Anna felt freedom slipping away. She rushed out into the hallway, wiping at her tears. “Walter! Let me return to Warsaw. I beg you to let me go!”
The front door banged shut.
Walter turned to glare at Anna. “Look at yourself, cousin. You’re in no condition to travel.”
She begged him again, to no avail, and momentarily she could hear the wheels turning in the gravel, moving for the road. She made a move for the front door, but Walter extended his foot, dashing her to the floor.
57
WALTER’S PLANS TO TAKE ANNA to St. Petersburg had to be delayed. Orders arrived dispatching him to Warsaw, where he was to serve as a Polish-speaking aide to Catherine’s ambassador who was en route to negotiate a treaty between Poland and Russia. Walter was taking only half of his men. The others were to stay at the Stelnicki estate.
Anna begged him to take her, but he refused. His resolve to ensconce Anna as his mistress in St. Petersburg had not abated even though he thought his son dead. When Anna pleaded with him, he slapped her, then struck her repeatedly until she nearly lost consciousness.
Several weeks passed before the bruises healed. The weeks of winter took those at the estate, the jailers and the jailed, into 1793.
The room was very cold. Wood was being rationed by the soldiers, who evidently had little skill at chopping. A maid brought up an armful in the morning, and with it Anna was expected to keep the fire in her grate. It was an impossible task. The mythical Sisyphus could not have been given one more impossible, she thought, trying to keep the fire alive with such little fuel through the course of a frigid winter. Even with the fire going, the sting of the cold did not lessen.
Anna was allowed no correspondence. She was aware of letters that came to the house, but they were intercepted before reaching her.
Would Walter contact his mother while he was in Warsaw? Would her aunt and cousin be able to keep Jan Michał’s existence from him? How was her son?
And Jan Stelnicki. Was he safe? If he were alive, he could not know she was being held captive in his home. Were there gods somewhere laughing at the players in this irony?
It was through Lieutenant Szymon Boraviecki, the young Polish mercenary who had been left in charge of the house and a contingent of eight or ten men, that Anna gained knowledge of the momentous events taking place in Poland and elsewhere on the continent.
On the twenty-first of January, King Louis XVI of France climbed the stairs to the guillotine. Though by now it came to most as no surprise, the actuality still shocked Anna. Lieutenant Boraviecki augured that Queen Marie Antoinette would follow her husband’s steps to the scaffold.
The eyes of every monarch in the world must be on Paris. It was not good news to the patriots, by any means. Anna knew that the execution of the French king would make less secure the crowned heads in countries allied against Poland and its democratic reform. They would not wish their own landless commoners seeking rights and land. And less secure monarchs would use their powers and influence to see that the new order in Poland would be crushed like a flower beneath a boot.
Poland was not faring well, but Walter had been too quick to pronounce the patriots’ movement dead. Under the leadership of Prince Józef Poniatowski and Tadeusz Kościuszko, a brave—and for a short time—successful defense was waged. But Poland’s two allies, Austria and Prussia, who as recently as 1791 had agreed to defend Poland under attack, proved faithless. Austria’s new emperor, Francis II, abandoned his father’s policy that supported Poland. Frederick William of Prussia, in flagrant violation of his own promises, declined to protect a constitution that never had his concurrence.
Anna remembered Jan’s warnings of more than a year before when she spoke up for Poland’s allies. Reminding her that Prussia and Austria already had shared much booty with Russia subsequent to the Polish Partition in 1772, he pointed out that greed seldom lessens; it only grows.
Thus, Poland’s resistance, left to heroic but small and makeshift forces, had been overcome by the great Russian armies. What retribution was to be imposed upon the Polish Sejm and King—with Walter’s help—remained to be seen.
Kościuszko and his small, battered forces, nobles and peasants alike, withdrew to Leipzig to salve their wounds and regroup. Anna prayed that the men from the Stelnicki and Gronski estates were numbered among the survivors. And Jan, always a prayer for Jan.
