The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  Anna prayed that it was not an exodus and that these thousands of good people—all hoping to aid the soldiers and see their loved ones—would be able to return to their homes when the three hours came to an end. She had learned that nothing in war was to be trusted.

  Slowly, the makeshift caravan of eclectic vehicles and souls moved through the Castle Square, past the column supporting the bronze figure of King Zygmunt—a cross in one hand sword in the other—snaking down then, toward the bridge.

  When the carriage rumbled onto the wooden planks of the structure, the scene about Anna fell away like scenery from a stage and a memory of a bygone bridge on the same site transported her. The indelible memories of November 1794 played out in astonishing detail: how she and Zofia and a thousand other souls were attempting to escape wave after wave of Russian soldiers who came into Praga from the east, cutting down men, women, and children with lances, swords, cutlasses. Were it not for Zofia’s brazenness—and sacrifice—Anna would not have made it to the Warsaw side before the collapse of the bridge.

  A voice near her bolted her back to the present. “It’s a miracle that the bridge is still in one piece.” Barbara’s statement—ironic in light of Anna’s trance-like memory—served to clear her mind. Night had fallen but the moon and a parade of moving torches held back the dark.

  “I just hope it can bear this kind of weight!” Iza shouted above the din of the crowd.

  It wasn’t fire that that they had to worry about, as it had been in 1794. Often by now—mid-February—the Vistula had started its magnificent thaw, one that often damaged or completely broke up the bridge. During the course of each spring, many repairs had to be done to make it once again serviceable.

  Three hours, Anna thought. She would remember the bittersweet sights and sounds of those three hours for the rest of her days. Eager to meet their defenders, the population of Warsaw flowed through the center of Praga and out onto the fields where the various Polish armies were coalescing. These were the fields of glory upon which in the days to come Poland’s future would be decided. But for now, parents sought out sons, wives their husbands, children their fathers. Tearful, joyful reunions went on about them as snatches of hymns came from one quarter only to be echoed in another. Some citizens failed in finding their loved ones and had to hear from commanders or read from posted lists the names of their fallen, but Anna witnessed how they came to grips with their grief, knowing the cause for which their heroes had valiantly died. She wondered if she could be as brave.

  Miraculously, no sooner had the wagon been stopped at an open-air field hospital and the dispersal of provisions and medical aid begun than Michał appeared, embracing Anna first, then Barbara, then Iza. Anna noticed the joy on the faces of Michał and Iza, confirming in her mind what had been merely a suspicion: that a very special bond had bloomed between them.

  Michał turned to her now. “Mother, Józef has been transferred. I’ve only just heard. He’s stationed here, at the Warsaw Artillery Arsenal.”

  Anna’s face brightened. “He’s safe and well?”

  “He is. General Józef Sowiński has taken him under his wing.”

  “Thank God. And your father?”

  “He’s still in the Zamość area, I was told by a reliable source. His knowledge of that area is invaluable. So, you see, everyone is accounted for.”

  “Indeed,” Anna said, relieved and as happy as possible amidst such uncertainty. The major battle for Warsaw was perhaps just hours away. “Have there been many dead, Michał?”

  “We may have lost 6,000, but I can tell you far fewer Poles than Russians. Our call for an armistice to bury the dead was but a ruse. We’re waiting for reinforcements. And besides, we’ve probably gained as many peasants as the number of the fallen. Armed with pitchforks and the like, they’ve come.”

  “Ah, the people,” Anna said, “they seldom

  disappoint.”

  “I must move on to my own duties now, ladies,” Michał announced, bowing and doffing his czapka in an exaggerated fashion. It was almost as if he were saying his farewell at a dance or some such social occasion even though Anna suspected that his duties had to do with the burials.

  It was an hour later, with the wagon nearly empty of food and medical supplies, that Barbara cried out, “Mother, isn’t that Cousin Zofia over there, accompanying one of the coroner’s wagons?”

  Iza looked up, her eyes narrowing and following the direction Barbara indicated. “It is,” she said, without a scintilla of surprise in her voice.

