She continued to remain still, hoping the nausea would fade away. As she lay bundled against the cold, her memories warmed her. She thought of all the years she and Velka had had together, and even now, she had but one regret as guilt stalked her conscience. The years with Stashu went so quickly. Why did I let him go?
…
Christmas itself was almost upon them, which meant Velka and Rosta, along with others in Chateau Fournier’s household, had already been charged with scrubbing every room within the four walls. From years past, they all knew Madame insisted on cleanliness, especially at the Feast of Christ’s Nativity. “We must be prepared for whatever the season might bring,” she always said, and given that these might well be the last weeks of her life, Irina was not disappointed.
In the third week of December, when the winds whipped up heavy snows and all around them was stillness in sparkling white, a rider appeared at the main door of the chateau to announce that Madame Zuzanna Tokasz and her party were less than a day away.
At first, Irina wasn’t sure it could be she. It can’t be. It’s been so long! Having Zuzzie for the holiday was the best news she could have. Well, perhaps not the very best news, but having someone from my family will be wonderful. Absent her own son, Zuzzie’s appearance was a very special gift. She lifted her eyes and whispered, “Mon Dieu, it seems you have always been with me.”
With the pain becoming more intense, the ice packs so dutifully brought by Velka throughout each day brought small relief. Irina vowed to herself she would not call for le Docteur Bernard until the last moment, afraid as she was to let her last days on earth pass in a fog of the unreal.
She called to Velka and made sure that everything was in order for the visitors. Rooms, foodstuffs, and wines had to be procured and prepared quickly, no matter the weather. Irina was ever so grateful for her attachment to a clean house—in that regard, at least, everything had already been done.
Late the next afternoon, just as dusk pulled down the remaining streaks of sunlight, Zuzzie and her party rolled up in a large carriage and a separate baggage cart. Irina put her pain aside and in spite of the cold, went out to greet her sister in the torchlight.
“How wonderful you are here, little Zuzzie! Wesolych Swiat Bozego Narodzenia—a Happy Christmas to you! Has it been nearly thirty years?”
“Little, I am no longer, Irina,” she said, laughing away the tension of a long journey. “Duzo dzrowia—And good health to you!” Zuzzie hesitated a moment, looking closely at her sister, then turned away and continued, “And this lovely man is my Edmund with our little Marta.”
Irina opened her eyes wide to hug the little girl who carried on her visage the ghost of her mother taken by plague. For just a moment, Irina winced, both with pain and the memory of her last words with her mother and father.
She recovered quickly when Zuzzie grasped Irina by the arm and said, as she stepped aside, “This is my dear friend and companion, Deena Sklowdowska, and her infant son. I hope you don’t mind them joining us.”
The petite, dark-haired woman bowed and said quietly, “A pleasure, Madame. Thank you for your welcome to us.”
“Not at all,” Irina said, her voice filled with a generous spirit. Her greeting to the young mother was kindly and open, but unsure. She would ask Zuzzie about her at another time. She tried to peek at the woman’s baby but could not, as it was well swaddled in blankets and furs against the winter cold.
“And we have brought the Polish winter with us, you see,” Zuzzie said, breaking into Irina’s thoughts.
“Stop!” Irina shouted with glee. “We will freeze out here.” She hugged her sister once more and led them all inside.
When they were near the fire and in a good light, Irina could see her sister eyeing her carefully. “Yes, I know I am thin and pale, Zuzzie! I am older now, and my eyesight is also not the best.” She laughed. “About all of that, we can talk more later.”
When Panie Sklowdowska asked to be excused, Irina instructed Velka to see to their every need as she led the guest to an upstairs bedchamber. Zuzzie immediately indicated she would like to follow, as it had been a very long journey. Their host informed them a hot supper would be ready for them later that evening, right after first sleep.
Irina forced her broadest smile to cover the pain she was feeling. She longed only for a warm blanket and a pack of ice. Alone, she fell, exhausted, onto the chaise, and watched the fire dance before her.
Zuzzie’s welcome arrival made her think of family, but unwelcome were the memories of men having left her alone. First Berek, then Madrosh. And then…
* * *
1394
Once Chevalle & Companie became established, Irina and Jan found more time for each other, and for Stashu as he grew into a lad and then a young man.
At their estate in Giverny, Jan ensured instruction for his son in horsemanship, fencing, and court etiquette. A quick study, young Stanislaus mastered every skill expected of him and, in addition, insisted on learning Polish and German, as well as Latin. Eventually, Jan arranged to present him at court, where he was well received just after Charles VI attained his majority—and the crown—in 1389. As court seasons rolled over again and again, Stanislaus’s sturdy build, along with his patrician face surrounded by rich chestnut curls, made him catch the eye of every young woman who hid her face behind a fan.
Irina had perceived Jan and Stashu to be as close as a father to a son, but she missed the growing difference between them. Perhaps it was just that Stashu was no longer a boy, and as the young always do, he looked at things differently. How well I know that!
