“Anna!”
Anna turned around to face Zofia. Albin stood just behind her cousin.
“Why do you leave?” Zofia’s eyes were wild. “Albin is interested in you.”
“I’m tired and I’m going to bed.”
“Ah, but if Albin were Stelnicki, you would not run so fast! Don’t delude yourself. If Stelnicki were here, he would not choose you, Princess or not!”
Anna could only stare at her cousin.
“Don’t retire so early, Princess,” Albin pleaded.
“Albin is better than any man here tonight, Anna.” Zofia was shouting now. “If Stelnicki is even alive, you’re a fool to think a man like that would wish to spend the rest of his nights with you!”
Anna turned and hurried up the stairs to her room. No one followed her.
66
WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ONE of the most memorable days of Anna’s life had been tarnished. Zofia never apologized, avoiding her cousin for a full week. Anna struggled to shake off her bitterness, and as the days passed, it was only the growing political and military concerns that allowed the incident to fade into the background.
In her wrath against Poland’s insurrection, Catherine enlisted the aid of both Prussia and Austria, no doubt promising them part of the Polish map, as she had done twice previously. Anna wondered how long the Commonwealth could hold out against three militaristic countries. She wondered, too, how King Stanisław could keep Catherine’s portrait in its place of honor in that little gold chamber.
The Prussians wasted no time in responding to the Empress’ bribe. Kościuszko had moved out to meet the Prussian army led by King William himself—who had once promised to defend Poland’s independence and whose picture also hung in that gold room. The Polish forces had sufficient cannon and fields of peasants wielding scythes, but too few rifles; no Polish rifle manufacturer could meet the demand. The Kościuszko forces stood a mere thirteen thousand to the forty thousand well-armed Prussians. They were overrun and forced to retreat on the sixth of May at Szczekociny. Worse yet, on the fifteenth of June the Prussians went on to take Kraków.
When the news of the setbacks reached Warsaw, certain Poles instigated a pogrom against those suspected of being Russian sympathizers, summarily executing a number of them. Anna heard that Doctor Kurowski was one of those hanged in the Market Square. Though Anna held no affection for the man, she knew that he had probably saved Jan Michał’s life, and so said a prayer for the repose of his soul. The wrongs of war knew no sides.
Kościuszko returned to Warsaw and immediately punished those who had initiated the pogrom.
In July, a combined force of Russian and Prussian forces moved against Warsaw. Kościuszko dug in outside of Warsaw and was enlisting artillery and earthworks in such a way that they were managing to thwart the greater enemy force.
At noon one day, Anna sat in Jan Michał’s attic room, absently watching him amuse himself with a small wooden soldier. Her mind was on the expected siege of the capital. She would take and use a gun herself to protect the Commonwealth for her loved ones, but she dared to think of how much better the world would be if every mother, Polish or Russian, saw to the destruction of every gun and cannon.
Carrying a tray, Lutisha climbed up the narrow stairway and placed a cup of coffee before Anna, then proceeded to feed Jan Michał his lunch.
Anna drank. “What kind of coffee is this, Lutisha? It has an undertaste.”
“Coffee has become scarce, Madame. We have added a bit of chicory to it.”
“I can taste the chicory,” Anna said, sipping at it again, “but it still seems a bit strange.” She drank it down, however, hoping she could dispel the listlessness she felt.
What if the city is taken, she worried. Would the lives of citizens be in danger?
Anna soon realized that she couldn’t focus her mind to any one thought. A lethargy settled over her, and she lay back against the settee. She could no longer lift her limbs. Her eyelids became weighted, too, but she refused to close them, certain that Lutisha had given her a poison. This must be what the River Lethe in the underworld is like, she thought, the river of forgetfulness.
Against her will, her eyes closed. Anna felt her legs being lifted onto the settee, then whispers nearby indicated someone else had come up to the attic. Who was it? Zofia? Aunt Stella? She wanted to call out, to ask why this was being done to her, but her throat had closed upon the words.
