It's 1378 in Poznan, Poland, and the Black Death invades the city again. Jews are blamed and burned alive, including Berek Joselewicz, lover to Irina Kwasniewska and father of her unborn child. Disowned by her Catholic family, Irina vows to escape the plague and find a place where her child will not suffer hate and bigotry. With Joselewicz gold, she passes herself off as a woman of minor nobility, becoming attached to a group of nobles heading to Paris. She meets Martinus Madrosh, an older priest who keeps her secrets, and answers her unending questions.
Amid mayhem and murder on the journey, along with political intrigue, treachery, and vengeance, Irina finds a husband, and from the priest, the ways of nobility, and an understanding about the Almighty God she'd come to despise. Through persistence and pluck, she manages to become a successful business woman of French nobility.
Irina is a young woman alone, in a world ruled by men and the church--who succeeds despite many obstacles. She comes to find love, an understanding of guilt, good, and evil, and where her own actions fit into that paradigm. At life's end, she believes her journey has been a satisfying one.
It's 1378 in Poznan, Poland, and the Black Death invades the city again. Jews are blamed and burned alive, including Berek Joselewicz, lover to Irina Kwasniewska and father of her unborn child. Disowned by her Catholic family, Irina vows to escape the plague and find a place where her child will not suffer hate and bigotry. With Joselewicz gold, she passes herself off as a woman of minor nobility, becoming attached to a group of nobles heading to Paris. She meets Martinus Madrosh, an older priest who keeps her secrets, and answers her unending questions.
Amid mayhem and murder on the journey, along with political intrigue, treachery, and vengeance, Irina finds a husband, and from the priest, the ways of nobility, and an understanding about the Almighty God she'd come to despise. Through persistence and pluck, she manages to become a successful business woman of French nobility.
Irina is a young woman alone, in a world ruled by men and the church--who succeeds despite many obstacles. She comes to find love, an understanding of guilt, good, and evil, and where her own actions fit into that paradigm. At life's end, she believes her journey has been a satisfying one.
Chapter I
1378
Poznan, Poland
With each step deeper into ulica Zydowska—Jewish Street—fear crept beside her. What Irina had already seen in the city tore at her hopes, and she shivered in the damp gloom.
Firelight painted the slippery cobbles with dancing yellows and oranges as she eased her fingers along the slick courtyard wall. The splintered planks of the Joselewicz gate lay in the street like discarded kindling. Her heavy felt boots, sodden from the long walk into the city, slowed her steps as smoky air filled her throat. She opened her lips to cry out, but no sound came.
Peering through the gate’s wreckage, she could see that a blaze, having caught wood and straw, had begun to climb over the feet of those tied together. Over the crackle of flames came the gasps of familiar voices, voices she had come to love. Her eyes went from the flames to the people she knew, who struggled not to scream away the pain. Neither did they plead, so certain was their fate. She only hoped they knew to breathe in the heavy smoke, the only way to hasten their end. This was a sad bit of life’s lore she’d once learned from old Joselewicz. Did you remember what you told me? She heard their final rasps rise with sparks into the chilled night air, and except for one, their heads lolled into their eternal sleep.
Irina shuddered, sobbing. Moj Boze—My God—how could you let this be? Amidst the inferno, she sought a glance from the one remaining awake to the pain, the one she loved more than any other. When their eyes met, she used her hands to give her Berek Joselewicz the only message he could take with him.
The stench of burning flesh—his flesh—made her turn away from what she could never have imagined to be the gate to hell. She retched into the gutter.
1410
Giverny, France
Irina awoke, trembling, and sat up in the great carved bed, her gown drenched in the nightsweat that had become her companion of late. Whether this was caused by the disease she knew was slowly consuming her or by visions of the long dead troubling the night wanderings of her mind, she did not know. What she did know was the one moment she had just lived again was but a small part of her story. Why can I not forget?
She didn’t recall Velka walking with her from the salon to her bed chamber, but they must have done so right after the rain stopped. Why does this night seem so much like the other? Somehow, her treasured servant and companion had managed to get her into bed, and for that and so much else, she had learned gratitude to the one Almighty God who had protected her for nearly fifty years.
To be sure, the woman she saw in the nearby looking glass was not the girl who had journeyed to France from Poznan more than thirty years before. Hair that had once been auburn now hung long, gray, and unbraided, lank strings against her neck. Her body shook with the pain that racked her. She was sure the belly that had once grown a new life now grew something that would end her own. That she would not live to see Giverny’s next spring flowers, she felt sure.
Throwing off the coverlet, she attempted to rise, grabbing at the bed’s headboard. She gasped, laboring to breathe the early dawn’s chilled air. Steadying herself, she glimpsed the swaying grasses just catching the sun’s earliest radiance. Ordinarily their dance in the shifting breezes seemed magical, but this morning, the sight out her window made her dizzy and she fell to the floor, knocking aside the candle table.
She cried out but knew Velka was fast asleep in the next room. Catching sight of her treasured blue cape, she pulled it over herself once more and murmured to the God she knew was listening. “How could I have lived so long? How could I have done all the things I have done, yet not the one thing I must?”
No answers came. She did not expect them. Irina had begun to hope she would once more see the only child she had borne, that there existed some mystical balance scale allowing her the necessary time. Yet discomfort jostled the morning as she lay curled into a blue sphere, waiting for her shivers to melt into the sun’s first rays.
As to God, that he existed at all had been difficult to accept in her early years, given what she had seen happen in His name. What did I know of God? What I knew was what the priest told us. The Mass was in Latin—not Polish! What did God know of me? Did He care for us?
She wondered if her once deep doubts remained as a mark against her in the ledgers of heaven, even though she had long come to believe there was an Almighty watching, waiting.
In the mist of semi-consciousness, she could hear Velka’s voice. Despite the old servant’s cooing words, Irina knew that her life was seeping away, that whatever was consuming her would not go away with the turning of many more seasons.
Velka helped her mistress to the privy room—Irina refused to use a chamber pot—and to her morning ablutions. In a shallow tub of tepid water, Irina shook with cold once more as she sponged herself carefully, completely. Cleanliness had always been her habit, even as a mere peasant, a servant girl.
Fresh once more, Irina prodded herself to dress for the day’s routine, but could not find the will. She was not hungry and had little strength. She was exhausted from the wrenching scenes in her night journey. Never before had she felt this way. “Velka,” she began in her easy French, her voice a whimper, “put me back in my bed. Perhaps I will mend by the noon hour.”
“Yes, My Lady. I will bring you hot tea.” Velka spoke Polish to her, their most fluent tongue, even after decades away from their homeland.
After a while, Velka returned and waited for Irina to finish the steaming cup, as if the simple gesture of taking it might also carry away her cares with the porcelain. She plumped up her mistress’s pillows and bade her rest. “You will be well soon. You must give yourself time.”
Irina did not believe the faithful Velka but surrendered to the comforting softness of the large down pillows. She let her mind drift to places in her heart by which she had paused many times before, and let each memory unwind as if from a spool of thread. She knew that for many of the events she thought she remembered, she herself could not have been present. She had come to rely on others for many of the missing pieces, and surmised still more, but prayed only that the one Omniscient Being would find a certain justice in assuring the rest of her story be told. It was one of pain, love, and cruelty, all too common in her time, but it was also her story of triumph in a brutal world ruled by men.
The throbbing pain in her stomach returned. To Him, she made her plea once more. If it is soon that I come home to You, Great God of all, will you not let me see my son again?
She forced a smile, remembering young Berek, tall for his seventeen years. Black curls framed brilliant blue eyes and a smile to melt December’s river ice. As the sun-bathed breeze whispered forgotten things, she allowed herself to remember more of what had happened that day so many years before, to Berek, and to her.
