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Push Not the River
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Table of Contents
Also by James Conroyd Martin
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
The Partitioning of Poland
Prologue
Sochaczew 1779
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
Part Two
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Part Three
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
Part Four
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
Part Five
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
Part Six
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
Epilogue
25 November 1794
Historical Note
Reading Group Guide Questions
Against a Crimson Sky Book 2 of the Poland Trilogy
The Warsaw Conspiracy Book 3 of the Poland Trilogy
Due in 2014 from James Conroyd Martin
The Story of the First 9-11
An Excerpt from The Boy Who Wanted Wings
Connect with the Author
Push Not the River
Push Not the River
JAMES CONROYD MARTIN
Push Not the River
Copyright © 2003 by James Conroyd Martin. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
http://www.JamesCMartin.com/
First Kindle Edition: 2014
Edited by Mary Rita Perkins Mitchell and Sally Kim
Cover and interior design by Streetlightgraphics.com
Cover art:
Lady Hamilton as Circe
By George Romney c.1782
Tate Galleries UK
View of Warsaw from Praga 1770
By Bernardo Belotto (Canaletto II)
Title page:
Polish Eagle, drawing
By Kenneth Mitchell
Interior art:
Wycinanki (vih-chee-nahn-kee), Polish folk papercuts
By Frances Drwal
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
While this story is considered historical fiction, many of the characters and events depicted are based on real people and events as described in the diary that inspired Push Not the River.
For my parents,
John and Bette Martin
Also by James Conroyd Martin
Against a Crimson Sky Book Two
The Warsaw Conspiracy Book Three
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank John A. Stelnicki for the translation of the original diary. Exceptional editing kudos go to editors Mary Rita Mitchell and Sally Kim. The wycinanki (vih-chee-nahn-kee), or Polish folk papercuts, are the courtesy of artist Frances Drwal, and the maps of the Partition Periods are the work of Ray Martin. Poland’s white eagle was drawn by Kenneth Mitchell. And agent Albert Zuckerman found a way when there seemed to be none.
I also wish to thank those who have given me, over the years, suggestions, guidance, and moral support. These include countless family members, friends, and colleagues. The few I would like to single out are Piers Anthony, Marilyn Bricks, Ken Brown, Basia Brzozowska, Lorron Farani, Mary Frances Fabianski, Judi Free, Julie Grignaschi-Baumann, Scott Hagensee, Gary Holtey, Waclaw J. Jedrzejczak, Donald Kaminski, Edward Kaminski, Patrick Keefe, Kevin Kelly, Sophie Hodorowicz Knab, Jan Lorys, Sr. Mary Paul McCaughey O.P., Mike McCaughey, Ken Mitchell, Marta Muszynska, Bill Poplar, Robert Perkins, Alicia Rockwell, George Worth, and Pam Sourelis and the members of the Green Door Studio, Chicago, 1998-99.
Author’s Note
The cornerstone of this novel is the unpublished diary of Countess Anna Maria Berezowska, translated into English from the Polish by her descendant, John A. Stelnicki. Countess Berezowska began keeping a diary when her personal world began to disintegrate and her writing became for her, I suspect, a great therapy. She sometimes read and copied into her own diary the colorful entries from her cousin Zofia’s diary. It was Zofia’s often risqué content that most likely accounted for subsequent generations’ withholding the document from the public. For some decades, it was even sealed in wax and hidden away. Amazingly, the years of the countess’ personal crises coincided with some of the most important years in all of Polish history: the Third of May Constitution years. It is fortunate that such a remarkable private view—and a woman’s view—of those perilous years has survived.
James Conroyd Martin
August 2003
Pronunciation Key
Częstochowa = Chehn-staw-haw-vah
Dniestr = Dnyehstr
Jan = Yahn
Jósef = Yu-zef
Halicz = Hah-leech
kasza = kasha
kołacz = kaw-watch
Kołłątaj = Kaw-wohn-tie
Kościuszko = Kawsh-chew-shkaw
Kraków = Krah-kooff
Michał = Mee-how
Paweł = Pah-vel
Sochaczew = Saw-hah-cheff
Stanisław = Stah-neess-wahf
szlachta = shlack-ta
Wilanów = Vee-lahn-ooff
żur = zhoor
The Partitioning of Poland
The dotted outline indicates the partioning extremes assumed by Prussia, Austria, and Russia in 1772, 1793, and 1795.
Prologue
Wherever you go,
you can never leave yourself behind.
—POLISH PROVERB
Sochaczew 1779
ANNA’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED BRIEFLY IN the morning light, then flew back. The girl felt the pace of her heart increase. This was the day she had awaited, the twenty-sixth of July. Her name’s day. She sat up immediately and looked to the table near the window. On it sat the package wrapped in red paper. She gave out a little sigh of relief.
