The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  “If only that were all.”

  “Listen, what I said to you in the winter about the danger to you and your family will come to pass. And I suspect it will be more extreme than anything I imagined then—before this insurrection took such an ugly turn.”

  “Ugly, yes. But perhaps it’s you that’s in danger now. If I were to call out now, here in the square, your life would be forfeit. Are you aware of what has been going on?”

  “The hangings? I know. Listen to me, Basia, General Paszkiewicz is just outside the city, biding his time. When he makes his move, the capital will fall. Your Poland will fall. And it will not go easy on you Poles. It won’t be like last time or the time before that. This is Nicholas in charge, not Aleksander. Nobles from Czartoryski on down will be dispossessed. Your parents, everyone you know. Participants and sympathizers will be hanged or sent to work camps. Your father knows first hand of such places.”

  “Thanks to you!”

  Viktor cursed himself for bringing up her father. Her eyes had begun to brim with tears, but when he alluded to her father’s incarceration, she stiffened, steeling herself. “I ask you to forgive me for any harm I caused your father. Had I known—”

  “Had you known he would be your father-in-law, you would have spared him. Of course! But what about the next Pole over whom you held such power? Not so lucky for him, yes?”

  Viktor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We meant so much to one another, Basia.”

  “You were masquerading, Viktor. I was a fool.”

  Viktor drew in a long breath. “What about the boys?”

  “What about them?”

  “Would you see them sent to the hinterlands to grow up in a work camp? Could you bear to be separated from them?”

  “I would kill myself and them first!”

  “A modern Medea?” He scoffed. But, for the moment at least, he read the determination in her eyes and he believed her. “Basia, it need not come to that. I can make it up to you for what I’ve done. I will have a position here once again. A position of importance. I will see that you and the Stelnicki and Gronska families are protected. I can do that.”

  Barbara paused for what seemed a long time. Would she listen to common sense? Did she wish that she, her children, and family members survive what was coming?

  Barbara drew herself up now and spoke clearly and deliberately. “I refuse any help from you, Viktor. Do you hear me? And I won’t yield one more minute to you.” She turned her back to him.

  “I can take the boys, Barbara,” he said before she could put her feet in motion.

  Barbara spun around. He had gotten her attention. “You would do that?”

  Viktor answered her with silence. He saw her eyes flash green hatred, then be taken by something behind him.

  “There are three soldiers about thirty paces behind you.” She spoke softly but with resolve. “Don’t turn around, Viktor. They are walking this way. If I were to call those patriots over right now, you would have no life, whether Warsaw falls or we hold out against a despot. I imagine a lamp post would be your home well before nightfall.”

  “You’re not serious. Basia, I—”

  A finger to her lips silenced him. “You have not more twenty seconds to move quickly away from me. If you are still standing here when they go to pass us, I will stop them.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “How badly do you wish to find out?”

  From behind, Viktor could hear the boots moving toward them. He knew he had fewer than ten seconds.

  He tipped the wide-brimmed hat to her and moved off toward Podwale Street, exiting the square just as the three o’clock Angeles began clanging from any number of churches, reverberating throughout the square loud as the bells on doomsday. Others stopped to pray. He did not.

  The Rozniecki mansion was silent as a monastery upon his return. He suspected Bartosz was still making his rounds of marketing.

  Viktor went directly to the kitchen, propelled by a vortex of emotions: shock, damaged pride, deep, deep anger—and only later would he admit, heartbreak.

  He had a task here and tried to focus on that, only that.

  From the cabinet below he carefully lifted the clear glass container of a grayish substance. He noted a mark on its side meant to designate the volume after its last use. Should he remove some, Bartosz would know it. Drawing down a clean, clear glass, he spooned out and into the glass what he gauged a half cup of the substance. Setting that aside, he drew down from the shelf the cannister of flour. He spooned out the same amount of flour into the clear glass container, taking care to thoroughly mix the gray and white substances and leave the mixture at the previous marking—in the event that Bartosz was as suspicious as he. He returned the cannister and the glass container to their respective places.

