In the music room at the Gronski townhome, Anna was reunited with many of her patriot friends. For appearances’ sake, they were there for a recital and Anna did play the piano for a short while, but the latest news to reach Warsaw, if not completely surprising, was nonetheless shocking.
The Queen of France was dead, and as many opinions of her were voiced in Anna’s political group as there were people. She was described as a woman of many faces: a heroine, a vixen, a martyr. No one could deny, however, that she was a victim. Only ten days before, on the sixteenth of October, she followed her husband’s steps to the guillotine. Reports had it that she went to her death nobly, head held high, much to the consternation of her detractors who had hoped to see her stooped and cowering on the bloody scaffold.
Anna had initiated the meeting of patriots. Several of her friends were absent, like Baron Michał Kolbi, who had followed Kościuszko, but there were new additions to the little collection of gentry, bankers, artisans, men of business, wives, and simple townsmen. With Michał gone, however, Anna was the only member of the szlachta; at one time the distinction of her title among the untitled might have made her uncomfortable. Now, nothing mattered, other than the cause.
It was not only France’s fate that confounded the group that day. Conversation moved inexorably to recent events in Poland. For appearances, the king was said to rule, but policy was now created at the Russian embassy. Russian garrisons policed the entire country. And, on the fifth of the month, as a result of a new treaty, what little territory Stanisław and the Sejm had not already conceded to the aggressors the previous August fell into Russian hands.
“Do you know,” Anna asked the group, “that this may be to our advantage?”
“Our advantage, Countess?” a merchant asked.
“Yes,” Anna said, “perhaps it’s the motivation we need to demonstrate to those Polish fence-sitters that appeasement will only lead to slavery.”
“And to inspire a groundswell of support for Kościuszko,” a merchant added.
“Exactly!” Anna said.
“Another advantage Catherine might not have counted on,” one townsman said, “lies in the 30,000 Polish soldiers she has discharged. These restless men have gravitated toward Kraków and Warsaw and are the kind of men who hunger for revolution. No Russian dares walk the streets of Warsaw alone without fear of being beaten bloody.”
“But unless our magnates take decisive action and risk losing the silks they sit upon,” another predicted, “our fate is sealed.”
“Those who have turned traitor by signing the Confederacy of Targowica will not lift a finger,” the townsman said. “They are a lost cause. Living high off the hog, they are, accepting graft from the Russians while landless szlachta and idle peasants swarm hungry in the streets.”
However varied were the opinions of the group members toward Marie Antoinette, their assessment of Catherine was spoken with one clear voice of hatred. She had seen to it that Poland was reduced to a loaf of bread over which Russia, Austria, and Prussia vied like hungry animals. But the group also held to the hope that the concerted effort of the Polish people, noble and non-noble alike, could still stage a successful campaign for liberty.
Anna’s friends assured her that theirs was but a small patch on a quilt that covered Praga and Warsaw, that there were many other such groups—drawn together by their desire to be free—who held other such secret meetings. With prayers and hope, they watched and waited.
While the weeks slipped into winter, Anna came to know her child and a bond was formed as Jan Michał learned to accept her as the most important person in his little sphere of experience. Anna often gladly did things for him a servant routinely did in such households, and he took to calling her “Mat-ka” after his own fashion. He was a happy and healthy child, forever curious, always moving, touching, tasting, listening.
On Christmas Day of 1793, however, Jan Michał lay gravely ill. Anna had had his little bed moved down to her room, so that she could watch his progress moment to moment. He hadn’t eaten for four revolutions of the clock; everything that was fed to him was immediately expelled. His bedclothes were continuously wet with perspiration and his forehead raged with fever. He cried very little, and this worried Anna as much as if he cried perpetually. She fought off sleep in order to stay at his side. Mysterious fevers like this were not uncommon, and they were often fatal. Would he pass away at some quiet moment when her exhaustion had overcome her? Would she wake to find her son dead? Was their happy reunion to end in tragedy?
