As the carriage began to descend the driveway to the street, Anna looked to Zofia’s first-floor window. She was certain that she saw the slightly parted curtains stirring. Was she secretly standing there, watching the departure? Were Zofia’s feelings for her as mixed as her own toward Zofia?
Babette stood in the drive waving and calling adieu to her children. Anna turned back to see Louis and little Babette motionless and dry-eyed.
It began to snow. The carriage moved down to and across the bridge to the city proper, turning left onto the riverfront street.
Well, Anna thought, at least the two unintelligible Russian bears possess the intelligence to understand a bribe when they hear one.
The wheels ground to a halt on the stony earth in front of the Queen’s Head. Momentarily, one of the Russians clumsily helped Anna to alight.
Election Day was a hectic one for Jan Stelnicki.
He was one of a party who were traveling from town to town, sejmik to sejmik, to check on voting irregularities and to bring out any men sympathetic to the cause who had not yet voted. It would be very late before he got back to Warsaw.
The spirit of the patriots was up. They were confident that the Constitution passed the previous year at the Great Sejm would be ratified this day at sejmiks all over Poland, guaranteeing a democracy within Stanisław’s monarchy. With the exception of some greedy, power-hungry, and short-sighted nobles, it would be a grand moment for Poles of all classes when the results were announced, presumably some time in the next two or three days.
What made the hard day an effortless and memorable one for Jan, however, was the letter he carried in his breast pocket. On the morrow he would see Anna. Never mind that it might be the last time for a long while. He would see her. Alone, he hoped.
He could imagine no future after that. Tomorrow was his future.
30
NOT LONG AFTER THE CARRIAGE was out of the city and upon the icy country roads, Anna began to feel ill. She had had a sense of foreboding ever since Antoni’s letter, but this illness she put down to her delicate state and the rough travel conditions.
Antoni would attain magnate status, she thought, if his parsimony regarding the hiring of the carriage and men were indicative of how far he could stretch a ducat. He must have found the best bargain in St. Petersburg. The carriage was worn and evidently older than the invention of springs. Anna felt every bump and pebble in the road. There was no glass in the windows, merely shades. These were fastened as tight as possible but still let in an unhealthy draft. And the two characters above who took turns at driving were as buffoons from some comic play.
Anna tried to make the best of it. The snow was continuing. A wintertime journey did have its advantages in that the carriage wheels did not spew up the dry dust of summer, nor were they hampered by the mud of spring. The countess had provided goose down comforters that shielded them from the icy air, head to toe. At their feet were two covered pans of hot coals.
Lutisha had tied a tanned goatskin around Anna’s belly as extra warmth for the baby. At the time, Anna could not have guessed how valuable such a measure would prove.
They were not long on the road when Anna began to doubt the wisdom of taking on the two children. They were impolite and chattered incessantly in their low French. Though their clothing was fine, they were dirty, as they were unaccustomed to frequent washing. Louis was eight and Babette six, and Anna worried that training the two, who had been without discipline for so very long, would be a thorny and thankless task.
Late in the day they stopped at a hovel of an inn to rest and feed the horses. The men ate inside, but Anna preferred the foods from the basket Lutisha had prepared to the stench and lice-filled inns, the bad food, and the prying eyes. She did use the privies, filthy as they were. Had she been alone, she would rather have relieved herself in the snow.
It was getting colder as night drew on, and before Anna re-entered the coach, she asked Louis to go into the inn with the foot-warmers to see that the coals be replenished. The mindless Russians hadn’t thought to ask.
The boy shook his head. “No, I want to get in the carriage where it is warm.”
“It will not be warm long if you do not get us coals.”
“No!” The boy was obstinate.
Babette was just behind him. “No!” she mimicked in her tiny voice. She sidled up to her brother now.
“Louis!” Anna spoke sharply.
The boy stopped on the command. He looked up at Anna from beneath a mop of brown, curly hair, his eyes enlarging. This was the first time Anna had ever raised her voice to the children.
“Come here!”
He hesitated.
“This minute, Louis!”
The boy moved slowly toward her, his eyes defiant, yet fearful. Babette, her cherubic face pinched in fear, huddled close to his side.
Anna tried to collect her thoughts as the boy approached. Her silence was making him uneasy.
“I am your guardian,” Anna said in French. “Do you understand?”
He nodded uncertainly.
“If we are to get along, we must come to an understanding. While you are with me, I am to take your mother’s place. If I make demands of you your mother did not, or do things in ways different from hers, then that is my business. Yours is to obey. I won’t ask so very much of you, but when I do request something, I will expect you to respond. Without a word or a comment. Is that quite clear?”
“Oui.” There was still a trace of defiance about the mouth and in his voice.
“Oui?”
“Oui, Madame.”
“Good. In return, I will take care of you. We will be fast friends, will we not Louis?” Anna’s smile coaxed him to abandon his insurgency.
“Oui, Madame,” he said, smiling sheepishly.
“Now, see to it that the warmers are replenished with coals. I’m quite certain you will not freeze to death in the time it takes to do your task.”
The boy went to get the pans from the coach.
