Push Not the River

by James Conroyd Martin

  If Zofia noticed that she was the only real celebrant at the table, she gave no such indication. After she called Lutisha over to fill her glass for the third time, Zofia lifted it to her smiling red lips. She was as effervescent as the wine.

  17

  IN NOVEMBER, JAN STELNICKI RENTED a small townhome in Warsaw proper. He had closed his family home in Kraków, Poland’s one-time capital. He chose Warsaw because in the days following his father’s death he had taken up the cause of the Patriotic Party, and Warsaw, of course, was now the center of all politics in Poland.

  Those nobles, some of them magnates, who were disillusioned with the Constitution were becoming more and more vocal. And dangerous. There was a movement afoot, it was rumored, to ask the Russian Empress to intercede on behalf of them.

  Such an action would mean war on a large scale, a kind of combined civil and foreign war: noble against noble; Pole against Russian. Consequently, Warsaw was a hive of activity with intrigue on many levels, from the back room of an inn to the throne room at the Royal Castle.

  There were days, too, when Jan would admit to himself that he was in Warsaw for another reason.

  These were the days he would wander down to the Queen’s Head, an inn at the river’s edge with an eclectic clientele. The weather had grown cold, so he sat indoors, sipping a coffee. Sometimes he overheard customers remark that he seemed utterly lost in thought or perhaps a bit simple. He was not staring into space, as they probably supposed. If they were to follow his gaze, they would find that it led out the filthy window, across the freezing river, to the white timbered townhome on the bluff.

  Once, he had dared to ride by the house in a closed cab. He caught a glimpse of Zofia at a window, but no sign of Anna.

  He questioned his obsession with Anna, mocking himself for it. Why was he tortured by thoughts of a married woman? Why had she married? He had been so certain of her feelings for him.

  He prayed for a glimpse of her, just one glimpse. But the great white house held her like a captive bird.

  One day he ran into Zofia shopping at the Market Square. She was at once cool and coquettish. He was unable to read her.

  They awkwardly exchanged greetings and trivial news. He asked about the Countess Gronska, but couldn’t quite bring himself to ask about Anna. Zofia was full of a story about how she had inherited everything, Walter nothing. He wasn’t interested and didn’t quite follow its twists and turns. He thought only about Anna. When Zofia exhausted herself to little effect, they said goodbye.

  Jan turned and started to walk away.

  “Oh, Jan,” Zofia called.

  Jan turned around.

  “Anna is quite happy. Did you know she is to have a baby?”

  Jan felt the blood drain from his face.

  Zofia was smiling strangely.

  He said something, mumbled something he would not remember later, then fled.

  That would end his obsession, he thought. He avoided the river after that, losing himself in his work, in the cause.

  Within a month, though, he sat in the Queen’s Head watching a curtain of snow fall onto the Vistula, a curtain that could not quite obscure the white house on the bluff.

  18

  ON CHRISTMAS EVE ANNA DID not feel well enough to attend Mass.

  She went to her husband’s room to wish him a happy holiday. She was pleased to find that he was wearing a gift she had given him recently, an elegant blue velvet dressing gown. He stood in front of the mirror trimming his thin black moustache, a new addition. “Good morning, Antoni,” Anna said, “I came to wish you—”

  Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught some slight movement and looked toward the bed.

  There, lying on the satin quilt and turning a page to some small book was Minka, a young woman Antoni had hired to clean and care for the upstairs suite.

  Anna could only stare.

  With tiny eyes that dotted a round and chubby face, Minka stared back. “Hello, Madame.”

  Anna could not believe her bare-faced gall. She turned to her husband, only to witness a sly smile playing under the moustache. He is enjoying this, she realized.

  Anna stood motionless, speechless, burning with embarrassment.

  Suddenly, the Countess Gronska fluttered into the room. The door had stood open so that she had seen fit to enter after rapping lightly.

