Against a Crimson Sky

by James Conroyd Martin

  “No, Anna, I should have come here before this. Your work here is more important than anything I was doing.”

  Anna picked her head up and stared at Jan. “But, Jan, I could— ”

  Jan put his finger on her lips, silencing her. “In an arguing mood, are you?” He kissed her lightly. “Save it for later.”

  He kissed her again, a kiss that held—and held.

  It was a night of love-making he would savor for a very long time.

  Several days later, on a Saturday evening, Jan and Anna arrived at the Potocki home in Wilanów for a small supper in honor of Anusia’s uncle, Prince Poniatowski, who had returned to Warsaw from the Russian campaign a few days earlier. The general had badly twisted his leg in battle and was still experiencing pain. The Potocki family had welcomed him into their home while he convalesced.

  Jan’s disillusionment in Napoléon and in his sincerity regarding Poland’s possible independence was always close to the surface, and so it was with deeply mixed feelings that he bowed before the reclining Poniatowski, who had taken so many of Poland’s youth into Moscow. Jan’s own feelings about Napoléon were not likely to change—but nonetheless, in the presence of this Commonwealth patriot he felt somehow that he himself had failed the Polish cause. That he had failed his own sons, who had heard the call.

  The prince was most gracious. “Jan and Anna, it is good to see you both once again, to see that life here somehow continues.” Jan saw a pain in the general’s eyes that was much more than the physical pain that plagued him. He read in Poniatowski’s face the cold harshness of the Russian terrain, the faces of the 5th Corps he had led taken there, and the battles that had taken such a toll in death.

  The general seemed to immediately decipher the concern in Anna’s eyes. He wasted no time in addressing himself to the issue. “Ah, my good friends,” he said, drawing in a long breath, “I only wish I have brought some news of your sons.”

  “You’re aware of nothing bad—or good?” Anna asked.

  “I’m afraid not, Anna. I can say that their names were not on any of the lists of the—lost—at the time we left Moscow.”

  “They left in good health?” Anna asked.

  The general squinted and gave a little forward sag of his shoulders.

  Jan squeezed Anna’s hand, hoping she wouldn’t press him for more. “Thank you for that much, General Poniatowski,” he said. “It’s hope enough for us to have for now.”

  A little later—but before supper—a few of the other guests managed to get the prince to speak of the ill-fated campaign. He spoke from his heart, most likely forgetting that toward the rear of the music room where he held this spontaneous and sober court were Jan and Anna.

  “So many died,” he said. “So many. French, and Italians, and Saxons, and Poles. The French emperor faltered this time and faltered badly. His gut decisions no longer amazed us. He deliberated, vacillated, and I can tell you he often made the worst possible choices. The army was cut to pieces in battle after battle. And all along the trail, the blood-thirsting Cossacks and outraged peasant partisans snapped and bit at us like unrelenting wolves. Many of the brave men surviving such attacks died of hunger or typhus or cold.—Brave men!—To them, the greatest disappointment was not to die in battle.” The prince paused, as if the words tore like a saber through his heart. A moment later, he drew a deep breath. “I am not to stay long in Warsaw. It may seem inconceivable to you—but the Polish army is to be reconstituted, and I will again lead them.”

  A few gasps in the audience preceded complete silence.

  “Do you know,” the general resumed, “that even amidst the chaos and lack of discipline in Moscow when whole units fell to searching for loot to take back, not one—not one!—of my men deserted his station?”

  As fate would have it, it was at that moment that Lord Potocki stepped forward to announce to the prince that a number of his soldiers had just made their way to Warsaw and were petitioning to see him in the reception room.

  Prince Poniatowski stood at once, wincing in pain. With the aid of his crutches, he maneuvered through the double doors into the capacious room adjacent. A single motion from Lord Potocki indicated that the other guests should follow.

  Jan and Anna fell into the flow, too. Jan’s heart beat fast. Was there a chance—just a chance—that Jan Michał and Tadeusz were among them? Anna’s face had a stricken look about it. She, of course, was thinking the same thing. His arm around her waist tightened. He could sense her whole body trembling.

