The Fixer Read Free

your beard and you no longer resemble your creator,” Shmuel had warned. Since then he had been admonished by more than one Jew that he looked like a goy but it had caused him neither to mourn nor rejoice. He looked young but felt old and for that he blamed nobody, not even his wife; he blamed fate and spared himself. His nervousness showed in his movements. Generally he moved faster than he had to, considering how little there was to do, but he was always doing something. After all, he was a fixer and had to keep his hands busy.
    Dumping his things into the open wagon, a rusty water bucket hanging under it between the back wheels, he was displeased with the appearance of the nag, a naked-looking animal with spindly legs, a brown bony body and large stupid eyes, who got along very well with Shmuel. They asked little from each other and lived in peace. The horse did mostly as he pleased and Shmuel indulged him. After all, what difference did a short delay make in a mad world? Tomorrow he would be no richer. The fixer was irritated with himself for acquiring this decrepit beast, but had thought better a lopsided exchange
with Shmuel than getting nothing for the cow from a peasant who coveted her. A father-in-law’s blood was thicker than water. Although there was no railroad station anywhere around, and the coachman came for travelers only every second week, Yakov could have got to Kiev without taking over the horse and wagon. Shmuel had offered to drive him the thirty or so versts but the fixer preferred to be rid of him and travel alone. He figured that once he got into the city he could sell the beast and apology-for-dray, if not to a butcher, then at least to a junk dealer for a few rubles.
    Dvoira, the dark-uddered cow, was out in the field behind the hut, browsing under a leafless poplar tree, and Yakov went out to her. The white cow raised her head and watched him approach. The fixer patted her lean flank. “Goodbye, Dvoira,” he said, “and lots of luck. Give what you got left to Shmuel, also a poor man.” He wanted to say more but couldn’t. Tearing up some limp yellowing grass, he fed it to the cow, then returned to the horse and wagon. Shmuel had reappeared.
    Why does he act as though he were the one who had deserted me?
    â€œI didn’t come back to fight with anybody,” Shmuel said. “What she did I won’t defend—she hurt me as much as she did you. Even more, though when the rabbi says she’s now dead my voice agrees but not my heart. First of all she’s my only child, and since when do we need more dead? I’ve cursed her more than once but I ask God not to listen.”
    â€œWell, I’m leaving,” Yakov said, “take care of the cow.”
    â€œDon’t leave yet,” Shmuel said, his eyes miserable. “If you stay Raisl might come back.”
    â€œIf she does who’s interested?”
    â€œIf you had been more patient she wouldn’t have left you.”

    â€œFive years going on six is enough of patience. I’ve had enough. I might have waited the legal ten, but she danced off with some dirty stranger, so I’ve had my fill, thanks.”
    â€œWho can blame you?” Shmuel sighed sadly. He asked after a while, “Have you got tobacco for a little cigarette, Yakov?”
    â€œMy bag is empty.”
    The peddler briskly rubbed his dry palms.
    â€œSo you haven’t, you haven’t, but what I don’t understand is why you want to bother with Kiev. It’s a dangerous city full of churches and anti-Semites.”
    â€œI’ve been cheated from the start,” Yakov said bitterly. “What I’ve been through personally you know already, not to mention living here all my life except for a few months in the army. The shtetl is a prison, no change from the days of Khmelnitsky. It moulders and the Jews moulder in it. Here we’re all prisoners, I don’t have to tell you, so it’s