Jan nodded in understanding and compassion. He silently thanked God for Jacob and Emma Szraber. Without them the estate would be in even greater disrepair. At the start of the conflict, Jacob had fought as a Polish patriot, joining the contingent of Colonel Berek Joselewicz, the first Jewish regiment since Biblical times. He had seen serious action, survived, and come home to resume his duties as estate manager, but Jan’s heart went out to the middle-aged couple, for they had lost their daughter Judith and her newborn son. It had been confirmed only three days before: The two had been among the twelve thousand caught up in the chaos when the Russians took Praga.
The Warsaw uprising had so incensed Catherine that she sent a general notorious for his ferocity—Aleksandr Suvorov—to level Warsaw. His forces descended from the east like red locusts, destroying the suburb of Praga and putting thousands of its citizens—men, women, and children—to the sword. Only a burnt bridge and the River Vistula held the enemy at bay from the capital walls long enough for the blood lust to cool, allowing for the city to capitulate peacefully.
So many of the large Jewish population had died violently that day, cut down at the bridge, on the streets, in their homes. Jan’s blood iced over to think it might just as easily have been Anna who had not made it across the burning bridge to safety behind the Warsaw city walls. The Szrabers’ daughter and grandson were not their only losses. Their well-loved son-in-law had died at the ramparts that same day, defending the city’s suburb from the Russians. There would be no regeneration for this good and proud Jewish family.
Jan had been there, too, and had suffered two wounds and the indignity of capture. The signing of the peace treaty, however, had allowed for his release.
Marta entered to announce the afternoon meal, a worried smile flickering on her earnest face. Jan knew that she was concerned over her mother, Lutisha, who had stayed in Warsaw to take care of Anna’s needs. They would both be in Sochaczew in a matter of hours now, he thought, and the whole household would breathe easier.
Jan and Jacob moved to the dining room where Emma and little Jan Michał were already seated. Jan watched as Marta’s daughters Marcelina and Katarzyna began to serve the mushroom soup. Just before the Russian invasion, Walek, Marta’s husband—a patriot himself—had managed to spirit his little family away from the doomed suburb of Praga. He had taken Jan Michał also, disguised as his own child. How Jan wished that he had taken Anna, too, but anyone of nobility would have been detained, placing everyone in jeopardy. As it was, no one much cared about a little retinue of peasants.
“Lady Anna,” Emma said, “will be home for the evening meal, I should think.”
Jan paused for a few moments, a spoonful halfway to his mouth. Had she been reading his mind, just as Jacob had done? The mere mention of Anna’s name—the thought that he would see those amber-flecked green eyes before the day was through—made his heart pump faster and his mind wander.
He found himself staring at his spoon and suddenly felt a bit ridiculous. A man who had seen the kind of bloodletting that had come his way, a man who had had to kill, should not be so emotional, he thought. Holding off tears, he put the spoon to rest in the bowl. He looked to the sandy-haired, dark-eyed child he had offered to adopt. “How is that bread, Jan Michał?”
Chewing with relish on the fresh rye, the boy looked up with adoring eyes to Jan. “Good.” He pronounced the single word with such enthusiasm that crumbs went flying.
Everyone laughed.
A few minutes of silence passed. It was Jacob who broke it. “It is all very well, Lord Stelnicki, your having us take our meal here to give you company, but when Lady Anna comes home, we will eat in our cottage.”
“What? Nonsense, Jacob!”
“Oh, that’s the way it must be, Lord Stelnicki,” Emma said. “It’s hardly proper for an estate manager and a governess to be taking meals in the Berezowski dining room. And you and Lady Anna will have such a lot to catch up on when she arrives. So many preparations . . . ” The woman stopped mid-sentence, her face reddening.
Jan smiled at her and started again on his soup. He tried to fend off the blood he felt rising into his face. That he and Anna would marry seemed to be common knowledge.
