Irina

by Philip Warren

  “You must come quickly, Father. There is a messenger from Gniezno.”

  “Usually four days from here, nie—is it not?” His long, dark robes hung on him as he rose, suggesting size to spare.

  As if the squire could not tell whether the older man was asking a question, or simply reminding himself of the distance, he said, “He made the ride in less than two, Father. He is said to bear grave news, and that is why Duke Zygmunt summons you.”

  Madrosh did not move quickly. He was considered old by his peers, many of whose lives ended before the beginning of their fourth decade. As he neared his fifth, the priest’s hair and beard were already grey, and his prominent nose guarded a face wrinkled with the cares of others. The older man trailed behind young Brezchwa, who fairly loped ahead with his long legs under a solid frame. Madrosh could barely remember when the color of his own hair as a youth was much like the rich brown that crowned Brezchwa’s handsome head. He lifted his robes a bit so that his aching legs could move a little faster along the already ancient and uneven stone passageways of Sokorski Castle.

  In the duke’s chamber, they waited while the bedraggled messenger devoured bread, cheese, and ale in the kitchens below, lest he collapse, his news with him. Duke Zygmunt sat, anxious like a father waiting to hear if he’d had a son, his left hand working the large ring on his right.

  Candles planted atop their silver sticks awaited duty. Soot graced the walls, just as grime blotted the tapestries around them. Until then, Poznan—once the capital of Wielko Polska—Greater Poland—had enjoyed a quiet spring day. Night was advancing and the men grew impatient, their faces creased with concern.

  “This would not be the time, I suppose, to speak of Father Rudzenski,” Madrosh wondered aloud.

  “Who did you say?” The duke’s response was perfunctory, distracted.

  “Father Ambrozy Rudenzski, the pastor at the Church of the Heart of Jesus.”

  “What about him, Madrosh?” Impatience laced his words.

  “The priest has been missing for several days now. He is not to be found and there are rumors aplenty, My Lord.”

  “Yes,” the duke nodded absently, but knowingly. “Of him,” he said, looking directly at Madrosh, as if the priest should know more, “we will speak more, no doubt. It is a disgrace.”

  “A disgrace, My Lord?”

  “Look not to me for an answer, Madrosh. Look to your bishop.”

  They were interrupted by a servant who lit several candles, giving light to shadow. At nearly the same time, Squire Brezchwa appeared with a man bent over with the weight of heavy tidings, if not the fatigue of two long days on horseback. Bowing low, the rider said he had come at the behest of Bishop Gromek of Gniezno.

  “The bishop?” The duke’s prominent eyebrows arched in surprise. He stood, towering over the rider. “Not from the Duke of Gniezno himself?”

  “The duke no longer lives, your excellency. He was on campaign further to the east when plague struck. They say the Mortality took him in a single night and day.”

  Duke Zygmunt reacted as if struck full in the chest.

  Madrosh spoke. “So it is the deadliest of plagues, not the variety that takes its time to kill a man.”

  “If only it were true, Father,” the messenger responded. He lowered his eyes. “The kind of plague you speak of, the Black Death, has struck as well. We know that many of us will die—whether it will take a day or a week to claim us will be the only mystery. The bishop wanted you to know, so that you can prepare.”

  “Prepare? Prepare how?” the duke boomed, frustration edging his words. His brown hair, once a shade of ginger, shone in the warm candleglow. Once again, he nagged the amber-embedded gold ring on his right hand, the weight of it wearing against the skin, as though the symbol of office sought residence elsewhere.

  Shrugging his shoulders, the messenger scratched out with a broken voice, “Pray?” His answer was feeble, though all present professed a belief in an almighty and every-present God.

  The duke scoffed. Madrosh shot him a look of careful reproach, then looked at the news bearer.

  “You have kept this to yourself?”

  “Why, F-father,” he began, stumbling into silence.

  “I see,” said the priest. “That means word has already left the castle!” Madrosh rose and took a step toward the miscreant.

