The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  Pain had overcome her there in the square, thrumming through her body, her pulse gone wild. This she could not, would not, endure. It was too much for one heart. While she was able to fend off tears, the old habit of tearing at her hair overcame her—until Michał took her hands away from her head. She thought she would pass out. The ground moved beneath her. She wished only for her life to end.

  But when she turned to her children—the grown Michał, the nearly grown Barbara, and little Józef—three hearts huddled together, faces streaming tears, she drew herself up, kissed each on the forehead, and said, “Let’s go home. God’s teeth! We’ll not give the cursed Russians any further satisfaction.”

  How ironic, Anna thought now, that today she should have to temper Michał’s anger at Viktor and his hatred of Russians. But who could have guessed that Barbara would fall in love with a Russian? Who can ever guess where the heart will lead? What would Jan think—if he has survived the brutal Russian wilds—to know he has half-Russian grandchildren?

  Anna’s thoughts reluctantly came back to Józef—her last born—and the searing words of a gypsy woman she had often failed to keep in abeyance for the past seventeen years.

  Warsaw

  IZABEL GRONSKA SAT IN THE reception room near the window watching a purplish dusk descend on the capital. The Third of May celebrations in the city were small and secreted behind closed doors, but occasionally a bit of rebellious—and no doubt innocent—gunfire could be heard.

  She had sat here as a child in this very spot, even into her twenties, those years before cloistered life. Growing up she had watched the outside world from this vantage point, wondering about, anticipating, and if she was honest, fearing the time when she would venture forth and grasp hold of life. So many things had changed, and yet her feelings at this moment were not much different. She was as unsettled now as she had been then, and it gave her pause.

  Elzbieta knocked at the open double doors. “Would Mademoiselle wish something?”

  Iza turned and smiled. “No, thank you, Elzbieta.”

  “The carriage will likely arrive soon. A light supper has been prepared for the travelers, as Lady Gronska ordered.”

  Iza nodded and the servant retreated to the recess of the town house. Elzbieta was the daughter of Wanda, who—aside from a few years prior to being widowed—had been in Zofia’s service many years. She was sincere and attentive, but after doing for herself and others for years, Iza found it odd being waited on once again.

  How like her mother to have ordered a little late supper in advance. She had probably given explicit menu requests. Iza turned back to the darkening street outside. The day had dragged on tediously. Interminably. Perhaps she should have gone to Sochaczew with the others. After all, she had made numerous visits to Topolostan—Poplar Estate—as a child, when it was owned by Anna’s parents, the Berezowskis. Her mother had expected as much and kept it no secret how disappointed she was that Iza chose to stay home. Her mother seldom minced words. Iza supposed now she should have gone if only to keep peace in the family.

  It had been the thought of a journey in a crowded carriage that put her off: three adults, not counting her, plus the twins, who could be a handful in such close quarters. She had not forgotten what it was to go on an enjoyable outing, but she was certain this one would not measure up. Oh, she could have tolerated the children—and even her mother—and would have most enjoyed the time spent with Barbara, her childhood friend and confidante. Since leaving the convent, Iza had spent too little time with Barbara, who now had the added responsibilities of a husband and twin boys. She thought of Viktor now. He seemed an odd sort for Barbara. A Russian government worker and all that. She resolved to be fair, though, telling herself she had had too few interactions with him to set a judgment in stone.

  It was just that back in their years together at convent school, Barbara had always seemed so lively and independent, much more so than she. Marrying Viktor seemed to go against the grain. He seemed to lack—what? Warmth? Spontaneity? Iza could not put her finger on it. But something about him had won Barbara over. What was it? She could only trust that her dearest friend had made a wise decision.

  Iza had to admit she was curious about the Princess Anna. It would have been good to see her. How had she weathered the last few years? Had she aged? How was her spirit, considering her youngest had gone into the military against her wishes—and her husband Jan had been bound and packed off to Russia on trumped up charges? And Jan Michał, the countess’ eldest. What was he like? Was he still handsome after all these years—and out of uniform? An image of him at nearly forty was hard to conjure. After their youth, it seemed he was always on campaign, and then, of course, it was she who staged a disappearance, not in some remote and romantic place, but within the environs of Warsaw, behind the high convent walls on Wolska Street. Another world, it was.

  Yes, she was curious about the princess and Jan Michał, but she also had to admit, if only to herself, that it was more than a crowded carriage that held her back from making the journey to an estate that offered happy childhood memories of summer visits. She had to concede the truth to herself—and a heated blush to her cheeks confirmed it—that she was afraid to be caught on a social occasion with so many people. Afraid. The thought disturbed her, but she did doubt her capacity for conversation, her ability to sustain the interest of others. Or she herself might be too much of interest. Having left the convent, she would be the object of others’ curiosity. Sometimes she felt she had become a curiosity. And, family or no, there would be queries—subtle, polite, and even the unspoken kind that arise in conversation lulls. Others might be brutally direct. If provoked, she might say the wrong thing. When the waters were stirred, she might speak on impulse, as she had on occasion in the convent—to the dismay of her superiors. It was a failing she was attempting to rectify. There might be other guests, too, at the Sochaczew estate. There was that possibility. Strangers. It was too much to imagine. Too much to leave to chance. She had made the right decision in staying home.

