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!”
63
THE MARKET SQUARE IN KRAKÓW was not unfamiliar to Lieutenant Jan Stelnicki; his family city townho
me was here in the old capital, and he had played here, knew all the streets that led to it. It was only now, however, after having visited dozens of towns and cities with General Tadeusz Kościuszko that he realized how large this square was. Even Warsaw’s square couldn’t compete.
Today he was thankful the square was so huge, for it teemed with humanity. The rows of three and four-storied buildings were bursting with people hanging from the roofs and windows. All about, one could sense History in the air. This day, the twenty-fourth of March would live forever, and—God-willing—would mark the beginning of the end of foreign influences in the Commonwealth. Just as the white storks were returning now to their Polish roofs after a long winter, so too—Jan prayed—would Polish patriots, peasant and noble, soon return to their homes.
Like everyone else, he stood in the sunny but cool morning, awaiting the appearance of Kościuszko. With the little commander, he had seen more than town squares. He had seen battle and blood, bravery and death. He had seen, as he saw today in the press of the crowd, the love of liberty in nobles, in gentry, in townsmen, in Jews, in peasants. How could such a cause fail? he wondered, feeling the emotions of the crowd rushing about and through him like a river.
Before the partition in ’92, he had experienced victory and defeat. At Dubienka he had taken a sword wound to his right shoulder, but the victory there was so sweet he seemed not to notice the pain. The real sorrow of that campaign came when Frederick William of Prussia broke his promise to protect Poland’s independence. And it came when Prince Ludwig marched his Lithuanian troops away from battle.
But the campaign truly fell to pieces when certain magnates convinced the king he had no choice but to join the Confederacy of Targowica. The king’s own nephew, General Józef Poniatowski, who had overseen a fine victory at Zieleńce, resigned his commission in protest, along with General Kościuszko. Jan was glad his wound had kept him from Warsaw for that black day. Kościuszko had come back bowed, but not broken. Never broken, Jan thought, not Kościuszko.
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