At the end of one day of unremitting storms, Wladek and Florentyna took advantage of the rain by washing themselves in a puddle of water which formed on the stone floor of the upper dungeon. Neither of them noticed that the Baron’s eyes widened as Wladek removed his tattered shirt and rolled over in the relatively clean water, continuing to rub himself until white streaks appeared on his body. Suddenly, the Baron spoke.
“Wladek”—the word was barely audible—“I cannot see you clearly,” he said, the voice cracking. “Come here.”
Wladek was stupefied by the sound of his patron’s voice after so long a silence and didn’t even look in his direction. He was immediately sure that it presaged the madness that already held two of the older servants in its grip.
“Come here, boy.”
Wladek obeyed fearfully and stood before the Baron, who narrowed his enfeebled eyes in a gesture of intense concentration as he groped toward the boy. He ran his finger over Wladek’s chest and then peered at him incredulously.
“Wladek, can you explain this small deformity?”
“No, sir,” said Wladek, embarrassed. “It has been with me since birth. My foster mother used to say it was the mark of God the Father upon me.”
“Stupid woman. It is the mark of your own father,” the Baron said softly, and relapsed into silence for some minutes. Wladek remained standing in front of him, not moving a muscle. When at last the Baron spoke again, his voice was brisk. “Sit down, boy.”
Wladek obeyed immediately. As he sat down, he noticed once again the heavy band of silver, now hanging loosely around the Baron’s wrist. A shaft of light through a crack in the wall made the magnificent engraving of the Rosnovski coat of arms glitter in the darkness of the dungeon.
“I do not know how long the Germans intend to keep us locked up here. I thought at first that this war would be over in a matter of weeks. I was wrong, and we must now consider the possibility that it will continue for a very long time. With that thought in mind, we must use our time more constructively, as I know my life is nearing an end.”
“No, no,” Wladek began to protest, but the Baron continued as if he had not heard him.
“Yours, my child, has yet to begin. I will, therefore, undertake the continuation of your education.”
The Baron did not speak again that day. It was as if he was considering the implications of his pronouncement. Thus Wladek gained his new tutor, and as they possessed neither reading nor writing materials, he was made to repeat everything the Baron said. He was taught great tracts from the poems of Adam Mickiewicz and Jan Kochanowski and long passages from The Aeneid. In that austere classroom Wladek learned geography, mathematics and added to his command of four languages—Russian, German, French and English. But once again his happiest moments were when he was taught history. The history of his nation through a hundred years of partition, the disappointed hopes for a united Poland, the further anguish of the Poles at Napoleon’s crushing loss to Russia in 1812. He learned of the brave tales of earlier and happier times, when King Jan Casimir had dedicated Poland to the Blessed Virgin after repulsing the Swedes at Czestochowa, and how the mighty Prince Radziwill, great landowner and lover of hunting, had held his court in the great castle near Warsaw. Wladek’s final lesson each day was on the family history of the Rosnovskis. Again and again he was told—never tiring of the tale—how the Baron’s illustrious ancestor who had served in 1794 under General Dabrowski and then in 1809 under Napoleon himself had been rewarded by the great Emperor with land and a barony. He also learned that the Baron’s grandfather had sat on the Council of Warsaw and that his father had played his own part in building the new Poland. Wladek found such happiness when the Baron turned his little dungeon room into a classroom.
The guards at the dungeon door were changed every four hours and conversation between them and the prisoners was strengst verboten. In snatches and fragments Wladek learned of the progress of the war, of the actions of Hindenburg and Ludendorff, of the rise of revolution in Russia and of her subsequent withdrawal from the war by the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk.
Wladek began to believe that the only escape from the dungeons for the inmates was death. The doors to that filthy hellhole opened nine times during the next two years, and Wladek began to wonder if he was equipping himself with knowledge that would be useless if he never again knew freedom.
The Baron continued to tutor him despite his progressively failing sight and hearing. Wladek had to sit closer and closer to him each day.
