The Fixer: A Novel (FSG Classics)
The Fixer: A Novel (FSG Classics)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The Fixer is the winner of the 1967 National Book Award for Fiction and the 1967 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.
The Fixer (1966) is Bernard Malamud's best-known and most acclaimed novel -- one that makes manifest his roots in Russian fiction, especially that of Isaac Babel.
Set in Kiev in 1911 during a period of heightened anti-Semitism, the novel tells the story of Yakov Bok, a Jewish handyman blamed for the brutal murder of a young Russian boy. Bok leaves his village to try his luck in Kiev, and after denying his Jewish identity, finds himself working for a member of the anti-Semitic Black Hundreds Society. When the boy is found nearly drained of blood in a cave, the Black Hundreds accuse the Jews of ritual murder. Arrested and imprisoned, Bok refuses to confess to a crime that he did not commit.
“You’ll find that out. The warden’s waiting so hurry up or it will go hard on you.” As Yakov came out of the cell an escort of six Cossack guards with crossed bandoleers were lined up in the corridor. The captain, a burly man with a black mustache, ordered the guard to surround the prisoner. “Forward march,” commanded the escort captain. The Cossacks marched the prisoner along the corridor toward the warden’s office. Though Yakov tried to straighten his leg he walked with a limp. He went as
they passed the brick wall of a factory, its chimneys pouring out coal smoke whipped by the wind into the sky, he caught a reflected glimpse of a faded shrunken Jew in the circle of window and hid from him, but could not, a minute later, from the memory of his gaunt face, its darkened stringy beard white around the bitter mouth, and though he would not weep for himself, his palms, when he rubbed his eyes, were wet. At the factory gate five or six workers had turned to watch the procession; but
returned in a beastly stuffy, crowded train from St. Petersburg, where I had consulted the Minister of Justice, Count Odoevsky.” He leaned forward and said quietly, “I went there to submit the evidence I had already gathered, and to request that the charge against you be limited, as I had already suggested to the Prosecuting Attorney, strictly to the matter of your residing illegally in the Lukianovsky District, or perhaps even dropped altogether if you left Kiev and returned to your native
had a peephole at eye level covered by a metal disk that the guard slipped aside to look in. Once every hour or so during the day a single eye roamed the cell. Zhitnyak was usually there in the daytime and Kogin at night; some days their times overlapped, and occasionally they exchanged shifts. When Yakov secretly pushed aside the disk and looked through the peephole, he could see Zhitnyak sitting in a large chair against the wall, hacking with his pocket knife at a stick, looking at pictures in
it doesn’t go faster I won’t be here to find out what.” “Don’t say that, Yakov. I went myself to see some lawyers in Kiev. Two of them swear they will help you but nobody can move without an indictment.” “So I’ll wait,” said Yakov. Before her eyes he shrank in size. “I’ve brought you some haleh and cheese and an apple in a little pack,” Raisl said, “but they made me leave it at the warden’s office. Don’t forget to ask for it. It’s goat’s cheese but I don’t think you’ll notice.” “Thanks,” said