The Fixer (28 page)
Authors: Bernard Malamud
“Yakov,” she said, “I'm sorry for what you're suffering. When I heard it was you I tore my hair; but I figured you'd also be sorry for me. Please, it might make
things easier if you wouldn't mind saying you are my son's father. Still, if you can't you can't. I don't want to add to your burdens.”
things easier if you wouldn't mind saying you are my son's father. Still, if you can't you can't. I don't want to add to your burdens.”
“Who's the father, some goy I'll bet.”
“If it makes you feel better he was a Jew, a musician. He came, he went, I forgot him. He fathered the child but he's not his father. Whoever acts the father is the father. My father's the father but he's only two steps from death's door. One knock and I'm twice widowed.”
“What's the matter with him?”
“Diabetes, though he drags himself around. He worries about you, he worries about me and the child. He wakes up cursing himself for not having been born rich. He prays every time he thinks of it. I take care of him the best I can. He sleeps on a bag of rags pushed to the wall. He needs food, rest, medicine. The little we get comes from charity. One or two of the rich send their servants over with this or that, but when they see me they hold their noses.”
“Has he talked to anybody about me?”
“To everybody. He runs everywhere, sick as he is.”
“What do they say?”
“They tear their hair. They beat their chests. They thank God it wasn't them. Some collect money. Some say they will make protests. Some are afraid to do anything because it may annoy the Christians and make things worse. Some are pessimistic but a few have hope. Still, there's more going on than I know.”
“If it doesn't go faster I won't be here to find out what.”
“Don't say that, Yakov. I went myself to see some lawyers in Kiev. Two of them swear they will help you but nobody can move without an indictment.”
“So I'll wait,” said Yakov. Before her eyes he shrank in size.
“I've brought you some haleh and cheese and an apple
in a little pack,” Raisl said, “but they made me leave it at the warden's office. Don't forget to ask for it. It's goat's cheese but I don't think you'll notice.”
in a little pack,” Raisl said, “but they made me leave it at the warden's office. Don't forget to ask for it. It's goat's cheese but I don't think you'll notice.”
“Thanks,” said Yakov wearily. He said, after a sigh, “Listen, Raisl, I'll write you a paper that the child's mine.”
Her eyes glistened. “God will bless you.”
“Never mind God. Have you got a piece of paper, I'll write something down. Show it to the rabbi's father, the old melamed. He knows my handwriting and he's a kinder man than his son.”
“I have paper and pencil,” she whispered nervously, “but I'm afraid to give them to you with this guard in the room. They warned me not to hand you anything but the confession and to take nothing but that from you or they would arrest me for attempting to help you escape.”
The guard was restless and again came forward. “There's nothing more to talk about. Either sign the paper or go back to your cell.”
“Have you got a pencil?” the fixer asked.
The guard took a fat fountain pen from his tunic pocket, and gave it to him through the opening in the grating.
He stayed to watch but Yakov waited until he had withdrawn.
“Give me the confession,” he said to Raisl in Russian. Raisl handed him the envelope. Yakov removed the paper, unfolded it, and read: “I, Yakov Bok, confess that I witnessed the murder of Zhenia Golov, the son of Marfa Golov, by my Jewish compatriots. They killed him on the night of March 20, 1911, upstairs in the stable in the brickyard belonging to Nikolai Maximovitch Lebedev, merchant of the Lukianovsky District.”
Under that a heavy line was drawn on which to sign his name.
Yakov placed the paper on the shelf before him and wrote in Russian on the line for his name: “Every word is a lie.”
On the envelope, pausing between words to remember the letters for the next, he wrote in Yiddish, “I declare myself to be the father of Chaim, the infant son of my wife, Raisl Bok. He was conceived before she left me. Please help the mother and child, and for this, amid all my troubles, I'll be grateful. Yakov Bok.”
She told him the date and he wrote it down, “February 27, 1913.” Yakov passed it to her through the opening in the grating.
Raisl slipped the envelope into her coat sleeve and handed the guard the confession paper. He folded it at once, and thrust it into his tunic pocket. After examining the contents of Raisl's handbag and tapping her coat pockets he told her to go.
“Yakov,” she wept, “come home.”