Soon Katarzyna cleared away the bowls while Marcelina brought in a huge tureen of bigos. Little Jan Michał’s eyes bulged, sparkling brown at the sight and fragrant scent of the stew. Jan studied Anna’s child. In truth, he felt uncomfortable that the boy had taken to him so quickly. Why was that? It was, after all, in his nature to be protective. He could not explain his own feelings to himself. Was it a fear of taking on such a responsibility? Was it the memory of the child’s father? He would not wish away the existence of the little innocent. But he could—and did—hold himself responsible for the circumstances that had led to the boy’s entrance into the world. That day at the pond was a day Jan would regret the rest of his life. Even now, years later, no day went by without his thinking if only . . .
A long moment passed.
“Lord Stelnicki,” Emma said, “you’ve hardly eaten a thing.”
“I’m just taking my time, Emma,” he said. “It’s delicious.” Jan was impressed by the little meal. War had left the country poor, the storehouses of even the manor houses and castles nearly empty, but Marta and her girls had somehow conjured up the most savory bigos he had tasted in years, and when Marta came out from the kitchen on some errand, he told her so.
By custom, compliments to the cook were seldom made in the dining room, and the attention caused a rise in the servant’s color. In her embarrassment, Marta changed the subject. “Oh, Lord Stelnicki, it will be so good to have Lady Anna here, safe and sound.”
“That it will, Marta,” Emma concurred. “Not to mention having Lutisha, your mother, back!”
The thought put Jan’s mind on a happier path. He could not bring himself to say anything for fear of tears. How he longed for Anna, had since they had met in’91, and now they were to make a life together.
As Marta retreated to the kitchen, Jan sopped up the gravy of the stew with his dark bread and began to chew, savoring the familiar afresh.
“Lord Stelnicki,” Emma ventured, as she helped Jan Michał with his meal, “Lady Anna—has she had no word about her cousin?”
“No, Emma.” Jan kept his eyes upon his plate. “I’m afraid that Zofia was among the many lost in the waters of the River Vistula.”
“May God rest her soul,” Emma said.
Zofia, Jan thought. He certainly wished no one dead, but just the mention of her name brought on a tide of grim emotions.
Zofia came suddenly awake, flushed and perspiring. The Praga massacre—with all its horror—had unfolded in a hellish nightmare. She could taste in her throat the acrid smoke of the burning homes, hear the screams of women and children being mowed down in the streets like shafts of wheat, see the glint of scarlet-stained cutlass and saber blades rising and falling, falling and rising. Even after the bridge collapsed into the Vistula, the Russian legions—lancers in the lead—continued to bear down on the populace, propelling them off the bridge and to a watery grave.
The Russian soldier that had pulled her atop his Arabian had stolen from her what jewelry she had worn—all but one ring. So it was that—on horseback and in the midst of the killing—they struggled over the diamond ring Zofia was intent upon keeping. It had been her mother’s. She had only just managed to place it in a hidden pocket in her skirts when the cries of the people around them rose to fever pitch.
It was then that both she and the Russian realized that they were inextricably caught up with the masses that were being forced toward the jagged precipice of the broken bridge that jutted out over the roiling waters. The Russian soldier’s face went as pale as a ship’s canvas as he sought—futilely—to direct his horse to safety. Zofia held to him with a vice-like grip as fear—so unfamiliar to her—coursed through her. The press of the crowd tightened then, and the horse rose up in a panic.
They teetered at the e
dge of the broken bridge for what seemed a long moment, the sight of the swiftly moving Vistula below. In the water, their heads bobbing and limbs flailing, a thousand souls that had escaped the blade and bullet would not escape the current.
Then came the crush of the crowd and suddenly the horse was pushed from the precipice and they were falling—falling—falling.
Zofia shook her head now in an attempt to cleanse it of the memory. She pulled herself into a sitting position at the side of the bed, dizzy at her own emotions. It was night, and the cottage was quiet as a crypt. A low fire off in the main room of the cottage tossed a dim, flickering light into her little alcove. Her eyes went to the ruined skirt hanging near the doorway. Summoning a hidden strength, she was suddenly off the bed and moving toward it, her bare feet cold on the earthen floor.
