The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  A little while later, Zofia knocked and stepped in without waiting for an invitation. “Hello, Anna,” she said, moving up to stand behind her at the window. “You aren’t going?”

  “No.—Nor you, it seems.”

  Zofia gave a little laugh. “For the protection of the many within the church. I’m certain the roof would fall in. Or the statues’ faces would freeze into frowns.”

  Anna attempted a laugh of her own.

  The two cousins stood as sentinels at the casement. Several minutes passed. “All gone,” Zofia said at last. Her sigh was real, no stagecraft here. “Jan and Jan Michał and Józef and Jurek.”

  Jurek—Zofia used the diminutive for Jerzy. Jerzy! Of course, he had gone, too. Iza’s father. In the weeks before he left, he and his daughter Iza had spent no little time getting to know one another. It clearly meant so much to both of them. Observing this newly-formed relationship, Zofia had gone from denial to disdain to indifference. But now—for Zofia to add Jerzy’s name to the litany of family patriots and to use his diminutive—Anna could not fathom its meaning.

  “Basia,” Iza said, coming into the reception room where Barbara sat, having just put the twins to bed. “There’s a woman here to see you.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes—a Russian woman. She didn’t give her name.”

  Barbara rose slowly from her chair. She was clearly tired from the day. “Whatever does she want?”

  “She wouldn’t say that, either. She insists on seeing you.”

  “Ask her in then, will you?”

  Iza walked back to the woman waiting near the front entrance. “This way, please.” The woman’s red cloak was of a fine material but rumpled, soiled, and showing wear. She carried a brown satchel.

  Iza watched Barbara’s face upon the woman’s entry into the reception room. Plainly, Barbara did not recognize the woman. Iza nodded and prepared to leave, but a quick glance from Barbara held her.

  The woman who had seemed confident and prepossessing at the door paused now, her glance moving from Barbara to Iza and back again. “I—I am Larissa. I worked with your husband.”

  “I see.”

  “What I have to say is rather—personal.”

  Barbara took her meaning and spoke before Iza could react. “Iza, please stay.” Then to Larissa: “You may say what you came to say in front of Iza. She is my closest friend.”

  Larissa nodded unhappily. “Very well.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m afraid you did not know the—particulars of your husband’s occupation.”

  “At the Imperial Commissioner’s? You’re wrong. I do know. He worked within the Third Department.”

  The woman was taken aback, Iza could tell. She drew herself up. “Do you know in what capacity?”

  Barbara was silent and seemed to be bracing herself.

  The woman went on: “Under Nikolai Novosiltsev he was deputized to lead the Third Department. As such he made many decisions—”

  “He led the department?”

  “He did.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I feel you should know— “

  “Know what? Just what is your interest in telling me anything?”

  The woman seemed about to say something, then her mouth closed, her lips flattening into a thin line. She stepped forward and took a portfolio from the satchel. She handed it to Barbara. “I think this will speak for me, Madame Baklanov. Can you read Russian?”

  “I can.”

  Iza wondered at this, for it was years ago that both she and Barbara had taken classroom Russian in convent school.

  The woman handed the portfolio to Barbara, then pivoted to effect her exit.

  Iza followed her and wordlessly saw her to the door. When she returned to the reception room, Barbara was seated and rifling through the several file folders she had withdrawn from the portfolio. “What are they, Basia?”

  “They seem to be documents on the various persons Viktor interrogated at the Third Department headquarters. Good God! The Russians document everything. I don’t dare read them. I’m certain Viktor did terrible things as part of his job. I won’t give her the satisfaction of reading them.” Barbara looked up at Iza. “Did she say anything more to you at the door?”

  “No, she slipped like a thief into the night. I can’t imagine what her purpose was in coming here.”

  Barbara’s flashing green eyes caught and held Iza’s. “Oh, yes, you can. You’re in the convent no longer, Iza. You needn’t pretend on my account. She’s very pretty, is she not?”

  Iza had no answer. Yes, they both had taken the same reading of her: she had been—or was still—Viktor’s lover.

