There was a disturbance ahead, very near Warsaw University, she realized, and was glad for it. In another instance she would have crossed the street to avoid it, but she now moved toward it, figuring there was safety in numbers. And perhaps protection. As she drew near to a group of young students it became clear they were well intoxicated. One was relieving himself in the gutter. Abandoning a plan to draw them into conversation while she scanned the street behind her, she passed through the middle of them. Two or three of the young men shot lewd comments—like verbal arrows—in her wake. She dared not turn around.
She had gone some little distance when she heard loud and aggressive comments of a different sort from the drunken students. She knew these were directed at the man with the muted boot steps, who no doubt was passing through their midst. She didn’t have to turn around to know that he was following her. Christ the Savior protect me, she prayed.
Iza still had a ways to go. Ahead, there was no one in sight. She moved on a full block, then paused, her ears pricked. At first she heard the steps, but then they stopped. Had the man turned the corner? She prayed that he had.
Her prayer went unheard, for the same scenario played out at Karowa Street and yet again at Bednarska Street. Despite the cold wind coming off the river, beads of perspiration had formed on her upper lip, forehead, and back of the neck. Her heart raced. How had she been so foolish as to place herself in this situation? She scolded herself more severely than would her mother on the morrow.
At long last she came into Castle Square. The castle wasn’t even visible so thick was the fog that rose up from the River Vistula. She moved in what she sensed was the direction of her street, Piwna Street, stumbling and nearly falling over a drunken man laid out on the cobblestones. Fear propelled her forward. She was very close to home now. Her hands reached out like those of a blind person, finding in good time the stone surface of the building sitting on the square at Piwna Street.
Iza paused before continuing. She dared to turn around but could see nothing more than a few paces into the fog. She listened. A horn sounded from off the river. A dog across the square barked. And then came the too familiar boot steps.
Iza pivoted and ran up Piwna street. She came to St. Martin’s Church, where she had worshipped as a child. Her first impulse was to climb the few steps and find sanctuary. But what if the doors were locked? Or worse, what if the church was empty? She would be trapped.
She ran now, cutting a diagonal path across the street, putting the church behind her as if it housed the devil himself. It was not far now to the Gronska town house. Here she knew the buildings by heart so that the fog was little hindrance to her.
In moments she was climbing the steps to the front door of the town house, fumbling for the pocket of her cloak and praying the key had not fallen out.
Even as her hand clasped the key she heard him on the other side of the street. Her throat constricted and she froze for a moment, certain he would make a dash toward her. The noise that took her out of the momentary trance was the metallic ting of the key hitting the top step. She had dropped it.
Iza bent, retrieved the key, stood, and found the lock. It turned smoothly within the well-oiled mechanism. She pushed the heavy door inward, stepped in, closed it behind her, latched it and drove the extra bolt home. She turned around and fell back against the door, breathing now a great sigh of relief.
A full minute must have passed. Everything was silence, within the house—and without. Collecting herself she went to a hall table where a single candle had been left guttering. She extinguished it and returned to the door. She listened. Nothing. Had he gone on? Had he been merely making sport of her? Well, she had learned her lesson.
Slowly, slowly she moved toward the tall, narrow window at the side of the door. She pushed back the lace curtain and peered out, half afraid she would see some awful face staring back at her.
No one was there, however. The little portico seemed quite empty. No one was in front of the house, either. She stared into the fog attempting to make out the outlines of St. Martin’s and the other buildings across the way.
And then her eye was caught by an almost indiscernable reddish glow. Directly across the street, in a little alleyway, someone had just lighted what seemed a pipe. Was it the man who had been—or so it seemed—following her? Iza waited many minutes, and when she became convinced it had been a mere passerby who must have moved off into the fog, she saw the glow again, as he he drew in on his pipe. Iza’s heart pounded.
The man was watching the house.
5
JÓZEF STELNICKI SAT ALONE IN the music room of the Officer Cadets School. At a small desk he worked over the notes of the final movement of a symphony he had been laboring on for three months, crossing notes out and replacing them with others provided by the music in his head. It was the counterpoint—multiple, independent, and simultaneous melodies—that had been giving him difficulty. He let out a sigh that reflected neither dismay nor hope.
Pulling the composition from the desk and going directly to the great piano, Józef seated himself and positioned the rumpled and nearly illegible music sheets. Drawing in a long breath as if his instrument were not a piano but a flute that required breath control, he started to play, his fingers nimbly working over the black and ivory keys. He began where he had begun at least a hundred times: at the opening and he deemed it worthy. The middle movements of the piece pleased him as well. As he started to play the final movement he was cheered by the changes he had made. He had found the right formula, it seemed, and felt himself lifted, as if he had infused the instrument with new life. It was the elixir, the euphoria, that creativity brought with it. But just as quickly, during the final swelling and fading, the crescendo and diminuendo, he recognized a redundancy between the newly added melody and the final movement in a work he had created earlier in the year. He was merely repeating himself. The realization drove the blood from his heart.