On the first day of his illness, Anna had gone to Countess Gronska to ask about a doctor. The family doctor, however, was not in Warsaw; he had, like so many good men of every profession, followed Kościuszko. He was using his talents to tend to the wounds of the patriots.
When the child’s condition only worsened, a tearful Anna went in to see her aunt again.
Countess Gronska was preparing to go to Mass at the Cathedral. “Is he no better?”
Anna shook her head. “Oh, Aunt Stella, what can we do?”
“I don’t know, Anna, although there is one person who may have an answer.”
“Who?”
The countess seemed to hesitate.
“Aunt, tell me! Who is it who might help?”
The countess sighed in resignation. “Zofia.”
“The physician has arrived,” Marta announced in a whisper.
“Thank God!” Anna cried, leaping up from her place at her son’s side. “Stay with Jan Michał, Marta, until I bring the doctor upstairs.”
Anna hurried down the staircase. Somehow, Zofia had been able to secure a physician—and on Christmas Day of all days. God bless her, Anna thought, and God bless the doctor!
The physician stood in the hallway, his wide back toward Anna as she reached the bottom stair. He had removed his heavy cloak and was shaking it free of a smattering of snowflakes.
“It’s so good of you to come across to Praga, Doctor,” Anna said. She was buoyed by his very presence. “And in such inclement weather. I’m so relieved…”
Anna’s words trailed off because he had turned around to face her. She stood staring in surprise. It was Doctor Kurowski, the physician who had reluctantly shared his coach with her.
The doctor could not help but notice Anna’s reaction, and his little dark eyes, set under fleshy folds and bushy eyebrows, studied her for a few moments.
“Ah!” he sighed in recognition, his eyes twinkling. “It is the countess who worries over street children.”
Anna’s distaste for the man was still fresh. “It’s my own child that worries me now,” she said, assuming the felicity of an actress who must disguise her personal dislike for a fellow player. “Will you see him?”
The large man harrumphed. “It is the reason Zofia—Countess Gronska—sent for me,” he said, picking up his brown satchel. “Take me to him.”
He asked only one question as he followed Anna up the stairs. “How old is the child?”
Anna had to think for a moment. “Nearly twenty months.”
Both Marta and Lutisha were with Jan Michał when Anna and Doctor Kurowski entered the room.
The doctor, huffing from the stairs, approached the bed, drew back the covers.
Anna stood to his side, her eyes intent on his expression. His grizzled beard, however, seemed to cloak any reaction.
“This room is not nearly warm enough,” he announced brusquely.
Anna sent Marta for more wood for the ceramic stove. The chamber had a fireplace, as well, dating from the days previous to tiled stoves and the doctor insisted that both be lighted.
The physician removed the child’s damp nightclothes and prodded with chubby fingers until Jan Michał’s face became red and pinched in pain, his screams reaching an ear-piercing level. His little limbs flailed wildly. Anna could only helplessly watch.
The doctor turned to her. “I think it would be best if you wait downstairs, Countess. Have your maid bring me some oil of fat, honey, hot water, and fresh bedclothes.”
Anna sent Lutisha for the things he requested. She hesitated, however, to leave the room herself.
The doctor’s eyes fastened on her. “Don’t question me,” he said. “You’ve requested my services, so do exactly as I say.”
Anna could only obey. Outside the room, she encountered Marta returning with firewood. “Marta, please arrange for you or your mother to remain in that room at all times, unless he should object. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Madame.”
Later, when Anna heard Lutisha come down again on some errand, she followed the servant into the kitchen.
“He’s ordered hot coals for the bed warmer,” the servant told Anna. “He’s going to roast that child alive. I’ve never seen a little one in such agony.” The woman’s face, wet with perspiration, fixed on Anna’s. “Dear God, Countess Anna,” she wailed, “I don’t think Jan Michał will live out the day.”
Left alone in the kitchen, Anna sank into a chair. How thoughtless the servant had been in what she said. But her raw emotions had spoken the truth as she saw it. Soon came the sound of the sickroom door closing. Jan Michał’s screams ran through Anna like little knives. It was all she could do to keep despair at bay. She put her head down at the kitchen table and prayed to the Black Madonna.
