Irina

by Philip Warren

  Irina shook her head, as if in disbelief. “And still today, Madrosh?”

  “In the same years the Council of Vienna met, France’s King Philip the Fair exiled all the Jews and put himself in their place. That is to say, he commanded that all the proceeds from their financial dealing be given to him. It is true that King Louis rescinded those orders not many years later, but there were many conditions attached. The Jews had to pay the king a substantial fee just to return, and only a small percentage of their business profits could remain with them. They were required to wear a circular badge which would identify them for all. Yet it is always the same. It is always about greed.”

  “But today, Madrosh?” exclaimed Irina with impatience, searching for a different answer.

  “I know, my dear, that your impatience is not with me. In your voice, I hear you searching for some hope your chosen home will not be like Poznan. Yet I should tell you,” he said, placing his hand over her forearm in a most gentle way, “never be deceived by the looks and charm of a place. The more gild, the more guilt, I have come to believe.”

  “It’s just that…”

  “I know, dear Irina, it’s just that you have a concern about your son.” He lowered his eyes. “I am given to understand that the laws remain in effect today,” he said gently. “That is why you see no sign of Jews in Paris. They simply do not exist here.”

  “What is it about the French?”

  Madrosh shrugged. “I do not know the answer, My Lady. The French, the Germans, the Poles—they all have a distaste for the Jews in one way or another, but the Poles seem a bit less so.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Poland, whatever it is today or will be tomorrow, has been conquered by so many, the race has melded like so many metal nuggets over a hot fire—they are tempered and strong, not by force of arms, but in their faith and perseverance. The Jews will exist there forever, I suspect.”

  “My little Stashu exists here,” she said defiantly.

  “Yes, he does, Irina, and that is why you must forever keep your secret.”

  …

  Father Taddeus Shimanski found himself the center of all activity at the Sts. Peter and Paul Cathedral as the Advent season progressed. There was much to do, after all. The people of the city wanted to celebrate as never before. They had lived to the end of a year that had brought the Great Mortality, the departure of their duke, and, more recently, the death of their bishop.

  As he walked through the nave of the great church, a familiar figure entered the main doors. This time, Father Shimanski thought to himself with a smile, the man was not running, and he knew to shut the cold out behind him.

  “Father Shimanski,” Jerzy Andrezski called out, “a word with you.”

  “Yes, Pan Andrezski.” He laughed. “Now all of Poznan knows why you were so curious about our glass!”

  “Hah!” Andrezski chortled. “I’ve not forgotten how helpful you’ve been, Father, and I’ve come back to receive your counsel once again.”

  “Oh?” responded the surprised but flattered priest.

  The two of them moved toward the sacristy at the rear of the church and found seats next to the glowing embers in the fireplace there. “Father Kaminski, Abbot of St. Stephen’s Monastery in the Silesian woods, suggested I see you.”

  “Ah, yes! My friend Karol. But why to me?”

  “Father Kaminski has become concerned the glass work is taking his men from their mission of prayer and service to the poor. You see, Father, orders have increased and the monks cannot keep up with them. They cannot take on any more work even though workmen and artisans have appeared to help them. They are not enough.”

  Father Shimanski laughed. “But I have no monks for you, Pan Andrezski!”

  Jerzy chuckled in return. “I understand, Father, but your friend believes you may know of an area somewhere east of the city where I could establish another factory.”

  The Vicar did not respond immediately, but asked a few questions about the requirements of such a project. Upon a few moments’ reflection, he said, “Why, of course!” Then he was silent for a moment remembering the lie he told the bishop—or, rather, the information he kept from him.

  “Of course?”

  “The Great Mortality spared nearly all of those in my home village, but the dry summer brought them a poor harvest there. With the beech forests nearby, and plenty of sand within a day’s walk, the men might be happy for a new trade. Your business would be a godsend.”

  “Just where might this be, Father?”

  “Why, just a few miles east of Poznan. In the village of St. Michael.”

  …

  Christmas in Paris had been magical for the Brezchwa family. High Mass, with glorious choirs singing the joyous hymns of the season, thrilled Irina like no celebration before it. For the first time since she discovered she was pregnant, she felt safe. Though she missed Berek Joselewicz, the hole in her heart was at least partially filled by the delightful infant he had fathered and the man now beside her. That she loved her husband was not in doubt, but he was not her first love, and for reasons she could not understand, Berek was still with her, as if he would return someday. That she was content with her circumstances was what she made those around her world believe.

  It should have come as no surprise to the Brezchwas, however, that their comfortable surroundings could not be theirs indefinitely. A polite messenger from the Vicomte D’Orléans, the king’s chancellor, paid the apartment a visit a week before the great feast and informed them with the greatest regret and courtesy they would need to vacate their chambers in the Palais de la Cité one week after the departure of Duke Zygmunt for Poland.

