Casimir was eight years dead now, and without sons, the country was ruled from afar by Louis of Hungary. And so Tirasewicz no longer had to pretend fealty for a sovereign living in the shadow of the cathedral. Love for the Jews was where the bishop and his pope also parted company. If there were as many Jews in Italy as in Poland, the pope would see things differently, he felt sure.
At some point in his mental meanderings, he wondered if people knew how much gold it took to maintain the palace and the church, not to mention his manner of living. He wondered, too, what certain people might think if they knew how much gold he had borrowed from Poznan’s wealthy Jews, especially Janus Joselewicz.
As he thought further of Tomasz Wodowicz’s work that evening, he put his concerns aside. Now no one would ever know about his indebtedness to the Jew. The bishop knew himself, however, and his love for the finer things life offered would not be put aside so easily. From whom would he borrow with Joselewicz gone? Monies would have to be secured, one way or another.
He retrieved a quill full of ink and began to scratch figures on the church ledgers when a tap at the door disrupted his ponderings. Before he could look up, Father Taddeus Shimanski rushed in, fairly trotting into the circle of candlelight over the table behind which Tirasewicz conducted his monetary labors.
“Bishop Tirasewicz,” the priest said, breathless as he stood above the man whose quill was poised over paper as if it were cutlery over a plate of roasted meat. “There is a messenger outside. He comes from Duke Zygmunt.”
“Another message? From the duke himself? At this time of night? What on God’s earth is so important that I be so rudely disturbed just before second sleep?” Another of the storm’s thunderclaps punctuated his words.
Father Shimanski took a step back. “Your Grace, I ask your forgiveness, but the man said it was urgent.”
“Nothing urgent happens when I am, uh, praying, my young priest!”
“Yes, Your Grace. The man seems anxious to speak directly to you. May I bring him in?”
“If you must.”
In a moment, one of the duke’s men entered, his boots trailing a track of mud on the polished, stone floors. The bishop looked at the puddles of mud, annoyed. “This is the second time this night I have had to endure the mud of the city on my polished floors! Josef,” he shouted toward another room, “come in here and clean up the filth as soon as this person leaves.”
“Your Grace,” the man bowed deeply and went on, not waiting for the bishop’s acknowledgement, “Duke Zygmunt begs to inform you that a messenger from the west commands the duke’s presence in Paris, and someone from the church may be expected to accompany him.”
“May?!? For what reason must I uproot myself to Paris? Such a journey will require a year’s time before I return—and will cost a great deal.” He stopped when he realized he was attempting to reason with a messenger. “And when shall this journey commence, my good man?”
“Tomorrow, at dawn, Your Grace.”
“Has the duke taken leave of his senses? It takes many days to prepare for an absence of such duration!” Again he remembered to whom he was speaking. The bishop pursed his lips, then turned to Father Shimanski, appealing for an answer.
The priest hastened to speak. “I believe there’s more, Your Grace.”
“How much more can there be?” he growled.
The messenger cleared his throat. “There was also a rider from Gniezno. From Bishop Gromek there.”
“Yes? Why did Bishop Gromek not send the man directly to me?”
The messenger moved the phlegm around his tongue, apparently enjoying the suspense he brought to the situation.
“Speak, man!”
“The Duke of Gniezno is dead, sir. From plague.” He paused, allowing the facts of the catastrophe to sink in. “And that is why, Your Grace, all of you must leave Poznan at the earliest moment. The plague has come.”
Tirasewicz blanched. “The plague. Yes, I was already aware of its coming from, well, never mind,” he said, forgetting yet a third time he was speaking to an underling. “You may go. Tell your master I will prepare as quickly as I am able—and if you can, take your mud with you!” Turning to Shimanski, he said, “You will not sleep this night, Father! You know what to do. The duke will be impatient, but I suspect all the hurry will not hasten our departure.”
The bishop turned again to his account books. Head in his hands, he wondered how he would pay for several months of travel to Paris, living there, and then returning. He must find an excuse.
When he thought about his good fortune—his newly-sound financial condition and an escape from the plague—he could not stop himself from saying aloud, “Thanks be to God!” Hypocrisy went only so far, he admitted. He knew who and what he was. His prayers were empty, his religious gestures meaningless. In rare moments when he let truth enter his heart, he always decided it was easier to enjoy the trappings of his life.
As he prepared for bed, he heard further rumbling outside the wall opening. The wind rose, flickering the candles, and heavy rain began to pelt the palace. He tied the woven matting across the opening, but the wind yanked it free. Why must I endure such a miserable night? It was one more reason he did not relish such an early rising after so busy and stimulating an evening.
Laying his head on the silk-covered goosedown pillow, he sighed. “Plague of any kind is frightening. Ministering to the sick and dying will be for others.” He sank into the black night.
…
Duke Zygmunt slept fitfully, his dreams disturbed by twin demons of greed and hate. He
knew Madrosh, the good man of God, was right in all that he counseled about duty to his
people. Yet, in his heart of hearts, the duke did not consider the Jews his people. Yes, Casimir and Boleslaw before him had sought the Jews’ talents, and through their royal eyes, the Polish kings had done their best to nurture their kingdom. But why so many of them? And why can’t they be more like us?
