The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  The realization shook her. Anger quickly fueled her and the words leaped out of her mouth. “You mentioned my mother’s refusal to pay the convent my dowry, Mother Abbess. No doubt you also remember that I paid it with monies and a French tract of land left to me by our family friend, the Princess Charlotte Sic. The value I’m certain exceeded the dowries of all the postulants entering with me. What becomes of that money and those lands now, Abbess Teodora? What?”

  Even now as she lay trying to sleep, Iza was still able to feel her ears burn at the rudeness shown to the abbess. The initial anger had driven her. In the end, after she had come to accept the decision of the abbess as the right one, she left the convent without another mention of the dowry.

  Iza rose from the bed, took the single guttering candle and went to her wardrobe. If she couldn’t sleep, she would choose her gown for the morning. Her green day dress would be a suitable choice. In reaching for it in the dark, by chance she extracted one of the Carmelite robes she had purloined. She quickly replaced it and stood very still as her heart caught.

  Not completely had her life closed with the shutting of the convent gate. Abbess Teodora, it seemed, had been correct: this man, Rafal, did have a special interest in her. Was it possible that he was her father? The thought, coupled and confused now with the vivid memory of Michał’s sudden and sweet kiss, set her pulse thrumming at her temples, thus robbing her of a good night’s sleep.

  9

  VIKTOR TURNED ON HIS SIDE, facing the bedchamber’s windows. The gray light of day crept like a burglar through the heavy draperies. The apartment was quiet. No sounds from the boys. Opportunity, too often these days stymied by the rambunctious twins, beckoned now. Barbara lay with her back to him, the rise and fall of her breathing just audible. He rolled onto his other side, toward her, one arm sliding under her head where the pillow gave leeway, the other over the rise of her hips to her stomach and upward to the opening in the thin silk nightgown. He cupped one of her breasts.

  Barbara came slowly awake. “What time is it?”

  Viktor’s mouth was at her ear. “Never mind.” He gently shifted her to her back, his hand exploring.

  “Viktor, the boys . . .”

  “They’re sleeping.” He began working on her nightgown.

  “Not for long. Is the door latched?”

  He was laying kisses on her now. “I don’t know. I don’t much care. Hush, now and kiss me.”

  Barbara did not resist further—could not, he thought—and their early morning lovemaking commenced.

  In the midst of their passion, there came rapping sounds from the main rooms of the apartment, sounds they attempted to ignore.

  After a brief silence, the rapping came again. Barbara asked, “Is it the boys? They’re hammering at something. Viktor, go see.”

  “Dog’s blood!” Viktor cursed. He pulled away, rose from the bed and drew on a robe.

  Coming into the hallway, he saw one of the twins—which one he would not remember later—exiting the boys’ bedchamber. He was wiping at his eyes, clearly having just awakened. He looked up at his father, his precocious expression seeming to say, What’s this, now?

  The third rapping, louder, tore away at the mystery. Someone was knocking at the front door of their apartment. Ewa, their only servant, had not yet arrived. “It’s probably just Ewa,” Viktor said. “Probably forgot her back door key again.”

  He moved toward the door, attempting to put in check his fury. It would do no good to take it out on the middle-aged woman. Her cleaning talents left something to be desired and her patronizing attitude toward him was galling, but she could cook the best of Polish and Russian dishes. The boys loved her, too, so he would have to smile at her, lest they lose her.

  He pulled open the door and his feigned smile vanished.

  It was not Ewa. Standing before him was one of his minions, Luka, thick in body and brain.

  Luka took in Viktor’s expression and manner of dress and stuttered, “Milord . . .that is, sir . . .”

  “What is it, Luka? Speak up.”

  “Things didn’t go as planned, sir.”

  Viktor let go of his immediate displeasure, girding for a new one, one he would dislike even more. He turned, shooing the twin who had followed him to the door off to the kitchen, where Ewa could be heard now, making her appearance. The child resisted. “Go!” Viktor said, the angry guttural order frightening the boy into submission. Drawing the man in from the hallway, he led him to a small reception room and closed the door.

