Cyprian Godebski had praised Madame L’s beauty. He eulogised the tenderest and most beautiful eyes that nature had ever formed. Godebski would have appreciated her fine dress, her hat, her jewels, her glowing eyes. But they were also the cold, calculating eyes of a general, appraising newly arrived cannon fodder.
“Where the Devil have you been?” exclaimed Madame angrily, hands on hips, when we finally arrived. We vaulted from our horses and tied them up in the shade of a great round stone temple.
Madame was the lynchpin of our espionage network. She was a tigress. This lady did not lose heart now that we had been defeated. On the contrary, she had redoubled her efforts.
“All roads lead to Rome, my lady,” I said, sweeping off my hat and bowing to kiss her hand. I had never dared before, but after our hard journey I was emboldened to kiss this beautiful gorgon. She stared back at me with the eyes of medusa.
“Sit down,” she said, and clicked her fingers. Her lackeys brought us water, for it was still hot. We sat down on a bench in the shadow of the great stone edifice and drank. All around us were great boulders overgrown with moss.
“What, if I may ask, is this?” Sierawski piped up, indicating the great stone tower, which had a dome on top and columns around it.
“It’s a tomb, you fool,” I said, and cocked my head at Madame, “but whose?”
“This is the Temple of the Sibyl,” Madame snapped, “and it is both a fortress, and a tomb. Inside the Temple we keep the flame burning. Here we will keep our culture, our language, and our history alive. It is a museum of our nation’s treasures, those very same treasures that I salvaged from Warsaw, despite the best efforts of you gentlemen to foul it up, by losing half of them along the way – including the damned flag!”
At this we began to protest. We set to blaming the weather, the Cossacks, and treachery, for the disaster that had befallen our mission.
“Silence!” Madame hissed. We obeyed. “I see that you blame everything except your own negligence! None of you has exactly covered yourselves in glory in my service!”
We sat, gloomily, and contemplated her words. Workmen passed to and from the great tower with bricks and beams, mortar and marble, wood and water, loam and lime. There were a great deal of workmen, and as we watched them, we saw that they had the unmistakable walk of soldiers. After a time we began to recognise old comrades.
“This is an armed camp, in the guise of a building site,” I said, doffing my threadbare czapka. “I applaud your ingenuity, Madame.”
“When I need your approval, I shall ask for it,” Madame snorted. “If circumstances were any different, I would dishonourably discharge the lot of you, or simply have you shot.”
We hung our heads in shame.
“However,” Madame went on, “I see that you have at least rescued these three good Jewish comrades, so perhaps you may redeem yourselves yet.” She pointed at Birnbaum and the other Beardlings. They sat beside us, wisely keeping their bearded heads down.
“Also, I am desperately short of men,” she admitted.
“Are things that bad?” I asked, quietly.
Her face was as grim as steel. “Indeed they are. The Commander is in a Russian gulag. A dozen of our generals are dead, including General Jasinski. Zayonczek is in an Austrian prison. Poniatowski has given up the fight – he drinks and gambles his days away in Warsaw.”
“Hell’s bells!” I swore, “Do all our leaders have feet of clay?”
“Not all, no,” Madame replied. “General Dabrowski is in exile in Paris, seeking help from the French.”
“With friends like the French, who needs enemies?” we asked, and began to laugh. For it had been discovered by now that a renegade Frenchman, spying for the English, had betrayed the plans of our Uprising to the Russians.
“So the Rottmeister really is our last hope?” Tanski cried, rolling his eyes. “Then we are indeed lost!” We fell to bickering. For Sierawski and I greatly esteemed Dabrowski, whilst Tanski did not. Madame silenced us with an imperious glance.
“Dabrowski has set up a Polish legion in exile. He has spent a year traipsing round the Courts of Europe, seeking sponsors. First, he went to the Prussians – a damn fool errand if you ask me, but then he is half-German by blood. As if those dogs would aid us after their treachery! No, they offered him a general’s hat in their army instead, as indeed did the Russians. But our dear Dabrowski is no traitor, so he went to Paris instead. At first he was ignored by the French, but then he found a patron at last – Bonaparte.”
