The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  Jerzy spoke now as if he hadn’t heard Michał’s apology.

  “Zofia was a woman like none I had ever encountered. The River Vistula washed her up near Kosumce, my village on the right bank. Grandfather and I had come down to the marshy bank to witness a terrible sight—lifeless bodies among charred and broken bridge planks and beams floating by. It was All Souls Day, a fitting day you might say, the day the Russians attempted to invade Warsaw by way of the Praga Bridge. Zofia somehow survived a fall from the bridge, and as the Vistula’s current took her for those twenty miles, she held on for dear life to the corpse of a Russian soldier. It was a miracle. Grandfather and I took her home where he and Mother attended her for weeks—until she was well.”

  “I see.”

  “Everyone in our village is light-skinned and blond. She was like a goddess with her olive skin, dark hair, and dark Tatar eyes. And she had such life, Michał. She glittered with life. I carved figures from linden wood and she took a liking to them. Called me an artist. That made me feel so proud. Like I mattered. To have a beautiful noblewoman compliment me so.”

  “She was older?”

  Jerzy waved his hand dismissively. “A bit.”

  “You were smitten.”

  “She had me teach her how to carve.”

  “You were both smitten.”

  I would have given anything for her to stay, but it wasn’t in the cards. She had been used to a life so contrary to mine. I was—am—a peasant. I had nothing to offer her.”

  “And you never saw her again—until the other day.”

  “Oh, but I did, years ago. When I was a young soldier I searched her out here in Warsaw.” Jerzy paused, as if savoring the memory. “Zosia—”

  “Zosia? She lets no one use that diminutive.”

  Another dismissive wave. “She allowed me. On that occasion she also allowed me—how shall I put it?—a soldier’s sendoff.”

  Michał gave a conspiratorial little laugh.

  “But it was bittersweet because she made me promise not to attempt to see her again.”

  “You stayed true to that?”

  “I did—but . . .”

  “But?”

  “When we met the other day, alone, she told me that some years later she had come to the village to see me. To tell me she hadn’t forgotten.” Jerzy’s voice weakened now. “She had been in a closed carriage and as it approached my cottage, she heard my cousin call to her daughter, Zosia. She assumed I had married and that little Zosia was mine.”

  “Another Zosia?”

  “Yes. Ah, the little pranks life plays on us, Michał. Fortune’s wheel is ever turning. Zofia had the carriage turn around and go back to Warsaw.”

  “Sweet Maryia and Józef.”

  Jerzy abruptly stopped and turned to Michał. “I can remember the day. My cousin and her child were visiting, and when I came around to the front, they were mesmerized by a nobleman’s coach that had stopped. It was raining. A nobleman’s coach did not come to our village often, I can tell you. I thought perhaps it was stuck in the road, but as I ran toward it in the increasing rain, it lurched forward and began to move quickly away. I stopped and through the rain I—I saw a face at the window. It was blurred by the raindrops, and it was there but a moment before the shade came down. I didn’t guess . . . if only . . .”

  “You didn’t know it was—”

  “No, curse the devil! How could I? Fortune is a giver and taker.” Jerzy started to walk again.

  They went a full street in silence. Michał felt very awkward now for himself and this new friend. “You never married—after?”

  “No.”

  “You loved her very much.”

  They were close enough to Długa Street now so that a cheer punctuating someone’s speech nearly drowned out Jerzy’s barely voiced reply. Michał was nearly certain that he said, “I do, still.”

  17

  GUN IN HAND, VIKTOR STOOD in the Imperial Commissioner’s office looking down on Kanonia Square. There was no General Nikolai Novosiltsev to berate him now. He had vanished at the first scent of trouble —most likely from the capital, most likely from Poland. In making the slow, jarring climb to the top floor —his last climb—Viktor did not have to face being humiliated about his lameness, for every floor of the five-storied headquarters building seemed deserted. Viktor had just come up from the Third Department headquarters in the cellar where he had dismissed his men. He suggested that they find Konstantin’s forces and align themselves with the Grand Duke. This suggestion came easily off the tongue even though he could not be certain Konstantin was even alive. Had Józef—or some other cadet—killed him? He prayed so. The mystery would be answered in short order. He cursed himself now for not having waited at the Belweder for the outcome, but he had run the danger of being recognized by Konstantin or one of his men—or being challenged by other cadets. He could not hope to kill them all, as he had Józef’s roommate.

