Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [41]
“I am not positive,” said the fixer, disheartened, “but it’s a matzo of some kind that’s used in the Passover ceremony for protection against evil spirits and evil men.”
“Write that all down, Ivan Semyonovitch. Is it magic?”
“To my way of thinking it’s superstition, your honor.”
“But you say it’s the same as matzos?”
“Practically the same, I think. I’m not an expert in these things. If you want to know the truth I haven’t much use for such matters. I have nothing against those who want to follow the customary ways, but for myself I’m interested in what’s new in the world.”
He glanced at the Investigating Magistrate, but Bibi-kov was looking out the window.
Grubeshov slid his fingers into the portfolio and withdrew something covered with a handkerchief. He slowly peeled the four corners of the handkerchief and triumphantly held up a triangle of broken matzo.
“This was found in your habitat in the stable at the brick factory. What have you to say now?”
“What can I say, your honor? Nothing. It’s matzo. It’s not mine.”
“Is it ‘matzo shmuro’?”
“I wouldn’t know if it was or wasn’t.”
“I understand that ‘matzo shmuro’ is eaten by very religious Jews.”
“I think so.”
“How does it differ from ordinary matzo?”
“Don’t ask me, your honor. I don’t really know.”
“I’ll ask what I please. I’ll ask until your eyes pop out. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you bake this matzo?”
“No.”
“Then how did it get into your habitat? That’s where the police found it.”
“It was brought in by an old man, a stranger to me. I give you my earnest word. He was lost one night near the cemetery and I took him in till it stopped snowing. Some boys had hit him with rocks. He was frightened.”
“Near the cemetery in the Lukianovsky this occurred?”
“Where the brickworks is.”
“Was he a ‘tzadik’?”
“Even suppose he was, what has that got to do with me?”
“Answer with respect!” The Prosecuting Attorney struck the table with his palm. The piece of matzo fell to the floor. Ivan Semyonovitch hastily retrieved it. He held it up for all to see, it had not broken. Bibikov wet his dry lips. “Answer courteously,” he said.
Yakov, in a dull state, nodded.
Grubeshov again bowed to the magistrate. “My deepest thanks.” He paused as though to say more, then changed his mind. “Did your friend the ‘tzadik’ come often to the stable?” he asked Yakov.
“He came that once. He was a stranger to me. I never saw him again.”
“That was because you were arrested not long after his departure.”
Yakov could not argue the point.
“Is it true that you hid other Jews in the stable and trafficked with them in stolen goods?”
“No.”
“Did you steal systematically from your employer, Nikolai Maximovitch Lebedev?”
“As God is my judge, never a single kopek.”
“Are you certain you did not yourself bake this matzo? A half bag of flour was found in your habitat.”
“With respect, your honor, it’s the wrong flour. Also I’m not a baker. I once tried to bake bread to save a kopek or two but it didn’t rise and came out like a rock. The flour was wasted. Baking isn’t one of my skills. I work as carpenter or painter most of the time—I hope nothing has happened to my tools, they’re all I’ve got in the world—but generally I’m a fixer, never a matzo baker. What there is to fix I fix though it pays little and generally my luck in jobs has been bad. But I’m not a criminal, your honor.”
Grubeshov listened impatiently. “Answer strictly to the point. Did the ‘tzadik’ bake the matzos?”
“If so not in my house. Who knows if elsewhere, he didn’t tell me but I don’t think so.”
“Then some other Jew did?”
“It’s probably true.”
“It’s more than probable,” said the Prosecuting Attorney, glaring at him. “It’s the truth of God.”
When Yakov saw him peering again into his evil portfolio, he wrung his manacled hands under the table.
Grubeshov now slowly drew forth a long, stained rag.