The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  The stairway was just wide enough for the three to painstakingly climb, step by step. On the second landing Jerzy turned to a silent Iza. “I’m sorry for all this, Sister Izabel,” he said.

  Iza remained silent for several seconds, her face paling before she brought herself to say, “You have more than this to be sorry for, I think. Is your name Jerzy—or is it Rafal?”

  Michał witnessed some indecipherable current pass between them before the bleeding man answered, “Jerzy.”

  Michał first provided the patient with more than a dram of brandy, then staunched the wound with oil from the leaves of geraniums. Iza had brought the oil to the door. “It’s from my herb garden,” she said, before making a quick retreat. Suddenly Michał could imagine her as a nun on just such a mission of mercy, her face framed by wimple and veil. Upon arrival, the doctor, who lived right there on Piwna Street, complimented Michał for his preliminary work and went about the business of stitching up the wound. After seeing off the doctor, Michał sat for a short while with a well-bandaged Jerzy.

  “Will she hate me, Michał? Jerzy asked, his head turning on the pillow toward Michał, the silvery blond hair shifting on his furrowed forehead. This seemed to be what concerned him, not the wound, not the pain.

  “No, Jerzy, I don’t think so. Not when she learns that which you’ve told me—”

  “I don’t know. I should have been honest from the start.” Brooding, Jerzy turned his head away.

  The ensuing silence became too much to bear, so Michał spoke: “Who do you think they were?” When Jerzy didn’t respond, Michał said, “I thought at first they were military cadets, but they were not so young.” It was his thought that the cadet leaders had learned of Michał’s mission and his visit to Józef. Perhaps even of his questioning of his brother. They would be intent on keeping Michał completely out of the picture. They would not want anyone or anything interfering with their grand plan, whatever it might be. “Could they be cadet superiors?”

  “Hmmm,” Jerzy droned.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I don’t know. They’re a little rough around the edges, more like me.”

  Of good peasant stock, he was implying. That Jerzy was of the peasant class was something Michał had already deduced at the table in The King’s Ransom. He was well-dressed and well-spoken, but his quizzical reaction to an offhand comment Michał made in French gave him away. More than any other language, French was the language of the continental nobility. Oh, Jerzy was intelligent and gentle, but he had not been raised a gentleman and certainly had no title. He had told Michał he had come from Kosumce, a little village near the River Vistula.

  “Their Polish was adequate,” Jerzy said, “but not native.”

  Michał felt the heat of embarrassment warm his face. Of course, only now did he realize there was something about their dialect. Jerzy had it right: it was learned Polish. “Russian—of course! And your idea who they were?”

  “Secret Police.”

  “Secret Police?” Michał echoed. “The Third

  Department?”

  “Very possibly, but there are multiple branches of secret police. One distrusts and spies on the next.”

  The Third Department, Michał thought. It was a strong possibility. Had they gotten wind of his mission? How stupid he had been to march right up to the the Czartoryski Palace that first night in Warsaw. And upon leaving, he had been followed. Despite subsequent measures to operate under a guise, he may well have given himself away at the start.

  “Lord Michał, let’s be direct. You’re trying to learn what mischief the cadet lads are up to, yes?”

  Michał’s mouth fell open.

  “And you’re trying to abort their mission once you find out.”

  Michał’s breath was sucked from him, as if he had taken another punch to the gut. “How—how do you know . . . how could you know?” He felt hot blood swimming from his heart to his face. He had thought himself a good soldier in days gone by, but now in this matter of spies and intrigue he was at sixes and sevens. “You told me your interest in this house, in Iza. Now there’s what—something else?”

  “I can’t blame you for being upset and confused, Lord Stelnicki. I will be forthright. I know these things because I come from my village to meetings here in the capital.”

  “Meetings? One of the secret clubs?”

  “Yes, and I take advantage of these visits to try to catch sight of Izabel.”

  “So, in watching the house, was it I that you were interested in—or Iza?

  Jerzy smiled. “Both.”

