Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [133]
As Yakov came out of the cell an escort of six Cossack guards with crossed bandoleers were lined up in the corridor. The captain, a burly man with a black mustache, ordered the guard to surround the prisoner.
“Forward march,” commanded the escort captain.
The Cossacks marched the prisoner along the corridor toward the warden’s office. Though Yakov tried to straighten his leg he walked with a limp. He went as quickly as he could to keep up with the guard. Kogin and Berezhinsky remained behind.
In the warden’s inner office the captain carefully searched the prisoner; he wrote out a receipt for him and handed it to the warden.
“Just a minute, young man,” said the warden. “I want to have a word of my own with the prisoner.”
The captain saluted. “We leave at 8 A.M., sir.” He went to wait in the outer office.
The old man wiped the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief. His eye was tearing so he wiped that too. He took out his snuffbox, then put it away.
Yakov watched him nervously. If he withdraws the indictment now I’ll choke him to death.
“Well, Bok,” said Warden Grizitskoy, “if you had had the sense to follow the Prosecuting Attorney’s advice you’d be a free man today and out of the country. As it is now, you’ll probably be convicted on the evidence and will spend the rest of your natural life in the strictest confinement.”
The fixer scratched his palms.
The warden got his glasses out of a drawer, adjusted them on his nose, and read aloud an item from a newspaper lying on his desk. It was about a tailor in Odessa, Markovitch, a Jew, the father of five children, accused by the police of murdering a nine-year-old boy in a waterfront street late at night. He had then carried the child’s body to his tailor shop and drained the still-warm corpse of its lifeblood. The police, suspicious of the tailor, who walked alone in the streets at night, had discovered bloodstains on the floor and had at once arrested him.
The warden put down the newspaper and removed his glasses.
“I’ll tell you this, Bok: if we don’t convict one of you we’ll convict the other. We’ll teach you all a lesson.”
The fixer remained mute.
The warden, his mouth wet with anger, threw open the door and signaled the escort captain.
But then the Deputy Warden entered from the hall. He came in in a hurry, paying no attention to the escort captain.
“Warden,” he said, “I have here a telegram that forbids special privileges for the Jewish prisoner Bok just because he happens to be going on trial. He hasn’t been searched this morning through no fault of mine. Please have him returned to his cell to be searched in the usual way.”
A sick pressure burdened the fixer’s chest.
“Why should I be searched now? What will you find if you search me? Only my miseries. This man doesn’t know where to stop.”
“I’ve already searched him,” said the Cossack captain to the Deputy Warden. “The prisoner is now in my custody. I’ve given the warden my personal receipt.”
“It’s on my desk,” said the warden.
The Deputy Warden drew a folded white paper out of his tunic pocket. “This telegram is from his Imperial Majesty in St. Petersburg. It orders us to search the Jew most carefully to prevent any possible dangerous incident.”
“Why wasn’t the telegram sent to me?” asked the warden.
“I notified you it might come,” said the Deputy Warden.
“That’s right,” said the warden, flustered.
“Why should I be insulted again?” Yakov shouted, the blood burning in his face. “The guards saw me naked in the bathhouse and watched me dress. Also this captain searched me a few minutes ago in front of the warden. Why should I be further humiliated on the day of my trial?”
The warden banged his fist on the desk. “That will do. Be still, I warn you.”
“No one wants your opinion,” said the black-mustached captain coldly. “Forward march. Back to the cell.”
There’s more to this than it says in the telegram, Yakov thought. If they’re trying to provoke me I’d better be careful.
Sick to his soul, he was marched to the cell by the Cossack guard.
“Welcome home,” Berezhinsky laughed.