Michał had heard of the Belgians’ quest for independence and an overthrow of Dutch control. “But how does that—” he began.
“Raise the stakes? According to my source, Nicholas has asked Konstantin to send not only his Russian troops but our Polish contingent, as well. And our cadets, already infused with notions of our independence, will resist fighting against others who are seeking theirs. It spells trouble right here.”
“So you’re thinking whatever the cadets’ plan is, it will likely be executed prematurely.”
“Exactly. As soon as the cadets catch wind of their marching orders. God made time, but man made haste.”
“I see. My father always said one should hasten slowly.”
“An excellent proverb that, but not one Zaliwski and Wysocki are likely to abide by. Michał, this little Congress Kingdom of Poland, as they call us now, may seem a shadow of what we once were, but we could lose even this, my boy, even this. Whatever thoughtless and ill-conceived coup against the Russians those two have contrived will bring ruin to Poland. It will bring the end.”
Michał was about to respond, about to say he would contact Józef on the morrow when he heard a noise some little distance in front of them—in the sanctuary, he thought. Someone had dropped something or perhaps kicked the wooden stalls meant for dignitaries. The noise rippled into a soft but distinct echoing within the empty and cavernous cathedral.
Prince Czartoryski’s spine had stiffened at the noise. “Tuesday,” he said, clipping his words. “Morning Mass. Six o’clock.” He rose then, exiting the pew on the outer aisle and moving toward the street entrance.
Michał scanned the sanctuary left to right and back again, thinking perhaps the bishop, one of the attending priests, or an altar boy had come from the sacristy to retrieve something. But no one was in evidence in the sanctuary. The sound had died away. Michał stood and moved to the middle aisle of the nave. He took no time to genuflect before making his way to the sanctuary and vaulting over the communion rail. He paused, listening. He had the uncanny sense that someone had been present there, close enough to Michał and the prince to hear their conversation. In buildings like this, he knew, sounds could carry unusual distances. What one whispered behind a clustered column might be heard clear as a bell in the balcony. Was his meeting with the prince being documented by someone? By a spy for the Third Department?
Michał moved forward cautiously, his eyes honing in on the heavy oak door that led to the sacristy. Even as he walked, doubt challenged him, chastizing him for an overactive imagination. What if the bishop were to suddenly open the door? What could he say to him? He would look a fool and perhaps even be arrested. Nonetheless, he pressed an ear to the door and listened. Nothing. The celebrants had probably already changed and gone their various ways. The bishop would no doubt find an ample breakfast in the rectory.
Michał put his hand on the polished brass door handle. Dare he go in? He was debating this thought when there came another noise, this time a wood against stone scraping, slight but close by. It was not within the sacristy, but somewhere within the sanctuary.
Michał pivoted, his eyes flying at once to the dignitary stalls across the way, on the western side of the sanctuary. They each had a prie-dieu with armrests upholstered in crimson, and they had exceedingly high backs and fronted a little gallery that could easily have hidden the perpetrator of the noise.
Michał’s heart thumped and raced. He moved toward the gallery.
He hurried now, certain he was going to find someone hiding there—but nervous and uncertain as to what would happen next. In moments the rear of the stalls came into view. The diffused prism of light from small transept windows played beautifully on the space there. It was empty.
Vaulting into the gallery attached to the wall, Michał was at once disappointed and relieved not to have found out a member of the secret police. It was at that moment that he heard the faintest squeek of a hinge and a click that could be nothing other than a door closing. He spun around, his eyes taking in the panelled gallery wall. No door was in evidence. He remembered now the footbridge. In the 1620s after a failed attempt to assassinate King Zygmunt III in front of the cathedral, a long elevated corridor had been built, attaching Saint Jan’s to the Royal Castle. In Zygmunt’s and succeeding reigns, kings and queens had used it to access the gallery for Mass, a safe and convenient way to take their places next to the main altar.
