What a pretty game! The duke, great in his own eyes, had no interest in horrific murder done in his name, murder so falsely claimed to be for the good of all. His only real interest was in securing for himself the tax on terror he so piously imposed. While she thought through this scheme, real, not suspected, the duke appeared to think she was hesitant to speak.
“Well, My Lady, what have you to say?” This time the question was not dressed with patience.
“My servant girl and I were frightened, My Lord, as we are to this day, because of the violence we saw with our own eyes.” Your violence! “We came to know what these men can do. We knew not of the tax about which you spoke, My Lord. As we hid in the shadows outside the house of a wealthy Jew, we saw them carry away great piles of coin, plate, and furnishings. We know nothing more, Sire.”
The look on the duke’s face was one of both satisfaction and disgust. “I see,” he said with finality.
Irina made her face show regretful submission. Having Velka make a point of mentioning what she had “seen” to one of the duke’s servants allowed all the right things to happen in due course, just as pond waters ripple when a stone is tossed. Her own satisfaction was overtaken by the bitterness of knowing that nothing could ever replace what she had lost. What she was sure of, however, was that men like Sokorski were very predictable in their greed. That was another lesson heard at the Joselewicz table.
As they blessed themselves, stood, and turned to leave, Irina thought she saw a very tall man standing well in shadow.
…
The summons puzzled her. It wasn’t the bishop or the duke. It was the old priest.
“So, Madrosh,” Irina addressed him when she appeared once again in a place where comfort was not her companion. Though she went through the motions of her faith, she had decidedly mixed feelings about a God who permitted unspeakable evil by people He supposedly created in his image. Nevertheless, it was fear of an Almighty that made her want to give thanks when she and Velka entered the Church of the Heart of Jesus, and fear of the same such Presence remained with her. Her further discomfort emanated from the certainty that in such a place, she never felt alone.
Talking with a kindly old priest to ease her journey was one thing. Becoming a devoted companion was another. She called him as he had asked, no title, no other name. “You wished to see me, Madrosh?”
The counselor-priest nodded. “Yes, Irina. Or should I say, ‘Lady Irina.’” There was no trace of sarcasm. “I believe you are more than you say and yet not what you say.”
“Are you insulting me, Father Madrosh?” she asked, deliberately addressing him now as the priest he was.
“No, my dear, I am showing respect. Perhaps you will tell me someday, but I believe you carry with you much more than your child.” He paused. “Do not fear, Irina. I will not press you and neither will I speak of you to anyone. Yet I know what will soon happen as surely as the sun will rise in the east on the morrow. It will happen because you have made it so, and that is why I respect the young woman who sits with me now.”
“You’ve said much, Madrosh, yet you have said nothing about which I care to comment at present. Someday, I may address what questions you have.” She paused. “If and only if you will answer some questions for me.”
“A fair bargain,” replied the cleric. “I accept.”
“Over the past several days, Father, I have seen and heard things—horrible things—that make me wonder if so many people who profess a faith in God actually believe in Him. What God is He?”
The silence seemed to thicken the air.
“Your observation is most profound, my dear, and I suspect it comes because much has harmed your soul. Will you permit me to consider my response when we speak another time?”
…
Zuzanna could not help herself. Sister Rose had told her many times to stay in the kitchen to help when needed. She knew, however, that when someone told a child to stay close, it was really because there was something they weren’t supposed to see. And that made her curious.
Too, Sister Rose had said God was with her, that God loved her and would protect her. Thus assured, she reasoned that it should be safe to explore. Several times a day, she poked her head around the half-open door into the larger room next to the kitchen so she could see—and listen. It frightened her. There were many pallets of straw on which people lay moaning, even children. On one such pallet close by was an older man, like her father. After a while, she remembered him as the jolly man who told stories to the children as they walked along with all the carts and horses. He was nice to her. Now, she heard him calling out.
“Woda. Woda—Water!” he whispered in a low roar, hardly able to form a word. “Prosze, prosze!” The light from a window opening streamed in as if pointing to him.
Zuzanna did not know whether he saw her or was just calling out to anyone. She hated to see the nice man in such agony. With a cup of water, she stepped into the light and wordlessly placed it to his lips, letting him sip until he quieted. This she did many times—even when he did not ask. Over the next days, he looked at her and smiled, but she said not a word to him.
…
Tension rose amongst all those in the abbey as they gathered in St. Stephen’s great room. Otherwise the place where good food could be enjoyed, it was now arranged more like a tribunal. Arrayed behind the large head table were all the men of power, and with the light shining in from behind, they seemed imbued with heavenly approval. Lowest in rank amongst them was the abbot of St. Stephen’s, Father Karol Kaminski, there only because he was asked. Next were His Excellency, Bishop Antony Tirasewicz, and Duke Zygmunt Sokorski. Counselor Madrosh stood directly behind the duke. When all had quieted, the bishop spoke on his colleagues’ behalf to one of the pathetic prisoners before them.
“Do you know why you are here, Tomasz Wodowicz?”