  He was left now with his glass of the gray substance, no one the wiser. He proceeded to the door leading down to the cellar cold room. He quickly found the large pot of bigos that Bartosz had made the day before. Lifting the lid he dropped the dustlike gray substance into the thick stew, found a long spoon, stirred the concoction of broth, herbs, veal, pork, sausage, onions, tomatoes, sauerkraut—and now, arsenic.

  The arsenic was an accessible item. Bartosz had not disclosed to him where he had gotten the belladonna, nor where he might have stored any left over, and naturally, Viktor could not now raise suspicions by asking about it. Arsenic would have to do. Would it have the same quick-acting effects?

  Before he left the cold room, he cut for himself a large piece of cheese. Stopping in the kitchen long enough to saw off a hunk of bread, he hurried to his room. Thoughts of Barbara were not far away, but for now he had much to think about.

  By the time Bartosz arrived an hour later, Viktor had decided to bait him before proceeding with his plan, telling him that he would need different clothes, nondescript and dark clothing of Polish tailoring—and that he planned to find his way to the Paszkiewicz camp at Raszyn, a town southwest of the capital. In the telling Viktor watched the servant with eagle’s eyes. Of course, without being explicitly told, Bartosz would know that Viktor was attempting that which had gotten three Russian sympathizers hanged just the day before: providing the Russians with the word that the chaos in the city, combined with the fact that most of the Polish forces had crossed from Warsaw to Praga in order to deal with a small Russian force there. Now was the most advantageous time for Paszkiewicz to make his move on Warsaw at Wielka Wola.

  “There’s a grave danger to that, sir,” Bartosz said. The man did understand.

  It was the first time Viktor could remember his having called him sir. There was something in that. And there was something in a very minor muscle tic beneath his right eye. Together these little things betrayed him. Viktor had been an interrogator too long not to take notice of such things. Oh, Bartosz might lack enough of a conscience to work for a traitor like Rozniecki and wink at things that went on in front of him, but in the end he was too much a Pole and not to be trusted.

  “There’s a danger in merely breathing, Bartosz. Now I am looking forward to that national dish of yours—what is it called?”

  “Bigos.”

  “Ah, yes. I think we shall both feast on it tonight. We have wine, yes?”

  “The bigos is to simmer three days, sir. It needs one more day.”

  Viktor held his composure. “Nonsense, man. It will be delicious.”

  “But—”

  “I insist, Bartosz.”

  The servant nodded, recognizing an order.

  The plate of bigos set to the side, Viktor sat working at his bread and cheese, relishing little of it. He glanced over at the boots, breeches, and greatcoat—all black—that Bartosz had provided. There was, too, a lump of coal that would darken his face and hands.

  When he was dressed he left the hidden room and went, slowly, to the kitchen. The poison had had time to work. The swinging door was open. Inside he did not find a dead or even prostrate Bartosz.

  The servant
sat at his small table fully alert, expectant even. The plate of bigos had been moved to the side. Viktor’s attention was drawn to the glass that sat directly in front of him. The sides of the glass were coated with a filmy residue. Holy Christ! He knew at once that that was the glass he had used earlier for the poison. He had been found out.

  Viktor’s stomach pitched. He had meant to wash out the glass and return it to its place, but he had stupidly left it in the cold room. Viktor swallowed hard. What now?

  Bartosz read his mind. “Oh, I did eat some,” he said, “before I discovered the glass.” The attempt to smile ended in a grimace, and came home to Viktor now that the poison was working after all. “Ah, Viktor, arsenic is a slow-working poison, nothing like the belladonna. Why, some folks even survive it.” A hardness came into Bartosz’ dark eyes now. “Poisonings—by you Ruski,” he said, alluding to the suspicions around Count Orloff, “a cowardly way to kill your enemy, no?”

  Viktor had no time to process the damning accusation because in the next moment he saw something move slightly behind the glass: a small pistol.