When Anna heard her son’s name, she managed to force open her eyes. Jan Michał’s face came slowly into half-focus. His face was being lowered to hers. She felt his lips on her cheek. She wanted to reach up for him, but her arms would not respond. Her eyes closed involuntarily.
Soon she heard the receding sound of feet moving down the stairs. She could hear her little son saying, “Out? Out?”
Much later Anna awoke to find the countess sitting next to her.
“You must forgive me, Anna,” her aunt whispered. “There was no other way. We placed a harmless drug in your coffee so that Jan Michał could be taken without delay and without a struggle.”
“Taken?” Anna managed to say.
“Listen to me, Ania. Warsaw has become a very dangerous place. Perhaps death is approaching for all of us. Who can say?”
“But where?”
“Walek returned. He is taking all of his family to your estate at Sochaczew. All except for Lutisha who has insisted on remaining with us. Jan Michał’s presence among a band of peasants will not be questioned. The presence of all of us would only encumber them. Things are fast becoming unsafe, and even though, God forgive her, Zofia has affixed our names to the Confederacy . . . well, one never knows with the Russians. And we must face the fact that my traveling days are over.”
“Aunt Stella, why didn’t you just tell me of this plan?”
The countess sighed, fixing her sad, brown eyes on Anna. “Because you had vowed never to be parted from your son. Lutisha and I both heard you.”
Anna couldn’t respond. She knew her aunt was right.
“You’re not to worry, Anna Maria. I’ve given them money which I’m certain they’ll use wisely.”
“Jan Michał,” Anna whispered. She felt her lower lip trembling and hot tears beading in her eyes.
Countess Gronska took her hand. “You must be strong, Ania. You must think of the well-being and future of your son. If Poland somehow survives this onslaught, Jan Michał, as one of its princes, might one day be elected king.”
The countess kissed Anna and left.
Anna lay for a long time staring at the ceiling. They had done the right thing, she told herself. She hoped she would have made the same decision. As it was, it was done. Jan Michał was gone.
Countess Gronska took to her bed. If Zofia did not, Anna realized just how ill she was.
Warsaw was spared for the moment. The tide turned when a brave band of Polish peasants, led by a patriot named Minewsky, captured a large Prussian convoy with artillery and supplies enough for an extended campaign as it ascended the River Vistula. Without this support, Prussia’s Frederick William lost thousands of men and withdrew after two months, retreating to Poznań. The immediate threat to the capital went with him. For every Polish victory, though, news came of some defeat.
When good news came, the countess seemed to rally a little, but not for long. Anna started to sleep in her aunt’s room, tending to her every need.
Wilno fell to the Russians in mid-August. A week later, a Polish force led by General Dąbrowski, set out for Wielkopolska to support a Polish uprising; buoyed by his success in this venture, Dąbrowski pushed on into Prussia.
And so it went. Hope faded, however, when the Austrians joined Russia and Prussia in taking apart Poland, like children pulling at the petals of a flower.
Anna wished she had been born a man. How she would have liked to take her ancestors’ armor and weapons from the wall at Sochaczew and set out against the Commonwealth’s aggressors! She remembered Zofia sarcastically asking
if she thought she were Joan of Arc. How she wished she had such a calling.
But, like every citizen of Warsaw, she could only pray when word came that Catherine had sent her most bloodthirsty leader, General Suvorov, to attack Poland from the southeast. Kościuszko immediately moved against the Russians, engaging them at Maciejowice.
And then came the worst possible news: when the Russians managed to separate Kościuszko from his supporting column, he was badly wounded and captured.
What was to become of Poland without the little general? Was Jan with him? Anna wondered. Was her beloved in the hands of the Russians?
With no one to fend him off, Suvorov turned now, like a starving tiger, and moved against Warsaw. Coming from the southeast, he would reach Praga first before crossing to Warsaw. Anna, her tiny group of patriots, and every citizen of the capital waited for the full brunt of Catherine’s anger. Stanisław’s former lover had sworn to see the city reduced to flame and ash. No one doubted her resolve. Patriot reinforcements gathered in the city, but they were a motley coalescence of survivors from campaigns in all the provinces. Anna knew in her heart that these brave men, taking a stand as their forefathers had done so many times before, were as men sculpted out of sand, as compared to the high tide of men and cannon that she knew to be flowing swiftly toward the city.
