your last night's soup.”
“I'm sick,” said the fixer, lying in his greatcoat on the straw mattress.
“Well,” said the guard as he scrutinized the prisoner's face, “maybe you might have jail fever.”
“Couldn't I go to the infirmary?”
“No, you had your turn already but maybe I'll tell the warden if I see him. In the meantime you better eat this barley gruel. It's got hot milk in with the barley, and that's good for sickness.”
“Couldn't I get out in the yard for a breath of air? The cell stinks and I've had no exercise for a long time. Maybe I would feel better outside.”
“The cell stinks because you do. You can't go out in the yard because that's against the regulations when you're in strict confinement.”
“How long will I be kept that way?”
“You'd better shut up your questions. That's for the higher-ups to say.”
Yakov ate the gruel and threw it up. He sweated violently, the mattress soaked. In the evening a doctor came into the cell, a young man with a sparse beard and brown fedora. He took the prisoner's temperature, examined his body, and felt his pulse.
“There is no fever,” he said. “It's some kind of harmless stomach complaint. You also have a rash. Drink your tea and never mind the solid food for a day or two, then you can go back on regular fare.”
He left quickly.
After fasting two days the fixer felt better and went back to gruel and cabbage soup, though not to black bread. He hadn't the energy to chew it. When he touched his head hairs came off on his fingers. He felt listless, despondent. Zhitnyak watched him through the hole, peeking in from the side. The diarrhea occurred more frequently, and after it Yakov lay, enervated and panting, on the mattress. Though he was very weak he kept up the fire in the stove all day and Zhitnyak died not say no. The fixer still felt cold and nothing seemed to warm him. The one good thing was that there were now no searches.
He asked again to be sent to the infirmary but when the Deputy Warden came into the cell, he said, “Eat your food and cut out malingering. Starving is what makes you sick.”
Yakov forced himself to eat and after a few spoonfuls it was not too bad. Later he vomited. He vomited repeatedly although there was nothing left in his stomach. And at night he had terrible dreams, visions of mass slaughter that left him sleepless, moaning. When he dozed again people were being cut down by Cossacks with sabers. Yakov was shot running into the woods.
Yakov, hiding under a table in his hut, was dragged forth and beheaded. Yakov, fleeing along a rutted road, had lost an arm, an eye, his bloody balls; Raisl, lying on the sanded floor, had been raped beyond caring, her fruitless guts were eviscerated. Shmuel's split and broken body hung from a window. The fixer awoke in nausea, afraid to sleep although when he was awake the thick foul-smelling sickness was worse to bear than his nightmares. He often wished for death.
Yakov, hiding under a table in his hut, was dragged forth and beheaded. Yakov, fleeing along a rutted road, had lost an arm, an eye, his bloody balls; Raisl, lying on the sanded floor, had been raped beyond caring, her fruitless guts were eviscerated. Shmuel's split and broken body hung from a window. The fixer awoke in nausea, afraid to sleep although when he was awake the thick foul-smelling sickness was worse to bear than his nightmares. He often wished for death.
One night he dreamed of Bibikov hanging over his head and awoke with a heavy taste in his mouth, as if his tongue had turned to brass.
He sat up in fright. “Poison! My God, they're poisoning me!”
He wept for a while.
In the morning he would not touch the food Zhitnyak had brought in, nor drink the tea.
“Eat,” ordered the guard, “or you'll stay sick.”
“Why don't you shoot me?” the fixer said bitterly. “It would be easier for both of us than this bastard poison.”
Zhitnyak turned pale and hurriedly left the cell.
He returned with the Deputy Warden.
“Why do I have to spend so much time on one goddamned Jew?” said the Deputy Warden.
“You're poisoning me,” Yakov said hoarsely. “You have no true evidence against me so you're poisoning my food to kill me off.”
“It's a lie,” said the Deputy Warden, “you're out of your head.”
“I won't eat what you give me,” Yakov cried. “I'll fast.”
“Fast your ass off, it'll kill you just the same.”
“Then it's your murder.”
“Look who's accusing other people of murder,” said the Deputy Warden, “the blood killer of a twelve-year-old Christian lad.”
