The Fixer (36 page)

  “The thing about life is how fast it goes,” Ostrovsky said.

  “Faster than that.”

  “You suffer for us all,” the lawyer said huskily. “I would be honored to be in your place.”

  “It’s without honor,” Yakov said, wiping his eyes with his fingers, and rubbing his hands together. “It’s a dirty suffering.”

  “You’ve got my respect.”

  “If you don’t mind tell me how my case stands. Tell me the truth.”

  “The truth is that things are bad though how bad I don’t know myself. The case is clear enough—it’s a bad joke from top to bottom—but it’s mixed up in the worst way with the political situation. Kiev, you understand, is a medieval city full of wild superstition and mysticism. It has always been the heart of Russian reaction. The Black Hundreds, may they sink into their graves, have aroused against you the most ignorant and brutal of the masses. They are deathly afraid of Jews and at the same time frighten them to death. This reveals to you something about the human condition. Rich or poor, those of our brethren who can run out of here are running. Some who can’t are already mourning. They sniff at the air and it stinks of pogrom. What’s going on, as I say, nobody can say precisely. There’s on the one hand a rumor that everything that happens, including your indictment, is another delay, and your trial, if you’ll excuse me for saying it, will never take place; but on the other hand we hear it might start right after the Duma elections in September. Yes or no, they have no case against you. The civilized world knows this, including the Pope and his cardinals. If Grubeshov ‘proves’ anything it will be by the lies of ‘the experts.’ But we have our experts against them, for instance a Russian professor of theology, and I’ve written to Pavlov, the Tsar’s surgeon, to testify on the medical report of the boy’s autopsy and he hasn’t said no yet, Grubeshov knows who the real murderers are but he shuts both eyes and stares at you. He went to law school with my oldest son and was famous for his socks and vests. Now he’s famous for his anti-Semitic socks and vests. Out of Marfa Golov, that piece of trash, he tries to make if not a new saint, at least a persecuted heroine. Her blind lover tried last week to take his life but thank God, he’s still alive. Also a clever journalist—may the Lord make more like him!—Piti-rim Mirsky, discovered recently that Zhenia’s father left him a life insurance legacy of five hundred rubles that the two murderers coveted, got, and at once spent. Two hogs, as they say, are worse than one. Mirsky printed this last week in
Poslednie Novosti
, and for that the publisher was fined and the press shut down by the police for three months. They must now discontinue all items about Golov. This is black reaction, but I’m not here to frighten you. You have enough to worry about.”

  “What else can frighten me?”

  “If you feel bad think of Dreyfus. He went through the same thing with the script in French. We’re persecuted in the most civilized languages.”

  “I’ve thought of him. It doesn’t help.”

  “He was in prison many years, much longer than you.”

  “So far.”

  Ostrovsky, nodding absently as he gazed at the door, softened his whisper. “We also have an affidavit from Sofya Shiskovsky. One night she went into the toilet in Marfa’s house to relieve herself, and there in the bathtub lay the naked corpse covered with wounds. So she screamed and ran out of the house. Marfa, who had gone for a minute upstairs to get a letter to prove a lie, ran after her and caught her in the street. That one—a madwoman of the First Guild—threatened to murder the whole Shiskovsky family if they breathed a word to anybody. They were afraid for Vasya, so they packed the furniture and moved out. When we finally located them, in a log hut in a back street in Moscow, she threatened to kill herself if we interfered with her, but with luck we got at least a short affidavit. She wouldn’t let us question Vasya but we will try to have them both in court when the trial starts, if they aren’t by that time in Asia. So this is another reason why the prosecution drags its feet: they can’t prove a ritual murder but they won’t stop trying, and the longer they take the more dangerous the situation becomes. It’s dangerous because it’s irrational, complex, secret. And it grows more dangerous as they get more desperate.”

  “Then what will I do?” said Yakov in despair. “How much more can I stand if I’m already half dead?”

  “Patience, calm, calm, calm,” Ostrovsky counseled, clasping his hands and squeezing. Then he looked at the fixer in a new light and struck his head with his palm.

  “For God’s sake, why are we standing yet? Come sit down. Forgive me, I’m blind in both eyes.”