  “I won’t read these,” Barbara said, her gaze falling again on the folders. “They belong in the fireplace. Whatever Viktor did as part of his occupation is in the past. I must remember that. He is still the father of the twins. And, Iza, he is still my husband.” She looked up at Iza, as if in appeal.

  “He is.” Iza wished she could say more in support of Viktor so as to comfort her childhood friend, but words dried up. From the first she had had an aversion to Viktor Baklanov.

  “Here,” Barbara said, “take these and throw them onto the grate.”

  But as Iza moved forward, Barbara’s eyes became transfixed on the label of a particular folder. “God’s teeth!” Barbara called out in a piercing shriek.

  “What is it, Basia?—What?”

  Turning her head to the wall, Barbara thrust a file at Iza. “Here!”

  Iza could scarcely believe what she saw neatly written—and easily translatable—on the label of the file:

  Deposition of Jan Stelnicki, 1826

  Interrogator Viktor Baklanov.

  Michał worried over Józef, who had been restored to his unit of cadets by one of the two architects of the insurrection: Piotr Wysocki had come personally to the Gronska town house to collect him. Oh, he longed to go, but that did not alter the pain—and fear—registered on their mother’s face. Michał felt more responsible for Józef now than he ever had. He had promised to look after him for his parents’ sake—especially his mother’s. And he had promised himself to do so in memory of his brother Tadeusz. But now new feelings toward Józef stirred.

  Upon retrieving him from the grasp of the Grand Duke, Michał had asked him exactly what had gone on at the Grand Duke’s palace. They stood in the dimly lit Gronska stable prior to entering the town house.

  “Marcin and I were part of the team that was to abduct Konstantin,” Józef had said, “but everything went haywire from the first. The setting of the fire near the river was to be the signal, but it was ignited too soon. Somehow, two of the cadets who were to be with Marcin and me at the rear entrance didn’t show. And then a guard took us by surprise, and I—I—”

  “You killed him?” Michał saw his brother fighting back the tears and thought of the first soldier he himself had killed.

  “Yes. And then Viktor appears out of nowhere and tells me I must kill Konstantin. That it was best for Poland. He did make me think about it. I was frightened yet somehow emboldened. To think that Poland might be free again! Oh, he said I would be a hero, and I’m probably vain enough to have let that cloud my thoughts, too. But suddenly Viktor was gone and the Grand Duke was moving in my direction. I had my pistol aimed at his heart and could have done it! Yet I asked myself why Viktor would be goading me into such a thing. It didn’t make sense.”

  “You can bet that he would somehow rise in the Russian bureaucracy if you had killed Konstantin and his brother the tsar came down on us with full force and no mercy. Viktor could own this city.”

  Józef digested this thought, then said: “At the moment of my decision the words of Piotr Wysocki came back. He said to us that Poles do not kill princes.”

  “And so you let the moment pass?”

  “I did. And then suddenly I was knocked unconscious only to wake up as a prisoner myself.”

  Michał chuckled. “There was much kno
cking about the brains that night.”

  “What, you too?”

  “Yes, but that’s a story I’ll save for later.”

  “Michał . . .”

  “What, Józef?”

  “Did I do wrong?”

  Michał flung his arm around Józef. “God’s mercy, Józef, you did right! We do not kill princes. Neither do we kill unarmed men, noble or not.” They were both silent for a full minute. At last, Michał said, “I have something for you.”

  “What, Michał—what?”

  “Something I found the other night at Belweder Palace.” Michał took from his coat pocket the blue velvet pouch containing the little portrait of Emilia Chopin. “Here.”

  Józef ‘s tuquoise eyes lighted up. With trembling fingers, Józef slowly withdrew the miniature and stared at the portrait as if he could not comprehend. He looked up at Michał. And then the tears came in a rush.

  It was at that moment, Michał remembered now, that something became as important—more important!—than protecting his brother and that was loving his brother. He extended his arms and drew Józef into his embrace. As they stood there, both trembling, a life-long chasm between them closed.