Eventually, Marta came down to take up kitchen duties. She had little news and her face was grim. When Marcelina and Katarzyna came in to help with the Christmas meal, Anna retreated to the reception room, taking a seat not far from the freestanding clock. The countess arrived home from Christmas services, and when Anna could provide no real news of Jan Michał, she went to her room.
Anna sat alone. An hour passed as if it were twelve, the chimes of the clock sounding oddly discordant. Occasionally, she could hear Jan Michał’s cries piercing the walls, but during the second hour, Anna did not hear a single sound from him. She could not fathom what his silence portended. The ticking of the clock was about to drive her mad. She could scarcely restrain herself from rushing upstairs.
At last, she heard the door open upstairs and the sounds of the doctor’s voice as he left Lutisha with instructions.
Anna was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
His inscrutable face did not invite hope.
“Is he…”
Doctor Kurowski cast her an impatient glance and moved past her toward the hook that held his coat. “The fever is breaking,” he said as he walked. “The child will recover.”
“Thank God,” Anna said, taking in and expelling a breath as if it meant life itself to her.
“Keep the room warm, unbearably so. Apply the oil to his entire body four times a day and keep him heavily blanketed. He’s taken and retained a water-honey solution. See that he’s given this regularly for nourishment until he’s able to digest something more substantial. You might try a light broth with a touch of absinthe.”
The physician stood now with his fur hat and coat on, ready to depart.
“Yes, Doctor.” Anna felt dizzy with relief. “Thank you so much.”
Lutisha hurried down the stairs and moved toward the kitchen. Her hands swiped at the heavy perspiration on her face. “Thank God,” she was muttering. “Thank God and the white eagle.”
“Ah, yes, the eagle,” Doctor Kurowski said. “Tell me, Countess, now that all of the Commonwealth is in Russian hands, do you still harbor notions of the eagle repelling the Russian bear?”
Anna felt her lips tighten, but she managed a smile. “As long as Polish hearts and minds are set on liberty, Doctor, I will share that dream.”
“A dream is all it is, my dear girl, and it is all you will be left with in the end.” He picked up his satchel. “And now there is the matter of my fee.”
“The fee? Oh, yes! How much is it?”
“Fifty ducats.”
Anna’s first thought was that he was not serious, that he was toying with her. She found herself playing Echo to his Narcissus. “Fifty ducats.”
“That is what I said, Countess. My time is valuable. And this is a holiday.”
“Yes, it is. Christmas Day.” Anna was certain her irony would be lost on him. “But I don’t keep such sums here at the house. My money is invested. May I send you the money on Monday next?”
“I am afraid, Countess, that I must insist on some assurance— ”
“I’ll see to your payment!” It was Zofia’s voice that suddenly rang out. She had entered the hallway from the rear of the house. Her flamboyant but ruffled manner of dress indicated that she was only now arriving home from her round of Christmas Eve festivities. “How much is your fee, Doctor Kurowski?”
“Fifty ducats.”
Zofia paused, blinking only once at the enormity of the sum. “The child is well?”
“I don’t provide guarantees, but I think he will recover.”
“Good. Wait a moment. I’ll get your money.” Zofia turned, moving toward the library, where Anna knew the Gronskis kept a wall safe behind the portrait of an ancestor.
Without a further word to the physician, Anna turned on her heel and hurried up the stairs to Jan Michał.
In the evening Anna went to Zofia’s room. Her cousin had slept most of the day, missing Christmas dinner. She was now preparing to receive guests.
“How is the boy?” Zofia asked.
“The fever has broken and he’s sleeping soundly.”
“Good! I’m so glad, Anna. Truly. I’m not having so very many guests in tonight. Not more that fifteen or twenty, so there shouldn’t be too much noise to disturb him.”
“I’ll move him back up to the attic room.”
“And you must get some rest, too, Anna. You look so very tired.”
