Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [79]
During the late autumn Yakov did not see the warden, then one day he appeared in the cell “tor purposes of official business.”
“They’ve found a fingerprint on Zheniushka’s belt buckle so we’d better take yours.”
A detective appeared with an ink pad and paper and took Yakov’s fingerprints.
A week later the warden entered the cell with a large pair of scissors.
“They’ve found some hairs on the boy’s body, and we want to compare them with yours.”
Yakov uneasily gave him permission to cut his hair.
“You cut it,” said Warden Grizitskoy. “Cut off six or eight hairs and put them in this envelope.” He handed Yakov the scissors and envelope.
The fixer snipped off several of his hairs. “How do I know you won’t take these hairs and put them on the boy’s corpse and then say you found them there in the first place?”
“You are a suspicious type,” said the warden. “That’s true of all your race.”
“Excuse me, but why should the warden of a prison look for evidence of a crime? Is he a policeman?”
“That’s none of your damn business,” said the warden. “If you’re so innocent let’s have the proof of it.”
A louse fell into the envelope with the hairs but Yakov let it stay.
One morning the warden entered the cell with a pen. bottle of black ink, and several sheets of foolscap paper for some samples of Yakov’s handwriting. He ordered him to write in Russian, “My name is Yakov Shepsovitch Bok. It is true that I am a Jew.”
Later the warden returned and asked the fixer to write the same words, lying on the floor. Then he had Zhitnyak hold the prisoner’s legs as he stood on his head while writing his name.
“What’s this for?” asked Yakov.
“To see if the change in position changes your writing any. We want all possible samples.”
And twice a day since he had been in this cell there were inspections of the fixer’s body; “searches” they were called. The bolts of the door were shot back, and Zhit-nyak and the Deputy Warden, with his smelly boots, came into the cell and ordered the fixer to undress. Yakov had to remove his clothes—the greatcoat, prison jacket, buttonless shirt, which were never washed though he had asked that he be allowed to wash them; and then he dropped his trousers and long drawers. He was allowed to keep on his threadbare undershirt, possibly so he wouldn’t freeze to death. They also made him remove the torn socks and wooden clogs he had worn since the time the surgeon had lanced the sores on his feet, and to spread his toes apart so that Zhitnyak could inspect between them.
“Why do you do this?” Yakov had asked at the time of the first search.
“Shut your trap,” said Zhitnyak.
“It’s to see you haven’t hidden any kind of weapon up your ass or in your clothes,” said the Deputy Warden. “We have to protect you.”
“What weapons could I hide? Everything was taken from me.”
“You’re a foxy sort but we’ve dealt with your kind before. You could be hiding small files, nails, pins, matches or such; or maybe even poison pills the Jews gave you to commit suicide with.”
“I have none of those things.”
“Spread your ass,” said the Deputy Warden.
Yakov had first to raise his arms and spread his legs. The Deputy Warden probed with his four fingers in Yakov’s armpits and around his testicles. The fixer then had to open his mouth and raise his tongue; he stretched both cheeks with his fingers as Zhitnyak peered into his mouth. At the end he had to bend over and pull apart his buttocks.
“Use more newspaper on your ass,” said Zhitnyak.
“To use you have to have.”
After his clothes were searched he was permitted to dress. It was the worst thing that happened to him and it happened twice a day.
3
He sank into deep gloom. I’ll be here forever. The indictment will never come. I can beg on both broken knees but they won’t give it to me. They will never bring me to trial.
In December, frost appeared on the four walls in the morning. Once he awoke with his hand stuck to the wall. The air was dead icy air. The fixer walked all day to keep from freezing. His asthma was worse. At night he lay