Stanislaus—her Stashu always—left Giverny and France in 1406, and since then, she’d heard nothing of him. No visitor to the French court had ever heard his name. Along with the conflicts in France, she knew of other military adventures all across the continent—even in Poland. Irina smiled ruefully to herself as she remembered traveling with Duke Zygmunt and Madrosh across Poland and Germany, when the duke and King Wenceslas swore allegiance to each other. What had she heard recently? Factions of the two countries were at war. She hoped, desperately, that Stashu had not involved himself in battles not his own.
Once again, she fought her own anger. What kind of son did I raise who would abandon his mother?
She awoke with a start, the pain in her abdomen having become unrelenting. Irina made herself rise and, as she steadied herself, called for Velka to help her. The old servant came quickly, and helped guide her to the bathing room.
“It is too cold for you to do this, My Lady. Perhaps we wait until later in the day when it is a bit more comfortable for you, nie?”
“Nonsense, my dear old friend. You and I have kept up a pretty pretense for how many years now? If I ever had a living sister so close, it would be you, nie?” Irina’s ritual washing was a slower process of late, but still important to her sense of well-being. Next came her hair, which Velka washed, dried, and fashioned into something presentable.
“I know you are in pain, Irina. Yet your words to me are so kind.” Irina’s luxurious auburn hair was a radiant sight in any light, she had told her once, but now it was awash in grays and whites, making her look older than her age. “There, are you happier now?” Velka teased. “You have a real sister here with you again. I am certain she is already awake, waiting to see you. She was always your favorite, and it is God’s gift she has come to see you this special Christmas, nie?
“What you say is true, Velka, and you make me even happier when you say it.”
Velka knew she could leave, but remained, silent.
“What is it?” Irina waited. “Ah, Velka, I am so deeply sorry we never had the talk I promised. Something of importance still bothers you—sit here with me. Tell me.”
Velka’s face reddened as she sat. “It is only important to me, dear Irina. It will be of no consequence to you.”
Not at all unkindly, she asked, “What is it, dear friend?”
“Your name was Irina Kwasniewska. Had Berek lived, you would have become Joselewicza, but then you became Brezchwa.”
“Yes?”
“Do you see? I have always been nothing. The Joselewiczes took me in as an infant, but I never knew I had another name and they never told me. I’ve always been just ‘Velka.’”
Tears formed in Irina’s eyes. “I see. What would you have me do, dear one?”
“Would you think of me as Velka Joselewicza? Would you tell Zuzzie so? Someday, perhaps soon,” she paused, apparently realizing she was about to say something she didn’t intend, “perhaps, soon,” she repeated, then stopped.
“Yes, Velka Joselewicza it will be, and soon, I’m afraid. Yes, a surname—new thing that it is for people—will be of help to you.”
“Then,” Velka said, crying herself, “you are not offended? It is alright to choose Joselewicz?”
“It is correcte, dear one. It is important for us to know who and what we are.”
As my own son demanded. Perhaps he is being who he must be.
…
Over the few days before Christmas, Zuzzie and Irina spent many happy hours together. At one point, they called Velka in to discuss arrangements for Wigilia—the Vigil—a ritual unpracticed by les nouveau Français as often as it should have been by true Poles. Indeed, as Zuzzie playfully chastised them, the Christmas Eve vigil had to be preserved. “No matter what,” Zuzzie insisted, and they all laughed. At once they delved into the ancient recipes of fish, cheese and cabbage pierogis, accompanied by an abundance of kluski—the soup—and fried noodles with butter.
“After all, how can Christ be born again amongst us if Poles do not have their haluski!”
They laughed again and Velka rose, promising they would enjoy a vigil to remember. She cast a long glance at her mistress as she did so, and Zuzzie did not miss the exchange—or its meaning. She turned—with care—to the pieces of news she possessed, the fate of Madrosh being first amongst them.
“You may remember Father Madrosh was made Bishop of Poznan upon his return from Paris.”
