Against a Crimson Sky Read online

  “Potecki!” someone whispered sharply as he passed through the National Hall.

  Paweł turned to the right to see one of the tall, ornate doors partially open, the king’s face, pale as plaster against the gold. “This way!” King Stanisław said, motioning Paweł into the Marble Room. “Hurry!”

  “Your Highness!” Paweł bowed and quickly deferred..

  “Come sit,” the king said, pulling the door closed. “It is good to see you, Paweł. My man-servant told me you’ve been here every day this week. Today I’ve been on the lookout for you. Imagine, me, a spy among spies in my own household!”

  “You aren’t able to see anyone?”

  “Oh, they let a few bumbling fools in so as to let people think things are running normally. But even if they had allowed a proper audience with you, someone would have sat nearby taking notes. You can be certain of that.”

  The king must be seventy by now, Paweł guessed. He wore no powdered wig—few seldom did anymore—and his thinning gray hair was drawn and tied in the back. He had a simple face and birdlike eyes that betrayed the sadness beneath the smiles he affected. The two talked at some length of the December weather, the prospects of a long winter, and other mundane subjects. All was formality. Neither, it seemed, could bring himself to speak of the desperate situation of the country. At last, an awkward lull ensued, and with a great sigh, the king asked, “How goes it with the people?”

  Paweł’s lips tightened. “Well, there’s been some improvement. The grain stores have been released, and that should shore up the cries of starvation. And soldiers are no longer being evicted from hospitals.”

  “Ah, is it possible there’s a trace of humanity left in Suvorov? Has the golden baton softened him, I wonder?”

  “It’s just a phase, Sire. A fox may change his skin but never his character. There will be other fields for his men to mow.”

  “Of course, you’re right. People are slow to change, if they ever do. And what about the people, my people? What do they think of their king?”

  “The people shall always stand with their king.” It was the sort of thing a royal sycophant would say, but in this case Paweł knew it to be true. Oh, the king had his enemies at home, and most knew his weaknesses, yet the country as a whole supported him.

  “But he is not a Tadeusz Kościuszko?”

  “No. Nor do they expect you to be.” Now, Paweł thought, perhaps he was playing the sycophant.

  “I have disappointed them. I continue to do so. The people appear on the castle steps daily hoping to see me, to ask me for help. I receive letters, hundreds of letters, Paweł! They just want the chance to live humbly. Some want no more than a plot for their war dead and a marker. It’s heart-rending. And it humbles me, I can tell you. I should have done more!”

  “But what could you have done?”

  “I could have listened to that girl who came to me in October to tell me of the insurgents’ plans. I might have tried to make them wait for Kościuszko. Then the revolution would not have been so bloody that Catherine would unleash her meanest dog. Suvorov will pay in hell one day!”

  “Why didn’t you, Highness? Listen, I mean.”

  “Oh, I was certain that Kiliński and the other rebel leaders would not heed me, but I should have tried, just the same. I should have! What was the girl’s name? Berezowska?”

  “Yes, Sire, Anna Berezowska-Grawlińska.”

  “A brave girl, that one.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Took some nerve for a young thing like that to come before a king and suggest he do something.”

  It did indeed, Paweł thought. He knew Anna’s feelings toward the king had been tempered by that meeting. They were strong—and ambivalent. She had found him the quintessence of sophistication and culture, a true and ardent benefactor of science and arts and letters. But as a leader of men she deemed him weak and ineffectual.

  “I might have done something then,” the king was saying, as if in response to Paweł’s train of thought, “but now I can do nothing for my people. Why, even when the city’s president was carted off to the coldest part of Russia, what could I do for him? Nothing but give him a fur coat—and that’s what I did. A fur coat! It is all so sad, Paweł, so sad.”

  “What is to happen, Highness?”

  “Oh, I’m certain even peasants far removed from the city know that the country will be fully carved up now, like some prize cow. Word has it Prussia is hungry for Warsaw. And they want to see me removed. I would be an obstacle, they say. Of course, I would be, even if only a token one.”

