Push Not the River

by James Conroyd Martin

  Minutes melted away. She knelt because she could stand no longer. A half hour passed; the morning remained silent as a tomb.

  The cold was so fully in her head and nose that she had to breathe the icy air through her mouth. Her throat was raw and sore, her lungs tight.

  No sign of life in or near the birch forest. Help had been near, but had passed her by. Anna was too cold to cry. How could I remain so stupidly silent? she brooded. It would be the last time she would place the fine delineations of her class above her very life. But was it too late?

  Countess Anna Maria Grawlinska stood. She screamed without thinking: “Jesus Christ, help me!” Her hoarse voice seemed so very small on the wind. It would not carry far. Panic, held at bay for so long, surged within her. She and her child were as good as dead. She repeated her urgent call. And then again.

  Anna was so chilled that she thought of jumping upon the fire, but she looked down to see that it had died. There was not a single ember to warm her.

  “Help me!” she cried. “Help! Let someone hear!”

  She kept moving about in circles. Every part of her was becoming numb. She clapped the huge gloves together to revive her hands.

  “In the name of a merciful God, help me!”

  Anna stumbled now and fell to her knees. If there were no one to help her, she prayed that death would be quick in coming.

  The dogs barked again.

  Anna raised her head to the far-off birches, pulling her hair back from her face. The sounds seemed louder than before.

  There, just emerging from the trees, were a half-dozen dogs, bounding now toward her. Behind them came the figures of perhaps ten men, three on horseback. They, too, began to move in her direction.

  Anna had no time to rejoice, so fearful was she that the men would not respect her because she had screamed out like some madwoman.

  She stood and collected herself in the long minutes it took for them to reach her.

  “I am a noblewoman,” she told them when they finally stood before her, their faces stricken by her appearance and the sight of the bodies. She stood rigid and spoke with an authority she didn’t feel. “I am in need of your aid.”

  She nervously surveyed the group of crudely clad men who gaped at her. Their silence unnerved her.

  “My carriage was set upon and two children were killed.” As she spoke, she became filled with humiliation to hear her own teeth clicking and chattering from the cold. “I . . . need dry clothes and food. Then I wish to . . . return to Warsaw.”

  One of the mounted men was clearly the leader. With surprising agility for a large man, he jumped from his horse and approached Anna. The small blue eyes above a black beard seemed opaque. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Anna Maria Berezowska, Countess of Sochaczew.” Anna dared not use the name of Grawlinska. If she were close to Opole, he would know the name.

  “And your destination, Countess?”

  “That does not matter now.” The question had caught her off guard. “I wish only to return to Warsaw.”

  He studied her for a minute, then turned away.

  She stood tall and erect, secretly quaking, while she watched them move about, looking at the bodies.

  The leader barked out orders to his men in a swift and low dialect Anna could not follow. When he returned to her, he held in his hand an unsheathed hunting knife. With their backs to the leader and Anna, several of the men formed a circle around the two. Anna shook, as much from fear as from cold. She said nothing, praying that they would not dare touch a noblewoman, but knowing that times were changing. Peasants were bolder now. She had only to think of her own father’s death.

  Anna’s heart moved to her throat as she saw him reach for her. He forced her to remove her sodden cloak. The dress underneath was just as wet. His large hands gripped her shoulders and turned her so that her back was to him.

  Anna started to protest, but he ordered her silence. He went on speaking to her, but her mind raced so fast she couldn’t comprehend.

  What was he doing?

  Anna felt his hands take hold of the folds of her dress at her waist. His knife now ripped through the bodice of the dress in one long, upward stroke.

  She screamed and wheeled about. “Stop! What are you doing? I am a noblewoman, do you hear? You are not to touch me with your filthy hands!”

  The man gripped Anna’s arms and held her until her hysteria waned.