“Yes, of course. Did Pan Andrezski tell me that when he was here back in ’80 or ’81? How hard it is to remember. Father Madrosh was such a wise man, and I’m sure the people loved him.”
“Indeed, they did.”
“Yes?”
Zuzzie lowered her eyes. She hated to be the bearer of such tidings, but before she could say more, Irina spoke.
“You know, Zuzzie, Madrosh was old when I knew him. Surely, he has been gone for many years,” Irina said, her voice wavering.
Zuzzie looked up. “Yes, of course. I don’t remember when he—in his sleep, I think, it was around 1386. People came from all over Wielko Polska to pray for him, and soon the duke erected a great stone to mark his resting place in the cathedral courtyard.” She watched Irina, gauging just how well she could deal with talk of dying.
Irina nodded, whispering a quiet prayer to herself. “What about your protector, Pan Andrezski? What a wonderful man he was for both of us. Without him,” Irina stated flatly, “our business would have foundered, and even more, you and I would never have found each other again.”
They sat close to one another. It was Zuzzie’s turn to be reflective. “Pan Jerzy, as I always called him, was a special man. He said I was his angel, but it was he who watched over me, the Dominican Sisters at the convent, and all the men in his business, including our brothers, and my husband’s own father, Pawel Tokasz.”
“What happened to him?” She put her hand over Zuzzie’s and held it gently.
“He was dining with his friend, Bishop Shimanski—you wouldn’t remember him, but he was from St. Michael—a cousin of ours—and afterward, walking through the city, he fell, stricken with pain in his chest. With someone’s help, he made it to the door of the convent where the Sisters had taken him in during the plague time. I was there when he died. He asked me for water.” Zuzzie’s eyes were moist as she relayed her gratitude that he died at the convent. It had been ten years or more, but to Zuzzie, it was yesterday. “I feel he is with me always, watching over our family.”
“You haven’t said anything about my Stashu, little sister. What do you know of him?”
Zuzzie smiled weakly. “I’ll tell you what I can,” she began with as much cheer as she could muster.
“Stashu told me you were not happy about him coming back to Poland when I saw him in Poznan—two years ago, I think. I do not know where he had been before that time, but he seemed very happy. He was on his way to the castle where Duke Mattias—Zygmunt’s nephew—was gathering men to fight. The duke took a liking to our Stashu and made him one of his knights.”
“He was w-well, then?”
“Yes, dear Irina. I last saw him in the spring—this year—when the duke and his men left the city and headed to the north. Stashu looked his very best leading the duke’s detachment of cavalry. I was very proud of him.”
Irina’s face brightened.
Zuzzie saw how pleased Irina was that Stashu had been the success he wanted to be. The whole truth would have to wait.
…
The Christmas feast had been a bright and joyous one, as Père Dubois worked what magic he could with the otherwise cold and dour little church of St. Francis. The clipped evergreens surrounding the crèche left everyone with a scent they associated with the Lord’s birth, and when mixed with the dozens of candles ablaze that morning, a special glow seemed to pervade the church.
That Irina made it to Mass at al
l with her family, guests, and members of her household was in itself a small miracle. Rosta had hitched the horses to two sleighs, and all made the short ride into the village without mishap. While most others stood, Irina was allowed a chair to ease her discomfort. She repeated the Latin prayers and sang the old French hymns praising the Christ, all of which warmed her spirits.
Over the week following, everyone enjoyed the special foods and treats Velka, Rosta, and the staff had baked aplenty. Dried fruits, vegetables from the cellar, roast pork and potatoes, sweetmeats, pot pies, and pastries topped every table and filled every belly. Irina did not eat or drink much, and through it all, she sought distractions for the pain.
Chapter XXIV
1411
On New Year’s Day, Irina faced the morning, feeling clear-headed and full of energy. For the first few hours, she enjoyed breathing the cold, thin, winter air as if she were young Irina Kwasniewska again.
As she contemplated her own end, Jan Brezchwa came to mind. There’d been no way for her to bid him adieu. Will I be able to embrace him in the next world? And what about Stashu?