She sprang spritelike from her bed, pulling at her nightdress. She washed and dressed quickly, donning the blue dress trimmed in lace and the glossy white leather shoes. These were worn only for special occasions. She worked overly hard at brushing her brown curls. She was too impatient, she knew, and when she drew the brush through a tangle, she saw herself wince in the mirror. It was a very grownup expression, one she had seen her mother use.
She brushed and brushed. A bad job would bring a light scolding from Luisa when it came time for braiding. Still, her mind was not on the task at hand. Time and again, her amber-flecked green eyes would shift in the mirror to where the red package sat in her sight line. Tired as she had been the night before, she fought off sleep for as lo
ng as possible, fearing that the present might disappear somehow. But it had not. It was here and it was hers. She had only to look at it, red as a ripe apple and many times more inviting, to make certain.
Her morning rites finished in record time, Anna gingerly slid the package from the table into a tight, two-armed grasp. Taking special care with the opening and closing of her bedchamber door, she moved out into the hall and to the stairway. The aroma of coffee and breakfast sausages was a usual one, but this was no usual day. She reached high for the banister, and descended with the hesitating care of an old woman, stopping on each stair with a little jolt, until at last she came to the main floor of the country manor house.
Her mother was breakfasting in the dining room while the maid stood at her side pouring coffee into a china cup. Several pans steamed on the sideboard.
The dark-haired Countess Teresa Berezowska glanced up, smiled. “Good morning, Anna Maria. Happy name’s day.”
“Happy feast day, Anna,” Luisa said in a happy tone. “St. Anne is looking down on you. How old is my little lady?”
Anna smiled, delighted at the attention. “Five!” she said. Her first instinct was to hold up the fingers of her right hand to underscore the fact, but she realized in the nick of time that doing so would cause her to drop the package. Her heart beat faster at the thought.
“A bowl of kasza with milk and a poached egg this morning,” Luisa was saying, “and if you finish that off there will be some fluffy babka for this happy day.”
Taking small, measured steps, she moved, as was her morning routine, to give her mother a kiss on the cheek. The countess leaned over to accommodate her daughter. Anna thought her mother the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Her father’s chair was empty, so she went directly to her own place. Carefully, she positioned the package next to her plate. Freed of her treasure, she clambered up onto her chair.
Luisa placed Anna’s breakfast before her, humming very prettily. Anna was determined to eat every bite, for she could smell the delicious iced babka. Where is it? she wondered. The light, sugary cake with its hidden raisins was her favorite.
Lifting the first spoonful of egg to her mouth, the girl noticed that her mother’s violet-gray eyes were locked upon the red package. And that her smile had died away.
A little bell of alarm sounded in Anna’s head. She put down her spoon. Her immediate thought was for support. “Where’s Papa?”
“He’s gone off on business,” the countess replied. “Always some farm business.”
Her mother’s tone frightened the child. The countess’ eyes moved from the package to her.
“Now what have we here, Anna Maria Berezowska? Is this your new doll?”
“No, Mama.”
“I see. I thought not. The package seems neither the correct shape nor size. Where is it, then?”
Anna’s lips were dry. “I . . . I didn’t choose a doll.”
The countess’ mouth tightened. “But your father took you all the way to the capital yesterday for the express purpose of buying you a doll, one with a painted face, glass eyes, and real hair. Were there none to be found in all of Warsaw?”
“Oh, yes, there were many dolls, Mama, only—”
“Only what?”
“Only I chose this.”
“You did, did you? You were quite deliberate, then, in going against my wishes. You were to have chosen a doll.”
Anna didn’t know what to say. Her mother did not raise her voice to her, never had. But Anna recognized the seriousness in her tone and steady gaze. Her little limbs trembled; she would not cry.
“Would you leave us now, Luisa?” the countess asked, smiling.
Anna’s heart dropped. She had seen that smile before. She had learned that it wasn’t a real smile. She longed to have old Luisa stay but knew to say nothing.
The maid curtsied, then crossed the room toward the kitchen door. She smiled at Anna, a smile that was a smile. The girl knew Luisa meant to give her courage, but it didn’t help much.
“Open it up,” the countess said, once the maid had vanished behind the swinging door. “Let’s see what can be more amusing to a little girl than a new doll.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Papa?”
“Open it, Anna Maria.” The countess was not to be put off by the cleverness of a five-year-old.
Anna had been so caught up in the wonder of the gift that she had not thought about her mother’s reaction. She started to tear clumsily at the well-wrapped package. Her hands were sweating.