  Anna’s heart stopped as her aunt cordially greeted her and Antoni. She hoped that in her absent-minded state, her aunt would not notice the servant.

  “Mass was beautiful!” she declared. “I have brought a vial of holy water, my dear— ” The countess stopped in mid-sentence to stare incredulously at Minka, who had resumed her reading.

  Anna would have preferred death than have her aunt witness this scene. It was humiliating enough to endure herself.

  Her eyes like two moons, the countess abruptly scurried from the room.

  Anna was left to determine how she herself would respond to this affront. Antoni smiled and shrugged his shoulders, as if to comment on the Countess Gronska’s eccentricities.

  She wished Antoni a good night and turned to leave. It was all she would do. If he is taking some sadistic pleasure in my discomfort, she thought, I will not give him the satisfaction of enlarging it.

  Anna was nearly run over at that moment by her aunt, who came rushing back into the room, moving faster than Anna could have imagined. The brown eyes flared wildly. The countess was brandishing a broom that was covered with filth from a commode!

  “You brazen and wicked creature!” she shrieked as she dashed toward the horror-stricken Minka.

  The chubby girl could not move quite fast enough. The countess thrashed the broom into Minka’s elaborately plaited gold hair, again and again. “You fat, saucy witch!” she cried.

  Minka became hysterical, shrieking vulgarities in an unintelligible dialect. Screaming and crying, she bolted from the room, the countess in quick pursuit.

  Halfway down the stairs, the woman tripped on her skirts and tumbled headlong to the bottom. With injury only to her pride, she picked herself up and ran out the front door, into the night.

  Lutisha, who had heard the commotion, held it open for her.

  The countess, however, was not about to give up the chase and followed.

  Enraged, Antoni pushed past Anna and stormed off to another part of the house.

  Outside, Minka’s screams pierced the serene holiday streets.

  Anna returned to her own room. When she passed her mirror, she paused, caught by her own smile. She stared at herself some moments; then came the laughter, lilting at first, then unreserved. How long it had been since she laughed. “Merry Christmas, Minka!” she said aloud. “Merry Christmas, Antoni!”

  The daughter of Jacob Szraber, the man who saw to the management of the Sochaczew estate, was being married and Anna attended the wedding. She did so against the will of her husband. Defying him was a small victory, but she relished it.

  Antoni refused to attend the wedding of a commoner—and Jewess. Countess Gronska was upset that her niece was going unescorted, but Anna could still disguise her condition and knew that her presence would please her father’s old friend and employee. Anna knew the mother of the bride well, too. Emma Szraber had been her governess for several years.

  Anna did not have far to travel, for the wedding was held there in Praga, which over the years had welcomed many Jewish families. Anna found the Jewish ceremony charming, the youth handsome in his wide-brimmed black hat and suit, the bride resplendent in her white gown of homespun cotton. Observing the gaze that each held for the other there under the wedding canopy, Anna recognized immediately that here was a union of love. And she could not help but wince at the thought of her own blissless marriage.

  All about her there was nothing but love and good wishes for the couple. She felt God present in the synagogue and she remembered Jan’s saying that God, his God, could be found in all the churches. Now she thought she understood. God was in the people a
nd in the love they had for one another.

  The women on either side of her cried softly during the ceremony, and Anna felt a sense of guilt, knowing that her own tears were not wholly for the couple. They were selfish tears for a wedding that had been . . . and another that was never to be.

  Anna would go to her grave loving only Jan Stelnicki. She wondered if he ever thought of her. If he ever came to Warsaw. No, she decided, why would he? His family home is in Kraków. She recalled an old saying that the best things in Poland were liquor from Gdańsk, gingerbread from Toruń, shoes from Warsaw, and a maiden from Kraków. Her heart caught. Did women in Kraków possess such legendary beauty? Would Jan meet someone there? Perhaps he already had. He would attract almost any woman. She might as well resign herself to the fact that, sooner or later, he would meet someone. And he would marry.