Florentyna—his sister, mother and closest friend—engaged in a more physical struggle against the rankness of their predicament. Occasionally the guards would provide her with a fresh bucket of sand or straw to cover the soiled floor, and the stench became a little less oppressive for the next few days. Vermin scuttled around in the darkness for any dropped scraps of bread or potato and brought with them disease and still more filth. The sour smell of decomposed human and animal urine and excrement assaulted their nostrils and regularly brought Wladek to a state of sickness and nausea. He longed above all to be clean again and would sit for hours gazing at the dungeon ceiling, recalling the steaming tubs of hot water and the good, rough soap with which the niania had, so short a distance away and so long a time ago, washed the accretion of a mere day’s fun from Leon and himself, with many a muttering and tut-tut for muddy knees or a dirty fingernail.
By the spring of 1918, only fifteen of the twenty-six captives incarcerated with Wladek were still alive. The Baron was always treated by everyone as the master, while Wladek had become his acknowledged steward. Wladek felt saddest for his beloved Florentyna, now twenty. She had long since despaired of life and was convinced that she was going to spend her remaining days in the dungeons. Wladek never admitted in her presence to giving up hope, but although he was only twelve, he too was beginning to wonder if he dared believe in any future.
One evening, early in the fall, Florentyna came to Wladek’s side in the larger upper dungeon.
“The Baron is calling for you.”
Wladek rose quickly, leaving the allocation of food to a senior servant, and went to the old man. The Baron was in severe pain, and Wladek saw with terrible clarity—as though for the first time—how illness had eroded whole areas of the Baron’s flesh, leaving the green-mottled skin covering a now skeletal face. The Baron asked for water, and Florentyna brought it from the half-full mug that hung from a stick outside the stone grille. When the great man had finished drinking, he spoke slowly and with considerable difficulty.
“You have seen so much of death, Wladek, that one more will make little difference to you. I confess that I no longer fear escaping this world.”
“No, no, it can’t be!” cried Wladek, clinging to the old man for the first time in his life. “We have so nearly triumphed. Don’t give up, Baron. The guards have assured me that the war is coming to an end and then we will soon be released.”
“They have been promising us that for months, Wladek. We cannot believe them any longer, and in any case I fear I have no desire to live in the new world they are creating.” He paused as he listened to the boy crying. The Baron’s only thought was to collect the tears as drinking water, and then he remembered that tears were saline and he laughed to himself. “Call for my butler and first footman, Wladek.”
Wladek obeyed immediately, not knowing why they should be required.
The two servants, awakened from a deep sleep, came and stood in front of the Baron. After three years’ captivity sleep was the easiest commodity to come by. They still wore their embroidered uniforms, but one could no longer tell that they had once been the proud Rosnovski colors of green and gold. They stood silently waiting for their master to speak.
“Are they there, Wladek?” asked the Baron.
“Yes, sir. Can you not see them?” Wladek realized for the first time that the Baron was now completely blind.
“Bring them forward so that I might touch them.”
Wladek brought the two me
n to him and the Baron touched their faces.
“Sit down,” he commanded them. “Can you both hear me, Ludwik, Alfons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My name is Baron Rosnovski.”
“We know, sir,” the butler responded innocently.
“Do not interrupt me,” said the Baron. “I am about to die.”
Death had become so common that the two men made no protest.
“I am unable to make a new will as I have no paper, quill or ink. Therefore I make my testament in your presence and you can act as my two witnesses as recognized by the ancient law of Poland. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Yes, sir,” the two men replied in unison.
“My firstborn son, Leon, is dead”—the Baron paused—“and so I leave my entire estate and possessions to the boy known as Wladek Koskiewicz.”
Wladek realized he had not heard his surname for many years and did not immediately comprehend the significance of the Baron’s words.
“And as proof of my resolve,” the Baron continued, “I give him the family band.”