Warmed by the woolen coverlet, Zygmunt tossed in his feather bed, his head and heart protesting what his king and his pope had told him. People—even people at his station—were jealous of the Jews and their many skills, especially their diligence in making money they would then lend back to the Gentiles at high rates of interest. In truth, jealousy most often matured into resentment, and when an excuse presented itself, it was oh, so satisfying to let the Jews be blamed.
Sometime around midnight, as he lay trying to justify himself, the castle walls shook with a shriek of thunder and a howling wind. In a moment, the billowing leather draping his window sent a candle flying. After watching the window covering flap and snap at the wind’s whim, Zygmunt made a vain attempt to tie it shut. First sleep had been fitful. Second sleep would be nonexistent, he feared.
Looking heavenward, the duke prayed for the storm’s retreat, but to no avail. Puddles formed on the wooden plank floors, soaking the expensive carpets laid to warm his feet. An insistent rap on the door took his attention away from the storm’s fury.
Squire Brezchwa entered and waited for the duke’s acknowledgement. Sitting on the end of his bed, his whole attention on the noise outside, the duke finally looked directly at him, and Brezchwa spoke. “Sire, the storm has soaked everything in all the wagons being readied for the journey. What shall we do?”
“Where is the castellan?” he asked flatly.
“I beg your pardon, Sire. Tomasz and his men returned to the castle not long ago, but,” he added, clearing this throat with meaning, “I suspect they are in no condition to continue the work.”
“They are drunk, you mean.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“They will no doubt want to forget what they have done this night.”
Brezchwa agreed once more, then repeated his question.
“Have those who are sober drag all our goods under roof and begin the drying process o
ver hot coals in the chambers below. Tell them all to take care nothing catches fire,” he said, with the dejection of one whose plans have gone terribly awry. He paused, then went on. “Tell them to make all speed with the drying so that we may depart come Tuesday’s dawn.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Oh, and Squire, send word to the bishop of the delay.” Bemusement edged his words. “The last thing I want is to annoy the man of God.” He gave his squire a wry smile.
…
Irina took a few careful steps to avoid slipping or, worse, finding her footing on someone who had recently been alive. Not even the thunderclaps can wake them this night! As much as she knew the sight would sting her eyes, she forced herself to lean through the gate opening.
Only a sleeping guard remained, oblivious in his stupor to the storm’s ravages around him. It was Tomasz the Terrible’s henchman, the oaf they called Big Franciszek—a truly bad joke of a name because the -zek ending suggested the opposite of big. Behind his back people said “Big,” referred to his size, -zek to his power of reason. He had wedged himself in a niche just inside the undercroft near the stairway to the second story, and near the twin circles of embers, smoldering now in two lonely, sodden mounds.
As Irina crept across the courtyard, illuminated by lightning every few moments, she kept her eyes on the snoring Franciszek, and away from the small mounds of bones and ash. Were the guard to awaken, she had no idea what she would do.
Of one thing she felt certain. I will sleep where no one else will sleep this night. She slipped silently up the wooden stairs, where, even in the dark, she was familiar with the spaces. As she reached the third step, with eight more to go, the snoring hulk stirred. Perhaps his body sensed the presence of another.
Irina stopped. She waited, barely breathing, until Franciszek fell to his snoring once again. Slowly, she crept up the stairs and reached the doorway. Once more, Franciszek stirred. She summoned hope that the man would have fitful sleeps for the rest of eternity. How could he ever close his eyes in easy slumber?
From the top of the steps, she could see that he was awake, but groggy as he moved his head from side to side trying to comprehend where he was and what was happening around him. His actions became like those of a shopworker who had just remembered he’d forgotten to bolt the door for the night. With surprising speed and agility, he moved around the spent pyres. Not giving them a second look, he walked quickly to the smashed wooden gate, and with a struggle, managed to create a barrier of sorts. Though the rain had slowed to a drizzle, Franciszek found every puddle as he hurried back to a dry haystack in the undercroft.
Within a few minutes, Irina could hear the big man snorting a song of deep sleep. She waited a bit longer just to be sure, then found her way through the house to the room that had been Berek’s. Thinking about him made her think of Yip, but he was nowhere to be found. She thought the worst, adding him to the long list of those who had departed her life in a single day.
She dropped onto the straw-filled bed sack and let her emotions take hold, crying softly for all she had lost. Then, after only a few moments, she stopped. Waste no time on sadness, her mother had said. She had to think things through, but carefully. Yet she was so exhausted that all she wanted to do was lay her head down for a few hours before the dawn’s light.
Warmed with one of Berek’s sleeping woolens, Irina soon found herself deep in another world of fear and flight, uncertainty and cruelty. Her mind wandered in the dark caverns of unconsciousness and let her discover old and new pathways as the night slipped by. She saw herself, Berek, and an infant, happy on a country farm, or in a village shop, or at his parents’ house—anywhere. The ever-faithful Yip was there to protect them. Then she saw herself horribly alone, and her child, stillborn.