  Movement outside caught Iza’s eye. She noticed several groups of people walking toward Saint Martin’s Church, which was situated across Piwna Street, just down a bit from the town house. She glanced at the mantel clock. It was time for Vespers.

  On Wolska Street, too, the sisters would be leaving their cells and going to chapel. Some of them, Iza knew, would be passing her cell, now bare and empty. Would they think of her, these friends, companions, and sisters of the past few years? Or was memory of her already fading, like the light outside? Perhaps some young postulant had been admitted and assigned her cell. Surely that would facilitate forgetfulness, much as the River Lethe purged the past.

  She should have stayed, Iza thought now. She had been content on Wolska Street. She should have stayed. But it had been taken out of her hands. A mere week away from the final vows—when she would change the white veil for the black—came a seemingly innocuous summons to Abbess Teodora’s office that changed everything. Everything.

  Now a bustling in the nearby dining hall and muted clamor in the kitchen drew Iza’s attention. The carriage bringing her mother, Barbara, Viktor, and the twins was arriving at the stable to the rear of the town house.

  Like quicksilver Iza stood and hurried to the dining hall where Elzbieta was laying the table. “Elzbieta, be so good as to tell my mother I have retired for the night with a headache.” She did not wait for a reply and made for the stairway.

  As she climbed the stairs to her rooms on the first floor, she thought—with humor and truth—Look at me, returned to the world, and already telling lies.

  Sochaczew

  MAY AND JUNE GAVE WAY to July and an unusually hot summer with Michał’s thinking very little about Prince Czartoryski’s suggestion. However, a day didn’t go by that he wasn’t reminded in some way that he was not of any real help in the day-to-day operation of the estate. He had been less than truthful to the prince on that subject: he was no estate manager, not really
. The Jewish manager, Jacob Szraber, though gaining in years, was fastidious in his dealings with workers and tenants. His longtime loyalty to the family had been proven time and again. Thus, Michał spent much of his days reading, riding, hunting—all the while shutting out memory of the prince’s visit, having assured himself he had answered the call of patriotism in his early years, and that now others must come forward. And the prince made no further overture to involve him in affairs at the Officer Cadets School. Michał’s mother, on the other hand, had begun to make the carriage trip to Warsaw once a month to visit with Józef at the academy. While Michał saw to it that she was well accompanied by a splendid driver, he himself declined to go.

  He thought that in some vague way his not going reaffirmed his stance with the prince. He would have nothing to do with the cadets, nothing. Something else kept him at Topolostan, too: his relationship to his half-brother. He recognized this summer that he felt at his core a distance from and even resentment of Józef, younger by so many years. But he was disinclined to plumb the source of his feelings.

  August and September—Harvest Home notwithstanding—passed with painful slowness. The winter months loomed: dark, long, uneventful.

  In late October, Michał was returning from a ride when he hailed his mother, who had just returned from her monthly visit to Warsaw and was ascending the stairs of the portico. Lady Anna Stelnicka turned about at his call. As Michał drew his horse closer, he saw that she was visibly shaken. “What is it Mother?”

  “It’s Józef, Michał. He’s different. He’s changed.” The lively green eyes had dulled, darkened.

  “Is that all? He’s become a soldier, I suspect. That’s the change. He’s grown. He’s become a man.”

  The countess waved her hand dismissively. “No. Of course, I can see those changes. Any mother would. But there’s something about him now. Something I’ve noted more and more with every visit. Something secret.”

  “What about that girl you thought he was smitten with? Perhaps it’s not working out?”

  “The Chopin girl? Yes, he had been quite infatuated by her. Come to think of it, he hasn’t mentioned her of late. But—”

  “There’s something more?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Something dark?”

  “Not necessarily. But something passionate, something like . . .”

  “Mother?”

  His mother sighed. “Something like I saw in you and Tadeusz when you both knew you were to follow Napoleon to Moscow. That kind of excitement. That kind of passion. There isn’t another war afoot, is there, Michał?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Anna attempted a smile and turned to enter the house.

  Michał wheeled his stallion about in the other direction but gave it no signal to proceed. His eyes mindlessly scanned the River Vistula tributary not far away. The setting sun reddened the water like a thousand votives dancing and sparkling within St. Martin’s Church, which sat on Piwna Street, just across from Zofia’s town house.

  Was Józef involved in the type of movement the prince had spoken of? A little ways off he spied a heron wading in the shallows on her long spindle-shanks, beak poised to collect supper for her fledglings. She would do well, for the water was tranquil today, very unlike Michał’s eddying emotions.

  Part Two

  The Wolf may lose his Teeth

  But not his Disposition

  —POLISH PROVERB

  2

  5 November 1830, Warsaw

  I’M GOING TO BE LATE again, Viktor Baklanov thought, watching himself in the mirror as he finished with his tan cravat. He buttoned his gray double-breasted waistcoat, then pulled on his black frock coat. He had yet to grow accustomed to Polish tailoring.

