The People: And Other Uncollected Fiction by Bernard Malamud Read Free Book Online Page A

given the name of a boardinghouse on N Street, and though he was stared at by some people in the house who seemed to admire his white feather, Yozip was not embarrassed. Two middle-aged men were friendly to him, and so were a courteous government lawyer and his wife, who helped him locate the building in which the Commissioner of Indian Affairs had his office.
    Yozip went to this building not far from the Washington Monument to look at it twice, and he twice returned to the boardinghouse ashamed of his English. He had talked to a stranger who had listened to him with a broad smile. Since his funds were low, one morning after a short inspirational look at the White House he walked forcefully to the Indian Commissioner’s office and informed a young man with a part in his wavy hair why he had come.
    “If you’ll excuse me, they sent me from my tribe I should see the Commissioner of Indian Affairs.”
    The young man examined him closely. “Did you say you are a member of an Indian tribe?”
    Yozip drew an unsteady breath. “I am a member of a tribe in Idaho, which they call themselves the People. The chief told me to talk to the Commissioner.”
    “The People sent you to talk to the United States Commissioner of Indian Affairs?” He looked doubtful. “Do you have any official papers with you?”
    Yozip produced a sheaf of papers from his deerskin pouch pocket, which he asked the young man to return to him because they belonged to the tribe. He noticed a redheaded young woman sitting on a bench nearby, regarding him with interest.
    He was tempted to talk to her but said nothing.
    The young man left with the papers and soon returned.
    “The Commissioner will see you late this afternoon if he can be certain you are not misrepresenting yourself and the tribe you call the People.”
    “This,” said Yozip, “I wouldn’t do. They told me to go to Washington, so I went.”
    “Should I call you chief?” asked the young man.
    “If you will call me mister will be fine.”

    “This afternoon at 5 p.m., Mr. Indian.”
    “Denks, said Yozip.
     
     
    At five o’clock, Yozip was led to the desk of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs and sat nervously still while the burly man looked him over, particularly at the white feather in his thick hair. He was a heavy man wearing pince-nez. He spat into a pocket handkerchief, brushed his lips, and then addressed Yozip.
    “Where were you born if I might ask? Are you an American citizen? How did you become acquainted with the People tribe? The story you tell, as it has been conveyed to me, is not very convincing.”
    Yozip said his name was Yozip Bloom. He explained that he had been initiated into his tribe. They had permitted him to become a member after he had gone through the rites of initiation.
    “And you deliberately altered your nose in order to accept initiation into this tribe?”
    “Indian Head hit me on the nose with a loose arrow that he shot. When it stopped to bleed it did not anymore hurt me.”
    “I’m quite sure that your chief had more than one decently educated brave available who could have represented him adequately in this office. What is your explanation why you were chosen to do that?”
    Yozip began a sentence and stopped. Then he said, “The chief told me I am capable. Long ago he signed once with the United States government a paper that it says the tribe could stay in Idaho in their valley where they live there many years. The old braves are buried there. The government now says to leave this valley but we do not wish to go.
    “My chief told me also to tell you that one day he planted two poles in the valley where we live, which is fifty miles wide. He said the white men could take the land outside, but the land inside the poles is the land of our people. Inside this boundary the land goes around the graves of our fathers. We will never give up these graves. My chief says he will not sign any more papers because
they all lie to him. He says they don’t