During the holy days that year, Irina had suspected that she, too, was carrying new life, news she could not keep hidden for much longer. She was keen to give to her mother and father—if she had not lost the baby by the time the trees were fully leafed. The balmy days of May, blissful for everyone else, were anxious for Irina. Her mood had become somber, as she realized that a time of new life might not be one of joy alone.
Further along on the cartpath to Poznan, Irina forced herself not to shed another tear for her family. What was it my matka—mother—said about sadness?
Despite her resolution to wipe it from her mind, she could not. What had happened only a few hours before all came back. Every word.
It was on the fourth day of her visit when anger shattered a Sunday’s peace. At her place around the rough, wooden trestle table, near the fireplace where the day’s soup simmered in its pot, she soaked the last crusts of bread in her barley broth steeped with carrots and onions. The other children had been shooed away, and she sat, quietly, finishing her meal.
“What is the matter, my daughter?” Maria had asked as she tidied up their meager hut. Ignacz rested on the only chair, holding his gaze on the pair.
Irina inhaled deeply, and after a long moment, said, “I am with child.”
Ignacz lurched forward, the chair’s wood creaking at the strain, and glanced at Maria simultaneously. Irina could see his breath quicken as he waited for more words, words to tell him of a young man with a good trade who might help better all their lives. “And who is the father?” he demanded, cutting to the core of his paternal interest.
Irina swallowed hard. “It is Berek Joselewicz,” she said, and lifted her head with a wan but hopeful smile.
In one quick motion, Ignacz rose, and from what seemed his giant’s height, bellowed, “You ignorant girl!” He slapped her across the face, jolting her like a crack of lightning. Irina had never felt his hand before. She fell sideward off the bench, but quickly reclaimed her balance.
In that one flash of her father’s anger, something changed in her. Standing, she took an equal place in the room and glared at the man she had once adored. Her father froze. For just a moment, she wished Yip were there, lying on the hearth. The herder would have taken a bite from his hand, but Yip was at his new home, watching out for his new family, the Joselewiczes. Why did I leave him in Poznan?
Then Ignacz said calmly, but with certainty, “The Joselewiczes are like all other Jews, and they will not take you back. Do you not understand, daughter, that a business relationship with a Jew is one thing.” It was not a question. It was Ignacz’s fact. “Mingling of blood is quite another, as even peasants know! That boy Berek used you for his pleasure, and when he knows what he has done to you, he will deny you!”
“You are wrong, Ojciec.” Defiance underlined her rising voice. “Berek loves me and would never desert me.”
“You poor fool,” Maria said, her voice flat, resigned. “You will have to stay here in hiding and leave the baby in the woods for the boars when it is born. We do not want it and we would not want anyone in our village to know you bedded with a Jew. How could we keep our heads up at Mass?”
“I will never give my child to the animals,” Irina stated without emotion. She felt the sting of another slap, this one by her mother’s hand. Returning the blow with a look of hurt, but not fear, Irina saw the regret on her mother’s face.
Ignacz issued his command. “You either do as we say or leave us now—forever. No Jew bastard will live in this house.” Tears glistened in her father’s eyes, and her mother turned away. A stillness enveloped the room.
“There is no choice for me, then.” She spoke the words softly, with finality. She reached for her sole personal possession, a large, blue woolen blanket that protected her from rain and warmed her on cold nights. After lacing her felted boots, she looked up at them, hoping. Seeing their hard faces, she uttered not a word, and without looking back, walked through the farmhouse door into the afternoon sun. Despite the day’s pleasing warmth, a chill descended upon her.
Now, a few hours later, Irina looked ahead and trudged on, only one goal guiding her steps. I want to be with Berek.
…
Madrosh could not rest. The duke’s words troubled him. His underlings would follow his signal, spoken or not.
