Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [61]
“Why do you hit a man who has done nothing to you? What have I done to you?”
“Listen, matey,” the old man whispered, “wash the blood off before the guard comes or the men will kill you.”
“Let them kill me,” he shouted.
“I told you he’s a shitnose squealer,” the clubfoot said from the other side of the cell. “Finish him off, Fetyu-kov.”
A nervous murmur rose among the prisoners.
Two guards came running in the corridor, one carrying a shotgun. They peered through the grating.
“What’s going on here? Cut out the noise, you pigs, or you’ll live on half rations for a week.”
The other guard stared through the barred grating into the gloomy cell.
“Where’s the Jew?” he called.
There was dead silence. The prisoners looked among themselves; some glanced furtively at Yakov.
After a while Yakov said he was there. A low murmur came from the prisoners. The guard pointed a shotgun at them and the murmur ceased.
“Where?” said the guard. “I can’t see you.”
“Here,” said Yakov. “There’s nothing to see.”
“The sergeant wrote your name on the bread list. You’ll get your six ounces tonight.”
“In the meantime you can dream of matzos,” said the guard with the gun. “Also the blood of Christian martyrs, if you know what I mean.”
When the guards left the prisoners talked excitedly among themselves. Yakov felt renewed fright.
Fetyukov, the murderer, approached again. The fixer rose tensely, his hand clawing the wall.
“Are you the Jew they say has murdered a Russian lad?”
“They lie,” Yakov said hoarsely, “I’m innocent.”
The mutterings of the prisoners filled the cell. One of them shouted, “Jew bastard!”
“That’s not why I hit you,” said Fetyukov. “Your head wasn’t shaved and we thought you were a spy. We did it to see if you would report us to the guard. If you had done that it would have finished you off. The clubfoot would have knifed you. We are going on trial and don’t want anybody testifying what he has heard in this cell. I didn’t know you were a Jew. But if I had I wouldn’t have hit you. When I was a boy I was apprenticed to a Jew blacksmith. He wouldn’t have done what they say you did. If he drank blood he would have vomited it up. And he wouldn’t have harmed a Christian child. I’m sorry I hit you, it was a mistake.”
“It was a mistake,” said the clubfoot.
Yakov went unsteadily to the water bucket. The bucket stank but he sank to his knees and poured some water over his head.
After that the prisoners lost interest in him and turned to other things. Some of them went to sleep on the platform and some played cards.
That night Fetyukov woke the fixer and gave him a piece of sausage he had saved from a package his sister had sent him. Yakov gobbled it up. The murderer also handed him a wet rag to press down the swollen cut on his head.
“Tell the truth,” he whispered, “did you kill that lad? Maybe you did it for a different reason? You might have been drunk.”
“For no other reason,” Yakov said. “And I wasn’t drunk. It never happened, I’m innocent.”
“I wish I were innocent,” sighed Fetyukov. “It was a terrible thing I did. The man was a stranger to me. One must protect strangers, it says so in the Book. I had had a drop, you understand, and the next thing I knew I grabbed up a knife and he was dead at my feet. God, who gives us life, lets it hang by a thread. One blow and it’s torn away. Don’t ask me why unless the devil is the stronger. If I could give that man his life again I would. I would say take your life and don’t come near me again. I don’t know why I did it but I don’t want to be a murderer. Things are bad enough as they are, who needs worse? Now they’ll pack me off to a prison camp in Siberia and if I live out my term I’ll have to stay there the rest of my days.
“Little brother,” he said to Yakov, making the sign oi the cross over him, “don’t lose hope. The stones of the bridge may crumble but the truth will come out.”
“And till then,” sighed the fixer, “what of my wasted youth?”
4
His youth dribbled away.