1378
Poznan, Poland
The ancient path to Poznan was hours long, and each step became its own vow to leave the Kwasniewski family farm and never return. Hot tears stung Irina’s eyes in acceptance of the truth. Her family had tossed her from their lives like the contents of a chamber pot. There would come a day, she promised herself, when the hurt would sink so deep in the well of her memory, she would forget she had ever lived in the village of St. Michael. By nightfall, she would be in the embrace of her beloved Berek and the rest of the Joselewicz family, and a new life would begin for her. Of that, she felt certain.
Newly green hillocks awash in wildflowers greeted her along the wagon track. Usually two muddy ruts after a rain, today the tracks were two deep scratches in the rich, dark earth every farmer desired in his fields. Even so, her felt boots, though nicely padded, yielded to every stone as she wended her way in the waning afternoon sun.
Many were the times she’d walked this same path with her mother to Srodka, the market village nestled on the hill lying just above the great city of Poznan. As country women, they wore kirtles of wool in winter and undyed linen in summer, along with colorful babushkas designed to catch a man’s eye. Few had a change of clothes, so what began as new and bright soon became grimy with farm dirt and cooking grease. Yet they were protected from the weather and warmed at night, and that’s all that mattered. They often went barefoot in good weather, saving their thick felt boots for colder months.
Of luxuries such as hose, boots, and clean clothing, Irina had only dreamt while living on the farm, but since working in the city for the Joselewiczes, she’d become accustomed to urban ways. Now, thanks to her mistress, Panie Eva Joselewicz, she wore nicely made felt boots all year long. How her life had changed, and because it had changed for the better, her walks between Poznan and St. Michael were usually spent in easy reverie. Today, it was different—in so many ways.
Thoughts of the family into which she was born would not leave her. Ignacz Kwasniewski had been her ideal of a man and father, and for the first thirteen years of her life, she leaned toward his every word. She loved his stories about the past, about Poland, and about their ancestors, savoring them as other children savored sweet treats.
“Our people had means once,” Ignacz said as part of his ritual dispensation of family lore around the supper table. “Long ago,” he would say, “the Kwasniewskis were people of wealth, even minor nobility. Now, we have nothing except each other.” At that, Ignacz would hug her and her siblings so tight they could not stop giggling.
What had been scribed in everyone’s memory, he told them, were images of pillage and slaughter wrought by hordes from the east. “They roamed everywhere, leaving no village elder alive. Overnight, our clan was reduced to farming just to eat.” Tears hung in the corners of his eyes.
Even so, Ignacz cherished his world as it existed. A few miles from the road to distant Gniezno in the east, and to Poznan in the west, St. Michael was a quiet place. He laughed out loud every time he spoke of it. “There is no inn to serve food and ale and nothing to see, just a collection of peasants all working hard for our next meal, and the landlord’s next ten meals! Everyone knows each other in St. Michael—hah!—most of us are relatives. We barter amongst ourselves, sing and drink at our weddings—if we can find anyone to marry—and cry together at our funerals. Someday, perhaps, it will be different. One of you,” he would say, pointing to each of his children in turn, “will find a pot of gold and make us rich again.” Then he would laugh again, and Irina would fall asleep dreaming of a sweeter life.
She had heard her father’s words over and over but never realized how important his dreams were to him. From the time she was little, Irina knew she was her father’s favorite, that he had special hopes for her, and she did nothing to discourage him. “Tell us more,” she would always say.
“It was in the reign of Casimir the Great that Irina was born,” he would remind the family. “Poland was a great state, respected amongst nations, but now, Louis is king and he is no Pole. Times aren’t so good.” Looking directly at Irina, he went on, “You are the oldest, Irina, and our family has many children, as it should be, but it is becoming more difficult to feed all of us.”
Her mother, Maria, a plump and energetic woman, smiled from ear to ear when her husband told his stories, exaggerated or not. Often, she told Irina not to let her father spoil her so, that she wouldn’t be a child for long, and would soon have to help the family. Irina thought that what had happened to her in Poznan was exactly what her father had hoped. She would later learn how wrong she was.
Along the cartpath, shadows lengthened, and Irina stumbled when her foot found the ground’s hollow of an empty rabbit’s nest. The sun was beginning its long slide toward evening, and she needed to hurry. As she trudged on, letting the sweet mix with the bitter, she realized with the speed of a lightning bolt why a household of once abundant love had come undone.
…
Father Martinus Madrosh knelt to recite his daily prayers, a regimen of meditation he cherished, when a rap on his oaken door startled him.
“Father Madrosh,” Squire Jan Brezchwa called in a loud whisper.
“Yes?” the older man replied, and the duke’s aide entered, his young features tense in the soft light.
“You must come quickly, Father. There is a messenger from Gniezno.”
“Usually four days from here, nie—is it not?” His long, dark robes hung on him as he rose, suggesting size to spare.
As if the squire could not tell whether the older man was asking a question, or simply reminding himself of the distance, he said, “He made the ride in less than two, Father. He is said to bear grave news, and that is why Duke Zygmunt summons you.”
Madrosh did not move quickly. He was considered old by his peers, many of whose lives ended before the beginning of their fourth decade. As he neared his fifth, the priest’s hair and beard were already grey, and his prominent nose guarded a face wrinkled with the cares of others. The older man trailed behind young Brezchwa, who fairly loped ahead with his long legs under a solid frame. Madrosh could barely remember when the color of his own hair as a youth was much like the rich brown that crowned Brezchwa’s handsome head. He lifted his robes a bit so that his aching legs could move a little faster along the already ancient and uneven stone passageways of Sokorski Castle.
In the duke’s chamber, they waited while the bedraggled messenger devoured bread, cheese, and ale in the kitchens below, lest he collapse, his news with him. Duke Zygmunt sat, anxious like a father waiting to hear if he’d had a son, his left hand working the large ring on his right.
Candles planted atop their silver sticks awaited duty. Soot graced the walls, just as grime blotted the tapestries around them. Until then, Poznan—once the capital of Wielko Polska—Greater Poland—had enjoyed a quiet spring day. Night was advancing and the men grew impatient, their faces creased with concern.
“This would not be the time, I suppose, to speak of Father Rudzenski,” Madrosh wondered aloud.
“Who did you say?” The duke’s response was perfunctory, distracted.
“Father Ambrozy Rudenzski, the pastor at the Church of the Heart of Jesus.”
“What about him, Madrosh?” Impatience laced his words.
“The priest has been missing for several days now. He is not to be found and there are rumors aplenty, My Lord.”
“Yes,” the duke nodded absently, but knowingly. “Of him,” he said, looking directly at Madrosh, as if the priest should know more, “we will speak more, no doubt. It is a disgrace.”
“A disgrace, My Lord?”
“Look not to me for an answer, Madrosh. Look to your bishop.”
They were interrupted by a servant who lit several candles, giving light to shadow. At nearly the same time, Squire Brezchwa appeared with a man bent over with the weight of heavy tidings, if not the fatigue of two long days on horseback. Bowing low, the rider said he had come at the behest of Bishop Gromek of Gniezno.
“The bishop?” The duke’s prominent eyebrows arched in surprise. He stood, towering over the rider. “Not from the Duke of Gniezno himself?”
“The duke no longer lives, your excellency. He was on campaign further to the east when plague struck. They say the Mortality took him in a single night and day.”
Duke Zygmunt reacted as if struck full in the chest.
Madrosh spoke. “So it is the deadliest of plagues, not the variety that takes its time to kill a man.”
“If only it were true, Father,” the messenger responded. He lowered his eyes. “The kind of plague you speak of, the Black Death, has struck as well. We know that many of us will die—whether it will take a day or a week to claim us will be the only mystery. The bishop wanted you to know, so that you can prepare.”
