Coming at the end of Zofia’s litany was the last thing Michał expected from her: a statement of patriotism.
Iza turned to Zofia. “Mother, I—”
“You must go, too, Izabel,” Zofia interrupted, putting her forefinger to Iza’s lips. “You, too.”
Michał knew that that would not be the end of the argument, that Iza would want to stay with him, that he must convince her otherwise.
Michał was left alone in the reception room. The twins had been awakened and the excitement of packing for a journey was evident in their voices.
He had been careful not to use the word emigrate, but he knew that that was what he was insisting his mother and the others do.
He allowed himself to fall back into a high-backed cushioned chair. It didn’t have to end this way, he thought. Of course, in their zeal the cadets had impulsively baited the great Russian bear, and in sheer numbers of soldiers and weaponry they had been outnumbered, but had other decisions been made by both political and military leaders, the ending could have been different.
While the fall of Warsaw certainly presaged the fall of Poland, the fighting had continued. Michał knew of at least five generals in command of significant forces who were left now without word from the capital and precious little inter-communication among themselves. At Modlin Fortress Michał had witnessed what remained of the Warsaw soldiers—tired, hungry, and often barefooted—march into the fortress. He had seen little action by that point so that when the opportunity to join General Karol Różycki in the area of Lublin, he was happy to go. A second motivation involved location. Rumor had it that Różycki would combine forces with those at Zamość and in that event he would be able to find out the circumstances of his father and Jerzy Lesiak. He had not yet learned of Józef’s fate.
It had been at Zawichost, southeast of Lublin, that Michał’s small company had joined Różycki. Two days later Prince Czartoryski himself caught up with Różycki, engengering within the forces a great renewed enthusiasm. The prince was elated at seeing Michał again; however, the news he brought was disheartening. The Czartoryski estate, Puławy, had been confiscated, its national treasures of art and books taken to Russia. Worse, the prince had been with General Ramorino who, with his 11,000 men and 40 cannon, had staged a final battle against an estimated 35,000 and untold number of cannon. When their ammunition was depleted, the Russian cannonading continued for another hour or more, even as the survivors crossed over into Austria and laid down their arms. Rather than surrender, the prince sought to fight another day with Różycki, who had had recent successes.
With Romorino no longer a target, the Russian Generals Rosen and Rudiger combined forces to come against Różycki. And so it was that Michał fought his last battle side by side with Prince Czartoryski. With but 6,000 men they fought the entire day against overwhelming odds and wave upon wave of Russian reinforcements. The time came at last for the survivors to enter Austria and lay down their arms. The prince and Michał found a spot near an unusual semi-circle of birch trees—a configuration they pledged to remember—and dug deeply with their hands. In the long, narrow hole they placed their swords, the hilts facing Poland, Michał bidding a silent farewell to his longtime blade, Jadwiga, both men vowing to reclaim them one day. Having replaced the earth, they tamped it down with their boots then stood looking at each other. Both were close to tears. The prince uttered then the oft-used phrase: “Poland is not lost while we yet live.”
Not long afterwards they went their separate ways, Michał to Warsaw, and the prince to France and without delay, for his execution had already been ordered by Nicholas.
“Michał.”
Michał was startled from his thoughts. He had not heard Iza come into the reception room. Outside, dusk was coming on. He stood now, taking in her face as if it were for the last time. How many times he had wondered whether he would see those blue eyes, the color of cornflowers, startlingly set off by the porcelain complexion and dark, dark hair.
“Michał!”
“Yes, Iza?”
“You said Józef was being held in one of the convent prisons. Which one?”
“The one on Wolska Street.”
“You mean the Carmelite convent—where you accompanied me once.”
“Why, yes! I had forgotten. The same.”
Iza took his hand in hers. “Michał,” she said again.
“Yes?”
“I have an idea.”
The portmanteau was the smallest one she owned, but Anna knew she could not take much, for the coach would be cramped with bodies, its roof loaded with luggage. She mindlessly placed items of apparel into the portmanteau, caring little about the choices she was making. There would be time later for regret when she realized what she had brought and what she had left behind.
All was lost—that reality had started slowly, the way a tide might begin, by playing tag with a sleeper’s toes, then imperceptibly growing bolder, encroaching further, deepening, threatening, taking.
Topolostan, her familial estate at Sochaczew, was gone, taken by the tide of Russians. The estate manager Jacob and his wife Emma had already fled to France, sending word where they were and that any monies they had been able to muster would be kept there for safekeeping. Was she never again to see her childhood home, pray at the graves of her parents and infant brother?
Leaving Poland—it was inconceivable. How had it come to this so quickly, in less than one year? And leaving Józef—what was to happen to him? Treason. The implications of the word brought on lightheadedness. She dropped into the chair near the window facing Piwna Street. The verdict would be a foregone conclusion. It would be a show trial that would result in an immediate execution or exile to a work camp in Siberia. What would she choose for her son? Had it been she, she would embrace death.
