Anna came to a great war sword in a special niche. She moved closer and saw that it was the sword King Jan Sobieski had used to relieve Vienna from the Turkish onslaught. Her heart quickened. Her own ancestor—her father’s grandfather—had been there at Vienna, Anna remembered. He was there fighting side by side with Sobieski, and for his reward he had been ennobled—perhaps by that very sword. Anna felt faint at the thought. She was who she was because of men and events from so long ago. And despite the years and distance in generations, she felt connected to her great-great grandfather. Pride surged within her. What had he been like? Perhaps he was a hero of mythic proportions. Or perhaps he was one of millions of Poles who through the centuries had risked everything and often paid with their lives for their homeland. They were heroes, too. In any case, she prayed to her ancestor, imploring him to watch out for her well-being.
Anna continued her slow walk to the icon. She came to the very high presbytery grill that kept her from proceeding into the sanctuary. Stepping up to the grill, she saw the icon—a simple painting on wood—there on an altar of ebony and silver. Anna’s gaze was drawn immediately to Mary’s eyes. They seemed so real, as though they were watching Anna, reading her. There was something so strange and ethereal about the painting that Anna’s breath was taken from her.
In time, she was able to make note of other details. The painting depicted only the upper portion of Mary, dressed in a dark robe and mantle, the fabric woven with the images of many lilies. A single six-pointed star decorated her head covering, just above the middle of the forehead. She was holding the infant Jesus; both figures had gold auras that contrasted with the dark facial coloring. What had the painting looked like before the damage done to it by the Hussars and the subsequent repainting that had no doubt caused the dark tones? . . . Yet what did it matter, she thought, when it was such a beautiful thing today? And one was always drawn back to the powerful gaze of the Virgin’s eyes. They seemed to know and tell the story of the world, not in confinement of words or ideas, but in the largeness of emotion.
Anna remembered that the Black Madonna was known to be a “guide along the road.” She knelt now, praying for her guidance. Minutes passed. She became aware of a hush behind her. The priest and Antek were waiting for her. She had been neglectful of the time. She took a flame from a small votive candle and lighted her own. Then she took one last long look at the Madonna’s eyes, daring to think her prayer had been heard, rose, and retraced her steps to the vestibule.
Anna was shocked to find—in place of the thin priest—the imposing figure of Father Florian. She had distrusted the man from the first, and then after his failure to show for Mass, she had become doubly critical. Somehow, she immediately sensed this meeting boded no good.
“It is so good to see you again, Countess!” he exclaimed. “Let me first tell you that I regret my having missed Sunday Mass. I do beg your pardon!”
Anna smiled. “There is no need to—”
“You see, I was quite ill. Taken to bed in fact, I was. I wasn’t able to make it.”
“You’re better now, I hope,” Antek said.
“Oh my, yes.”
“Good. Father, circumstances became such that we thought we should come here to see about getting the Countess transportation to Warsaw. Will you help us?”
“I can do better than that!”
“What do you mean, Father?” Antek asked.
Father Florian turned his gaze on Anna. “I mean that my missing Mass has actually facilitated the Countess Grawlinska’s return. Some heathens would call it Fate. I, however, believe that such random happenings are God’s happenings.”
Anna’s heart tightened in fright. Father Florian had used her married name! She knew immediately that the priest had had some contact with Antoni. When? How? Her eyes began to dart about the shadows of the chapel. Was Antoni here now?
“That is not the countess’ name, Father,” Antek was saying.
“It most certainly is, isn’t it, Countess Grawlinska?”
Anna nodded. She felt nausea rise up within her. “It is my married name.”
“Why the charade, Countess Grawlinska?” Father Florian asked.
Anna’s lips tightened. It was as if the priest had dropped one mask for another, like some shapeshifter, transforming from one who spoke of her well-being to one who acted as an antagonist. “I wish nothing to do with my husband.”
“But you are married, my dear,” the priest said. “And with child. Your husband is most concerned.”
“I’m certain that he is.” Anna tried not to let her bitterness show. “Where . . . where is Antoni?”
“Ah, that is where the random happening comes in. Had I not been sick, I would not have been here when he came through looking for his wife. The confusion of names forestalled our understanding, but at last the little mystery was solved. The runaway wife was using her maiden name.”
“Runaway wife?” A puzzled Antek turned to Anna.
Anna smiled weakly. How was she to explain in a few words—and in front of the priest?
When she paused, Father Florian launched into a litany of wifely responsibilities and ended by expounding on the duty Anna owed her unborn child.
Antek at last asked the priest the question uppermost on Anna’s mind. “And where is the Lord Grawlinski, Father?”
The priest’s face dulled. “Unfortunately, I sent him off early this morning for the Galki estate. They, of course, will tell him you’ve come here. He will then either turn about immediately or stay the night and come back in the morning. I suspect that he will stay and the happy reunion will occur tomorrow.”
Anna’s head reeled. She was safe for the moment, but no more.
“Now, Antek,” the priest said, “you take your horses to that shed beyond and turn them over to the ostler. Then come join us in the monastery for a hot meal. Come along, Countess Grawlinska.”