“Prepare? Prepare how?” the duke boomed, frustration edging his words. His brown hair, once a shade of ginger, shone in the warm candleglow. Once again, he nagged the amber-embedded gold ring on his right hand, the weight of it wearing against the skin, as though the symbol of office sought residence elsewhere.
Shrugging his shoulders, the messenger scratched out with a broken voice, “Pray?” His answer was feeble, though all present professed a belief in an almighty and every-present God.
The duke scoffed. Madrosh shot him a look of careful reproach, then looked at the news bearer. “You have kept this to yourself?”
“Why, F-father,” he began, stumbling into silence.
“I see,” said the priest. “That means word has already left the castle!” Madrosh rose and took a step toward the miscreant.
The nameless messenger stepped backward, then saw he was not to be struck. Attempting to redeem himself, he went on in earnest, “Some say the Jews are to blame.”
“Bah!” It was Madrosh’s turn to be scornful. “Such is the babble of ignorance,” he said in a voice louder than intended.
The duke, however, leaned forward. “The Jews, you say?”
Madrosh again glared at his worldly master, surprised at the encouragement he gave the oaf from Gniezno.
“That is what everyone says,” he repeated, warming to his message, his eyes shifting from duke to priest, from priest to duke, not knowing who might strike him. “They say Jews poison our wells and that’s how the plague comes. They say Jews murder our children and drink their blood.”
Remembering his vows, Madrosh kept his arms to his sides. He knew that violence would change neither the man’s heart nor his mind. “That is plain nonsense, and your bishop would not have wanted you to come so far carrying such garbage.”
“Yes, Father. I am only repeating what I hear from others,” he said, managing to be humble and defiant all at once.
The duke said, finally, “You have said enough. I gather we have little time, then.”
“The plague is on its way, your excellency, and many have already gone to meet the Almighty. Whence it will come, I cannot say.” The nameless rider bowed deeply as he and the squire were dismissed.
“Shall I see that Bishop Tirasewicz is informed, Your Grace?”
“In good time, Madrosh. In good time.” He paused, then added, “but he will be of little help, I’m afraid.” He cast his gaze into the middle distance, as if something there had greater claim on his attention.
…
On the cartpath, Irina kept between the ruts to avoid the puddles streaking the way ahead. Each footfall deepened her brooding. How could my family do this to me? It was they who sent me to live with the Joselewiczes! Until today, she had not fully perceived that her father’s dreams of a new day, of prosperity and comfort, had somehow centered on her. Turning her gaze back toward St. Michael, toward the family farm, she nested in the grass that was already attracting the dew, and with her arms wrapped around her knees, she put her head down, remembering.
Irina knew she had been both a joy and a burden to her parents. Their delight in her childhood had turned to worry as Irina became just another belly to fill when there was very little with which to fill it. She and her four brothers and two sisters lived a quiet and happy life, barely aware of a peasant farmer’s realities.
For Irina, everything changed near the end of her twelfth year. More was expected of her as she went along to help her mother sell vegetables and bread from their stall in Srodka, but the few pennies earned were never enough. One day, an answer to family prayers appeared in the person of Panie—Mrs.—Eva Joselewicza, patroness of a well-off merchant family. Occasionally, she chatted with Maria Kwasniewska about ordinary things. “A sheepdog, is it?” she said that day, nodding toward the black, brown, and white pile of fur guarding the stall.
Maria shrugged and laughed at the same time. “It is the village’s dog, Panie, but it follows Irina everywhere. We cannot get rid of it.” The women laughed as Yip barked a greeting, his tail wagging furiously.
On one such occasion, Panie Joselewicza turned her attention to Irina, remarking to Maria on how well the girl followed her mother’s instruction, and how pretty and bright she was. The very next week, Panie Joselewicza asked Maria if young Irina might be trained to work at their large house in Poznan, on the far side of the Warta River.
At first, Maria was taken aback by the offer. Girls often went to work in the houses of the wealthy, but the Joselewiczes were Jews, and people said so many awful things about the Jews. She spoke carefully so as not to offend a purchaser. “Panie Joselewicza, she is my eldest daughter, and what would we do without her?” There ensued a delicate conversation about how many mouths the Kwasniewskis had to feed, and how the Joselewicz family would treat a girl in their service. After a further few weeks of talk between the women and between Maria and Ignacz, the arrangement was made.
All the while, Irina listened, bewildered. Am I a bunch of carrots to be bargained?
“What a wonderful opportunity it is for us,” Ignacz exclaimed at the supper table one evening. “Irina,” he said, “your service in the city will allow you to earn money for our family and, in time, earn the attentions of a young craftsman there!” He chuckled in anticipation. “Perhaps a carpenter or an ironmonger. A young man with a good trade will lead you to a prosperous life, little one.”
Life’s intrusion into the family idyll was something not unexpected, but a shock nonetheless. Irina’s voice caught in her throat as she pleaded, “But Ojciec—Father—will you not miss your little Irina?”
“Of course, my dearest daughter,” he answered, in a matter-of-fact, final way, “but we must all do what we can for the family. It is an answer to our prayers—and you are the oldest girl.”
Irina remained silent, as was expected of her. I am but a girl, someone to serve men and have their babies. What I will not miss is waiting on everyone’s needs without so much as a “djenkuje”—thank you.
“The Joselewicza woman will be a good mistress for you, Irina,” Maria added. “She will be firm, I am sure, but unlike some Jews I have heard about, she will not mistreat you.”
Irina sat still, biting her lip. I will miss home because it’s home, but there’s much I will not miss. They would never sell away one of my brothers!
“You will be coming home often—with coins for us,” Ignacz made sure to note, “and in a short time, you will not be homesick for St. Michael,” he said, trying to lighten her mood.
When October came, just after harvest time, Irina turned thirteen, and her life changed. Maria and Irina walked to Srodka for one of the last market days on the Fareway, and then to the Joselewicz house. The sheepdog, Yip, was not far behind. There were tears, but Maria spoke only about her rule of life. “Sadness never mends a broken heart, my little one. Never waste time on sadness.”
They stood at the massive wooden gates, iron straps holding them to a dressed stone wall that surrounded the large two-story house busy with animals, servants, and noise. They could hear the chickens clucking in the courtyard mingling with voices of those talking over the conversations of the animals. Irina wiped the tears from her eyes, forced a smile for her mother, and entered a new life. Yip made his choice and scampered in, close by her side.
As prosperous merchants, the Joselewiczes had foodstuffs aplenty for their daily table, and Irina was made to feel welcome. They had two children—Berek, the eldest, and Esther, whom they called Esterka—and while Berek was a few years older than Irina, Esther was her own age. “You will not have much time to spend with our children, Irina. You will have too much to do,” the mistress cautioned her, and Irina immediately understood the difference between them.
Much was expected of her, and the mistress spent many morning hours schooling her in the rules and behaviors by which she must live. Irina ate and slept in the undercroft with the other servants and animals, but at mealtimes, she served the family upstairs. Panie Joselewicza directed her how and when to serve food and drink, and to sit by the door to the stairs, waiting and listening, so that she might anticipate their needs. It was a routine that gave her much. Watching how women of wealth comported themselves was a fascinating glimpse into a world unknown to the village of St. Michael.
Yip inserted himself into the household with ease. “Why did I never think to have a good dog like this Yip?” Pan—Mr.—Janus Joselewicz demanded of no one and everyone one evening after dinner. He patted his belly and laughed as he bent down to give the dog a neck scratch. “You have a good companion, Irina,” he said, turning from the table and peering at his servant, waiting in her usual place. “Yip is a member of the family, just like you!”
