A prisoner, an anguished and desperate man, was locked in the next cell. The minute in, he began to pound… — Bernard Malamud
A prisoner, an anguished and desperate man, was locked in the next cell. The minute in, he began to pound with his shoe, or both shoes, against the wall. The noise came through distantly and Yakov pounded back with his shoe. But when the man shouted he could somehow be heard, though not his words. They shouted to each other at various times of the day and night as loudly as they could – it sounded to the fixer as though someone was trying to tell him a heart-breaking tale, and he wanted with all his heart to hear and then tell his own; but the man’s shouts, cries, questions, were muffled, indistinguishable. So were his, the fixer knew.
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More from this book
But after the visit to the cave he had stopped thinking of relevancy, truth, or even proof. There was no ‘reason,’ there was only their plot against a Jew, any Jew; he was the accidental choice for the sacrifice. He would be tried because the accusation had been made, there didn’t have to be another reason. Being born a Jew meant being vulnerable to history, including its worst errors.
If only his innocence were written on a sheet of paper, he could pull it out and say, ‘Read, it’s all here,’ but since it was hidden in himself they would know it only if they sought it, and they were not seeking.
Yakov wrung his hands. ‘If so what am I to do, your honour? Will I be abandoned to die in this prison?’
‘Who has abandoned you?’ the Investigating Magistrate asked, looking at him gently.
