IN LATE MORNING MICHAŁ SAT alone on the low retaining wall of Castle Square, staring out over the Vistula. White cumulous clouds hung in the bright blue background of Praga, Warsaw’s suburb across the river, a river that flowed silently today, its subtle ripples giving motion to the sun’s reflection. And for the moment Michał wished himself back home at Sochaczew, sitting—without cares—at the branch that flowed past Topolostan—Poplar Estate. At this time of year—Autumn—he relished sitting on a bench in the orchard, the extreme quiet occasionally interrupted by the lazy buzz of insects and thuds and plops of ripe fruit falling to the ground.
If Jerzy was correct, Michał’s presence had drawn the attention of the Third Department. His continued presence might very well put others of the Gronska household at risk. Who had been following Iza home the night of the concert at Belweder Palace? Had she been in grave danger because of him and his stupidity? He had been trained as a soldier, not as a spy. He had no business meddling with the notorious Third Department.
Michał craned his neck to look up at the top of Zygmunt’s Column, situated in the middle of the square. The statue of the long dead king held a cross in one hand, a sword in the other. The juxtaposition seemed to wordlessly tell the story of Poland. Faith and independence.
So much for what he would like and where he would prefer to be. Prince Adam Czartoryski had drafted him for this task and—who knew?—its implementation just might bring some little importance to the modest existence of the Congress Kingdom of Poland, a reduced and pale reflection of what was once The Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania. He had to stay in Warsaw for that. And for Józef. What part, if any, did his brother have in this rumored insurgency? Their mother would be devastated should something happen to the youngest. And Michał’s memories of Tadeusz were etched in his mind, evidence of guilt that he had survived the trek back from Moscow while young Tadek had been left, buried in frozen foreign ground. Michał had been unable to save him from tragedy, but he might do better by Józef. He must!
Michał thought about Iza, too. About her gentle manner that could—according to her—sometimes be stirred the way a breeze could be provoked into a mighty force. He thought about the exquisite, uncannily blue eyes beneath black hair, eyes that would sometimes dance in collusion with the corners of her mouth, allowing—only once in a while—a full smile warm as the sun. And that kiss, that impulsive kiss. He could not help but think it had changed things completely. He did not for a moment regret it.
No, Michał would not be leaving Warsaw any time soon. He set off now in the direction of Łazienki Park.
Arriving at the Officer Cadets School at the prescribed hour—noon—he went to the side of the building, found the garden door in the stone fence separating the academy grounds from the park, and knocked lightly. Seconds later came three light taps. He tapped in return. The door opened and Michał slipped in.
Silently Michał followed Józef through neatly manicured grounds toward the cover of a forested area, where leafless trees were thick enough to obscure them from the many windows of the academy. Józef in the lead, they talked now, walking along a path well known to cadets, as well as to Michał from his days at the academy.
Michał knew he had to create a sense of camaraderie in order to gain Józef’s confidence so that he would feel encouraged to provide the kind of information needed. He thought it prudent to start with his own—and Tadeusz’—life at the academy. He did this in short order with anecdotes—funny and not—about eccentric teachers, outlandish cadets, typical high jinks, the breaking of rules, and the like. Sometimes Józef would enthusiastically interrupt with a similar tale. As this went on, their exchange took on a natural tenor, and Michał realized that they were connecting in a way they had never done, that for too long he had remained distant—willingly so—from Józef even though a number of their years at Topolostan coincided. There was the age difference; Józef was young enough to be his son. While Michał knew the ways of the military and estate management, Józef seemed to take to the artistic and musical avenues upon which their mother—so afraid of raising another soldier—had marshaled him. But Michał knew there were more than these things that set them apart. The truth was that after losing Tadeusz, Michał would not invest heart and soul in another brother. When he was younger, too, he even held the birth of Józef against his parents. Did they think they could replace Tadeusz? Was Tadek a puppy to be replaced by another puppy? That resentment—illogical as it was—too often made Józef a target for Michał’s aloofness and resentment.