  “She’s . . . she’s—”

  “You’re surprised, Basia,” Iza said, a twinkle in her eye. “I can’t blame you. When did you ever see my mother go out of her way for someone else? And yet, she joined Madame Hoffman-Tanska’s legion of women a few weeks ago.”

  “That’s where she’s been going?”

  “Indeed and without fanfare.” Iza turned and called out: “Mother!”

  Anna could see that Barbara was thinking all the more wonder, but she would not say it aloud.

  “Who can say what goes on in my mother’s head?” Iza said.

  Zofia was disengaging herself from the coroner’s wagon and starting to cross toward them, so Anna, whose own surprise was mild, spoke up. “Politics and national boundaries mean little to Zofia, but when her home and loved ones are threatened, you can expect her to move like a mother bear.”

  Zofia wore the plain blue dress advanced by Madame Hoffman-Tanska, but over it she had one of her most luxurious capes, one of black silk and white fur. At least for the moment, the contrast seemed to define her very character.

  Zofia kissed each of them, making small talk as she did so. This was no social gathering, however, and presently she made ready to return to her duties—duties that clearly had to do with readying the dead for burial—but in an abrupt move, she pulled her daughter aside and whispered something in her ear. Iza’s face darkened, her eyes suddenly gleamed with tears, and she slowly shook her head.

  With Zofia gone, Barbara dared to ask, “What’s wrong, Iza?”

  “Mother wanted to know,” Iza said, her words catching in her throat, “if I had heard anything of Jerzy, my father.” She wiped at a tear before it could fall, her eyes vividly blue in torchlight, going from Barbara to Anna. She drew in a breath before answering the unvoiced question on Barbara’s face. “He’s not here and neither is he on the lists.”

  Anna was dumbstruck on two counts. First, she had agreed with Michał that everyone was accounted for. That was not the case. Iza’s newly found father was not accounted for, and Anna burned with shame to think she had been so remiss as not to think of him—or Iza, who had kept her worries about him a secret. Even more striking than that, however, was the surprise Anna felt now in recalling the pain and concern on Zofia’s face. Zofia’s feelings for her lover of more than thirty years ago were genuine—and full of a fire rekindled.

  Wielka Wola

  JÓZEF WIPED AT HIS FOREHEAD. He had worked up a sweat brushing down his horse, Tad, a fine Polish Arabian. The color of chestnuts, it had eyes that seemed to look into one’s soul. He had named him for his brother Tadeusz. He wrote nothing of this in a letter he had sent to his mother from Siedlce. He meant only to establish a bond with the brother he never knew, but would she think it disrespectful? Perhaps not, but neither did she need a reminder about her long-ago loss. Józef finished his brushing with several long strokes. “There, how’s that, my friend?” he asked, as if the horse might answer. “Miss the country, don’t you, Tad? I do, too. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take you out for an airing better than today’s. We’ll go far from the city!” Józef tossed the brush up onto a shelf. He lifted a months-old limp carrot to the grateful mouth and exited the stall without a backward glance. “Count on it!” he called back. Fastidiously caring for Tad had always soothed him as much as it had the horse. But not today. Oh, he was thankful for having been able to keep Tad upon being transferred to the Warsaw Artillery Garrison although his work here had not
as yet required use of a horse. Truth told, there was little else about his new position to give him cheer.

  The transfer had come out of the sky, like a bolt from the gods. No other cadets of his class that had been with him under Piotr Wysocki at Siedlce had been moved. Why had he been singled out? Here he knew no one. He had not yet even encountered another cadet. They were all artillery men, as one would expect. What would a cadet planning a lancer career be doing among artillery men? It was a mistake. It had to be. But no one above him in authority had listened to him. If only he could catch sight of General Sowiński . . .

