The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  Iza had read the nun’s reaction. “Oh no, nothing like that. You were quite right. I had fooled myself into thinking I had a vocation.”

  “Ah, praise God!” The two laughed. “And how have you been these many months?”

  Iza thought. “Happy, Mother Abbess,” she blurted, “and unhappy.”

  “So it goes with the world out there as well as within cloistered walls. But when you said happy in the way you did, I suspected at once that you have found love, yes?”

  A heated flush rose into Iza’s face. “Yes, Mother Abbess.”

  The abbess’ expression darkened suddenly. “Not with that fellow who tried to romance you in the garden?”

  “Mother Abbess, that was my father.”

  The abbess could be taken by surprise, Iza realized, for the eyes—brown as the Carmelite scapular—widened and the starched white wimple on her forehead perceptibly retracted.

  Iza explained now the unraveling of the mystery of her birth without going into great detail, for she had another purpose on her mind.

  “It sounds like an episode out of one of those books you would read. You know, those forbidden romances?”

  Iza laughed.

  “He’s a younger man, I suppose? Than the man in the garden—your father, I mean?”

  “Yes, just a few years older than I.”

  “And in the service of his country, I imagine. That makes for the unhappy element.”

  Iza nodded.

  “Saints preserve us, every one!” the Abbess cried. “Look at your nails!”

  In a motion that reflected an ease that had begun to come over her, Iza had placed her interlocked hands on the edge of the abbess’ desk. She looked now at her hands and nails. She had washed them but in her rush, she had not scrubbed them nearly well enough. She could feel the blood pulsing at her temples. She felt like a novice again.

  “No doubt you still garden, Izabel, but those are the hands of a field worker.”

  “I’ve been helping with the fortifications, Mother Abbess.”

  “Fortifications!”

  “Yes. Oh, I work at the hospital, too, ordinary sort of women’s work—consoling patients, helping doctors, creating bandages and the like—but I wanted to do more. Help was needed to fortify the city against the Russians at our gates. There are too few soldiers here in the capital to do it. Men, women, nobles, peasants, clergy are all turning out to build the ramparts around the city.”

  “You’re building ramparts, Izabel?”

  “I’ve been helping with the lunettes.”

  “Lunettes? Dare I ask?”

  “Lunettes are earthen, detached fortifications, half-moon shaped.”

  “Thus, the name, I see. As well as the reason for the dirt under your nails. You amaze me, Izabel.”

  “It’s little enough. I would like to do much more. I would like to ride and fight!”

  “Izabel! Have you gone mad?”

  “No, Mother Abbess, it’s been done.”

  The abbess sat silent, waiting for Iza’s elaboration.

  Here was another subject far from the crux of today’s interview with Abbess Teodora—but one that evoked Iza’s enthusiasm. “There’s a young countess who’s gone to war and whom I’d like to emulate had I the skills and the bravery. People are talking about her and the journals tell of her exploits.”

  “A Polish Joan of Arc?”

  “Lithuanian, actually. Her name is Emilia Plater and she had the advantages of being an excellent horsewoman and marksman. Initially she formed her own partisan unit and managed to seize a town from the Russians!”

  “She fights, then?”

  “Oh, yes. She became commanding officer of the Polish First Lithuanian Infantry Regiment. She’s been promoted to captain!”

  “An amazing story. A heroine for our times. But I’m certain your hospital work and building these lunettes make for heroism enough, Iza.”

  “It’s what I can do.”

  “Indeed. Now, my dear, it’s time you told me why you’ve come.”

  Iza chose the direct route. “Mother Abbess, I’ve come to ask that my dowry be returned to me.”

  “I see.” The abbess’ head moved back a bit, her expression unchanging. “When you left us two years ago, you said nothing of it. Why this interest now?”

  “I didn’t know then I would have a use for it.” The money and estate had been left in Iza’s name by her mother’s best friend, Princess Charlotte Sic, so that it would not be squandered by Zofia. And so it was that at the time of Iza’s return to life on Piwna Street she had the fear that her mother would be too interested in the monies and estate. Perhaps more interested in those things than in the return of her daughter to the world. To her mother’s credit, she asked Iza about the dowry once and did not seem overly concerned when Iza intimated that it was left to be used at the discretion of the convent.