“You shithead,” he said to Zhitnyak as they left the cell.
The warden soon hastily came in. “What are you complaining about now, Bok? It's against the prison regulations to refuse food. I warn you that any more unorthodox behavior will be severely punished.”
“You're poisoning me here,” Yakov shouted.
“I know of no poison,” the warden said sternly. “You're inventing this tale to make us look ridiculous. The doctor reported you had a stomach cold.”
“It's poison. I can feel it in me. My body is sick and shrunken and my hair is falling out. You're trying to kill me.”
“To hell with you,” said the cross-eyed warden as he left the cell.
In a half hour he was back. “It's not my doing,” he said. “I never gave such orders. If there's any poisoning done it's on the part of your fellow Jews who are the most notorious well-poisoners of all time. And don't think I've forgotten your attempt, in this prison, to bribe Gronfein to poison or kill Marfa Golov so that she couldn't testify against you in court. Now your Jewish compatriots are trying to poison you out of fear you will confess your true guilt and implicate the whole nation. We just found out that one of the cook's assistants was a disguised Jew and packed him off to the police. He's the one who was poisoning your food.”
“I don't believe it,” said Yakov.
“Why would we want you to die? We want you sentenced to a severe life imprisonment as a lesson for all to see of Jewish perfidy.”
“I won't eat what you give me. You can shoot me but I won't eat.”
“If you expect to eat, eat what you get. If not you'll starve.”
For the next five days Yakov starved. He exchanged
the sickness of poisoning for the sickness of starving. He lay on the mattress, sleeping fitfully. Zhitnyak threatened him with a whipping but nothing came of it. On the sixth day the warden returned to the cell, his cross-eye watering and face flushed. “I command you to eat.”
the sickness of poisoning for the sickness of starving. He lay on the mattress, sleeping fitfully. Zhitnyak threatened him with a whipping but nothing came of it. On the sixth day the warden returned to the cell, his cross-eye watering and face flushed. “I command you to eat.”
“Only out of the common pot,” Yakov said weakly. “What the other prisoners eat I will eat. Let me go to the kitchen and take my gruel and soup out of the common pot.”
“It cannot be allowed,” said the warden. “You mustn't leave your cell. You are under strict confinement. Other prisoners are not allowed to look at you. It's all in the regulations.”
“They can turn their heads while I draw my rations.”
“No,” said the warden. But after Yakov had fasted another day he consented. Twice a day the fixer, accompanied by Zhitnyak holding his drawn pistol, went to the prison kitchen in the west wing. Yakov drew his bread rations in the morning and filled his bowl from the common pot as the prisoners working in the kitchen momentarily faced the wall. He did not fill the bowl too full because if he did Zhitnyak poured some of it back.
He returned to half starvation.
He begged for something to do. His hands ached of emptiness, but he got nothing. The fixer offered to repair furniture, build tables, chairs, other pieces they might needâall he asked for was a few boards and his sack of tools. He missed his crosscut saw with the taped handle, his small German plane, the hammer and tri-square. He could still feel each tool with his fingers and remembered how each worked. The sharp saw could rip through a six-inch board in ten seconds. He liked the touch and smell of wood shavings. There were times he heard in his
thoughts the two-toned buzz of the crosscut and the responsible knock of the hammer. He remembered things he had built with his tools, and sometimes in his thoughts he built them again. If he had the toolsâif not his own, any toolsâand some pieces of wood, he might . earn himself a few kopeks to buy underdrawers, a wool vest, a warm pair of socksâother things he needed. If he earned a little money he secretly hoped he might pay someone to smuggle out a letter; or if not a letter then a message to Aaron Latke. But the tools and wood were refused him, and he cracked his knuckles constantly to do something with his hands.
thoughts the two-toned buzz of the crosscut and the responsible knock of the hammer. He remembered things he had built with his tools, and sometimes in his thoughts he built them again. If he had the toolsâif not his own, any toolsâand some pieces of wood, he might . earn himself a few kopeks to buy underdrawers, a wool vest, a warm pair of socksâother things he needed. If he earned a little money he secretly hoped he might pay someone to smuggle out a letter; or if not a letter then a message to Aaron Latke. But the tools and wood were refused him, and he cracked his knuckles constantly to do something with his hands.