Michał went to the wall and examined it closely. Knowing what he was looking for, he discovered the well camouflaged door, its seams scarcely noticeable in the richly carved panelling.
Today, Michał thought, it may very well have provided an avenue of escape for whoever had been spying on him and the prince. He looked at once for a door knob or handle. Not finding one, he put his ear to the door and strained to hear. Was there a slight movement on the other side? He thought so. By accident—or Providence, he allowed himself the momentary thought—his hand came to rest on a small piece of the wood relief that moved slightly. The hidden handle.
But before he could push down on it, there came the unmistakeable sound of a bolt being driven home. The handle moved now, responding to his pressure, but the door stood firm.
He placed his ear to the door again—and heard faint footsteps falling away into the distance.
Michał was absorbed in thought as he walked the short distance back to the Gronska town house. Upon entering the front door, he came upon Iza sitting in a hallway chair. “Waiting for me?” he joked.
Iza looked up without a hint of a smile. He noticed that she was dressed to go out.
“What is it, Iza?”
“What . . . oh, nothing. I was just about to go out, to see a friend at the convent.”
“Not planning to re-enlist, are you? Besides, I thought visitors were a once-a-year phenomenon.”
Still no expression from her. Michał noticed now how pale she was.
Iza stood and made for the door. “I’ll be home for supper if Mother is interested.”
Michał reached out to detain her, his hand lightly clasping her upper arm. While she turned, momentarily startled, the sensation that ran like a current between them was, to him, of a different nature. “Something is wrong, Iza. What is it?”
“I—I did a foolish thing last night, Michał. I walked home from the Belweder Palace.”
“You did what?” Michał cried.
“Shhh! I walked home.”
“And?”
“And I was followed.”
“Followed!”
“Shhh! I don’t want Mother to know. She’s angry enough as it is about my leaving the palace.”
“Sit down then, Iza, and tell me about it.”
Iza obeyed and Michał pulled up a chair for himself. Iza’s story of the man in the shadows poured out with specificity in regard to the weather, streets she had taken, the university students encountered, the lighting of the stalker’s pipe across from the town house—but with no details about the man’s appearance.
“You think I’m mistaken, Michał,” she said upon finishing. “You think it my imagination. Anyone would. Mother says I read too much.”
“I don’t think it’s your imagination, Iza.” Michał gently touched the hand that gripped the arm of her chair. “Believe me, I don’t.”
Iza looked up at him as if to assess his sincerity, her azure eyes disarmingly vivid and beautiful against porcelain skin and lustrously black hair.
A long moment passed.
“And so” Michał said, “just now you were cautious about going out today. It’s only natural.”
She shyly slipped her hand away and stood. “Foolishly so, I suppose. But I feel better now. Thank you for listening.”
“You still don’t intend to go out?”
“I do indeed. Will I see you at supper?”
“You will.”
Iza nodded. Was there the hint of a smile on her face? “You will be staying for a while, yes? Business here in Warsaw?”
“What is it, Michał? Something serious?”
“I don’t know. He may be involved in something at the academy—something dangerous. A plot of some kind.”
“A plot?”
“By the cadets to incite rebellion.” Michał realized he was saying too much. What prompted him to so easily confide in Iza? A fine spy he would make. “Anyway, it’s important that I see him at once. I intend to go to the academy tomorrow.” His eyes held hers. “And it’s also important that you do not leave the house alone. It may be nothing, but we’ll put the servants on alert, keep the house like a citadel. And you are not to go out unaccompanied.”
“Michał, I appreciate your concern, more than you know, but I didn’t leave my cloistered life in the convent to lead a cloistered life here. I do promise to be careful, especially at night.” Iza moved toward the door.
Michał followed. “In that case I intend to play chaperone. At least today you will know the person following you about.”
Iza turned back to him. “Really, Michał, they won’t allow you into the convent. And there’s no need for this.”