  “And now it will somehow be useful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Having to do with your young man?”

  “Yes, as well as all of my family.”

  The abbess sat in silence, clearly expecting more of an explanation.

  “Mother Abbess, General Paszkiewicz is preparing his invasion. It may come tomorrow.”

  “As soon as that? They’re across the river, at Praga, if I may venture a guess?”

  “No, though that would be more defensible. His main forces are at Raszyn to the west of the city. They’ll come in at Wielka Wola. Mother Abbess, if the Russians take the capital, they take Poland. Things will become very difficult for families of those who served.”

  “The money will provide bribes?”

  “No, the word is that with this tsar no bribe will keep the magnates, szlachta, and patriots from execution—or from the work camps in the far north.”

  The abbess’ clenched hand beat her breast three times. “Siberia?”

  Iza nodded.

  “Have things truly come to this?” A brief silence ensued, then the abbess asked, “How would you use the money—and the estate in France, I suppose you would sell that?”

  “No, Mother Abbess, I would not. You see, it is very possible that we will need that estate, that we will be forced to emigrate.”

  “Indeed, indeed.—Are people preparing for such an outcome?”

  “Yes.”

  The abbess let out a long breath. “Well, if nothing else, we taught you that readiness is all, whether it’s for emigration or salvation.”

  Iza did not know how to respond to the abbess’ comment. After a silence, she said, “Of course, I would expect the convent to retain funds in payment for the years that I lived here.”

  The hooded brown eyes studied Iza as if for the first time while Iza waited for her decision.

  27

  6 September 1831, Wielka Wola

  “GOD’S ARSE!” JÓZEF CRIED, HIS heart pounding against his chest.

  Amidst the violent chaos that Wielka Wola had become, he forgot that the chamber of his pistol had already been emptied—with success—and so it proved useless against the Russian infantryman who was hurling himself toward him, bayonet gleaming in the noon sun. Józef feinted a move to the left but went right as the bayonet ripped into his uniform coat at his left side. There would be pain later, but now he felt only the need to strike and brought his sword crashing down on the collarbone of the soldier, the sounds of the crack and the cry coming simultaneously. A second strike severed the artery at the neck and silenced the man, his body awash in crimson. Józef knew that to exult in triumph was to invite defeat. He looked up to see what seemed hordes sweeping over the plains and coming—like this man had—into the village of Wielka Wola. There must be twenty battalions, he figured. Later, the Russians themselves would attest to thirty.

  His gaze moved down now to his superior, Piotr Wysocki, co-architect of the insurrection, who lay sprawled a few feet away, his chest wound clearly a mortal one. Józef had not been quick enough to save him from the Russian he had just killed. He went to
Wysocki now and tried to lift him from under the shoulders so as to drag him to the little church some yards away. At least he would die without a contorted Russian face hovering over him. Would the enemy respect sanctuary? And then—as for himself—what?

  “No!” Wysocki called out—in pain, yes—but in his starkest commanding tone. “Leave me! There’s no use. Watch for yourself. And for the general! He just entered the churchyard there.”

  Józef gently released Wysocki’s upper body to the blood-soaked ground, nodded, and turned to go. He had advanced no more than ten feet when he heard Wysocki say, “Thank you, Józef.” His last words.

  Józef did not look back. He was running now in his search of another Józef, General Sowiński.

  The Paszkiewicz forces had vacated the town of Raszyn the day before and moved the six miles northeast to the plain of Wielka Wola, so when the attack on Warsaw commenced at five o’clock in the morning it came as no surprise. The onslaught began with at least a 90-gun battery attacking two lunettes situated on the outskirts of Wielka Wola. Józef and his company occupied a lunette manning four cannon while the lunette to the left had two companies manning five cannon. These crescent-shaped earthen bulwarks had been built in haste by the citizens and were not strong enough to sustain such fire power as they were receiving; in addition, they were situated too far from the village for the garrison guns to provide cover so that within an hour the lunette on the left had been scaled and the guns rendered useless. The surviving Polish infantrymen took up positions within the lunette on the right. One of these cadets told Józef of a Polish officer who had killed outright two of his own men who were preparing to ask the enemy for quarter.