  “What club?”

  “Now I put my life at risk in telling you. You have seen to my safe-being here once, I trust you will keep your silence if I tell you?”

  This evening was all too much for Michał to digest. And it was not over. He looked into Jerzy’s earnest bright blue eyes and nodded.

  From the first landing, Michał heard Zofia’s raised voice coming from the hallway below. Much softer and more meliorating were Iza’s replies. He hurried down, having left Jerzy sleeping.

  “What is this, Michał?” Zofia cried, turning from Iza to him. “Izabel tells me you’ve put up some stranger here in my home? That you don’t even know the man! You know you are very welcome here anytime, but I am not running a pension.”

  “There are circumstances, Cousin Zofia. The man has been hurt. And . . .” But Michał couldn’t reveal all that he knew just yet. Not until he spoke with Iza alone.

  “And?” Zofia pressed. “And what? Izabel told me he’s been hurt. I came in to find her wiping up blood from the stairs, for God’s sake. If he needed care he should have been taken to a hospital.

  “Please, Mother,” Iza interceded. “Please let it go until morning. The doctor said he’s to have complete bedrest.”

  “Indeed! In the morning we may find he’s had the strength to make away with the silver.” Her black eyes swept from Iza to Michał and back again. “All right, I won’t fight you both. I’m going to bed. But in the morning other arrangements are to be made for this man.” Zofia started to move away, had another thought and turned around. “I don’t suppose this person has a family name I might recognize?”

  Iza turned to Michał. Only he could appreciate the irony of the situation. Tomorrow they all would. He remained silent.

  “I thought as much!” Zofia declared, turning and making her way toward her room on the ground floor. “A peasant in the guest room,” she muttered. “What next?”

  Neither Iza not Michał spoke until they heard the door of Zofia’s bedchamber close with some finality.

  “Oh, Michałek,” Iza said, “I was so concerned for your safety.”

  Michał looked down into the sky-blue eyes, her violet scent redolent. “Were you?”

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered, a flame of color rising in her porcelain cheeks. “I don’t know what I would do, had you been hurt.”

  Michał took her hands in his. “I was not hurt, Iza. I admit to having made better judgments in my day, but I have only a few bruises to remind me.”

  “You do?” Iza cried. “Where?”

  “Upper torso. Nothing serious. He gave a little laugh. “Modesty prevents me from making a show.”

  “But you could have been hurt badly. You might have been stabbed! And I’m to blame. I—”

  Michał raised his index finger and placed it over her lips. “Shush, Iza. Do you hear?”

  She obeyed. The hand that was still held by his seemed to tremble, the fingers tightening almost imperceptibly.

  In the dim light of guttering hall sconces, her eyes flared as if through a blue haze, two pools that seemed to mesmerize. The moment hung fire.

  At last, his hands moving to lightly grasp her upper arms, Michał bent to kiss her. Her lips were soft as satin, cool at first, then heat-filled. The act was done without the slightest premeditation. The moment lengthened.

  Michał pulled back, his hands falling to his sides, too surprised at him
self to decipher her reaction. “Forgive me.”

  Iza’s eyes went round, perfect as saphires. She remained speechless.

  Michał chose his words now with great care. “Iza, the man upstairs—”

  Iza blinked, as if in quizzical response to his shift in thought. “He called himself Rafal when he visited me in the convent’s garden.”

  “And he was the one at the Market Square, but he was not the one following you home from the Belweder Palace. He has confessed to me his interest in you.”

  “His interest?” Iza’s voice was but a breath, her face pale and stricken. “I did think him innocent, as I told the abbess. To think he would stalk me—like an animal—”

  Michał’s gaze locked on to Iza’s. His hands took hold of hers. “There is no need to fear him, Iza . . . and there are no easy words for this. . . .” Michał drew in breath. “Iza, the man upstairs—Jerzy Lesiak—is your father.”

