Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [39]
The Investigating Magistrate, his hand trembling a little, tore it open, read the handwritten note, slowly cleaned his glasses, and hastened out of the room.
Though he knew he could expect trouble—although he had half hoped he would be let off with a warning or even a severe dressing down and sent running back to the Jewish quarter—oh, with what pleasure he would run!—Yakov, after his first disappointment, felt relief that things weren’t a lot worse. A month in jail is not a year, and three weeks are less; besides, if you wanted to look at it that way, rent was free. After his manacled march through the snowy streets, the mutterings of the crowd, and the terrible question the Investigating Magistrate had put to him last night in his cell, he had expected a calamity if not worse. Now things had calmed down. Practically, there was only this minor charge, and perhaps a lawyer could get the sentence reduced to maybe a week or nothing at all? It meant, of course, goodbye to some rubles from his savings—surely the police would return them to him—but a ruble he could earn, if not in a day, then in a week or month. Better a month spent grubbing for one than a month in prison. It didn’t pay to worry over rubles. The main thing was to be free, and once they freed him, Yakov Bok would be less foolish in his dealings with the law.
The magistrate’s assistant had hesitantly reached over to read the note that Bibikov had crumpled up and left on the table. After glancing at it he smiled vaguely; but when the fixer attempted a smile in return, the assistant vigorously blew his nose.
Then the Investigating Magistrate returned, breathing through his mouth, his face drawn and grim, followed into the room by Grubeshov and Colonel Bodyansky. Once more they seated themselves at the table, the Prosecuting Attorney again unstrapping his portfolio. Ivan Semyonovitch gazed at them with concern, but neither of the officials spoke. The assistant tested his pen, and held it ready to write. Grubeshov’s smile was gone, his lips set. The colonel’s expression was deadly serious. One look at them and a vast fear again surged through Yakov. Cold sweat prickled his back. Once more he expected the worst. At least almost the worst.
“The Prosecuting Attorney will now ask you a few questions,” Bibikov said quietly though hoarsely. He sat back and fiddled with his pince-nez string.
“If you please, first my question,” said the colonel, nodding to Grubeshov, who was peering into the compartments of his portfolio. The Prosecuting Attorney, looking up, assented.
“Will the prisoner state,” Colonel Bodyansky’s voice boomed out in the room, “whether he is a member of certain political organizations I shall now name: Social Democrats, Socialist-Revolutionists, or any other groups including the Jewish Bund, Zionists of whatever ilk or stripe, Seymists, or Volkspartei?”
“I’ve already gone into that,” Bibikov said with a touch of impatience.
The colonel turned on him. “Mr. Investigating Magistrate, the task of protecting the Crown from its enemies is under the jurisdiction of the Secret Political Police. Already there has been too much interference in our affairs.”
“Not at all, colonel, we are investigating a civil offense—”
“Even a civil offense may be lèse majesté. I ask you not to intrude on my questions and I won’t interfere with yours. Tell me,” he said, turning to Yakov, “are you a member of any of those so-called political parties I have just named, or of any secret terroristic or nihilistic organizations? Answer truthfully or I will send you to the Petropavelsky Fortress.”
“No, sir, none, not one,” Yakov replied hastily. “I’ve never belonged to a political party or any secret organizations such as you just mentioned. To tell the truth I don’t know one from the other. If I were a better educated man I might, but as it is now whatever you ask me about them I can tell you very little.”
“You will be severely punished if you are lying.”
“Who’s lying, your honor? As a former soldier, I swear I am not lying.”
“Save your breath,