Anna exchanged glances with Antek. He could not know the level of her distress, but her lack of enthusiasm for the impending reunion had not been lost on him. He looked at her with puzzlement. He seemed to be waiting for some direction from her.
Anna nodded, releasing him to do as bidden by the priest.
By the time Anna and Father Florian arrived at the outer door of the monastery her plan was formulated. She knew Antoni would not stay the night, that he would immediately turn about for Częstochowa. She sensed a clock inside her, ticking, warning, urging. “I’m sorry, Father,” she blurted, attempting spontaneity, “but I’ve left my mother’s cameo in the sleigh and I’m never without it. It will only take me a moment.”
“Nonsense! As soon as Antek comes in, we’ll send him for it.”
“Oh, he hasn’t a clue as to where I’ve hidden it! I’ll only be a moment!” Anna was running down the incline before the priest could protest further.
Antek was just leaving the stable when she came upon him.
“What is it?” he asked. “You shouldn’t be running.”
“But I must!”
He took her meaning. “You have run away, then.”
“Not until now. Antek, will you trust me to tell you everything once we’re well removed from this place? We must leave now!”
“But the horses need rest and we both could use a meal, Countess.”
“To take the time to do that now will cost me my life. I know that sounds absurd. I know that I’m asking much of you, that you will be expected back home . . . but will you help me get to Warsaw?”
Antek didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Countess.”
“We’ll have to take all the farm roads, no highways.”
He nodded.
“Bless you, Antek.”
Much later, along the desolate and treacherous and bumpy byroads, her escape a fait accompli, Anna wondered whether the Black Madonna had not, after all, worked for her a secret miracle.
Part Four
Push not the river;
it will flow
on its own accord.
—POLISH PROVERB
42
IT WAS ON A COLD day in mid-March that Anna once again set eyes on the streets of Praga. She and Antek arrived in a horse-driven carriage they had rented the day before when the melting snows began to make the sleigh’s going impossible.
Their journey of several days had been long and tedious, the roads scarcely good enough to warrant the name. They had stayed the nights mainly at private homes out of fear that Antoni would be searching them out at the more usual inns. Both plain peasant cottages and the more lavish manor homes extended the customary Polish hospitality.
Lutisha opened the door. At the sight of Anna, her face lit up like the sun. “Oh, Countess Anna!” she croaked, her large hands flying to her face. Then, forgetting her French schooling in the art of running a home, she called into the house: “The Countess is home! Praise God, the Countess is home!”
The corpulent servant impulsively hugged Anna to her, then withdrew in embarrassment at the show of familiarity. “Excuse me, Madame—it was the excitement.”
“No one can be happier than I,” Anna said, returning the hug as proof, then introducing Antek.
“Come in, come in, it’s cold out here. The storks made their return to the roof only today. Marta said it was a lucky omen—and so it is! Oh, I’m sorry to babble. . . . Are you well? And the child?”
“I am, Lutisha. And the child is also. The travel has made him very active, you can be sure.” Anna was delighted to once again see the servant’s toothless smile.
“We heard . . . that is, Lord Grawlinski said that you were dead, that the carriage had been set upon by highwaymen.”
“I escaped, Lutisha.” Anna then whispered: “Where is my husband?” Her heart beat erratically.
“I don’t know, Madame. He left some weeks ago.”
“I see.” They stood in the entry hall. Anna calmed herself. “How is Aunt Stella?”
“Fine.”
“And Zofia? Is she at home?”
“She is not!” The answer came from Countess Stella, who was descending the stairs with the dexterity of a young woman. “She’s off on some damn river cruise! Sweet Jesus, Ania, you are a sight for these old eyes!”
Anna lay awake, life and energy slowly re-entering her cold and travel-weary bones. Her room was dark, the time of night indecipherable. She knew she must have slept for many hours, waking occasionally when Lutisha prodded her to take nourishment.
She tried not to think of Antoni or how long it might be before he would show, as he must.
Anna prayed that Antek was safely making his way back to his family. Parting from him had been difficult, for they had grown so close at the clan’s home and especially on the journey to Warsaw. They had come to speak with such ease with one another. She had told him about everything: the attack at the pond, the expected child, her husband’s attempt on her life, her love for another, her suspicions regarding Zofia. He listened and believed what she said. He had wanted to stay and help her deal with Antoni, but Anna would not allow it. His family was awaiting him, as was the Patriots’ cause. She insisted she would have enough help, showing a confidence she knew to be hollow.
It was an attraction of the spirit that Anna held for Antek: he was the brother she might have had. If she were physically attractive to him, he had never given any indication. He was very proper in that way. She had stood in the doorway as he walked to the carriage, watching him turn back only once to smile sadly and wave. She waved, too, wondering—doubting—that she would see him again.
Anna reached for the glass of water Lutisha had left on the bedside table. How strange, she thought. Antek had been so important to her life. Though lowborn he had shown such nobility, doing no less than a knight would have done. Twice. It was a lesson she had been learning all along: one’s strength of character was instilled by learning and by life’s tests, not by birth.