  The nameless messenger stepped backward, then saw he was not to be struck. Attempting to redeem himself, he went on in earnest, “Some say the Jews are to blame.”

  “Bah!” It was Madrosh’s turn to be scornful. “Such is the babble of ignorance,” he said in a voice louder than intended.

  The duke, however, leaned forward. “The Jews, you say?”

  Madrosh again glared at his worldly master, surprised at the encouragement he gave the oaf from Gniezno.

  “That is what everyone says,” he repeated, warming to his message, his eyes shifting from duke to priest, from priest to duke, not knowing who might strike him. “They say Jews poison our wells and that’s how the plague comes. They say Jews murder our children and drink their blood.”

  Remembering his vows, Madrosh kept his arms to his sides. He knew that violence would change neither the man’s heart nor his mind. “That is plain nonsense, and your bishop would not have wanted you to come so far carrying such garbage.”

  “Yes, Father. I am only repeating what I hear from others,” he said, managing to be humble and defiant all at once.

  The duke said, finally, “You have said enough. I gather we have little time, then.”

  “The plague is on its way, your excellency, and many have already gone to meet the Almighty. Whence it will come, I cannot say.” The nameless rider bowed deeply as he and the squire were dismissed.

  “Shall I see that Bishop Tirasewicz is informed, Your Grace?”

  “In good time, Madrosh. In good time.” He paused, then added, “but he will be of little help, I’m afraid.” He cast his gaze into the middle distance, as if something there had greater claim on his attention.

  …

  On the cartpath, Irina kept between the ruts to avoid the puddles streaking the way ahead. Each footfall deepened her brooding. How could my family do this to me? It was they who sent me to live with the Joselewiczes! Until today, she had not fully perceived that her father’s dreams of a new day, of prosperity and comfort, had somehow centered on her. Turning her gaze back toward St. Michael, toward the family farm, she nested in the grass that was already attracting the dew, and with her arms wrapped around her knees, she put her head down, remembering.

  Irina knew she had been both a joy and a burden to her parents. Their delight in her childhood had turned to worry as Irina became just another belly to fill when there was very little with which to fill it. She and her four brothers and two sisters lived a quiet and happy life, barely aware of a peasant farmer’s realities.

  For Irina, everything changed near the end of her twelfth year. More was expected of her as she went along to help her mother sell vegetables and bread from their stall in Srodka, but the few pennies earned were never enough. One day, an answer to family prayers appeared in the person of Panie—Mrs.—Eva Joselewicza, patroness of a well-off merchant family. Occasionally, she chatted with Maria Kwasniewska about ordinary things. “A sheepdog, is it?” she said that day, nodding toward the black, brown, and white pile of fur guarding the stall.

  Maria shrugged and laughed at the same time. “It is the village’s dog, Panie, but it follows Irina everywhere. We cannot get rid of it.” The women laughed as Yip barked a greeting, his tail wagging furiously.

  On one such occasion, Panie Joselewicza turned her attention to Irina, remarking to Maria on how well the girl followed her mother’s instruction, and how pretty and bright she was. The very next week, Panie Joselewicza asked Maria if young Irina might be trained to work at their large house in Pozna
n, on the far side of the Warta River.

  At first, Maria was taken aback by the offer. Girls often went to work in the houses of the wealthy, but the Joselewiczes were Jews, and people said so many awful things about the Jews. She spoke carefully so as not to offend a purchaser. “Panie Joselewicza, she is my eldest daughter, and what would we do without her?” There ensued a delicate conversation about how many mouths the Kwasniewskis had to feed, and how the Joselewicz family would treat a girl in their service. After a further few weeks of talk between the women and between Maria and Ignacz, the arrangement was made.

  All the while, Irina listened, bewildered. Am I a bunch of carrots to be bargained?

  “What a wonderful opportunity it is for us,” Ignacz exclaimed at the supper table one evening. “Irina,” he said, “your service in the city will allow you to earn money for our family and, in time, earn the attentions of a young craftsman there!” He chuckled in anticipation. “Perhaps a carpenter or an ironmonger. A young man with a good trade will lead you to a prosperous life, little one.”