The old man slowly raised his right arm, removed the silver band from his wrist and held it forward to a speechless Wladek, whom he clasped firmly, running his fingers over the boy’s chest as if to be sure that it was he. “My son,” he said as he placed the silver band on the boy’s wrist.
Wladek wept, and lay in the arms of the Baron all night until he could no longer hear his heart and could feel the fingers stiffening around him. In the morning the Baron’s body was removed by the guards and they allowed Wladek to bury him by the side of his son, Leon, in the family churchyard, up against the chapel. As the body was lowered into its shallow grave, dug by Wladek’s bare hands, the Baron’s tattered shirt fell open. Wladek stared at the dead man’s chest.
He had only one nipple.
Thus Wladek Koskiewicz, aged twelve, inherited 60,000 acres of land, one castle, two manor houses, twenty-seven cottages and a valuable collection of paintings, furniture and jewelry, while he lived in a small stone room under the earth. From that day on, the remaining captives took him as their rightful master; and his empire was four dungeons, his retinue thirteen broken servants, plus his only love, Florentyna.
He returned to what he felt was now an endless routine until late in the winter of 1918. On a mild, dry day, there burst upon the prisoners’ ears a volley of shots and the sound of a brief struggle. Wladek was sure that the Polish army had come to rescue him and that he would now be able to lay claim to his rightful inheritance. When the German guards deserted the iron door of the dungeons, the inmates remained huddled in terrified silence in the lower rooms. Wladek stood alone at the entrance, twisting the silver band around his wrist, triumphant, waiting for his liberators. Eventually those who had defeated the Germans arrived and spoke in the coarse Slavic tongue, familiar from school days, which he had learned to fear even more than German. Wladek was dragged unceremoniously out into the passage with his retinue. The prisoners waited, then were cursorily inspected and thrown back into the dungeons. The new conquerors were unaware that this twelve-year-old boy was the master of all their eyes beheld. They did not speak his tongue. Their orders were clear and not to be questioned: kill the enemy if they resist the agreement of Brest-Litovsk, which made this section of Poland theirs, and send those who do not resist to Camp 201 for the rest of their days. The Germans had left with only token resistance, to retreat behind their new border, while Wladek and his followers waited, hopeful of a new life, ignorant of their impending fate.
After spending two more nights in the dungeons, Wladek resigned himself to believing that they were to be incarcerated for another long spell. The new guards did not speak to him at all, a reminder of what life had been like three years before; he began to realize that hell had temporarily been lax under the Germans but once again was tight.
On the morning of the third day, much to Wladek’s surprise, they were all dragged out on to the grass in front of the castle, fifteen thin, filthy bodies. Two of the servants collapsed in the unaccustomed sun. Wladek himself found the intense brightness his biggest problem and kept having to shield his eyes. The prisoners stood in silence on the grass and waited for the soldiers’ next move. The guards made them all strip and ordered them down to the river to wash. Wladek hid the silver band in his clothes and ran down to the water’s edge, his legs feeling weak even before he reached the river. He jumped in, gasping for breath at the coldness of the water, although it felt glorious on his skin. The rest of the prisoners joined him and tried vainly to remove three years of filth.
When Wladek came out of the river exhausted, he noticed that the guards were looking strangely at Florentyna as she washed herself in the water. They were laughing and pointing at her. The other women did not seem to arouse the same degree of interest. One of the guards, a large, ugly man whose eyes had never left Florentyna for a moment, grabbed her arm as she passed him on her way back up the riverbank and threw her to the ground and started to take his clothes off quickly, hungrily, while at the same time folding them neatly on the grass. Wladek stared in disbelief at the man’s swollen, erect penis and flew at the soldier, who was now holding Florentyna down on the ground, and hit him in the middle of his stomach with his head with all the force he could muster. The man reeled back and a second soldier grabbed Wladek and held him helpless with his hands pinned behind his back. The commotion attracted the attention of the other guards and they strolled over to watch. Wladek’s captor was now laughing, a loud belly laugh with no humor in it. The other soldiers’ words only added to Wladek’s anguish.
