He waited for an unknown time, a time different from all the time on his head. It was unending waiting for… — Bernard Malamud
He waited for an unknown time, a time different from all the time on his head. It was unending waiting for something that might never happen. In the winter, time fell like hissing snow through the crack in the barred window, and never stopped snowing. He stood in it as it piled up around him and there was no end to drowning.
‘You can deny it all you want, we know the truth,’ Gorbeshov shouted. ‘The Jews dominate the world and we feel ourselves under their yoke. I personally consider myself under the power of the Jews; under the power of Jewish thought, under the power of the Jewish press.’
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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.