  “Countess, we will do you no harm.” He spoke slowly and deliberately and with peasant common sense. “We heard your plea on the wind and we will not refuse help. You are ill with the cold. You may die if you do not obey. We will help, milady.”

  Anna was powerless to resist. He was right: she was very ill.

  The man removed all of her clothing, even the wet goatskin that had protected her belly. Anna stood with her head on her chest, her wet, tangled hair blessedly hiding the degradation that made the cold of secondary importance.

  The men worked together, silently wrapping Anna in warm bearskins.

  “We will take you to our home,” the leader said.

  “I cannot ride.”

  “You are with child, I know. Two of my men have prepared a litter for you.”

  In a short while, they were ready to leave the site where so many had died.

  Anna lay on the litter constructed of two spruce spines and leather wrappings. A flap of bearskin came down over her head to shelter her face.

  Two men were designated to be the first to carry Anna, and the slow trek began. She wondered how far they had to go.

  As time went on, she fell asleep and dreamt.

  Anna stood in Warsaw’s Market Square. It was filled with shouting, laughing people. As she was pushed and shouldered by the crowd, she nearly slipped on the wet stones. She looked down to see that the wetness was blood.

  The people were clamoring about a huge platform upon which had been erected the facsimile of a French guillotine.

  All of the Polish nobles of the kingdom were being put to death. One by one, they stepped up to the slicing machine, and—one by one—their heads fell to the ground.

  There was no basket to catch the bloodied heads. Instead, they rolled across the Square, prodded by the feet of the jeering peasants, who had cleared a pathway for them.

  As the heads rolled past where Anna stood, it seemed as though the eyes and mouths were still moving in lively fashion. The heads passed into a winding hillside street above the River Vistula. Down they rolled, spinning in the spiral street like a released cache of marbles, until, one after another, they splashed into the river waters.

  On the stairs leading to the guillotine, Anna saw acquaintances of her parents and her few childhood friends. She saw Baron Michał Kolbi. Next in line was her aunt. “Aunt Stella!” she called. But her aunt didn’t hear.

  Behind her was Zofia. “Zofia!” Anna screamed. “Zofia!”

  Her cousin turned her imperious head at the cry, the dark eyes dilating. She smiled in recognition. Raising her arm now, Zofia did not wave but pointed in Anna’s direction.

  The executions were immediately halted. A hush fell over the crowd as the last head wheeled past Anna. Every eye in the Square turned upon her. Men in strange, disheveled uniforms were moving toward her.

  They roughly picked her up, and while the mob cheered wildly, they began carrying her—held high in a horizontal position—toward the scaffolding.

  Her throat was tight and raw and sore. No! she wanted to call out, but the voice would not come.

  34

  ANNA WAS JOSTLED INTO CONSCIOUSNESS when the peasants carrying the litter placed her near a hearth in a large stone and timbered room. With his blue eyes, somehow less opaque now, the leader of the men stared down at her. “You will be safe now, Countess. I leave you to our women.”

  Anna made an effort to speak, but her throat had closed.

  He put his finger to his lips. “There, no talk. Only rest.”

  Anna closed her eyes. She was
aware that many had come to see her. She sensed them hovering over her, speaking in low tones. She did not try to understand what they said.

  She slept deeply, feeling herself being moved about at some point, but she did not allow herself to come fully awake.

  When Anna did awaken, only one other person remained in the huge room. A woman stood a few feet away busily preparing something at the hearth. No sooner had Anna opened her eyes than the woman hurried over to her. She was blond, not yet forty; Anna thought her attractive. She spoke in the same strange dialect as the men. “I am Lucyna. . . . Does the Countess wish to use the chamber pot?”

  Had Anna the strength, she would have laughed at the greeting. As it was, she could only shake her head: her throat, like her forehead, felt as if it were on fire. When Anna raised her hand in a gesture of refusal, she saw that she had been dressed in a peasant nightdress.

  Lucyna seemed to read her thoughts. “We women dressed you, Countess.”