Her memories seeming to refresh her, she found strength as the morning wore on. It was just before the noon hour that she remembered what the good Docteur Bernard had described to her as cancer’s relentless march toward the end. Ah! But I have lived longer than the buzzard thought!
Was it true, she wondered, or has the disease reversed itself? Then, with the resolution for which she was known throughout her life, she forced a blink, and with that one easy motion, put the whole question out of her mind.
She noticed that as she went about the rooms, her own disposition seemed to infect all others. Despite the hard chill having seeped into every room of the stone chateau, the atmosphere was warm, due only in part to the blazing fires in every hearth.
Irina found Zuzzie and Marta in the room where Stashu had spent his youth, the same room where Stashu had given her his decision to leave. Marta discovered many things with which to play in what had once been a boy’s domain, and the two were enjoying their time there.
“I hope you do not mind us being here,” Zuzzie said when she was surprised by Irina’s presence. Her eyes opened wide. “You look so fresh and well, Irina!”
Irina blushed with pleasure. “Yes,” she said, but decided not to tell her why that might be so. “Of course you should be here! It reminds me that this room yet has a life to live. Stashu will be pleased to learn his little cousin was here.” As she said the words, she watched Zuzzie carefully.
The use of the future tense seemed to sting her little sister. Is there more for her to tell?
…
In the afternoon, the sun gave forth its dry winter light, and inside the chateau’s tall windows, out of the wind, there was just the hint of warmth. Irina chose to bask in the salon, but this time, in the pleasure of seeming good health.
Zuzzie knocked gently on the door and came in alone. “Irina, we are all so delighted about how you are feeling today!”
Irina merely nodded. “Come in, little one, and join me in a bit of God’s sunshine.” Zuzzie laughed, no doubt because of Irina’s continued use of “little one.” It was an endearment both seemed to enjoy.
Irina decided to indulge her curiosity about something. “Zuzzie,” she began, “it is about your friend, Deena Sklowdowska. You told me she was your traveling companion, I know, but still, there seems to be something more than that, nie?”
“How do you mean, Irina?”
“When I think back over the time you have been here, I have hardly seen or spoken to her. She keeps very much to herself. There is something different about her.”
Zuzzie raised an eyebrow, as if puzzled by Irina’s choice of words.
“Had you come at another time of the year, I might never have noticed that this woman is not Catholic. But you came at Christmas. And yes, Panie Sklowdowska attended Mass with us, but she did not seem to know what to do, especially when it came to Holy Communion.”
Zuzzie put her hands in her lap, adjusting the folds of her long woolen dress. At first, she said nothing. Her mouth formed itself into a half-smile, but her lips remained together, as if she was afraid a wrong word might escape.
Irina waited, her silence an expectation.
Zuzzie’s face remained frozen, but soon, lines of sorrow etched their pattern across her brow. Tears formed and hung for a moment before running freely down her cheeks.
Irina sat herself to face her sister, their knees touching. She placed her hands on her sister’s. They eyed each other as only those tied by the deepest bonds can do. “What is it you must tell me, little Zuzzie?” Irina expected to hear something untoward about Sklowdowska.
Zuzzie formed her words carefully. “When we arrived here and discovered that you were very ill, I chose not to tell you something. About Stashu.”
Irina swallowed hard. Since midsummer, she’d felt certain something terrible had occurred, but chose to ignore her feelings.
“When he rode north with Duke Mattias and his men, it was to prevent the Teutonic Knights from conquering Poland. At first, there was a long truce, but when it ended, fighting broke out. It came to a head at Grunwald last July. Our Stashu was a great hero and led the cavalry charge which routed the Germans that day. His bravery was celebrated all over Poland.” There she stopped.
Irina held her breath, knowing there was more. As if to herself, she muttered, “Will Poles never learn? The Germans have always coveted our farmlands, our people! God bless Stashu, nie? Where is my hero?”
