The air inside the coach was thick and stifling. Anna undressed Jan Michał and the countess joined her in fanning the red-faced and restless infant.
After more than half an hour on the circuitous route, the carriage came to a sudden halt.
The window shade had been pulled to keep out the heat and flying dust. When Anna opened it, she was disappointed to see that they were not yet at the Stelnicki estate.
Momentarily, Stanisław opened the door. “Father Janewicki will bless us, Countess Gronska.”
Anna’s heart sank. She knew immediately that something had gone wrong.
Anna alighted the coach while the countess remained seated, holding Jan Michał. The old and humble priest who had married Anna and Antoni a lifetime ago greeted them warmly despite his serious manner. “I was sent this way to speak to you,” he announced. “I’m only sorry that I didn’t get to your estate before you left.”
“What is it?” Anna pressed.
“Mass has already been said, Countess Grawlinska. You see, the Russians are already on Polish soil.”
“And the men? Jan Stelnicki?”
“Gone. All gone. If you will allow me, we will say a prayer for their safety right here at the side of the road.”
The priest led them in saying the entire rosary. The countess remained with the baby in the carriage. Kneeling in the dust, Anna, Stanisław, and the stalwart peasant women chanted their replies to the Polish landscape which seemed to promise a summer like any other. But it would not be a summer like any other, Anna thought. Her mouth moved mechanically through the prayers, but she could only think: I didn’t tell him . . . I didn’t tell him . . . I didn’t tell him. . . .
“Follow the road forward,” the priest said when they were finished, “and make a left into the Stelnicki driveway. The maids have a meal waiting. You’ll need the rest before you return. Besides, the road is too narrow here to turn these vehicles around. There will be ample daylight to see you back to your home. Peace be with you.”
Countess Gronska motioned him over to the carriage. “Peace be to all of us,” she said, dropping some coins into his palm.
The vehicles turned into the Stelnicki estate, passing through the gates of a high wooden fence. The inviting two-storied house was wooden, too, unpainted, with a steep evergreen-shingled roof from which jutted hooded eye-like windows.
All of the male Stelnicki servants had joined the cause. The maids who waited upon Anna and the countess were polite, but sourly silent. Anna felt as if an invisible pall had fallen upon the house, upon the country, numbing its inhabitants with sadness and the knowledge that one’s nation was at war. How many women of high or low birth, she wondered, through how many centuries, have shared the same destiny of watching their men march off to war, keeping an interminable vigil for their return? And how many men had not come back?
Anna and the countess were shown to an upstairs bedchamber to wash before the meal. The room, like most of the manor, was clean but lacking in subtle, feminine touches. Anna put this down to the fact that Jan’s mother had died many years before.
The countess sat on the side of the bed. “Oh my, I’m faint, Anna Maria.”
“The heat is oppressive, Aunt Stella. Would you like to lie down for a while?” Anna could not help but notice that her aunt’s face was as white as the porcelain pitcher on the washstand.
“No, it will pass. It’s a spell I sometimes get. I didn’t think to bring my medicine, either.” The countess pushed herself up from the bed. “I think it might help if I eat something.”
Marta was allowed to sit at the dining table so that she could hold the baby while Anna and the countess ate. The other women who had come with ate in the kitchen.
Bowls of a rich and creamy potato soup were placed before them. The meal consisted of thickly sliced dark bread, pierogi stuffed with mushrooms, and braised venison. The mere aroma of the food seemed to revive the countess.
Anna’s eyes moved around the large room, taking in the plate rail that extended the length of each wall, at a height above the windows and doors. The shelf held a wide variety of dishes, pans, decorative plates, and platters organized in no particular way, but homey just the same.
One thought cheered her: this was Jan Stelnicki’s home. Anna dared to hope that she and her son would eat countless meals in this dining room.
Before the meal was over, the strange weakness overcame the countess again. “You and the others go back, Anna Maria,” she urged. “I think I should stay the night. You can send Stanisław for me in the morning.”
“I won’t hear of it.” Anna was not about to allow her aunt out of her sight. “I’m equally exhausted, however short the distance is. We’ll all stay the night.”
Much later, after a lighter meal, Countess Gronska and Jan Michał were settled into separate bedchambers, and Anna explored the manor. While the Stelnicki home was of good size, it was plain to the eye, and certainly no mansion. The whiteness of the plaster walls had darkened over the years. Tapestries hung in almost every room, but furniture was sparse and mostly functional. It had been a man’s home for some time.
After dark, Anna retired to the small room she shared with Jan Michał. One of the maids had earlier provided the crude crib in which he now lay. He slept soundly.
The evening seemed no cooler than the day, unusual weather for June. Anna had no nightclothes and so laid herself, fully clothed, upon the blankets of the narrow, feathered bed. Lutisha would have scolded her, had the servant known that Anna left both windows open to the unknown spirits of the night. But Anna’s fears were not fears of spirits.
Eventually, she fell into a fitful half-sleep.
By morning, Anna slept more deeply, coming awake only when she heard noises at the side of the house, the sounds of horses and muffled voices.