  They sat then on a narrow bench in the far corner of the room away from the door, the lawyer still whispering. “Your case is tied up with the frustrations of recent Russian history. The Russo-Japanese War, I don’t have to tell you, was a terrible disaster but it brought on the Revolution of 1905, which was coming anyway. ‘War,’ as Marx says, ‘is the locomotive of history.’ This was good for Russia but bad for the Jews. The government, as usual, blamed us for their troubles and not more than one day after the Tsar’s concessions pogroms started simultaneously in three hundred towns. Of course you know this, what Jew doesn’t?”

  “Tell me anyway, what harm can it do?”

  “The Tsar was frightened by the rising agitation—strikes, riots, assassinations. The country was paralyzed. After the Winter Palace massacre he reluctantly gave out a ukase promising the basic freedoms. He granted a Constitution, the Imperial Duma was established, and for a short time it looked—for Russia, you understand— like the beginning of a liberal period. The Jews cried hurray for the Tsar and wished him luck. Imagine, in the first Duma we had twelve deputies! Right away they brought up the question of equal rights for all and the abolition of the Pale of Settlement. Like a new world, no?”

  “Yes, but go on.”

  “I’ll go on but what can I say? In a sick country every step to health is an insult to those who live on its sickness. The imperial absolutists, the rightist elements, warned the Tsar his crown was slipping. He was already regretting the concessions and began to try to cancel them. In other words, for ten minutes he put on the lights and what he saw frightened him so much, since then he has been putting them out one by one so nobody will notice. As much as he could he changed back to an autocratic regime. The reactionary groups—the Union of Russian People, the Society of the Double-headed Eagle, the Union of the Archangel Michael—oppose worker and peasant movements, liberalism, socialism, any kind of reform, which also meant, naturally, the common enemy, the Jews. At the thought of a constitutional monarch their bones rattled. Organized together, they became the Black Hundreds, which means in gangs of a hundred for what disgusting purposes I don’t have to tell you. They gnaw like rats to destroy the independence of the courts, the liberal press, the prestige of the Duma. To distract popular attention from the breaches of the Russian Constitution they incite nationalism against non-Orthodox Russians. They persecute every minority—Poles, Finns, Germans, us—but especially us. Popular discontent they divert into anti-Semitic outbreaks. It’s a simple solution to their problems. Also they enjoy themselves because with the government’s help they murder Jews and it’s good for business.”

  “I’m only one man, what do they want from me?”

  “One man is all they need so long as they can hold him up as an example of Jewish bloodthirst and criminality. To prove a point it’s best to have a victim. In 1905 and 1906 thousands of innocent people were butchered, property damage in the millions of rubles. These pogroms were planned in the office of the Minister of Interior. We know that the anti-Jewish proclamations were printed on Police Department presses. And there are rumors that the Tsar himself contributes from the royal treasury for anti-Semitic books and pamphlets. We got all we need to frighten us but we’re also frightened by rumors.”

  “By the wind,” said Yakov.

  “If you’re frightened everything frightens you,” Ostrovsky said. “Anyway, it’s a long story but I’m making it short. Now I come direct to your door. When Premier Stolypin, no friend of ours, wanted, before the election of the second Duma, to throw a few bones to the Jews, a few little rights to stop their big complaints, the reactionaries ran to the Tsar and right away he changed the Electoral Laws, taking away the vote from a large part of the population to reduce Jewish and liberal representation in the Duma and cut down opposition to the government. We now have maybe three deputies for three and a half million Jews and these too they want to get rid of. A year ago they assassinated one right in the street. But now I come to you. An atmosphere of hysteria developed all over the country. Still, there was some progress, don’t ask me how, and the Imperial Duma was once more discussing whether, yes or no, to abolish the Pale of Jewish Settlement when right at this minute, when the Black Hundreds were frantic, one day a Christian boy was found dead in a cave and there appeared on the scene, Yakov Bok.”

  The fixer sat numbed. He waited for Ostrovsky to spit, but the lawyer sighed deeply and went on talking. “Where you came from nobody knew, or who you were, but you came just in time. I understand you came on a horse. When they saw you they pounced, and that’s why we’re sitting here now. But don’t feel too bad, if it weren’t you there’d be another in your place.”

  “Yes,” said Yakov. “Somebody like me. I’ve thought it all out.”

  “So that’s your bag of history,” Ostrovsky said.

  “In that case, what difference does it make if my trial comes or it doesn’t?”