Anna was allowed, under guard, to use the library for an hour each day. Very often, it was Lieutenant Boraviecki himself who sat with her. She was glad for the companionship and the opportunity to share a conversation and point of view.
One day in mid-February they were discussing the future of Poland. The lieutenant was arguing that the changes might not be so great. “And the good to come of it,” he said, “is that Catherine’s influence will temper the potential for the rising of the peasants. What happened in France must not happen here.”
“You think, then, our peasants would rise up?”
“Why not, once they’ve seen the French king put to death?”
“For the excesses of the French aristocracy, Lieutenant. While I have personally witnessed some excesses among the Polish nobility, one cannot compare them to the French. And the democratic reform was exactly the prescription that would satisfy commoners.”
“Bones to the dogs?”
“Hardly that. Real reform. Overdue rights, land ownership, self-esteem.”
“It’s a difficult argument to make.”
“Oh, no it’s not! And the irony lies in the fact that the greediest nobles are trying to save every scrap for themselves while turning Poland over to a Catherine who will annex the whole of it to Russia, like some senile woman stitching a new patch to an already unwieldy quilt.”
He nodded. “I expect she will want something for her trouble.”
“She’ll want Poland. Don’t you care?”
The lieutenant shrugged again.
Anna studied his handsome boyishness, the brown wavy hair, the clean-shaven, angular face. “Are you not interested in politics, Lieutenant Boraviecki. Have you renounced your Polish citizenship to serve Catherine?”
“No, I am a Pole. My parents are landowners.”
“Isn’t it hard to reconcile your two selves? The Pole and the Russian soldier? Don’t you feel a loyalty to Poland?”
“The interests of the two are not so separate.”
“Oh, but they are! It is Kościuszko’s cause that reflects the true Poland, one that is proud, spirited, and unwilling to be ruled by foreign powers. Weeks ago you told me that it was your sense of adventure that led you to become a mercenary. Lieutenant, Kościuszko heads an adventure close to the heart of every true Pole: freedom.” Anna stood and, walking to a shelf nearby, drew down a book. “Have you read this?”
“Plato’s Republic? Yes, I have.”
“In it he writes that he who refuses to rule is liable to be ruled by one who is worse than himself.”
“Ah, two parts wisdom, one part wit.”
“Then you agree?”
“Countess,” he sighed. “You are a woman, and too much of an idealist, I suspect.”
“You’re implying that I’m missing something.”
“It can be pared down to simple terms.”
“Then tell me, Lieutenant. Don’t patronize me.”
“I am a realist, Countess. As such, I know that Kościuszko and his followers, no matter how high-minded and patriotic, are doomed. If you only knew the power Catherine has at her command.”
“Ah, that does shear the subject down to its basics, doesn’t it? Power? You, Lieutenant Boraviecki, are on the side that will triumph. Is that it? You should ask my cousin Walter to introduce you to his sister. You have much in common.”
“Ah, but don’t they say opposites attract?”
Anna’s gaze immediately went to the lieutenant’s face. His meaning was clear. Oh, she should not have been surprised. In many little ways she had been picking up on his interest in her. Now he
had put it out there on the table, as if playing a card.
He laughed self-consciously. “You didn’t think that you could make me into a patriot, did you?”
“No. I would ask something else of you.” Anna realized that she was impulsively playing her own card.
“What is it? If it’s within my power—”
“Power. There’s that word again.”
“You’re speaking to a man who doesn’t have much of it.”
“You have the power to let me go.” There it was. Just like that. She took in a deep breath.
“Countess,” he said, drawing out the word as if his others would be painful, “that is impossible.”
“You have only to be looking the other way. I’ll see to the rest. Lieutenant, I want my freedom.”
“I can’t, Countess.”
“I’ve entertained you with my stories and myths over the past months. I’d like to tell you a true story now . . . about Walter.”