“Zofia, how did you happen to learn of Doctor Kurowski?”
“Oh, he’s well known among my friends. A Russian lieutenant highly recommended him.”
“I see.”
“Though my friend didn’t intimate in any way that his rates were so impossible. Fifty ducats!”
“I think that he adjusts his rates to his patients.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Only that I think he took a dislike to me.”
“To you, Anna? I doubt that.”
“I’ll go to the Lubickis tomorrow for the money.”
“You will not! Those funds represent your future security and should be left untouched.”
“I’ll not allow you to pay such an outrageous bill.”
“What does it matter to me?” Zofia laughed, casting a look at Anna through the mirror on her vanity. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, within a week or a month, the very same fifty ducats were back in my wall compartment. Now, put it out of your mind. The important thing is that your child received good care.”
The cousins chatted a while longer, Anna sitting behind Zofia, who was applying makeup to her face. Then, thanking Zofia again, Anna rose to leave.
Zofia, however, spun around on her stool and stood, catching Anna’s arm. “Anna, darling,” she said, her black eyes boring into Anna’s, “I am only one woman. You have your sick child to think of now, but when he is well I will ask you to assist me in the entertainments I provide for our Russian interlopers. It is this that keeps this household safe and what will maintain our security in this quickly dying country. You must face the fact that the Commonwealth is not likely to rise again.”
“What… what can I do?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Anna, a desirable woman. You turn more heads than you might think. I’ve seen it. You know the Russian language better than I, and with your charm and intelligence, you could develop the sort of wit that would be expected of you. Charlotte Sic and I think that you would make a splendid hostess.”
Anna was struck speechless at first. She gently tried to pull free of Zofia’s grasp. “I’m afraid,” she said at last, “that I have no talents for such an occupation.”
“Nonsense! You let me be the judge of that when the time comes.” Zofia released her cousin. “Now run along. I must get ready.”
Anna went up to Jan Michał, purging her mind of all thoughts of Zofia’s proposal.
Early the next morning, Anna went to the Lubickis for the fifty ducats.
The new year 1794 seemed to bring with it assurance of Jan Michał’s full recovery. Anna exulted in watching her son return to the same curious and carefree child he had been before the sickness struck.
She could not help but wonder when Zofia would approach her again about entertaining the Russians. A day did not go by that she didn’t rehearse her refusal.
What was Zofia’s motive in suggesting such a thing? It was unfathomable. Was she so concerned about the physical well-being of the household? Or did she think, as Anna suspected, that such behavior on Anna’s part would ultimately scuttle any hope of happiness with Jan? Was it possible Zofia still had hopes of marrying Jan?
It was a mystery.
“It’s coming!” the Jewish baker cried as he burst into the music room, a late arrival.
Anna was just finishing her piece at the piano—one of the few she remembered from childhood—but the man could not wait for the last note to resound, much less the applause. “It’s coming!”
“When?” came the chorus.
“Next month. February it’s to be.”
“How do you know?” a shopkeeper asked. “I’ve heard April.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” complained a seamstress. “Why must we always wait?”
The baker smiled. “The winds move at their own speed.”
“That’s a fine maxim,” the woman countered, “but I tell you all here today that if Kościuszko does not make his move soon, the Commonwealth will be so tightly locked in Catherine’s claws that any struggle will be futile.”
Anna remained at the piano, listening with no little interest. Her patriot friends had been assembling every other week at the Gronski townhome since the initial meeting the previous September. Anna arranged the meetings for a day Zofia routinely spent at her dressmaker in the Market Square, and at mid-morning, a time when the Countess Gronska kept to her room reading the Bible and her political publications. Anna was certain neither her cousin nor her aunt would approve of the meetings. Zofia would think them hazardous to her standing among the Russians, while the countess would think it scandalous that Anna was socializing with men and women of no rank. Because the Gronski home was itself sometimes a den of Russians, it was the least suspicious of the available meeting places. Lately, however, such meetings had become extremely dangerous, should they be found out. Catherine had ordered the arrest of all subversives.
