“He was never destined to live in Paradise because God knew that with Adam’s free will, he would defy God’s commandment about the forbidden fruit. God knew all along that Adam and Eve would leave and propagate the earth. The Almighty didn’t make it happen, but he knew it would happen. Some would interpret those events as God’s plan, after all.”
“Madrosh, how can you be condemned for this thinking?”
“You must take it a step further, Irina. Aristotle, Plato, Augustine, Aquinas, Christian and non-believers alike, have all held that at base, man’s nature is good, always seeking the good. Remember our talk of the soul?”
“And you believe what?”
“There are only two other possibilities. Man is by nature evil, or man is by nature neither good nor evil.”
“And so, master Madrosh, what are we?”
“One is easily tempted to think of man’s nature as evil. When you consider that from the beginning of time, man has controlled his impulses only when under the forceful eye of another, that fact is telling. Only when men formed into groups for protection and the peace that comes from kinship, did he learn he could not do whatever he wanted with whomever he chose. He was no longer free to take any woman for his own, to take another man’s animal, to kill or rob—when those transgressions were made against those in his group. These rules did not apply—and still do not, as we can see daily—when the women, the animals, or possessions belong to another group.” Madrosh paused so that she could think about what he’d said, then continued.
“And in each group, who rules? The strongest, the biggest, the one others will support with arms and fealty—and the one they will fear.”
“I’m not sure I understand your conclusion,” Irina said.
“From ancient times, kings imposed rules of their own making. These could be laws about how a man goes about buying a goat, how he must pay his taxes, and so on. Laws would be made without relevance to God or religion. Rarely was there a moral underpinning of right and wrong until the Commandments came to Moses.”
“And those same Commandments have been used in conquering and killing other peoples, Madrosh!”
“Exactly. A group with commandments is sometimes no different than a group without them.”
“So, if you believe that man is basically evil, why would God create us?”
“Another marvelous question, Irina! Yet I did not say that man is evil—it is, merely, one possibility. We are now led to the proposition that man is neither good nor evil. Upon reflection, I would contend that no man is born the same as every other man, his stewpot having varying proportions of good and evil in it. And yes, he is a child of God, made with all the potential to be in the image of God. The man grows up to be what he wants to be—good or evil or, likely, at times one or the other—in spite of his parentage and upbringing. You yourself know of persons like Sister Mary Elisabeth and Tomasz the Terrible—both children of God, yet one grew to be decidedly good, and the other, decidedly evil.”
Irina nodded. “If God is just, how could he judge a man or woman if they were raised to steal and kill, if that’s all they knew in life?”
“God is just, my dear, and it is my belief that in his truly infinite wisdom He judges of each of us based on what we were born to, and later, how we were able to exercise our free will. The most important words here are ‘how we were able.’”
“Do you think God gave us the Commandments and, later, Christ His Son to balance the evil in the world?” Irina asked.
“From time’s first flash of light until July in the Year of Our Lord 1378, we haven’t come very far, have we? If man is by nature good, the Joselewicz family would never have encountered the terrible Tomasz.” Madrosh exhaled, surprised, perhaps relieved that at last, he had spoken his notions aloud.
Irina observed the priest carefully, but said nothing. Now I begin to understand.
Madrosh smiled to himself, adding for her ears, “And yet, my dear. God always seems to offer us a way to salvation.”
…
Jan Wodowicz’s reaction to the news of his son’s appearance could not have been more profound. Instead of pleased surprise and a broad smile, there were emotions everyone in the room could easily read: concern, distrust, perhaps even fear. All the words he could muster were, “How is that possible?” His voice stammered.
The abbot said, “I was wondering the same.”
At that moment, Tomasz pushed through the heavy oak door and planted himself squarely in front of Jan Wodowicz. “Ah, Ojciec, you are not happy to see me?”
Barely controlling his voice, the elderly man said, “My son, it’s just that I would never have expected to see you here in the middle of the forest so many miles from Poznan!”