  “Have you heard anything from—”

  “Catherine? Yes, just yesterday, as a matter of fact.” The king sneered. “She wants me to go to Grodno. Lithuania! Can you imagine? To spend my last years in some guarded country castle—like I’m some cast-off English queen!”

  Where Catherine was concerned, Paweł could well imagine. “And . . . ”

  “Will I go? I have conjured a number of excuses to keep me in Warsaw—bad health, poor carriages, the weather, an unfit castle at Grodno. I’ve made a list. My hope is that while I delay, Catherine and Prussia will somehow get into a squabble and change their plans.”

  Paweł could not fathom how a squabble between Catherine and Prussia might be advantageous for Poland, and so he had not the heart to press the issue with the king.

  The two heard movements in the adjacent Yellow Room. “They’re probably looking for me, Paweł. I’ve been off the leash too long.—Will you come back on Monday? I have something to discuss with you.—Something important.”

  A servant led Anna into a small room in the church rectory. This was the one formality of the marriage arrangements that she had dreaded.

  The balding priest entered, smiling. “Lady Berezowska-Grawlińska, it is indeed good to have you back in Sochaczew.”

  “Thank you, Father Lukasz.”

  “Don’t be nervous, child. This is a mere formality. Please, sit.”

  Anna nodded and obeyed. Once they were both seated, the priest spoke in what must have been his tone in the confessional. “It is quite all right, however, for the bride to be nervous when speaking of her wedding.” He chuckled.

  Anna knew he was trying to make her feel at ease and so attempted a smile.

  “Now then, my lady,” he said in normal tones, “let’s move to the matter at hand. Do you have a record of your husband’s death?”

  Anna had thought of lying, saying she hadn’t, but somehow couldn’t bring it off. She couldn’t start a new life with a lie. She turned the document over to the aging priest, then watched his face cloud over.

  “Antoni Grawlinski died in a duel? Good God!—Oh, pardon me, my lady, this is just such a shock. I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s all right, Father. Antoni was not a good husband.”

  “Oh?”

  Anna knew the priest was waiting for her to offer more information, but she could not bring herself to do so.

  “And the child that you and Antoni had?”

  “He is well, Father . . . but he is not Antoni’s child.” Anna regretted the admission before it was out of her mouth. She had meant to keep things simple.

  “Then . . . who— ”

  Anna saw no way out, other than to go on with the story. “Father, the child is the result of an attack that occurred shortly after I arrived in Halicz . . . before the marriage.”

  The priest suppressed a gasp. “Oh, my dear, I see.—Did you keep that from Grawlinski?”

  “No, he knew. He was marrying me for what I could bring to his family. For money, Father. And land. You see, he wanted to build a distillery here in Sochaczew on my family property.”

  The priest’s mouth fell slack. “A distillery!—And the—person who attacked you?”

  “My cousin Walter.”

  “Your cousin! Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

  “He is not my cousin by blood.”

  “Well, you were spared that, at least. But, still!” The priest
took a moment to collect himself. “And Jan Stelnicki? Will he be a good father to little Jan Michał?”

  “Oh, yes, Father, they’ve taken to each other as if they are father and son.”

  “Excellent, my child. I fear that in similar situations, the man might resent a child not his, and especially in this situation . . . ” The priest’s face was reddening.

  Anna tried to spare the priest embarrassment. “Jan is . . . a decent man.” Anna found herself at a loss in describing Jan’s worth.

  “I’m certain he is, and I will find out for myself tomorrow when he comes to see me. If all goes well, the first engagement announcements will be read in church on Sunday. The banns will need to be read three succeeding Sundays.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  Anna left, thankful that Father Lukasz was a simple soul and that the twists of her story had deterred him from coming to the question hardest to explain, the question that would surely have given him pause in bestowing his blessing on the pair. He had not asked the identity of Antoni’s dueling partner. To explain that it had been Jan who had challenged Antoni would not have been an easy thing. And impossible to explain that it was Walter—still obsessed with Anna—who had actually assassinated Antoni.

  Were such omissions a form of lying? The better part of herself thought so, but for once she took stock in the maxim that only fools and children speak the truth.

  She would warn Jan that on his visit to the priest he should tread softly.