Two years passed. Irina enjoyed her work and learned a great deal from listening to Pan Joselewicz converse with traveling merchants and tradesmen. The household staff adopted her, and on occasion, she escorted her mistress to shops near the family home, but never did Panie Joselewicza take her to Srodka to see her mother. “I do not want your mother to see you as a servant, Irina. It would not do,” she once said. Panie Joselewicz lived up to the terms of her agreement, and Irina returned home every six weeks or so for a Sunday visit. Often, cured meat, little sacks of spices and other things from the trade routes—gifts from the mistress herself—accompanied her on the walk to St. Michael. Ignacz and Maria were proud of their beautiful daughter and the pouch of silver pennies she brought for them.
Then came this particular Sunday, and after the midday meal with her family, a torrent of anger washed away everything that had bound them as family. Betrayed by those who should have loved her most, Irina clung to one hope in her life, one place she could go.
Damp from the dew, Irina stood up, remembering her mother’s words about sadness. As she strode in the twilight toward what she believed would be a new life in Poznan, she caressed her belly every little while without a conscious thought of doing so. Imagining herself as part of another family brought on a smile. Yet what her father had said dampened what joy she carried.
…
Candlelight threw long shadows against the mottled stone lining Duke Zygmunt’s chamber. “Do you think there is any truth to the man’s report, Madrosh?” Zygmunt remained at his council table, his expression glum, his square jaw resting on his fist. His sandy hair and his brown eyes were washed of color, the shine of life having lost its luster, as if the cruelties of earlier years had come to rest there.
“The plague, you mean? No reason to doubt it, Sire.” Madrosh’s voice was muted, serious.
The duke looked up. “Not that, Madrosh. The poisoned wells. Drinking the blood of children.”
“My Lord,” Madrosh responded, surprise filling his words, “there is no truth whatsoever to any of those lies.” After a moment, he added, “Even so, the messenger was letting us know what many are thinking.”
The duke nodded, eyeing the counselor warily. A true man of God was he, but definitely a stranger to the realities of life around them. God may be in his heaven, but he did not spend time in the streets of Poznan, the duke noted, and about God’s rules, he had his doubts.
“About the Jews, I hold no warm feelings,” he said, not looking at his companion. “I deal with them because they are the best at business matters, but I will not be in their company if it can be avoided. As to what our messenger said, I often wonder if there may be some truth to his words.”
“I understand, Sire, yet it is your duty to support the teachings of the church. You may remember the pope himself denounced such notions many years ago.”
“Perhaps, Madrosh,” he conceded, playing with the ring on his finger. “Like most, I am not a lettered man, and that is why the church and its priests are so valuable. You and all of your brothers of the cloth are wise and learned. We depend upon you to advise and guide us.” Annoyance lacing his words, he added, “So, how is it, then, that I would remember or know much of anything said by a pope so far away, so long ago?”
Madrosh bowed, smiling. “I am sure Bishop Tirasewicz could have assigned almost anyone to you, Sire, and you would have been better pleased.”
The duke had asked himself more than once why had the bishop assigned this man to him. Probably to rid himself of a righteous man, he supposed. Knowing Tirasewicz’s personal predilections, that must have been his reason. Yet he shared none of those thoughts with his advisor. “Your humility is appreciated, Madrosh, but you will have to help my failing memory.
Why are they so many? And are you truly certain they are not somehow to blame for the plague?” The gold on his finger gleamed in its new rotations.
“The Polish kings and princes of old made this happen, Sire. You know this. After the Mongols slaughtered much of our wealthier population, King Boleslaw began inviting the Jews to settle here because they had the skills and learning we needed to regain our greatness. Their descendants now make our land their home.”
The duke nodded. “Well and good, my dear fellow, but few Poles know or care much for history. Even fewer of our countrymen know our borders—or care much about the Jews.”
“True enough, Sire, but that is not their fault—or the Jews’. Poles know their king—and their duke—but borders change every generation or so, and very few of our people ever live to see grandchildren, much less watch them grow to maturity. What they care about is raising and feeding their children, one season at a time. That is why, Sire, your leadership is so important. You are Szlachta—our nobility!”
Duke Zygmunt eyed his adviser, wordlessly bidding his counselor go on.
“Many Poles have nothing to do with Jews in their daily lives,” Madrosh said, “and so they know nothing about them except what they hear in church or in Srodka on the Fareway—just like the pitiable rider this very night.”
Madrosh paused. “Again, my lord, these are new times. You must set an example.”
“You say so, Madrosh, yet I fail to understand why I have somehow become responsible for the plague and the Jews!”
…
For Irina, her countryside—lands she could pretend belonged to her—had always been beautiful, the flowers reminding her of the Easter season just past. The sweet smell of lilies in the church; the blest basket of ham, sausage, bread, butter, and eggs on Holy Saturday; and the commemoration of Christ’s rising the next morning all summed up a season of new life and new hope.
During the holy days that year, Irina had suspected that she, too, was carrying new life, news she could not keep hidden for much longer. She was keen to give to her mother and father—if she had not lost the baby by the time the trees were fully leafed. The balmy days of May, blissful for everyone else, were anxious for Irina. Her mood had become somber, as she realized that a time of new life might not be one of joy alone.
Further along on the cartpath to Poznan, Irina forced herself not to shed another tear for her family. What was it my matka—mother—said about sadness?
Despite her resolution to wipe it from her mind, she could not. What had happened only a few hours before all came back. Every word.
It was on the fourth day of her visit when anger shattered a Sunday’s peace. At her place around the rough, wooden trestle table, near the fireplace where the day’s soup simmered in its pot, she soaked the last crusts of bread in her barley broth steeped with carrots and onions. The other children had been shooed away, and she sat, quietly, finishing her meal.
“What is the matter, my daughter?” Maria had asked as she tidied up their meager hut. Ignacz rested on the only chair, holding his gaze on the pair.
Irina inhaled deeply, and after a long moment, said, “I am with child.”
Ignacz lurched forward, the chair’s wood creaking at the strain, and glanced at Maria simultaneously. Irina could see his breath quicken as he waited for more words, words to tell him of a young man with a good trade who might help better all their lives. “And who is the father?” he demanded, cutting to the core of his paternal interest.
Irina swallowed hard. “It is Berek Joselewicz,” she said, and lifted her head with a wan but hopeful smile.
In one quick motion, Ignacz rose, and from what seemed his giant’s height, bellowed, “You ignorant girl!” He slapped her across the face, jolting her like a crack of lightning. Irina had never felt his hand before. She fell sideward off the bench, but quickly reclaimed her balance.
In that one flash of her father’s anger, something changed in her. Standing, she took an equal place in the room and glared at the man she had once adored. Her father froze. For just a moment, she wished Yip were there, lying on the hearth. The herder would have taken a bite from his hand, but Yip was at his new home, watching out for his new family, the Joselewiczes. Why did I leave him in Poznan?
Then Ignacz said calmly, but with certainty, “The Joselewiczes are like all other Jews, and they will not take you back. Do you not understand, daughter, that a business relationship with a Jew is one thing.” It was not a question. It was Ignacz’s fact. “Mingling of blood is quite another, as even peasants know! That boy Berek used you for his pleasure, and when he knows what he has done to you, he will deny you!”
“You are wrong, Ojciec.” Defiance underlined her rising voice. “Berek loves me and would never desert me.”
“You poor fool,” Maria said, her voice flat, resigned. “You will have to stay here in hiding and leave the baby in the woods for the boars when it is born. We do not want it and we would not want anyone in our village to know you bedded with a Jew. How could we keep our heads up at Mass?”
“I will never give my child to the animals,” Irina stated without emotion. She felt the sting of another slap, this one by her mother’s hand. Returning the blow with a look of hurt, but not fear, Irina saw the regret on her mother’s face.