“Well, here I am, and now,” he chuckled, “and I’ll stay to help you in your last years. You should be glad.”
“Tomasz, I heard you’d left the city weeks ago when the plague was upon us. I myself never expected to survive, much less see you again. How did you come to be here?”
“It was the burning fires of hell that drove me back to Poznan, and now here you are,” he said, a smirk twisting his lips. “And so, Father, I might ask you the same question—how is it that you come to be here?”
“Well, my son,” Jan hesitated, “these men remembered my work on the glass for the cathedral so many years ago, and they want to make it here. St. Stephen’s, it turns out, is a fine place for just such an enterprise.”
“That’s wonderful, Father,” he said. As he paused, it was apparent he was considering something, as warped wheels turned in his head. “When I return to Poznan, the bishop himself will be delighted to hear of your endeavor.”
It was Abbot Kaminski’s turn to join the conversation, mincing no words. “I thought you had already returned, Pan Wodowicz. Were you not sentenced to servitude there by Duke Zygmunt? By all rights, you should be dead!”
“Yes, Abbot, of course you are correct.” Tomasz began speaking more excitedly. “When the bishop himself returned, he found evidence of my innocence and released me on his own authority. He sent me here when he learned that something of interest might be afoot.”
His listeners looked at each other in disbelief, and could see Tomasz’s eyes darting rapidly, as if he had just told a lie too thin to believe. Gone was the smirk.
Before anyone could speak, Tomasz looked at his father and said, “And so, dear Ojciec, how can I help you?”
The abbot began to respond, but the older Wodowicz interjected quickly. “That is a kind offer, Tomasz,” he said, purring like a contented cat, “but I see no place for your skills in this labor. Perhaps the bishop will find other uses for you in Poznan.”
“I take your point, Ojciec. Nevertheless, I will be sure to look in on you. You should be treated well by your new partners.” Tomasz smirked, eyeing each listener in turn.
Chapter XI
1378
At Tangermunde, the bustling activity of the castle’s serving class dwarfed what they had seen at Krosno. Everyone in Duke Zygmunt’s entourage noticed it, and though rumors flew, no one knew exactly what was afoot. Obviously, the staff and even the nobles, including King Wenceslas himself, were preparing for a visitor. Irina kept out of everyone’s way.
Before long, the trumpets sounded their clear, high notes, and the very ground seemed to tremble as crowds of well-scrubbed and well-dressed castle folk cheered wildly for Charles IV, Holy Roman Emperor, returning home, the same home where his son Wenceslas was Margrave and King.
If there had been any questions about travel plans and protection for the sojourners, they evaporated in the summer sun. The Poles beamed. It would be different now, they all whispered amongst themselves. Now their travel would be a bit slower, but it would likely be more comfortable, especially for Irina, who, as it turned out, was not the only woman with child to embark on their journey. There would
be others, including several children. There would be Madrosh, of course, but Irina knew his duties—and his time spent with—Zygmunt would increase dramatically. That meant, unfortunately, scant time for their own talks.
Yet there would also be Jan Brezchwa. Over the previous weeks, their time spent together seemed to grow longer and more frequent. Feelings of guilt over Berek remained—I will never abandon you! But at some point, she knew, their child would need a father.
After a week of rest, heavy dining, and much revelry amongst the nobility, it was on a note of heartful anticipation that Irina and the huge party of royalty, nobles, advisers, families, staff, and heavily armed soldiers departed Tangermunde in early August. They began what she had learned would be a serpentine journey, again traversing long stretches on river barges, followed by monotonous days in airless carriages.
“Shall I be sure to travel on the same barge with you, My Lady?” Jan’s hopeful smile always charmed her.
“Most assuredly, young Squire,” she said, laughing with encouragement, even as her baby gave a good kick. Might Squire Brezchwa, a good man with an easy smile and a boyish humor, bring a fast beat to my heart once again?
