The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  The delicious supper and the brandy lulled Michał into sleep as he sat in the deeply cushioned chair before the fire. He dreamed. It was a haunting, terror-filled dream he had had nearly every night for years, but he had not experienced it for many months.

  It was the winter of 1812, a brutal one he had relived in and out of dreams numberless times. He and his brother Tadeusz had followed Napoleon’s Grand Armée in the interminable and agonizing retreat from Moscow. Michał had been twenty; Tadeusz, seventeen. As part of the Polish Young Guard, they had been ordered to stay behind in order to destroy Moscow’s artillery supplies, and so when they had completed the task and caught up to the Old Guard and multi-national main forces at Maloyaroslavets, it was to a grisly post-battle sight. They regretted their tardiness. Five thousand of their own—French, Polish, and men of a dozen other allied nationalities—lay dead, side by side with almost as many of the Russian enemy.

  From there the starving and desperate ragtag army pushed west—toward home—attempting to second-guess the several Russian units seeking them, all the while fighting off Cossacks and peasant bandits who victimized with the cruelest of violence those many stragglers who could not keep up even the snail’s pace and fell to the wayside. Then to the steppes came winter—“General Winter,” in the words of Napoléon Bonaparte—and he began to claim as many souls as those who died in battle.

  Michał had been determined to see that he brought his younger brother safely home, but that quest grew more difficult when in a great Russian assault Tadeusz took a shot to his leg. The medic on the field warned them that he had not gotten all of the ball out and that they should find a surgeon as soon as possible. The slow, plodding journey to find a town or city with a physician began, and it was at this point that the recurring nightmares picked up. General Winter raged on with temperatures not rising above zero, day or night. Tadeusz became numb from the cold and insensate from the infection that had set in from his open and festering wound, but Michał was alert enough to push on, encouraging Tadeusz, both brothers bearing witness to frozen corpses at the sides of the road and the pitiful calls from French soldiers who were dying and wished to be finished off before falling victim to Cossacks or ruthless peasants. When Michał’s starving horse fell dead, Michał worked feverishly, hacking away at the animal’s emaciated haunches and carving out slender steaks that could feed them and be used as barter in villages ahead. He caught what blood he could in his regulation saucepan, and once the cutting was done, he managed to nurse a fire to life, which was more than he could do for the frozen French corpses encircling it. The flames warmed their blood-and-horseflesh soup.

  They were still only half way to Wilno, the Lithuanian capital and the promise of a good doctor, when they stayed the night in the cottage of an old couple. It was there that their other horse was stolen and they were forced to travel on foot. Tadeusz was so ill with fever and dazed by this time that Michał carried him on his back, insisting that they sing so that Tadeusz would not lapse into a fatal unconsciousness. Michał vowed not to return home without his brother. Hour by hour, they pressed on, singing in weak voices:

  Darling war, darling war,

  What a lady you must be

  For all the handsome boys

  To follow you like this.

  Michał came awake now in the Gronska reception room, his lips still mouthing the song, still shivering with cold from the wind off the steppes. The fire had died and the room was chilled, the last two candles slowly guttering. The house was utterly silent.

  Tadeusz, he thought. Forgive me. He recalled that their family friend and military mentor Pawel—Zofia’s one-time love—had found them and taken them to a man who knew something of rudimentary medicine and surgery. But he was no doctor; he was, in fact, a bear tamer. While the man seemed fully capable, it was too late for Tadeusz, little Tadek. The poisons had run their course through his system. In the end, Michał had to return to Warsaw, to his parents, without his brother. It had been the worst day of his life.

  While his parents had not held him responsible in any way, and he knew at his core that he had done everything possible to protect and bring his brother safely home, he was haunted by guilt, guilt that he had survived while Tadek had not.