“Bonaparte?” we asked blankly.
“Dabrowski has raised an army of Poles for the war in Italy against the Austrians, under the French General Bonaparte,” Madame told us. By the end of the next year, that name would be on every pair of lips in Europe. Napoleon Bonaparte, the man of the age, who would shake the world like a wolf with a lamb.
“Then there is an army in exile? With the French!” we yelped, jubilant, capering about like children, “God bless this Bonaparte fellow! Hurrah for Dabrowski! When do we leave for Italy?” we asked, afire with new enthusiasm.
“You do not,” Madame said. “A second legion is gathering in Lwow. Dabrowski has a spy in Turkey, in Constantinople, who is providing money and arms. You will go to Lwow, and you will take this with you.” She called out to one of her lackeys, who hared off into the Temple at her command. A few moments later he returned, carrying Sobieski’s standard, wrapped in an oilskin. Somehow this formidable woman had recovered it. Madame unfurled it. We cheered the sight of it, our poor threadbare flag.
“Poland is not dead, as long as we live!”
The six of us drew our swords, and pledged them to her. Madame raised her hands to the heavens. “Soldiers! Here are your orders. Do not fail this time. Go to Lwow. Go to Cyprian. He still lives – for now, at least,” Madame said, her brow furrowed and careworn. “The Austrians have issued a warrant for his arrest.”
We took to our heels at once. “Lwow is a big city. How will we find Cyprian?” I asked, from the saddle of my horse.
“You’ll find him. All roads lead to Rome,” Madame replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WIGILIA (CHRISTMAS EVE) 1795
All across occupied Poland, the Church bells were ringing, for it was Wigilia. We were crouched beside a forest track. A farmer drove by, and we watched him closely. His two horses had bells twined into their harnesses and the bells jingled as they trotted by. Behind them, his cart was heaped with food.
“He’s getting away,” Sierawski muttered, hand to sword.
“We’re no thieves,” I reminded him, “We’ll pay him, even if it’s by chopping wood and feeding the animals for our supper. Come on.”
We were cold and hungry. Snow began to fall.
“Hail there, fellow!” I called, “Wesolych Swiat! Merry Christmas!”
Tanski was huddled in the shadows, sword drawn. We had no powder or shot left, from firefights with scattered patrols. Besides, steel is surer than lead. I kept my own sword sheathed, so as not to startle the man. If he ran, or raised an alarm, we should have to kill him. We had done it before.
“Wesolych Swiat,” the farmer said, evenly, measuring the distance from the trees to the field with his eyes as we rode over. “What are you fellows doing out in this filth, on Wigilia? It’s cold as hell!”
“Freezing our balls off!” I replied, and we laughed, and the farmer reached into his kontusz. As you can imagine, our hearts leapt. My own hand flew to my sword, but the farmer merely produced a bottle, and passed it around. Cautiously, I beckoned to the three Beardlings. Birnbaum and the others were wrapped against the storm, with only the slits of their eyes showing. We were all armed, and ragged. We must have appeared to be a band of the most vicious and desperate vagabonds. I watched the farmer closely. Fortunately, he was quite drunk.
“Follow me, boys, come on in out of the storm,” said this ham-faced fellow, his cheeks flushed with good cheer. He was immune to the cold, for he was wearing an over
coat of one hundred per cent proof vodka. So we all drank ourselves cloaks of the same tailor who lived in that blessed bottle.
Gladly, we followed the farmer. Tanski did not show himself, but stepped in our footsteps, a ghostly shadow. For if we were betrayed, led into ambush, or overwhelmed, we should have a surprise up our sleeve.