  Life’s intrusion into the family idyll was something not unexpected, but a shock nonetheless. Irina’s voice caught in her throat as she pleaded, “But Ojciec—Father—will you not miss your little Irina?”

  “Of course, my dearest daughter,” he answered, in a matter-of-fact, final way, “but we must all do what we can for the family. It is an answer to our prayers—and you are the oldest girl.”

  Irina remained silent, as was expected of her. I am but a girl, someone to serve men and have their babies. What I will not miss is waiting on everyone’s needs without so much as a “djenkuje”—thank you.

  “The Joselewicza woman will be a good mistress for you, Irina,” Maria added. “She will be firm, I am sure, but unlike some Jews I have heard about, she will not mistreat you.”

  Irina sat still, biting her lip. I will miss home because it’s home, but there’s much I will not miss. They would never sell away one of my brothers!

  “You will be coming home often—with coins for us,” Ignacz made sure to note, “and in a short time, you will not be homesick for St. Michael,” he said, trying to lighten her mood.

  When October came, just after harvest time, Irina turned thirteen, and her life changed. Maria and Irina walked to Srodka for one of the last market days on the Fareway, and then to the Joselewicz house. The sheepdog, Yip, was not far behind. There were tears, but Maria spoke only about her rule of life. “Sadness never mends a broken heart, my little one. Never waste time on sadness.”

  They stood at the massive wooden gates, iron straps holding them to a dressed stone wall that surrounded the large two-story house busy with animals, servants, and noise. They could hear the chickens clucking in the courtyard mingling with voices of those talking over the conversations of the animals. Irina wiped the tears from her eyes, forced a smile for her mother, and entered a new life. Yip made his choice and scampered in, close by her side.

  As prosperous merchants, the Joselewiczes had foodstuffs aplenty for their daily table, and Irina was made to feel welcome. They had two children—Berek, the eldest, and Esther, whom they called Esterka—and while Berek was a few years older than Irina, Esther was her own age. “You will not have much time to spend with our children, Irina. You will have too much to do,” the mistress cautioned her, and Irina immediately understood the difference between them.

  Much was expected of her, and the mistress spent many morning hours schooling her in the rules and behaviors by which she must live. Irina ate and slept in the undercroft with the other servants and animals, but at mealtimes, she served the family upstairs. Panie Joselewicza directed her how and when to serve food and drink, and to sit by the door to the stairs, waiting and listening, so that she might anticipate their needs. It was a routine that gave her much. Watching how women of wealth comported themselves was a fascinating glimpse into a world unknown to the village of St. Michael.

  Yip inserted himself into the household with ease. “Why did I never think to have a good dog like this Yip?” Pan—Mr.—Janus Joselewicz demanded of no one and everyone one evening after dinner. He patted his belly and laughed as he bent down to give the dog a neck scratch. “You have a good companion, Irina,” he said, turning from the table and peering at his servant, waiting in her usual place. “Yip is a member of the family, just like you!”

  Two years passed. Irina enjoyed her work and learned a great deal from listening to Pan Joselewicz converse with traveling merchants and tradesmen. The household staff adopted her, and on occasion, she escorted her mistress to shops near the family home, but never did Panie Joselewicza take her to Srodka to see her mother. “I do not want your mother to see you as a servant, Irina. It would not do,” she once said. Panie Joselewicz lived up to the terms of her agreement, and Irina returned home every six weeks or so for a Sunday visit. Often, cured meat, little sacks of spices and other things from the trade routes—gifts from the mistress herself—accompanied her on the walk to St. Michael. Ignacz and Maria were proud of their beautiful daughter and the pouch of silver pennies she brought for them.

  Then came this particular Sunday, and after the midday meal with her family, a torrent of anger washed away everything that had bound them as family. Betrayed by those who should have loved her most, Irina clung to one hope in her life, one place she could go.