  Bartosz raised the gun, aimed it at Viktor.

  But he hesitated as if to say something.

  His mistake! Viktor pulled his own pistol—already primed—from the greatcoat. He aimed for the chest and fired.

  The impact at the shoulder forced Bartosz’s upper body back against the chair, the hand that held the gun flagging. Bartosz tried to steady his arm, took aim and fired. The bullet wisked above Viktor’s head.

  Viktor cursed himself for his own aim. In an instant, he withdrew his second pistol, fired and the bullet this time flew true, straight to the heart.

  16 August 1831, Wielka Wola

  IT WAS NOT YET DAWN. Józef had fed his horse and worked now at brushing him down but his mind was still on the letter he had had from Michał who—reading between the lines—sounded restless at the Modlin Fortress. Like everyone he was concerned about the amassing Russian army. He was worried, too, about their father. Neither he nor his mother had word from him in many weeks—or from Jerzy, for that matter. Józef knew that mail from outposts could be a dicey thing; after all, he received Michał’s letter only because General Sowiński’s aide-de-camp had made a trip to Modlin Fortress and, hearing about the courier’s presence there, Michał had prevailed upon him to carry the letter back.

  Michał, of course, wanted to know how he was getting on. The resentment and anger Józef had harbored against his brother had dissipated as he became more and more comfortable with his current duties, and the time came when he was at peace with the overtures Michał had made to secure for him a safer post. The general, meanwhile, had taken Józef under his wing, going so far as calling him son on occasion. And he was told by officer and cadet alike that the time for the decisive action was coming. Besides, Piotr Wysocki and many of Józef’s fellow cadets at Siedlce had been reassigned here to help bolster Warsaw defenses. He chuckled to himself, thinking that perhaps he would see action and not Jan Michał.

  “How’s that young Arabian stallion doing, Józef?”

  Polish Arabian, Józef thought, turning to see General Sowiński closing the stable door behind him. While he had made it a habit to stop by in the mid-afternoons, after Józef was finished with his usual duties maintaining weapons of every imaginable type, he had never been seen up and about this early. Józef saluted. “Tadek’s a bit edgy this morning, General.”

  “As are we all, my boy. As are we all.”

  Józef thought little of the comment.

  The general harrumphed. “Your letter, no bad news from your brother, I hope.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good!” The general smiled.

  “I’ll write him back tomorrow. Sooner, if you think you may have someone going to Modlin.”

  “Not likely, Józef. Not likely. Too dangerous. We have the Modlin and Zamość fortresses in our control, but the rest of the nation is a hunting ground for the Ruski.”

  Józef thought now how his family had a stake at both fortresses: Michał at Modlin; his father and Jerzy at Zamość.

  For the moment their conversation reverted to the horse and small talk, but Józef became convinced the general had a purpose in coming in at such an early hour. A serious purpose.

  When Józef went to place the saddle on Tadek, the general’s hand stopped him. “No riding today, Józef. Not today.”

  Their relationship had developed to the stage whereby Józef felt he could dare to question a statement such as this. “But, sir, I take him out only around the perimeter of the garrison. Since the Russians are parked out on the plains, I wouldn’t dare go further.”

  “You won’t dare leave the garrison, Józef.”

  “What is it, sir? What’s happened?”

  General Sowiński’s eyes shone like blue fire. “Two guards were murdered last night and a third injured. Someone—and I pray it was no Pole—got past us despite our precautions and made his way to the Paszkiewicz camp. God damn him to hell! By now they know just how weak we stand, so outnumbered and what with the majority of our forces elsewhere. And with citizens in an uproar and a Military Sejm changing the leadership, no less! God’s bones! The Paszkiewicz forces have taken our supply depot at Łowicz in their march from the west. Our ammunition and our provisions are nearly depleted and in the meantime the Ruski move toward us from every quarter.”

  “Are things so bad, sir?”

  “We have but one chance.”

  “Sir?”

  “To funnel pell mell all our resources here to the capital and take a stand for our freedom! And when they come down upon us, my Józef, Wielka Wola will be the key position.”

