Viktor stood frozen to the floor. After a while the noise ceased. He could almost sense her coming to stand near the window again. He knew a retaining wall there kept her a few feet at bay; still, he hardly moved a muscle—until he heard Bartosz’ key in the lock some thirty minutes later.
No, Bartosz told him, he had not seen her. Larissa had disappeared. Would she stay away? Not likely, he told himself. Viktor retired to the hidden room and sat. Larissa’s appearance had been deeply unsettling. Judging by her clothes and thinness, he surmised she must have been evicted from her rooms—or she had chosen to give them up. Had her money given out? Or had a Polish landlord taken exception to a Russian under his roof, pretty or not? Being Russian in the capital was no advantage these days and her accent was strong enough to give her away immediately. Was she living on the streets? More importantly, what was driving her to continue her search for him? Did she think he still cared for her? She was misled if that was the case. Did she merely hope to gain help from him? He could provide that, if he chose to do so. Rozniecki had left in such a hurry as to leave behind a significant cache of gold ducats hidden beneath the floorboards there in the hidden room. Blood money, no doubt, of which Bartosz was unaware. Yes, he could pay her, but could he dare to trust her?
Bartosz’ finely-spiced goulash did little to cheer Viktor, who slept little that night, until the early hours of the morning when exhaustion overcame him.
He came awake some hours later, after night had fallen. The candles had guttered and gone out, making the windowless room dark as a cave. It seemed he had been drawn from a deep sleep—but by what? A dream? He had no recollection of having dreamt, but then again, he seldom remembered details of his dreams.
It was then that he heard the voices on the other side of the door. The pulse at his temple throbbed. There were several people in the room Rozniecki had once used to cheat his own spies. Slowly, noiselessly, he arose from the narrow bed and made his way in the darkness to the door. He knelt, hands searching for the hinged window in the door that would allow him to see and hear fairly well what went on in the Rozniecki office.
But he found he could see little, for someone with dark breeches was standing directly in front of the peacock painting and the two tiny holes in the center of two of the tail feathers.
He detected four voices. Four men, one of whom was Bartosz. It seemed an ordinary discussion at first. But as the volume rose, it became clear that Bartosz was being questioned—no, interrogated. He could understand some of the words although sometimes the Polish ran too fast for him. The situation became quite clear: they were insisting others were living in the house. In a steady, confident voice, Bartosz denied it. He had lived there alone, he said, since Rozniecki had fled. He spoke of the general in the most negative way, calling him a scurrilous scoundrel, so as to distance himself from his former employer and ingratiate himself to the Polish rebels. He sounded sincere, but would they believe him? Perhaps they would take him away? Torture him? Force him to reveal the hidden room?
They were moving now, exiting the room. Distant, echoing noises indicated a thorough search was being made of the mansion. In short order Viktor heard footfalls above him. He prayed none of the Poles was quick enough to notice that the room above was so much larger than the office fronting the hidden room. He found himself holding his breath as the footfalls retreated and silence fell.
Then several of the men reentered the office. He could not hear Bartosz’ voice. Viktor’s heart beat erratically. He took in a deep breath and dared not bend to peek out through the peepholes. Had he given him away? Were these men about to discover the secret of the peacocks painting?
The heavy boots moved about the perimeter of the room. One man stopped very near by. Viktor could hear him slightly wheezing. He was certain he was standing very near the painting. He heard the man say, “Dog’s blood, these peacocks are unlucky creatures. Didn’t the scoundrel Rozniecki know that?”
Moments later the men left the room. Not so unlucky, Viktor thought, not for me. He did not move even when he thought he heard the front door close.
A long hour passed.
Then came footfalls in the next room again—and the sounds of a single man approaching the painting. Now he heard the faint squeek of hinges followed by the lifting of the plank of wood and the click of the mechanism that allowed the door in the stucco wall to open.
The door opened and a man stood before Viktor, who was still kneeling, his hand on a pistol, another at the ready. Viktor blinked at the lantern that shone down on him, making a silhouette of the man. He stood now and exited the hidden chamber.