  Józef’s lunette resisted the onslaught, manning the cannons and fighting hand-to-hand the five Russian regiments determined to overtake it. Fellow Poles, comrades and friends, fell to his left and to his right, and within a second hour Józef imagined there were no more that ten or eleven of them still standing. It was at that moment—amidst the noise of guns, swordplay, and warcries—that Lieutenant Novosielski ordered those few out of the lunette, whereupon he set fire to a powder magazine, sacrificing himself to blow up the lunette and a dozen Russians with it. The massive explosion occurred as Józef and the others fell back toward the village, and for the moment the field rained down body parts and shreds of Russian uniforms.

  It was a small enough loss for the enemy who came into Wielka Wola itself now with the strength of thirty battalions. The third hour of the battle saw slaughter on a massive scale and, despite the brave dispute of every foot of ground, the silencing of the garrison’s eight cannon.

  Józef hurried into the small churchyard. Here, too, there was little space of ground that did not hold a body, Pole and Russian alike. For the moment there was no movement, but then he caught sight of General Sowiński who stood near an ammunition wagon, busily loading musket after musket.

  “General!” Józef called.

  The general turned, ready to take aim, recognized Józef, and called him over. Considering the excesses of the past few hours where blood and bullets and death reigned, the general’s face—dirtied and bloodied as it was—shone with calm and resolve.

  “Help me, Józef. We can load a few more of these. That’s a good lad.”

  Józef didn’t know what to do, what to say. Dare he tell the commander in charge that the fight was lost? “General Sowiński—”

  “Hop to it, cadet!” The general turned to Józef, read his mind. “I’ll not surrender, my boy. This was my lot. I’ve always known it, I think. The wheel of fortune has turned for me. But for you—I told your brother I’d watch out for you—you must accept quarter if it’s being offered. You have your life before you. Mine is behind. And don’t think for a moment this is glory. I’ve taught you better.”

  Józef was about to argue when a call came from the churchyard entrance. He recognized the Russian word for general and knew the intent. The fall of the Warsaw Artillery Garrison would be complete with the capture—or death—of General Sowiński.

  Józef knew only a smattering of words in Russian and as the officer moved in toward them, he recognized the word for quarter. To his side he heard the general bellow, “No quarter!” Then came the explosion near to his right ear and the Russian officer fell dead. The general bawled out the national motto “Conquer or die!”

  By now the yard was filling with Russian uniforms. The general turned to gather up another musket, but he found that swiveling to and from the wagon behind him a clumsy movement because of his wooden leg. Moments were lost.

  Another soldier was rushing them. Józef took up a musket at once and took aim. Pivoting, the general pushed the barrel of Józef’s musket into the air and the ball went heavenward. He shoved Józef aside now, calling out in Russian that the cadet deserved quarter and yet managing to get off one more shot that took the life of the second Russian. And then the third Russian was upon him and the general took a bayonet to his midsection. The Russians swarmed around them.

  Józef managed to turn to the carriage to take up another musket. It was upon turning back that he was struck beneath the chin with the butt of a rifle. He fell at once to the ground. He was unconscious only momentarily, it seemed. He lifted his head now and through a blur saw multiple bayonets jettisoned into the general’s body. Only on the sixth or seventh strike did the general’s head nod and life go out of his eyes. Amazingly, his body remained standing, supported by the wagon behind him and the rigidity of his wooden leg.

  As Józef was pulled to his feet, he prepared himself to die. He reconciled himself with God and put his hand over the breast pocket that held Emilia Chopin’s miniature. He did not call for quarter. He would not. He would die as bravely as had General Józef Sowiński. Forgive me, Mother.

  His arms were being held by two soldiers as he watched their superior move toward him, bayonet at the ready. He closed his eyes. He would not allow the enemy the satisfaction of seeing his life slip away.

