Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [125]
“I’m thankful.”
“You have friends though not all Jews, I’m sorry to say, are your friends. What I mean is that if a man hides his head in a bucket, whose friend is he? To my great regret some of our people shiver in every weather. We have organized a committee to help you but their caution is excessive. They’re afraid to ‘meddle’ or there’ll be another calamity. That’s in itself a calamity. They shoot with popguns and run from the noise. Still, who has all friends?”
“Then who are my friends?”
“I am one and there are others. Take my word, you’re not alone.”
“Can you do anything for me? I’m sick of prison.”
“What we can do we’ll do. It’s a long fight, I don’t have to tell you, and the odds are against us. Still, anyway, calm, calm, calm. As the sages say, there are always two possibilities. One we know from too long experience; the other—the miracle—we will hope for. It’s easy to hope, it’s the waiting that spoils it. But two possibilities make the odds even. So enough philosophy. At this minute there’s not much good news; finally we squeezed out an indictment, which means they will now have to schedule the case for trial, though when I leave to Rashi. But first, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll give you the bad news.” Ostrovsky sighed. “I’m sorry that your father-in-law, Shmuel Rabinovitch, who I had the pleasure to meet and talk to last summer—a gifted man—is now, I’m sorry to tell you, dead from diabetes. This your wife wrote me in a letter.”
“Ah,” said Yakov.
Death had preceded itself. Poor Shmuel, the fixer thought, now I’ll never see him again. That’s what happens when you say goodbye to a friend and ride out into the world.
He covered his face with his hands and wept.
“He was a good man, he tried to educate me.”
“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,