As Lady Stelnicka moved off in the other direction, Viktor hurried along the side of the building toward his usual entrance, disregarding any stares his limp caused.
Once in his office, he had no time to recover from seeing his mother-in-law at his place of work, for General Novosiltsev had sent word down that he was to report to him at once.
The subsequent berating Viktor had to endure from Novosiltsev was worse than he had imagined. How could this be? the Imperial Commissioner railed. How could something major be broiling at a cadets academy full of boys still wet behind the ears—with the preeminent Third Department remaining completely in the dark? Is it a pack of inept fools downstairs parading as professionals? And if we’re not in the dark, then speak up! The mole was useless? Your brother-in-law the cadet useless, too? And nothing yet on the other one—Michał, with his connection to Czartoryski? And this Jerzy Lesiak, seen leaving the Gronska home, is a member of a secret society—one of the damn clubs. And this from one of my other sources. So many pieces to the puzzle here—and we have nothing. Nothing!
And so it went for more than half an hour of grilling and abuse. Viktor was coming to hate Novosiltsev more and more.
The tirade slowed, like a tiring tempest, and Viktor knew he was about to be dismissed from the office. Now was the moment for his question. “Sir,” he began, “I know that my mother-in-law was in the building earlier today. She didn’t—”
“Come to see me? She did.”
Viktor swallowed hard. “What could she possibly want from you?”
“Not what, Viktor. Whom!”
“Sir?”
“Lady Anna Stelnicka, for her years, is a beautiful and intelligent woman. And I’m guessing she’s as clever as the men in her family.”
“Sir—”
“What she wants, Viktor, is to have her husband returned from Russia. Or at least to know his location.”
“Ah, that was my thought exactly.”
Novosiltsev allowed the moment to hang fire. He was deliberately taunting him.
Viktor gave a little cough and attempted faux nonchalance. “And . . . and you gave no concession, of course. But perhaps we could supply her with an address. My wife tells me she has a hundred letters written, all without an address. It might keep her quiet. Even if it is a false address.”
“An address will be unnecessary, Viktor.”
“He’s dead? But her expression as she left was—”
“Happy, of course. No, he’s not dead although I’m certain that would suit you. And he’s not in Russia.”
Viktor, always so reserved in front of this man, could not help but gasp. “Where—where is he?”
“At this moment, in a coach, a rather uncomfortable one, I imagine, but one that will reach Warsaw in a matter of days.”
“He’s . . . he’s been released?”
“He has.”
Viktor couldn’t make out whether Novosiltsev’s expression was a smile or a sneer. “How can that be? Did you give clearance?”
“It seems, Viktor, that Prince Adam Czartoryski has a bit more influence with Konstantin than I would have thought. It was the Grand Duke himself who signed the release some time ago, perhaps one of the results of the prince’s visit to the Stelnickis last May.” Novosiltsev sighed. “The verbal picture I have for years meticulously painted of Czartoryski as the devil incarnate evidently has fallen on Konstantin’s deaf ears.”
“How long have you known this?”
“A week or more.”
“You should have told me, sir.”
“I have bigger concerns, Viktor. As do you.”
Viktor sat motionless, the blood still draining from his face as the significance of this event thundered home. At last he drew breath to speak. “But—but he’s sure to recognize me as his chief interrogator.”
“Then that is your dilemna. Ah, family problems! Very vexing sometimes, yes? Very vexing. But you are on Third Department time now. See what you can do right concerning those damn cadets. Do that, will you?”
Perspiration was beading on Józef’s forehead. His questioning was held in a small basement room, dirty and musty. He sat at a square table, his superiors on either side. They were Second-Lieutenant Piotr Wysocki on the left, Colonel Józef Zaliwski on the right. These were the architects of the coming armed rising, known by a limited few as Project C. Józef knew nothing more than that.
“What did you tell him?” Zaliwski asked.
“Who?”
“You know very well who!”
“Viktor Baklanov?” Józef asked and held his breath, afraid that they really meant Michał, afraid that they had somehow found out about the illegal meeting he had engineered. They would consider it a serious breach, and that would be enough for a severe punishment—but more than that, they would assume the clandestine meeting had been arranged to provide an outsider information about Project C.
Wysocki and Zaliwski looked at each other. “Have you had other visitors?” Wysocki demanded.
“No—no, I have not.” Józef prayed that if questioned, Marcin would hold firm.
“What did he ask you?”
“Mostly we talked about family.”
“What else?” Zaliwski demanded.
“In a round-about way he wanted to know about our activities. He had heard some mission was afoot. I merely said there were many rumors and that most of us hoped that the tsar would send us cadets into service soon.”
Zaliwski again. “A clever answer, if he believed it. That’s it?”
“Yes, sir. I would do nothing to endanger the
project.”
“Józef, do you know your brother-in-law’s
occupation?”
“Yes, he works in some capacity for an attaché at the Imperial Commissioner’s. That’s all I know.”
”You’re only partially correct. In point of fact, Viktor Baklanov heads up the Third Department, under the devil Novosiltsev.”
It took some moments for this news to penetrate. His pulse raced, not so much at the notion that he had been speaking to the secret police, but at the realization that his sister Barbara had married one of the most accursed Russians in Warsaw.
