Irina

by Philip Warren

  “Now that, Madrosh, is a mystery, nie?”

  “I do not want you to walk away from our talk thinking that God, like a clockmaker, wound up his creation and ‘let it go.’ Many think God is always involved with his creation, shaping us, guiding us.”

  “Guiding us?”

  “Yes, Irina, it is the power of God’s grace. It is His gift to us, and it never stops. Another way to think about it is that because God knows how everything will all turn out, he knows the end of all things—his plan—but he does not make all the things happen in between even though he knows they are happening, and He is guiding us as we go. Like your mother and the butter and sugar on the table, eh? More often than not, it is we who make our worlds, not God—even though God always knows exactly what we will do. If only…”

  “Only what?”

  “If only we would follow His freely given guidance.”

  “This leaves me much to think about.”

  “Precisely, Lady Irina,” he said, addressing her formally to underscore the point.

  For many minutes, the two sat in the shade watching in silence the ongoing groundwork for the visit of the Hungarians. In the latter part of the afternoon, they returned to where they started—the moat bridge.

  “By the way, child, I might point out not everything I’ve said is doctrine of the Church. Some in Rome might consider my interpretations of these matters as, well, shall we say, flawed.”

  “I must ask you, Madrosh, why is it such a concern for you to hold a view not quite the same as the Church itself?”

  “I will answer you this way. There was a man from England, a thinker by the name of Ockham. Ockham challenged the church less than a hundred years ago. He was excommunicated for his outspoken stand, then died during one of the first attacks of the Great Mortality. So, you see, my dear, having one’s own thoughts is not always easy.”

  “And so it appears it is one thing to have free will, but quite another to act upon it. Eh, Madrosh?”

  His answer was a long, simple chuckle.

  “It seems you would rather not be the one to carry a flag, then?”

  “For now, that is so, My Lady. With Ockham and others, there began soft breezes of change coming to the church, and I firmly believe great upheaval will come when those breezes whip into winds of both change and destruction. Understand me, Lady Irina. This will happen whether I carry a flag or not.”

  Pausing to take in the last of the afternoon sun, Madrosh decided to change the subject. After a bit, he started with, “Our discussion is far from complete, of course. It means little without some further understanding of the soul.”

  As they walked on in silence, Irina thought more about what they had just discussed. Soon they crossed the moat bridge and reached their starting point. As they passed under the raised portcullis, Irina said, “Madrosh, there’s something about which I’m curious.”

  “Yes, My Lady?” Madrosh waited, expecting a difficult question. Instead, he found himself surprised.

  “Why have they spread all this hay on the ground in the courtyard? It is laid on a bit thickly, don’t you think?” Madrosh said nothing.

  She went on. “They say there will be one hundred hungry horses in here tomorrow, and so many animals will turn the courtyard to mud and muck.”

  Madrosh stared down at the strewn hay as if he was praying.

  “Still, it’s strange,” she said. “Do you not think so?”

  Madrosh stopped walking. Lost in thought, he stared at the hay, his eyes moist and sad, and then, looking back at Irina, he said, “Tonight, we must pray, Irina, for all the souls in hell, for those already there, and,” he paused, “for those about to go.”

  …

  Jerzy Andrezski wasted no time pursuing his idea. He had sold every unclaimed item in Poznan, and to him, ideas were but idle dreams if not propelled by action. That, he understood, was what competition was all about. He knew, too, his idea would require everything he owned as an investment, but he was always willing to take a risk, to invest in himself.

  The next day, he walked as fast as his long legs would carry him from his cot behind the convent at Heart of Jesus to the land farmed by Pawel Tokasz. On the way, he couldn’t help noticing the city was in many ways different without Jews. Somehow, it was not as alive, as rich, as substantive as it had been. Because Jews had occupied key business positions, commerce without them was like a ship without its ballast—yet, to hear people talk, it was as if the killing of the Jews and the Great Mortality had never happened. It was as if whatever had lingered in the communal conscience evaporated like a rain puddle in the sunshine.

  People went about their business, glad to have lived to see a beautiful June day. What was striking, however, was there were so many fewer people about and the shops of many craftsmen stood hollow, their window openings like dead eyes on the world. It was as though the city had taken a step backward in time. Shaking his head in dismay, he reminded himself he could do nothing to bring back what had been.

  “Let’s find Pan Wodowicz—he gets older every day,” he called out to Pawel Tokasz, who was in the midst of pitchforking manure out of the cowstall.

  Together, they hurried themselves to a hut on the edge of the city, where the old man sat whittling a walking stick from a branch of white birch. Introductions over, Andrezski began talking about the making of clear glass. He could see the old man’s eyes come alive and twinkle as he recalled a time when he was a part of something important.

  “How hot must the fires be?” asked Andrezski. Old Jan Wodowicz took a deep gulp of ale, both to clear his throat and to command the attention of his two listeners.

  “You are impatient, my friend. In due time. We will not be making glass the Italian way.”

  “Is there another way, Pan Wodowicz?” asked Tokasz incredulously.