Well into the park, they came to a bench and sat. Michał spoke of the youthful idealism he and Tadeusz had shared, the desire to be tested, the longing for glory, the quest for a Poland independent of Austria, Prussia, and Russia, neighbors that had effectively erased their nation from the map in 1795. “When the little Corsican came with his talk of independence, Józef, we saw it as our main chance.”
“I’ve taken a class on Napoleonic strategy,” Józef chimed. “He seemed invincible.”
“His victories were astonishing, but the blunders were even more so. Tadeusz was lost to the Moscow debacle. Napoleon should have had less ego and better sense than to have crossed the Russian steppes just prior to winter.” Sparing nothing, Michał related the long treks, the battles, the gore of guns, swords, and lances cutting through flesh, sinew, and bone; battlefields littered with bodies stacked two and three high in places, as at Borodino; farmers’ fields stretching for miles crimson with blood and reeking with the stench of death, the only life present the whirr of wide kite wings. And the cold—always the frigid cold and North wind bearing mercilessly down on man and beast. More of Napoleon’s men were lost to the cold than to battle—left like fallen white statues in the snow, men who could not help but give themselves over to a numbing and endless sleep. “I can tell you, Józef, war is not like you or the other cadets here might imagine.”
“But we have the desire to test ourselves, just as you and Tadeusz did. And the right, yes?”
Michał could not answer. Józef was more adult than he had imagined. “Tell me, Józef, why did you give up your music?”
“I still play.”
“You know what I mean—as an occupation. As a vocation! I’m no judge but others more qualified said you could have a career at it. You had—have—a passion for it.”
“I made the mistake of boarding at the Chopins’ and encountering Fryderyk Chopin. Michał, I realized in short order I could never be that.”
“So? Listen to me. In the military you’re not likely achieve the station and glory of General Józef Poniatowski, either. For whom you were named, I might add.”
“Who’s to say? In music I had discovered my place and, Michał, it was not to my liking. Here, I have yet to make that discovery.”
Michał was taken aback by the neat logic but would not acknowledge it. “Well, what about the Chopin daughter—what is her name?”
Józef’s face lost its expression, then its color, and when he spoke it was with little more than a whisper, reverent as a prayer: “Emilia.”
“Yes, Emilia Chopin. Are you to leave her behind, like Mother was left behind so many times? Or are you no longer sweet on her?”
Józef turned away and Michał could see the tears gathering in the blue-green eyes, the color—sometimes a striking turquoise—a perfect meshing of their mother’s green and father’s blue.
The romance must have come to an end, Michał realized. “I’m sorry, Józef. I spoke out of turn. I thought—”
Józef drew in a long breath. “Emilia’s dead, Michał.”
“Forgive me—how—”
“Consumption, a couple of years ago.”
“Years! I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t even tell Mother. I was . . .”
Michał put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Neither spoke for some minutes. Józef’s shoulders shook with slight tremors, as if he were cold.
Slowly, very slowly, as if in indecision
, Józef moved his hand into his cadet jacket’s inner pocket. He withdrew a blue velvet pouch and opening the drawstrings, he removed an item and passed it to Michał. It was a miniature portrait, painted on ivory. The subject was a young girl with dark curls and startling, sparkling eyes.
“She’s beautiful, Józef.” His hand gently pressed Józef’s shoulder before he let if fall away. “Beautiful.”
“She was,” Józef replied, the correction scarcely audible.
Michał passed the portrait back to Józef, who received it and coaxed it into the pouch with the sancrosanctity of a priest caring for his chalice.