  Anna felt a tug at her sleeve. The woman next to her was offering her a handkerchief. Anna refused, blinking back her tears and the thoughts behind them.

  The reception was held at the groom’s familial home, a small brick dwelling, elegantly appointed and overflowing on this occasion with light and warmth and scores of people. Children were given their part in the celebration, too, and there were many of them, dressed in their finest and running all about. It was only right, Anna thought: marriage is all about children.

  Putting aside thoughts of Jan, Anna came to feel exhilarated. After so many weeks of sickness and months of seclusion, she had almost forgotten what it was like to enjoy herself.

  “Countess Anna Maria!” Jacob exclaimed. “I am delighted that you’ve honored me so. How well you look!”

  “Thank you, Jacob,” Anna said. If he only knew what has transpired in the past few months, she thought. “Your Judith is a beautiful bride. Congratulations!”

  Jacob proudly introduced Anna to the newly married couple and to a score of friends and relatives. Then he begged his leave, saying, “I have a great many duties to attend to, but I must have a word with you later, before you leave. Now, you must say hello to your old tutor—where is my wife?” He laughed. “Don’t dare tell her I called her old.—Ah! there she is. And you must take some refreshment and fill a plate with this sumptuous food. The rump of deer is delicious, and I don’t say that merely because I killed it myself. Emma will see that you get a plateful. Emma! The pike in gray sauce is good, too.”

  “Did you catch that, as well?”

  “Yes,” Jacob laughed, his dark eyes dancing. “Emma!”

  “Anna!” Emma Szraber cried, hurrying forward and throwing her arms around her former charge. “Tell me,” she asked after their kiss, “do you still play the piano?”

  Anna felt herself flushing. Jacob had disappeared. “No, I’m afraid not, Pani Szraber. Oh, I play at it once in a while, but you must admit I had no real talent for it.”

  “Reading too many books to be bothered, I’ll wager. That was always the case, I remember. And perhaps you needed a bit more confidence.”

  As Anna renewed her friendship with the woman who had taught her about literature, art, and languages, she could not help but wonder what news Jacob had. She was certain she had seen a momentary flicker in his bright eyes.

  When Anna had first observed that she was the only noble present, she became self-conscious, but as she watched the happy commoners display only love and warmth, she relaxed, coming to enjoy herself.

  She soon found, however, that she wasn’t the lone person of title. Standing in the doorway of the library that had been cleared of all furniture for dancing, she was watching the dancers’ lively movements to the Mazurka when a stranger spoke.

  “It would seem that your tapping feet betray you, Countess Grawlinska. Would you care to dance?”

  “Oh no, really.” Anna swung around but did not recognize the face. “Have we met?”

  “No. I confess Emma Szraber told me who you are and sent me over to dance with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I suspect we are their most highly-placed guests and they thought it fitting we should amuse each other.” He laughed. “I think that commoners sometimes think that all szlachta know one another and need no introductions.”

  Anna laughed, too.

  “I am Baron Michał Kolbi.”

  He was as garrulous as he was attractive. And a bit too bold in a frivolous sort of way, Anna thought at first.

  About thirty, he was tall and muscular. His features were regular, but his curly brown hair and soft brown eyes lent him a striking handsomeness.

  Anna countered his graceful phrases and entreaties to dance with the assertion that she was married.

  “Jacob told me. Do women stop dancing when they marry? Even when a husband is foolish enough to allow her out of his sight?”

  Anna felt warm blood rush to her face. She could not bring herself to tell a stranger she was expecting, especially when no one else present knew. As it was, it went against custom for her even to be out of the house. “Baron Kolbi, please accept my polite refusal. Another time.”

  He deferred for the moment, chatting with much élan, but he was not to be deterred. Anna came to enjoy his company and was soon coaxed into a waltz. She was certain it would do no harm to the child. She had misread him, she decided: while he was loquacious and forward, he was not shallow.