Well before first light, she awoke, her fists clenching the soft wool that warmed her through the damp and cool spring night. Her eyes opened wide as she remembered first one thing, then another.
It seemed unlikely that Tomasz and his men had found all the Joselewicz valuables. Indeed, from what she remembered seeing the night before, there had to be much left. Quietly, she rose and let her eyes adjust to the shadowed objects surrounding her. She left the room and moved to the large space in the middle of the house, on each side of which were several sleeping rooms for the Joselewicz family and Teofil, their faithful retainer.
In the large room that served as a dining area, a place to meet and entertain guests and business visitors, Irina looked quickly to see what might remain. The large cabinets and storage boxes had been ransacked, chairs and benches upended. There was a large puddle of drying blood on the floorboards where, no doubt, Teofil had suffered some of his last pains on earth. She gagged when she spied a severed hand lying in the midst of the scarlet pond. It was odd to think that Teofil’s hand was the only real substance left of him. At once, she put it out of her mind, focusing instead on the absence of cutlery, eating platters, small weapons, candlesticks, and the like. All were all gone.
She noticed, with relief, neither of the two large cabinets had been pulled away from the walls where they stood. She went to the one on the far side of the room, swung open the door, and easily stepped inside.
Facing the back of the large box, she pushed on the top left corner of the backboard. It did not give. Then she knocked softly. No response. She knocked again. Still no answer. She finally leaned against the wood and in a hoarse, firm whisper, said, “It’s Irina. Open up.” Still nothing. She repeated her whispered message and added, “I’m alone. It is safe! Open up.”
With the smallest of sounds, the wood creaked and the back of the cabinet swung like a door into the wall itself. When the day’s first light washed across the hiding space, there stood a trembling, speechless Velka, the kitchen girl. How did she stay hidden there?
Irina put an index finger to her mouth signing silence. Gently, Irina put her hands on Velka’s shoulders and led her out into the room. Then she reached back in the space, just large enough for the kitchen girl and one other—or for Esther and her mother if they could have gotten there in time—and felt around in the crevice above where Velka’s head had been. Falling into her hand was the small leather pouch she hoped would be filled with many of the same silver pennies the Joselewiczes used to pay her. She was wrong.
Along with silver, there were a great many solid gold coins. She had come to know about this place one day a few weeks earlier when she had been bringing in a platter of food for mealtime. There was Berek’s mother, Eva, doing something very odd in the cabinet.
Surprised, Panie Eva looked around to make certain no one else heard her, then explained that this was a second hiding place for the family. She said no Jew believed in only one safe place since tortured servants were often compelled to reveal its whereabouts. Many Jewish families, Eva had said, learned to have second and third hiding places. She swore Irina to secrecy, begging her not to tell anyone what she knew, not Janus or Esther or Berek. Irina had kept her promise. How did Velka come to know of it?
While the light in the room grew, Irina led Velka to a small window opening looking out over the courtyard. What remained of the storm was a steady drip of rainwater finding its lowest puddling point. There was no other sound except for a cock crowing here and there and a barn animal or two wailing to be milked or led outside. Many masters would no longer come for them.
Soon, Irina heard what she had expected. Big Franciszek awoke with the sun and the calling of the roosters. She could hear his stream as he relieved himself against an undercroft wall, and then saw him walk outside and stretch himself in the sunlight. Briefly, he looked at the two circles of ashes as if he had no idea why they were there. As he came a bit more to his senses, he shuffled toward the gate, moved a few boards, and left.
Irina could hear him clomping up ulica Zydowska. She waited.
Turning to Velka, a girl of about eleven years, Irina asked, “Are you al
l right?”
“What happened? Where is everyone? I could not sleep with all the terrible noise.”
“Dead.” It hurt just to say the word. “Dead, all dead. Burned in the courtyard.” Little Velka shrunk in horror and began to cry.
“We must act quickly, Velka, and you must do exactly as I say. Speak little. One thing we have to do will be very unpleasant and you will help me do it without a word or a tear. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” she said in a faint voice. Short and sturdy, Velka had been orphaned shortly after birth when her entire family had been felled by an earlier outbreak of plague. Poznan was where cultures and wares blended in a great stewpot of simple barter, high trade, and disease.
Irina had often observed that Velka was a hardworking, if simple girl. She had been cared for by the Joselewiczes from the time they found her in a dirty rag outside their gate years before. No one knew if her family had been Jewish, and the Joselewicz family did not seem to care one way or the other. Velka repaid their kindnesses with loyalty and devotion. Orphaned once again, Velka would now be in her charge. Can she be loyal to me?
“First,” Irina said, still keeping her voice low, “we must find the best clothes here that will fit us. We will take just a few things.”
“And then? Where will we go?” Velka asked plaintively, her demeanor willing but uncertain.
“I don’t know yet, but we can’t stay in this house, and we don’t want to stay where someone might remember us as working for Jews.”
Tears washed Velka’s face. “I understand, but I don’t want to leave them.”
Quietly, firmly, Irina said, “They are no longer here to leave. Come.” At the window opening once again, she pointed to the piles of black and gray ashes in the courtyard. “There they are,” she said, trying to be final, but not cruel.
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