Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [123]
“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.”
“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.
“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