  Days later, Michał had signed on to the military also, just as every able boy and man was doing, including—to everyone’s complete shock—his father.

  But it was Józef whom he had sworn to protect. He had promised his mother—and he had promised himself—not to come home from war without this brother. But they had been placed in different units: Józef was a good distance away with Piotr Wysocki’s battalion at Siedlce, about 56 miles east of Warsaw, while he had been assigned to a lancer squadron that was about to leave Warsaw for the Modlin Fortress, about 30 miles north of the capital. He had to think of something. But what?

  21

  14 February 1831, Warsaw

  IZA WAS COMING DOWN THE stairs when she heard a hubbub of activity at the front door. Barbara and the twins were just arriving home after an afternoon out.

  “Take the boys to their room,” she was telling Wanda.

  The twins hailed Iza excitedly as they passed, but the servant spared no time in herding them toward the stairs.

  Iza’s attention was now drawn to Barbara, who was hanging her cloak on the hall tree. She appeared pale and distracted. “My God, Basia, you look as if you have seen a ghost!”

  “I—I suppose that I have.”

  Iza grasped hold of Barbara‘s hand. It seemed abnormally cold, the weather notwithstanding. “Viktor?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Viktor.”

  “Where?”

  “We were in the square. He was following us.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did the boys see him?”

  “No, that would have caused a stir on the street and I don’t suppose that kind of attention would be a good thing for him. As it is, he was running the risk of being arrested on the spot.”

  “But he knew that you were aware of his presence? How did you react?”

  “I became nervous. I don’t know, I came all apart inside. After reading that file, Iza, I want nothing to do with him. Nothing! And yet—”

  “He’s their father.”

  Barbara’s green eyes, so much like Anna’s but lacking the amber specks, locked onto Iza’s. “Exactly. He sets great store by them. What am I to do?”

  Iza was at a loss for an answer. “Come in now. There’s company for supper.”

  Barbara held her back. “Iza, it’s not just the boys. How—how do you stop loving someone?” Her large eyes pooled. “Even if they’ve done terrible things?”

  Iza hugged her now. She remembered Armand, whose family had torn him from her because of her mother’s resistance and, she heard later, reputation. She had tried to stop loving him. Had she? And there was her mother—she had tried to stop loving her, too. It was hard to love her, but harder to stop. She felt Barbara trembling against her. “I don’t know, Basia. I don’t know.” Both were silent for what seemed a very long time.

  When at last a commotion was heard coming from the reception room, Barbara gently pulled away. “What company did you say?”

  “Michał is here for a brief conference with Prince Adam Czartoryski. Military matters.”

  At that moment the double doors to the reception room opened and Michał and the prince emerged.

  At table Iza sat across from Michał and his mother. The meal was a simple one of mushroom soup, trout, potato pancakes, and beetroot salad. Conversation was of slight matters, but as the meal went on, the dormant subject of politics surfaced.

  “Had it been left to me,” Prince Adam Czartoyski said in answer to a question by Anna, “I would have worked for the re-establishment of Poland through Russia herself.” He sat at the head of the table—Zofia at the foot—while Wanda and her daughter Elzbieta nervously went about the business of serving the courses.

  “Rather than through war—open rebellion?” Anna asked.

  “Exactly. But as it is, our youths have been impatient and anxious to act. One cannot blame them, but my dream has been crushed. It was to see the guarantee of Poland’s nationality as decreed by the Treaty of Vienna realized by slowly working away at Russia’s will regarding our national independence.”

  “And now there are many at Tsar Nicholas’ court,” Michał added, “that will welcome this insurrection as a perfect reason and opportunity to void the very existence of Poland and come down on us with an iron boot.”

  “So everything is at risk,” Iza said.

  “Is there no hope of reconciliation?” Zofia asked.

  The prince shook his head. “As you know, on the ninth of this month the first shot was fired by Piotr Wysocki’s battalion. It was to hold off the Russian advance, so it was a necessary shot but one that could not keep them at bay for very long.”