“Perhaps not. Let’s call it a pleasure then, milady,” Michał said, making a mock-bow. “I’ll wait patiently outside.”
Iza rewarded him with one of her rare full smiles.
Fortune was with Michał when Czartoryski had suggested visiting Józef on Monday, for things had changed since the days of his own military training, Monday was now the only designated visiting day. The change had to be very recent because he was certain that only that summer his mother had visited on days other than Mondays. Something important was definitely in the wind. Well, he had been lucky. Had he waited until Tuesday, he would have been put off for another week. The dormitory, however, had changed little, he thought, as he followed a young cadet who led him to the top floor and then halfway down the hall.
Józef answered the knock. “Jan Michał!” he cried.
“Thank you,” Michał said to the retreating cadet and moved into the small room. Michał returned Józef’s smile. They stood looking at one another for an awkward moment. A brotherly hug seemed to be in order and it was performed with a modicum of enthusiasm. The siblings were separated by some twenty years. As the family’s youngest, Józef had been doted on by his mother and sister, but Michał had—for reasons he had not quite plumbed—remained aloof from his half-brother. Just the same, having experienced the darkest aspects of war, he, like his mother, had been sad to see Józef give up his music for the military. “You look good, Józef!”
“Come to check up on me, have you? Sit down, Michał. Here, you take Marcin’s desk chair. He’s gone off somewhere.”
The brothers sat and they exchanged pleasantries, Michał providing details about family and life at Topolostan, the estate at Sochaczew, Józef going on in good humor about classes and conditions in a military institution.
It was Józef who turned serious, turquoise eyes darkening. “Has there been any word of Father?”
Michał shook his head.
“Not what prison? Or camp?”
“No. Mother writes, tries all the appropriate
channels.”
“Do we know if he’s alive?”
“Mother is convinced that he is.”
“And you?”
“I won’t think otherwise.”
“She’s often right about things,” Józef said. “Pray God, that stays true.”
“She wasn’t right about you.”
“You mean the music?”
“You have talent.”
Józef shrugged. “I catch on to things quickly.”
“Don’t berate yourself.”
“Oh, I still play and compose a bit.”
“I’m glad to hear that! Whatever was it that loosened your confidence?”
Józef abruptly stood and went to the window.
Michał looked about the quarters, keenly aware of Józef’s shift in mood. He took a light tone. “You know, I had the room three doors down, Tadek and I.”
“Tadek?” Józef returned to his desk chair and sat facing Michał. “I can imagine you here, Michał, but it is hard to imagine a brother I never knew, a brother who died before I was born.”
Michał felt himself tearing up. The memories of the years at the academy with Tadeusz came back in a rush, inexorably leading to their time in the Young Guard, accompanying Napoleon to Moscow, battle by battle. And then the fateful retreat across the frozen steppes. . . . Michał had to take a swipe at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Józef, this place and talking about Tadek brings me back.”
“Is that why,” Józef asked, “you would never tell me about your time with Emperor Bonaparte in Moscow and at Waterloo, no matter how I begged?”
Michał forced a smile. “You did beg, too, didn’t you? But my memory of Tadek wasn’t the only reason. Mother didn’t want you romanticizing my experiences.”
“I think I did, even without the details. Perhaps more so.”
“Józef, what’s going on here?” Michał could think of no convenient way to ease into his little interrogation.
“Going on? What do you mean?”
“Word has it that there’s something afoot. Something anti-Russian. Something violent.”
“It’s news that you’ve brought, Michał. I haven’t heard of anything. Where did you get wind of such a thing?”
“From an excellent source. What do you know?”
“Nothing, really.” Józef looked innocent enough.
“Swear it.”
“Michał, I’m a lowly cadet. I’m not likely to be let in on anything of that sort.”
“Józef,” Michał whispered, “if we test relations with Russia without having made the necessary preparations, we can lose everything we have! The Polish military would be disbanded, this building crushed to rubble.”