  Michał thought of his youngest brother now. Józef was nearly seventeen, the same age Tadeusz had been. Against their mother’s wishes, he had taken up a military career. And only the night before, Prince Czartoryski had warned him of the dangerous plans escalating within the Officer Cadets School. Was Józef mixed up in a scheme of some kind? A military coup against the Russians? Was Józef foolishly and unnecessarily placing himself in danger?

  When Michał had left Sochaczew for Warsaw, his mother had made him promise to look in on Józef, to make sure he was doing well at the academy, to make sure he was happy. He had humored her, saying he would follow her directive and he certainly did intend to see his little brother, but truth be told, he had thought little of her request. She was merely being a concerned mother. However, the old nightmare—and the facts laid out by Czartoryski the night before—fired real concern for Józef, as well as real fear.

  And giving him pause now, too, was that strange thing his mother told him about some gypsy who had been present at Józef’s birth. The self-proclaimed seer had said, “The boy will one day bait the Russian bear.”

  Michał found himself fully chilled with a cold that arose from within. He would see Józef as soon as possible.

  4

  ZOFIA STOOD FIRM: NO REFUSAL to attend the Saturday concert was acceptable. Iza stepped into the silk-covered slippers that matched her emerald gown, one that draped in straight lines and was set off with a tied sash just below her bosom, in the French style she had come to appreciate. Women’s fashions were so much simpler than those prior to her entering the convent. She faced the long mirror, admiring the upsweep of her black hair and the emerald studded pins that held it. Wiola, Zofia’s personal maid whose work this was, stood to the side.

  “Turn around, Izabel.”

  Iza flinched. She had not heard her mother enter the dressing area of the bedchamber. She turned about. Her arms that had been lifted to discipline a stray lock of hair slowly dropped to her side. She could sense the corpulent Wiola tensing beside her. The woman was nearing fifty, Iza guessed, and had been Zofia’s lady’s maid for some years. She knew to tread lightly.

  “The color is a bit dark for a young lady, Izabel, and the cut is less than revealing in front. Are the other dress designs you are now choosing like this in shade?”

  “I’ll be certain to order several lighter colors, Mother.”

  “Make at least two of them white. And I hope some are a bit more—revealing. Remember, you’re not in the convent anymore.”

  Iza bit at her lower lip. “If the dressmaker suggests—”

  “No, no, you are in the wrong, sweet. You are the one to suggest—or rather order. Never mind, I’ll send her a message tomorrow with some directives. Now, your hair is fine, but Wiola needs to get busy with your makeup. We need to leave within the quarter hour.”

  “Oh, I’m quite ready now, Mother. My makeup is finished.”

  Zofia’s eyes widened and she stared for a long beat, then took two steps forward, her black eyes fastening hard. “Why it’s scarcely noticeable!” She looked from Iza to Wiola, then back again.

  Exactly, Iza thought. “At my suggestion,” she said, attempting to avoid smugness. She heard Wiola draw in a deep breath as if bracing for Zofia’s fury. Servants knew not to cross her. “I’m very happy with Wiola’s craft.”

  Zofia’s expression folded into a false smile. Iza guessed she was considering ordering Wiola to thicken the cheek and lip rouge, so she quickly drew up her black evening cape, an item borrowed from her mother. Turning her back to her mother, she handed it to the nervous Wiola, indicating her desire for help in draping it from the shoulders. As Iza stood before the mirror, clipping it at her throat with the silver lover’s knot, she saw her m
other, clearly ruffled, turn and leave the room, her steps heavier than usual.

  The November night had darkened when the carriage drew up in front of Belweder Palace, an impressive white edifice with an imposing portico and columns. It was situated on a hill just above the massive grounds of Łazienki Park. Iza followed her mother, stepping down on the stool the footman provided. The building was as Iza remembered, but this would be the first time she would step inside, and to her surprise a little thrill ran through her.