  After the dance, Anna sipped on a cordial. “To a happy 1792!” she told the baron. “It is so good to see so many happy Polish faces.”

  “If only it could be so always.”

  “You don’t think that it will be? Are you a pessimist, Baron Kolbi? I hardly would have thought so.”

  “I am a realist, Countess. This year will be a crucial one. Over the years our neighbors have stripped our country like a cabbage, leaf by leaf. I am a baron, but it is little more than an empty title. You see, our family lost its lands to the Russians with the Partition in 1772.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “I have long since adjusted. I was but a child at the time. I am fortunate enough to have a home here in the capital and the wherewithal to sustain myself. But I know that Catherine will not be satisfied until all of Poland has been partitioned, until she takes even Warsaw.”

  Anna felt a flicker of fear. While the flowering of her political knowledge had taken seed at the hands of her father, it was given further nourishment on innocent autumn afternoons in her uncle’s meadow. She remembered those political conversations she had had with Jan. He, too, had been fearful of the future. “Tell me, are there still Polish nobles who are inviting Catherine’s interest?”

  “There are.”

  “What of our alliance with Prussia? Their king has sworn to protect us from any aggressor.”

  “While you are well-informed, Countess Grawlinska, you must not be so trusting.”

  “I am learning, Baron Kolbi. I am learning.”

  “Then place no confidence in Prussia. Frederick William is not to be trusted. He would drop our interest like a hot iron if he thought doing so would put a few ducats in his purse or provinces on his map.”

  “If only those nobles who would be so cozy with Catherine could see where it might lead.”

  “Where it will lead, Countess. Into the tangling web of a black widow spider. No, unlike you, they aren’t thinking of Poland’s interest, but only of their own petty grievances, their precious so-called Golden Freedom given up by the Constitution.”

  “How can they be so short-sighted?”

  “You impress me with your interest, Countess. I have a host of friends who are of one mind in this matter. Perhaps one day you would like to meet them?”

  “Yes, certainly!”

  “Perhaps you might even join us?”

  “Oh, Baron Kolbi, of what possible use could I be?”

  “I sense in you a woman of strength, Countess Grawlinska, of mind and spirit. And you are of the nobility. Many of my friends are not. There is no telling but that one day you may be of invaluable service to us.”

  “And to Poland?” Anna chuckled. />
  “Perhaps. Do not laugh. Do not undervalue yourself, Anna. May I call you Anna?”

  Anna nodded. “Well, I should like to meet your friends.”

  “Good!”

  Jacob did take Anna aside before she left. “Countess Anna Maria,” he stammered, “do you have plans for the farm that you may have . . . forgotten to tell me about?”

  “Why, no, Jacob. Why?”

  “Perhaps your husband is planning some changes?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m sure it is not my place— ”

  “My husband has been to the estate, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “Very little. But he did ask many questions about the grain crops. And there were some men with him.”

  “Noblemen?”

  “No. They seemed to be in your husband’s employ. . . . They were discussing the logistics of something or other.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Oh, they spoke too quietly when I was within earshot.”

  “I see. You are not to worry. I’ll question my husband. I’m certain there must be some reasonable explanation. Is everything else on the estate as it should be?”

  “Yes.”

  Anna swallowed hard. “Has there ever been any sign of Feliks Paduch?”

  His face darkened at the memory. He shook his head. “No, Countess.”

  “I see. Well, Jacob, I must take my leave. I’ve had a lovely time. I will be in touch with you soon.”

  Jacob and Emma saw her to her carriage. “Godspeed!” they called as it pulled away. Anna waved and called out to them, attempting to smile despite the uneasy distraction she felt welling up within her.

  As the carriage moved through the cobbled streets of Praga toward the Gronski home on the riverfront, she worried what it was that Antoni was about.

  At home, Anna entered the sewing room where the countess, draped in her customary black, sat motionless, staring into a low fire that sent shadows playing about her. Her gray hair was unkempt.