Another short silence ensued. Michał volunteered something then he had never shared with anyone but Tadeusz—and only him because he had been present. “I loved a girl once. One I hadn’t left behind at home. I found her in Russia. She was a Polish girl with a boy’s name—Metody—married to a Russian soldier who had not returned in some time. He was probably dead. Tadeusz and I were bivouacked in a little peasant’s cottage when we arrived at a tiny hamlet outside Moscow. She and her baby were hiding in the attic. At first I just pitied her. She hadn’t left with the other villagers when they fled our forces because she was Polish and as an outsider she feared them more than Napoleon’s men. But Metody cooked for us, washed our shirts, and ate with us. And when I was wounded in the chest, she nursed me through it. I would have gotten myself up and about without allowing the thing to heal, but she was adamant about my recovery being a proper one. Sometimes when she did chores outside, I took the baby into bed. He was . . .” The memories, revisited so many years later, proved more vivid than Michał might have thought.
“What happened to them, Michał? Do you know?”
“I know. She wanted to return to Poland, and it took some doing, but we got clearance and she and her baby were placed in one of the camp followers’ wagons. Camp followers trailed Napoleon’s Grande Armée, like the tail of a large tortoise. Except it wasn’t so grand anymore. And winter had set in. ‘General Winter,’ Napoleon called it, for it had beat him more than once. When we arrived at Smolensk, I found Metody near death from frostbite, the baby in her arms, already gone. She lasted only a few hours. I saw to it that they were buried in a trench outside the city walls. It was a mass grave. Many soldiers had died of wounds, of course, but even more—women and children, too—were dying of hunger and exposure. I paid a man to cover them immediately so that the wolves would not get to them—and so they would not be cannibalized.”
Another silence.
“She was your first love,” Józef ventured.
“I guess you can say that.”
“Then you don’t forget.”
“You don’t forget, Józef, but you go on. . . . You will, too. You’ll love again. The heart goes on.”
“Did you love again? You never married. Have you never found someone else to care about?”
“Well, for many years I hadn’t, but perhaps I have, just recently.” This was all Michał intended to say on the subject. The time had come for Józef to keep his part of the bargain and tell what he might know about the insurgency planned by the cadets. But he looked up to see they were being joined by a third party, another cadet, quite out of breath.
Józef and Michał stood.
“Michał, this is my roommate, Marcin. He knew to find me here.”
Marcin gave a little bow. “They’re looking for you, Józef. I came as fast as I could.”
“For what?”
“You have a visitor.”
Józef sneered. “My visitor is here. An illegal one, as you can attest.”
“Well, you have another and a relative, too, so he says. Why, he must have some influence beyond that to have been allowed a pass today. He thinks quite highly of himself, but I suspect it’s the Russian accent he’s affecting that got him past the gatekeeper.”
Michał and Józef exchanged knowing looks.
“Does he walk with a limp?” Michał asked.
“Tries to disguise it, he does,” Marcin said, “but I noticed it.”
“The accent is no affectation,” Józef said. “Marcin, you go on back and tell them I’m coming directly. Hurry.”
After Marcin was out of earshot, Józef turned to Michał. “What do you suppose Viktor wants of me?”
“I can’t say, Józef, but for the good of our country you must tell me what’s happening here. You must confide in me.”
“You’re right to think something’s afoot, but I can tell you I have no specifics.”
“The goal?”
Józef shrugged. “Independence.”
“Come on, Józef. Tell me how!”
“I don’t know anything more than the fact there’s talk and that they’ve doubled our practice maneuvers. Now come along, I need to get you out the garden door before they send someone else after me.”
On a personal level, the meeting with Józef had begun to bridge a great chasm allowing them a real sense of kinship. But Michał was no closer to learning how the insurgency was to go forward. In that respect, the meeting had been a failure; however, as he drew near to the Gronska town house, his thoughts became more focused on Viktor Baklanov than on Józef. Why was he visiting Józef? It certainly was not brother-in-law affection. And how had he been granted admittance to see Józef? To hear him tell it, he was little more than a secretary to a middle level attaché. But, come to think of it, Michał could not recall his ever mentioning the name of the attaché. What was his true role in the Imperial Commissioner’s employ?
Iza met him at the door. “I’ve been waiting for you, Michał. I want to know what Jerzy Lesiak told you about—about his being my father. What details did he give?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“I would but he’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Early this morning. What did he tell you?”