“We haven’t independence. We haven’t a country named Poland. Not really.”
“There will be time for that. Patience, Józef. Now, have you heard anything? Anything at all?”
“There are always rumors flying about. Independence—isn’t that why you and Tadek followed Napoleon? You and he thought the little emperor would restore our sovereignty?”
“What kind of rumors?”
“Nothing specific. Like you said, something big. Listen, Michał, I have to get to a fencing practice. I’ll be missed and it will go against me.”
“Can I come again?”
Józef shrugged. “Next Monday?”
“No, sooner! I know the new rules, but there must be a way.”
“Perhaps—”
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about the campaigns with Napoleon—and about our brother.”
“You will? Promise?”
“I promise—if you will keep your ear to the ground about—about whatever it is Wysocki and Zaliwski are up to.”
Józef blinked at the names, and for Michał this was an admission he knew something.
“A brotherly quid pro quo,” Józef said, recovering. “I do have a way for you come back, a secret way.”
“Fine!” Michał replied, mollified for the moment.
6
ON TUESDAY NOON, WEARING A full length dark gray cloak and matching bonnet, Iza left the town house, moving in the direction of the Market Square. The day was cold but crisp and bright. The scent of snow was in the air, and she felt exhilarated as she slowly made the full turn of the market, surveying the shop windows of the four and five story buildings bordering the square. Michał had been at the afternoon meal, but she avoided mentioning the little sojourn she had planned. Oh, she had enjoyed his company on her trip to the convent and had come to know him better, but she doubted that perusing shop windows would elicit his interest and she would not be rushed. They did have a brief exchange at table before her mother joined them. Iza had asked him how his meeting with Józef had gone. There was too little time for him to explain to her in private
, but his expression and clipped statement that it went well told her that the meeting had yielded little or nothing. Just what was he trying to learn from Józef? What might the boy be involved in?
Her thoughts went back to Michał. He had the same olive skin tones as did her mother; his eyes were similar, too, in their almond shape—Tatar-like—but more brown than black, more sanguine than critical. No, he was not the young and dashing soldier any longer. His features had evolved into those of a man—a handsome man, but one who had seen much, experienced much. And it seemed he had, in short order, become a kind of beacon of good humor in the Gronska household.
Upon finishing the tour of shop windows, Iza ventured in among the stalls, tents, and carts crushed closely together throughout the square. Most of the tradesmen maintained small fires to fend off the cold. She felt for these poor peddlers who defied the elements in order to feed their families. How they managed to do it, day after day, she couldn’t imagine. It was the rugged Polish spirit, she guessed, the spirit that kept a country alive for peasant and nobleman alike, even when borders had been erased as if written in lime and washed by rain, even when mention of the Third of May Constitution had been all but forbidden.
Iza stopped to buy a little bag of roasted pine nuts, pausing a few minutes to warm her hands over the old farmer’s fire. Suddenly the sensation that she was being watched came over her like an ill wind. She looked about, at first putting the feeling down as a silly notion. Surely it was merely the fact that not a few minutes before she had been recalling her unease the previous day—and the safety that Jan Michał provided. Such was the power of suggestion. Or—perhaps it was Michał, come to search her out. The thought gave her pleasure.
It was then that she saw him. Across the square, nearly obscured by the various booths and meandering shoppers, a man in a gray greatcoat and a wide-brimmed leather hat stood looking her way. Staring.
Iza felt a fluttering at the pit of her stomach. The visage was no more than a shadow under the hat, but she knew it was not Michał. She tucked the bag of pine nuts into a pocket, spilling some in the process, and started to walk along the row of stalls. When she turned her head, she saw that he was walking in parallel fashion, three rows away. Iza stopped, as did he. Heart quickening, her first impulse was to run for home, run from this person as fast as possible. Was this the man who had followed her home? Who is he? What does he want? She needed to know these things.
The Warsaw Conspiracy Page 12