…
Jerzy Andrezski could not have been more pleased. With a new reason to live, Brother Heidolphus took his task seriously and well. In short order, everyone had as much new work as each could handle.
Jan Wodowicz quickly burned off all the grass, and gathered huge piles of clay and stone for the three large furnaces built upon a large, flat stone platform. From sunup to sunset, he and the brothers performed the heavy labor, stopping only for prayers and meals. Not one man had trouble sleeping.
Pawel Tokasz used another part of the same clearing to harden a clay floor so that when they burned the great beeches, the ashes they collected would not pick up mud, dirt, or pebbles of any kind. Brother Heidolphus insisted that the ashes be as free of unwanted matter as possible. The men laughed at the notion of clean ashes but worked all the harder, burning cut beech logs and letting the low fires dry but not completely consume them.
Jerzy Andrezski organized the remaining monks into two groups, each taking carts and pack horses, one to go west to the Oder and the other, east to the Warta. They were to find the best sand they could, as pure as possible. Once they dried it, they were to haul it back to the clearing near the monastery. In short order, the monks agreed. The sand from along the Warta, several miles south of Poznan, was the best, the most plentiful, and the easiest to transport.
Jerzy also made sure to follow Brother Heidolphus around, much like a puppy dog after his new master. He guessed the days left on earth for Heidolphus Brotelin were relatively few, and as their enterprise progressed, it became clear the knowledge held by old Wodowicz was both rudimentary and, in part, inaccurate, the elderly monk thus becoming his only hope to understand the ways of glassmaking, with every nuance he could remember to impart. As it turns out, old Wodowicz’s only contribution has been to lead us to Heidolphus, but thank God for that!
“By September we should be ready,” Brother Heidolphus proclaimed to Andrezski one early-August day.
“Once we have fashioned samples to take to Poznan and Gniezno, I am sure to sell all you can make. The weather will be turning cold just as I come around and offer a means to keep warm for those who can afford our prices.” He laughed. I suspect there may be many, don’t you think, Brother?”
The old monk smiled in return. “Yes, Jerzy, you will be giving them a way to see their world in a different way.”
Just then, a young monk came running from the monastery. “You should return to the monastery right away,” he said, gesturing to both the old monk and Andrezski.
“Is there something wrong?”
“With all respect, Brother,” the young monk said while bowing his head and hiding his eyes, “there is always something amiss when Bishop Tirasewicz pays St. Stephen’s a visit. In the end, it is we who pay.” Andrezski’s hearty laugh did not lift Brotelin’s frown.
…
On the Elbe, the royal entourage moved slowly against the river’s natural flow. The rowers strained to move the heavy barges up river, and when possible, sails were employed to take advantage of the breezes to push them along. Soon, they passed through the little village of Magdeburg and debarked for a day off the water. One of the little boys on the journey who caught her notice was ten-year-old Mattias—Matti to most—who was son to one of the king’s retainers.
“Matti, you little rascal,” she called, laughing and holding her belly, “be sure to stay close. Squire Brezchwa cannot be chasing after you.” The boy giggled, pretending to wield a knight’s sword, and ran off into the woods. His father, Herr Schoenist, laughed in turn and said, “Don’t mind this boy, My Lady, he always comes back.” The people in their little knot of sojourners had become close as they battled the heat, the insects, and the dirt that clung to them all.
The long days on the barges left much time for rest and conviviality. Daily life was somewhat eased by the fact that Irina and others of her station were not on the same barge as the royals. Because there was little chance to be in their company for whole days at a time, dress and manner were somewhat more comfortable when the heat encased them like a funerary shroud. Irina couldn’t help but notice that the hotter the weather, the more aromatic were the people around her.