  Ostrovsky got up, tiptoed to the door and abruptly opened it. Then he returned to the bench. “No one there but this way they’ll know we’re alert to them. I told you the worst,” he said as he sat down, “now I’ll tell you the best: You have a chance. What kind of chance? A chance. A chance is a chance, it’s better than no chance. Anyway, hear me out so I can stop talking. First of all, not every Russian is your enemy. God forbid. The intelligentsia is disturbed by this case. Many luminaries of literature, science, and the professions have objected against the blood ritual slander. Not so long ago the Kharkov Medical Society passed a resolution protesting your imprisonment, and the next thing that happened the society was dissolved by the government authorities. I told you already about
Poslednie Novosti
. Other newspapers have been fined for their probing articles and editorials. I know members of the bar who openly say that Marfa Golov and her lover committed the murder. Some say she wrote the original letter to the Black Hundreds, accusing the Jews of the crime. My theory is they came to her and asked her to write such a letter. Anyway, an opposition exists, which is good and it’s bad. Where there’s opposition to reaction there’s also repression; but better repression than public sanction of injustice. So a chance you’ve got.”

  “Not more?”

  “More. Freedom exists in the cracks of the state. Even in Russia a little justice can be found. It’s a strange world. On the one hand we have the strictest autocracy; on the other we are approaching anarchy; in between courts exist and justice is possible. The law lives in the minds of men. If a judge is honest the law is protected. If that’s the case, so are you. Also a jury is a jury—human beings—they could free you in five minutes.”

  “Should I hope?” said the fixer.

  “If it doesn’t hurt, hope. Still, since I’m telling the truth let me tell it all. Once we’re on trial some witnesses will lie because they’re frightened, and others because they’re liars. Also you can expect that the Minister of Justice will appoint a presiding judge who is favorable to the prosecution. If the verdict is guilty his career will advance. And we also suspect that intellectuals and liberals will be eliminated from the jury lists and there’s nothing we can do about it. With those that are left we will have to contend. So if you must hope, hope. I’m sure Grubeshov isn’t confident of his case. What’s more important he’s not confident of himself. He’s ambitious but limited. In the end he will need better evidence than he has now. The trouble with resting your case on experts is that there are other experts. So I come back to the jury. In our favor is that although they may be ignorant peasants and shopkeepers, simple folk, as a rule they have little love for state officials, and when it comes to facts they can smell when they stink. For instance they know that Jewish roosters don’t lay eggs. If Grubeshov strains he will make serious mistakes and your lawyer will know how to take advantage of them. He’s an outstanding man from Moscow, Suslov-Smirnov, a Ukrainian by birth.”

  “Not you?” said Yakov in astonishment. “You aren’t my lawyer?”

  “I was,” said Ostrovsky with an apologetic smile, “but not any more. Now I’m a witness.”

  “What kind of witness?”

  “They accuse me of attempting to bribe Marfa Golov not to testify against you. Of course she swears to it. I talked to her, naturally, but the accusation is ridiculous, it’s to keep me from defending you. I don’t know if you’ve heard my name before, Mr. Bok? Probably not,” he sighed, “but I have a little reputation in criminal cases. Still I don’t want you to worry. Suslov-Smirnov I would use myself if I were in your place. He will be chief of your defense. He was in his youth anti-Semitic but he has now become a vigorous defender of the rights of Jews.”

  Yakov groaned. “Who needs a former anti-Semite?”

  “You can take my word,” Ostrovsky said quickly. “He is a brilliant lawyer, and his conversion is sincere. Next time I come I will bring him to you. Believe me, he will know how to deal with these people.”

  He glanced at his ticking watch, tucked it into his vest pocket, then hurried to the door and opened it. A guard with a rifle was standing there. Without surprise the lawyer shut the door and returned to the prisoner.

  “I will speak what’s on my mind,” he said in Russian. “I say this against my will, Mr. Bok, and with a heavy heart. You have suffered much and I don’t want to add to your burdens, but the prosecution is desperate and this makes me fear for your life. If you should die, naturally an unproved case will help the government more than a verdict against them, no matter how much they are suspected of or criticized for your death. I think you know what I mean. So all I will say to you is be careful. Don’t allow yourself to be provoked. Remember—patience, calm, you have a few friends.”