Jan Michał awoke then and began to cry. Anna took him to her bed and began to nurse him, wondering what the activity below was about. Unlikely as the prospect was, she prayed that for some reason Jan had come back to the house.
She was not to wonder long at the commotion.
Suddenly, the door was flung open, and a soldier in red took some four or five steps into the room. Anna immediately recognized the Russian uniform.
The man didn’t blink or turn away when he saw Anna was nursing. Anger overcame her embarrassment. “Who are you to behave like this?”
“By order of the Empress Catherine,” he growled in low Polish, “you are to follow me immediately.”
“Turn aside!” Anna demanded in Russian.
He stared in surprise. Anna’s eyes met his uncompromisingly, and he turned away his gaze.
When her dress was buttoned, she stood, and holding fast to Jan Michał, followed the tall figure in the long coat and high black boots. He carried his pistol in his hand.
The two entered the countess’ room. Anna’s aunt stood facing them, Bible in hand. Marta and her daughters stood behind her, all clearly terrified.
“Countess Gronska?” the Russian asked. “Which of you is the countess?”
The countess slowly brought her eyes up to meet his. “Whom am I addressing?”
“A captain of the Army of the Empress Catherine of Russia.” His manner was haughty.
“I am Countess Stella Gronska,” she said with quiet dignity. “Mine is the neighboring estate.”
“And you?” He had turned to Anna.
“I am the Countess Anna Maria Berezowska-Grawlinska.” She hoped she appeared as unruffled as her aunt.
“Have the names of your husbands appeared in agreement with the Confederacy of Targowica?”
“We are widows,” Countess Gronska answered.
Anna knew that answer would not suffice. She knew, too, that to spare her aunt, she must be the one to say what she said next: “Both of our names have been affixed to a document supporting the Confederacy.” The treasonous words tore at her heart.
“Ah, then you most gracious ladies are free to leave this house. I must ask y
ou to do so without delay, for this is the home of a traitor. It is to be destroyed.”
Anna felt angry blood rush to her face. But this was not the time to defend Jan or his home. There were others in more immediate danger. “These are our servants here. We have others downstairs. They will accompany us back home.”
The Russian eyed Marta, Marcelina, and Katarzyna. He shrugged his indifference.
Just then a great disquiet arose in the yard. Soon, a second Russian appeared in the doorway. He told the captain that another detachment had arrived.
“Ah, well, then,” the man said, “you ladies will please keep to this room for the time being.”
As the captain left, he turned and gave Anna an appraising glance, one that lifted the little hairs at the nape of her neck.
The four women were left to their prayers and dark imagination.
The day’s heat rose. The sounds of pistols, drunken shouts, and screams of women put everyone on edge. Jan Michał cried. The others were too frightened to do so.
What was going on downstairs? Outside? Why hadn’t they been released? What was this delay? Anna’s mind conjured the worst possibilities. “Aunt Stella,” she whispered, “should anything happen to me, I know you will see to Jan Michał’s safety.”
“The baby will come to no harm, I guarantee you, Anna. And neither shall we. These barbarians would not dare injure a titled Pole.”
Anna was not nearly so sure. She worried especially for the physical safety of the two young girls. What was happening to the Stelnicki maids below? Men at war were capable of anything. She worried for herself, too. If one of them violated a noblewoman, she suspected he would kill her to suppress the crime. And if he didn’t kill her, she would wish he had.
By mid-afternoon, there was only silence, oppressive as the heat. An exhausted Jan Michał finally slept.
They heard heavy footsteps on the stairway, then along the hallway. One man’s. The door was unlocked and thrust open.
“Countess Gronska,” the young officer said, seeming to know at once which of them was the countess, “you and your servants are to come with me. You are free to go back to your estate.” He spoke perfect Polish.
“And my niece, the Countess Grawlinska?”
“I have no orders for her yet.”
“Then I will not go.”
“You must, Aunt Stella. Don’t worry about me. Hurry now, take Marta and her daughters. This is your chance for safety.”
“I will talk to whoever is in charge downstairs. Don’t worry, Anna, you shall come with us.”
Anna was alone then, and minutes ticked by. Perhaps half an hour. She put her ear to the door. She could hear her aunt raging downstairs. “But why are you doing this?” her aunt was saying. It was strange, but there was something in the countess’ tone that hinted at her knowing her enemy. Yet how was that possible?
Things went quiet then for many minutes until a commotion arose in the side yard. Anna went to the window. The Gronski carriage and carts were being readied.
They would come to collect her presently, Anna thought, carefully readying the sleeping baby.
She again heard steps on the stairs, then moving toward her chamber. The lock turned and the door opened.
Katarzyna entered, tearful and shaking. A guard remained outside the door. The girl carried with her the large canvas satchel that held the countess’ knitting and needlework. It seemed to be empty.
“What is it, Katarzyna?” Anna whispered. “Tell me!”
“I am to take the baby.” The girl spoke as though in a trance. “The countess said they aren’t to know that he was here at all.” The trance broke and she started to sob. “I’m so frightened. Oh, I don’t think I can do it, Madame, I don’t!”