Ignacz issued his command. “You either do as we say or leave us now—forever. No Jew bastard will live in this house.” Tears glistened in her father’s eyes, and her mother turned away. A stillness enveloped the room.
“There is no choice for me, then.” She spoke the words softly, with finality. She reached for her sole personal possession, a large, blue woolen blanket that protected her from rain and warmed her on cold nights. After lacing her felted boots, she looked up at them, hoping. Seeing their hard faces, she uttered not a word, and without looking back, walked through the farmhouse door into the afternoon sun. Despite the day’s pleasing warmth, a chill descended upon her.
Now, a few hours later, Irina looked ahead and trudged on, only one goal guiding her steps. I want to be with Berek.
…
Madrosh could not rest. The duke’s words troubled him. His underlings would follow his signal, spoken or not.
As the supper hour neared, he sought the castle’s crenellated walkways high above Poznan’s rooftops to march away his irritation at the duke’s persistence in ignorance. In the sun’s fading light, tendrils of smoke drifted upward that seemed to come from other than cookpots. Then he heard the faint railings of townsfolk, and he sensed that word of plague was spreading. An ugly night lay ahead, he thought.
And what did the duke’s words about Father Rudzenski mean? The priest had been at several parishes around the city and seemed popular at all of them. Only recently had he been assigned to the convent Church of the Heart of Jesus where he was minister to the nuns and their work amongst the poor. And now, he’d disappeared. To what disgrace was the duke referring? Madrosh pushed the thought out of his mind. He would satisfy his curiosity later, but for now, he gave his full attention to what lay below him.
Madrosh returned to his apartment. Without a thought to seek permission, he summoned a messenger and dispatched him with a handwritten note for Bishop Tirasewicz. The note suggested only that the duke “was concerned for the order of his city, and care should be taken that Christians not be permitted to commit serious, mortal sin.”
“Hurry,” Madrosh commanded the messenger, “and deliver this note to no other hands.” He watched as the bewildered man ran to his task, then turned to find young Brezchwa waiting patiently at the door.
“Squire,” he commanded, acknowledging the man, “I am sorry to disturb you at the supper hour, but as you can see and hear for yourself,” he said, gesturing to the opening in the castle’s outer wall, “there’s a bit of devilry about the city.”
A thread of smoke snaked into the room. “What would you have me do, Father?”
“You need not bother the duke with this, young Squire. Before our repast is finished, I wish you to leave our company—discreetly, mind you—and go without the walls on my behalf. You may begin your first sleep after you return with a report.”
“Do not worry yourself about my sleep, Father. I will make second sleep all the longer.”
“Just so, my son. Between first and second sleeps, there will be many who will have no rest this night, and so, you must be my eyes,” he said, and paused. “I gather our Tomasz has been dispatched to protect the duke’s interests,” he said, “but why would the duke’s castellan be assigned such a task?” Madrosh stopped himself when he saw the puzzled look on the young man’s face. “Are you telling me something, Squire?”
Brezchwa lowered his eyes. “Perhaps I should not speak so, Father, but Tomasz Wodowicz will not bring honor upon our duke by anything he does this night.”
“Tell me why you believe so.”
“There’s a reason why people call him ‘Tomasz the Terrible,’ Father.”
“Ah! I can only hope the duke’s orders have been honorable, however.” Brezchwa remained silent. “I want you to don attire without the duke’s markings. Leave the castle, then walk over to ulica Zydowska. See what the townspeople are doing there, but do not involve yourself.”
“Why, Father, to Jewish Street in particular? What should I see there?”
“I do not know for certain, Squire Brezchwa, but as you say, what may happen on ulica Zydowska may dishonor us all.”
The young squire turned to leave, but Madrosh put a hand on his forearm. “A moment more, Squire. What is all this about Father Rudzenski? The poor man is missing, and the duke used the word ‘disgrace’ when the matter came up.”
Brezchwa took his eyes away from Madrosh’s own and looked away, seeming to be embarrassed by the question. “Have you not heard, Father? He walked into a pitchfork.”
“What!? Wait.” Shock struck the old priest.
Squire Brezchwa did not respond, but bowed, and turned to leave the old man’s chambers.
…
Irina had never felt so alone. She wished Yip was at her side. Not because she needed a companion. Growing up on a farm and walking to and from Srodka in the early morning with her mother was one thing, but walking alone near nightfall was another. She could be easy prey for robbers—or, worse, wolves. Just one of either kind of predator would be the end of her. She quickened her pace, chastising herself for her reverie.
The brilliant red-orange sunset did nothing to quiet her fear or soften her resolve, and nothing eased the shock of having her father and mother turn on her. It was better, she brooded, to think of the Joselewiczes. Will they accept me? Will they turn me away, too? She shivered in the fading light, but there’ll be no more tears from me tonight!
Irina had been proud to work for the Jewish family, no matter what her parents said from time to time. They didn’t turn away from the silver pennies, did they?
The estate where the Joselewicz’s lived on Jewish Street was the most imposing of several that backed into the hillside gently sloping away from the Warta. It was large and sturdy, and though coveted by many in the city, ulica Zydowska was a location shunned by wealthy Gentiles. The stone wall surrounding the two-story abode was high enough to keep out most intruders, but the wooden double gate, wide enough for the largest carts and wagons, was left open in daylight. The elder Joselewicz had always reminded the servants, “I am a merchant! How can I trade with those coming off the river barges if you lock them out?”
In less than thirty years, she had learned, the patriarch made his wealth trading in salt, spicegoods, and anything else Janus Joselewicz thought would sell in the lands where Germans would pay well for what he had to offer.
One day, she learned more than she could ever have expected. Alahum Qurechi and Rudolf Shafer, an unlikely pair, darkened the Joselewicz gateway in the forenoon. They were announced by another servant who’d run up the stairs ahead, and Pan Joselewicz was obliged to receive them. He signaled to Irina to prepare some light refreshment but told her to remain in the room.
The household knew to find Berek whenever traders appeared, but he had been sent to the city to deal with Tomasz Wodowicz, Duke Sokorski’s castellan, on a matter regarding warehouse rights near the castle. Likewise, Joselewicza was off to the market, but it would not have mattered. She’d made it known she would not deal with Muslims or Teutons if she could help it.
The two traders trundled their way up and into the Joselewicz dining room, which also served as a place in which to do business. Each man was garbed in an array of expensive silks not seen on those below the nobility. One wore a turban with a jewel at the front and the other, a green velvet cap with a ridiculously long feather canted off to the side. Irina could see them eyeing every corner of the room. Janus rose to greet the men and bade them to sit around his table. At once, Irina presented goblets of a hearty red wine and a tray of dates and small round bread loaves, from which the men could pick whatever clump of crust and breadmeat they chose.
Irina returned to her place as the men commenced bargaining in a language she did not completely understand, as it seemed a mash of several tongues. Each man spoke faster than her ears could hear the words. Occasionally, the stream of words revealed some she knew. At first, they went on over the price of spices like cinnamon, galangal, and nutmeg. Then she began to hear more Polish and German words as they commenced bargaining about amber, a much-coveted gem found in the Baltic.
A sort of tree resin, it was translucent, golden, and said to be of another age. Nevertheless, women prized it for their jewelry, and, indeed, Poznan was not far from what the elder Joselewicz knew to be a trading route for the gem. Joselewicz was fervent in his refusal to deal with them for amber, she could tell. She suspected his refusal had more to do with the fact that one of his bargainers was German, and for some reason the Germans thought amber was theirs alone to trade.
The bargaining went on for nearly an hour, at which point she could discern the men bringing their talk to a close when a deal was struck on cinnamon and nutmeg. It was all about the price of things, Irina had come to know from her work there, and once a deal had been struck, there was little else to say.