“The woman,” Bartosz said.
It was all he needed to say.
23
April 1831, Modlin Fortress
IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING HIS brief reunion with his family on the field of Praga, Michał had little time to savor the memory of that moment. In General Skrzynecki’s division of the Grand Army, days were spent in preparing for battle, instructing new cadets in the uses of the lance, carbine, and sword, reconnaissance, digging trenches, throwing up ramparts, and doing battle at Wawre, Grochów, Kawęczyn and a dozen other villages. He recognized and thought it strange that his part in war so absorbed him that the entire day could pass without thought of home and family. It was as if he had two lives and each was fully separate of the other. At night the fact that he had another life came as a little shock each time. At the midnight hour he would fall so exhausted onto his pallet that thoughts of his brother’s safety—or even thoughts of Iza—were brief and blurred by immediate sleep.
Russian prisoners vindicated the Polish Old Guard’s contention that the Field Marshall Diebitsch’s strategy was a full frontal assault at Praga. It was, however, a strategy that was failing so that Poles had reason to be optimistic. The Poles’ counter-strategy of engaging his armies separately in small and large skirmishes was having its effect on the war effort—as well as on a deflated Diebitsch, who had taken to leading the columns to the fire himself, but to no greater success. It was reported, too, that Grand Duke Konstantin stayed close to the Diebitsch forces, but his royal presence did little to incite Russian victories. Michał imagined that the average Russian fought mainly to stay alive.
Michał did not relish taking the lives of Russians, many as young as Józef. But he at least had the advantage of knowing why he and his men were fighting. They were in a holy contest, fighting for liberty and for freedom from despots. Did these young Russians know why they had been sent to fight and die? He recalled the old proverb often used when Poland and Lithuania had been a flourishing commonwealth: “In Russia do as one must; in Poland as one will.”
Despite the numbers’ being stacked in favor of Diebitsch, major Polish victories were celebrated in March and April, one inflicting ten thousand casualties, another harvesting as many prisoners. In addition, successful raids were conducted into Lithuania and Volhynia. These feats had thrilled Michał and fed his hopes. And Michał was still with General Skrzynecki’s forces on 10 April when they arrived at Iganie, a village just west of the huge Russian munitions depot at Siedlce, to find Polish forces had taken the village, killed 3,000 men and taken 1,500 prisoners while losing fewer than 500 of their own forces. Michał assumed General Skrzynecki as Commander-in-Chief would order pursuit of the withdrawing Russian army. Inexplicably, he did not.
And then came days and days of quiet and inaction. Michał worried. Why were they giving Diebitsch time to recoup and strategize? Doing so went against everything he had ever studied at the Officer Cadets School or witnessed on the field. You follow and exhaust the enemy, giving him no time to think or regroup. Was this not battle sense? Common sense? Already men were calling Skrzynecki “The Delayer.”
Wielka Wola
THE DOOR TO GENERAL SOWIŃSKI’S office was closed. Józef approached it warily, his courage flagging and heart at a canter. He stopped in his tracks. His anger over his brother’s unwanted intervention regarding this reassignment had put h
im out of sorts and had built and built for days until he thought he would explode. It reminded him of a boil on his forefinger he had once had as a child. The thing grew larger and more painful by the day—until one day his mother deemed it time and lanced it, spilling out the infection.
How had Michał dared? Dog’s blood! News had come from Siedlce of the Russian rout, news that kindled and ignited deep discontent within Józef. Without his brother’s interference, Józef would have been there as witness and participant. Thus, only this morning he had decided to speak with the general and beg to be returned to Wysocki’s battalion. He knew doing so went against every rule instilled in him as a cadet. Obedience was all. But it was either speak up or be driven mad with frustration. He was miserable here, each day longer than the one before. The general seemed a reasonable man. Would he listen? He had once been a cadet, Józef thought, his hope on the rise—until he realized that the similarity cut two ways. Most likely, as a cadet the general had never gone to his superior with a request like Józef’s. He removed his czapka and gave his head a shake as if to dispel his doubts. Whatever the general’s reaction, Józef would have had his say and that in itself would provide some relief from his anger, just as the lancing had relieved the pain from his inflamed finger.