More frightening to her than any divide in her family was the ordinance issued in the name of Charles VI in September 1394. He decreed, irrevocably, that no Jew should live within any domain of France. Not immediately enforced, the law allowed a time limit for Jews to sell their goods and properties—at great loss—before the king’s provost escorted them to the frontier.
What was happening brought a chill to Irina’s heart as she recalled a night in Poznan. Will they consider my son a Jew—and burn him?
Stanislaus was old enough to understand injustice, and his passionate feelings were no secret within the family. Jan held similar views, Irina knew, but most often, chose to honor the court by his silence. For that and other reasons, the chasm between father and son grew wider, deeper. Stashu does not know about his heritage, and neither does Jan. What do I tell them?
One day, Stanislaus asked his mother the right question. Irina did not know what had prompted him, but in the quiet of her mind, she had always prepared herself for such a day.
“Stashu,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, “why do you ask about your father?
“It is, indeed, about my father that I ask, Mother. I love him, but I have come to sense that I am not truly his son. While we share so much, we are so vastly different. I do not resemble him or you!”
For a very long moment, Irina looked at her son, studying his features with gentle eyes. She stroked his hair and let her hand rest lightly on his shoulder. “You shall sit and listen carefully. Whatever you might say to me in return, it must be said quietly and left forever in this room. Do you understand?”
He nodded. For the next few minutes, Irina told her son how he came to be, and how Comte Brezchwa came to raise him as his son. “So, you see? You truly have two fathers, but of the one, we must always take care in what we say.”
“If one of my fathers was a Jew, does this mean I have no legal standing in France?”
“Not everyone would say so, but why ever ask the question? You should be proud of your heritage, but it doesn’t mean you should climb Chateau Fournier’s great chimney and shout it out to the countryside.”
“So I am a Jew, then?”
“Traditional Jews, you know, would not take you as one of them because you were not born of a Jewish mother.”
“Is that true?”
“Whether it is or not, there is reason to take care in what you proclaim about yourself.”
Irina was pleasantly surprised at how well her son embraced the news of his Jewish lineage. Afterward, the bigger surprise was that his relationship with Jan grew warmer, more understanding.
Guilt sat heavy on her shoulders because of her decision not to tell Jan what their son knew. It seemed to have made little difference. They spent more time together, and as the years passed, the men learned to respect their differences.
* * *
1397
Jan felt good about nearly everything in the lives of the Brezchwas. He and Stashu spent their days furthering the interests of Chevalle & Companie, and in the evenings, they kept Irina happy with evening walks or long chats in front of a good fire.
The Christmas holiday just ended had allowed them to host a number of clients from Paris, and that’s where both father and son knew the real genius of the business lie. Irina dominated their soirees from beginning to end with no detail left to chance. Phillippe’s growing role proved an immense asset. Because Giverny was a bit of a journey from Paris, Irina and Jan were careful to choose their guests. Some had been invited more than once, and most often they accepted with pleasure.
“See how your mother so casually positions herself in front of the inlaid Coromandel sideboards, and with her sweeping gestures, draws attention to the beautiful detail.”
“You are so correcte, father. The renderings of Antoine, Phillippe, and Etienne would lie dusty in the barn were Madame Irina Kwasniewska Brezchwa not there to let them shine to the world.”
Seeing her in action, Jan thought as he put another layer of clothing over himself, made day trips to other chateaux on days like this worth the while. Rosta had seen to it his favorite horse Kaspar was saddled and ready for the winter ride.
“Be wary, Comte Brezchwa,” Rosta warned. “There may be no highwaymen about on a day like this, but there’s the weather to beset you.”
“Ah! Never you mind, old friend. That’s why Phillippe comes with me—not just to show his pretty smile to the ladies we will visit, but to woo orders from them even on a day like this—and for us to watch out for one another.”
“Lady Irina will feel better about this, then. Au revoir, good sir.”
It was a two-hour ride to the first chateau—a moated castle, in truth—and if all went well, he and Phillippe would be back in Giverny by nightfall. In fact, between the two of them, they garnered three profitable orders at another nearby country estate of a duke reputedly an intimate of the king.
The return trip, on the other hand, proved not to their liking from the moment they rode across the duke’s drawbridge and into the turning weather. Cold rain had become snow, and by the time they were halfway back to Chateau Fournier, it seemed as if ice fell from the black sky.
“Monsieur le Comte,” Phillippe shouted into the wind, “should we find shelter?”
“Would that we could, but this land seems empty of such a place. In any case, we are but four or five miles from our rest. Let us go!”
“As you say, Monsieur.”
Jan gave the horse its head and let it get to a fast trot.
“Monsieur! Monsieur! The roads have ice in the ruts,” Phillippe shouted.
Jan kept up his brisk pace, pushing ahead against the icy blasts. All went well until one of his horse’s hooves found an ice patch deep in the cut of the road. He could feel the horse pull back, as if in surprise, as the right front hoof slid for a few feet before coming to a dead stop against the hard earth. The horse’s shank collapsed, propelling Jan forward, but he held tight to the pommel.