  Jan, a seasoned warrior himself, was shocked nonetheless by the sight of these thin, bedraggled soldiers, not more than an hour off the road from Wilno. Few of them had any remnants of the proud, colorful uniforms in which Warsaw had sent them off. They were but skeletal figures in filthy clothes and snatches of furs. Jan looked to Anna, wishing he could shield her from this pathetic scene. But she seemed not shocked at all. And then he realized that for weeks she had been seeing men like this limping or being carried into the hospital. The sight was familiar to her. She had no doubt seen worse. Her eyes, like his, hopefully raked the faces in the room, once, then twice. Their sons were not to be found in this group. Neither dared voice the disappointment that set in.

  Several of the dozen soldiers stepped forward and placed at the general’s feet the eagles of their regiments. Although in the worst moments of the retreat, Napoléon had ordered staffs, flags, and eagles destroyed rather than suffer the indignity of losing them to the enemy, these good men had hidden away the eagles. Prince Poniatowski stared down at them, his eyes immediately tearing. “Only one,” he said, “only one is missing.” And he saluted his men even as tears rolled unabashedly down his cheek.

  “No, it’s here, General,” one soldier said. “Kazimierz has it. He’s ashamed because it’s no longer intact.” A young soldier was pushed forward. The gaunt and frightened youth—no more than a boy—placed the final eagle before his commander.

  Jan leaned over the general’s shoulder to see that the eagle’s head was missing.

  The blushing soldier looked up at the general. “A bullet took its head, sir.”

  General Poniatowski was at first speechless. “God bless you,” he said at last. Then, louder: “God bless you all!”

  The ragged band of brothers stood at attention, crying out, “Long live Poland! Long live Poland!”

  Jan would remember this always—this exchange between a general and his men, one that spoke so well of Poland and its spirit.

  “Lord Potocki,” the general called out, “can we feed these young patriots?”

  “Indeed, General!” Potocki tossed back without a thought. “Indeed!”

  After supper, Prince Poniatowski approached Anna and Jan. “My men brought with them a packet of mail—and in it is this letter for you both from your friend Paweł.” The prince handed the envelope to Jan and bowed slightly. “I trust it contains good news.” He moved away then, allowing Jan and Anna their privacy.

  Jan turned the letter over to Anna. Anna’s amber-flecked green eyes fixed on Jan’s for a long moment. In them was the greatest hope . . . and the greatest fear.

  “Open it, Anna” Jan whispered.

  Breaking the seal, Anna opened the letter and her eyes quickly scanned the few lines. “Oh, Jan, Tadek was wounded in the leg!” Anna clutched the letter to her heart for a moment.

  She read on then, her face darkening.

  “Anna?”

  “They operated—three times. The third time was in Wilno.”

  “They’re back in the Commonwealth, then!”

  Anna came to a sudden stop, and all life left her face.

  “And?” Jan pressed.

  “Gangrene,” Anna said in a whisper.

  Jan could barely make out the word. He saw that the emerald eyes were tilted up at him. He had never seen them so vacant. “Anna?”

  “He’s gone, Jan.” It was scarcely more than a murmur. “He’s gone.” Anna teetered for a moment, and Jan was certain that he w
ould have to catch her to keep her from falling. But she stood firmly planted and fell silent. She gave in to no tears.

  Jan’s first thoughts were for his wife—rather than for his dead son. He put his arms around her, almost forcing her to grieve in his arms. They stood for the longest time as the news settled in. Finally, he asked, “And Michał? When is he coming home?” He held Anna at arm’s length so that he could see her face.

  Anna shook her head. “He’s not, Jan. His unit’s leaving for Toruń, then Poznań.”

  Zofia had waited for Anna to leave for the hospital before knocking on the second-floor ante-room that led to her bedchamber.

  “Come in,” came Jan’s voice.

  Zofia entered. “I hope I am not disturbing you, Jan.” The room was well-lighted with a dozen tapers.

  Jan stood. “It is your house, Zofia.”

  Zofia took a chair across from his. She read into his face and tone that caustically ironic attitude that he had never discarded toward her. He had never forgiven her for her sins against him and Anna all those years before. She could not blame him.