  Luka’s story came out in painful fits and starts. He was sorry to have come to Viktor’s residence, but he knew how badly Viktor wanted to be made aware of events before others were notified—Novosiltsev being the primary “other” implied. As ordered, the night before he and Sergei had been watching Lord Michał Stelnicki’s movements. Assuming he would remain at home with the family gathering, he and Sergei had left their post and continued their spying from the removed site of a couple of riverfront taverns—Sergei’s idea, it was, Luka professed—before happening upon the Stelnicki fellow by chance. Sergei meant, as ordered, to deliver to Stelnicki the warning to leave the capital. They knew not to identify themselves as officers of the secret police. Then, against orders, the warning turned physical. A stranger interceded on Stelnicki’s behalf and the fracas became an incident with witnesses. An incident with a knife. Sergei was wounded.

  Viktor felt an intense heat rising into his face, anger that was not lost on the thick-headed Luka. Considering the setting, Viktor clenched his teeth, doing everything he could to harness his emotions.

  “If only the stranger had not stepped in on the lord’s behalf, sir—”

  Taking a deep breath, Viktor raised a single finger and immediately silenced the man. “It’s a damn lucky thing for you and Sergei that he did intercede, Luka. Had Stelnicki been injured—or worse—Novosiltsev would have your hides flayed.” Viktor’s voice dropped to an intense whisper: “And while I have no love for Stelnicki, he is my wife’s brother. As a matter of honor I would personally do the skinning and it would be a slow process.”

  Luka had been paling by the moment. He opened his mouth but no words emerged.

  “Sergei is in the hospital?”

  Luka nodded.

  “Better for him there than here at the moment, I think. You’ll both be demoted, of course, if we don’t ship you back to the motherland for detention. Here I’ll find the most grueling jobs I can for the two of you. Far from the riverfront taverns. And you may tell Sergei that should he ever again disobey orders, a hospital will be of no use to him. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get out!”

  Luka stumbled away, head hanging.

  Viktor closed the door. He could hear both of his sons going about in search of him. He drew in breath, trying to maintain control. It occurred to him now that perhaps he had underrated Luka’s mental capacity. Yes, he had told his men that he wanted important information like this immediately, but Luka’s sense of self-preservation may have kicked in, too: the man knew that by delivering the bad news to Viktor at the family home—with wife and children closeby—he was less likely to suffer the violent brunt of anger for which Viktor was known. For now, at least.

  Iza thought she was the first to settle in at the breakfast table but Wanda informed her that Michał had already left the house, alone. She had slept little. Could it possibly be true—that her father was alive and that he had searched her out? That this Rafel—Jerzy—was her father? Her memory scanned the fleeting images she had had of him. Did she resemble him in any way? She had her mother’s dark hair, but her blue eyes and light complexion—could these be his?

  Cousin Anna came to the table next, and it was all Iza could do to allow her to start her breakfast before plying her with questions. Even though Zofia often came down quite late, Iza worried that this morning might be the exception. She knew she would have to work fast if she was to ascertain the facts as Anna knew them before her
mother might interrupt.

  The two exchanged occasional pleasantries while Lady Anna took good time at her bowl of buckwheat kasza. When she moved on to shelling a soft boiled egg, Iza could wait no longer. “Cousin Anna, I am anxious to know about my father. He’s been a mysterious figure to me all these years. Did you know him well?” She had blurted this out as a child might—and yet she didn’t care.

  Anna stopped her task, the widened eyes moving to Iza like emerald searchlights. She seemed at a loss for words. Iza had planned this as the best opening question; it left room for little waffling. She waited.

  “No, Iza, I did not.”

  “You met him, of course?”

  Now Lady Anna glanced down at her egg, but the hand holding the spoon remained motionless. A long moment passed.

  “Cousin Anna? I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast like this with annoying questions, but this is important to me.”