  She followed her mother into the crush of people entering the palace. They passed Russian sentries, numbering so few as to be merely ceremonial. The Grand Duke Konstantin is trusting, she thought. The wide halls glowed with brightly lighted sconces and sounded with the low but excited voices of the rich, the powerful, and the intelligentsia. Leaving their capes at an attendant’s station, they proceeded to the great rectangular Blue Hall, named for the hanging Lyon fabrics adorned with arabesques. Here, rows and rows of blue velvet upholstered chairs spanned the length of three walls, cascading toward the middle of the long inside wall, where a black lacquered piano sat embraced in a modest niche, like a corpulent nun. Its bench was empty. Three massive chandeliers gave light to the colorfully dressed crowd now claiming their seats.

  “Look, Mother, there are seats just two rows from where the pianist will sit.”

  “Come with me, Izabel,” Zofia said, taking Iza by the hand and drawing her across the room to seats in the second-to-last row. “This is much better, Izabel. From here we can see just about everything and everybody.”

  “But, Mother—”

  Zofia raised a gloved hand to shush her daughter. “I did not come for Fryderyk Chopin. I did come to be entertained, but not by Monsieur Chopin—and I hope perhaps to do you some good. Now, stay here and keep this aisle seat for me. I shall return before the start.”

  Iza settled into the comfortable cushioned chair, perfectly content to sit by herself and watch the sophisticated circus unfold before her, its bouquet of players fanning themselves, talking, laughing, moving, motioning. It was a sight so unlike any she had seen in what seemed a decade. Fascinating as it was, crowds made her nervous. She didn’t know why.

  Her eyes fastened on her mother who stood bending over an acquaintance on the other side of the room. Even at this distance the décolletage of the fuchsia gown was apparent. Her mother’s face and figure, and especially her sprightly mien, belied her age. Iza could remember the earlier years and what a beauty she had been. Her earliest memories of her mother were images of a beautiful woman who stopped in momentarily at the third floor classroom to give instructions to the governess. On occasion Iza was allowed to kiss her lightly on the cheek, but whenever her mother appeared like a vision of the Madonna in the doorway of Iza’s adjacent bedchamber—prior to going out in the evening—no kisses were allowed for fear damage would be done to the makeup or gown.

  The music room began to fill and two women Iza guessed to be in their fifties moved up the aisle to the row abutting the back wall, seating themselves directly behind Iza. Even while watching the animated tapestry around her, Iza could not help but be distracted by the conversation of the two women. After complaining about how far away from the pianist their seats were, a complaint Iza silently shared, they commented on the recent rehabilitation of the palace.

  “You do know,” one intoned in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, “that King Stanisław resided at the Royal Castle and he had the temerity to use this lovely estate as a porcelain factory?”

  “I didn’t know,” her friend answered. Her low, measured voice reflected muted shock. “What an utter shame.”

  “Indeed! Oh, look, Nina, at the woman in red!”

  “Where?”

  “There! Follow my finger!”

  “Oh, her? That’s hardly red.”

  Iza started to get a sick feeling in her stomach. She was certain they were talking about her mother.

  “Well, it’s as if someone set fire to red. I’ll not argue the color. That’s that Gronska woman! Can you imagine dressing like that? At her age?”

  Iza sat paralyzed in her chair.

  “I don’t know, Olga—if either of us had the figure—”

  “Nina, just look at that neckline!”

  “I am, as is the gentleman she’s talking to. Ha ha.”

  “She’s a disgrace! You know she signed the Confederacy of Targowica years ago, inviting Russia in?”

  “As did many of the nobility,” Nina said, shifting into the role of apologist.

  “Oh? Did your husband—Ah, I see. Perhaps he had his reasons. But let me tell you, she entertained Russians in her own mother’s house across the river, in Praga.”

  “Do you mean— ?”

  “Yes!” Olga hissed. “She had her finger in the wind even then. Well, she disappeared just after the fall of Warsaw in 1794. Rumor had it that a Russian had taken her atop his horse in the meleé. Then, if you can believe it, she turned up months later, and in no time her belly was big as a house.”