  “It’s not my house, Jan. It’s Paweł’s house. And as his good friend, you are always welcome here.”

  Jan sat down. “And as your cousin’s husband?”

  “Just as welcome.”

  Jan nodded in a slightly exaggerated way.

  “Will you always hold me in such contempt, Jan?”

  He seemed momentarily taken aback. “We’re relatives,” he said, striving for humor, “we need not be friends.”

  “I hope one day we might. I sincerely apologize for my past . . . behavior.”

  “An apology is like a cleaned spot, Zofia—some of it still remains. I have no wish to continue this thread of conversation. Why have you come?”

  “Jan, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Tadek.”

  “Thank you.”

  Zofia cleared her throat. “I’ve come to speak for you on behalf of Anna.”

  “What? Why would she— ”

  “Oh, she has no knowledge of this, you can be certain.”

  “Then, what is it?”

  “I’m here to ask that you do not go to Kraków with Poniatowski, Jan. Your place is with Anna.”

  “What?—Where do you get your information Zofia?”

  “You plan to take up arms again for Napoléon again. You plan to join Paweł and Jan Michał.”

  “I’ve said nothing of the kind to Anna!”

  “And I have not talked to her of it, either. But I know—and if I know, you can be certain your wife knows.”

  “Am I so predictable?”

  “Only in that you are a good man, Jan Stelnicki, and a good Pole to the marrow of your bones.—Be a good husband to Anna.—Don’t go, Jan.”

  “You’re something for the birds, Zofia. You’re still trying to manage people’s lives. When will you learn to stop trying to play people like pawns on a chessboard? When?”

  “I plead guilty. But my wish in this matter is not one born out of a wish to direct other people. Enough Poles, young and old, have died. And for what—the vanity of a little Frenchman?”

  “I wouldn’t be doing it for him.—There’s Jan Michał.”

  “Ah, Anna’s son.”

  “He is my son, too.”

  “I don’t want to see Anna lose you, Jan. The French cause is doomed. I think Poniatowski knows that. I think you know that. Napoléon himself has a sense of doom about him, following him like his shadow.”

  Jan shrugged. “All warriors face defeat at one time or another.”

  “I know the proverb: “Through bravery you may win a war; through bravery you may lose.” You’ve shown your courage already, Jan. Think about your wife.—Would it not be braver for you to stay at home?”

  “Thank you for your advice, Zofia.” Jan stood, as if to see her out.

  Zofia took the hint and rose from her chair. When the door closed behind her, she wondered if perhaps Jan hadn’t softened just a bit in his stance toward her. For the moment, at least the irony was absent from his tone.

  Zofia walked downstairs and sat in the darkened reception room. He was right, of course, she thought. She was trying to manage people’s lives. Charlotte had told her as much, too. And Charlotte had worked to ensure Izabel’s independence by leaving her such a great inheritance. Zofia laughed to herself to think how angry it had made her. It wasn’t because she herself had lost out on the wealth and lands in favor of her daughter—it was because the power of exerting her will on her daughter had been corrupted. Somehow, however, the anger had passed.

  Zofia thought of Izabel’s father. It had been so long since she had seen him. She had had little hope that Jerzy survived the Moscow campaign. The toll on the infantry was staggering. What a waste of life, she thought. He had been so young, so full of hope. Handsome, too. Many times, in thinking of his innocence and his attachment to her, she thought that she could have loved him—were it not for their difference in provenance. She often dreamt of him.

  And not many days before, when Anna told her of the young infantryman in her ward that she thought to be the same Jerzy who had once come looking for Zofia—despite his denial—Zofia had rushed to the hospital. But a day had elapsed and in that time the soldier had been released. Had it been Jerzy? That she cared—and cared deeply—surprised her. The thought of him evoked strong emotions of her stay in that simple peasant’s hut so many years before. She could remember momentarily wishing that she were but a peasant girl engaged to the handsome young Jerzy. She realized now that the wish had not died.