Without waiting for his approval, Anna launched into the story of her coming to Halicz, the attack at the pond, and the myriad ways in which it altered her life.
By the time she was finished, he sat quietly stunned. “I see why you hate him.”
“Yes, and he continues to plot against me with this plan to place me in St. Petersburg.”
“But if it’s against your will?”
“Who will there be in that God-forsaken land to stand up for me? No woman has power there but Catherine.” Her gaze held his. “Szymon,” she said, using his Christian name for the first time, “please . . . please help me.”
“Countess, I have helped you.”
“How?”
“By not telling Walter your baby was here and that you somehow smuggled him out with your aunt.”
Anna gasped. “You knew? And didn’t tell?”
He nodded. “And I suspect, too, that your son did not die, as Walter believes. Yes?”
Anna nodded.
“Countess, I don’t think I have to tell you . . . that I care for you. And if I could do this thing for you, I would.” He sighed. “But I am helpless.”
Anna stood now. “I thank you for keeping your silence about my son, but you risked nothing with your inaction.” The game had reached its conclusion. “If you would see me to my room . . .”
“You must understand—”
“Oh, I do.” Anna tried to smile. “Lieutenant Boraviecki, if you should find yourself in Warsaw, I suggest you stay clear of the faro tables. The odds are always with the house.”
Later, in her room, she regretted her cutting comment. She had been in the wrong. It was too much to ask of him. She had used his interest in her, the power of his interest in her. She knew that had he aided her to escape, Walter would have his commission—if not his life.
58
WALTER REMAINED IN WARSAW LONGER than anyone would have thought. The summer of 1793 was hot and dry. Even from her small, airless room on the second floor, Anna could see deep cracks in the earth. Dust would sometimes blow against the house as if the Polish country were a desert. The shrubbery and trees were burnt brown; the springtime grasses were long since dead. It was as if the countryside mourned the Russian invasion.
More than a year had passed since she came with the countess to Halicz.
Anna’s heart quaked when news arrived on the twentieth of August that a treaty had been signed on the seventeenth. The document—engineered in 1792—was now official: Russian bayonets had overturned the Third of May Constitution and imposed aristocratic privilege. Under the guise that within Poland were the seeds of another French Revolution, Catherine was overseeing a second dismemberment of Poland, one which could only make Poles nostalgic for the partition of 1772.
A powerless and miserable King Stanisław signed the treaty and advised the Sejm to do likewise, that resistance was useless. It was said that Stanisław wanted to resign, but that Catherine, his lover of years before, insisted he keep his title, meaningless as it had become.
Under duress, the Sejm adopted the treaty that gave Russia a huge block of the Republic’s lands: all the east provinces from Livonia to Moldavia. And when they resisted Prussia’s gains of Great Poland, Kujavia, Toruń, and Danzig by remaining silent for many hours, the Russian ambassador claimed that silence meant consent.
Anna could only think that as the interpreter for the ambassador, Walter had played a role, however minimal, in this dismembering of his country. The thought was a bitter one.
Poland was now less than one-third of its original dimensions. Warsaw and what could still be called Poland was occupied, as well. Small towns were being garrisoned; many of the villages were being pillaged. The slightest attempt at self-defense meant Siberia, a God-forsaken land of cold under the autocratic control of army officers.
Lieutenant Boraviecki confided in Anna the news that, upon Walter’s return, the detachment would leave for St. Petersburg.
Anna was all but certain that the once-graceful home of the Stelnickis would be destroyed. What would happen to the servant women who had persevered with her? Anna had had no news from anyone in Warsaw, and she knew that if Walter had his way, she would soon be in St. Petersburg with no hope of ever seeing her home, her child, or other loved ones.
Escape. Voltaire’s advice rang in her ears.
Within a week they arrived.