After taking a moment, Zuzzie continued, “Stashu did not survive the battle, Irina.” She held her sister’s hands tight. “It was said by those who were there that as victory was about to be had, Stashu reared his horse, and while he was holding aloft the banner of Wielko Polska, a German arrow pierced his heart.” Zuzzie could not stop her tears. “Oh, Irina, I am so sorry I could not tell you. Not when you were so ill, not just before the feast of Christmas.”
Irina leaned forward and held Zuzzie close as her own tears flowed quietly where Zuzzie could not see them.
As she absorbed the death of her Stashu, her only son, she thought, This isn’t the first time I’ve lost him, and I can bear no more. She remembered the first time, the day of his birth. For nine months she had borne him, enveloped him within her, cherished every kick, every movement. Is the beat of his heart in time with mine? Then came the first contraction as she knelt with Madrosh. When a day or two before she began feeling the pressure to urinate quite often, Kalmus smiled and told her the baby would come soon. “It is settling itself, getting ready to be free from your womb, My Lady.” She remembered her utter relief at seeing Kalmus at the door to the church. She felt her waters break then, and Kalmus rested her on a litter. Thank God for Madrosh’s foresight. Jan held her hand until Kalmus and the porters carried her away, the bitter wind billowing her skirts until Kalmus wrapped her in the blue cape of her youth.
The castle was cold, they told her later, but all she could remember was the aching in her back and abdomen as the contractions began. The midwife held her hand and urged her to ride the waves as the pain became ever more intense. After what seemed like an hour, she heard Kalmus’s command: “Push!” Kalmus had positioned herself at the front of the bed, and with one last burst of searing pain, the baby slid into the world with a sigh and a mess flooding the bed.
“You have a boy!” Kalmus exclaimed with pleasure, and just then little Stashu bleated his first cry of freedom as he lay on her breast. From that moment, Irina knew he was truly hers no longer.
Irina let her tears flow as she remembered that day and took in the news of this one.
I have lost all of my men. Why is it, men are the strong ones, yet I am left? Why have I lived so long? She held Zuzzie tight. Anywhere on earth, Zuzzie was all that was left of her family, and she didn’t want to let go.
&n
bsp; “Oh, Zuzzie!” she said, her voice hoarse from unstilled emotion. “You know, I didn’t want Stashu to go back to Poland, but I’m so proud of him. He became who he needed to be.”
Zuzzie nodded.
“And I have not been truthful with myself, little one. Although I have been happy here in France, happy to get away from my last memory of Poznan, in my heart I am a true Pole, and I have missed the country of my birth and its people more than you can know.”
After a few minutes, Zuzzie separated herself, and said in a whisper, “There is more.”
Irina did not speak, but looked at her sister as if to say, I cannot take another arrow to my heart. Zuzzie gave her a reassuring look. Her words rushed out, but gently. “I had not planned to tell you this way, but there is someone you must meet.”
Irina looked at her questioningly, but Zuzzie rose and left the room. She returned in a moment with the young woman and her infant.
Pronouncing each word slowly, she said, “This is Deena Sklowdowska Joselewicza.”
Irina had rarely heard the name spoken aloud for over three decades. It was Velka who had mentioned it earlier, but now Zuzzie had spoken it aloud once more. “I do not understand, little one. What does this mean?” Irina stood to face whatever was to come.
“What I also could not tell you was that when I saw Stashu in Poznan, he and Deena were already married by their Rabbi, in the old customs.”
Irina looked from one to the other, uncomprehending.
“When my nephew returned to Poznan, dear sister, he took his father’s name. To the duke, he was Stanislaus Brezchwa Joselewicz. No one there was alive to remember the Joselewiczes of ulica Zydowska. Deena herself is Jewish, and their little boy was born a few months a-after…Grunwald.”
Irina stepped closer to Deena, and without a sound hugged her closely, the infant nestled between the two mothers. “Now I will look at this little boy in a different way,” she said most tenderly. “What is his name?”
Irina Page 45