“This seems to be news to you, Józef,” Wysocki said.
Józef could only imagine the shock on his own face. He slowly nodded.
Wysocki and Zaliwski exchanged looks again. “You may go to your quarters now, Stelnicki.”
Józef stood, drew his heels together, saluted. “Sirs, I do have a request.”
“And it is?” Wysocki asked.
“My only wish is that I might be of some special use to Project C. I would be grateful to be implemental somehow.”
“Looking for glory, Stelnicki?” Wysocki snapped.
“Not so much as setting things right. You know my father was taken to Siberia in ‘26 for merely being a member of the Patriotic Society.”
“We know that, Stelnicki,” Zaliwski said, “and we will keep your request in mind.”
Józef thought his tone softened a bit. “Has a date been set, sir?”
“It has,” Wysocki interjected, “and you’ll know when the time comes. By the way, has Gustaw been in touch with you?”
“No, sir.” Only the day before word had spread that Gustaw was missing yet again. “Sir—is he—”
“Dismissed, Stelnicki!”
Józef made his exit, climbing the steps, his mind whirling, thoughts of Gustaw giving way to his request. Had they meant it when they said they would consider him for a key position in the implementation of Project C? He prayed that they had. By all that was good and holy, they would not regret it.
As for Viktor, Józef could not put aside a sense of horror that a member of his family worked within the hated and feared Third Department. That he headed it, for God’s sake! It made him sick. Did Barbara know this? She couldn’t! Had he managed to keep her in the dark? Was he that masterful at manipulation?
And Michał. No doubt his brother was acting on
what he considered the best course for Poland. But the time was coming, the time for independence. The older generation was more hesitant, as Wysocki said so often. Józef had to admit that Michał was of the Old Guard. Change was to come from the young. Rebellion from the young.
Józef felt guilty about lying to his brother concerning Project C. But now he could tell him something. In fact, he felt compelled to tell him. Michał must be very careful of Viktor.
Marcin was not in their room, but he had placed on Józef’s desk lines of verse from a French poet, Kazimierz Delavugne, a supporter of France’s new revolution. The new poem, “La Varsovienne,” was a call to arms for Poland.
Józef scanned the first two stanzas and refrains. They were very fine, but for him the message rang loud and strident in the final lines:
Sound the trumpets! Poles to your ranks!
Follow your eagles through the fire as you advance.
Liberty sounds the charge at the double,
And victory stands at the point of your lance.
All hail to the standard that exiles crowned
With the laurels of Austerlitz, with the palms of Idumée!
O beloved Poland! The dead are free already;
And those who live shall win their liberty.
Poles to the bayonet!
That is our chosen cry
Relayed by the roll of the drum.
To arms, to die!
Long live Freedom!
12
25 November 1830
VIKTOR SAT ALONE IN THE apartment’s small but well-appointed reception room. He was perspiring. He never perspired. The back of his neck was cold, clammy, as were his palms. He knew his world was likely to change irreparably today. For two weeks he had been dreading this day.
“Viktor,” Barbara called from the twins’ room, “Are you dressed? If you’re ready, I could use some help with the boys.”
“No, I’m not ready, Barbara,” he called.
A few minutes later Barbara appeared in the doorway. “Viktor! You have yet to change. . . . What is it? You look funny. You’re not unwell?”
This was his chance. He could plead illness. “No,” he said. What if he did stay home? He would merely be postponing the inevitable. There was no escape. “I’m fine.”
“Well, please do hurry. You know what this means to me.” Barbara pivoted and went back to the twins’ room.
He did know what it meant to her. Basia seemed always ebullient, but he had never seen her quite so vibrant as today, so alive, the green eyes glinting with excitement and life.
Nothing like a homecoming, one of the sweetest events in life. Nothing like witnessing someone recalled to life. Nothing like seeing someone return from Siberia. For a day there had been hope. The arrival had been delayed. Word had come that Stelnicki had become too ill to travel, lifting Viktor’s hope that fate might intervene so that he would never have to face his father-in-law.
That was but a wish now. Viktor’s fists clenched of their own will. Who, for God’s sake, comes back from Siberia? No one. Perhaps there was a God. Perhaps it was the one the Stelnickis so devoutly worshipped. And perhaps their God was having his little joke on the Russian interloper within the family.
Would Jan Stelnicki recognize him? Of course, he would. Viktor had stood often enough at the window of the prisoner’s cubicle overseeing the questioning; he had done so long before he installed the lacework curtain to protect his identity from the prisoners. What then? With his position known, his career in the Third Department would likely come to an end. He could expect to have what he had already, self-disparagingly, told Barbara he had—a fourth-rate job as an assistant to an attaché’s secretary. Ironic, wasn’t it? And what of his marriage? The Stelnickis, so stolidly bourgeois in their love, in their patriotism, would be aghast. They would form a frontline offensive. Could Barbara’s love for him survive what he had done to her father, to her family, to her? He had no hope that it would, no hope at all.