  The banns were read on the appointed Sundays. The Christmas holidays fell within this time period, and the wigilia celebration was the happiest Anna could recall. Tradition held that Christmas Eve was better observed and celebrated than Christmas Day. Jan, Walek, and Walek’s son Tomasz went out into the forest to collect boughs of spruce and fir with which to decorate the manor house. Jan Michał had talked himself into being included, and when they returned, he sat in the sleigh high atop a little mountain of greenery, his smile showing every baby tooth. It was little Jan Michał, too, who had the privilege of searching out the first star of the evening, for it was only after its sighting that the wigilia supper could begin.

  Although Jewish, Emma and Jacob Szraber joined Anna, Jan, and Jan Michał at table. They even shared in the unconsecrated oplatek that was offered after a short prayer by Jan. It was the first wigilia at table for Jan Michał, and he seemed mystified as the wafer was passed from person to person and individual wishes were made. Everyone called for a restoration of a true Poland and for prosperity in the fields, barns, and homes. Jan Michał was not to be overlooked. “I wish,” he cried in a high voice, “for a horse of my own.”

  When everyone laughed, Jan Michał looked about him and quickly amended his wish. “Or a dog!” The laughter escalated.

  After dinner, Lutisha and her family were asked to join the others in the music room. The happy group sang the old carols while Anna accompanied them on piano. Emma, her former governess and music teacher, claimed she had not lost her touch, but Anna thought differently. She would have to practice more.

  As midnight neared, Anna, Jan, Jan Michał, and the servants climbed into sleighs and headed for Shepherds’ Mass, waving farewell to the Szrabers. The night was clear, allowing the nearly full moon to brighten the snow and light their way. Along the route Anna found herself counting the roadside shrines with their carved icons sheltered beneath two boards forming an inverted V. This had been a favorite pastime as a child.

  “Look, Mother,” Jan Michał cried from beneath his scarf. His eyes were lifted to the sky. “So many stars now!”

  Anna looked up. The stars, said to be the shepherds’ fires of the first Christmas, were numberless. “Yes,” she said. “So many!”

  “Jan Michał,” Jan said, “those stars foretell next year’s harvest, and it looks to be a good one, indeed.”

  A good harvest and a bright future, Anna prayed.

  Anna and Jan were to celebrate their wedding day on 4 January 1795, the Sunday after the third reading of their banns.

  On the wedding’s eve, Anna sat at her dressing table while Marta combed her hair. Downstairs, Lutisha was directing Marcelina and Katarzyna in making the wreaths of rue that Anna and Jan would wear and exchange at the church ceremony. In the morning, Lutisha would rise before dawn to bake the kolacz. No wedding bread she had ever made, Lutisha claimed, had crust that cracked in the cooking.

  In case there was any truth to the notion that cracks in the bread presaged a bad marriage, Anna prayed that the good servant’s skill would hold up. Anna’s aunt had seen to the baking of the kolacz for her first wedding, and the crust had cracked.

  “You have such beautiful hair, madame. Not brown, not red, but the best of both.”

  “Thank you, Marta. You know, as a girl I often wished for blond hair, like yours!”

  Marta giggled. “It’s getting gray, little by little, what with a husband and three children. . . . Madame will wear the amber combs tomorrow, yes? They work well with the bits of amber in your green eyes.”

  “Do you think I should wear them?—Then I shall!”

  Marta was pleased. “And you will cry tomorrow, at the church?”

  “Cry?” Anna thought for a protracted moment. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, but you must, madame! You must!”

  “Must I? Why?” Anna asked, teasingly. She knew very well the superstition.

  “Oh, Lady Anna, if a bride doesn’t cry at her wedding, she will cry all of her wedded life.”

  Anna laughed. She had not cried at her marriage to Grawlinski, but she knew that no amount of tears could have salvaged that union.

  “Did you cry when you married Walek?” Anna asked.

  “Oh my, yes.”

  “Then you believe the saying?”

  Brush in mid-air, Marta paused and thought for a moment, locking eyes with Anna’s in the mirror. She shrugged. “A few tears?” she asked in great sincerity. “It hardly seems worth the risk not to cry, does it, madame?”