Anna stared vacantly at a small pile of Jan’s clothing on the bed next to the portmanteau. Where was he in this aftermath? Was she about to pack the clothes of a dead man? She cursed him for leaving her to this fate, then cursed herself for allowing a sixty-five-year old man to go off to war.
And yet . . . and yet he had come home after countless campaigns. She closed her eyes, retreating into the good years, the optimistic years, the years with him at home. Anna wrapped herself in the warm bliss of family, recalling the times between the war years when nations and politics left the stage to family. There had been moments right there at Topolostan when she felt as if she had had her own little Arkadia, the renowned Radziwill gardens at Nieborow, so close to Sochaczew.
A knock came at the door followed by Iza’s voice: “Mother says you should come downstairs, Cousin Anna.”
“What is it?”
“She says to come down.”
Anna seldom knew Iza to be evasive. “Very well.” Using the arms of the chair she pushed herself up. Everything seemed an effort.
By the time she went to the door Iza was gone. Anna stepped out into the hall and listened. There were voices rising from the reception room. She heard Zofia’s voice, high and excited, and a male voice, too, even though Michał had gone to confirm the plans for the morrow’s carriage and drivers. She moved down slowly, her back hugging the wall, her heart catching.
Anna came to stand in the doorway of the reception room. The tall man in the filthy and ragged uniform had his back to her. It was not Jan, but she recognized him even before he realized she was behind him and turned to greet her.
“Jerzy,” she said, at once happy—and disappointed that it wasn’t Jan. Zofia and Iza stood nearby, their eyes brimming. She smiled. She could be happy for them.
Jerzy stepped forward and kissed her hand. A long moment passed, as if neither could find the words.
Her lips trembling and her legs threatening to go out from under her, Anna managed one word, one whispered word: “Jan?” Where is my husband?
Jerzy kissed her hand again and Anna thought the worst. But then he took hold of her arm and he pivoted back to his original position so that they now st
ood side by side, facing the interior of the room.
Anna realized someone sat on the far sofa, a thin man with white hair and cobalt blue eyes. Her legs did give out now. The room moved vertiginously—and were it not for Jerzy’s hold on her—she would have fallen to the floor.
“Anna Maria,” Jan said, as she moved toward him. His voice was small and raspy. “My little Ania, forgive me for not rising.”
“You’ve been ill, Jan.”
“A touch,” he said.
“A touch?” Zofia asked. “The cholera is no touch.”
Anna gasped. “Cholera?”
Jan smiled. “Come sit, my love. It could kill General Diebitsch and it could kill the Grand Duke Konstantin, Anna, but it could not kill me.” He winked. “I told you I would come back.”
Anna settled into the sofa, into his embrace. “You always have.” Oblivious to everyone else, she kissed him then.
And then, as Zofia and Iza served refreshments—for the servants had been given final payment and allowed to go to the safe-homes of friends or families—the story came out: how shortly after Jerzy and two others had come to Jan’s defense against Cossacks and soundly beaten them, Jan had come down with the cholera; how Jerzy had stayed by him, nursing him through the often fatal illness; how they had been allowed to pass through a dozen Russian barricades on their long trek home—and here they both laughed—by merely casually mentioning the word cholera. Jerzy’s eyes twinkled. “The Ruskis were quick to put dirty handkerchiefs to their noses and wave us forward.”
Jan finished the story, making little of the bloodletting, Anna knew, for the benefit of the audience. Her smile faded now as a dark thought would not be kept at bay any longer. She turned to her husband. “Have they—have they told you about Józef?”
Jan took and squeezed her hand. “Yes, Ania, they have.”
Viktor Baklanov sat at the the massive desk. It was his now. General Aleksander Rozniecki, the corrupt Polish turncoat, was not likely to return. Neither would Nikolai Novosiltsev, he was told. Their careers had been exposed and they would be marked men by the Poles. Not so Viktor. He was heir apparent to head up the Third Department—and without having to answer to Novosiltsev.
The door to the hidden room had been unused for days now, the peacocks painting in its place. The room might very well serve Viktor’s purpose one day and so for now he kept it secret from Sergei, who, along with a few others, had managed to find him. He and Luka had been in hiding all these months—until Luka had gotten quite drunk and belligerent with several patriots who had hanged him from a lamp post during those days of chaos in the middle of August.
Viktor leaned back in his chair, lighting his pipe and luxuriating in the knowledge that he would be the one to reinstitute the Secret Police in the city. Paszkiewicz had been generous with him for the information he had provided and had sent praise back to St. Petersburg. Viktor’s specific information regarding the extent of the chaos among the Poles themselves had made the strike against the capital a timely one, indeed, and while it had not fallen like a house of cards—these damn Poles were stubborn souls—it had fallen. And the fortresses at Modlin and Zamość not so very long afterward.
His thoughts came back to Barbara now. He was tempted to force another meeting, but what good would that do? The stubborn streak seemed especially strong in her. Sergei and another agent were watching the Gronska town house so that he might at least know the comings and goings of his wife and children. But . . . to what end? He stared into the lighted chamber of his pipe as a gypsy might study tea leaves. Was it possible to make someone love you?
