12 February 1831, Warsaw
“Are you coming, Mother?—Mother?”
The voice jolted Anna from her thoughts. She had been standing at the window of the sitting room of her little suite atop the Gronska town house, vacantly watching unusually thick streams of Saturday worshippers converge on the snowy steps of St. Martin’s, then disappear beyond the doors. At dusk, it seemed to her that the bells of every church belfry had gone mad with the recent news: the first engagement of the enemy had taken place.
Anna’s eyes focused. Blurrily reflected on the window glass was the image of her daughter’s face. Behind her, Barbara Anna stood in the doorway, her blonde hair covered by the hood of her cloak.
“Mother?—Are you coming to Mass?”
“No,” Anna said, without turning about.
“Are you all right, Mother?”
A long pause, then: “Yes, dear. You go on.”
“The boys will be disappointed.”
“And so they will learn. They will learn
disappointment.”
Barbara turned to go, then paused. “They say it was a Pole who fired the first shot.”
“A cadet?”
“Why—yes.”
A few moments passed. The door closed then and Anna placed her cheek against the cool glass. How had it come to this? War. Yet again.
Anna Stelnicka’s heart was coming apart, like a favorite garment worn to shreds. For the third time in her life her Poland was struggling to push back the enemy, to release her chains, to reclaim independence. What were the chances now? And now—again—the callous winds of war had hurled loved ones far from her.
The thought was well punctuated by a second round of tolling from St, Martin’s heavy brass bells. The perimeters of the window panes had been sealed with wax against the winter winds, but the glass vibrated nonetheless in time with the deep clanging. Anna kept her cheek pressed against the glass.
The bells had rung crazily that morning, too. She had gone outside to watch the strangest funeral procession she had ever witnessed. The dead person, Anna learned from some placards the mourners carried, was Jan Kiliński, the bootmaker and acclaimed patriot from the years of the Third of May Constitution. What made the cortege so odd was that Kiliński had died some years before, in 1819. The purpose of this mock funeral, an observer told her, was to agitate the citizenry against Tsar Nicholas and Russian domination. The organizers were hoping for the rise of a new Jan Kiliński.
Jan Kiliński indeed! She could tell them a few things she had witnessed firsthand about Jan Kiliński. The memories came back in a dizzying wave. In 1794, he had led a secret insurrection within Warsaw against the occupying Prussians and Russians. Anna didn’t doubt his patriotism then or now, but the little group of patriots to which she had belonged all those years ago was convinced that any attempt by Kiliński prior to Tadeusz Kościuszko’s impending arrival would provoke a bloodbath—one that Russia’s Catherine would avenge a thousand fold—and so they engaged Anna to warn the king of the intended uprising so that he might convince Kiliński to hold off and wait for the level-headed Kościuszko and his troops. Anna’s attempt to see the king was foiled at first try, so she had had to impersonate Zofia—flamboyantly dressing and acting the part—to effectively gain an audience with King Stanisław, who had once had a dalliance with Zofia. The masquerade was a success, and the king appreciated Anna’s derring-do but seemed not to have any real influence over the rebels, who charged ahead with the rising. The occupiers were evicted from the capital but, as feared, the streets flowed thick and red with blood. And the prediction about Catherine materialized: she sent her most merciless general, Suworow, to take back Warsaw. He and his lancers came down on the suburb of Praga, massacring some 12,000 innocents before Warsaw capitulated. The king surprised Anna for her patriotic effort—however useless it proved in the end—by endowing her with the title of princess. The king had no power to do so according to Polish law—his power came, ironically, under the auspices of Catherine. Anna shook her head at the thought. A title given by a Russian Tsarina? It meant nothing to her.
As for Kiliński—a hero? Perhaps, but one with more courage than cleverness.
And now, years later, what of the cadets and their two leaders? Were they not made of the same cloth as Kiliński? Firebrands? What had they reaped?
The Polish forces, some 50,000, had left Warsaw at the opening of the month, marching proudly through the capital’s avenues while lines of the senators and deputies of the National Government stood on either side. Cheering them on, too, was the entire citizenry, it seemed: man, woman, and child, both szlachta and peasant. It took little coaxing from a single firm male tenor to set the crowds singing their beloved national hymns, so long forbidden.