It was during Anna’s allotted time in the library. She would think later how seemingly small details may irreversibly alter the course of one’s life. Had the men arrived an hour earlier or ten minutes later, she would have been securely locked away in her room.
As it happened, Anna and Lieutenant Boraviecki were quietly reading in the library. In the months since their impasse, they had found less and less to talk about.
At first, Anna thought it was rolling thunder in the distance and gave thanks for the summer storm that would slake the thirst of the landscape. Although the noise moved closer, the sunlight did not diminish. It had not been thunder she heard. She recognized now the rumble of many horses over the hardened earth.
In no time there was a great flurry of movement about the house. Then shouts and swearing. Walter’s detachment, much larger now, had arrived. And they were an undisciplined, drunken lot.
“Don’t be afraid, Countess,” Lieutenant Boraviecki said. “No doubt they’ve been celebrating the signing of the treaty and their return to Russia.” He stood and moved to the door. “Stay here for now. I’ll keep them out of the house.”
He will not be able to keep them out, Anna thought, throwing down her book as soon as the door closed. There would be no keeping Walter out.
She ran to the door, pausing to give the lieutenant enough time to move away, her hand simultaneously reaching for the door handle. He had not locked the door. Anna pulled it open, peering into the music room. Bolting from the library, she ran from one room to the next, toward the rear of the house and into the kitchen. Two kitchen maids gasped at the sight of her.
Scarcely seconds later, another maid ran into the kitchen through the swinging door off the dining room. She was followed by a Russian soldier, who in one swoop grasped the girl at her slender waist and lifted her atop his shoulder. He carried her off toward the servants’ chamber. Anna exchanged quick looks with the two panic-stricken maids. All of them knew the danger.
Old Lilka entered the kitchen and tried to calm the two. They would not listen, however, and fled through the rear.
“They will run right into their hands, there in the back of the house,” she told Anna. “Foolish girls.”
“It is a chance,” Anna said. “I must take it, too!” She started for the door.
“Stop, Countess!” Lilka called.
Something in the woman’s cry halted Anna, who turned to see the old woman hurrying toward her.
“It will do you no good to go outside. There are a hundred men out there. They are drunk and crazed.”
“But I must get out!”
There came the sound then of heavy boots
in the dining room.
Lilka pulled Anna to a pantry in the corner of the kitchen. “Hide here,” she hissed, pointing to a pile of large bags of grain stacked against the wall. “Until they leave!”
When Anna hesitated, the woman’s work-hardened hands pushed her into a crouching position behind the sacks.
At that moment the door swung open and a soldier shouldered his way through, pushing Lilka aside. “Out of my way, old woman!”
“Are you all right?” Anna asked, after he had gone out through the back.
“Stay hidden,” she whispered, her head bobbing to the left and right, like an old eagle. Satisfied they were safe for the moment, she came near to Anna. “My girls do not listen. They run, with no place to hide. You must listen to me, Countess Grawlinska. I have a hiding place. Help me move this sack.”
Anna helped the woman slide a huge bag toward the wall, revealing a trap door in the floor where the bag had been. “It’s a curing cellar, Countess,” Lilka said, pulling the door out of its frame. “Sit on the side and jump down. Hurry!”
It was the last thing Anna wanted to do. She was afraid that once inside she would be helpless, that there would be no way out. But Lilka’s strong, wiry hands began directing her. “You must hide here until it is safe,” she said in her reedy voice. “Otherwise they will kill you; they will rape you and they will kill you.”
Anna found herself crouching in the cellar, looking up to find that Lilka was handing her a lighted candle. Then the woman began replacing the door.
“What about your own safety?”
The woman grunted as the door closed over Anna. “What would they want of me?” The door closed with a bang.
Anna could hear Lilka whispering a prayer as she pulled one of the sacks over the trap door.
The cellar was no more than three feet in height. It was a narrow passage that extended far out under the dining room to the outer wall of the foundation. A light glimmered there. An exit?
Push Not the River Page 43