As the supper hour neared, he sought the castle’s crenellated walkways high above Poznan’s rooftops to march away his irritation at the duke’s persistence in ignorance. In the sun’s fading light, tendrils of smoke drifted upward that seemed to come from other than cookpots. Then he heard the faint railings of townsfolk, and he sensed that word of plague was spreading. An ugly night lay ahead, he thought.
And what did the duke’s words about Father Rudzenski mean? The priest had been at several parishes around the city and seemed popular at all of them. Only recently had he been assigned to the convent Church of the Heart of Jesus where he was minister to the nuns and their work amongst the poor. And now, he’d disappeared. To what disgrace was the duke referring? Madrosh pushed the thought out of his mind. He would satisfy his curiosity later, but for now, he gave his full attention to what lay below him.
Madrosh returned to his apartment. Without a thought to seek permission, he summoned a messenger and dispatched him with a handwritten note for Bishop Tirasewicz. The note suggested only that the duke “was concerned for the order of his city, and care should be taken that Christians not be permitted to commit serious, mortal sin.”
“Hurry,” Madrosh commanded the messenger, “and deliver this note to no other hands.” He watched as the bewildered man ran to his task, then turned to find young Brezchwa waiting patiently at the door.
“Squire,” he commanded, acknowledging the man, “I am sorry to disturb you at the supper hour, but as you can see and hear for yourself,” he said, gesturing to the opening in the castle’s outer wall, “there’s a bit of devilry about the city.”
A thread of smoke snaked into the room. “What would you have me do, Father?”
“You need not bother the duke with this, young Squire. Before our repast is finished, I wish you to leave our company—discreetly, mind you—and go without the walls on my behalf. You may begin your first sleep after you return with a report.”
“Do not worry yourself about my sleep, Father. I will make second sleep all the longer.”
“Just so, my son. Between first and second sleeps, there will be many who will have no rest this night, and so, you must be my eyes,” he said, and paused. “I gather our Tomasz has been dispatched to protect the duke’s interests,” he said, “but why would the duke’s castellan be assigned such a task?” Madrosh stopped himself when he saw the puzzled look on the young man’s face. “Are you telling me something, Squire?”
Brezchwa lowered his eyes. “Perhaps I should not speak so, Father, but Tomasz Wodowicz will not bring honor upon our duke by anything he does this night.”
“Tell me why you believe so.”
“There’s a reason why people call him ‘Tomasz the Terrible,’ Father.”
“Ah! I can only hope the duke’s orders have been honorable, however.” Brezchwa remained silent. “I want you to don attire without the duke’s markings. Leave the castle, then walk over to ulica Zydowska. See what the townspeople are doing there, but do not involve yourself.”
“Why, Father, to Jewish Street in particular? What should I see there?”
“I do not know for certain, Squire Brezchwa, but as you say, what may happen on ulica Zydowska may dishonor us all.”
The young squire turned to leave, but Madrosh put a hand on his forearm. “A moment more, Squire. What is all this about Father Rudzenski? The poor man is missing, and the duke used the word ‘disgrace’ when the matter came up.”
Brezchwa took his eyes away from Madrosh’s own and looked away, seeming to be embarrassed by the question. “Have you not heard
, Father? He walked into a pitchfork.”
“What!? Wait.” Shock struck the old priest.
Squire Brezchwa did not respond, but bowed, and turned to leave the old man’s chambers.
…
Irina had never felt so alone. She wished Yip was at her side. Not because she needed a companion. Growing up on a farm and walking to and from Srodka in the early morning with her mother was one thing, but walking alone near nightfall was another. She could be easy prey for robbers—or, worse, wolves. Just one of either kind of predator would be the end of her. She quickened her pace, chastising herself for her reverie.
The brilliant red-orange sunset did nothing to quiet her fear or soften her resolve, and nothing eased the shock of having her father and mother turn on her. It was better, she brooded, to think of the Joselewiczes. Will they accept me? Will they turn me away, too? She shivered in the fading light, but there’ll be no more tears from me tonight!