  If only there were time, Józef thought, time for Polish forces to coalesce. He looked for hope in the general’s face, watching the general’s long, flaring whiskers that would draw back like curtains at his characteristic smile. But there was no such movement now.

  26

  21 August 1831, Wielka Wola

  “GENERAL IVAN PASZKIEWICZ IS LIKE a lion who sits on his hands while his jackals draw attention elsewhere, waiting, waiting for the dirty work to be done and the timing just so. It is then that he will pounce.” Second-lieutenant Piotr Wysocki was addressing his cadets in the yard of the garrison. “Our military and civic leaders are in disarray, but I warrant you, we are not!”

  Wysocki went on in that vein while Józef listened. He was certainly correct in what he said. Joachim Lelewel and his Patriotic Society had brought such a state of unrest—some said anarchy—to the capital that Prince Czartoryski, in order to disassociate himself with Lelewel, had made a motion to the Sejm calling for the dissolution of the provisional government. It passed. General Jan Krukowiecki seized the moment and usurped the presidency.

  Wysocki would not say as much, but the word among the troops was that Krukowiecki already viewed the insurrection as a catastrophe—that it was lost—and that he meant to retain his power through the negotiations and beyond.

  Inexplicably, when needed most at the capital, one corps had been sent northwest to Plock to take on one of Paszkiewicz’ armies while another corps had moved east toward another Russian force at Podlasie, accompanied by Prince Czartoryski, who had traded the comfort of diplomacy for the roughness of the roads and poorly appointed camps. Warsaw was left in a precarious situation.

  Józef watched Piotr Wysocki, noting some difference in the man from the day he had called Józef and Marcin down to the rooms he shared with Colonel Józef Zaliwski to inform them of their part in the November Rising. For the moment he wondered where the tide of events had taken Zaliwski, but he soon came back to his study of Wysocki. He seemed older, still committed to his beliefs, but what was to be read in his face, in his voice? Had he become jaded? No doubt he had seen terrible things at Siedlce, done terrible things, violence that had left its mark, despite the words he used now to raise the spirits of the cadets.

  Here was the man, Józef realized anew, who—almost single-handed
ly—had initiated the insurrection that had gone on for nearly a year. And with that realization came another: that he himself had no small part in the attempted abduction of Grand Duke Konstantin. He felt different from the person who had stepped onto the grounds of the Grand Duke’s palace; in no small way that difference had come through General Sowiński, whose easy nature and wisdom shone through despite the sights he had witnessed in Kosciuśzko’s army, the Prussian service, Napoleon’s mad campaign—and now this. He carried more than a wooden leg, the one to which Józef had lost his aversion; he carried the weight of those war years, years signified by the highest medals and ribbons. But these medals and ribbons—emblematic of the glory Józef, Marcin, and the other cadets sought—were sometimes open for display and at others put away to become tarnished and dusty in a drawer.

  What endured was the desire for independence, not the need for glory.

  Józef looked at the faces all about him. Most seemed familiar to him; a few had been friends. However, Marcin and so many others—friends and fellow cadets—were missing, devoured by the machine called war. He wondered if they had learned what he had.

  He wondered how many would survive what was to come.

  22 August 1831, Warsaw

  NEVER ONE TO SHOW SURPRISE, Mother Abbess Teodora looked up from her desk with unblinking dark eyes as the former Sister Izabel was ushered into her office. “These are perilous times for you to be out and about—”

  “Iza . . . I’m called Iza now, Mother Abbess.”

  The abbess smiled.”Take a chair . . . Iza.”

  Iza obeyed, settling into the hard chair she had occupied two years before when she had been informed that she could not take her final vows, that she could not remain a Carmelite. Today she had worn her most modest day dress, a gown of deep blue with sleeves that tied at the wrists with light blue ribbons. Still, she felt self-conscious. “I’ve come to ask a favor, Mother Abbess.”

  “Oh, child, you don’t—”