  Anna let loose a peal of laughter, and a few seconds later, Marta joined in.

  Some sixty guests, all szlachta from Sochaczew and the neighboring towns attended the wedding Mass, witnessing the exchange of Jan and Anna’s wreaths of rue. The occasion afforded the minor nobility a show of extravagance.

  Proclaiming “Foreign influence be damned,” Jan had dared to wear his dress uniform of blue, crimson, and gold trim. Anna had lost her best dresses when Praga burned, but Emma had saved the day by creating for her a French patterned dress in soft yellow. She stood in low-heeled yellow slippers facing Jan, bathed in the blue light of his gaze, and she thought she could never be happier than at that moment. She would no longer fear happiness—she would embrace it.

  Anna was too elated to cry, yet she knew it was expected.—Still, by the end of the ceremony, her eyes remained dry. For too many years she had shunned crying in public. Oh, she held herself no braver than anyone else, but her tears had always been shed in private. She tried to think of something now that would induce the crying. She thought of the attack upon her in the forest nearly four years before. She thought of her first marriage and what a trial that had been, what a scurrilous character Antoni Grawlinski had proven. She thought of Zofia and her deception. . . . And still no tears came.

  So be it. With Jan as her husband, she turned away from the altar and started for the far entrance, resigned to leaving the church dry-eyed. It was then that her eyes fell on little brown-eyed, brown-haired Jan Michał, sitting like a little man with Emma and Jacob. It struck her at that moment that if her life had not taken the sometimes tragic turns it had, she would not have this wonderful child. It was that simple thought that unsealed a chamber of her heart, allowing a rush of tears—and bringing smiles of relief to many in the church. The news would please Marta, who was home preparing for the guests that were to eat, drink, and dance the entire night.

  The supper and reception were splendid affairs. While Jan was landless, he still possessed
considerable assets, the interest of which he contributed to the running of the estate, but Anna requested of Lord Lubicki, her family’s longtime investment banker, a significant sum so that the celebration would be truly memorable. Her father had wisely invested in foreign markets, so that most of the family wealth survived the Russian interlopers.

  Polish hospitality dictated that even Lord Doliński, the despicable starosta, be invited. Anna had seen him at the church, too—or thought she had—in one of the pews farthest from the altar. The sight sent a chill playing along her spine. Still, she was not about to let his presence ruin her day, so she put him from her mind—until the recessional commenced and she and Jan moved toward the door. Her eyes surreptitiously sought out his pew—but she found it empty. At home, as Anna welcomed several families that had been friends of her parents, as well as a few women she had known in girlhood, he crossed her mind again, but—thankfully—he did not darken their threshold.

  Redolent Christmas greenery and pine cones accented the white tablecloths. Candles gaily danced everywhere.

  A small commotion arose then. Under the supervision of Jacob two youths hauled a wine barrel into the dining hall. “What is this dirty old thing?” Anna asked.

  Jacob’s smile stretched wide as the sky. “It is your wine, Lady Stelnicka—it is ‘Lady Anna’s wine’—purchased in Hungary in the year of your birth for the occasion of your marriage—as is the custom!”

  Anna could only stare and mumble, “As is the custom.” She watched dumbly as the keg was tapped and purplish wine began to fill up glasses. Her mind spun with thoughts. Her first marriage had taken place in Halicz, so far to the south and performed in such a hurried fashion that no thought had been given to this cask, so long buried in the cellar. How fitting it was that it survived to slake the thirsts at this wedding instead.

  Jan handed her a glass. Her heart caught as she raised it to the guests. If only her parents had lived to see this day . . .

  Her reverie fell away as toasts were made for Poland, for the king, for her and Jan. Anna and Jan then shared the prescribed bowl of kasza; the porridge had been cooked in milk so as to make it sweet, just as their married life was to be. Baked chicken was served to all, along with sauerkraut, beet soup, and peas—symbolic of fertility. Then came the kolacz. Anna’s heart swelled to see that the crust of the wedding bread was perfect. Not a single little crack. God bless Lutisha!