67
ON THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER, All Saints Day, Anna realized that just as the Russians were moving toward Warsaw, so too was death coming for the Countess Stella. Her eyes were like saucers in her drawn and ashen face, her body frail and shrunken.
Anna was just leaving her aunt’s room to go down to the kitchen. Lutisha had not yet brought the morning meal, and Anna wondered what was keeping her.
It was a white-faced Zofia she met, hurrying up the stairs toward her. “Anna,” she cried, “we must leave this house immediately. Even now Suvorov is camped before the glacis of Praga. We must cross the river. The capital will be safer.”
Anna’s heart leapt in fear. The Russian general’s reputation for the cruelest inhumanity was well known. No citizen, noble nor commoner, would be safe. “The capital? But where? Where in the capital?”
“To Count Potecki’s townhome. Before Paweł left on his silly patriotic quest, he gave his staff instructions that his house was at my disposal. I’ve already sent Lutisha there with many of our valuables. There are only the three of us remaining, and we mustn’t tarry!”
The three of us, Anna thought, remembering the countess. “But, Zofia . . .”
“What? What is it?”
“Your mother . . . she will not last the trip.”
“Is she so ill?”
“Zofia, she’s dying.”
Zofia’s almond-shaped eyes grew round, the pupils darker. “Oh, Anna, this is terrible! Unless we flee, we’ll all die. These wooden houses will ignite like tinderboxes.”
“The countess can’t be moved,” Anna said, her voice and resolve thickening. “You aren’t suggesting that we abandon her?”
“No, of course not. Do you think she will rebound? Perhaps tomorrow we can move her.”
Anna offered no such hope.
The two went in to see the countess, who lay motionless under the quilt. They stood on either side of the large bed. The rise and fall of the countess’ breast came with such long moments between that Anna sometimes thought she had already succumbed.
Zofia said nothing. Her face was bereft of emotion as she stared at her mother. In time, she reached her hand toward her mother’s, which lay palm up at her side, but Zofia withdrew hers before establishing contact.
During the night Anna and Zofia took turns at the countess’ bedside. Toward dawn, occasional firings could be heard.
It was during Anna’s vigil that the countess awoke. “Anna? Is that you?”
“Yes, Aunt Stella, I’m here.”
Her voice was a rattling whisper punctuated with pauses. “What is . . . that noise?”
Anna paused for a moment while she lighted a candle. She knew it would do no good to lie. Her aunt was too shrewd. “It’s the sound of cannon,” she said, sitting again in the chair at the side of the bed.
“The . . . Russians?”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“Outside Praga?”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“Dear God,” she sighed. “It’s so sad . . . to be defeated, Anna. At least I’ll not live . . . to see Poland bow . . . to the likes of Catherine.”
“You’ll get well, Aunt Stella. You must! You shouldn’t say such things.”
“No, Anna, I’m too old . . . and set in my ways for such changes. . . . I couldn’t live when there is no Poland. . . . I wouldn’t want to. And my life has been lived. But you are young . . . you have resiliency and strength, like Poland herself.”
“Aunt Stella, you mustn’t tire yourself. You must rest.”
“Listen to me, Ania. Marry Stelnicki if you love him. If you both somehow survive this cataclysm . . . let nothing stand in your way. . . . Nothing!”
“Lie back now, Aunt, and sleep.”
“Anna” the countess persisted, her voice becoming more urgent while she tried to lift herself. “Make certain that your children and your children’s children keep our Polish ways. . . . Make them proud of our heritage and Poland will not die.” She attempted now a brave smile. “We will outwit that Russian she-wolf, after all.”