He asked for a newspaper, a book of some sort, anything he could read to forget the tedium. Zhitnyak said the Deputy Warden had told him reading matter was forbidden to prisoners who had violated the regulations. So were paper and pencil. “If you hadn't written those sneaky letters you wrote, you wouldn't be in strict confinement now.” “Where would I be then?” Yakov asked. “Better off. You might still be in the common cell.” “Do you know when my indictment is supposed to come?” “No, and neither does anybody else, so don't ask me.” Once Yakov said, “Why did you try to poison me, Zhitnyak, what did I do to you?” “Nobody said there was poison in that food,” the guard said uneasily. “All they told me was to give it to you.” Later he said, “It wasn't my fault. Nobody wanted to hurt you. The Deputy Warden thought you might confess faster if you got sick. The warden gave him a tongue lashing.” The next morning Zhitnyak brought the prisoner a birch twig broom. “If you want to have it here, then keep your mouth shut from now on. The Deputy Warden says he's fed up of you talking to me. I'm not supposed to listen any more.”
The broom was a stick with a bunch of thin birch twigs tied to it with cord. Yakov used it to sweep the cell
every morning, working not too hard at first because he still felt weak from his sickness; yet he needed exercise to keep his strength up. He had again asked to be let out in the yard once in a while but, as he expected, the request was denied. Every day he thoroughly swept the stone floor, the wet parts and the dry. He swept in the corners of the cell, lifted his mattress and swept under that. He swept in the crevices between stones and once uncovered a centipede. He saw it escape under the door and the thought of that gave him a headache. He also used the broom handle to beat the mattress, its covering threadbare and split on both sides, the discolored straw visible so that he stopped beating it lest it fall apart. And when he beat it the mattress gave off a stench. Yakov patted it with his hands each morning as though to freshen it.
every morning, working not too hard at first because he still felt weak from his sickness; yet he needed exercise to keep his strength up. He had again asked to be let out in the yard once in a while but, as he expected, the request was denied. Every day he thoroughly swept the stone floor, the wet parts and the dry. He swept in the corners of the cell, lifted his mattress and swept under that. He swept in the crevices between stones and once uncovered a centipede. He saw it escape under the door and the thought of that gave him a headache. He also used the broom handle to beat the mattress, its covering threadbare and split on both sides, the discolored straw visible so that he stopped beating it lest it fall apart. And when he beat it the mattress gave off a stench. Yakov patted it with his hands each morning as though to freshen it.
As much as he could he tried to arrange things so as to break the monotony of long stretches of time. When the bell rang in the corridor at 5 A.M. he arose in the cold dark, quickly cleaned the ashes out of the stove with his hand, raising dust he could smell, sweeping the small pile of ashes into a box they had given him for the purpose. Then he filled the stove with kindling, dry twigs, and some larger pieces of wood and waited for Zhitnyak, sometimes Kogin, to come in and light it. Formerly, the guard lit the stove when he brought in the prisoner's breakfast, and now that Yakov went to the kitchen for it, he lit the fire after the fixer returned with his food. Twice a day Yakov was permitted to go to the kitchen, not willing, when the warden suggested it, to give up the privilege of leaving the cell for a few minutes, although the warden gave his personal assurance that the food would be “perfectly healthful” if it were once again brought from the kitchen by the prisoners who delivered it to the guards.
“You have nothing to fear from us, Bok,” he said. “I can assure you that the Prosecuting Attorney is most
eager, as are all the other officials, to bring you to trial. No one would want to kill you off. We have other plans.”
eager, as are all the other officials, to bring you to trial. No one would want to kill you off. We have other plans.”
“When will my trial be?”
“I can't say,” said Warden Grizitskoy. “They're still collecting evidence. It takes time.”
“Then if you don't mind I'd rather keep on going to the kitchen.”
As long as I can, he thought. I've paid for the privilege. He thought they were letting him continue to go only because they knew he knew they had tried to poison him.