And yet he left her life like an actor exits the stage at the end of his part in a play. Here was another lesson. This is life, she mused, people pass through your life—and you through theirs—and then it is finished, the scene written and played. There was something immeasurably sad about that.
Would it be so with Jan? Was he to pass out of her life, too?
Anna wondered if Jan had received by now the note Antek had promised to deliver to the Queen’s Head before leaving Warsaw. She tried to estimate the number of hours that had passed, but her brain was cloudy. What did it matter? She was certain he would come. He had to come.
Anna finished the water and fell back against the pillows. She was not yet done with sleep, it seemed. Her aunt had been the one to put her to bed so many hours before.
“What cruise has Zofia gone on?” Anna had asked.
“On the Vistula,” the countess replied. “On some huge and elaborate ship. Can you imagine? Why, the ice isn’t even completely gone. Some magnate or other with too much gold in his purse, I suppose. Think what good such money would do Kościuszko! It makes my blood boil!”
“Aunt Stella, where is Babette?”
“She’s there, too, God help her, on that ship of sinners. Attending your cousin and witnessing who knows what kind of merriment!”
“Oh.”
The lines in the countess’ face were at once transformed from bitterness to sympathy. “Oh, my dear . . . the children . . . are they truly. . . ?”
Anna nodded. “They did not survive.”
“How terribly sad. It is as we feared. We heard there were two small graves among the others. What a world it is. Well, you must sleep now. You can tell us about it another time.” The countess stood to leave. “It means little now, I suppose, but Babette was not a good mother.”
“Nor I a good guardian.”
“You did everything in your power, I’m certain. Children are difficult. Look at mine, Anna Maria. Perhaps it was our fault, mine and Leo’s. Perhaps parents are the least qualified to raise children.”
The countess left the room.
Anna’s hand moved down to cradle her belly. What a strange thing for her aunt to say about parents. It took a very long time for her to fall asleep.
Anna heard a voice calling her. A man’s voice. It seemed as though she had only just fallen asleep.
It was an angry voice, familiar in its impatience. “Anna Maria! Anna Maria!”
She sat up in bed, her back straight as a rod, perspiration beading on her forehead, heart thumping against her chest. The day was only just dawning and the room was a canvas for the interplay of nighttime shadows and tenuous light. She sensed the ethereal silence of breaking day. She felt, too, the palpable presence of danger.
Then she heard a faint sound, metallic in nature. She turned to stare in astonishment at the door. The door handle was slowly—almost imperceptibly—being depressed! Her heart seemed to stop. A click set the door free, and it started to move inward.
Suddenly, a tall figure was standing in the shadows a few feet into the room. She had not seen the steps that propelled him there.
“Who . . . who is it?” Anna could scarcely recognize the reedy voice as her own.
He moved silently and deliberately toward the bed.
In the blink of an eye, the man was standing over her, smiling insidiously. Anna looked up into Antoni’s face. She drew in a long breath.
Her eyes fell now on the corded rope he was holding in his hand. She knew its purpose.
Anna tried to rise from the bed. “No, Antoni!” she called out.
In an instant, he was upon her, pressing the cord hard against her throat.
She struggled to call out again, but her breath was already stifled by his hand. Her arms flailed about helplessly.
She felt the cord tightening by degrees. Long seconds passed. Her world went black. She felt herself falling, falling, as though into some abyss. His hand was suddenly gone and the great fear within her was expelled in screams like those of a lost soul.
Slowly, she became aware that someone was slapping her lightly
upon the cheeks. “Wake up,” a voice was saying. “Wake up, my child.”
Anna’s eyelids opened. Lutisha was staring down at her, her gray eyes full of concern.
“You were having a nightmare,” Lutisha said. “I’ve never heard anyone scream so. Don’t you know you’re home safe with us now?”
Anna tried to smile. Home. Yes, she thought. But safe?
“It’s already mid-morning, Countess Anna,” Lutisha was saying, “let’s get you up and moving. You’ve got company!”
The news jolted her awake. Her ghostly dream dissipated at once. “Who?”
43
ANNA WALKED INTO THE RECEPTION room to find Aunt Stella conversing in low tones with Jan Stelnicki.
They both stood. “Jan tells me,” the countess said, “that you have written him.”
Anna’s heart raced with excitement at seeing Jan even as she steeled herself for her aunt’s reaction. “I did.” Here was at last the confrontation with her aunt regarding Jan. Was there to be a terrible scene?
“I see.” The countess appraised Anna. “Oh, don’t worry, child, I’m not going to scold you. After all, this is a man who has taken up Kościuszko’s banner.”
Anna had no time to react to her aunt’s seeming change of heart. Jan was crossing the room to her. His uniform consisted of black boots, white trousers, and a dark blue coat that intensified the blue of his eyes. He kissed her hand, his expression darkly serious. “You’ve been through so much.”
Anna smiled into those eyes. She had doubted she would ever see him again, ever look into those eyes again. And yet, here he was. “There is more to the story than what the Countess has told you.”
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