  Iza lay in bed, her mind recalling in vivid detail one of her final days at the convent on Wolska Street. On that clear, bright morning when the garden was in full bloom, she was called in to speak to Abbess Teodora, little suspecting the outcome.

  “Well, Sister Izabel,” the abbess said, “the time has come.”

  “It has,” Iza answered, still certain this was a routine interview before the formal reception of the black veil that symbolized her final vows.

  “You’re certain—this time?”

  Iza felt her ears warm beneath her skull cap and white veil. “Mother Abbess, you’re referring to my lack of certainty last year.”

  The lips of the plump abbess widened into the semblance of a smile. “I’m speaking of the year before that. You remember, when you couldn’t bear to have your tresses cut back.”

  “That was hardly the reason for my asking for an extra year as a postulant.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was—unsure of my vocation.”

  “And the second time? When you asked for yet another year.”

  Iza was certain her face was aflame by now. She drew in air. “The reason was the same, Mother Abbess.” The terrible presentiment that she was to be asked to leave gripped her. Dismissal? It was not possible!

  “How many entered as postulants with you, Sister Izabel?”

  “Six others.”

  “That was eight years ago. How old were you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “One of the six saw fit to leave us. The other five took their final vows, as prescribed, after their sixth year. They have been fully professed for two years, yes?”

  “Yes,” Iza conceded, the words now coming in a rush, “but, Mother Abbess, I don’t see how that matters. Everyone is different. I’m certain one or two of them had doubts and—”

  “Not everyone is different, Sister Izabel. You are different. It is you. It is eight years now since you came to us. You were the oldest of that group of seven, and I might add, your mother was set against your entering, yes? So much so that she refused to provide for your dowry. Has that played into your indecision in the past?”

  Iza tried to read the abbess’ intent but could not. “I am not undecided now. I have worked hard. My herb garden is the best in Warsaw, so I’m told. It provides a modest income. It seasons your food. My pestle and mortar helps to mend your colds.”

  “Don’t be impertinent, Sister Izabel.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother Abbess.”

  “Tell me, Sister, did you lose your love to the Napoleon war machine?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “So many men died in the effort to take Moscow that girls of your generation were left with few prospects for marriage. Is that what brought you to us?

  “No, Mother Abbess. I did have prospects.” Iza immediately regretted the last statement. Pride had pushed her to say it. What woman wanted to admit she had no prospects? Her lips tightened now. She would say nothing about Armand.

  “Oh? By way of your mother?”

  Iza fell silent. Ah, here was a way to avoid mention of Armand. Gossip about her mother and her mother’s many attempts to marry her off to a wealthy magnate had likely come to the attention of the abbess. Iza would allow her this thread of thought and so feigned shyness at returning the hard stare of the nun, steady as a sharpshooter.

  “I see. So you have no doubts now about professing?” the abbess questioned. “Taking the black veil and adhering to the solemn perpetual vows?”

  “No,” Iza said, relief daring to seep into her. The abbess was merely testing her. This little interrogation would soon be over.

  And yet the abbess had succeeded in bringing back to her the name of Armand. Armand Polcyński. Now, after a decade, days did go by without thinking of him. Thank God for that. She had fallen for him hard, this fair-haired young man from Gdansk who wrote poetry and who came on occasion to stay with his cousins in Warsaw. He had returned her love, too, she was certain of it. But her mother, thinking him too poor and untethered to any kind of power or influence, had done her best to scuttle the relationship. In the end, it was his parents who, having investigated and finding her of questionable parentage, designated her an untenable choice. They spirited Armand back to Gdansk to stay. Iza suspected that her mother herself had played the missing father as her highest card. But she was not certain. In any case, Armand did not try to return to Warsaw and within a year the cousins informed her that he had married.

  Now, like a large, dark cloud, the abbess stood and scudded around her great oak desk, passing where Iza sat and moving behind her, her huge wooden rosary beads rattling, the crucifix swinging like a clock’s pendulum. The abbess’ next words came at Iza from behind, whispering arrows from an unseen source. “The novice mistress has her doubts about you, Sister Izabel. And who would know better?”