He was chained to the wall again. Things went badly. Better not have been unchained, the getting back was so bad. He beat the clanking chains against the wall until it was scarred white where he stood. They let him beat the wall. Otherwise he slept. But for the searches he would have slept through the day. He slept the sleep of the dead with his feet in stocks. He slept through the end of winter and into spring. Kogin said it was April. Two years. The searches went on except when he was sick with dysentery. The Deputy Warden did not come near him then, though Berezhinsky sometimes searched him alone. Once after the fixer was sick the cell was hosed down and a fire started in the stove. An old pink-faced
man came into the cell dressed in winter clothes. He wore a black cape and black gaiters and grasped a gnarled cane. Berezhinsky followed him in, carrying a slender chair with a delicate back, and the old man sat in it erectly, several feet from the fixer, holding the cane with gray-mittened hands. His watery eyes wandered. He told Yakov he was a former jurist of high repute, and that he came with good news. An excitement so thick it felt like sickness surged through the fixer. He asked what good news. The former jurist said this was the year of the three-hundredth anniversary of the rule of the House of Romanov and that the Tsar, in celebration, would issue a ukase amnestying certain classes of criminals. Yakov's name would be listed among them. He was to be pardoned and permitted to return to his village. The old man's face flushed with pleasure. The prisoner clung to the wall, too burdened to speak. Then he asked, Pardoned as a criminal or pardoned as innocent? The former jurist testily said what difference did it make so long as he was let out of prison. It was impossible to erase the sins of the past, but it was not impossible for a humane ruler, a Christian gentleman, to forgive an evil act. The old man sneezed without snuff and peered at his silver watch. Yakov said he wanted a fair trial, not a pardon. If they ordered him to leave the prison without a trial they would have to shoot him first. Don't be foolish, said the former jurist, how can you go on suffering like this, caked in filth? The fixer moved his chains restlessly. I have no choice, he said. I have just offered you one. That's not choice, said Yakov. The former jurist tried to convince the prisoner, then gave up in irritation. It's easier to reason with a peasant. He rose and shook his cane at the fixer. How can we help you, he shouted, if you are so pigheaded? Berezhinsky, who had been listening at the spy hole, opened the door and the old man left the cell. The guard came in for the chair but before
taking it, he let Yakov urinate in the can, then dumped the contents on his head. The fixer was left in chains that night. He thought that whenever he had been through the worst, there was always worse.
man came into the cell dressed in winter clothes. He wore a black cape and black gaiters and grasped a gnarled cane. Berezhinsky followed him in, carrying a slender chair with a delicate back, and the old man sat in it erectly, several feet from the fixer, holding the cane with gray-mittened hands. His watery eyes wandered. He told Yakov he was a former jurist of high repute, and that he came with good news. An excitement so thick it felt like sickness surged through the fixer. He asked what good news. The former jurist said this was the year of the three-hundredth anniversary of the rule of the House of Romanov and that the Tsar, in celebration, would issue a ukase amnestying certain classes of criminals. Yakov's name would be listed among them. He was to be pardoned and permitted to return to his village. The old man's face flushed with pleasure. The prisoner clung to the wall, too burdened to speak. Then he asked, Pardoned as a criminal or pardoned as innocent? The former jurist testily said what difference did it make so long as he was let out of prison. It was impossible to erase the sins of the past, but it was not impossible for a humane ruler, a Christian gentleman, to forgive an evil act. The old man sneezed without snuff and peered at his silver watch. Yakov said he wanted a fair trial, not a pardon. If they ordered him to leave the prison without a trial they would have to shoot him first. Don't be foolish, said the former jurist, how can you go on suffering like this, caked in filth? The fixer moved his chains restlessly. I have no choice, he said. I have just offered you one. That's not choice, said Yakov. The former jurist tried to convince the prisoner, then gave up in irritation. It's easier to reason with a peasant. He rose and shook his cane at the fixer. How can we help you, he shouted, if you are so pigheaded? Berezhinsky, who had been listening at the spy hole, opened the door and the old man left the cell. The guard came in for the chair but before
taking it, he let Yakov urinate in the can, then dumped the contents on his head. The fixer was left in chains that night. He thought that whenever he had been through the worst, there was always worse.
One day, during Yakov's third summer in prison, his manacles and shackles were unlocked. Immediately his heart beat heavily and when he touched it with his hand the hand beat like his heart. In an hour the warden, who had aged since the fixer had last seen him and walked with shorter steps, brought in a new indictment in a brown envelope, a sheaf of papers twice thicker than the last. The fixer took the papers and read them slowly and frantically, fearing he would never get to the end of them; but he had discovered at once what he had expected: that the blood murder charge had been violently revived. Now they are serious again, he thought. The reference to sexual experiences with the boy, and to activities with a gang of Jewish housebreakers and smugglers operating out of the cellar of the Kiev synagogue âall the insane lies from Marfa Golov's letterâwere omitted. Once again Yakov Bok was accused of murdering the innocent boy in order to drain his body of blood necessary for the baking of Passover matzos and cakes.