“Why are you to take the baby, Katarzyna? Where? What’s to become of me?”
“I’m so afraid, Countess. So afraid.”
Anna realized it was useless to try to elicit information from the girl. She knew nothing. Anna went to the window. She could see Marta and Marcelina below. Then the countess came into view. Anna retraced her steps to Katarzyna. “You are to take Jan Michał in the satchel, is that it? . . . Katarzyna!”
The girl nodded.
“My baby’s life may depend on you, do you understand?” Anna shook the girl. “Do you?”
“Yes, Madame.” She seemed to gather her wits, sniffling.
The child was still sleeping when Anna placed him in the satchel, quickly kissing him on the forehead.
“Very well, Katarzyna, take him and go. God will grant you the courage. Be certain not to awaken him.”
Katarzyna left.
Anna heard the door’s lock click into place. Holding her breath, she listened to the sound of voices at the foot of the stairs. Was the girl being questioned? Would the baby awake and cry out in terror?
Instinctively, Anna’s hands moved up to pull at her hair in the nervous way she had done as a child. She stopped herself as the voices dropped away.
Anna ran to the window and had to lean out at a dangerous angle to see where the carriage had been moved. The carts were filled with the Gronski servant women. She assumed her aunt was already in the carriage.
Anna stared unblinking as she saw Katarzyna appear now, delicately picking her way, holding tight to her cargo. Sleep, Jan Michał. Sleep. Just a little longer. Stanisław took the satchel and handed it up, Marta’s strong hands reaching from the coach to take it. The door closed and Katarzyna made her way to her place with Marcelina in the first cart.
The carriage wheels started to turn then in the dusty drive, moving slowly at first. Anna watched until they were gone from sight . . . then from hearing. She slipped to the floor underneath the window, spent.
It was only now, with all the others on the way to safety, that Anna feared for her own self. Why had she been singled out to stay at the Stelnicki estate? The Russian captain had told her that this place was to be destroyed. What was to happen to her?
Hours passed. By nightfall, she was hungry and in need of using the chamber pot. There was none in this room.
Anna knocked at her own door. “I must be attended!” she called.
She could hear the sounds of boot steps thumping to and fro and distant voices.
She called out again.
Finally, the door opened to an unfamiliar guard and a Stelnicki maid who cowered behind him. “After you are attended, you will follow me,” he said.
Anna questioned the woman once they were alone in the little room Anna had occupied the night before, but she stood facing the wall, not answering. Anna thought she must be simple-minded, but came to realize the terrified woman was praying her heart out. The maid was dismissed when they left the chamber, and Anna followed the guard down to the reception room. “I am very hungry,” Anna said.
The Russian ignored her.
A candelabra with six tapers lit only the far area of the room. A small group of men was gathered about the sofa that supported a man who appeared to be badly injured. An army surgeon worked over him.
Anna’s guard stood behind her, prodding her now to move closer to the group. She did so, trying not to focus on any one thing or face.
Several men stepped aside, allowing Anna to catch sight of the bearded man’s chest wound. It was a gaping hole, red and hideous.
Anna was pushed to the very edge of the sofa, but she kept her gaze away from the patient.
“She is here,” someone said, as if to the prone man.
The man’s head rolled on the pillow, and Anna could sense his eyes on her.
She kept her own averted.
“You will hold my hand while the wound is attended to,” he said, in a simple but demanding way. His hand reached up quickly, taking Anna’s captive, and holding it with a crushing tightness. It was all she could do not to call out. Why was she being subjected to this?
While the physician worked, the pressure on her hand increased unbearably. When a glowing iron was used to cauterize the wound, the p
atient screamed out in agony and his body heaved upward.
Moved by pity and the kindness she might have for any injured beast, Anna at last looked down at him.
What she saw made her forget his vice-like grip and the fingernail cutting into the cuticle of her thumb. Neither did she smell anymore the stench of burning flesh. The man’s eyelids had opened wide in pain and shock—and Anna saw his reddish-brown eyes.
The man was no stranger to her. He was the one . . . the one that last September . . . at the pond. She tried to catch her breath. He was grinning through his pain at her recognition.
Anna fainted dead away at the sight of her cousin Walter.
56
ANNA’S SENSES WERE SLOW IN returning. The first sounds she recognized were those of a door creaking open and footsteps approaching, then retreating. After she heard the closing of the door, she dared to open her eyes.
She was in the room where she had been held captive earlier. She had been placed upon the bed with no particular care, so that her head hung over the side. Lifting her head onto the pillow, she noticed that a tray had been left on the bedside table.
She lay there, desperately hungry, yet without appetite and lacking the will to sit up and eat. She could think only of Walter.
Her own cousin had raped her. She had since found out that Walter was not the blood son of the Gronskis, but what did that matter?
And why hadn’t she figured out that it had been Walter? Guessed as much? The memory of those penetrating eyes at the pond should have made her realize they were the same brutish eyes that stared at her from across the dinner table. Something, some part of her, had kept her from making the connection.
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