  “Viktor!” Barbara called, even as her husband hurried into the commodious dining room of their apartment.

  “I’m here,” Viktor said, adjusting his white shirt cuffs, “but I’m afraid I’m running late—no time for breakfast.”

  “You will take time. Ewa will be quick about it.” Barbara called the maid and directed her to prepare a plate at the sideboard.

  Viktor sighed, bent over his wife, and as she lifted her head in expectation of a kiss, he pinched her upper arm.

  “Ouch!”

  “It’s your fault I’m running late nearly every morning.” He moved past Dimitri’s chair, patting his blond head as he went. Both of the twins were giving full attention to their cinnamon-drenched kasza. Barbara had discovered that the cinnamon made the buckwheat porridge quickly disappear. Viktor quickly removed his coat, and as he sat at the head of the table, he saw that Barbara was blushing, holding her tongue until Ewa had set a plate before Viktor and retreated into the kitchen.

  “Oh?” Barbara chided. “It’s not I who is so, shall we say, stirred, in the mornings?”

  Viktor harrumphed, produced a wicked smile, and started to eat his portion of French omelette. She was right, of course. To his mind there was no better way to begin the day than with lovemaking, and as important as punctuality in relation to his position in the department was to him, he had been late before, would be again.

  He watched Barbara as she finished her meal, talking with great animation all the while of some acquaintance who had just returned from Paris. “Oh, I should very much like to see Paris,” she said. “Mother calls it the City of Light.”

  The boys had finished and were becoming restless, so she assisted Ewa in releasing them from confinement. Polish to the bone, the matronly Ewa seldom glanced at Viktor. Her aversion to all things Russian was not an uncommon one in Warsaw. He endured the sometimes less than subtle condescension on the part of a servant because she was so well loved by the twins and appreciated by Barbara.

  Viktor watched as Barbara swept back the curtain of blond hair that had fallen forward in her movements. What had attracted him to this young Polish woman? Oh, he had had several dalliances with Polish ladies upon being assigned to Warsaw, but he never imagined he might one day marry a Pole, and one of the nobility—albeit the szlachta, the minor nobility. To watch her provided his answer. There was a certain glittering ebullience about Barbara. She was so full of life, he decided, so genuine that at times people wondered if she thought long about things before giving them voice. And if at times she was inappropriate, her manner charmed everyone.

  Viktor had found his wife irresistibly beautiful on that day he pretended to meet her for the first time. He never told her the circumstances of his initial attraction when he had watched from a distance, like a voyeur, and for the sake of their marriage, he would never tell her.

  The omelette finished, he drank down his coffee.

  With the twins off to play with their wooden soldiers, Barbara moved near to Viktor, sidling into Konrad’s chair and shoving to the floor the cushions that allowed the child to reach the table. She smiled at Viktor as she covered his hand with hers.

  The desire in Viktor at her gaze, her touch, leaped like a flame. Barbara was no shrinking violet. Her direct and ingenuous manner was the reason he had married her.

  He knew he could not delay his departure, however, and so withdrew his hand, managing a kiss on the back of hers in the process. “Ah, temptress Basia,” he said, “you know I must hurry.”

  “That is nothing new, husband. But I—I wish to ask if you have seen the Imperial Commissioner in recent days?”

  A dread descended on Viktor, fully dampening the desire that she had aroused. This subject yet again. “Now, Barbara, you know I’m just a lowly bureaucrat in his little government here, one of hundreds. Of course, I do see him from afar now and then, but I have no entrée to his office. I can’t suddenly broach him with the subject of your father’s status in Russia.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t. To General Novosiltsev, I am a mere cog in one of his many wheels of government. I might as well be invisible. I’m certain that I am, in fact.”

  Barbara considered this and said, “If you are suc
h a valueless member of his staff, how is it you have been given this excellent apartment in the heart of the city and on one of the best streets?” She reached over and lightly fingered the fine cotton of his white shirt. “And how is it you can afford the finest shirtmaker in the capital? The cloth—French, isn’t it?”

  Viktor shrugged, anger rising when no answer would present itself.

  “I tell you, Viktor Baklanov, given the chance I will certainly broach the man. He is merely a man, after all. I will go into his office and I—”

  Viktor rose at once. He felt his face flushing as the anger took hold. “You will do nothing of the kind, Barbara. Not ever! I forbid it! Do you understand me?”

  “You forbid it?” Barbara stood, her mouth agape, green eyes flashing. “Why must it be so? If it were your father in some rat-hole of a prison or work camp, you would not rest a moment, I trust.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” Viktor countered, even as his anger bled away, assuaged by the fire of her passionate nature. “There was no great love between my father and me.”

  “I’m sorry for that. Then you can hardly empathize with me.”

  “I can and I do, Barbara. Now I must go.”

  “Tell me then that you’ll do something . . . you’ll watch for an opening. Maybe you know someone at the Commissioner’s headquarters—or even someone in the Third Department who can find out—”