Each day brought momentous news. The Dictator—General Chlopicki—had already been forced from his post for failing to ready the country for war in good time. People said he thought an end to differences between Poland and Russia would come only through negotiations. Nicholas’ proclamation in December refuted that notion, but while talking a good game, Chlopicki was doing precious little to build fortifications and to call up and train the large forces that would be needed. Time was lost because he had little hope for Poland’s besting the giant Russia. Now, since Chlopicki’s resignation, things certainly were happening with lightning speed. Prince Czartoryski had opened the Seym on 19 January, whereupon the senators and deputies made short work of creating the manifesto that deprived the Romanov family of Poland’s crown, absolved all Poles of their oath of loyalty to Russia, and proclaimed the sovereignty of the Polish nation.
Anna thought now of young Józef’s homecoming in December. How bittersweet it was. “Mother!” he had called from the front entryway as he took his battered cadet’s czapka from his blond head. Michał, who had seen Józef home fresh from the grasp of Grand Duke Konstantin, stood proudly beside him. It was a miracle to see her youngest, alive and tearfully smiling at her. Had he run to her, or she to him? She couldn’t remember now.
Another mother might have thought that that would be the end of things military for a son barely escaping execution. But not Anna. When he was called up again within a week, he was chomping at the bit. No, she was not surprised. He was now part of a battalion in Southeast Poland, somewhere between the Rivers Bug and Narew. It was a dangerous mission, she knew. The further east, the closer to Russia, the earlier that battalion would see action. Each morning she got down on her knees and prayed for his safety.
Neither was she surprised when Michał rejoined the cavalry after so many years of civilian life—albeit a restless life. He had put in for a commission that would allow him to keep an eye on Józef, but it was not to be. Michał’s lancer unit had been assigned to the Modlin Fortress, north of Warsaw. It may be for the best, she thought now. Józef was on his own quest many more miles east of Warsaw. He had to rise or fall on his own. In any event, her sons were gone again. She could not help but think about Tadeusz, the one who had not come home. Somehow she felt confident that Michał would survive the coming storm—perhaps because he had survived so much already—but nonetheless he was there in her prayers along with Józef, for whom she had no such confidence. He was an artist, not a soldier. For that, she herself could bear the blame—or blessing.
And the words of the gypsy woman Mira still managed to tunnel back to her through the years: The boy will one day bait the Russian bear.
What did surprise Anna, however, shaking her to bedrock, was her husband Jan. She had never entertained the faintest idea that the man who had returned a white-haired ghost from the camps in Siberia would be strong enough to take up arms yet again. Oh, he had gained a little in weight and in strength—and mind—but he still seemed a shadow of his youth. His spirit was large, however, and he would not be held back. Having fought with Kościuszko in ’94, in the Italian campaign, and years later with Napoleon, and seeing his sons now take up the banner for independence, how could he not do so, he had asked her, his cobalt blue eyes brimming. He did ask Anna for her blessing. Could she refuse this man his final campaign? No more than she could try to douse the intentions of Józef or Michał. She sent him off as she had them: with no tears, until the door had closed behind him. Ironically, he was being sent the further: all the way to Zamość in Southeastern Poland, 154 miles from Warsaw. The reason for his assignment, he said, was his knowledge of the area, for he had relatives there and knew the terrain.
Anna caught the thin, high sound of the twins’ voices now. She wiped away the condensation from the pane she had been breathing on, and from her vantage point she watched below as Barbara Anna and Iza shepherded the boys across the street, toward the church. What was it the one held in his hand? A little figure. Anna recognized it as one of the set of wooden toy soldiers her own sons had played with years before. Unexpected tears came to her eyes.
A little while later, Zofia knocked and stepped in without waiting for an invitation. “Hello, Anna,” she said, moving up to stand behind her at the window. “You aren’t going?”
“No.—Nor you, it seems.”