He halted his playing immediately and with violence brought his fists crashing down upon the keys. The wildly discordant result reverberated throughout the room. Józef felt hot tears begin to build, but crying was no outlet for a man in the military. Instead he took hold of the music sheets and drew them closer. But concentration came hard. Did Fryderyk Chopin have moments such as these? He thought not, but the question put his mind on a tangential path. He wondered now how the Chopin concert had been received at the Belweder Palace the night before. He would have given his cadet’s czapka and gone bareheaded to have snared an invitation, but he knew the event for him would have proven more bitter than sweet. Years before, Józef’s mother, intent on a musical career for her youngest born—rather than a military one—had secured a tutor in their home town of Sochaczew. Józef took to music and the piano with great fervor, and his talents were so well mined that his teacher told the Stelnickis that young Józef had outgrown his tutor’s potential and that of any local musician. Subsequently, at the age of twelve Józef was sent to study at the Warsaw Lyceum and Fryderyk Chopin’s tutor, Józef Elsner, the German director of the Warsaw Conservatory, was engaged to tutor him in composition and harmony.
Chopin’s parents, Mikołaj and Justyna, had established an expensive student residence for out-of-town boarders at Kazimierz Palace on the Avenue Krakowskie Przedmieście, and it was there that Józef went to live and study. His mother could not have foreseen the irony, but it was that decision that led to her son’s relinquishing his musical career in favor of a military one.
Józef Stelnicki’s close proximity to Fryderyk Chopin became the musical boon and bane of his ambition. Fryderyk—or Frycek, the diminutive by which he allowed Józef to call him—was three years older than Józef and occasionally mentored him in his musical studies. Chopin had already been deemed a prodigy, and over time Józef came to the unhappy conclusion that he himself indeed had talent and desire for composing and playing, but that Frycek possessed an unparalleled and godlike genius. While Józef had mastered the mechanics of h
armony and the rudiments of creating new melodies, Frycek’s unusually complex piano fingering and creative mastery of counterpoint were astounding. Mesmerising. That Józef would never be another Chopin crushed his hopes and, for a time, his spirit. He decided, much to his mother’s consternation, that instead of going on to a three-year curriculum at the Central Music School, also at the Warsaw Conservatory and supervised by Elsner, he would enter the Officer Cadets School.
Only much later would he realize that the disappointment he felt regarding his musical potential led to an inner turmoil and anger, resulting in rebellion, a youthful rebellion against everyone’s expectations of him. Why not a career in the military? His mother would rebound. His father had led the way, after all, followed by his two much older brothers. Later, too, he would recognize his own ego in his adamant belief that he had been born to do something important. If not in music, what other than the military would provide ample opportunity to rise?
Despite quitting his lessons, however, he often found himself—like now—sitting in the academy’s music room agonizing over a new musical piece, underscoring the fact that music ran through his blood.
Others knew to find him here, as well. The door abruptly opened inward now. Józef looked up to see Marcin, his roommate.
“Did I interrupt a piece?” Marcin asked uncertainly. “I know how you hate that. I listened outside the door, but I didn’t hear anything.”
“It’s all right, Marcin. Don’t worry. Come in. What’s the matter? You look so serious.”
“It’s Gustaw. He showed up a little while ago.” Marcin moved toward the piano.
“Where has he been for the past two days?”
“At his family’s farm, so he says.”
“Absent without leave—to go home?” Józef questioned. “Who would do that?”
Józef thought Marcin would laugh, but instead he was all seriousness. “That’s not all. He’s had an accident. He’s got a finger missing—says he was careless with some farm implement.”
“Good god!” Józef cried, standing and pushing back the piano bench. “That’s awful!—Wait, you think that unlikely?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes, I guess I do, given the fact that I doubt he really went all the way home. Near Poznań, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, good and far, maybe too far to go, get injured at some farm task, and make it back, all in two days. What do you suppose is the real story, Józef?”
“Why would someone lose a finger, Marcin, barring stupidity while using a scythe or something? And everything to be reaped has been reaped by now, yes?”
Marcin agreed.
A long moment ensued—until Józef’s gaze locked onto Marcin’s serious blue eyes. It was as if he could read them. “Torture?” Józef whispered.
Marcin shrugged at first, then nodded.
Józef was about to scoff at the notion, but a moment’s pause provided a second thought. He had to nod in tentative agreement. “A way to get someone to talk, to reveal information. And who in Warsaw is known for such methods and worse?”
“The secret police.” Marcin’s voice was less than a whisper now. “But—but what knowledge would Gustaw have that would be valuable? You know what a queer duck he is.”
“He wouldn’t be the first innocent to be victimized by the Third Department. Maybe he knows something, maybe not. Where is he now?”
Marcin maintained his hushed tone: “He was taken in hand by Wysocki and Zaliwski as soon as he returned.”
“Mmmm, maybe he does know something about what they’re planning.”
“About Project C?” Marcin asked. “Come on, we don’t know anything about the event we’re training for. It’s something very big, and that’s why only Wysocki and Zaliwski know the plans. We’re but pawns.”
“Don’t undervalue a pawn, Marcin. They can be tortured and pressured into revealing things. And I have no doubt the police are very interested in what goes on here.”
“Wait a minute! Suppose it’s not torture. Suppose it’s a threat. You know, to keep him silent about something.”