She took down the skirt and fumbled for the hidden pocket. Her fingers came upon the ring then, and a wave of relief washed over her. She might very well need something of value to pay for her restoration to Warsaw. She withdrew the diamond ring and held it up to the weak, flickering hearthlight. The facets of the perfect stone twinkled coldly, like a distant star.
2
Anna had been kept waiting in the cold room for more than two hours. Outside, twilight had darkened into the pitch of night. When she had been shown into the office, a Russian soldier had asked her questions in his language, and she had responded in kind. She had come to be with her dying mother, she told him, showing him her papers. Had she signed with the Confederacy of Targowica? he asked. The question startled her, and she felt her face flushing hot. Yes, she told him, hurting anew to think of it.
“It is good that you have signed, Countess.” He seemed satisfied.
Anna thought the little interview over. She stood to leave.
“Sit down, please, Countess Berezowska-Grawlińska,” he said. “You are to wait here.”
And so she waited. Another hour.
The details of the office in which she was confined—labels on a file, a flag, a man’s sash hanging on a hook—indicated that its owner was a Pole. He collected clocks and sundials, it seemed, for they were present in abundance—gathering dust on the desk in front of her, on tables, and on the walls. The steady ticking and signaling of the clocks began to work on her fragile nerves. This was time being stolen from her, minute by minute.
How had she come to find herself caught up in such a lie? Violating her dead mother’s memory in order to provide a likely excuse for a return to Sochaczew—it made her feel small. Oh, it was true that her name had been affixed to the Confederacy of Targowica, but it was her cousin Zofia who—without consultation—had added their names to those of greedy and misled nobles, men who should have known better than to ask Russia’s Catherine to intercede and overthrow the democratic Third of May Constitution. Aunt Stella had been astute in predicting that Catherine would want more than to help crush the seeds of democracy in Poland, that she would want Poland, as well.
But Anna had to admit to herself that lies might have their place in a truthful world, for the lie about her mother would admit her to her home and a new life with Jan Stelnicki—just as the traitorous placement of her name with the Confederacy had already served her well. Zofia had once told her that lies were more useful than truth. Had she been right? And were such means justified?
The door opened now and the Russian soldier entered, followed by a man in the old-fashioned Polish garb of Eastern influence—a long coat over tight trousers, a colorful sash at a thickening waist and a ruff at a fleshy neck. He seemed to have been taken away from a meal, for he was still chewing and wiping at his grizzled moustache. Anna thought him to be in his mid-fifties. He appeared vaguely familiar.
“This is Countess Berezowska-Grawlińska” the Russian pronounced, failing to introduce the Pole to her. “I am finished with her. You are to question the good countess and make a report. If she does not cooperate, she is to be detained.”
“I understand,” the Pole said.
“Good!” The Russian made his exit, his boot heels hitting hard upon the wooden floor. He left open the door that led to other offices.
“Now, Lady Berezowska-Grawlińska, we will have a nice little chat in our own tongue, yes?” The Pole went to the chair behind the desk and inked a pen.
He avoided calling her countess. Like most of the szlachta, the minor nobility, he did not use titles in direct address, for they thought it too imperious to do so. Anna was buoyed by the thought that they were Poles of the same class and dared to hope she would find an understanding ear and quickly be put on her way home. But there was something about his eyes and deep, gravel-like voice that gave her pause. What was it? And it was odd that a Pole should carry such weight in a town garrisoned by Russians.
“You have been away some time,” he said.
“Yes, I have . . . and I am hoping to return to my estate as soon as possible.”
“Topolostan—ah, yes. Of course, I understand. This should not take long.”
“That’s very good to hear.” Anna’s reply was all bluster. In reality, his familiarity with her estate’s name unnerved her.
“When did you leave Sochaczew?”
“In July of 1791.”
“A long time.”
“I’ve lived with my aunt in Halicz and more recently in Praga.”
With each of her answers, the man scratched away at a bit of paper. “And what has prompted your return?” The end of the man’s pen tapped one of his upper teeth.