Anna turned to the girl. “Babette, you must never answer me in such a manner again. Do you understand?”
The blond girl looked up at Anna, her wide, blue eyes brimming. Her tiny mouth, little more than a slash between her chubby cheeks, trembled and turned down. “Oui, Madame,” she said.
Anna longed to take them both into her arms. Instead, she said, “Now run along to the inn with your brother.”
Anna knew that they were testing her. She knew also that she had met their challenge and had risen in their eyes. She felt that children often possess an uncanny awareness and that just then the foundation of their relationship was established. Anna was certain that Louis and Babette would respond to the love she would give them. First, though, she would have their respect.
Soon they were back on the road. Anna’s uneasy stomach found no comfort. Her misgivings about the trip multiplied, even as the snow fell and the sky darkened. Her mind kept coming back to one question: How was it that the two Russians had arrived two entire days earlier than Antoni predicted? Did he mean to take her by surprise? Was he afraid she would leave the Gronski home before the carriage arrived?
It is a queer thing, she thought.
Jan and his party of patriots, noble and common, arrived at the Queen’s Head after midnight, the long day behind them. Jan had secured the use of the inn for their celebration although the election results would not be known for two days. Because this was a private party, the inn could stay in operation well past its usual midnight curfew.
At least a hundred men crammed the little tavern. Jan felt great satisfaction at having brought together the mighty within the cause—his mentor Hugo Kołłataj, as well as Ignacy Potocki, Stanisław Małachowski, and Tadeusz Kościuszko—with citizens of all types. Franciszek Karpiński, the renowned Polish poet and friend of the king, regaled everyone with a poem written for the occasion.
Jan was ebullient about the expected confirmation of the Third of May Constitution, but his mind could
not be drawn from the happy prospect of meeting with Anna the following morning. He would drink no alcohol tonight, he vowed. His mind must remain clear. He was counting the hours.
Hortenspa, the stout-bodied and stouthearted proprietress, bustled over to Jan. “Milord Stelnicki,” she cried breathlessly, “I almost forgot what with all the excitement.”
“What is it?”
“A lady came in this morning to see you.”
“A lady?” Jan asked. Though some women frequented the place, ladies did not. Jan’s heart quickened.
“Yes,” Hortenspa said, “a stunning woman, she was, brown hair and deep eyes, very serious.”
Jan’s heart thumped now with foreboding. He watched as the woman reached into the front of her apron. “Green eyes?”
“Oh, yes! Very beautiful, sir, but a sadness about the mouth that would break your heart. She left this letter for you, milord.”
Jan took the envelope, turning it over in his hands. “Thank you, Hortenspa.”
“I do hope it’s not bad news.” The woman turned, vanishing into the crush of people and noise.
Jan sat down, his pulse racing. It was from Anna! The envelope matched the one held in his breast pocket. What is it, he wondered. A change of plans? He tried to avert a nameless panic swelling at his core.
He opened it quickly. It was nothing more than a note and he read its few sentences with one scan of his eyes.
Anna had already left Warsaw! She was to meet her husband in St. Petersburg. Russia! His stomach tightened. She was gone. There was to be no meeting the next day. He felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest.
He read the note again as if doing so would change the words. Her sadness was there in between the lines. An economical three sentences to tell him. She had left in a hurry, it seemed.
When am I to see her again? he brooded.
He ordered a drink. He tried to disguise his sadness, so as not to call attention to himself or throw a pall on the party.
After several drinks and the time for the news to sink in, he came to marvel at Anna’s pluck to come into such a place by herself. He could easily imagine Zofia doing it, but Anna? He smiled to himself. Anna Maria was becoming a woman, full of poise and confidence. He was terribly proud of her and touched that she had gone to such lengths to let him know about her departure.
Godspeed Ania, he prayed, and keep her safe from harm.
Jan had never used Anna’s diminutive before, to her directly or even in his thoughts. It came freely now, for he had never felt so close to her—despite the great distance that would keep her from him for a space of time only God could foretell.
31
An unrelenting winter storm pummeled the carriage with snow and icy wind for days. On the fourth day, with the shrill gale at fever pitch, Anna and the children sat silently in the rocking coach.
Their progress had been reduced to a mere plodding. Anna hoped they would come upon an inn soon. If the Russians had half a brain between them—which she doubted—they would seek refuge as soon as possible.
Louis was strangely subdued, but Anna put this down to his awe of the storm or mere boredom. He began to mumble in low tones as he perused a little French book; his voice lacked its usual ardency. Anna doubted he could make out the words in the dimness of the single lantern. Little Babette lay next to him, scarcely visible as she was curled snugly into the cocoon of her comforter. She had not stirred for several hours, not since their morning inn stop.
Anna thought how the traveling must be exhausting for such young ones. She was thankful they were not as concerned as she about the storm that raged about them. In this, she envied them.
At dusk the carriage came to an abrupt halt.
What did it mean? Anna wondered. Her heart leaped at the thought of a warm inn. She would not complain even if it were dirty, odorous, and rodent-infested—as it was certain to be.
No one came to open the carriage door.