This was affirmed by Professor Manilius Zagreb, who with his distinguished colleague, the surgeon Dr. Sergei Bul, had twice performed the autopsy of Zhenia's remains. Both categorically stated that the vicious wounds had been inflicted in prearranged clusters with a time interval between each cluster in order to prolong the torture and facilitate the bleeding. It was estimated that one litre of blood was collected from each set of wounds, and that a total of five litres of blood was collected in bottles. Such was also the conclusion of Father Anastasy, the well-known specialist in Jewish affairs, who had made a close study of the Talmud, his reasons given in minute detail for eight single-spaced pages. And it was
also the conclusion of Yefim Balik, the Investigating Magistrate. He had carefully reviewed the entire evidence and agreed with its “direction and findings.”
also the conclusion of Yefim Balik, the Investigating Magistrate. He had carefully reviewed the entire evidence and agreed with its “direction and findings.”
How the bloodthirsty crime was committed was described in this indictment much as it had been by Grubeshov at the cave, more than two years ago, “with careful note taken of the fanatic Hasidic tsadik, seen in the brickyard by the foreman Proshko; who had no doubt helped the accused drain the necessary blood from the boy's still living body, and also assisted him in transporting the corpse to the cave where two horrified boys had found it.” And related evidence omitted from the previous indictment was included in this. It was stated that half a bag of matzo flour was “hidden away” in Yakov Bok's stable room, together with certain hard pieces of already baked matzo no doubt containing the innocent blood, which both the Jews “in all probability” had eaten. And the usual bloodstained rag, “admitted by the accused to be a piece of his shirt” had been uncovered in the same room. According to the testimony of Vasya Shiskovsky, a bottle of bright-red blood was seen by him and Zhenia on a table in Bok's stable room, but it had disappeared when the police searched for it. And a sack of carpenter's tools containing bloodstained awls and knives had been found in the same room after the fixer's arrest, “despite a plot later carried out by Jewish co-conspirators to destroy this and other significant evidence by burning down the brickyard stable, a plot which they ultimately achieved.”
Towards the end of this wearying, terrifying document a new subject was introduced, “the matter of Yakov Bok's self-proclaimed atheism.” It was noted that although the accused, when first examined by the authorities, had confessed he was a Jew “by birth and nationality,” he had however claimed for himself “an atheistic status; to wit, that he was a freethinker and not a
religious Jew.” Why he should make “such an odious self-description” was understandable to anyone who reflected for a moment on the matter. It was done to create “extenuating circumstances” and “obfuscating details” in order “to deflect the legal investigation by hiding the motive for this dastardly crime.” However this assertion of atheism could not be defended, for it was observed by reliable witnesses, including prison guards and officials, that Yakov Bok, while incarcerated and awaiting trial, “though persisting in his false claim of irreligion, had in his cell secretly prayed daily in the manner of Orthodox Jews, wrapped in a prayer shawl, with black phylacteries entwined around his brow and left arm.” He was also seen piously reading an Old Testament Bible, “which, like the previously mentioned Orthodox religious instruments, had been smuggled into his cell by fellow Jews of the synagogue.” It was clear to all who observed him that he was engaged in the performance of a devout religious rite. He had continued to use the prayer shawl until he had worn it out, and “even now he kept a remnant of this sacred garment in his coat pocket.”
religious Jew.” Why he should make “such an odious self-description” was understandable to anyone who reflected for a moment on the matter. It was done to create “extenuating circumstances” and “obfuscating details” in order “to deflect the legal investigation by hiding the motive for this dastardly crime.” However this assertion of atheism could not be defended, for it was observed by reliable witnesses, including prison guards and officials, that Yakov Bok, while incarcerated and awaiting trial, “though persisting in his false claim of irreligion, had in his cell secretly prayed daily in the manner of Orthodox Jews, wrapped in a prayer shawl, with black phylacteries entwined around his brow and left arm.” He was also seen piously reading an Old Testament Bible, “which, like the previously mentioned Orthodox religious instruments, had been smuggled into his cell by fellow Jews of the synagogue.” It was clear to all who observed him that he was engaged in the performance of a devout religious rite. He had continued to use the prayer shawl until he had worn it out, and “even now he kept a remnant of this sacred garment in his coat pocket.”