Still, Anna hid nothing from the servants. She trusted them implicitly. She had come to realize that while the flame of patriotism sometimes sputtered among the nobility, especially certain magnates, among the peasant class it burned with the steadiness and reliability of the best beeswax candle.
The first gatherings at the townhome had yielded little news. It was the simple camaraderie the members felt that served to bolster their spirits and keep hope for the Commonwealth alive.
Lately, however, the rumor mill had been turning at full tilt. It did seem certain that Kościuszko was about to embark on some definitive course of action.
A cluster of four or five friends stood around the piano in front of Anna, thereby blocking her view when the door opened and someone entered. Anna assumed it was merely Lutisha or Marta seeing to the refreshments.
But it was not long before she realized that the spirited conversation in the room lagged, normal tones becoming whispers before waning to a tense silence. One man in front of Anna turned around and bowed.
Anna stood. She could feel the blood draining from her face.
The motionless figure in green at the door was Countess Stella Gronska. She wore a smile, but it was one Anna, in her distracted state, could not read.
How would she react to Anna’s secret meetings in the Gronski home, the danger in which she had placed all of its inhabitants?
Everyone’s eyes were on the countess, then turned to Anna as she slowly walked toward her aunt. The walk seemed interminable. Inside Anna was trembling, her heart beating against her chest like a caged bird.
“Hello, Aunt Stella,” Anna heard herself say. The greeting sounded so insipid and hollow.
“Hello, Anna Maria,” the countess rejoined.
Anna tried to take her hand and guide her out into the reception room, but her aunt would have none of it.
“Did we disturb you? I thought you were reading or napping.”
“Did you?”
“I… I’ve just been entertaining some friends.” Anna still could not decipher the countess’ lingering smile.
“I see,” she said. And then the smile vanished. “Anna, when I came in, the entire room seemed to be abuzz with some news. What is it?”
“Only rumors, Aunt Stella.”
“What is it?” she pressed.
“Nothing definite, but the word about the capital is that Kościuszko is about to launch his campaign.”
“Praise God!”
“Aunt Stella,” Anna whispered, “I didn’t want you to learn of these meetings.”
The countess’ brown eyes studied Anna, surveyed the silent group, returned to Anna. She gave out with an abrupt little laugh then. “My dear, this may be more Zofia’s house than mine now, but don’t you think I know everything that goes on?”
“You knew?”
“Of course! You have these meetings every other week. On Thursdays, when Zofia has gone on her shopping tour. Am I right, or is my mind failing?”
“You are right. It was unforgivable of me to impose on your hospitality. I assumed too much. In the future—”
“Anna Maria!” the countess interrupted.
“Aunt?”
“May I join your little company of friends?”
Struck silent, Anna gaped in astonishment.
“Oh, I know,” the countess said with a little wave of her hand, “what customs I’ve held to hard and fast. But these are perilous times, Anna, and I’ll not be left in the past.”
“I… should be glad to introduce you, Aunt Stella.”
“And I look at it this way,” the countess continued in a voice strong enough for all to hear, “why should I settle for stale news of the patriots’ movement in old publications when I live across from the capital and the cognoscenti meet in my own house!”
“She calls us the cognoscenti,” blurted out a shoemaker, his hand quickly moving to his mouth in embarrassment at voicing his thoughts. Everyone laughed at him now, and the tension in the room evaporated.
Anna took her aunt by the hand and proceeded to introduce her to everyone in the room, each person bowing courteously before her.
After the introductions, the countess fell into a lively conversation with a banker, whose bank was one of Warsaw’s six largest, all of which had declared insolvency the year before.
After everyone had gone, the countess seemed exhausted, but happily so. “Anna,” she said, “don’t ever forget that you are as a daughter to me and that my home is your home.”
“Thank you, Aunt Stella. But Zofia mustn’t know about this.”
“Oh, Zofia,” the countess cried, giving a little wave of her hand. “A pox on Zofia!”