“Visitors!” roared the farmer, as we trooped into his poor home. There was no porch – these were good honest peasants. As we stood, ravenously hungry, and dripping water like wet dogs, we glanced around the single room of the dwelling. Unthreshed sheaves of wheat had been placed in the four corners, for here the Christmas supper was about to take place. Heavenly scents of fish, cabbage and beetroot filled the air.
Sure enough, a redoubtable basia stood by the stove with a knife, her hands stained red from where she had been paring beetroot. Two tiny pairs of eyes peeked, terrified, from behind her apron strings. At the sight of us, of course the wife began to protest, but the farmer waved a hand.
“Five more places at table, Basia!” he cried, for that was indeed his wife’s name. “When a guest enters the house, God enters also!”
The old basia, who was called Basia, scowled, and clutched her knife like a sabre. We stood there, wrapped up like Siberians, big as bears, with our rusty swords and empty guns. Thankfully, the farmer had recognised us for what we were. This was why he was not afraid.
“These are no Austrian scum, woman,” the farmer spat, “these are our boys!”
Wise old Basia was unmoved, and stood her ground like a grenadier, knife raised. Finally I had the wit to pull out a red and white pennant, and handed it over, like a crumpled flower. At this, Basia smiled, put up her knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and then threw her arms around my chest. She put her hand to my whiskery face and I smelled the pink beetroot. It ran in my beard with my tears of joyful thanks.
“Thank you, dear Pani,” I said, “we have a long road behind us, and a long road ahead.”
“Who are these boys?” Basia said, peering at the Beardlings suspiciously. Birnbaum and the other two sat in their skullcaps, putting away the borsch as fast as they could.
“Are they Cossacks?” she said to me, warily. There were still a few loyal Cossacks, but even these tame Cossacks had a terrible reputation for drunkenness and wenching. Still, God alone knew what these people would make of a houseful of Jews at Wigilia. I decided not to put it to the test.
“Why, these are Poles, mother, from the west!” I said smoothly, and winked at her. “Soldiers of the Republic, like us. Birnbaum and his lads here are from Wroclaw. They wear their beards long over there, in the German fashion.”
“Bloody Germans,” the farmer said bitterly, tearing at the bread, without even glancing up from his borsch. Basia shrugged.
“Watch your money when you play cards with them – they are Jews, my lad!” Basia whispered to me as she passed. She went back into the kitchen. Then the moment passed, without any further disasters. I breathed a sigh of relief. At last I turned to my soup bowl.
Suddenly there came a fresh commotion. Tanski was at the door with a stout lad of fourteen, and a girl of perhaps sixteen. The girl was dark-haired and blue-eyed, and slender as a roe deer.
“Are you being murdered then, lads?” he laughed.
“Old Basia here will murder you if you don’t get your hands off that girl,” I said, disentangling him from the daughter, who was already making doe eyes at him, after scant seconds of acquaintance. By God, much as I loved Tanski as a brother, I loathed him sometimes! For his pride, his arrogance, and his foolishness. Most of all, though, for his success with the ladies.
After this stupid business was concluded, we found ourselves amongst friends, and not foes. Vodka was poured and ‘Wesolych Swiat!’ cried out in chorus. All of the customs were observed in this fine little house. We spread the hay under the tablecloth, to tell our fortunes. Even the Jews joined in, for they knew our customs, just as we knew theirs.
What luck awaited us? None good, we knew. Sure enough, every man pulled a blackened blade of hay, and we laughed heartily each time. For this meant bad luck, spoiled meat, spilled milk, broken bread, star-crossed love, unrequited ambition, cuckolds’ horns, empty beds, grave goods, marked cards and shaved dice. Only the girl drew a green blade. It was the only blade I ever saw that frightened Tanski. For he feared but one thing – matrimony!