  Kanonia Square below was aglow with torches borne by people streaming towards Długa Street. Events had moved fast, much faster than he had imagined. The people had joined the cadets’ insurgency with unexpected enthusiasm and resolve. Russians had always underrated the Poles, just as the Turks had at the Battle of Vienna. Here was more modern proof. He wondered if his men would find the Russian forces. Their chances of getting out of the city otherwise were dicey, indeed. Chances were that by morning the city would be in Polish control, run by a mob, and sealed up like a tomb.

  Viktor turned from the window and caught his reflection in the tall wall mirror behind Novosiltsev’s massive desk. What am I to do? Whether the Grand Duke was dead or not, Viktor had not prepared himself for this. He could not stay in the city while it was under Polish rebel control. It would be too dangerous, for his position in the Secret Police had been found out. He should have killed Michał, but his brother-in-law had somehow already known about his occupation. How had that transpired? Had Józef known, too? How? Yes, he could have killed Michał, but if found out, any chance of holding on to Barbara and the boys would be destroyed.

  He could spend no more time with conjectures and regrets. He must consider the options now. They were few, he realized. It would not be long before the insurgents—informed by some former captive or even one of his own spies turning coat to save himself—swarmed into the building to free the prisoners in the makeshift dungeon below, looking thoroughly, too, for their Russian captors and inquisitors.

  Focus, he told himself. Focus! He had come up here to search for the file Novosiltsev kept on him. It was incriminating stuff and in the wrong hands would mean certain execution. He set the gun down on the desk and began rifling through the drawers looking for the folder he had seen one day in the Imperial Commissioner’s hands. He knew that it existed, and yet it was not here! At that moment he came across the folder on General Aleksander Rozniecki, and an idea began to form in his mind. It could be useful. Very useful. He held on to it.

  Viktor expelled a sigh of frustration. Where the hell is my file? Was there time to restart his search? He had no choice. At that moment something caught his ear and his head jerked up, his every nerve on alert. A faint metallic noise pushed all thoughts away. Viktor stared—unblinking—at the office door. The doorknob was slowly turning. Viktor swallowed hard. There was no other exit to the room. He dropped the Rozniecki folder on the desk and retrieved his pistol. He leveled it at the door. He waited.

  A long moment passed. The person entering was taking great care. In moments he became aware that the visitant was a woman in a red cloak and red hat. And then he realized it was Larissa, his one-time mistress. The woman who had come to Poland because of him. The woman he had abandoned after falling in love with Barbara.

  She looked up, surprised to find someone in her superior’s office, and surprise transitioned quickly into alarm when she saw—in silhouette against the window—someone with a pistol aimed at her. She screamed.

  “Quiet!” Viktor commanded.

  “You!”


  “I could say the same, Larissa.” He placed the pistol on the desk next to the Rozniecki file. “You didn’t go with Nikolai?”

  Larissa stared at the desk a beat before returning her gaze to him. She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t offer,” she spat out distastefully, “that’s why.”

  “He thought only of himself?”

  “He’s a man, no?”

  “What brought you here at this hour?”

  Larissa nodded toward the desk. “He keeps a wooden box in his top right hand drawer.”

  A lift of Viktor’s eyebrow posed the obvious question.

  “Petty cash,” she replied, at once embarrassed and defiant.

  “Ah, I see. And what are you clutching so tightly?”

  “A satchel from my office—a few of my personal items along with paper, pens, and ink.” And then in a rush of words: “And you? What are you here for?”

  “My file,” Viktor said. “I can’t find it. You must know where it is, Larissa, yes?”