All at once, the men stood up and nodded curtly to Joselewicz, who walked them to the door at the head of the stairway down to the courtyard. To Irina, he gestured she should follow them to their horses. She knew what to do. She had done it before.
In the courtyard, the men muttered some words in Polish and German, and what she heard startled her. In effect, the Muslim said to the German something about the old Jew not getting the best part of the deal. The German sniggered something about one day getting “a deal he won’t like at all.” Irina said nothing but stood by, like the invisible servant she needed to be.
Back upstairs, Pan Joselewicz lifted his eyebrow as if to ask his question. Irina told him what she thought she’d heard. Joselewicz laughed, pensive. “You see, dear girl, I did not try to cheat them, even though they thought I would.” He walked to a window over the courtyard, as if to make certain the traders had gone. “Those men, one a trader from the east and the other a broker from the west…” he paused. “Well, they hate Jews like me, but they need me in the middle, and for now, there’s no way around me.”
“What’s it like to be a Jew, Pan Joselewicz?” It was a question she’d wanted to ask a hundred times, but never dared.
The old man looked at her. He sighed. “To be a Jew is to be like a little mouse in a house with many cats.”
“But you are not a rodent, sir,” she said, indignant.
“Yet, that is what they think of us. To them, we are rodents to be eliminated if possible, but in the meantime, they must deal with us. For our part, it will always be our task to outwit the cats—not to steal from them, but to be smarter than they are. That, my dear girl, is the only way we have always survived.”
She thought he’d finished. “Djenkuje, Pan Joselewicz.” Irina gave a small bow and turned to go about her duties.
“You know, Irina, people like those two are a problem for Jews today, and they will be a problem for us a thousand years from now, nie?”
Irina nodded, grateful to be the frequent recipient of whatever wisdom Janus Joselewicz cared to dispense. Occasionally, she wondered why he confided in her so much, but she finally realized the answer was simple: it was her duty to be ever-present and as all servants, a good listener.
Another time, she was surprised when he related how he and his young family had survived the persecutions of 1367. “We bribed our way to safety, Irina. Others were not so fortunate.” At first, he seemed embarrassed to admit this, but then he shrugged and added, “Someday, you will understand the things you will do for your family.”
The Joselewicz’s lived quietly and associated with others of their class and kind, careful not to draw the envy of their powerful Polish hosts. The patriarch often reminded his family and staff, “Do not give anyone reason to hate us!” One day, in fact, he wondered aloud for Irina’s ears, “I hope we have not overstepped with this house and our many servants—like you!” She did not know what to say, so said nothing.
Too, Janus and Eva Joselewicz had been careful in raising their two children, Irina observed. Still under twenty years of age, they were old enough to marry, but neither had done so. Pan Joselewicz made no secret of his desire to choose their mates with care so that family traditions would live on and be carried with pride. There was still time, he’d often voiced, to make those choices for them. In earlier days, his words had made sense to her.
Now his words disquieted her with each step she took toward Poznan.
Thinking about her few years there, Irina knew herself to have been impressionable and trusting. She found the family to be like many others, even like those in quiet St. Michael. They lived, squabbled, and loved each other fiercely. They were not ashamed of who they were—mice in a cat’s world.
After a while in their service, Irina felt like one of them, and although she never lost touch with her native faith, she found nothing unusual or objectionable about the Jewish beliefs held devoutly by the family. Do they not believe in the same God as we? Were Jesus, Mary, and Joseph not Jews as well? It was more complicated than that, she knew, but the mysteries of Almighty God did not trouble her. Yet why would you, moj Boze—my God, let your children hate the Jews? The Joselewiczes were good to others and to her. What more could I ask?
Berek was another matter. At first, she discouraged Berek’s familiarity, and for some while, he paid little attention to her. A few months after her fifteenth birthday, he renewed his interest, and more often than not, Irina felt herself redden whenever he spoke to her. She sensed his interest was not casual. “Know your place, young master, as I know mine,” she once said playfully, careful not to offend her mistress’s handsome son. Over time, like water wearing away a riverbank, her caution slid away with his smiles and the constant twinkle in his clear blue eyes. One day, Berek kissed her. She pushed him away.
Flushed, she did not know how to deal with the feelings stirring inside her. For months, she kept Berek at a distance. Yet she trembled when she heard his voice, and flushed when she felt his glance. She wondered if others noticed how unsteady she became when he was near.
In time, Berek’s words captured her, and the distance between them evaporated. “Your beauty is like the passage of a day. Your eyes reflect the sky on a clear morning, your auburn hair makes the sun shine brighter at noon, and your skin sparkles in the sun’s setting.”
“Keep away, Berek,” she had said. “Your words melt butterfat, and I could not stand the heat.” Thinking about her words later, she wished she had not said them.
The day came when, once again, Berek kissed her. One kiss led to another and she did not refuse him. One touch led to another and she did not push him away. One afternoon of quiet passion led to many more. They felt no guilt or shame.
At first, they had been like pups tumbling in a flour sack, but after a time, their love for each other seemed only natural, and hers for Berek grew to a passion she could barely contain. Cherished were her days in the Joselewicz household. Emotional intensity guided her every sense, awakened her curiosity, and allowed her mind to take in everything offered to her. Berek and Irina vowed their love, and when they spoke of it, they willed their youthful hearts into believing all would be well with the elder Kwasniewskis and Joselewiczes.
So caught up was she in the pleasant daydream on her way toward the city, Irina didn’t immediately notice the wisps of an early-evening breeze that carried a scent neither pleasant nor expected. It came from a place she could not see, where the sun made its daily farewell, from the direction of Poznan.
She was not far from Srodka, the market town where her mother had bargained her away, and on such a spring evening, she should have been sensing an earthy scent as new sprouts pushed up the dirt and felt air for the first time. She was not. Whatever it was, the smell became an unwelcome companion.
…
“Sire,” Madrosh began, noting the duke had not moved from where he’d been sitting earlier, “surely, you are aware that parts of the city are afire, that the people have broken your peace. Have you commanded your men to restore order?” Duke Zygmunt shifted in his chair, the fire in the hearth casting its light on the gold threads surrounding the embroidered Sokorski shield on his surcoat.
“Who are you, good priest, to make demands upon my stewardship of Poznan?” The duke began giving his amber ring new rotations.
“I make no demands whatsoever, Sire.” Madrosh stood a little distance from the fireplace inasmuch as his long, black woolen robes kept him well warmed. “It will not be good for the people to think you do not care about them, and if your men attack the Jews, your people might wonder if your men would turn on them, someday.”
“Madrosh, I do not care what they think. What is more, you should counsel your own bishop before you presume to advise me in such matters.”
“I beg the duke’s pardon if I have overstepped, but Bishop Tirasewicz is bound by the dictates of Rome in the matter of the Jews and he will, no doubt, conduct himself accordingly.”
Duke Zygmunt snorted with disdain.
“Do I misunderstand something, Sire?”
“Your bishop has no love for the Jews, Madrosh, and I doubt if he will remember what Rome requires of him.”
“Hmm!” Then he said, “When I saw the disturbance beginning, I sent a messenger to the bishop beseeching his action as a shepherd of the church.”
“Hah! You might be surprised at what action he might take, my dear counselor! Indeed, how is it so wise a man as you does not know his own bishop?” Again, his focus was in the middle distance, as if an answer lay beyond the present. Without turning toward his priest, he asked, “But in truth, what would you have me do?”
“Sire,” he continued, assuming the role of mentor as well as counselor, “you are the Duke of Poznan. Of the eight thousand souls surrounding your castle, many are Jews. They have been welcomed amongst us for over a century now, and you are well aware of their prominence in our merchant class.”
“I do not care for your lecturing tone, Madrosh, and you have yet to tell me why I, as Duke of Poznan, should do anything for the Jews!”