Anna tried the window flap; it was frozen fast. She tried the door next, but it would not budge, either. They were locked in, it seemed, by a thick caking of ice and snow.
A feeling of claustrophobia enveloped Anna. She tried to decipher voices in the howling wind. What was happening?
“What is it that you want?” The muffled voice from above belonged to one of the Russians.
Of course, Anna thought they were addressing her. She started to call out, but the sound of other voices, Polish voices, took the sounds from her throat.
Who was this band of Poles hailing them?
Anna strained to hear what was being said. With the winds and the noise of the horses’ hooves, she could understand little. Using a spoon that Lutisha had packed in the basket, she chipped away at the ice under the window flap. In a few minutes she was able to lift the flap slightly and thereby see a fraction of the scene unfolding outside.
It was evident that the Poles and Russians were having great difficulty understanding one another. Anna saw three mounted Poles. Behind moustaches that drooped with icicles, they wore angry, demanding faces.
She became frightened now. She remembered what her aunt had instructed her to do in case of robbery, something not uncommon these days on the road. Aunt Stella cautioned her not to resist, to hold out her valuables in one hand, the little crucifix she had given Anna in the other. She warned her niece to hide only her food, which might be her salvation should she become stranded.
Anna did not look for the crucifix. Instead she looked to the children. Babette remained motionless despite the loud commotion. Louis sat with his open book, but he had stopped reading. His eyes were dark and vacant, more an old man’s than a child’s.
“Are you afraid, Louis?”
Slowly, he shook his head.
Something was wrong with the children, Anna realized. Very wrong.
One vociferous Pole kept demanding of the Russians their destination.
Anna could hear the Russians murmuring above, conferring between themselves. She was just about to call out that they were going to St. Petersburg when a Russian spoke. “Opole,” he said.
Anna thought she had not heard correctly.
The question was repeated.
Again, the reply: “Opole!”
Anna’s heart contracted. They were not going east to St. Petersburg, but southwest to Opole, where the Grawlinski family had their country estate.
Why? And why the deception?
Anna tried to open the door again. She would have an explanation from the Russians. The driving sleet, however, had sealed the coach tight as a tomb.
“Whom do you carry?” came a Polish voice.
After several misunderstandings among the men, Anna heard her name.
“Get down, then. Open the door. We will talk with her.”
Anna stifled a cry in her throat. Louis looked frightened, too. She tried to speak in a light tone. “Louis, won’t you come sit by me?”
The boy ignored her.
“Louis, please!”
He stood up and dropped himself on the seat next to Anna.
Her patience was being tested, and she thought for a moment she would slap the silly child.
“I don’t feel well,” he said.
“There, there, you’re merely frightened,” Anna said, enfolding the child in her comforter as a bird would shelter its young. “Everything will be fine.” Anna was certain of no such thing. She prayed now for the two that had been entrusted to her and for the life of her unborn baby.
Minutes passed. It seemed that the Russians had no intention of opening the carriage.
A crescendo of angry shouts jarred Anna from her thoughts and prayers. Then a pistol shot rang out, splitting Anna’s ears. A man instantly screamed.
Louis scrambled away from Anna and fell to the floor, crouching near the door.
Anna looked out the narrow opening to see a riderless horse.
She could not fathom what was going on. Why would the Russians kill and risk death themselves rath
er than show her to the Poles?
Another shot rang out and then came the sound of hand-to-hand combat with swords or cutlasses.
“God help us!” Anna called out.
Still another pistol explosion sent a bullet into the carriage, where it lodged in the wood above the sleeping Babette’s head.
Anna suddenly smelled smoke. She looked to the floor. Louis had upset one of the pans of coal and the wooden floor had caught fire. It burned slowly, without flames as yet, so Anna thought she would have time to put it out.
Louis was distracting her, however. He kept nudging his sister, calling, “Babette, Babette.” How had she not heard the noise and gunfire?
Outside, chaos had broken loose.
Anna lost control herself, screaming and crying at the same time, at a complete loss as to what she should do.
Suddenly, someone tugged at the door. Anna instantly sobered. The whole carriage shook with the effort, but the door didn’t give.
“Push against the door!” The voice was Polish.
Anna sat stunned in fright, staring at the door. She didn’t know whether to trust the Poles or the Russians.
The carriage stopped shaking. The Pole’s effort ceased.
Anna attempted to pull herself together. In order to protect the children and herself, she would have to act. She reached over to the still form in the comforter. Something within her told her that little Babette was dead even before she touched the doll-like hand and found it cold as ice. In a state of shock, Anna thought that if she were to lift the chilled and lifeless body to her, Babette might regain her warmth.
“Louis, help me lift your sister.”
The boy’s eyes were transfixed on Anna, but he didn’t move. Even in the dimness of the dying taper in the lantern, Anna could see that there were deep blue-black depressions beneath his eyes. The boy was sick.
At the inn that day the Russians had brought to the coach a casserole of eggs and mushrooms. The children had eaten it, but Anna ate only the sausages, yogurt, and hard, leftover bread from Lutisha’s basket. She realized now that the children had been poisoned by the Russians, who no doubt assumed she would eat the casserole, too.
Push Not the River Page 24