29
IZA REACHED BACK INTO THE wardrobe and withdrew one of the two Carmelite habits she had pilfered on the day she had left the convent. Over a plain day dress of the thinnest Indian cotton, she drew on the dark wool tunic, her extended arms avoiding the pockets and double sleeves. She poked her head through the aperture in the scapular next, arranging the long woolen panels that swept the floor. She took the coif, bringing it down on her head in a front to back movement, making sure to tuck in all of her dark hair. The white starched crown band came next to be followed by veil and the myriad pins that it took to hold the headgear together. Iza paused as she reflected on the two veils, the black and the white. In the convent she had worn only the novice’s veil. If just for today, she decided, she would wear the black. The belt, stockings, and sandals, all black, and the oversized wooden rosary beads completed her masquerade.
Iza glanced at the clock on her mantel. Four in the morning. The carriage that was to take the family to France was to arrive at six o’clock and they were to be gone well before 6:30.
She moved stealthily into the dim hall, turning her back to noiselessly close the door.
“Iza?”
The whispered voice startled her, but when she turned to face Barbara in her nightshift, it was Barbara who was dealt a shock.
“Shhh,” Iza whispered.
“What in God’s name—?”
“Indeed,” Iza intoned, pulling Barbara back into the bedchamber.
“What’s going on, Iza? Are you going back to—”
“No, I’m not, Basia. And I don’t have time for long explanations. Michał is waiting downstairs.”
“Michał?—Oh, this has to do with the convent, doesn’t it?—And Józef!”
“We’re going to get him out of there and take him to France with us.”
Barbara’s eyes grew large. “How will that be possible?”
“Actually, we haven’t worked it all out yet. We’ll tell you afterwards. Now—”
“Not so fast! I’m going with you.”
“You can’t Basia. It’s dangerous.”
“He’s my brother! I will go.”
Iza looked to the clock and let out a great sigh.
Waiting at the front door, the hall lighted by one guttering candle, Michał saw two robed figures silently descending the steps, and he would have thought he was seeing double except that the second figure wore a white veil instead of black.
“Barbara?” he whispered, his mind racing at this complication.
“Do you think I’ve missed my calling, Michałek? The white veil is for novices. Did you know that? Now, don’t glower at me so. I’ll be a help to you.”
Michał knew the minutes were ticking and since their plan was one of the moment, perhaps there would be a part for his sister to play. He wordlessly waved them through the front door. They would walk the several streets to Wolska Street.
Mother Abbess Teodora herself opened the door, blinking incredulously at Iza in habit as well as another woman in novice garb.
Iza affected a smile. “May we come, in Mother Abbess?”
The nun scarcely noticed Michał until she nodded and motioned for them to enter, and as they did so her eyes moved right and left up and down the street. Times were dangerous.
“Speak softly,” she warned once they stood in her office, “there is one crusty old guard that walks this floor.”
“We’ve come about Józef, Mother Abbess,” Iza said. “Józef Stelnicki.”
The abbess gasped. “Is he the young man you’ve gotten yourself mixed up with?”
“No,” Iza said, fending off a laugh, “Józef is their brother.” Iza now introduced her to Michał and Barbara.
The abbess smiled, nodding at Michał. “Then this must be he, yes?”
Iza’s face went scarlet, causing the abbess to laugh at the confirmation. She turned toward Michał. “You wish to visit with him, of course.”
“More than that,” Michał said, “we wish to take him with us to France.”
The white crown band on the abbess’ forehead perceptibly moved back. “Take him? Are you all serious? How?”
“The plan is in development,” Michał volunteered when the other two fell silent.
“And you expect me to stand by?”
“Oh no, Mother Abbess,” Barbara said, “we need your help.”
“And you, it seems, n
eed a plan?” The abbess drew in a long breath, assessing the faces around her, her gaze falling last on Iza. “Well, if this one here can make lunettes, I imagine an old nun can do something, too.”
“Thank you, Mother Abbess,” Iza said. “We should be able to think of something.”
The abbess was suddenly all business. “Other than myself, there are only the old and infirm here. I’ve sent most everyone else away, especially the younger nuns. The Russians have either been stretched thin or they are very trusting. There is the one guard up here and several downstairs where the prisoners are. Yes, we will come up with something, Sister—I mean Iza.”
Iza would always wonder whether the little faux pas had been meant as a joke.
Ten minutes later Michał left by way of the front entrance—a male’s presence would be suspicious, threatening even—and the other three took a back stairway to avoid the attention of the ground floor guard and proceeded to the cellar.
“I was going to write to you, Iza,” the abbess whispered as they moved down the stone steps. “I’ve seen to it that your assets—all of them—have been placed with our convent in France. You need only to go there and identify yourself.”
“Thank you, Mother Abbess,” Iza whispered.
“I wish you good luck, something we’re all going to need momentarily. Now let me do the talking.”
The Warsaw Conspiracy Page 36