Józef drew himself up now, screwing up his courage and stepping to the door. He had come this far. God’s bones, he would do it!
He knocked. What seemed an eternity passed. He knocked again.
“Come in.” General Sowiński had a rather musical voice. Józef had noted as much at their first meeting. The voice that came from beyond the door was obviously his, but the dulcet tones bespoke a yawn in progress. Damn! Józef had awakened the general. The meeting, the request, was doomed. Józef thought of hightailing it out of there in hopes of finding the general at another time—when he was alert and receptive.
But before he knew it his hand was on the bronze door knob.
The room had been darkened, its two windows shuttered. Józef entered, trepidation filling him like liquid an empty vessel.
“Who is it, then?” The voice came from behind the desk.
“Cadet Józef Stelnicki, General Sowiński.” Józef peered through the gloom and the general’s white shirt began to materialize. His hands cupped the back of his head as he lay back against the desk chair, his right leg propped up on the desk. Józef felt blood coming into his cheeks. He swallowed hard. He had awakened the Minister of War. A bad omen. What else could go haywire?
“Come in, come in, my boy.” His tone was surprisingly welcoming. “It’s Józef, yes? Couldn’t forget that now, could I? My father used the diminutive Józefek when he was angry at me. I never liked it. How about you?”
Józef dared to take a few steps, then halted. “I—I prefer Józef.”
“Indeed, indeed. Well, well, to what do I owe this visit, my young cadet? Would you first open the shutters?”
Józef stepped to the two windows that fronted the garrison courtyard and slid open the shutters, allowing the midday light to flood the room.
When he turned to face the general at this new angle, he saw at once that the general’s wooden leg stood against the wall behind and to the right of the desk chair. Józef’s gaze moved involuntarily to the seat of the general’s chair. The left thigh, smaller than the right, came to the edge of the chair, allowing the dark blue material of his empty trouser leg to loosely hang.
Józef’s heart contracted. “I’m intruding, General Sowiński. I should go.”
“What? Nonsense. Come, sit there.”
Józef obeyed. The chair to which the general motioned was at the side of the desk so that it would be nearly impossible for Józef to ignore the disability.
“How’s that horse of yours? From my window there I’m seeing you ride out and return, seems like every day. A fine animal, that. Polish Arabian, of course.”
“Yes, sir.” Józef found himself staring at the general’s face in order to avoid looking at the empty trouser leg, but when he shifted his gaze it fell on the oddest device that was the general’s wooden leg at rest. His discomfort heightened.
“Had my favorite animal blown right out from under me.”
“Sir?”
“My Arabian. Rabbit, I called him, for he could race the wind. It was at the Battle of Mozhaysk, not so very far from Moscow. The cannonball took the horse as well as my left leg. My wife blamed Bonaparte for going against common sense and allowing us to get caught in Russia during winter.” The general shrugged. “But such is the game, my boy.”
A game? Józef considered. His brother Tadeusz had been left buried in frigid ground during that same campaign. That same game.
“Will you make a career of it, young Józef?”
“I hope to, sir.”
“What about your music?”
Józef felt a heat coming into his face. Here was further evidence of Jan Michał’s interference. “You are well informed, sir,” he said, sarcasm in the words if not in the tone.
The general shrugged and a hint of a smile played on his mouth. He was well aware he had given himself—and Michał’s meddling—away at their last meeting. “Your music, lad?”
“It’s not as important as independence for Poland, sir.”
“Mmm, indeed. How old would you say I am?” The general pushed back his well-curled hair. “Don’t let the gray fool you, boy.”
This was strange and treacherous terrain. Józef assumed the general was past sixty but he was not so foolish as to hazard a guess of any kind.