  “When the Italians came here,” Wodowicz began, “they brought with them great bags of sand they’d collected from the seashores of their country. They said the sand had to be very fine. For the cathedral, the Italians made the glass their way. Then they left and took nearly everything with them, including their secrets.” His face broke apart in a wide, toothless grin. “But not all their secrets,” he added slyly.

  “You, Pan Tokasz, have a few, and I have a few others,” he said, pointing to the dome of his head, out of which grew a very few thin gray hairs. The etchings your father had are for Italian glass, and they will help, but there’s more to know.”

  “Pan Wodowicz, is there anyone else in Poznan who could help us?”

  “Not in Poznan, but deep in the woods,” he said, pointing westward.

  “In the woods?”

  “Yes, and that is where the glass will have to be made, so that people in the city don’t complain about the smoke.”

  “Who is in the woods, then, to help us?”

  Old Wodowicz laughed and slapped his knee. “Why, the monks at St. Stephen’s, of course—and one in particular.”

  …

  In the morning, fog shrouded the Oder River valley and refused to release its grip. The bout of sunshine from the day before had warmed the earth, but when the light, cool rain came overnight, it produced a tenacious mist hovering near the ground. By mid-morning, the already dark day wore a gray gauze preventing Madrosh and his companion from seeing much more than a dozen feet in front of them. He wondered how the day would progress.

  “This day does not augur well for the visit of the Hungarians. No one will be able to see them, nor they, us,” Irina observed, and began to walk along the second-story gallery where they’d agreed to meet.

  “It may not matter, My Lady.”

  “You seem so sure of things, Madrosh. How much time do we have until they arrive?”

  “An hour, perhaps more. So, we have some time to talk. What might be on your mind today, my child?”

  “Madros
h,” she began diplomatically, “you have done your job well. I think I understand some of what you have so patiently explained to me, and using reason, I see why great thinkers have come to believe there is a God. But for me,” she said, her voice breaking, “my heart still aches so for what Poznan did to my Berek and to so many good and innocent people.”

  She stopped talking and turned her face away. Though never married and never a father in the physical sense, Madrosh had seen and learned much in his life, and one thing he knew for certain was that a woman with child tended to emotional surges he neither understood nor experienced. Thus aware, he let Irina spend her tears and held his words. Finally, she found her voice once more.

  “It may be a while before I can embrace the God that let this happen.”

  Madrosh did not argue. He knew she would remember what he’d said about free will and that what had happened was not God’s doing. He knew, too, that grief and motherhood were a powerful combination for unsettled thinking. He had come to like the pretty young woman and wanted to provide the best guidance to her. He just wasn’t sure what the right way might be.

  When she spoke, it was with a clear voice. “Madrosh, can you tell me why the world is better off because of God and religion? With all the wars and violence, does the church do more harm than good in representing God to the people?”

  “As always, you ask no small questions, my dear. I will do my best for you. You may remember me mentioning that God’s gift of the Commandments brought greater goodness and peace to those who believed in him. It is fair to say the existence of the Commandments amongst Jews and Christians propelled mankind forward beyond explanation.”

  “What if it had stopped there, Madrosh? What if all we had were the Commandments?”

  “Remember, that’s all we did have for over a thousand years before Christ. While the Commandments helped to improve the behaviors of those they touched, they did nothing for the rest of mankind. We are beginning to learn that many ancient kings, emperors, and even pharaohs had developed codes of laws, but there too, they did not touch enough people to make any real difference. And as for the Jews, they have never been a people to seek others to join them as Jews. As a consequence, the beauty and effect of the Commandments would likely have stayed with them alone.” He cleared his throat and squinted into the mist as they walked, so as not to crash to the floor over an unseen obstacle.

  “One might guess that life today, almost fourteen hundred years after Christ, would be the same as it was fourteen hundred years before Christ had he not come. With his coming, Christianity has spread the idea of one God—even the Muslims believe in the same God—but it has also spread other new commandments, one of which comes to mind now.”

  “And that is…?”

  “To love thy neighbor as thyself. When people remember to apply it, it brings changes never seen before. In simple terms, it means each man must respect—and love—a being other than himself.

  “That may be true, Madrosh, but it doesn’t explain why we still have whole peoples murdered because they are somehow different.”

  “My Lady, you have come to it. Man’s nature, perhaps. Man’s soul.” Somewhere nearby, through the now lifting fog, trumpets sounded an eerie welcome. “And today, I’m afraid, you will learn more about it.”

  …

  Sir Ortwinus Esel knew others must have thought him a large mouse caught in a trap as he skittered about Krosno Castle, but he preferred that image to the other four-legged creature with which many others associated him. When he thought about it, he laughed, then forced himself to concentrate on his task.

  It was all too strange. Why had the Hungarians come here instead of Glogau, some thirty miles to the south, where that duchy’s margrave resided? Would his Teuton master not be insulted at having been overlooked? To what arrangement had the Hungarian come with the Duke of Poznan and the Margrave of Brandenburg? Why would two subjects of King Louis of Hungary meet with King Wenceslas? What details of this arrangement could possibly have made all three men appear content? Why were the Hungarians coming back again this very day? Most importantly, why had he not followed his instincts and sent a messenger to his master, the Margrave of Glogau? Had his hand not been stayed by King and Margrave Wenceslas himself, he would most certainly have done so. Then, of course, responsibility for whatever happened in Krosno would not be his.