After that the number of searches of Yakov's person was increased to three a day. His heart raced after these experiences, hatred thickened in it, and it took him a while to calm down. Sometimes after a search, to get the vile taste of it out of him, he swept the cell a second and third time. Or he collected the ashes out of the pit and had the wood ready for lighting long before Zhitnyak came in to take him to the kitchen to draw his supper rations. Though the stove was smoky the fixer ate near it, and after he had drunk the last of his tea, he threw in another stick or two of wood and lay down on the mattress with a sigh, hoping he could fall asleep before the stove went out and the cell became freezing. Sometimes the drinking water was ice in the morning and he had to melt it.
Passing water was another way to pass time. He urinated often, listening to the noise as the water rose in the tin can. Sometimes he held his water until it came forth with such heat and force his teeth hurt. When the can was collected was another momentary diversion. And every second day one of the guards filled the jug of water from which he drank and washed. There were no towels and he dried his hands on his ragged coat, or at the stove, rubbing them till they were dry. Fetyukov had
given him a broken comb with which the fixer combed his hair and beard. Twice, thus far, he had been allowed into the bathhouse in the presence of a guard, when none of the other prisoners was there, and was permitted to wash his naked body with tepid water from a wooden bucket. He was worried to see how thin he had become. They would not touch his hair but once when his head was very lousy, the prison barber doused it with kerosene and let him comb the dead lice out with a fine comb. His beard went uncut though nobody objected that he kept it combed. Occasionally when Yakov complained that his nails were too long, Zhitnyak cut them for him. He would not allow the fixer to hold the scissors. Afterwards the guard collected the nail parings and put them into an oilskin pouch.
given him a broken comb with which the fixer combed his hair and beard. Twice, thus far, he had been allowed into the bathhouse in the presence of a guard, when none of the other prisoners was there, and was permitted to wash his naked body with tepid water from a wooden bucket. He was worried to see how thin he had become. They would not touch his hair but once when his head was very lousy, the prison barber doused it with kerosene and let him comb the dead lice out with a fine comb. His beard went uncut though nobody objected that he kept it combed. Occasionally when Yakov complained that his nails were too long, Zhitnyak cut them for him. He would not allow the fixer to hold the scissors. Afterwards the guard collected the nail parings and put them into an oilskin pouch.
“What's that for?” asked Yakov.
“For an analysis they want to make,” said the guard.
One morning something new appeared in Yakov's cell. An old prayer shawl and a pair of phylacteries had been left there after he had gone to the kitchen for his food. He examined the phylacteries, then put them aside, but he wore the prayer shawl under his greatcoat to help keep him warm. He was wearing a heavier prison suit than the one he had first got, though much used by other prisoners in the past and already falling apart. He also had a small cap with ear flaps that did not fit him, which he wore with the flaps down. The seams of his greatcoat had split in places. Zhitnyak loaned him a darning needle and some thread to sew them with; and Yakov received a blow in the face from the guard when he told him, afterwards, that he had lost the needle. He really hadn't; he had hidden it inside the stove. But the coat seams opened again and there was no thread. His wooden clogs had been taken from him and he now wore bast shoes without laces; he was not allowed to have a belt. When Yakov put the prayer shawl on, Zhitnyak
watched through the spy hole, often looking in unexpectedly as though hoping to catch the fixer at prayer. He never did.
watched through the spy hole, often looking in unexpectedly as though hoping to catch the fixer at prayer. He never did.
Yakov spent hours pacing in the cell. He walked to Siberia and back. Six or eight times a day he read the prison regulations. Sometimes he sat at the shaky table. He could eat at the table but there was nothing else to do at it that he could think of. If he only had some paper and pencil he might write something down. With a knife he could whittle a piece of firewood, but who would give him a knife? He blew on his hands constantly. He feared he might go crazy doing nothing. If only there were a book to read. He remembered how he had studied and written in his stable room in the brickyard, at the table he had built himself with his tools. Once, just after Zhitnyak had peeked in, the fixer quickly piled up the loose wood at the wall and climbed up on top of the pile to see if he could look out the window into the prison yard. He thought the prisoners might be there on their promenade. He wondered whether any of those he knew were still in prison, or had they got out. But he could not reach the window bars with his hands and all he saw out of it was a piece of leaden sky.
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