Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [65]
“He’s a poor man all his life. What can he do for me?”
“He’s got a mouth, hasn’t he? Let him start yelling.”
“A mouth and a stomach but nothing goes in.”
“They say when a Jewish rooster crows in Pinsk they hear him in Palestine.”
“Maybe I’ll write,” said Yakov.
The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to write. He had a desperate desire to make known his fate. On the outside, as Gronfein had said, they knew somebody was in prison but not who. He wanted everyone to know it was Yakov Bok. He wanted them to know his innocence. Somebody had to know or he would never get out. Maybe a committee of some sort could be formed to help him? Maybe, if you knew the law, it was possible for a lawyer to see him before the indictment; if not that, he could at least urge them to produce the document so they could begin his defense. In another week it would be thirty days in this smelly detention cell and he had heard from no one. He considered writing to the Investigating Magistrate but didn’t dare. If he should turn over the letter to the Prosecuting Attorney things might go worse. Or if he didn’t maybe his assistant, Ivan Semyonovitch, might. In any case, it was too great a chance to take.
The fixer then slowly wrote two letters, one to Shmuel, and another to Aaron Latke, the printer who had rented him a room in his flat.
“Dear Shmuel,” wrote Yakov. “As you predicted I got myself into serious trouble and am now in the Kiev Prison near Dorogozhitsky Street. I know it’s impossible but try to help me as soon as you can. Who else can I appeal to? Your son-in-law, Yakov Bok. P.S. If she’s back I’d rather not know.”
To Aaron Latke he wrote, “Dear friend Aaron, your recent boarder Yakov Bok is now in the Kiev Prison, in the thirty-day cell. After thirty days God knows what will happen to me. What’s happened already is bad enough. I am accused of killing a Russian child by the name of Zhenia Golov, who I swear I didn’t touch. Do me a favor and take this letter to some Jewish journalist or maybe to a sincere philanthropist, if you happen to know of one. Tell them if they can get me out of here I’ll work hard my whole life to pay them back. Only hurry because it’s a desperate situation and getting worse. Yakov Bok.”
“Good,” said Gronfein, accepting the sealed letters, “that should do it. Well, the best of luck to you, and don’t worry about the ten rubles. You can pay me when you get out. Where there’s that there’s more.”
The guard opened the cell door and the counterfeiter hurriedly disappeared down the corridor, the prison guard trotting after him.
Fifteen minutes later Yakov was called to the warden’s office. He handed the remnant of Gronfein’s package to Fetyukov to watch, promising to divide it with him.
Yakov hurried through the hall with the guard’s gun at his back. Maybe it’s the indictment, he thought in excitement.
Warden Grizitskoy was in his office with the Deputy Warden and a stern-faced inspector in a uniform like a general’s. In the corner sat Gronfein, his hat on and eyes shut.
The warden waved the two letters, out of their envelopes, that the fixer had just written.
“Are these yours? Answer truthfully, you son-of-a-bitch.”
The fixer froze, his heart sinking. “Yes, your honor.”
The warden pointed to the Yiddish script. “Translate these bird droppings,” he said to Gronfein.
The counterfeiter opened his eyes long enough to read the letters aloud in Russian, in a quick monotone.
“You Zhid bloodsucker,” said the warden, “how dare you break prison regulations? I personally warned you not to try to get in touch with anybody on the outside without my express permission.”
Yakov said nothing, staring, sickened to the pit of his stomach, at Gronfein.
“He turned them over to us,” the Deputy Warden said to the fixer. “A law-abiding citizen.”
“Don’t expect a moral man,” Gronfein said to nobody in particular, his eyes still clamped shut. “I’m only a counterfeiter.”
“You bastard stool pigeon,” Yakov shouted at him, “why did you trick an