Zofia gave a little laugh. “For the protection of the many within the church. I’m certain the roof would fall in. Or the statues’ faces would freeze into frowns.”
Anna attempted a laugh of her own.
The two cousins stood as sentinels at the casement. Several minutes passed. “All gone,” Zofia said at last. Her sigh was real, no stagecraft here. “Jan and Jan Michał and Józef and Jurek.”
Jurek—Zofia used the diminutive for Jerzy. Jerzy! Of course, he had gone, too. Iza’s father. In the weeks before he left, he and his daughter Iza had spent no little time getting to know one another. It clearly meant so much to both of them. Observing this newly-formed relationship, Zofia had gone from denial to disdain to indifference. But now—for Zofia to add Jerzy’s name to the litany of family patriots and to use his diminutive—Anna could not fathom its meaning.
“Basia,” Iza said, coming into the reception room where Barbara sat, having just put the twins to bed. “There’s a woman here to see you.”
“A woman?”
“Yes—a Russian woman. She didn’t give her name.”
Barbara rose slowly from her chair. She was clearly tired from the day. “Whatever does she want?”
“She wouldn’t say that, either. She insists on seeing you.”
“Ask her in then, will you?”
Iza walked back to the woman waiting near the front entrance. “This way, please.” The woman’s red cloak was of a fine material but rumpled, soiled, and showing wear. She carried a brown satchel.
Iza watched Barbara’s face upon the woman’s entry into the reception room. Plainly, Barbara did not recognize the woman. Iza nodded and prepared to leave, but a quick glance from Barbara held her.
The woman who had seemed confident and prepossessing at the door paused now, her glance moving from Barbara to Iza and back again. “I—I am Larissa. I worked with your husband.”
“I see.”
“What I have to say is rather—personal.”
Barbara took her meaning and spoke before Iza could react. “Iza, please stay.” Then to Larissa: “You may say what you came to say in front of Iza. She is my closest friend.”
Larissa nodded unhappily. “Very well.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m afraid you did not know the—particulars of your husband’s occupation.”
“At the Imperial Commissioner’s? You’re wrong. I do know. He worked within the Third Department.”
The woman was taken aback, Iza could tell. She drew herself up. “Do you know in what capacity?”
Barbara was silent and seemed to be bracing herself.
The woman went on: “Under Nikolai Novosiltsev he was deputized to lead the Third Department. As such he made many decisions—”
“He led the department?”
“He did.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I feel you should know— “
“Know what? Just what is your interest in telling me anything?”
The woman seemed about to say something, then her mouth closed, her lips flattening into a thin line. She stepped forward and took a portfolio from the satchel. She handed it to Barbara. “I think this will speak for me, Madame Baklanov. Can you read Russian?”
“I can.”
Iza wondered at this, for it was years ago that both she and Barbara had taken classroom Russian in convent school.
The woman handed the portfolio to Barbara, then pivoted to effect her exit.
Iza followed her and wordlessly saw her to the door. When she returned to the reception room, Barbara was seated and rifling through the several file folders she had withdrawn from the portfolio. “What are they, Basia?”
“They seem to be documents on the various persons Viktor interrogated at the Third Department headquarters. Good God! The Russians document everything. I don’t dare read them. I’m certain Viktor did terrible things as part of his job. I won’t give her the satisfaction of reading them.” Barbara looked up at Iza. “Did she say anything more to you at the door?”
“No, she slipped like a thief into the night. I can’t imagine what her purpose was in coming here.”
Barbara’s flashing green eyes caught and held Iza’s. “Oh, yes, you can. You’re in the convent no longer, Iza. You needn’t pretend on my account. She’s very pretty, is she not?”
Iza had no answer. Yes, they both had taken the same reading of her: she had been—or was still—Viktor’s lover.
“I won’t read these,” Barbara said, her gaze falling again on the folders. “They belong in the fireplace. Whatever Viktor did as part of his occupation is in the past. I must remember that. He is still the father of the twins. And, Iza, he is still my husband.” She looked up at Iza, as if in appeal.
“He is.” Iza wished she could say more in support of Viktor so as to comfort her childhood friend, but words dried up. From the first she had had an aversion to Viktor Baklanov.