“I know not, Your Excellency,” protested Tomasz the Terrible, now, in this place, not so terrifying, his hands tied with heavy rope. His eyes went from man to man as if searching for a sympathetic glance, but found none.
“You are here accused of crimes against the peace.”
“What crimes, Your Excellency?” he responded to the high cleric but looked directly at the duke.
“Despite pronouncements of Holy Mother Church, as uttered by the pope himself, you and your men tortured and burned peaceful citizens of Poznan. It has been determined that Franciszek Montowski shares responsibility for these crimes.” The bishop kept his eyes on the table’s gleaming surface.
“They were Jews!” Tomasz cried. “They were responsible for bringing plague, as always. And besides, no one stopped me. Everyone heard the racket and the screaming; everyone saw the fires. No one ordered me to stop.” He stared at the bishop.
Bishop Tirasewicz continued to look downward even as he spoke. “What anyone else might have done is not now before this tribunal, Tomasz Wodowicz. We are here to pass judgment. And for the second charge against you, there is the matter of theft from the duke’s treasury.”
“What did you say? What nonsense!” Tomasz did not trouble himself to address his accuser with respect or title.
“Are you claiming that you paid into the duke’s treasury as tax all of the items you took from the Jews?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. Every penny. Every coin.”
“Then how is it these silver coins and other religious tokens were found on your person, and on Montowski’s person?” At that, the bishop threw open the small pouch at his side, and all saw the glittering silver tumble out to catch a few rays of sunlight and sparkle in the otherwise dim space. The reflected light seemed to add even more value to the goods in front of them.
“I don’t know where they came from, Sire,” Tomasz protested.
All could see Tomasz the Terrible reduced to pleading with his master. At this point, Duke Zygmunt stood and returned his min
ion’s look with one of his own. He sneered. “You are no better than a boar in the forest, Tomasz! You were seen and the evidence is before us. You and your man, Montowski, dared to bring and conceal your ill-gotten goods right here within my reach!”
“Sire,” Tomasz said, abjectly.
“Say nothing. A slug of the earth has no words for me.” The duke picked up one of the silver coins and threw it at his once-loyal servant. “You will need this where you’re going.”
Not comprehending, Tomasz looked inquiringly, beseechingly at his master. “Where, where am I going with this coin, My Lord?”
“For your crimes, Tomasz Wodowicz, I sentence you to a corporal work of mercy.”
A look of relief shone itself on the face of the prisoner.
“Tomorrow morning, Tomasz Wodowicz and Franciszek Montowski, you will be escorted back to Poznan by the bishop’s men. There you will be assigned the burial of the dead at the Church of the Heart of Jesus. You will perform whatever other tasks the Mother Superior may command.”
The bishop blanched at the duke’s usurpation of his men’s service, but said nothing.
Wodowicz stared at the bishop, as if waiting for him to speak, then turned toward the duke. “Sire, you give me a death sentence!”
“Your fate will be heaven’s plan, not mine, Tomasz Wodowicz.”
Dumbfounded at the turn of events, Tomasz was, for a moment, speechless. Recovering his voice, he begged, “And the silver coin?”
Give it to Mother Superior in the event of your burial. The prayers of the church she will offer without payment, I am certain.”
As the duke turned to leave the hall, Madrosh looked across the spectators’ faces, and once finding Irina, caught her eye and offered a barely perceptible nod. She did not acknowledge him, but maintained her unflinching look of cold, unforgiving satisfaction.
…
As instructed, Velka approached one of the forlorn soldiers waiting near the monastery gate early the next morning. One of two men designated to escort the prisoners back to Poznan, his mood was sour, and Velka felt sorry for him.
“Wojciech,” she said with a tone that would command attention, “My Lady wants me to give a message to Tomasz the Terrible. Will you let me speak to him?”
“Why should I?” he demanded, sullen.
“It’s important,” she said with what kindness she could muster. She knew he might not survive his return to Poznan, and kindness seemed a better coin to offer. He nodded his assent.
Velka walked over to Tomasz, leaned to his ear, and said, “My mistress said when you get back to Poznan, you will know what to do with the dead.”
“What’s that, silly girl?” he spat.
“Burn them. Burn them all!” Velka repeated the words exactly as she had been instructed. She could see Tomasz focus his attention on something in his memory.
Slowly shifting his gaze to the serving girl, he contorted his face into a look of pure evil, followed by a smile of vengeance yet to come.
At once, Velka knew her lady’s instruction had been unwise.
…
At mid-morning, Madrosh found Irina sitting in the garden, focused on the young plants pushing through the crust of earth and into the warming, nurturing sun. “I see you’re enjoying a bit of quietude.”
“You seem to have made an assumption about my going with you, good Father.”
“Not an assumption at all. You’ve shown no interest, by word or action, to go back east—to plague and whatever has caused you so much pain.”
“And, I suppose, your reasoning has also helped you form a response to what I said yesterday about the God you believe looks after us all?”
Madrosh smiled. “I am not to be let off the hook, as they say?”
