Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [40]
Yakov’s face turned a fiery red.
The colonel wrote furiously on a slip of paper, thrust it into his tunic pocket and nodded to the Prosecuting Attorney.
Grubeshov had drawn a black oilskin-covered notebook out of his portfolio and was, with arched brows, studying one of its closely handwritten pages. Then he put the notebook down, and though he stared at the fixer, seemed to be in a pleasant state of mind as he remarked in a dry but slightly thick voice, “Well, we have been amusing ourselves, Mr. Yakov Shepsovitch Bok, alias Dologushev, alias I know not what else, but I now have some serious questions to put to you and I request that you give them your most serious attention. By your own admission you are guilty of certain flagrant violations of Russian law. You have confessed to certain crimes and there is good reason—excellent reason—to suspect others, one of so serious a nature that I shall not name it until we have further sifted the evidence, which I propose to continue to do now, with the permission of my colleagues.”
He bowed to Bibikov, who, smoking, gravely nodded in return.
“Oh, my God,” groaned Yakov, “I swear to you I am innocent of any serious crime. No, sir, the worst I am guilty of is stupidity—of living in the Lukianovsky without permission, that the Investigating Magistrate says I can get a month in prison for—but certainly not of any serious crimes.”
God forgive me, he thought in terror. I’m in a bad spot now, worse than quicksand. That’s what one gets for not knowing which way he’s running, to begin with.
“Answer this question precisely,” said Grubeshov, referring to his notebook. “Are you a ‘Hasid’ or ‘Mis-nogid? Please take down his answers with extreme accuracy, Ivan Semyonovitch.”
“Neither. I’m neither one nor the other,” said Yakov. “As I told his other honor—if I’m anything at all it’s a freethinker. I say this to let you know I’m not a religious man.”
“That won’t do you any good,” said the prosecutor, suddenly irritable. “I was expecting just such a response, and of course it’s nothing more than an attempt to divert the questioning. Now answer me directly, you are a circumcised Jew, aren’t you?”
“I’m a Jew, your honor, I’ll admit to that and the rest is personal.”
“I’ve already gone through all this, Vladislav Grigorievitch,” said Bibikov. “It’s all in the notes of the testimony. Read it to him, Ivan Semyonovitch, it will save time.”
“I must ask the Investigating Magistrate not to interrupt,” Grubeshov said testily. “I have no interest in saving time. Time is immaterial to me. Please let me go on without useless interruption.”
Bibikov lifted the pitcher to pour himself a glass of water but it was empty.
“Shall I refill it, your honor?” whispered Ivan Semyonovitch.
“No,” said Bibikov, “I’m not thirsty.”
“What’s this freethinker business about?” said the colonel.
“Not now, Colonel Bodyansky, I beg you,” said Grubeshov. “It is not a political party.”
Colonel Bodyansky lit a cigarette.
Grubeshov addressed Yakov, reading aloud certain words from his notebook and pronouncing them slowly.
“There are those among you—are there not?—Jews who are called ‘tzadikim’? When a Jew wishes to harm a Christian, or as you call him, ‘goyim,’ he goes to the ‘tza-dik’ and gives him a ‘pidion,’ which is a fee of some sort, and the ‘tzadik’ uses the power of the word, in magical incantations, to bring misfortune on the Christian. Isn’t that a true fact? Answer me.”
“Please,” said Yakov, “I don’t understand what you want of me. What have I to do with such things?”
“You’ll find out, if you don’t already know, only too soon,” said Grubeshov, flushing. “In the meantime answer me truthfully and directly without vomiting a mouthful of irrelevant questions in return. Tell me now, what do you Jews mean by ‘afikomen’? I want the truth without varnish.”
“But what has this got to do with me?” Yakov said. “What do I know about these things you’re asking me? If they’re strange to you they’re strange to me.”
“Once more I will direct you