Józef was taken aback. “You mean by our superiors? My god, you may have something, Marcin. The question is, would Wysocki and Zaliwski resort to such a threat to keep their—our—plans from falling into the wrong hands? It seems a bit overt, even for them.”
“You know as well as I, Józef, that if Project C is an anti-Russian one—and no doubt it is—the two of them would cut the privates from a private to keep knowledge of it in house.”
Józef gave a little laugh. “Perhaps. But I think it unlikely. We’ll have to keep an eye on our friend Gustaw. Maybe he’ll let something slip.”
“He’s a strange one, that’s for certain.—Are you coming up to the room?”
“Not just yet.” Józef sat again, splaying his fingers in preparation to play.
“Józef, you don’t know, do you? About Project C?”
“I wish I did,” Józef said. “I wish I did.”
Marcin turned and moved toward the door.
“Marcin,” Józef called. “Gustaw’s finger—which one is it?”
“On his right hand—the index finger.”
When the door closed behind Marcin, Józef sat staring at his long slender fingers against the black and white of the keys. Lifting the index finger, he attempted to play an old familiar piece without it. The results brought only a half-voiced curse.
It was a dark thought this, losing his ability to play. Inexplicably, it occurred to Józef that had he lost a finger, he would at least be able to put before his mother a valid reason for giving up a career in music. How he loved her, and how it stung each time he saw her to know that he had added ache to a heart already broken by the arrest of his father. But he would prove to her one day that he could—would!—become someone of importance. Perhaps some day he would search out his father across the Russian steppes. Perhaps . . .
Before going up to his room, Józef took from his pocket an object d’art wrapped in a thinning piece of blue velvet, something he had never shown Marcin. He had his own heartbreak, one Marcin would not understand. No one would. He folded back the velvet, revealing the miniature portrait on ivory of a pretty, black-haired girl, the love of his young life. Even after quitting his musical lessons and giving up his rented room, he had still visited the Chopins at Kazimierz Palace on the Avenue Krakowskie Przedmieście. He went with regularity to see their young daughter, Emilia, with whom he was very much in love.
They were scarcely into their teens, but they were in love. No one understood, truly understood. Only later would he remember and see in a different light the little cough she would give out. For the longest time it was barely noticeable. Then, he had thought it a nervous reaction on the part of a shy girl. Perhaps even an affectation. Whichever, he had thought it charming. But the cough was no innocent thing. Word of her death had come to the academy in a black-bordered note. It was April, a time of daffodils and daisies, he remembered now, and Emilia Chopin had yet to turn fifteen. That was three years ago, he realized. Already three years! And in springtime. “Emilia,” he whispered. “Emilia.” And the tears that he had shut away earlier were dormant no more.
As planned, Michał attended Sunday services at St. Jan’s Cathedral, having begged off attending Mass at St. Martin’s with Iza. Zofia, it seemed, was not in the habit of attending Sunday Mass. While St. Martin’s Church was across the street from the Gronska town house, St. Jan’s Cathedral, the church of kings, was not much farther, situated on the parallel Świetojańska Street. Despite the number of churches in the city center and the number of Sunday services, this final Mass of the day was nonetheless packed with people. The bishop himself, several concelebrant priests, and half a dozen altar boys filled the sanctuary.
Michał entered just at the start of the service and made his way to the front. When he spied Prince Adam Czartoryski in the middle of the third pew on the left, he genuflected and indicated to an old lady on the aisle of the four
th pew that he wished her to make room for him. She did so, slowly and grudgingly.
At no time during the Mass did Michał notice the prince turn to take notice of his presence. When the service ended, Michał stepped outside the pew to allow the stern old lady and the other occupants to exit. Within fifteen minutes the sanctuary was empty and dark and the cathedral had cleared of all but a few lingering worshippers. Michał looked about him and when he saw they were women of varying ages, all veiled, he moved toward the middle of his pew and knelt, behind and a little to the right of the prince.
Prince Adam Czartoryski, who must have been aware of Michał’s presence all the while, sat back in the pew so that his ear was very close to Michał’s mouth. “I must apologize, Michał,” he whispered. “I was too harsh at our last meeting.”
“No need, your grace. I was in the wrong. It was foolish to just show up at your home without taking precautions.”
“The city is full of spies, my friend. You must be careful. I am very glad to have your help. It can be invaluable. Now, when do you see your brother?”
“I plan to go on Tuesday.”
“Go on Monday. The situation is worsening.” The prince fell silent as a woman moved away from the statue of Mary where she had lighted one of the hundreds of cascading votives in ruby glass holders that winked and flickered. She turned and proceeded down the main aisle, toward the entrance, her veiled face seeming to turn toward the prince and Michał as she passed.
When Michał heard the echo of the heavy door closing behind her, he ventured a furtive glance about. Just two others left now in the back pews, widows he thought. He waited for the prince to speak.
“The stakes are rising, Michał,” Czartoryski said. “I have it from a respected source that Tsar Nicholas is pressuring his brother to shore up the Dutch who are, as I’m sure you know, trying to hold on to their control of Belgium.”
The Warsaw Conspiracy Page 11