  Who, indeed, Iza thought, her heart tightening as if in a vise. Sister Iwona, the novice mistress, had been more than a teacher to the seven novices. She had, Iza had thought, been her friend, teacher, protector, and confidante. Iza tried to stave off dizziness, a vortex that sought to draw her in. What had she told the novice mistress? There had been secrets shared. What could Sister Iwona have told the abbess? The name Armand had not crossed her lips. However, Iza recalled, spirit sinking, that in confidence she had told Sister Iwona of second thoughts. In confidence. When was that? A fortnight before? A month? Time was an incalculable thing in the convent. Iza was taking too long to collect her thoughts, too long to respond. Silence stretched out before her, like a chasm.

  By now the abbess had completed her circle and stood behind the desk, her eyes taking hostage those of Iza. “And there is the other matter, Sister Izabel.”

  The gravity of the abbess’ tone and unrelenting bead of her dark eyes gave Iza a new fright. “Other matter?” Iza heard herself say.

  Abbess Teodora leaned over her desk, her chubby hands placed flat on the waxed surface of the desk like the bases of two darkly-clothed columns that held up her considerable frame. Her brown scapular fell forward, freed from the rise of her considerable bosom. “The man, Sister Izabel, the man.”

  The fear and the dread vanished at once and Iza exploded with a laughter she had never dared behind convent walls, much less in the presence of the abbess.

  Abbess Teodora came straight as a rod, her chin retreating into her turkey wattle. “You forget yourself, Sister Izabel.”

  Iza collected herself at once. “Yes, of course, you’re right. I was taken by surprise. What—what man are you speaking of?”

  The abbess’ eyelids tightened and she spoke with a deliberate evenness. “The man in the garden.”

  The dread returned with an intensity and suddenness that took Iza’s breath away.

  “You’re turning as white as your veil, Sister Izabel. You don’t mean to deny it? That you’ve seen a man on occasion in your garden?—In our garden!”

  Iza pushed a tongue around a mouth that had gone dry. “I don’t, Mother Abbess. But you can’t think—”

  “Who is he?”
/>   “Rafal.”

  “How many times has he been here?”

  “I don’t recall. Four or five.”

  “You let him in? Each time?”

  “Only the last couple of times. The other times he took advantage of those moments Sister Aldona leaves the gate open while she goes out to the street to buy from the farm wagoneer.”

  “These last times—you’ve struck up a romance of sorts.”

  “Oh, no, Mother Abbess!” Despite her situation, Iza struggled not to giggle. “Rafal must be twenty years older than I.”

  “I’m told he’s handsome just the same.”

  “By whom?”

  The abbess ignored the question. “If not romance, what was your interest in this—this Rafal?”

  “We talked about my herb garden. He gave me hints how to make my plants thrive. He was very knowledgable. And sometimes we discussed the weather.”

  “And what of this man’s interest? Do you think it is the weather or your herbs that he was about? Are you so naïve, Sister Izabel?”

  “Rafal is a good man, I can tell you that. I think something drew him to me. I can’t say what. I think he was lonely. Sometimes he spoke of Kosumce, his little village on the Vistula.”

  The abbess sat now, her round face beneath the black veil screwed into a scowl. “I cannot decide, Sister Izabel, whether you are as naïve as you would appear—or whether you are a master of words. Our convent’s own storyteller.”

  “Oh, Mother Abbess, I can assure—”

  A single forefinger, raised like a chalice at Mass, shushed Iza at once. “Whichever the case,” the abbess continued, “vows have been broken, have they not?”

  Iza thought. She had not been silent while at her work. She had not kept verbal communication within the community. She had accepted visitors. She had not reported a trespasser. So the tally came to silence and obedience. But certainly not chastity, not even chastity of spirit.

  Iza looked into the face of the abbess and she knew—despite the admissions she might make, the defense she might mount—that her future was ordained, that an eight-year chapter of her life had closed.