Viktor thought back to the day they shipped the three minor nobles off to Siberia. Somehow the families had learned the day and time. These Poles became masters at intrigue when pressed, but in day-to-day life they were too guileless for their own good. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but Castle Square was filled with the mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters of the three families there to bid goodbye. But there were others, too, lining the streets that fed into the square, many hundreds who had gotten wind of the day and time of the exile. The ubiquitous and virulent underground patriotic groups in Poland never lost an opportunity to stoke the fires of discontent. Oh, these people were not about to rise up. Not that group. Not that day. But the seeds were being sown . . . Viktor’s attention had been drawn then to a young Polish woman—scarcely more than a girl—tearfully bidding goodbye to her father. She was beautiful, perfect, the morning sun catching reddish highlights in her blond hair. All in blue she was, dress and capelike robe, like the Madonna. Now he remembered thinking even then, at that moment, that this woman-child was meant for him. How otherwise? As it happened she never noticed him that day. Her green eyes, gleaming tears, were set on her father only. It was a lucky stroke for Viktor that she had not seen him.
Viktor wasn’t in the Third Department for nothing; in the days following, he searched her out, had her followed, checked her background, followed her himself. And then came the seemingly happenstance introduction at a café and subsequent carefully prearranged accidental meetings. That he was Russian put her off at first; he could see that. He had expected as much. But that is where his looks and charm came in. Courting was new to him, so used was he to simple seduction, but he took to it and surprised himself, not so much with his success at making her fall in love—as with the increasing depth and power of his own feelings for her. Was this what they called love?
Larissa had been furious at his sudden lack of interest, of course, but he cared little for that. He had arranged to get her here from Petersburg, pulled strings to get her a job that paid well, too well for what she did. Few women, in fact, had jobs such as hers. She should feel fortunate she wasn’t scrubbing floors or taking in laundry, occupations she had held in Russia. He had taken her away from that kind of existence. But now their time was over. He knew that, even if she didn’t, or couldn’t accept it. After the breakup, he had helped her find a place to live. And it was serendipitous for all involved when Novosiltsev suddenly needed a secretary upstairs, making her no longer ever-present in the Third Department. She wasn’t so quick to forgive and forget, he could sense that in their every interaction, but what of it? Some women are that way. She never lived up to her veiled threats anyway.
“Viktor!”
“Almost ready!” he lied, pushing himself up from the chair. He would go. He was many things—but no coward. He looked at the clock on the mantel. One hour. In one hour the homecoming celebration at the Gronska town house would commence. One hour and his life would change.
“Mother, are you certain Father has a way of getting here after arriving in the city?”
“Don’t worry so, Michał,” Anna said, “the Prince said everything would be handled.”
“Worry? Mother, you’re the one pacing the floor.”
Anna swung around, facing him now, her hands moving from her silver green gown to the amber combs in her hair and back again. “Do I look all right? Oh, Michał, it’s been four years. What will he think?”
Smiling, Michał rose from his chair and took his mother’s hands in his. “Father will think you are as beautiful as ever. He will think God has blessed him with a miracle.”
It was a miracle, indeed, Michał thought. He was nearly as excited as his mother. And astonished—he had doubted they would ever see him again. Word had it that few people survived Siberia; none returned.
“Sweet Jesus, why isn’t he here yet?” Anna withdrew from Michał. So as not to create wrinkles in her gown, Anna carefully lowered herself into an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, one of the extras that had been brought
in from the dining hall. “And where is Barbara? She should be here before his arrival. Why must your sister always be late?”
“She has more to think about these days.” Michał sat again.
“Oh! The twins—he has yet to see his own grandchildren! What a day this is, Michał, what a day! It’s a shame Józef won’t be here for the homecoming.”
A fortnight had gone by since Michał had met with Józef. The Monday visiting days had been summarily canceled, and he was not to be released from the academy for this occasion—or under any circumstances. Michał recalled the letter—note, really—that Józef had somehow managed to get to him early that morning.Give Papa my love, he wrote. It had been addressed to Michał and there was a further message for his eyes only. Michał, while I was unable to provide you with your requested information, I do have news of an urgent nature. Viktor Baklanov is not who he seems. He is heading the Third Department under Novosiltsev. Whether Barbara is aware her husband is one of the secret police, I don’t know. Considering the nature of your inquiry, I must caution you to be careful.
“By the breath of Satan,” Michał had said aloud upon reading it that morning, and since then he had given little thought to anything—other than the unmasking of Viktor. Emotion overpowered intellect. He had to deal with his intense feelings of hatred and disgust that such a creature as Viktor had wormed his way into the family. The bile that rose within his throat made him think of little else. Now, however, he gave further notice to the interpretation of his brother’s written words. How had Józef come upon this information? It had to come from his superiors Wysocki and Zaliwski. It was an easy scenario to figure: their knowledge of Viktor’s position and his visit there led to Józef’s ban from attending the homecoming. They didn’t want Viktor questioning Józef again. All of which led Michał to suspect—believe—that Józef did know something about the insurgency plans. He had known and—brother or no brother—he had not shared the information with his older brother, someone of a different mind. And yet Michał could not harbor anger against Józef and his passion for a free and independent Poland. He was a Stelnicki through and through.
The Warsaw Conspiracy Page 18