“You see, Sire, the people, all of them, want someone to give them guidance when it matters. When Kazimierz—Casimir—died and left his kingdom to Louis of Hungary, you know how that was viewed by the nobility. It left all of us wondering if we had a country, or if anyone cared about our nation. In the same way, the poor, the landless, and, yes, the Jews have been mere gamepieces in our sordid squabbles.”
“And so?”
“When the plague comes, Sire—if it is not already here—there will be many deaths, chaos, stealing, and godlessness. We know not how or why the Great Mortality pays us such deadly visits, but surely, it is not the fault of the Jews, or anyone else.”
Duke Zygmunt’s eyes and brows rose a notch, as if he were still doubting Madrosh’s arguments.
“The Jews would never do what that messenger accused them of—they have so much more to lose than others,” Madrosh continued. “And what is more,” Madrosh said, feeling the strength of his argument, “the Jews die from the plague, just as we do.”
Grudgingly, Duke Zygmunt nodded in agreement. “You speak sensible words, Madrosh, yet I find them such a distasteful people. So, what must I do?”
“You must issue clear orders to your men, especially Tomasz, your castellan, and his fool, the one they call Big Franciszek.”
“Take care with your words, priest. I do not know why you speak so of them particularly. They are loyal to me, and they would do only what they think I would do.”
“With my deepest respect, Sire,” Madrosh hastened to add, bowing as he spoke, “is it possible these men and others may have concluded you do not believe in Jewish liberties, that you harbor views, such as…?” Without completing the sentence, he jerked his head back and to the side, a reference to the messenger from Gniezno.
“It is not for you to remonstrate with me. I will do what I think best, as I am sure my men will.”
A verbal slap is far less a sting, Madrosh thought, than the knowledge I have failed in my pastoral duty to my duke. In one sweeping motion, Madrosh bowed once again, more deeply this time, and attempted a humble demeanor, unusual though such a posture was for him. What came as a greater shock was what master said next.
“None of that will matter, my good man. We are leaving tomorrow—or soon thereafter.” The ring on his finger found its rest. The amber glint held steady in the candlelight.
Stunned, Madrosh awaited his master’s words.
“This very day, not four hours before the rider from Gniezno arrived with his news, another messenger came to us from the west. It seems that the King of France, Charles V, has invited all the nobility between the Portuguese and the Russians, and between the English and the Italians, to convene in Paris before the year is out.”
Dumbstruck, Madrosh could blurt only a feeble rejoinder. “Sire, such a trip requires weeks of preparation, and in any event, I must remain here with the people.”
“We will consider the Great Mortality a bothersome visitor, but not for us.” As quickly as the duke’s affable composure had departed, it returned with his own reminder of a convenient reason to leave the plague behind him. “You will accompany me to Paris, Madrosh. I could not manage this journey successfully without you, though I would prefer you find softer ways to proffer your advice.”
Madrosh chose not to respond, but to listen.
“You may not have noticed, dear man, but ever since the first messenger gladdened my day, I ordered preparations begun. Now we will complete them in greater haste and decamp before we ourselves are overcome by the reaper.”
“And your subjects here, Sire?” The priest could not hide the beseeching tone behind his words. The candlelight played on the wall, as smoky threads breezed in from without, animating the shadows into ghostly images.
“There are plenty of priests and nuns to care for them in their last hours, Madrosh. There is nothing I can do to stop what must be God’s will.” Then he added, “As for the Jews, there is little I can do.” Duke Zygmunt paused. “In any case, Tomasz Wodowicz will see to them.”
…
At the crest above Srodka, Irina passed a rock outcropping, just before the cartpath dipped the last mile or so toward the Warta. The more she walked, the more doubt about Berek’s love shrouded her. What if my father spoke the truth? She brooded. If Berek will not have me, walking into the swift waters of the Warta would be sure and final.
Then, she doubted her own self-pity. If self-murder is a sin, wouldn’t it be a greater evil to take the life of my child? There were some, she had heard, who knew of potions strong enough to take the life of an unborn child, but she did not know such people. What God thought about such things, she did not know, but killing her child made no sense to her, and she resolved not to do so, no matter what her parents had demanded. It will be different for us!
While she did not want her child to be the lure for marriage, she could not change that now. Guilt swept in. Did I let him touch me for my father’s dream of a pot of gold? As fast as the thought came, she banished it, and yet no one would make her marry a Jew. Likewise, she suspected, few Jews would want to marry a poor, landless girl born of the church. I will leave that choice to Berek, but I know what it will be.
Her mother’s dictum sat in the forefront of her mind. Waste no time on sadness. Hurrying now as the setting sun cast long shadows of gloom, she took the first few steps down the Srodka Fareway, now empty of its stalls and market-day bustle.
A cool breeze stirring in the air, she threw her blue woolen square over her shoulders. All at once, the smell she had for a moment forgotten swept up the Fareway, bringing with it a gust of smoky air and bits of cinder. She gagged, grasping her belly. Leaning on the nearest post, the scene before her came into focus. It was not the warming glow of a setting sun that she saw.
Across the river, fires roared just beyond Sokorski Castle. They lit up the evening, a yellow-orange halo growing brighter over the city. Squinting in the stinging smoke, she tried to make out more of what lay before her. Then, as if the hand of the devil himself clenched her heart, she saw that many of the flames leapt from the part of the city where the Joselewicz family lived—on Jewish Street.
…
The black-robed man, taller than his visitor by a head and a half, tore the wax-sealed paper from the mud-spattered underling in front of him. As he did so, his gold, ruby-encrusted pectoral cross swung on the gold chain around his neck. “What is this you bring me, messenger? It is late!”
“It is not for me to say, Your Grace.” The man’s eyes roamed the marbled entrance way of the fabled mansion where Bishop Antony Tirasewicz ruled the See of Poznan.
“What are you looking at? Things you might steal?”
“No, Your G-grace,” he stammered. “Duke Zygmunt would not be happy with me if I committed an offense against someone such as you.”
“Just so. Wait while I read this.” His coal-black eyes narrowed as they flanked the pointed, hawk-like nose. Paper? Paper was expensive, and as such, used carefully. He had heard this convenience was readily available in Italy and France, but it most definitely was not in Wielko Polska—Greater Poland.
His thin lips stretched into a barely visible line as he considered the contents of the message. Then he looked down at his visitor. “No one at the castle need be concerned.” He made the nameless man repeat his words, then dismissed him.
“Josef, saddle my horse,” he yelled to his man when the messenger had departed.
…
At the castle gate, the man walked under the portcullis, abreast of the guard standing with his face to the city. Wearing a brown tunic with black hose above his leather boots, he startled the guard. “Ho, man!”
The guard challenged him and reached for his sword, but relaxed when the stranger threw back his hood and stepped into the torchlight. “Why, Squire Brezchwa, I did not recognize you! Why are you not in the duke’s colors?”
Breschwa chuckled to further put the guard at ease. “I am set with an errand for Father Madrosh, and I wanted you to see me so that I may return to the castle without incident.”
“No need to worry, Squire, though I must report all comings and goings to Castellan Wodowicz.”
“You should feel free to do so.”
“That I will, when he returns.”
“Is he out of the castle, then?” Brezchwa asked, to confirm what he knew. “So many others are hurrying here and there, as if to pack for a journey.”
“Yes, Squire. The castellan and a few men are out to ensure order. Have you not noticed what is going on not a few streets over? It looks like the Jews are getting what’s coming to them.”
Surprised at the man’s remark, Brezchwa started to put the man in his place, but saw it would be pointless. “I saw from up above, but I will not be out long.”
“Be out with care, Squire, no matter what errand the good Father sends you on this night.”