  Then the young messenger delivered better news. The Holy Roman Emperor had done more for them than present little Stashu with an expensive bauble, it seemed. His influence had secured for their use a small chateau and farm in the village of Giverny, north of Paris. It was a part of the countryside she and Jan had come to love. True, they could use the residence for but a year, but it would be just what they needed to establish themselves as citizens of France.

  No small consolation was the final announcement from chancellor’s messenger. The pair had been nominated to become le Comte and la Comtesse Brezchwa at Christmas season ceremonies.

  It had been a remarkable day, but as she thought about her new national home, her feelings were truly bittersweet. Though she loved her native Poland and its people, she could never erase what had happened to her there, that love for the Joselewiczes had no more depth than the thickness of their skin. She was happy in this land new to her, and despite what Madrosh had imparted about the Jews, she did not foresee a fearful future, her constant vow being that nothing would happen to the infant she now held close.

  Whatever misgivings she might have had, she dismissed, literally, with the blink of an eye. She picked up the large blue square of wool and smiled as she surveyed its new countenance. A clever seamstress she’d encountered in the palace knew exactly how to make a peasant’s cape into a noblewoman’s wrap. The older woman seemed curious about what Lady Irina was doing with such a piece of material, but she worked magic incorporating it into a beautiful garment befitting the beautiful young woman from the distant east.

  As Irina and Madrosh stepped through the porte cochère of Le Palais, she wrapped herself tightly so that she might not chill. They spoke with each other warmly and in the spirit of the season as they began one of their last hours together.

  “Madrosh,” she began, as they crossed into the Jardins du Roi—Gardens of the King, just on the point of the island, “I have told myself I must ask you large questions, monuments to your wisdom!”

  “My dear Lady, you embarrass me. None of our talks have centered on the trivial. You have always managed to ask very large questions and have summed up my words with great insight. It is in your presence that I tremble,” he ad
ded with a benign smile, “because I never know how you might challenge me. I’ll wager, you have one of those questions for me now. So, come now,” he teased, “out with it!”

  Also embarrassed, she hesitated. “It’s not so much a question, really,” she began. “We started out talking about God, and yes, you have convinced me there must be such a being. You have explained to me about the soul—my soul—and yes, I begin to understand what that might mean. I might also consider that man may not be intrinsically good—otherwise, God would have a very easy time of it, would He not? And there would have been little point to His creation.”

  She raised her hand, wanting to continue. “It seems, then, that if man is truly an infinitely varied mix of good and evil, the gift of the Commandments has forced men to make a deliberate choice toward the good—out of fear, if nothing else. What that means,” she continued, as Madrosh eyed her in astonishment, “is that man is either intrinsically good with an outward appearance of good or evil, or he is intrinsically evil but doing good only for the observation of others. Or perhaps, Madrosh, there is that third choice to which you apparently subscribe—man is a mix of good and evil at his core and how he comports himself in his everyday life.” She paused for effect. “So, Madrosh, which is it? More important, why does it all matter?”

  Madrosh laughed out loud. Seeming to spill into the Seine itself, his laughter carried across the beautiful, leafless gardens of the king. Irina laughed too, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “You have listened well, My Lady. And it appears that in the countless quiet hours of caring for your infant, you have thought much about our conversations. Let’s consider.”

  They walked and talked, their faces reddening in the cold. The winter air did nothing to impede their footfall or intrude upon their words. If anything, their spirited talk brought them immense warmth.

  “Remember, Irina, I did not say my view was correct, nor is it one necessarily upheld by the church. Yet, in my limited understanding, what you yourself have concluded seems to make the order of things more sensible. You asked why it is important.

  “It all matters,” he went on, “because we are not talking about some fairy world that is not real and does not exist. We are real and we exist. The same is true for what surrounds us. It matters because it helps us make our way through life if we can discern even a glimmer of why things are the way they are.

  “I believe that just as man is the mix of good and evil you described, in all spaces around us, God and Satan constantly battle for our souls. I happen to believe most fervently it is God who triumphs over evil in the long run of things, but in day-to-day life, evil wins many skirmishes. How can that be? It is not because God is weak or impotent against evil, but because we freely make choices for evil.”

  “And you said,” Irina hurried to ask, “that we are accountable for the choices we make when we have the ability to see what is right?”

  “Yes, and I believe that is most important. God cannot expect us to be perfect as He is perfect. Yet He expects us to live up to what we understand, fighting our own battles against the corruption of evil. That is why scholars say we are created in God’s image and likeness.”

  “Is that hesitation in your voice that I hear, Madrosh?”

  “Yes, My Lady. Most church theologians abide by that view because it’s in Scripture.”

  “Yet?”

  “You see, original Scripture was in Hebrew or Greek, and Christ spoke in Aramaic. The church speaks in Latin and at this moment, you and I are speaking in Polish.

  “A tower of Babel, wouldn’t you say?”

  The priest chuckled. “Indeed, My Lady. Some words in some languages do not easily pass into other tongues with the same sense, the same meaning. I can, however, agree with the church because the word ‘image’ most certainly could be translated by the word ‘intelligence.’ That is to say, when God created man, in his image, that does not mean we look like the Almighty, of course. That would be an insult and truly arrogant of man to think so.”