  Soon other women in colorless, sack-like dresses came into the high-ceilinged room, setting to work around the huge hearth. Their ages varied. They seldom spoke to one another, and when they did it was in a quiet, respectful tone. Anna sensed they occasionally chanced to steal furtive looks at her.

  When the meal was prepared, everyone gathered in this room that served both as kitchen and dining hall. Clearly, several families lived and worked together in what seemed to be a very large dwelling. It was a clan, Anna realized, and for all appearances, a rather harmonious one. She had thought clans such as this belonged to some bygone era, but here was proof to the contrary.

  “Does Countess wish some soup?”

  “Will Countess eat?”

  “Some milk, milady?”

  Anna was too ill to answer. She put her head to her pillow and fell back into a feverish sleep.

  The next thing Anna knew someone was gently shaking her. The clan’s meal had ended. “Open your mouth, child. Open your mouth.”

  Anna looked up to see a thin old man whom the others called Owl Eyes. He pinched her cheeks, inducing her to obey. He peered into her mouth. He squeezed her cheeks again. “Open wider, child.”

  Anna silently cursed him, wishing he would go away.

  He placed a vile smelling herb against her nose, and she immediately sneezed. The paroxysm racked her body. A woman held a cloth over Anna’s mouth and nose, wiping away the matter that escaped. Anna sneezed again and could taste blood in her throat.

  The old man made soft-sounding comments as though pleased. “Now, Countess,” he said, “baby tears will better your wind-sore and bleeding throat.”

  Anna could not imagine what he meant. She wished only to be left in peace.

  His thin but authoritative voice called out to one of the women: “Sylwia, bring your child here.”

  When Anna opened her eyes, she was startled to see Owl Eyes holding a naked baby above her. He slapped its rump now and the straining and reddened face was held over Anna. One of the women held Anna’s mouth open.

  Anna could taste the warm, brackish tears falling onto her tongue and trickling to the back of her throat. She tried to resist this old folk practice, but the hands holding her head and mouth were strong.

  Owl Eyes struck the child until Anna thought the shrill and pitiful cries would drive her mad. Soon, a second child was employed in this same manner.

  Afterwards, Anna lay physically and emotionally exhausted, the cries still ringing in her ears. She recognized, though, that the sprinkling of salty tears had given blessed relief to her mouth and throat. She slept again.

  A heavy knocking, a persistent metal-against-wood thudding, resounded through the cavernous dwelling.

  Anna huddled at her place by the hearth, fearing at once that the safety the clan had afforded was to be taken from her.

  A huge stone-faced man stood before her now while the roused peasants clustered behind him in the chilled room. He was Russian.

  “I’ve come for you, Countess,” he said in poor Polish.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ve been sent by your husband to take you on to Opole.”

  “Like the others?”

  “Unfortunately, they met up with highwaymen.”

  “It was not the highwaymen who poisoned Louis and Babette!”

  “You must come, Countess. The Grawlinski family awaits you.”

  “No, you mean to kill me.”

  “Come along quietly, Countess.”

  “I will not go quietly!” Anna pulled herself to her feet and ran to the clan leader. “You mustn’t give me over to this man. He has been hired by my husband to kill me.”

  The leader did not appear to understand.

  Anna’s desperate eyes scanned the room for the others’ faces. The peasants’ expressions were inscrutable. She ran from one to the next, begging their help.

  They stood unmoved and unmoving. They did not understand. Suddenly, Anna thought that perhaps they did understand: perhaps they were merely relishing the sight of a countess, a member of the often-hated nobility, receive her comeuppance. Her heart dropped in despair.

  The ugly Russian moved toward her. His massive arms, like a vulture’s wings, swooped down and upon her.

  Anna awoke in a sweat. The women were starting to quietly filter in to make breakfast.

  Physically, however, Anna felt a little better. She could swallow. And for the first time in a long while, she felt as though she could think.