  38

  Mid-March 1813

  Anna entered the second floor bedchamber that had been her own as a child. “I sat in that window-seat often,” she told Barbara. “With my legs pulled up, just as yours are.”

  Anna stared out the window, down the long, curving, poplar-lined drive.

  When the Russians had occupied Warsaw in February of 1813, establishing the duchy as a Tsarist protectorate, she had taken her daughter back to their home at Sochaczew. There was nothing in the capital but danger and a sense of doom. And on 13 March, Prussia had declared war on France. Things looked bad for Napoléon, but they could go worse, for the question remained whether Austria—with Napoléon’s father-in-law on the throne—would join the allies against the French.

  “What are you thinking?” Barbara asked.

  “Thinking?”

  “Your eyes, Mama, they became so distant for a moment.”

  “Oh?—I was looking down the drive and thinking how I was sitting where you are now when they brought my father’s body back in the back of a wagon.—It was a terrible day. The first of many terrible days.”

  “You said once you would tell me things when I was old enough. Am I old enough now? Will you tell me, Mama?”

  Anna sighed. “Yes, Basia, I will tell you now.” Anna sat down opposite her daughter in the window-seat and took the better part of an hour telling her about the deaths of her parents, her rape, the arranged marriage to a man who tried to kill her—and through it all, her enduring loved for Jan Stelnicki.

  “And so you always loved Papa?”

  “Always.”

  “It’s a lovely story, Mama.”

  “Lovely? Yes, I suppose so. But not always happy.—Basia, he’s at war—again.”

  “But he’ll come back—you said so!—Don’t you believe it?”

  “Yes, of course, I do, dearest.”

  “He will—and so will Michał!” Barbara scooted down and pressed up to her mother, her arm moving around her shoulders, her lips brushing her forehead. For the moment, daughter had taken on the role of mother. Then Barbara’s other hand gently caressed Anna’s slightly rounded belly. “You’re happy about this, aren’t you?”

  Anna stood. “Yes, Basia, I am.”

  “Do you wish a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl,” Anna answered, tweaking her daughter’s cheek. “One just like you.”

  They heard a rustling on t
he roof, and Anna laughed.

  “Is that— ?” Barbara asked.

  “It is!” Anna laughed. “The storks have come home!”

  Late that night, a fire in the reception room grate cut the April nighttime chill. Anna sat staring at the family weapons placed upon the wall above the hearth. Paradoxically, these instruments of violence and the books making up a little library were symbolic components in homes of the szlachta everywhere.

  Anna would prefer a girl. She had already given one boy over to the ceaseless machine of war. She vowed to go to hell herself before surrendering another.

  She thought about her Tadek, the beautiful little baby that so resembled Jan. She thought about the wonder in his blue, blue eyes as he grew. It was still there the day he and Jan Michał marched out of Warsaw, their souls afire for the French emperor and the implied independence of the old Commonwealth.

  They were children—what did they know? What did anyone know? And whatever hopes the Brotherhood had had for Tadeusz—that was all gone now, washed away like wishes written in the sand. Somehow she had never thought their schemes of placing Tadek on the throne would amount to much, so it was only her little boy that she mourned. Only Tadek.

  As unhappy as Poles had been with the little Duchy of Warsaw, thoughts of it now gave way to melancholy longing. With the advance of the Russians, Prince Poniatowski had taken his men to Kraków. Lord Potocki told how the tsar made an overture to Poniatowski that if he would change sides, he would have the throne in a Russian-ruled Poland. It was more than thirty pieces of silver, but less than what it would take for him to go against his sense of honor and military discipline. Only Napoléon had taken on Poland’s longtime enemies, and—win or lose—Poniatowski was part of Napoléon’s Grande Armée. He and his unit would remain so. It was the Polish way.

  Anna had not discouraged Jan from going. She knew she could not hold him. On the day Jan had left, he showed to Anna documents relating to the disposition of her estate which was situated in part of Poland that had been annexed to Prussia in 1795. Anna insisted on perusing them at once and it took little time for her to discover the huge amount of money Jan had paid the scoundrel Doliński and the Prussian treasury over the years in order to hold onto Topolostan.