  “I had heard that,” Nina answered, “and that she had once had an affair with King Stanisław.”

  “She did, but that’s not the half of it! When that Corsican rascal came calling, she entrapped him as well!”

  “Napoleon Bonaparte!”

  “Indeed. That was before he became so taken by Maria Walewska.”

  “Was there a child, Olga?”

  “If you mean by Maria Walewska, yes, a boy. If you mean by the Gronska woman, yes again, a girl. No one knows who the father was. In fact, I don’t know what’s become of the child.” Olga snickered. “Maybe she’s put her away—or had her drowned like a kitten!”

  “Goodness!” Nina feigned shock. “But to think that one woman managed to attract a king, as well as the little emperor!”

  “Goodness, nothing—the woman’s a witch!”

  For Iza, the other sounds of the crowded room had fallen away and she heard only the chatter of the women. She thought she would pass out even as the two harpies pursued other gossip now. She sat still as a stone, watching her mother with new eyes. She didn’t want to believe what she heard. Yet her mother was indeed an iconoclast, often striking out at society’s norms. Iza had always known her mother was no saint. But were these things true? And if they were, what was she to think about her father? To hear these women talk, her father might be a Russian. The thought chilled her to the marrow. Her mother had told her a very different story.

  Slowly, slowly, Iza became aware that many of the tapers were being extinguished and that a hush was falling on the audience. She looked up to see her mother, a vision in fuchsia, gliding up the aisle toward her, her head held high, the diamond pins glinting in her dark hair. Iza heard a spate of whispering in the seats behind her sputter and then go silent.

  What was she to do? Allow these women their nasty gossip? Pretend she hadn’t heard? She had told Michał that there are occasions when she snaps. You’re irascible, Sister Izabel! the abbess had said, more than once. I call it peevish, Sister Iwona, the novice mistress, had declared, and most unbecoming. Whether it was irascibility or peevishness, Iza felt her emotions rising now to a fever pitch.

  She stood as her mother arrived at their row. Before Zofia could take her seat, Iza took her hand and pivoted both of them toward the row behind theirs. They now faced the two crones.

  The women, Olga and Nina, sat stunned, their tart tongues at rest, mouths gaping like gargoyles.

  Iza allowed a long moment to pass. “These lovely ladies, Mother,” she said at last, “were just going on and on about how bewitching you look. Isn’t that right, Ladies Olga and Nina?” Iza’s eyes moved from Olga to Nina as she spoke, for she had been careful to identify each by their voices and seating placement behind her.

  The pair might have been stones they were so motionless.

  “Oh, how generous of you both!” Zofia exclaimed.

  The one who had been more listener than informer—Nina—attempted to apply a false sm
ile to her crimson face.

  Just then, the audience burst into applause at the arrival of Fryderyk Chopin. Iza and Zofia turned about and took their seats, cutting short Iza’s clever inquisition. She had hoped for a longer moment of exultation, but was cheered nonetheless. She looked forward to the intermission when she might address them again. They were not to be acquitted so easily.

  It was a measure of Chopin’s talent that Iza eventually put away thoughts of the gossips and became enraptured in the magical strains of a nocturne. She closed her eyes and imagined with great vividness that she was again behind cloistered walls, away from society and the likes of Olga and Nina, with only her simple chores and an herb garden to think about. Anyone around her might think she had dozed off, but she cared not what they thought. She did very much wish herself away from this place—but only if the enchanting music would accompany her.

  Iza lost all notion of time so that before she knew it the audience was applauding and her mother was nudging her. “Come, let’s claim a glass of wine.”

  “No, I’d rather wait for you, Mother.”

  “Very well.” Zofia stood. “I do hope he plays something livelier next.” She turned now to the row behind as if seeking agreement. Iza’s head turned simultaneously.

  The women were gone.

  Zofia cast Iza a puzzled look, then gave a little shrug of dismissal and went off to slake her thirst.