“Let me be direct, Father. All of my life, I grew up with a faith in God, went to Mass every Sunday and Holy Day, but the actions of so many around us make me think few of them can possibly believe in an Almighty, or in an accounting in the hereafter. If they did, how could they commit such acts?”
The priest nodded and for a moment, kept his silence. “There are many answers for you, and the fact that you seek them shows that you care enough to know more.”
“Indeed, but what can one learn from the Latin Mass? All I truly know comes from the stories the priests tell us, as if we were children.”
Madrosh laughed at this. “And, indeed, you were.”
Irina laughed too. “You have me there, Father, but again, why should I believe in a God who seems not to be present amongst us?”
“A-h-h,” Madrosh sighed. Irina Kwasniewska’s momentary candor told him a great deal. A lady of means would have been taught to understand Latin, and because she would have spent many hours with a priest or nun, she should know much more about the religion into which she was born.
Madrosh sat, thoughtful. Next to him sat a woman neither well-born nor literate, yet in the latter regard, she was not unlike nearly everyone else alive. The parchments inscribed by the monks at this monastery and in other places of its kind were to be read by scholars of the cloth, not scions of the kingdom, and, most assuredly, not its serfs. Like many of the men who chose the priesthood, Madrosh was an exception to the rule of abject illiteracy amongst the populace, from the lowest to the highest.
Bishop Tirasewicz’s predecessor saw to it that his young priest would be one of the early graduates of the university at Krakow, founded by Casimir the Great. As such, he was one of but a handful of men who had read the philosophers, had studied with great minds, and had become wise in the worlds of religion, political intrigue, and diplomacy.
In other circumstances, he might have thought his time wasted by being assigned oversight of an illiterate young woman. Yet the woman before him, whatever her heritage, was unusually bright, and instinctively adroit in the ways of palatial politics.
“Is that all you have to say?” She broke his skein of thought.
He cleared his throat and smiled. “My dear Lady, I would not want to insult you by telling you things you must assuredly have been taught already, so you see, I’m not sure where to begin.”
Irina began to speak but stopped short. After a moment, she said, “Assume what you want to assume, Madrosh, but tell me about God, if there is one.”
“There is one—of that, I am absolutely certain, and he is always present amongst us.”
“There’s seems little evidence for such a claim, Madrosh. That you’ll have to prove—if you can.”
“A challenge!” Madrosh smiled again. “You insist on very large demands on this most ill-equipped of God’s servants, yet I am not sure what prompts you.” His raised eyebrows signaled a question he needed to ask and she needed to answer, but Irina remained silent.
“Let me start by suggesting that if there is a God, one Supreme Being, as it were, he would have to be the essence of perfection, would he not? Flawless in every way. By definition, then, nothing in his creation could equal him because if everything in nature, every living being was perfect, why would he bother, eh? So, if we are all imperfect in some way, what does that truly mean?”
“Interesting words, Father, but all the evil around us makes me wonder if there is a God, why does he not care for us?”
“That’s exactly it, don’t you see? Do you remember the gospel on Good Friday? Christ tells Peter he will deny his master three times. Peter vows he would never do such a thing, but before the cock crows, he denies he even knows the man from Galilee. Yet, despite his flaws, his deep imperfections, Christ says Peter is the rock upon which he will build his church. Think of it!”
Irina nodded. “But Peter was just being human, afraid of what the Jews might do to him if he acknowledged Christ.”
“Exactly. We are all human, we are all flawed, and we all fear something.”
“Is that why people go to church and make the sign of th
e cross, because they are afraid?”
“For some, imperfect beings who differ in wisdom, that is why they show the signs of faith but may have little faith underneath. When that happens, evil lurks.”
“Was that true of Father Rudzenski?”
It was a question out of the blue and one Madrosh was shocked the young woman would address so directly. “And what about Father Rudzenski, my dear?”
“The rumors about him—about his disappearance—are many, Madrosh, and none of them give me a reason why I should trust you.”
Madrosh nodded. “I think I understand you, Irina, and while I don’t know what you may have heard, Father Rudzenski is now dead, having paid for his deeds here on earth. No doubt, he now answers to God Himself.”
Irina waited.
“In so many ways, Father Rudzenski’s streak of evil furthers the point about how truly flawed we all are, and that Almighty God uses people like him for his own purposes, hard as they are to discern. As for trust, may I suggest you take each person on their own terms and make a judgment about trust yourself.” He paused. “But never, never judge me by the acts Father Rudzenski is said to have done.” He spoke without anger, but with a direct tone he rarely used. “Never use so fine a rake that you scour away the plants longing to bloom along with the weeds.”
“I take your meaning, Madrosh, but you have not proved there is a God. Yet.” She paused. “You may have helped me understand something about evil.”
Most tenderly, Madrosh said in his softest voice, “You hide your secrets well, My Lady, but what you do not hide well is that these secrets trouble you deeply. Will you not speak of them to me?” He took care to study the young woman, the flutter of her eyes, the quiver of her lips. “Will you tell me?”
“How can I trust you, a stranger? A priest? And in the service of the very ones who are part of the evil, perhaps. I am truly alone, Madrosh, and I know not what the future might hold for me or my child.”
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