  Józef brushed straw from his blue uniform, then kicked at the gravel as he left the stable area and made his way into the courtyard of the garrison. He placed his red czapka on his head. The day was cold but the sun was bright. Why here, for God’s sake? Here on Długa Steet and within a short distance of the Gronska town house? Not that he was about to visit his mother even if she was still at Cousin Zofia’s. The mere thought was a humiliation. He should be in the field. He should be at Siedlce with Wysocki and his fellow cadets. Why, during the recent three-hour armistice he hadn’t even been allowed to go out onto the plains of Praga with most of Warsaw’s citizenry to meet and help the soldiers who had been giving battle on the outskirts of Praga. He had been needed to man the garrison, he was told, as well as clean the inner workings of cannons. He spit on the ground.

  He thought of Siedlce now and he brightened for a moment. Actually, the action had begun at Mendzyrzec, a little town near Siedlce. He was with one of two new regiments of light cavalry. Cossacks had been sighted at dusk by a scout the night before, so a skirmish was expected by dawn. A squadron of the Old Guard would take the lead and one of the old-timers, Tomasz, suggested the Young Guard draw lots to choose the first to fire against the Cossacks. “Fortune favors the young!” he had cried, his volume brazened by a bit of brandy. The cadets gathered around excitedly, anxious for their first action, their first trial on the field, and so it was that Józef drew the single long straw. The memory brought a warm flush of pleasure to his cheeks.

  It went much as Tomasz had forecast. At first light, two regiments of Cossacks appeared upon a little ridge and moved stealthily down toward Mendzyrzec, confident they were taking the camp by surprise.

  At a given signal, the Polish forces—Józef in the middle of the Old Guard—moved out from a forest of ash trees, calling out their “hurrahs,” lances and carbines at the ready. It was the Cossack force that was surprised and confusion reigned as the width of their line had to turn toward the attack coming from their right.

  The attack commenced with the Old and Young Guard pouncing, giving no time for the enemy to pull their horses and weapons into a semblance of order.

  “Now, little Józef!” Tomasz shouted when the Cossacks came into range. Józef aimed his carbine at a white-suited Cossack and fired. While he missed his mark, the skirmish had begun. Józef, well protected by the Old Guard, did manage to wield his lance effectively, wounding and knocking a Russian soldier from his horse. It was a little victory managed with help, he knew, but a victory nonetheless that sent his pulses running like the cold February wind that whipped around the plain. In short order the Poles were dealing blows among the startled Cossacks, dispersing them. Fifteen were killed and a squadron and six officers were taken prisoner.

  Later in the day the cavalry retired to the environs of Siedlce. Word came back within two days that the conflict that day had been the first skirmish of the Rising, excluding the day of the insurrection the November previous. And it was he, Józef thought now—remembering the toast of wine raised that night to him and the cause of independence—who had fired the first shot of the Rising.

  The proud thought, however, was tempered by the current sight about him: the massive walls and buildings of the Warsaw Artillery Garrison. What had brought him here to Wielka Wola on the western outskirts of the capital? To him this was a prison.

  “You’re the Stelnicki boy, are you not?” The voice came from behind.

  Józef bristled at the epithet. “Cadet,” he said, still walking, face forward.

  “Ah, cadet, of course. Forgive me, Cadet Stelnicki.”

  Józef pivoted, thinking it was Karol, the old ostler, who must have followed him out of the barn. It was not. He recognized General Józef Sowiński at once. He had a long face, made to seem even longer by the gray muttonchop whiskers extending from a surprisingly healthy head of hair that curled forward at mid forehead—or was it a wig? It was a kind face. Józef saluted. He knew he should apologize, do a bit of groveling, but the words wouldn’t come. He hadn’t asked to be here.

  “Walking toward the mess hall, cadet?”

  “I had no goal in mind, sir.”

  “We all have goals, my . . . er, young cadet. Or we should have. Mind if I walk with you?”

  Józef nodded uncertainly. The two started walking. Józef’s pace slowed a bit to accommodate conversation and the slower stride incumbent upon the general’s wooden leg, about which stories abounded. His heart, however, raced. Would he have the nerve to question his assignment now that he had the opportunity?

  “Have you gotten acquainted with the garrison, Józef?”

  Why was the commander of the garrison—much less the Minister of War—taking such an interest in him? Józef could not imagine. “Well enough, sir.”

  “Good, good!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you’re less than happy, Józef?”