  “I’m not certain he kept one on you, Viktor, in keeping with your desire to be anonymous. Are you still being anonymous?” Larissa’s smile harbored a sneer. “What’s the matter—afraid of being fingered by the insurgents, Viktor?”

  “It’s something you should think about, too.” Was she lying about the file? As the commissioner’s secretary wouldn’t she know about all the files? Larissa could be a cool liar.

  “I expect I’ll manage. And you—your Polish wife will see that you are well protected, yes?”

  Larissa’s comment cut him before he could muster a masked expression.

  His pause raised a second suspicion. “What is it?” she asked, “something wrong with your wife? . . . Oh, my God, she doesn’t know about you, does she?” And then, in a near scream: “Does she?”

  Viktor scoffed and pulled up from bedrock his deepest voice: “Of course, she does!”

  “Liar! She does not. And now you’re in quite a pickle, yes? I imagine she probably comes from a household full of likely insurgents.”

  The truth in her statement cut to the quick. Viktor angrily pulled open the desk drawer and withdrew the hand carved box from the Tatras. He held it out to Larissa. “Take it,” he said.

  Larissa did not hesitate to move forward and take it from him. She fitted it into the arm that clutched the satchel, her eyes searching his. “An unlikely end, this. Isn’t it, Viktor?”

  “It’s hardly an end, Larissa. Hardly that. The Poles are a lost race.”

  “You don’t understand, do you? What is it with men? I meant us.”

  “Oh,” Viktor said, although he had known exactly what she meant. “Take care, Larissa.”

  “I will.” Larissa’s chin came up a bit. She paused, as if assessing him. “You don’t think you love her, do you?”

  Viktor stared, too angry to speak.

  Larissa waited two beats, turned, and moved toward the door. Suddenly, she halted and pivoted, facing him, her red lips a crooked line of contempt. “Viktor, you aren’t capable of loving someone.” She turned away again.

  “Larissa,” Viktor called, even before he knew for certain what he was going to say or do next. He picked up the pistol, his finger pressing lightly against the trigger.

  Larissa whirled around, a blur in red, her expression hard and questioning. Her steel gray eyes darted to the gun. A shadow passed over her face.

  Viktor paused. He heard her take in a deep breath. It would take but seconds for him to lift it and take aim.

  “Well?” She had sensed his temptation—and his indecisiveness.

  “I’m sorry, Larissa.”

  Larissa had not so much as blinked. “Don’t worry, Viktor. I’ll manage just fine. I hope you do, too.” She forced a smile, spun about and passed through the doorway.

  Viktor forced her from his mind at once. She had been right: he was in a hell of a pickle. What was he to do? He could have killed her there and then, he thought, knowing Larissa might well relish telling Barbara about his position in the Third Department. But for tonight, at least, self-preservation was her main objective. Besides, Barbara’s brothers would probably beat her to the punch. How they would enjoy exposing him as a leader in the Third Department!

  Focus! It was unlikely that Michał would have the chance to see his sister this night. Viktor knew that he should be the one to break the news himself. His stomach tightened. A simple apology would not wash with Barbara. He girded himself for a scene. A terrible scene.

  Focus! If he was to stay in Warsaw and wait out this foolish—and no doubt ill-fated—insurrection, he knew he would have to do it in hiding.

  He picked up General Rozniecki’s file. This would be his ticket to a short term underground existence. The folder held everything he needed to claim sanctuary with Rozniecki, the Polish Chief of Police—Chief of Spies!—who had been acting in collusion with Russia’s Third Department for years. Viktor had never liked Rozniecki, but what did that matter? He would be his ally—even if he had to coerce him with a file full of the most ghastly material.