In a flash, Jan realized he should have let go. Instead, with his other hand, he instinctively grabbed the horse’s mane and as the horse crashed to earth, it was he who softened the horse’s fall. For only a moment did the pain sear his legs and chest before he felt only a numbing peace as he looked heavenward, snowflakes dancing toward him.
…
Irina was sitting by the fire, looking out the tall window every few minutes hoping the storm would abate. Since mid-afternoon, her sense of foreboding seemed to rise each quarter-hour, and at one point, she called for Velka to sit with her and talk while she busied her hands with needlework.
“Calm yourself, My Lady. Last year was a good one for this household, and 1397 will be no different.”
“Bardzo dobrze! You are always right, Velka.”
Within another quarter hour, everything changed, however, when the faithful Rosta came running, tears in his eyes. “Mistress,” he could hardly get the word out. “Mistress, there’s been an accident. Le Comte’s horse...on the ice. Not a mile from here…”
…
Phillippe, tall and muscular that he was, walked in with Jan in his arms. Slowly, carefully, he laid Count Brezchwa on the chaise, the snow on them both melting in the fire’s heat and puddling on the floor. The drip, drip was the only sound.
Irina did not move. Then, deliberately, each step a torment, she knelt beside her husband, who lay as if in repose waiting for her to awaken him. She let her head fall on his chest and sobbed for all the years she had loved him, yet for all the years she let part of her heart belong to another. You are in heaven now, my love, and now you know what Stashu came to know.
After several minutes, during which no one spoke, Irina lifted her head and looked directly at Phillippe, silently asking what had happened.
A deep sadness overcame her when Phillippe described how Jan had died.
“The horse rolled on him, My Lady. He had no chance. He was gone in an instant.”
“Merci, Phillippe. I am so grateful you were with him, and that he did not have to lay there—alone.”
For many days, perhaps weeks, Irina wandered the rooms of Chateau Fournier searching for the man who loved her so well during their nearly two decades of marriage. Though they produced no children, it had not been for lack of desire and persistence, she knew. Their love for one another other and for Stashu had become enough for them.
* * *
1406
For nearly ten years, Stashu stood in his father’s place as the business continued to prosper, but year by year, Irina could see he was not meant for that kind of life. She knew it galled him to serve those at court who would easily take everything he owned if they knew of his Jewish father. He told her it gave him great satisfaction to free them of their money.
One winter day, while wandering about the chateau, she found herself in the salon where Stanislaus played as a boy, where he and his father sparred in Latin, where he often came when he was troubled. She stared through the icy windowpanes at the unmarked snow layering the lawns and hugging the spindly trees. She saw little life there. With Jan gone, she had kept herself busy with Chevalle and Phillippe, but it wasn’t the same. Stashu was all she had. As she thought about those things dear to her, she failed to hear her son enter the room.
“Mother, we must talk.” His voice was low, quavering.
“Yes, I know. You have been unhappy with the world in which you live.”
“As are you, Mother.” He sat next to her. “What I have to say will not make any of this easier, but…”
“But you must do something different?”
“Yes, and what I do must be elsewhere.” He looked into her eyes.
“Eh? How can you consider leaving your home?”
“Father has been gone many years now, and I feel I must find my other home.”
“Son, this is your home, and you will always be welcome here. You were born here,” she added, hoping sentiment would triumph over fleeting desire. Seeing his determined look, she said, “Where will you go? Paris?”
“No, Mother. I have come to loathe these people and this country, and so I am leaving it.”
“Stashu! Why would you feel
so! This country has been good to us.”
“But Mother,” he said with both tears and anger in his eyes, “you do not count yourself a Jew.”
Irina was stung. She hadn’t realized how deeply her son had come to feel about his heritage. Swallowing her emotion, she said, finally, “You are now a man of nearly twenty-eight years. Because of your father, you are well schooled for two courses in life: commerce or war. Prepared you are, my son. Where will you go?”
“To Poland.”
“To Poland?” She cringed. “Poland is the country of my birth where my family perished, where your father was murdered. Because he was a Jew, Stashu.”
“That was then. From what I have heard at university and at court, there is no worse place for Jews than France. And Poland? It is not a perfect place, but they have always welcomed us. I am going.”
Irina and her son spoke little in the few days they had together before he made good on his declaration. It was with pain of a different kind that she held and kissed her son as he bid farewell. “This you must take with you,” she said, presenting him with the diamond cross. “When you were an infant, the Emperor Charles himself gave it to you.”
“I consider myself a Jew. I do not think I should take this.”
“Stashu, my son. You consider yourself a Jew by birth, but you have been a Christian your whole life. This, too, is part of your heritage.”
Taking the cross, he kissed Irina on her forehead and held her for a long time.
Chapter XXIII
1410
Irina collected her thoughts as she saw the sunrise peeking above the distant horizon, like candleglow without a flame. Pain had jostled her memories all through the night. As the morning light washed her, she closed her eyes, wishing she had kept the secret about Stashu’s father to herself.
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