“Not all that much, just that he fished your mother out of the Vistula on the day Warsaw fell and the Praga bridge burned.” Does that corroborate your mother’s view?”
“No, but it supports your mother’s story. What else?”
“That he, his mother, and grandfather took her in and nursed her back to health. And . . . that he came to love your mother. . . . ”
“Oh, Michał,” she cried, blue fire in her eyes, “he is my father!”
Iza instinctively moved toward Michał, who wanted to reach out to her but didn’t dare. Several moments passed. Michał spoke at last to dispel an odd awkwardness: “Did you tell your mother about his claim?”
“I did.”
“How did she react?”
“She denied it but I saw a change come over her, Michał. Her face belied her words.”
“I see.” Michał was not surprised. “Iza, did Jerzy speak to anyone before he left?”
“Not that I know of—but he left a note for you.” Iza withdrew the closed note from her skirts. “Here!”
Michał broke the seal and silently read the short message.
“Well?”
“He merely thanks me for the hospitality and that he has urgent business to attend.”
“No word that he’ll be in touch? That he’ll see you—me—again?” The eyes, like blue pools glistened tears. “After all the wondering, after all the years, is he to disappear from my life? Oh, Michał!” Iza started to tremble, then shake. Her hands covered her face. “To think he came to see me at the convent! Again and again. He cared!”
Michał stepped closer, gently pried her hands away, and encased her in his arms and held her to him. “If he cared to do that much, Iza, he’s not likely to disappear.” His heart went out to this fragile soul. Her breasts pressed against his coat, and he thought he could feel the beat of her heart. He wanted to suggest they move from the hallway to the reception room but was unwilling to break the moment.
Iza moved her head back slightly, looking up. An invitation, Michał thought. There was no awkwardness now. Michał was about to kiss her when they heard someone e
ntering the hall from the rear of the house. They turned, their arms dropping away from each other.
It was Zofia, who looked as if she had been about to speak, perhaps to say hello, but she clearly had made her own assessment of the situation and so said nothing. Dark, slivered eyes flashing her displeasure, she passed them and moved toward her bedchamber.
Michał and Iza were so taken by surprise and embarrassment that they, too, said nothing. The moment of intimacy had been stolen.
11
VIKTOR SLOWLY MADE HIS WAY to the Third Department headquarters. He would have to see Novosiltsev today and he didn’t relish the idea. He had nothing new to report. Their mole had proven worthless and that stratagem was abandoned. Neither had his interview with his brother-in-law Józef yielded anything. The boy had to know something. But he was too clever to be caught up in verbal traps. Viktor had the distinct disadvantage of having to pretend a mere passing interest in the idea of a rising. He wondered now whether threats would have worked. Or a little corporal punishment? He could not administer either, of course. His connection to the Third Department was to remain covert at all costs, especially as it related to his in-laws. And Novosiltsev had forbidden that such methods be employed on the sons of the nobility, those who, if well-motivated, could still make trouble for the Imperial Commissioner. In addition to the Grand Duke’s often pro-Polish stance, the Poles still maintained their Sejm, a congress that was largely impotent, but one that could be vocal if prompted.
Viktor was only two doors down from headquarters when he halted, blinking in surprise. There coming out of headquarters was his mother-in-law, Lady Anna Stelnicka. Good god, what is she doing here? He instantly recalled her determination to find out her husband’s whereabouts.
Viktor ducked behind a peddler’s cart and closely watched her. She paused for a moment, pulling the hood of her long dark blue cloak over her head and fastening the garment’s clasp at her throat. Putting her head down against the wind, she set off in the opposite direction.
Her expression had seemed one of self-satisfaction. Odd, very odd. Certainly she had found no satisfaction here. What did she learn to bolster her spirits? Viktor drew in a long breath and he trembled at the next thought. Had she been looking for him? Why? What could it mean? What had she been told? God help any employee who had stupidly provided classified information about him. The thought that she might have discovered his true occupation with Novosiltsev turned his stomach.
The Warsaw Conspiracy Page 17