  “Just a moment, Madrosh. You mentioned Scripture, yet in all of our talks, you have rarely seasoned your words with those of the Old and New Testaments. Why is that?”

  Madrosh threw his head back and once more, laughed heartily. “Ah, My Lady, you have caught me!”

  “How so?”

  “Our conversations started because you had serious questions about the existence of Almighty God. It would have been too easy to spout lines from the Bible and dare you to contradict them. So many times, churchmen make grand biblical pronouncements and expect their listeners to accept them without reservation—without a moment’s further thought. So, you see, I thought it best to talk about our God in everyday terms—hopefully using the power of reason to clear your thinking. Nie?”

  “A good answer, good Father.” Irina smiled broadly. “Now let’s see how you grapple with the question of our being created in God’s image and likeness.”

  “I can see you won’t let me escape so easily. Here’s what it gets down to: God gave us the power to think and to reason, however imperfectly, so most assuredly, he did not give us a duplicate of his own intelligence, did he? Yet that power to see things clearly, to discern right and wrong—well, that is an ability given to no other living thing, so when we talk about being in the image of God, we must think in terms of ‘intelligence.’ That’s the only way it all makes sense.”

  “And?

  “Ah! Now we come to the notion of God’s ‘likeness.’ Just as the word ‘image’ doesn’t necessarily mean what the word ordinarily conveys to people, the same is true with the more troublesome word ‘likeness.’ If ‘likeness’ means God gave us the additional gift of a love of virtue or righteousness, that may also be true, however imperfect once again.” He paused. “And therein lies the problem. You and I seem to have understood that man is born with infinitely varying degrees of good and evil. Man’s individual nature, his or her individual self, and in that respect, our resemblance to the Almighty must be like a very poor reflection in an infinitely rippling pond. By definition, God is perfectly good. Alas, we are not.”

  “And man’s soul?”

  “If we are like God in any way whatsoever, it is nothing less than the soul reflecting the essence of God. The soul is where we may find the beauty of man in God’s image.”

  …

  Not for the first time did Father Shimanski wrestle with his instincts. For the decade he had served under Bishop Tirasewicz, Shimanski knew his earthly master was ill-suited to the church, yet he had taken a vow of obedience, not to the bishop, but to the church. That in itself helped the vicar define his role. He’d made his own vow to become the bishop’s softer face to the people of Poznan, but most often, his plan failed, inasmuch as the bishop’s vile disposition managed to show through any guise his vicar might put forth.

  On the one hand, he could follow the late bishop’s example and enjoy an earthly life of ease for as long as he dared. On the other hand, he could do what he knew he should do, and that was to serve God and his people in the best ways he knew.

  It was the latter instinct that moved him to assist Andrezski, the man whose wares destroyed his bishop, however much at fault he was for his own demise. Andrezski was obviously well-skilled in mercantile pursuits, Shimanski had to admit, and his generosity to the Dominican Sisters and many others in the city was already well known. The man’s desire to expand his business could only serve to better the lives of more people.

  And so the day after Christmas, Father Shimanski and Jerzy Andrezski, along with a few others, including old Wodowicz, crossed Ostrow Tumski, passed over the Mary and Joseph Bridge, rode up the Fareway, and along the road to Gniezno. Their horses turned on the road to St. Michael and within a short time they reached their destination, winter winds howling across their path a good part of the way.

  Father Shimanski conferred with the parish priest there and
led his group to a farm on the edge of the village, where his cousins were at work in the barn. Within minutes, Andrezski was introduced to Edouard and Peter Kwasniewski.

  Andrezski was dumbfounded, and for the moment, completely forgot why he had come to St. Michael. “It cannot be!” he exclaimed, his tone of voice catching Father Shimanski unawares. “Is this the same Kwasniewski family to which belongs a little Zuzanna Kwasniewska?”

  “Indeed,” Father Shimanski said, satisfied with his conscience.

  As if by magic, the faces of the Kwasniewski brothers lit up like candles at High Mass. Edouard spoke first. “Zuzanna is our littlest sister. She left here in May with our parents and the rest of the family, and we never saw them again. The Great Mortality did not take them, then?”

  Andrezski was as direct as he could be. “I met your family on the way to Poznan. We talked and laughed for several miles, in fact. The last I saw them—though I never learned their name or where they were from—they were in Srodka walking toward the bridge, and…and I never saw them again.” He took a breath and cleared his throat. “The nuns at the Church of the Heart of Jesus found Zuzanna wandering in Srodka, they told me, and they took her to the convent. When I lay sick in the same convent, it was little Zuzzie who gave me water when I was thirsty. Your littlest sister saved my life!”

  The brothers tried to smile but seemed to grapple with the other reality. “Little Zuzzie will have to be our miracle,” Edouard asserted.

  “You came here to tell us about her?” Peter inquired, incredulously.