“Here,” Barbara said, “take these and throw them onto the grate.”
But as Iza moved forward, Barbara’s eyes became transfixed on the label of a particular folder. “God’s teeth!” Barbara called out in a piercing shriek.
“What is it, Basia?—What?”
Turning her head to the wall, Barbara thrust a file at Iza. “Here!”
Iza could scarcely believe what she saw neatly written—and easily translatable—on the label of the file:
Deposition of Jan Stelnicki, 1826
Interrogator Viktor Baklanov.
Michał worried over Józef, who had been restored to his unit of cadets by one of the two architects of the insurrection: Piotr Wysocki had come personally to the Gronska town house to collect him. Oh, he longed to go, but that did not alter the pain—and fear—registered on their mother’s face. Michał felt more responsible for Józef now than he ever had. He had promised to look after him for his parents’ sake—especially his mother’s. And he had promised himself to do so in memory of his brother Tadeusz. But now new feelings toward Józef stirred.
Upon retrieving him from the grasp of the Grand Duke, Michał had asked him exactly what had gone on at the Grand Duke’s palace. They stood in the dimly lit Gronska stable prior to entering the town house.
“Marcin and I were part of the team that was to abduct Konstantin,” Józef had said, “but everything went haywire from the first. The setting of the fire near the river was to be the signal, but it was ignited too soon. Somehow, two of the cadets who were to be with Marcin and me at the rear entrance didn’t show. And then a guard took us by surprise, and I—I—”
“You killed him?” Michał saw his brother fighting back the tears and thought of the first soldier he himself had killed.
“Yes. And then Viktor appears out of nowhere and tells me I must kill Konstantin. That it was best for Poland. He did make me think about it. I was frightened yet somehow emboldened. To think that Poland might be free again! Oh, he said I would be a hero, and I’m probably vain enough to have let that cloud my thoughts, too. But suddenly Viktor was gone and the Grand Duke was moving in my direction. I had my pistol aimed at his heart and could have done it! Yet I asked myself why Viktor would be goading me into such a thing. It didn’t make sense.”
“You can bet that he would somehow rise in the Russian bureaucracy if you had killed Konstantin and his brother the tsar came down on us with full force and no mercy. Viktor could own this city.”
Józef digested this thought, then said: “At the moment of my decision the words of Piotr Wysocki came back. He said to us that Poles do not kill princes.”
“And so you let the moment pass?”
“I did. And then suddenly I was knocked unconscious only to wake up as a prisoner myself.”
Michał chuckled. “There was much knocking about the brains that night.”
“What, you too?”
“Yes, but that’s a story I’ll save for later.”
“Michał . . .”
“What, Józef?”
“Did I do wrong?”
Michał flung his arm around Józef. “God’s mercy, Józef, you did right! We do not kill princes. Neither do we kill unarmed men, noble or not.” They were both silent for a full minute. At last, Michał said, “I have something for you.”
“What, Michał—what?”
“Something I found the other night at Belweder Palace.” Michał took from his coat pocket the blue velvet pouch containing the little portrait of Emilia Chopin. “Here.”
Józef ‘s turquoise eyes lighted up. With trembling fingers, Józef slowly withdrew the miniature and stared at the portrait as if he could not comprehend. He looked up at Michał. And then the tears came in a rush.
It was at that moment, Michał remembered now, that something became as important—more important!—than protecting his brother and that was loving his brother. He extended his arms and drew Józef into his embrace. As they stood there, both trembling, a life-long chasm between them closed.
Days later, Michał had signed on to the military also, just as every able boy and man was doing, including—to everyone’s complete shock—his father.
But it was Józef whom he had sworn to protect. He had promised his mother—and he had promised himself—not to come home from war without this brother. But they had been placed in different units: Józef was a good distance away with Piotr Wysocki’s battalion at Siedlce, about 56 miles east of Warsaw, while he had been assigned to a lancer squadron that was about to leave Warsaw for the Modlin Fortress, about 30 miles north of the capital. He had to think of something. But what?