It had been her first trip to the capital. Wide-eyed, she had sat on her father’s lap as the carriage rattled along for what seemed hours and hours. They entered the suburb of Praga, then across the River Vistula, the wheels vibrating on the wooden bridge, then clacking along the cobbled streets of Warsaw. It was the most amazing thing, this city, like something from one of her books. “Oh, Father!” she cried. There passing before her was the Royal Castle. “Does the king live there? Truly?” Her father was smiling. “He does, indeed.” They passed the Cathedral of Saint Jan, and the city mansions of the nobles—the very rich ones.
Magnates, her father called them. “Why aren’t you a magnate?” she asked. “I have all the wealth I need,” he laughed, hugging her to him. In the castle’s outer courtyard the two craned their necks up at Zygmunt’s Column. The bronze figure of the long-dead king held a cross in one hand, a sword in the other—like some warrior saint. He had been the one, her father told her, that had moved the capital from Kraków to Warsaw. Years later she would remember the Royal Castle as merely massive and daunting, but the memory of her father’s embrace—his strength, his warmth, and the faint scent of a shaving soap—these she would carry with her always.
They continued then to the Market Square, a glittering honeycomb of shops and stalls. And Anna did see dolls that she liked, too, dolls of every description and recent style. Beautiful dolls. But once her eyes settled on that sparkling object she was now unwrapping, nothing else would do. “Is this what you truly wish, little Ania?” her father asked, using her diminutive. She looked up at him, realizing at once that her wish was his wish. “Oh, yes!” she cried. It was then—in the enchanting city of kings—that the notions of feast days and wishes and magic were sealed together in her mind, it seemed, forever.
The red paper was tearing away at one corner, then another. Something under it flashed and gleamed.
When the paper would not pull wholly free, the countess became impatient, moving swiftly to the girl’s aid.
In moments it stood stripped of its wrappings. The translucent object seemed now to draw in the sun from every direction. It stood before the countess as if pulsing and glowing with warm life. The molding and cutting of the crystal were exquisite. Secured in a crystal base, the delicately carved legs seemed to thrust the body forward. The wings were extended as if for flight, the beak lifted in anticipation.
“What is this?” the countess cried.
Anna could not tell whether her mother was happily surprised, puzzled, or angry. Still, her fears momentarily disappeared at the sight of the marvel. “Oh, it’s a bird, Mother. A crystal dove! Isn’t it beautiful?”
“I can see for myself it’s a bird, Anna Maria. But why should you or any little girl want such a thing? . . . And in place of the doll of your choice!”
“Because it’s so pretty, Mama. You know I love birds. I’ve always wished for one, but Papa says they are meant to be free. This is a bird I can keep. See how it sparkles. And . . . it has magic!”
“Magic?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What magic?”
“See how the light goes through it? It makes colors just like a rainbow.”
“Much like a prism,” the countess conceded.
“A what?”
“Never mind. Go on.”
“Well, the merchant said that’s a sign of magic. He said this bird will carry me anywhere I want to go. Even to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!”
Anna felt her heart fluttering against her chest. She looked up into her mother’s face, which seemed to have reddened slightly. “Oh, but Father . . .” Anna’s words died away when the countess lifted a forefinger in a shushing motion.
“Anna Maria, darling, it was your mother who suggested the doll for your feast day, was it not? Don’t you think your mother knows a bit more than you?”
Anna held back the tears. If only she could explain her love for the bird. She had tried, but her mother did not understand.
“You do get the strangest notions, dearest,” her mother was saying, “and you just don’t let go. Yes, you can look at the bird, but you can play with the doll.”
Was there a softening to her tone? Anna dared to hope so.
Seizing the crystal bird, the countess carried it across the room and placed it on the uppermost shelf of the china cabinet, well out of Anna’s reach. “It’ll stay here until I decide what’s to be done with it. If you don’t want a doll—”
“But I have Buttons!”
The countess turned around. “An old rag doll!”
“I don’t need another—”
“And so you won’t have another, either. Perhaps you will just do without a present this year. Do you have any idea how you’ve upset your mother?”
Anna stared. Her mother’s lips seemed to thin, then disappear.
“Do you?”
Anna couldn’t speak.
“I see you do not. I’m going upstairs to lie down. Finish your breakfast.” The countess left the dining room.
The girl did slowly finish her porridge and egg, cold as they were. As she ate, her wide, dry eyes never strayed from the cabinet that held the bird captive.
“Ah, Anna,” Luisa chimed as she came in from the kitchen and bustled toward the sideboard, “I can see you’re ready for your fluffy babka, my little feast day girl!”