  Iza could not help but notice Anna pale and draw herself up at the mention of Józef’s battalion. The fear for her youngest was evident, but so too was pride.

  “We will need some victories early on,” the prince continued, “if we hope to bring Nicholas to the table.”

  “Your grace,” Anna asked, “how badly outnumbered are we?”

  “Our main force is about 50,000 and although the Russians claim 200,000—”

  “Two hundred thousand!” Anna said with a gasp.

  “Actually, Lady Anna, we believe that number is inflated and that it’s more like 150,000.”

  “Still . . .” Anna said.

  “We should not risk our full armies against theirs,” the prince explained. “We should attack when the numbers are in our favor and when it will be a surprise. Smaller attacks, smaller skirmishes, in other words.”

  More talk in this vein led Iza to wonder why it was that the prince had not been made Generalissimo of the Army. He seemed to have the experience and the mind for it.

  “Is there no hope that other nations will come to our aid?” Zofia asked.

  “Those hopes have been dashed,” the prince said. “Not Austria, Prussia, England, or Sweden. I’ve spent months trying to enlist them. Even our friend France is only too glad to see Russia engaged with us rather than interfering in their interests in points west.”

  “Your grace,” Anna asked, “are you able to tell us where things stand now?”

  “Well, Lady Anna, I can tell you that the Russians have crossed our boundaries in three places . . . and that they seem to have the suburb of Praga in their sights as their access to the capital itself.”

  The table went silent for several moments.

  “Like in 1794 when we lost everything,” Zofia said, at last. “Dog’s Blood!—oh, excuse me, your grace, but it’s a good thing I never rebuilt our town house on the Praga escarpment.”

  The prince afforded a tight smile. His eyes were trained on Zofia, Iza noted. They reflected—what? Surprise? Embarrassment? Disapproval? As for herself, Iza burned with shame—not for the oath her mother had made—
but to think that she could voice such a selfish sentiment when the lives of so many and the future of Poland herself swayed in the balance.

  Momentarily, the maids came in to serve dessert, a poppy seed roll. The faces they encountered, however, seemed little inclined to smile at a favorite sweet.

  After Prince Czartoryski’s departure, Iza watched Michał pull on his military greatcoat. Seeing him in uniform again after so many years conjured up days of their youth, and it came to her with a jolt that she must have loved him even then. “You’re to leave then, too?” Iza asked.

  “I’ve got another appointment to keep at the artillery garrison—about Józef.”

  “Is he all right, Michał?”

  “As far as I know. The Siedlce region is quite a distance. I worry for him.”

  “I see that you do.” Iza reached up with both hands to lay flat his collar. “A good and faithful brother, as it should be. . . . And who’s to worry for you, Michał?”

  Michał caught the break in her voice and held her gaze. “You?”

  “Yes, Michał.” His brown eyes held hers. “Oh, yes.”

  Michał took her hands in his as they came away from his collar and held them. Neither spoke.

  Finally, Iza said, “Do you return to the fortress tonight?”

  “No, Iza, not tonight. The morning will be soon enough. . . .Will you . . . will you wait up?”

  Iza felt a foreign sensation, a kind of hammering in her heart. “Yes, Michał, I will.”

  Michał dropped her hands and reached around her, pulling her to him now, crushing her against the buttons of his military jacket as he leaned down and kissed her with abandon.

  In a hard, uncomfortable chair Michał sat waiting for General Sowiński, Minister of War, in a small office of the Warsaw Arsenal Garrison headquarters. He had guided his horse at a slow trot toward the village of Wielka Wola, situated on the western outskirts of Warsaw, slowing and stopping often for other evening traffic in the streets. For the duration of the ride, and even now, thoughts of Józef had been superseded by thoughts of Iza. Her concern for him had been so very clear in her expression and in her voice. To find someone now, at this age in life . . . and in wartime . . . gave him pause. Was there somehow still a chance for them?