  As for his own file, he had no choice but to abandon the quest. He turned to exit the office, pausing now a moment to check the status of the square below. There were fewer people now moving through the square and toward a torch-lit Długa Street, where some major gathering was taking place. Leaving the building should pose no problem. As he started to turn away, a flash of red below caught his eye. Larissa’s full-length red cloak and red bonnet stood out like bloodstains on the square, even amidst the activity. She was not moving. She had stopped to speak—in a very animated manner—to a small group of Polish cadets. They listened intently as she spoke, gesticulating now toward the building that housed the Office of the Imperial Commissioner. This building! She kept pointing down and Viktor knew at once she was telling the Poles of the prisoners that awaited delivery from the cellar dungeon.

  “Damn her,” Viktor cursed. “God damn her to hell!”

  And suddenly he could see her face upturned, her hand moving up, too, finger extended, as she pointed at the very windows of General Nikolai Novosiltsev’s office. The cadets glanced up now. Viktor felt as if her finger had sent a bolt to his heart. Here was a woman who held a grudge and knew how to bide her time before venting it. He backed away from the window and into the wall so suddenly that he dislodged the huge mirror which fell forward onto the desk, crashing and breaking into hundreds of shards and fragments.

  Viktor took in a deep breath. He knew instinctively that momentarily the cadets—and perhaps some citizens, too—would be rushing into the ground level. And Larissa would be walking slowly away, a smug look on her face. Perhaps across the square she would find a vantage point from which to watch his arrest. That is, if he wasn’t executed on the spot.

  Clutching the file and the pistol, Viktor limped from the room. Logically, the cadets would be using the stairway at the front. He made his way through a series of rooms now, praying that she had failed to mention there was a rear servant’s stairwell that dated back to when the building was a single residence for the priests of Saint Jan’s Cathedral.

  Damn, Viktor cursed as he painfully made his way down the stairs. My first impulse was the correct one. Apology be damned. I should have shot her!

  As Michał and Jerzy approached Długa Street, the city seemed to have become abnormally quiet. Michał began to wonder if someone or some thing had sent the citizens back to their homes. And what of the soldiers, Polish or Russian? Then he heard a single voice, Polish, strong and strident, and as they turned into the upper end of the street, they saw the multitudes of soldiers and citizens listening raptly.

  A white-haired general was detailing military details as he knew them. The city had been taken, he assured the masses, all but for a small section in the southern part of the city where fighting with Russian soldiers still went on. Intent on finding Józef, Michał pushed on through the crowd, choosing the small pockets where he observed cadet unifo
rms. Jerzy followed, occasionally pulling at Michał’s sleeve to point out some blond cadet who fit Józef’s description. Michał would look, shake his head, and they would move on.

  Michał noticed that the citizens were well armed. No doubt the city’s arsenal had fallen. The general began talking about how certain Polish officers had seemed to know little of the cadets’ plans and had sided with the Russians, thus forfeiting their own lives. A young man then took over as speaker, tearfully telling of how he had witnessed prisoners freed from the Franciscan prison. A prisoner himself who had been freed from the Carmelite prison spoke, too, and so it went, with speakers changing every few minutes. That holy places had been taken over by the Russians recently for such evil purposes incensed Michał, but another realization was slowly forming in his mind: that no one speaker seemed to have taken control of the occasion, this historic insurrection. That—and the apparent ignorance of good Polish officers regarding the plot—spawned worry that this insurrection had not been fully thought out. Not carefully enough, at least.

  Praying he was wrong, he put off such thoughts and concentrated on finding Józef. They came to the far edge of the crowd without a sighting of his brother.

  “Look,” Jerzy said suddenly, “across the way! It’s Iza and Zofia.”

  Michał’s eyes followed the direction of Jerzy’s finger. Iza and Zofia stood some twenty yards away, their eyes sweeping the crowd. And then he saw, a little behind them, his parents. His heart dropped within his chest. What was he to tell his parents about Józef? His father was pale but he seemed caught up in the speaker’s plan to wrest from Praga the contents of the arsenal there. He saw now that his mother’s eyes were constantly moving, searching, like those of an eagle watching for the return of her fledglings.

  Jerzy started to forge a path through the crowd when Michał’s hand gripped Jerzy’s upper arm. “Come, Jerzy. Let’s go.” The two retreated in the direction they had come.