Irina had been proud to work for the Jewish family, no matter what her parents said from time to time. They didn’t turn away from the silver pennies, did they?
The estate where the Joselewicz’s lived on Jewish Street was the most imposing of several that backed into the hillside gently sloping away from the Warta. It was large and sturdy, and though coveted by many in the city, ulica Zydowska was a location shunned by wealthy Gentiles. The stone wall surrounding the two-story abode was high enough to keep out most intruders, but the wooden double gate, wide enough for the largest carts and wagons, was left open in daylight. The elder Joselewicz had always reminded the servants, “I am a merchant! How can I trade with those coming off the river barges if you lock them out?”
In less than thirty years, she had learned, the patriarch made his wealth trading in salt, spicegoods, and anything else Janus Joselewicz thought would sell in the lands where Germans would pay well for what he had to offer.
One day, she learned more than she could ever have expected. Alahum Qurechi and Rudolf Shafer, an unlikely pair, darkened the Joselewicz gateway in the forenoon. They were announced by another servant who’d run up the stairs ahead, and Pan Joselewicz was obliged to receive them. He signaled to Irina to prepare some light refreshment but told her to remain in the room.
The household knew to find Berek whenever traders appeared, but he had been sent to the city to deal with Tomasz Wodowicz, Duke Sokorski’s castellan, on a matter regarding warehouse rights near the castle. Likewise, Joselewicza was off to the market, but it would not have mattered. She’d made it known she would not deal with Muslims or Teutons if she could help it.
The two traders trundled their way up and into the Joselewicz dining room, which also served as a place in which to do business. Each man was garbed in an array of expensive silks not seen on those below the nobility. One wore a turban with a jewel at the front and the other, a green velvet cap with a ridiculously long feather canted off to the side. Irina could see them eyeing every corner of the room. Janus rose to greet the men and bade them to sit around his table. At once, Irina presented goblets of a hearty red wine and a tray of dates and small round bread loaves, from which the men could pick whatever clump of crust and breadmeat they chose.
Irina returned to her place as the men commenced bargaining in a language she did not completely understand, as it seemed a mash of several tongues. Each man spoke faster than her ears could hear the words. Occasionally, the stream of words revealed some she knew. At first, they went on over the price of spices like cinnamon, galangal, and nutmeg. Then she began to hear more Polish and German words as they commenced bargaining about amber, a much-coveted gem found in the Baltic.
A sort of tree resin, it was translucent, golden, and said to be of another age. Nevertheless, women prized it for their jewelry, and, indeed, Poznan was not far from what the elder Joselewicz knew to be a trading route for the gem. Joselewicz was fervent in his refusal to deal with them for amber, she could tell. She suspected his refusal had more to do with the fact that one of his bargainers was German, and for some reason the Germans thought amber was theirs alone to trade.
The bargaining went on for nearly an hour, at which point she could discern the men bringing their talk to a close when a deal was struck on cinnamon and nutmeg. It was all about the price of things, Irina had come to know from her work there, and once a deal had been struck, there was little else to say.
All at once, the men stood up and nodded curtly to Joselewicz, who walked them to the door at the head of the stairway down to the courtyard. To Irina, he gestured she should follow them to their horses. She knew what to do. She had done it before.
In the courtyard, the men muttered some words in Polish and German, and what she heard startled her. In effect, the Muslim said to the German something about the old Jew not getting the best part of the deal. The German sniggered something about one day getting “a deal he won’t like at all.” Irina said nothing but stood by, like the invisible servant she needed to be.
Back upstairs, Pan Joselewicz lifted his eyebrow as if to ask his question. Irina told him what she thought she’d heard. Joselewicz laughed, pensive. “You see, dear girl, I did not try to cheat them, even though they thought I would.” He walked to a window over the courtyard, as if to make certain the traders had gone. “Those men, one a trader from the east and the other a broker from the west…” he paused. “Well, they hate Jews like me, but they need me in the middle, and for now, there’s no way around me.”