As Squire Brezchwa started without the castle walls to protect him, the guard called out, “And best not be long, good Squire. The gates will close if the trouble worsens or whenever Tomasz Wodowicz himself returns.”
…
Irina held her belly and began to trot her way down Srodka’s Fareway, looking neither left nor right until she stopped to catch her breath at the foot of the Mary and Josef, the arched stone bridge spanning the Warta and leading to the island in the center of Poznan. Firelight splashed the wet stones of the bridge.
Crossing over, she made her way to the quay at the end of the shipping canal just below the castle rising high in front of her, its imposing cut stone deep in shadow of the advancing night. People streamed back toward the bridge scurrying toward Srodka, slowing her progress.
The scene along the canal was one she had seen many times, but never at nightfall, and never in the midst of so much turmoil. Along the fortress’s eastern wall ran a wharf laid by the masons with rough-cut blocks of limestone. Thick poles sunk deep in the canal bottom allowed boats and barges of various sizes to tie up and disgorge their goods.
The fortress itself served as one wall of a seemingly endless parade of wooden structures, simple warehouses stacked with every imaginable tradegood. Pan Joselewicz stored his merchandise in many of the sheds, convenient were they as staging points for goods moving into the city or moving them west via land routes.
Activity continued along the frontage, but not much. Men unloaded sacks and bales from boats pulling at their ropes, as if in a hurry to be on another journey. Irina could see them struggle with the day’s final burdens, but she knew they would stay the night there protecting their masters’ wares.
What she further noticed was the horde of rats scurrying across the tie-lines, their presence unremarkable because they and their human hosts shared the same spaces, day and night, sometimes scrambling for the same bits of food. The four-footed passengers easily traversed the short distance on the ropes, chirping amongst themselves as they scrambled across the gravel in search of food and nesting.
Irina was headed to where the castle wall turned away from the river, cutting across the island known as Ostrow Tumski. Some of the rats made their way into the city ahead of her. Two squares further west lay another bridge crossing the Warta’s main course, and a short walk further would take her to ulica Zydowska, where the Joselewicz’s lived, where smoke and noise filled the air.
Weary, hungry, and fearful, Irina paused before stepping past the castle gate. Two cart-widths across, the gateway was empty. A guard stood there, dumbly staring at the human stream hastening toward the bridges and away from the noise and chaos, their varied shapes creating distorted shadows from the firelight nearby. Irina paused. Fear must have many friends.
To one of them, she called out, “Why are you leaving?”
A voice shouted back, “Plague—again. It’s the filthy Jews!”
“Plague?” she wailed in the din.
Cried another, “People will be dying of it! Leave now if you want to live.” The words seemed rote, the tone, terrifying.
Talk of plague was enough to make men say and do things—horrible things. St. Michael’s isolation spared her such fears. For a moment, she thought of her family who had that very day disowned her. At least they will be safe in St. Michael. She could barely remember the last outbreak, yet knew it would be better for her—and her child—if she turned and left with the others.
She touched her belly and knew she had no choice. She had to go on. As she made her way along the wall and into the city’s narrow streets, her felt boots, already damp from the dew along the cartpath, began to slide when they did not otherwise stick in the mud and animal droppings streaking the stony streets.
The noise and the heat of the fires, along with the clatter of cartwheels and the hooves of horses assaulted her senses as she reached the head of ulica Zydowska.
She could see people being dragged from their houses and beaten. There was a lifeless body not ten yards ahead, sprawled in the street. Is it a woman? Blood was everywhere. Someone attempted to heave the corpse out of the way, like one might deal with the carcass of a dog or a pony. The Joselewicz house was just beyond the curve in the street, where she could not see.
Irina turned and ran back the way she came, and as she rounded the corner, she collided with a man there. He was standing still, watching. “Oh!” Jan Brezchwa put his hands on her shoulders to keep her from falling.
“I am so sorry, Pan.”
“This is not a night to be running in the city, alone. You should be with family.” He tried to look into her eyes, and in the flickering light of the nearby fires, he saw only the face of a frightened girl. “Is there some way I can help you?”
“No, Pan. You are right. I should be with family.” She pulled free and ran back into Jewish Street.
…
The man astride the black horse was himself garbed in black, from his hooded cape down to his gleaming leather boots. From the far end of ulica Zydowska, he guided his mount around the rubble, human and other, but did not concern himself when the horse stepped upon the soft carcasses clinging to the cobbles. Which or what did not matter to him.
Ahead, thirty or so yards from the walled house of Joselewicz, men fought with swords and implements of all kinds. A sheepdog ran through the melee, growling, biting, and barking.
The horseman did not wish to become entangled in the frenzied bloodletting; that would not do. He reined his horse and waited. “Plague,” he whispered to himself. “How convenient.”
In the midst of the mayhem, he saw the man he was expecting, a man also on horseback who wore the colors of a nobleman. Approaching near, the man said, “Yes, Bishop?”
“Tomasz Wodowicz, see to it that what you do is in the best interests of the people of Poznan. There must be no misunderstanding.”
Fevered sweat dripped from Wodowicz as he dipped his head in submission, “Yes, your Eminence.”
Turning the black stallion away from the chaos, Bishop Tirasewicz slowly made his way back to his palace, his inspection completed, the objective accomplished. His thin lips curled to a rare smile.
1378 Poznan. Irina steps past the burning flesh on ulica Zydowska (Jewish Street) her eyes locking for one last time with her beloved Berek Joselewicz. She places her fingers on her belly, and he smiles. Velka and the dog Yip are the only survivors. Two of the attackers, Tomasz and Franciszek, are from Duke Zygmunt’s household.
The Kwasniewskis once were wealthy, but her parents Ignacz and Maria were poor, with many mouths to feed. Since the age of 12, working for Panie (Mrs) Eva Joselewicz in Poznan, she has had warmer boots to wear. Panie Eva had told Irina of a secret hiding place, and she retrieves the Joselewicz gold.
Duke Zygmunt sends his squire Jan Brezchwa to summon Father Madrosh. There is news from Gniezno. Black Death. ‘Some blame it on the Jews,’ he said. Madrosh scoffs, but the man continues, ‘It is said they poison our wells.’ Madrosh argues, ‘the Jews die of Plague, just as we do.’
The king of France has called all the nobility of Europe to convene in Paris. Dressed in Panie Eva’s rich clothing, with Velka posing as the lady’s maid, they join Duke Zygmunt’s party.
Their travels are interrupted by the imperialist designs of King Louis I of Hungary and Poland, as well as the vengeful ambitions of Tomasz. Duke Zygmunt and Margrave Wenceslas trap the invading Hungarians in a bloodbath at Krosno.
Irina marries squire Jan Brezchwa, and they raise Irina’s son Shashu and begin a successful furniture dealership in Giverny.
Along the way Irina doubts her faith, and Madrosh gives religious instruction–a clever device, by which we rehearse the theological beliefs debates of the period, though perhaps it went on a bit long—across many, many chapters. Understandably, Irina questions the meaning of good and evil, having seen the violence against the Jews of Poznan and that meted out to the Hungarians at Krosno, but did we really need to read everything St Augustine and St Thomas Aquinas argued? The lengthy treatise might have been better placed in a novel about churchmen or philosophers. The long voyage to Paris also gives us time to learn a bit of the complicated history and politics of mediaeval Poland and Hungary.
At first, it was hard to get into, as, while we’re still unfamiliar with the story, the Irina plotline and the Duke Zygmunt plotline jump back and forth too quickly. It doesn’t give us time to absorb the information. The story alternates throughout between Irina’s youth and old age, which is also confusing.
The writing quality and the editing are good, and the research involved was admirable. This is a complex story, with multiple interconnecting plotlines, and one with many characters—too many—with names we need to learn how to pronounce, but the complexity, once you learn the multiple characters, is delicious.