“Put you on the spot, have I? I’m fifty-three and I imagine I look much older.”
Józef struggled to hide his surprise.
“I stood at Praga’s ramparts in 1794 when the Russians came down on us. I was about your age, just seventeen. After the dismemberment of our country, my regiment was taken into the Prussian army—lock, stock, and barrel. Then, like so many, I returned to Polish service and to follow Napoleon who promised us much. I’ve lost count of the battles. Then came some quiet years, that is, until you cadets took a sturdy stick to the Russian hornets’ nest. Now I’m Minister of War.” He let out a great sigh. “You can’t escape your fate, can you? You told me you saw action at Siedlce, yes?”
“Yes, sir. I was allowed first shot.”
“Indeed? Impressive.”
“Yes, sir, I guess so. I was lucky.”
Then the general mumbled a proverb Józef had heard before but he could not decipher the intent. He said: “Each age has its own follies.”
The general went to grasp his wooden leg but found it just out of reach.
Józef’s good sense and manners told him he should jump to assistance, and yet he found that he had no wish to touch the object. He sat unmoving, paralyzed.
The general began pulling at the loose trouser leg, hiking it up. “Józef, would you mind handing me my peg? There’s a good lad.”
Józef had no other recourse. Torn between shame at his reticence and a strange repulsion, he stood, moved toward the device, lifted it. It was lighter than he had imagined. Turning to the general, he saw that by now the trouser had been hiked part way above the thigh so that the stump was exposed. He felt a nausea wash over him.
“A right clever contraption this,” the general said, taking the leg. “Look here, the upper portion is boxwood that’s been hollowed out to receive my thigh. See here, I had a good surgeon. You notice where the skin is folded under? I have no feeling there at the end. Of course, the surgeon insisted I wear the leg eight months so as to make certain the stump was fully wasted.”
Józef had no choice but to watch as the general pulled the leg onto the thigh, securing it then to his pelvis with a strap.
“Ah, there!” The general extended the leg. “Now if you would do the honors and give a tug to my trouser leg.”
Józef took the hem of the garment in hand and pulled it over the boxwood where it fit with some snugness, then down to where the leg tapered and held in place the peg, surprisingly
small in circumference. The folds of the trouser leg fell then to the floor, masking the slight flare of the peg at the bottom.
The general sighed. “Ah, complete again, so to speak. Sit, my boy.”
Józef obeyed, waiting to be asked again for the purpose of his visit.
General Sowiński sat forward in his chair, his hand moving on his desk toward some object. He picked it up and tossed it to Józef.
The action was unexpected but Józef managed a clumsy catch. He stared at the ten-pointed silver badge attached to a red ribbon. It was the French Legion of Honor medal. His eyes widened at the sight. He had never seen one.
“The little man gave me that himself, Józef. Strangely, Napoleon appeared short, but in person his height matched that of his tallest man. Such was his presence.”
Józef looked up from the badge just in time to catch another item from the general. The catch was smoother this time. Józef drew in a deep breath. Another medal, one that was attached to a blue and black ribbon and one that he recognized. It was the golden cross of the Polish Virtuti Militari. His eyes moved from one to the other, one cupped in one hand, one in the other.
“Had to dust them off, my boy. They’ve been in a trunk. Couldn’t exactly wear them while I served Konstantin now, could I? Maybe you’ll help me attach them before you leave?” The general nodded to his formal military jacket that hung on a hook near the window. It was deep blue, of course, and double breasted. The buttons, like the impressive epaulettes, were gold. “For now I can wear those again. And for the future—who knows? You know, I suspect my wife would have had me trade the whole costume for that of a professor or even a farmer. An old soldier—now dead—once told me that only one in five soldiers is a real warrior and the rest are soldiers by circumstance. But I’ve found that it’s more like one in twenty that are true warriors who thrive on the sword and battle and blood-letting and death. In time I found I was not one in twenty. Too late, alas.—Do you have a girl, Józef?”
The Warsaw Conspiracy Page 31