Anna felt a pressure on her heart. This time the lie came with a great uneasiness—still, she could not change her story now. “I’ve . . . I’ve come to be with my mother. . . . She’s in ill health.”
One of his bushy eyebrows lifted now and he withdrew the pen from his mouth. “Dying, isn’t that what you told the lieutenant?”
Anna swallowed hard. “Yes. . . . It is reason enough, I should think.”
“Ah, yes. But these Russians are suspicious souls, are they not?”
Anna felt awkward. She would not allow him to place potentially dangerous words into her mouth. She affected a non-smile, the type her mother had used as a mask for displeasure. What she longed for was the protection of her father, long dead.
The official grew tired of waiting for a verbal reply. “And we Poles are a resourceful lot.”
“I don’t wish to be held up any longer. My servant must be freezing in our carriage. She’s elderly, and I’d like to get her home.”
“It is hard to lose a parent. Myself, I have lost both.”
“I’m sorry. Then you understand—”
“What I don’t understand, Lady Berezowska-Grawlińska,” he said, his small, milky blue eyes boring into hers, “is the reason for your deceit.”
“Deceit?” Anna’s heart tripled in time.
“Come, come, my lady,” he said, his voice taking on a gruffness, “you know as well as I that when you left here three years ago, you left your parents stone cold in the ground!”
Anna couldn’t think; she could only stare dumbly at this smug creature who suddenly seemed quite capable of anything.
He was smiling, as if he had just brought down a deer.
“How do you know—”
“How do I know? I am the starosta here in Sochaczew, have been for nearly twenty years.”
“The starosta?”
“Ah, our Russian hosts do not always show good manners. The lieutenant didn’t introduce me. I am Lord Grzegorz Doliński.”
Anna’s back went rigid, but she attempted to maintain her composure. While she had seen him only once, years before, the name now brought home to her his identity. He was indeed the croaky-voiced magistrate of Sochaczew. It was he who had investigated the murder of her father and taken into custody the peasant who had killed him. And it was he who had somehow allowed the murderer to escape. An old wound opened, loosing a bitter poison into Anna’s bloodstream as she recalled how, on her deathbed, her mother had cursed the name of Doliński.
/> Anna could scarcely believe that she stood before him—and at his mercy.
Doliński laughed. “You’re wondering what I’m doing here, Lady Anna! Here at my old desk with my sundials and clocks—and amidst a contingent of the red devils!”
When Anna merely stared, he smiled. “Captured your thoughts, have I?”
Anna suppressed the bile that rose up within her and nodded.
“We Poles are resourceful, always able to survive, yes? Well, the Russians are clever ones, too, they are. When they take over a town or a country, they don’t replace the old bureaucracy with their own. Oh no, they’re smart enough to keep things and people in place whenever and wherever they can, so that life goes on—or seems to go on—much like it had before their frontier violation. Their invasion appears less invasive, if you take my meaning. People adapt and are less likely to rebel. And so here I am at the desk I came to years ago.” He pushed his eyebrows upward. “Of course, I must answer to them.”
Words failed Anna. She had been caught in a stupid and useless lie. What had prompted her to risk all? It was a foolish gamble. And she had lost to a longtime family enemy. Her arrest was all but certain. Perhaps the best she could look forward to would be a return trip to the capital. And the worst . . . well, she knew of nobles who had been deported to Siberia. And now, as if to ring out her sentence, the six o’clock bells and chimes on the many clocks began to peal.
“Come here, Lady Anna,” Doliński said, pushing back his chair and moving across the room. “Come quickly and look at this one.”
Reluctantly Anna obeyed.
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Doliński was referring to a cuckoo clock of linden wood hanging upon the wall. The yellow painted bird was just now delivering its final call. “It’s Austrian.”
“It’s ‘cuckoo’ in any language, Lord Doliński.”
He looked at Anna, paused for a moment, and laughed. “Marvelous, Lady Anna! I shall remember that one.”
Anna did not laugh.
Against a Crimson Sky Page 3