  Damp from the dew, Irina stood up, remembering her mother’s words about sadness. As she strode in the twilight toward what she believed would be a new life in Poznan, she caressed her belly every little while without a conscious thought of doing so. Imagining herself as part of another family brought on a smile. Yet what her father had said dampened what joy she carried.

  …

  Candlelight threw long shadows against the mottled stone lining Duke Zygmunt’s chamber. “Do you think there is any truth to the man’s report, Madrosh?” Zygmunt remained at his council table, his expression glum, his square jaw resting on his fist. His sandy hair and his brown eyes were washed of color, the shine of life having lost its luster, as if the cruelties of earlier years had come to rest there.

  “The plague, you mean? No reason to doubt it, Sire.” Madrosh’s voice was muted, serious.

  The duke looked up. “Not that, Madrosh. The poisoned wells. Drinking the blood of children.”

  “My Lord,” Madrosh responded, surprise filling his words, “there is no truth whatsoever to any of those lies.” After a moment, he added, “Even so, the messenger was letting us know what many are thinking.”

  The duke nodded, eyeing the counselor warily. A true man of God was he, but definitely a stranger to the realities of life around them. God may be in his heaven, but he did not spend time in the streets of Poznan, the duke noted, and about God’s rules, he had his doubts.

  “About the Jews, I hold no warm feelings,” he said, not looking at his companion. “I deal with them because they are the best at business matters, but I will not be in their company if it can be avoided. As to what our messenger said, I often wonder if there may be some truth to his words.”

  “I understand, Sire, yet it is your duty to support the teachings of the church. You may remember the pope himself denounced such notions many years ago.”

  “Perhaps, Madrosh,” he conceded, playing with the ring on his finger. “Like most, I am not a lettered man, and that is why the church and its priests are so valuable. You and all of your brothers of the cloth are wise and learned. We depend upon you to advise and guide us.” Annoyance lacing his words, he added, “So, how is it, then, that I would remember or know much of anything said by a pope so far away, so long ago?”

  Madrosh bowed, smiling. “I am sure Bishop Tirasewicz could have assigned almost anyone to you, Sire, and you would have been better pleased.”

  The duke had asked himself more than once why had the bishop assigned this man to him. Probably to rid himself of a righteous man, he supposed. Knowi
ng Tirasewicz’s personal predilections, that must have been his reason. Yet he shared none of those thoughts with his advisor. “Your humility is appreciated, Madrosh, but you will have to help my failing memory.

  Why are they so many? And are you truly certain they are not somehow to blame for the plague?” The gold on his finger gleamed in its new rotations.

  “The Polish kings and princes of old made this happen, Sire. You know this. After the Mongols slaughtered much of our wealthier population, King Boleslaw began inviting the Jews to settle here because they had the skills and learning we needed to regain our greatness. Their descendants now make our land their home.”

  The duke nodded. “Well and good, my dear fellow, but few Poles know or care much for history. Even fewer of our countrymen know our borders—or care much about the Jews.”

  “True enough, Sire, but that is not their fault—or the Jews’. Poles know their king—and their duke—but borders change every generation or so, and very few of our people ever live to see grandchildren, much less watch them grow to maturity. What they care about is raising and feeding their children, one season at a time. That is why, Sire, your leadership is so important. You are Szlachta—our nobility!”

  Duke Zygmunt eyed his adviser, wordlessly bidding his counselor go on.

  “Many Poles have nothing to do with Jews in their daily lives,” Madrosh said, “and so they know nothing about them except what they hear in church or in Srodka on the Fareway—just like the pitiable rider this very night.”

  Madrosh paused. “Again, my lord, these are new times. You must set an example.”

  “You say so, Madrosh, yet I fail to understand why I have somehow become responsible for the plague and the Jews!”

  …

  For Irina, her countryside—lands she could pretend belonged to her—had always been beautiful, the flowers reminding her of the Easter season just past. The sweet smell of lilies in the church; the blest basket of ham, sausage, bread, butter, and eggs on Holy Saturday; and the commemoration of Christ’s rising the next morning all summed up a season of new life and new hope.