It was the opinion of investigators and other officials that this self-incriminating atheism “was a fabrication of Yakov Bok's, in order to hide from the legal authorities that he had committed a vile religious murder of a child for the sole and evil purpose of providing his Hasidic compatriots with the uncorrupted human blood needed to bake the Passover matzos and unleavened cakes.”
After he had finished reading the document the fixer, in exhaustion, thought, there's no getting rid of the blood any more. It's stained every word of the indictment and can't be washed out. When they try me it will be for the crucifixion.
The fixer grew more intensely worried. Now that he had this paper would they withdraw it and later issue another? Was this the newest torture? Would they hand
him indictments, time after time, for the next twenty years? He would read them till he died of frustration or his dry brain exploded? Or would they, after this indictment, or the third, seventh, or thirteenth
at last
bring him to trial? Could they make a strong enough circumstantial case against him? He hoped they could. Anyway, just barely. If not, would they keep him in chains forever? Or were they planning a worse fate? One day as he was about to clean himself with a scrap of newspaper he read on it, “THE JEW IS DOOMED.” Yakov frantically read on to find out why, but that part was torn off.
him indictments, time after time, for the next twenty years? He would read them till he died of frustration or his dry brain exploded? Or would they, after this indictment, or the third, seventh, or thirteenth
at last
bring him to trial? Could they make a strong enough circumstantial case against him? He hoped they could. Anyway, just barely. If not, would they keep him in chains forever? Or were they planning a worse fate? One day as he was about to clean himself with a scrap of newspaper he read on it, “THE JEW IS DOOMED.” Yakov frantically read on to find out why, but that part was torn off.
He had been told a lawyer was on his way to the prison, but when the cell door was opened on a hot July night, it was not the lawyer, it was Grubeshov, in evening dress. The fixer awoke when Kogin, holding a dripping candle, unlocked his feet. “Wake up,” said the guard, shaking him, “his honor is here.” Yakov awoke as though coming up out of deep dirty water. He beheld Grubeshov's moist fleshy face, his sidewhiskers limp, his redshot eyes, lit, restless. The public prosecutor's chest rose and fell. He began pacing in the cell, unsteadily, then sat down on the stool, one hand on the table, an enormous shadow on the wall behind him. He stared for a moment at the lamp, blinked at it, and gazed at Yakov. When he talked, the stink of rich food and alcohol on his breath drifted across to the fixer, nauseating him.
“I am on my way home from a civic banquet in honor of the Tsar,” Grubeshov, breathing with a whistle, said to the prisoner. “Since my motorcar happened to be in this district, I ordered the driver to go on to the prison. I thought I would speak to you. You are a stubborn man, Bok, but perhaps not yet beyond reason. I
thought I would talk to you one last time. Please stand up while I am speaking.”
thought I would talk to you one last time. Please stand up while I am speaking.”
Yakov, sitting on the wooden bed with his bony bare feet on the clammy floor, slowly got up. Grubeshov, gazing at his face, shuddered. The fixer felt a violent hatred of him.
“First of all,” said Grubeshov, patting the back of his flushed neck with a large humid handkerchief, “you oughtn't to let your expectations rise too high, Yakov Bok. You will be disappointed if they do. Don't think just because an indictment has been issued that your worries are over. On the contraryânow begin your worst troubles. I warn you, you will be publicly unmasked and seen for what you are.”
“What do you want from me here, Mr. Grubeshov? It's late at night. I need my little rest for the chains in the morning.”
“As for the chains, that's your fault; learn to follow orders. It's none of my affair, I came on other business. Marfa Golov, the victim's mother, visited me in my office today. She knelt before me with holy tears streaming from her eyes, and swore before God that she had told the absolute truth regarding Zhenia and his experiences with you that led to the murder. She is a totally sincere woman and I was deeply affected by her. I am more than ever convinced that a jury will believe what she says, and so much the worse for you. Her testimony and the sincerity of her appearance will demolish whatever case you think you can make.”
“Then let her give her testimony,” Yakov said. “Why don't you begin the trial?”
