Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [64]
“Here about a month. Altogether three months since I was arrested.”
“Whew.” The counterfeiter gave Yakov two cigarettes and a piece of apple strudel from his last package, and the fixer ate and smoked gratefully.
Next time they talked, Gronfein asked Yakov questions about his parents, family, and village. He wanted to know what he had been doing in Kiev. Yakov told him this and that but not too much. He did, however, mention Raisl, and Gronfein squirmed.
“Not so much of a Jewish daughter I’d say. My wife couldn’t have such thoughts, not with a goy anyway, let alone do such a thing.”
The fixer shrugged. “Some do, some don’t. And some who do are Jewish.”
Gronfein started to ask something, looked around cautiously, then whispered he would be interested in knowing what exactly had happened to the boy. “How did he die?”
“How did who die?” the fixer said, astonished.
“That Russian boy who was murdered.”
“How would I know?” He drew away from the man. “What they say I did I didn’t do. If I weren’t a Jew there’d be no crime.”
“Are you sure? Why don’t you confide in me? We’re both in the same pot.”
“I have nothing to confide,” said Yakov coldly. “If there was no fowl there are no feathers.”
“It’s tough luck,” said the counterfeiter amiably, “but I’ll do what I can to help you. Once they let me out of here I’ll speak to my lawyer.”
“For that I’ll thank you.”
But Gronfein had grown depressed, his eyes clouding, and said no more.
The next day he sidled up to Yakov and whispered, worried, “They say on the outside that if the government brings you up on trial they might start a pogrom at the same time. The Black Hundreds are making terrible threats. Hundreds of Jews are leaving the city as if fleeing the plague. My father-in-law is talking of selling his business and running to Warsaw.”
The fixer listened in silence.
“Nobody’s blaming you, you understand,” Gronfein said.
“If your father-in-law wants to run away at least he can run away.”
As they talked, the counterfeiter, from time to time, nervously glanced in the direction of the cell door, as if he were watching for the guard.
“Are you expecting a package?” Yakov asked.
“No no. But if they don’t let me out of here I’ll soon go mad. It’s a stinking place and I’m worried about my family.”
He drifted away, but was back in twenty minutes with the remnants of a package.
“Guard what’s left here,” he said to Yakov, “maybe I’m getting some action after all.”
A guard opened the door and Gronfein disappeared from the cell for half an hour. When he returned he told the fixer they were letting him out that evening. He seemed satisfied but his ears were flaming, and afterwards he muttered much to himself for more than an hour. Later he was calmer.
That’s how it goes with money, Yakov thought. If you’ve got it you’ve got wings.
“Something I can do for you before I go?” Gronfein whispered, slipping the fixer a ten-ruble note. “Don’t worry, it’s guaranteed good.”
“Thanks. With this I can get myself a few things. They won’t give me my own money. Maybe I can buy a better pair of shoes from one of the prisoners. These hurt my feet. Also if your lawyer can help me I’ll be much obliged.”
“I was thinking maybe you want to leave me a letter to send to somebody?” said Gronfein. “Just write it out with this pencil and I’ll mail it along. I have paper and an envelope or two in my pack. Stamps I’ll paste on on the outside.”
“With the greatest of thanks,” Yakov said, “but who have I got to write to?”
“If you have nobody to write to,” said Gronfein, “I can’t manufacture