  A long silence ensued. His heart thumped like a drum gone wild. Opening his eyes, he saw that the soldier’s face was not more that a foot away from his, a great, menacingly happy smile on his face. The Russian said something, but the only thing Józef understood was the name of the Grand Duke Konstantin.

  And then he remembered the soldier. He had been the guard at Mokotów when he had been placed under arrest for his part in the attempted abduction. He had been the sadistic one who had lied, telling him he was to be executed.

  The Russian was talking excitedly now to those around him. Józef realized he was being treated as a special prisoner, one that perhaps the tsar himself would want to see. The wheel had turned for him, too, and he knew he could look forward to a public execution.

  Józef closed his eyes, wishing his life had been taken there, in battle.

  28

  27 September 1831, Warsaw

  “ARRESTED?” ANNA ASKED.

  Michał nodded, peering down into the emerald hurt of his mother’s eyes, preferring the battlefield to what he saw there. “Three weeks ago.”

  The two stood in the reception room of the Gronska town house, the semi-circle of Barbara, Zofia, and Iza forming their audience.

  “Then he’s alive!” His mother blinked back tears. “And he’s been given quarter. He’s a prisoner like any other?”

  Before Michał could answer, his sister took a step forward. “Will he be sent away, Michał? They say the soldiers will be sent across the steppes into—”

  “He’s not being held as a soldier, Barbara.” His sister had always been too quick to speak her thoughts and now he had followed suit. He immediately cursed himself for a bluntness that he knew now would lead to the truth.

  “Then—how?” Anna asked.

  Michał drew in a deep breath. There was no going back, no dressing it up. “Józef is being held on charges of treason in one of the convent prisons for his part in the attempted murder of Grand Duke Konstantin. There’s to be a tribunal.”

&nb
sp; The women gasped. Each knew the likely outcome of such a trial. A Russian tribunal was all for show and no one was ever acquitted.

  Zofia spoke up now. “But you yourself said, Michał, that it was merely an abduction, that the cadets had orders not to harm Konstantin.”

  “While that’s true, the fact that his aide-de-camp was killed on the steps of the palace will go hard against that argument, especially when they will want to believe otherwise.”

  “But Konstanin himself released him,” Anna said.

  “He did at that,” Michał said.

  No one voiced the fact that Konstantin was dead though Michał saw it engraved on the faces around him. There would be no mercy from his brother, the tsar.

  Anna’s eyes fixed on Michał’s. “And yet you came here this morning to tell me—us—to pack our things so that we can go to Paris? Michał, what’s come over you? You would expect me to leave Poland without any word from your father—and with your brother to go on trial?”

  “You must, Mother,” Michał said, unused to giving orders to his mother. “For your safety and for the safety of everyone here.”

  “Never!”

  “I intend to stay through the trial, Mother, and to find out about Father—and Jerzy. But I shall have to do it in hiding.”

  “You must leave, Anna,” Zofia said. She sidled up to her cousin and placed her hand around her waist. “Michał will send us word of Jan and Jerzy.” Michał recognized in her voice and choice of words an unspoken fatalism regarding the two who had not been heard from in months.

  “Mother’s right, Cousin Anna,” Iza said. “You must go, as must Barbara and the twins.”

  Did she mean to exclude herself? Michał saw Zofia’s dark eyes narrow at her daughter’s comment and knew she—like him—expected as much.

  Barbara’s silence bespoke a tacit agreement with the others. Anna stared in disbelief at the anarchy around her.

  “You all must go—or risk everything!” Michał said.

  “Everything?” Zofia scoffed. “After our Constitution was put down by Catherine in 1794, I lost the estate at Halicz and our town house on the escarpment of Praga was burned to the ground before my mother’s body could be properly buried. Now you say that your parents’ home in Sochaczew has been sequestered and that this town house will face the same fate? Anna here has lost her young Tadeusz and only God knows the whereabouts of Jan and Jerzy! Michał, how short of everything is that?” She drew herself up, not in the showy way Michał might have expected, but in a way that reflected resolve. “And now you say we are to give up our homeland? Is that not everything?”