“What’s it like to be a Jew, Pan Joselewicz?” It was a question she’d wanted to ask a hundred times, but never dared.
The old man looked at her. He sighed. “To be a Jew is to be like a little mouse in a house with many cats.”
“But you are not a rodent, sir,” she said, indignant.
“Yet, that is what they think of us. To them, we are rodents to be eliminated if possible, but in the meantime, they must deal with us. For our part, it will always be our task to outwit the cats—not to steal from them, but to be smarter than they are. That, my dear girl, is the only way we have always survived.”
She thought he’d finished. “Djenkuje, Pan Joselewicz.” Irina gave a small bow and turned to go about her duties.
“You know, Irina, people like those two are a problem for Jews today, and they will be a problem for us a thousand years from now, nie?”
Irina nodded, grateful to be the frequent recipient of whatever wisdom Janus Joselewicz cared to dispense. Occasionally, she wondered why he confided in her so much, but she finally realized the answer was simple: it was her duty to be ever-present and as all servants, a good listener.
Another time, she was surprised when he related how he and his young family had survived the persecutions of 1367. “We bribed our way to safety, Irina. Others were not so fortunate.” At first, he seemed embarrassed to admit this, but then he shrugged and added, “Someday, you will understand the things you will do for your family.”
The Joselewicz’s lived quietly and associated with others of their class and kind, careful not to draw the envy of their powerful Polish hosts. The patriarch often reminded his family and staff, “Do not give anyone reason to hate us!” One day, in fact, he wondered aloud for Irina’s ears, “I hope we have not overstepped with this house and our many servants—like you!” She did not know what to say, so said nothing.
Too, Janus and Eva Joselewicz had been careful in raising their two children, Irina observed. Still under twenty years of age, they were old enough to marry, but neither had done so. Pan Joselewicz made no secret of his desire to choose their mates with care so that family traditions would live on and be carried with pride. There was still time, he’d often voiced, to make those choices for them. In earlier days, his words had made sense to her.
Now his words disquieted her with each step she took toward Poznan.
Thinking about her few years there, Irina knew herself to have been impressionable and trusting. Sh
e found the family to be like many others, even like those in quiet St. Michael. They lived, squabbled, and loved each other fiercely. They were not ashamed of who they were—mice in a cat’s world.
After a while in their service, Irina felt like one of them, and although she never lost touch with her native faith, she found nothing unusual or objectionable about the Jewish beliefs held devoutly by the family. Do they not believe in the same God as we? Were Jesus, Mary, and Joseph not Jews as well? It was more complicated than that, she knew, but the mysteries of Almighty God did not trouble her. Yet why would you, moj Boze—my God, let your children hate the Jews? The Joselewiczes were good to others and to her. What more could I ask?
Berek was another matter. At first, she discouraged Berek’s familiarity, and for some while, he paid little attention to her. A few months after her fifteenth birthday, he renewed his interest, and more often than not, Irina felt herself redden whenever he spoke to her. She sensed his interest was not casual. “Know your place, young master, as I know mine,” she once said playfully, careful not to offend her mistress’s handsome son. Over time, like water wearing away a riverbank, her caution slid away with his smiles and the constant twinkle in his clear blue eyes. One day, Berek kissed her. She pushed him away.
Flushed, she did not know how to deal with the feelings stirring inside her. For months, she kept Berek at a distance. Yet she trembled when she heard his voice, and flushed when she felt his glance. She wondered if others noticed how unsteady she became when he was near.
In time, Berek’s words captured her, and the distance between them evaporated. “Your beauty is like the passage of a day. Your eyes reflect the sky on a clear morning, your auburn hair makes the sun shine brighter at noon, and your skin sparkles in the sun’s setting.”
“Keep away, Berek,” she had said. “Your words melt butterfat, and I could not stand the heat.” Thinking about her words later, she wished she had not said them.
Irina Page 3