Madrosh stayed with his duke and only when the barges banked themselves for one purpose or another—a meal or a tented overnight—were Irina and Madrosh able to exchange a word or two. At one point, she beckoned Madrosh to one side. “I am so glad not to be on the duke’s barge, good Father. After our last conversation about Tomasz, I have no idea what to expect. Has the duke said anything about it to you?”
“Except to chastise me for not having mentioned Tomasz’s escape sooner, well, no, he hasn’t referred to it. Now that you mention it, he has been much quieter of late. He is bedeviled by something to be sure.”
“Good word for him, Madrosh.”
The priest arched his eyebrows in question.
“‘Bedeviled.’” Irina paused. “It will be much harder to be in his company now, I’m afraid.”
“He’s been very kind to you, you know.”
“Only because he thinks I’m of monied and noble blood, like him.”
“And?”
“And because he thinks I am not a Jew.”
Madrosh nodded. “You are reminding me my role as counselor to the duke has not been very successful.”
“I am so sorry, Madrosh. I didn’t mean it that way. Remember what you said about people and their proportions of good and evil? Perhaps our duke is a perfect example, nie?”
Irina missed their deeper conversations, but she finally admitted to herself she was beginning to enjoy the increasing and welcome attention given her by Squire Brezchwa. Their conversations, while not weighty in nature, were pleasurable.
Now more a warm memory than a bitter loss, Berek yet filled her mind. Still, she could not fathom how in less than three months’ time, so much could have happened to her. And yet all that had occurred made it easier for her to think about a future. Has what has happened all been just chance? Could it have been the hand of God?
Leaving the Elbe a few days later, the company continued to sail on the Saale until reaching Naumburg, a pleasant town of some three thousand people. There they saw another cathedral named for Sts. Peter and Paul. To Irina’s untrained eye, the church was similar to the one in Poznan except that even from the river, she could see many more spaces filled with both clear and colored window glasses.
Soon, however, the river became too shallow for travel, and they debarked for land travel. After passing through the university town of Jena, where Madrosh begged a few hours’ leave to visit with scholars, they forged on, steadily rising higher in the heavily forested hills. Reaching the river’s head at Hof, they felt fortunate to en
joy the cooler breezes comforting them at the higher elevation. Mid-August in Germany was no different than mid-August in Poland. In their heavy clothing, no one moved with any speed. Unfortunately, few bathed, but Irina and Velka kept to their habits of cleanliness as best as they were able.
For the slower pace, Irina found herself most grateful. Slower travel may have been more practical for all, but for Irina, five months into her pregnancy, it was far more comfortable. As she dripped with perspiration, each rock in the cartpath jolted her and her baby in ways she could never before have imagined. For Irina and the other two expectant women—with whom she commiserated often—Rosta had prepared what amounted to a wooden chaise mounted on each cart so that the women could at least recline somewhat while their party trudged up and down the river valleys. While the contrivance eased their discomfort to a great degree, Irina had no trouble daydreaming about a long rest in a shaded glade next to a cool brook. Quiet conversations with Madrosh became a sought-after distraction.
One of the hopefuls—a German woman in the margrave’s family—had not fared so well, as it turned out. The constant bumping prompted a miscarriage, some said, along with copious amounts of blood. Their company stopped for a day, but no longer, while a midwife named Kalmus was found to tend to her needs.
While the woman and her family were saddened by the loss, it did not seem to deter them. A heavy woman who wore her experience in childbirth like a tunic, Kalmus reminded everyone that miscarriages were extremely common and the young woman’s good health augured well for many more children to come.
Irina understood Kalmus’s meaning. Indeed, on the farm and in the village of St. Michael, she’d often heard of maternal misadventures—it was all part of nature, people said—but she knew how she’d feel if she’d lost her child, and she went out of her way to give the woman special words of comfort. Care had to be taken, Velka told her, because Irina’s—thus far—successful pregnancy must not be a daily reminder to the other woman of her loss. She was at first taken aback by Velka’s view on the matter but found her advice both thoughtful and accurate.
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