Grubeshov, who squirmed on the stool as though it were the top of a hot stove, answered, “I have no intention of engaging in an argument with a criminal. I came to tell you that if you and your fellow Jews continue to press me to bring you to trial before I have gathered
every last grain of evidence, or investigated all courses of action, then you ought to know what dangers you are creating for yourself. There can be too much of a good thing, Bok, if you understand my meaning. The kettle may steam but don't be surprised if the water is boiled off.”
every last grain of evidence, or investigated all courses of action, then you ought to know what dangers you are creating for yourself. There can be too much of a good thing, Bok, if you understand my meaning. The kettle may steam but don't be surprised if the water is boiled off.”
“Mr. Grubeshov,” said Yakov, “I can't stand up any more. I'm tired and must sit down. If you want to shoot me call the guard, he has a gun.”
Yakov sat down on the bedplank.
“You're a cheeky one,” Grubeshov said, his voice emotional. “The Russian people are sick to their souls of your Jewish tricks and deceptions. That holds also for your investigators, your complaints, your libels from all over. What is happening, Bok, obviously reveals the underground involvement of the Jewish conspiracy in Russian affairs, and I warn you to take rational notice that there is bound to be a tumultuous reprisal against the enemies of the state. Even if by some trickery you were to succeed in swaying a jury to render a judgment against the weight of the true evidence, then you can believe me that the Russian people in justifiable wrath will avenge this poor Zhenia for the pain and torture that you inflicted on him. You may wish for the trial now, but remember this: even the judgment that you are guilty will set off a bloodbath in this city that will outdo the ferocity of the so-called Kishinev massacres. A trial will not save you nor your fellow Jews. You would be better off confessing, and after a period of time when the public has settled down, we could announce your death in prison, or something of the sort, and spirit you out of Russia. If you insist on the trial, then don't be surprised if bearded heads roll in the street. Feathers fly. Cossack steel invades the tender flesh of young Jewesses.”
Grubeshov had risen from the hot stool and was pacing
again, his shadow going one way on the wall as he went the other.
again, his shadow going one way on the wall as he went the other.
“A government has to protect itself from subversion, by force if it can't persuade.”
Yakov stared at his white crooked feet.
The public prosecutor, in the grip of his excitement, went on: “My father once described to me an incident involving a synagogue cellar full of Jews, men and women, who attempted to hide from the Cossacks during a raid on their village. The sergeant ordered them to come up one by one and at first none of them stirred, but then a few came up the steps holding their arms over their heads. This did do them not the least good as they were clubbed to death with rifle butts. The rest of them, though they were like herrings stuck together in a stinking barrel, would not move although they had been warned it would go worse with them. And so it did. The impatient Cossacks rushed into the cellar, bayoneting and shooting every last Jew. Those who were dragged out still alive were later thrown from speeding trains. A few, beginning with their benzine-soaked beards, were burned alive, and some of the women were dropped in their underclothes into wells to drown. You can take my word for it that in less than a week after your trial, there will be a quarter-million fewer Zhidy in the Pale.”
He paused to breathe, then went on thickly. “Don't think we don't know that you wish to provoke just such a pogrom. We know from Secret Police reports that you are plotting to bring down on yourselves a violent reaction for revolutionary purposesâto stimulate active subversion among Socialist revolutionaries. The Tsar is informed of this, you can be sure, and is prepared to give you increased doses of the medicine I have described if you persist in trying to destroy his authority. I warn you, there is already a detachment of Ural Cossacks quartered in Kiev.”
Yakov spat on the floor.
Either Grubeshov did not see or pretended he hadn't. Now, as though he had spent his anger, his voice became calm. “I am here to tell you this for your own good, Yakov Bok, and for the ultimate good of your fellow Jews. It's all I will say now, absolutely all. I leave the rest to your contemplation and judgment. Have you any suggestions on how to forestall such an appalling, catastrophicâand I say franklyâuseless tragedy? I appeal to your humanitarian impulses. One can imagine all sorts of compromises a person in your situation might be willing to make to tip the balance against disaster. I'm very serious. Have you something to say? If so, speak up.”
“Mr. Grubeshov, bring me to trial. I will wait for the trial, even to my death.”
“And death is what you will get. It's on your head, Bok.”
“On yours,” said Yakov. “And for what you did to Bibikov.”
Grubeshov stared at the fixer with white eyes. The shadow of a huge bird flew off the wall. The lamps went out and the cell door clanged.
Kogin, in a foul mood, slammed the stocks on the fixer's feet.
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