“Enter the great protector,” said the first.
“Come to defend his nation’s honor.” The second one.
“Let’s at least allow him a ringside view.” The one who was holding him.
More laughter interspersed the remarks that Wladek couldn’t always comprehend. He watched the naked soldier advance his hard, well-fed body slowly toward Florentyna, who started screaming. Once again Wladek struggled, trying desperately to free himself from the viselike grip, but he was helpless in the arms of the guard. The naked man fell clumsily on top of Florentyna and started kissing her and slapping her when she tried to fight or turn away; finally he lunged into her. She let out a scream such as Wladek had never heard before. The guards continued talking and laughing among themselves, some not even watching.
“Goddamn virgin,” said the first soldier as he withdrew himself from her.
They all laughed.
“You’ve just made it a little easier for me,” said the second guard.
More laughter. As Florentyna stared into Wladek’s eyes, he began to retch. The soldier holding on to him showed little interest, other than to be sure that none of the boy’s vomit soiled his uniform or boots. The first soldier, his penis now covered in blood, ran down to the stream, yelling as he hit the water. The second man undressed, while yet another held Florentyna down. The second guard took a little longer over his pleasure and seemed to gain considerable satisfaction from hitting Florentyna; when he finally entered her, she screamed again but not quite so loud as before.
“Come on, Valdi, you’ve had enough.”
With that the man came out of her suddenly and joined his companion-at-arms in the stream. Wladek made himself look at Florentyna. She was bruised and bleeding between the legs. The soldier holding him spoke again.
“Come and hold the little bastard, Boris. It’s my turn.” The first soldier came out of the river and took hold of Wladek firmly. Again Wladek tried to hit out and this made the soldiers laugh again.
“Now we know the full might of the Polish army.”
The unbearable laughter continued as yet another guard started undressing to take his turn with Florentyna, who now lay indifferent to his charms. When he had finished and had gone down to the river, the second soldier returned and started putting on his clothes.
“I think she’s beginning to enjoy it,” he said as he sat in
the sun watching his companion. The fourth soldier began to advance on Florentyna. When he reached her, he turned her over, forced her legs as wide apart as possible, his large hands moving rapidly over her frail body. The scream when she was entered had now turned into a groan. Wladek counted sixteen soldiers who raped his sister. When the last soldier had finished with her, he swore and then added, “I think I’ve made love to a dead woman,” and left her motionless on the grass.
They all laughed even more loudly, as the disgruntled soldier walked down to the river. At last Wladek’s guard released him. He ran to Florentyna’s side while the soldiers lay on the grass drinking wine and vodka taken from the Baron’s cellar and eating the bread from the kitchens.
With the help of two of the servants, Wladek carried Florentyna to the edge of the river, and there he wept as he tried to wash away her blood and bruises. It was useless, for she was black and red all over, insensible to help and unable to speak. When Wladek had done the best he could, he covered her body with his jacket and held her in his arms. He kissed her gently on the mouth, the first woman he had ever kissed. She lay in his arms, but he knew she did not recognize him, and as the tears ran down his face onto her bruised body, he felt her go limp. He wept as he carried her dead body up the bank. The guards went silent as they watched him walk toward the chapel. He laid her down on the grass beside the Baron’s grave and started digging with his bare hands. When the sinking sun had caused the castle to cast its long shadow over the graveyard, he had finished digging. He buried Florentyna next to Leon and made a little cross with two sticks which he placed at her head. Wladek collapsed on the ground between Leon and Florentyna, immediately falling asleep, caring not if he ever woke again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
William returned to Sayre Academy in September more settled and willing to mix. He immediately began to look for competition among those older than himself. Whatever he took up, he was never satisfied unless he excelled at it, and his contemporaries almost always proved too weak an opposition. William began to realize that most of those from backgrounds as privileged as his own lacked any incentive to compete, and that fiercer rivalry was to be found from boys who had, compared with himself, relatively little.
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 6