Then, the most blissful moment of the year. The farmer broke the wafer, and passed a tiny white piece of unleavened bread for each one of us. Kisses and greetings and best wishes were exchanged. All sins were forgiven. We were reconciled, all of us, even Tanski and I, our long feud at last forgotten. An empty place of honour stood at the end of the table.We cried and shed tears for those we had lost, tears flowing like blood. A great shared joy welled up within the tears. There, in our hearts, burned solidarity’s eternal flame.
In those days, at Wigilia, all men and women, from highest to lowest, ate until their bellies burst. Supper commenced with red borsch and uszka. Next came a hearty dish of pike, a noble fish. We were served kutia with this, which is a sweet cereal dish. This was a custom in these parts, for we were now deep in the eastern lands of Poland – or what was once Poland, at any rate – on our way to Lwow.
Then, of course, the king of the feast – the royal carp! This was done proud with peas, green cabbage, dried brown mushrooms, and grey sauce. Basia cut the carp crosswise, and ladled on the grey sauce, which she had flavoured with pimento, horseradish, onions, bay leaves and salt. Besides this we had endless potatoes under chopped dill. Sometimes the carp is served with a glass of plum brandy, but instead we had vodka, and wine. It was not the Thursday Dinners. Instead of listening to the learned conversation of eminent men, I heard naught but the happy belching of my comrades, their gulps, snorts, and farts. They stuffed themselves like pigs, pausing only from their repast to gulp down a glass of wine or spirits. Aye, it may not have been the Thursday Dinners, but by God it was a fine, hearty, meal.
In those days we were not the milksops you are in these feeble times. There you sit, gnawing on leaves and stalks, like mice, whining temperance and moderation, God help you. So we fairly demolished the board between us, leaving only bones and gristle for the wolves. At length I was asked to take out these scraps, so observing the custom. This I did, slopping them outside the gate to appease the howling packs of wolves that roamed out in the ancient forest beyond. Icy fangs of the hungry gale gnawed at my face in vain. By now, I had drunk enough of the magic potion not to pay it any heed.
An idiotic custom, this – the invitation to the wolves is meant to appease them, so they will leave the house in peace. What foolishness! Our whole land was surrounded by wolfpacks, and over the years we had thrown out scraps at the gate for them. Treated so well, they came back for more. So we had thrown them more scraps. Still they were not satisfied. Thus we threw out the borsch, the uszka, the pike, the carp, and the pierogi besides. Then, when the food was all devoured, we had thrown them our silver, and gold, and lastly the lead from the church roofs! Of course the wolves had licked their lips, and, after eating all this, had eaten us whole.
I am not superstitious, but I always observe the customs, out of respect, and for good luck. I never cast bread on the ground, or set a place for thirteen guests. Hence, here I was, throwing slops to the wolves. I should have been throwing them to the good, honest, blameless beasts of burden who stood nearby, huddled together in the barn – horse, cow, pig, sheep, and dog. I saw the animals circled around in a wheel, huddling their heads together. They do this to keep warm, but in my fancy, I perceived them to be conversing.
Another foolish superstition that my mother always held firm to her breast was that, at midnight on Wigilia, the beasts conversed with human voices. To overhear them brought unspeakable, ruinous, damnable bad luck. As I stood, my empty bucket clanking in the wind, the animals raised their heads. They spoke to me, but thank God, they spoke in their own tongues. Sheep bleated and brayed, cows lowed,
dogs barked. I laughed, and turned back inside to warmth, drink, and cards.
Then a cloud passed across the face of the moon, and all was dark in Twardowski’s realms above and below. I did not run, to be sure, I walked away, but quickly, exactly as one does under musket fire. As I was crossing the threshold, I fancied that I heard the animals speak one single word, borne on the teeth of the wind – “Bonaparte.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WOLVES, MUSHROOMS, AND WITCHES, JANUARY 1796
Before we departed our Christmas sanctuary, the young lad had begged to come with us, as a drummer boy.
“Out of the question – you have no military experience,” Tanski said coldly.
“Besides, he’s too young,” Sierawski added.
Song of the Legions Page 21