  The despair of the dream did not abate, however. She could not forget that her husband had arranged for her death and was responsible for the deaths of two innocents. Anna recalled his warning: he had said that if she dared stand in his way he would kill her. Or had she put those words in his mouth? Whichever the case, she believed it now.

  Antoni was serious enough to do it. He wanted only her property and wealth. He did not want her, and he certainly did not want a child not his own. Her death would be a windfall for him. He could do what he wanted with her inheritance, perhaps even realize his dream of catapulting himself to magnate status.

  Who were the dead Poles? she asked herself. She knew that they were not highwaymen. They had asked for her. Someone had sent them to rescue her, but who?

  How close was she to Opole—and the Grawlinski estate? The thought that one of the Russians had survived sent a chill playing along her spine. That Antoni would soon find out she had escaped the carriage seemed likely. He would then search for her.

  As long as she remained here, her identity must be kept secret. She now wished she had not used even her maiden name.

  Her return to Warsaw must be arranged as quickly as possible. Out of fear that Antoni would find out, she dared not write for Zofia or Aunt Stella to send a carriage. She knew, too, that she could make no effective accusation in a letter. Her aunt and cousin would be skeptical.

  She would get to Warsaw on her own. But what then? Would she be able to convince her aunt and cousin? The authorities? What real proof would she have if she accused Antoni? Who would believe her? Her heart caught at the thought that she might even arrive to find Antoni there waiting for her.

  Perhaps she should go to the Lubicki home. The banking family had always been close to her parents. But would they believe her? Might Antoni have thought of that? He would have prepared a story already.

  Neither would going to Sochaczew be wise. At her family home she would be isolated and an easy target.

  What about Jan Stelnicki? A message might be sent to the Queen’s Head. But what assurance did she have that he would be in the capital? She could not just wait about on the chance that the letter got to him.

  Anna’s head spun. The possibilities had come full circle with each cancellation. No, she would find her own way to Warsaw. But she knew that once she got there, Jan was the only one she could safely seek out. He would know what to do. Her heart warmed at the thought of him.

  Anna suddenly felt the baby kick. It was the first time she actually felt the life within. It seemed th
e best of omens. Her whole body seemed to pulse with warm life. She smiled to herself. I must get well. After eating a breakfast of milk and buttered bread, she slept.

  When Anna awoke at mid-morning, she was startled to find that there was only one other person in the hall, a young man of eighteen or nineteen. He sat with a steaming mug, staring at her.

  She sat up slowly, warily, the aroma of his chicory reviving her.

  He put down his mug, stood, and approached Anna.

  “Who are you?” she asked. He was shaven and well dressed. He was no peasant.

  Anna’s stomach tightened. She feared that he would start speaking Russian, that he had been sent by Antoni, that her dream was becoming reality.

  He smiled, still moving closer.

  Finally, he stood before her. “I am sorry if I alarmed you, Countess,” he said.

  His speech was Polish—high Polish.

  Anna sighed. “Just for a moment.”

  “I’m sorry. My name is Antek.”

  Anna nodded. “I am Countess Anna Maria Berezowska.”

  “Hello, Countess.” He bowed. “May I sit down?”

  “Of course.” Anna watched as he fetched a stool. He was a handsome young man: muscular body, brown hair, good features.

  “You’ve come from Warsaw?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I only wish to go back to Warsaw now.”

  “I see,” Antek said. “I’ve not been to the capital. I imagine life there is very different. I should very much like to see it.”

  “I’m sure you will one day. Just how far am I from Warsaw, Antek?”

  “Five or six days in this weather, Countess.”

  Anna let out a little gasp. They had come farther than she had imagined. Had they been traveling east as she supposed, they would have been into Russia by now. How am I to get back?

  “You look stunned, Countess.”

  “What? Oh, I’m sorry. Just distracted for the moment. Tell me, Antek, where are you from?”