  Anna cleared her throat. “No, Iza, I never met the man.”

  Iza blinked in surprise. “Never?”

  “What has your mother told you of your father?”

  “I’ll tell you, Cousin Anna. Only please tell me what you know first.”

  “It’s not very much, child.”

  “Please.”

  Lady Anna lifted tiny spoonsful of her egg to her mouth, her mind clearly at work at something else—or perhaps in conflict. Iza suspected she was playing for time, hoping Zofia would make her appearance. Iza persisted, her gaze riveted on her mother’s cousin.

  At last Anna set down her spoon. “In November of 1794,” she began, “the Russians invaded Warsaw, coming first to Praga, of course, where your mother and her parents had once had their city town house just above the River Vistula. Your mother and I were attempting to escape the invaders. We were among the thousands in Praga trying to get across the bridge to the safety of the capital’s walls. Someone on the Warsaw side had already set fire to the bridge in order to take it down and keep the Russians at bay, so time was precious. Oh, Iza, the Russians were merciless to Praga citizens. We had the advantage of having a wagon, and just before we came to the bridge that would take us across and behind the Warsaw walls, a Russian soldier on horseback took hold of me and tried to lift me out of the vehicle. Zofia—your mother—seemed to know him by name and she offered herself in my place. He took her up onto his massive destrier. She then convinced the brute to help get the wagon onto the bridge. By nothing short of a miracle, I managed to get across to the capital just before the bridge collapsed into the Vistula, taking hundreds of innocents with it.” Anna was clearly on the verge of tears. “It was an unspeakable sight, Iza. Unspeakable.”

  “And Mother?”

  “I looked across and saw her atop the Russian’s horse near the broken bridge where people were still being herded off and into the cold river.” Lady Anna’s tears were streaming down her face now. “The Russian soldier could not control his horse in the meleé and . . . and the horse, the Russian, and Zofia toppled off and into the swiftly moving river.”

  Iza gasped. “She never told me these things.”

  “Your mother disappeared for months and we certainly thought her dead. In the meantime Jan and I married and started our life at Sochaczew. Then one day we got a letter saying she was alive and back in Warsaw. By the time I saw her, a few months later, she was well along with expecting you. My first thought was that Pawel Potecki was your father.”

  “Oh, I knew otherwise. Mother had me call him Paweł. Dear Paweł, how he loved Mother. He left her everything after he died at Waterloo, including this house. Mother says she would have married him, had he come home.

  Anna nodded. “He was a good man.”

  “So—you don’t know anything more?”

  “No, except the timing does indicate she was pregnant before returning to Warsaw.”

  “That is something to go on.”

  Anna pressed her hand on Iza’s. “I’m sorry. Now, what has your mother told you?”

  “That he was a brave lord who died at the Praga ramparts on the very day you spoke of. That seems most unlikely now, doesn’t it?

  Anna managed a wan smile. She and her story had stood as witnesses against Zofia. They sat in awkward silence as Elzbieta came in to take away their dishes.

  After a while Anna stood and prepared to leave. “I must go out, Iza.—You should ask your mother to be straightforward with you.”

  “Do you wish use of our carriage? It’s at your disposal.”

  “No, my destination is nearby. I’m going to the office of the Imperial Commissioner.”

  “About Cousin Jan?—Oh, I hope you are successful!” Iza reached out for Anna’s hand. She would not mention the man who lay upstairs. “It seems that we’re both on searches.”

  “Indeed. While I have little chance of getting in to see him today, I hope to set up an appointment.” Anna bent over to kiss Iza on the top of her head. “Good luck to you, dearest.”

  It was another half hour before an expressionless Zofia arrived in the dining room wearing a lime green satin day dress, its straight lines accenting her figure. “Is that man gone from the house, Iza?” she asked, taking her seat. “I cannot believe the nerve of Michał importuning us that way.”

  “I believe he is still with us, Mother.”

  “Well, he’s to be gone today, you can be certain.” Zofia tested her coffee. “Too much chickory,” she concluded.