  And now, Sir Ortwinus could hear the trumpets he had directed to sound a short while earlier. Ordinarily a beautiful, clear sound, the trumpets’ blast now seemed to fall to the ground like the fog lying so heavily there. Worse, the sound seemed distant and forlorn, as if heralding a state funeral. Upon orders of his guests, Sir Ortwinus had applied the full force of castle and town residents to ready themselves for the most unusual visit. Why they were to give so royal a welcome to the emissaries of King Louis of Hungary, rarely a friend to the Teutons, he could not imagine.

  In the eerie quiet of the late morning, he felt the faint rumble of horses’ hooves—hundreds of them—clomping the hard earth, knowing they would soon thunder on the cobbled main roadway leading to the vast square in front of the castle. He hurried to the main gate, passed through it under the portcullis, and crossed the moat bridge to stand at his assigned place.

  He had been tasked with greeting the new guests, but the instructions to him were as strange as the entire affair. He was to warmly welcome the Hungarians and wave them across the bridge, but he and his men were not to follow. None of it made sense, but he knew that in this time and place, he was nearest to last in the pecking order of nobility, and therefore, last in the knowledge chain. His grasp on the position as Krosno Castle’s ceremonial functionary was at times tenuous, and he would do nothing that might give his guests reason to carry an unfavorable report to his margrave. He did exactly as instructed.

  As he positioned himself near the trumpeters at the foot of the moat bridge, he could dimly make out details of the buildings at the far end of the plaza. The fog was lifting rapidly. Soon, the rumble of horses, leather against hide, metal slapping against leather, light armor clanking along, made the ground vibrate. Sir Ortwinus began to tremble with the ground, concerned as he was with the happenings around him, despite assurances of his noble betters.

  The first horses came into view, and Sir Ortwinus thought he recognized the Hungarian, Captain Tomori. Next to him had to be Sir Bela Kinizsi, and behind them, two men unlike all the others. When the horses came to a stop not many feet in front of him, Sir Ortwinus cleared his throat and began to speak.

  …

  Madrosh suggested they climb back to their perch on the parapets where they could get the best view of the day’s events. At first, the priest’s invitation mystified Irina a bit. Wouldn’t we get a better view at the courtyard level? Or on the first gallery?

  The fog was beginning to lift, and a few details lower down came into view as they mounted the curving stone steps. They quickened their pace when they heard the sound of horses on cobbles signaling the imminent arrival of the Hungarians. The whole enterprise caught their full attention, and Irina wanted to catch every bit of the pageantry, though a sense of dread shadowed the moment. Will Franciszek make another appearance?

  From their high redoubt, Irina could make out Velka, Rosta, and every manner of class and person within Krosno Castle who stopped to watch, but they, too, were not in the courtyard but in the galleries above it. She looked everywhere for the face she wanted to see. It was that of the young, innocent, and very appealing Squire Jan Brezchwa. They had had few occasions to speak since their arrival at Krosno, and about that, she was of two minds. On the one hand, she felt alive and content in his company, and on the other, she wished no man to intrude on her memory of Berek. Jan Brezchwa was young, handsome, and attentive, but she didn’t know what to do about him.

  In reaching their high place, they could look across the square and begin to see the long line of horsemen coming from
the south. At the very front of the column were two men expensively garbed and armored, their metals giving off a soft gleam in the low, misty light of the approaching noonday. There were two outriders just behind carrying pennants dressed with a gold edge surrounding a gray field bisected with a red cross. The colors of the first two riders and their flag-bearers were in stark contrast to the two men immediately behind them. Not soldiers, they were dressed well, but seemed shabby by comparison.

  All along, Yip remained at Irina’s side, and she was pleased to see her beloved sheepdog wanting to protect her and her child, almost as if he had certain duties to perform, and this was one of them. As she and Madrosh peered through openings in the castle’s battlements, Yip scampered on top of the stone, sat on his haunches, and watched every movement below with the utmost concentration. Irina wanted to laugh at her dog’s behavior, but cast her gaze in the same direction catching Yip’s attention.

  The mist and the civilian garb fooled the pair on the parapet for a moment. Then Madrosh put his hand on Lady Irina’s arm and said, “Be calm, My Lady.”

  At the same moment, she saw, too, and with a gasp, inhaled deeply. “Yes, it’s them! I thought we were rid of them—forever. First the big one the other day, and now the castellan himself is here!” Yip uttered a low, menacing growl.

  “Perhaps not for long, My Lady.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Just then, they heard the high thin voice of Sir Ortwinus Esel pierce the air around him, the fog parting before him like the Red Sea before the Israelites. All leaned forward to hear his words.

  …

  It was earlier in the day, when they left camp and all the horses were in formation, that Tomasz felt the growing terror deep within him. It was the kind of dread that rumbles up from the soul and makes breakfast yearn to make the wrong exit.