  “Cadets don’t complain, sir.”

  “But you’d like to, I think. Yes?”

  Józef did not respond.

  “You were at Siedlce for the first attack? The opening volley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general inquired now about the particulars of the skirmish, requiring details when Józef became too taciturn in the telling.

  After the story was told to his satisfaction, the general halted and put his hand on Józef’s shoulder. “Fate had placed you at the nexus of history, my friend. And now you think you will be missing action, cooped up in an artillery garrison. That’s it, isn’t it, Cadet Stelnicki?”

  Józef looked head-on into the older man’s face, the piercing eyes made more so by the blue of his double-breasted uniform. He felt blood rushing to his own face.

  “Cadet?”

  Józef straightened a bit, screwing up his courage. “Sir, I don’t know why I’ve been transferred here. I think it’s a mistake, but I can’t make anyone realize that.”

  “You’re here because there was a need, Stelnicki. Soldiers obey. Don’t worry, you’ll not be bored.”

  “The action here in Warsaw, General Sowiński, if I may say so, took place last November.” Later, he would wonder where he had conjured up the nerve to counter the Minister of War.

  “Indeed, indeed.” Evidently amused by Józef’s pluck, the general could not mask a solicitous smile. “But don’t think we won’t see action again, Józef. Warsaw has always been the flashpoint for our little quibbles with Mother Russia.”

  Józef knew not to argue further.

  “I knew your father, Józef. Met him in both the Kościusko and Bonaparte campaigns. Good man. How is he?”

  “He’s rejoined as a staff officer, General.”

  “One is never too old to come to the defense of our country.”

  That the general registered no surprise seemed odd. How could he have known? “He was in Zamość last I heard,” Józef said.

  “Indeed. I’ll leave you here, then, my young cadet. You are your father’s very image, Józef. The very image, whereas your brother . . .” General Sowiński’s voice stuttered to a close without a finish to the sentence.

  Józef was left to stare after him, noting the uneven gait, the sun glinting off his gold epaulettes. The man had tried to be clever and supportive, but he had recognized his mistake at the last. He said more than he had planned. Józef knew now the general had met with Michał and that his brother had somehow manipulated
this transfer to the garrison.

  Damn Jan Michał!

  Viktor paced the reception room, back and forth. He became anxious every time Bartosz left the house to do the marketing or attend to some other errand. While he had ultimately decided that Bartosz was worth too much to him and his everyday needs to take the most drastic measures, the man still occasionally unnerved him, making him question his own judgment—and security. But then, too, Bartosz always came back able to supply him with the news of the day. It was the one thing that kept Viktor sane.

  Today he had been gone over two hours, and the usual visions of the man revealing everything to his fellow Poles played in Viktor’s head. He had thought it out a dozen times: on the one hand, Bartosz would be well rewarded by the rebels for denouncing a Russian official in the Third Department but, on the other hand, surely he wouldn’t think that people would really forget that he had been the servant and willing instrument of the Polish turncoat General Rozniecki? To date, Viktor had no solid reason to distrust Bartosz, but he paced nervously, nonetheless, his eyes moving every few minutes to the mantel clock.

  He walked now to the window facing the street and drew back a curtain panel. There in the snowy street a woman stood observing the mansion. He didn’t recognize her at once because she had changed so in fewer than three months. He thought for a moment she was a street vendor—or whore. She had an unkempt look about her—tousled hair beneath a shapeless bonnet and a long black cloak, rumpled and equally sad. The face seemed lifeless, pale and haggard, eyes deep in hollows. Viktor stood so amazed at the sight of Larissa dressed in funereal fashion that he held the curtain back a beat too long. Her head turned, eyes darting in his direction. Her peripheral vision had caught some movement—or perhaps she felt someone’s gaze upon her.

  He drew back and allowed the folds to fall back into place. He was confident she could not have seen him, but he also knew she could not have missed the motion of the drapery. She would know someone was at home. He didn’t even have time to draw in a breath before she made it to the door and began pulling at the bell. Then came the sound of the brass knocker against the oak door, insistent and increasing in volume.