Anna returned the smile and squeezed the countess’ hand. “Poland will not die, Aunt Stella. It will never die. You told me so yourself. Not even if Russia were to hold it for a hundred years.”
The countess seemed satisfied, falling back into her pillows and a light sleep.
By morning Countess Gronska could neither move of her own power nor draw breath to speak.
Zofia and Anna were both present when she stirred slightly and began tapping her finger on the crucifix of her rosary.
“What is it, Aunt Stella? What do you wish?”
“She wants a priest,” Zofia said. “Isn’t that it, Mother? You wish to have a priest?”
The countess did not respond.
“Aunt,” Anna whispered, bending over the small form in the bed, “close your eyes twice if a priest is what you wish.”
Anna and Zofia stared in silence. Only the sound of distant cannon could be heard. Anna reached for her aunt’s hand.
The wide brown eyes stared vacantly, and Anna thought she hadn’t understood, that her mind had already been taken.
But then the delicately wrinkled flesh that were her eyelids quivered, widened and closed, once, then twice.
“I sent for a priest during the night, Mother,” Zofia said, taking the countess’ other hand. “He came while you slept and gave you the Last Rites. Do you understand?”
Tears were beading in her eyes, tears of thanksgiving, and the two slow, painful winks released them. The countess looked to her daughter, then to Anna. Peace settled over her. Her body seemed to slacken. Anna thought she looked angelic.
Just then the frail body tightened and convulsed as a paroxysm caused the countess’ once-lovely eyes to nearly burst from their sockets.
She fell back now and lay still, dead, the brown eyes still staring.
A long minute passed in silence.
“ ‘The golden bowl is broken,’ ” Zofia said at last, reaching up to close her mother’s eyes.
Anna was stunned to hear Zofia allude to the Bible.
“ ‘Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was,’ ” Zofia continued, “ ‘and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.’ ” Heavy tears glistened in the black eyes. “She was a good woman, Anna. She deserved better than Walter and me.”
“It was a beautiful death, Zofia. If there is beauty in death. She was so happy to die in the state of grace. Why, I must have slept so soundly I didn’t hear the priest’s coming or going.”
“There was no priest, Anna.”
“What?”
“There was no priest. Oh, I sent for one, but there wasn’t one to
be found in all of Warsaw. They’re with our wounded and dying men—or fighting and dying themselves.”
“But Zofia . . .”
“You’re shocked that I could lie to her? It was a happy death. That lie made it so. And, besides, you know as well as I that Mother was in the state of grace. It is God’s will and a blessing that she die now.”
“It was her will, as well,” Anna said. “She didn’t wish to live to see the Russians take Poland.”
Anna’s statement and a loud volley of cannon fire seemed to jar Zofia onto another line of thought. “But we must, cousin,” she urged. “We must live. And you must move quickly if you are to survive. By the sound of it, they may have already entered Praga. Go get ready immediately, Anna. Wear only the simplest dress and no petticoats to encumber you.”
“But your mother, Zofia, she must be buried.”
“There’s no time!”
“I’ll not leave her.” Anna took a quilt, unfolded it, and placed it on the bed parallel to the body.
“Anna, what are you doing?”
“I’m taking her body downstairs. You yourself said these houses would go up like tinderboxes. And there’s liable to be Russians and looters.”
“Anna, we must leave,” Zofia pleaded. “This is no Greek drama about burial rites and you are no Antigone. Go upstairs to the attic window and look out over Praga to the east. Death is approaching for us. My mother would not wish you to risk your life—”
“You may go, Zofia,” Anna said sharply as she struggled to tuck the quilt under her aunt’s body. “But I will not!” Their eyes clashed now in a contest of wills.
“Sweet Jesus,” Zofia said at last, mimicking an expression of her mother’s. “You are stubborn. It’s the Gronska coming out in you. Very well, we’ll stay long enough to store her body in the cellar so she can be buried later. Will that suit you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. But just remember how badly it ended for Antigone. Let’s just get this done.” Zofia pulled her mother’s body to her while Anna tucked in the quilt.
Push Not the River Page 53