  “Mother, the man’s name is Jerzy.”

  Zofia was inspecting the plate just put before her by Wanda. “Yes? So?” she replied offhandedly.

  Iza watched for a flicker of recognition but her mother’s face was a sculpture of detachment. “I think his surname is interesting, though,” Iza continued. “It means forest dweller. At this, Zofia’s head lifted a bit, her eyes widening, almost imperceptibly. The moment lengthened. Finally, Zofia said, “Well then, the man has a place to go back to.”

  “Jerzy Lesiak.”

  Zofia seemed not to hear.

  “Mother, the man claims to be my father.”

  “Ridiculous!” Zofia spat, too quickly, Iza thought. “How could you fall for something like that? I’ve told you—”

  “You’ve told me very little, Mother.”

  “What has he told you?”

  “I have yet to speak to him about it.”

  This seemed to buoy Zofia. “It’s second hand, then, from Michał? Do you know, Izabel, during the first French uprising hundreds of immigrants arrived in Warsaw claiming to be of noble birth who were not. Duke such-and-such, Princess so-and-so. Well, they were imposters, upstarts quick to impose on gullible Poles!”

  “This man—Jerzy Lesiak—is from a little village near the Vistula, some twenty miles east. He makes no such claim.”

  Zofia became clearly vexed. She stood. “He’s to go from this house today. Is that clear, Izabel? Please make it known to our thoughtless guest, Michał, who brought him here. I’ll be out all day.”

  Iza stood. “Mother, I have more questions.”

  “You’re my daughter, Izabel, not my inquisitor!” Zofia tossed her napkin on the table and exited in a swishing of green satin.

  Iza wondered if other parents were so hesitant to relinquish their parental roles when their children became adults. She sat again for a couple of minutes, coming to realize that her questions had been answered well enough in what her mother did not—would not—say.

  She heard then a faint sound in the hallway. How odd, she thought, then she realized she could not recollect having heard her mother’s steps recede.

  Careful to make no noise, Iza pushed her chair from the table, rose, went to the open double doors. Slowly she peered around the door frame and saw her mother, who stood studying herself in the hall mirror. It may have been fantasy, but it occurred to Iza from her mother’s expression that she was looking back in time to her younger self—and finding her current reflection too much of a contrast. Was it possible she was thinking of her days with Jerzy?


  But then, again, Iza thought: I don’t know this woman at all.

  Iza waited for her mother to leave the house before she went upstairs to the bedchamber where Jerzy Lesiak had been placed. She knocked. When no answer came, she deduced he was sleeping, yet she could not resist taking a look. She entered, walked over to the bed, and gently pulled back the bed hangings.

  The bed was empty and neatly made up. Jerzy Lesiak was gone, as if he had never come into her life.

  Iza’s hand went to her heart. Might the mystery of her birth never be solved? Now she spied on the bedside table a closed note. She stepped forward with some little hope that it held an explanation.

  The sealed missive was for Michał.

  At mid-morning Viktor Baklanov sat in a café on the fashionable Nowy Świat drinking French coffee at a small table by the window. He stared vacantly as a well-dressed matron outside abandoned her formal composure to comically chase down her bonnet that a blustery wind had commandeered. She went quickly out of view. Viktor didn’t give her another thought. He was pondering his next move. Michał Stelnicki was up to no good. Was he part of the rumored conspiracy, or attempting to become part of it? Perhaps his young brother had drawn him in. As one of Napoleon’s Polish Young Guard who had blown up the ammunition warehouses in Moscow in 1812, he would be a welcome conspirator to the cadets. Or was he trying to halt or postpone the execution of the plot? Viktor had to know. His own position with Novosiltsev hung in the balance. It would be useless to question him casually—even if they had liked one another. Viktor could not risk exposing his own position in the Third Department. He would be ruined professionally and personally. The secret would be revealed to Barbara.

  There was one person in the Stelnicki family, however, who would supply answers—if Viktor was clever enough.

  10