Polonaise
Authors: Jane Aiken Hodge
Polonaise
Jane Aiken Hodge
The more I enjoy a historical novel, the more maddened I always am by not being sure where fact ends and fiction begins. So in the hopes that you will enjoy this one, may I tell you my own policy on this? All the historical facts are as accurate as I can make them. Events took place when and where I say they did. I hope. When it comes to historical figures, I have allowed myself a little more latitude. They too only appear where and when they actually did, and much of what they say is direct quotation from historical record, but inevitably some is not. What I do hope is that all their speech and behaviour is compatible with their characters as I have read them.
J.A.H.
âHow dare you! Let me go!' The angry voice carried clearly across Cracow's Palace Square and Glynde Rendel turned quickly at the sound of English spoken, and saw a scuffle taking place outside the cathedral.
He hurried across the square that Poland's Austrian occupiers had turned into a parade ground. âWhat's going on here?' His German was fluent and the Austrian soldiers recognised authority in his tone and stopped manhandling their prisoner, whose round hat had fallen off in the struggle, revealing closely curling black hair over a wide brow and the dark, sparkling eyes of a Polish aristocrat.
As if to confirm this, he was speaking again, furiously, in Polish â recognisable but not intelligible to Rendel.
âThought so.' The larger of his captors tightened his grip. âA bloody Pole!' The German word he used was stronger. âNo need to trouble yourself, sir.' His tone to Glynde was civil enough. âIt's just one of the natives come to spy, on the pretext of visiting this damned cathedral of theirs.' He used a couple of adjectives Glynde had heard only on the field of battle.
âWhat's he saying?' The young man turned eagerly to speak to Glynde in his slightly nasal English. âYou're British? Speak German? Ask them what in tarnation they mean by grabbing me. All I want to do is look at the cathedral. Why in Tophet shouldn't I? I even have an ancestor there. As if they'd care!'
âYou're American of course!' It explained both the odd twang of the young man's speech and something faintly outlandish about his straight trousers and short greatcoat. Glynde turned away to greet a minor officer who had sauntered over to see what was the matter. âSir.' He knew just the tone for this level of authority. âThere seems to be some misunderstanding here. This gentleman is an American visitor; he merely wishes to see the cathedral. As a tourist, you understand. He speaks no German.'
âHe speaks damned good Polish,' said the soldier who was holding the young man's right arm. But his grip slackened slightly; he was beginning to look unsure of himself.
âThere's no law against that is there?' Glynde addressed the officer.
âNot yet.' The officer turned to his men. âWhat was he doing?'
âSkulking about like a damned Jew of a spying Pole. We told him to halt and he took not a blind bit of notice.'
âHe didn't understand you,' said Glynde. He smiled at the furious young man and spoke to him again in English. âThey say you took no notice when they challenged you. I take it you didn't understand?'
âNot a word. Confound it, here in Cracow hasn't a man the right to be addressed in Polish?'
âNot by the Austrian garrison. You can't have been here long.' He turned back to the officer. âMy name is Glynde Rendel. I've been visiting my cousin, Lord Falmer, in Vienna. I dined with the Governor here last night; met your commanding officer. Either of them will speak for me, and I have no doubt, if your men will just let him go, this gentleman will show you his papers.' Another smile for the scowling young American. âGlynde Rendel, sir, very much at your service. And you're â¦?'
âWarrington. Jan Warrington. From Savannah, Georgia. If these dolts will just let me go, I'll show the officer my papers. I've a letter from Mr. President Jefferson, if that means anything to him. He's a connection of my father's.'
Swiftly translated, this information was enough to get him his freedom and a grudging apology from the officer. âTell him to learn some German if he means to spend any time here in Austria,' he told Glynde, who thought it best not to translate this, or at least, not at once.
âI will act as his interpreter for the time being,' he said instead. And, in English: âThe officer has apologised. The incident is closed, except that I have volunteered to act as your interpreter, here in Cracow. It could save you further trouble.'
âKeeping away from these Austrian bastards will be more to the point.' He smiled for the first time, the dark face
transformed: âForgive me! Damned ungracious. I rather think I'd have ended up in one of their filthy prisons if it hadn't been for you. It's this temper of mine! But to be here, at home, in Poland, for the first time in my life, and find our own language useless! Of course, I should have tried them in French.' And, with an odd little smile for Glynde he turned back to the officer and made him a civil enough speech in that language, ending with: âAnd now, if we might continue my interrupted visit to the cathedral? I take it there is no objection to foreign tourists visiting it?'
âNot the least in the world.' The officer's French was only workmanlike. âIt's the Poles make the trouble. They will bring in messy little bunches of flowers, bits of ribbon, God knows what, and lay them on the tombs.'
âQuite so.' Glynde Rendel took his new companion firmly by the arm and led him away before he exploded.
âMessy little bunches of flowers.' Jan Warrington's voice was loud but he was back into English with no risk of being understood. âThe Poles make the trouble! And who makes trouble for the Poles, pray?'
âEveryone. But if we are going to go into that, don't you think we should save it until dinner and begin by paying our visit to the cathedral, which I wish to see quite as much as you do. Did you say you had an ancestor buried there?'
âYes. My mother was a descendant of the Polish King, Jan Sobieski, who saved Vienna from the Turks. I'm named after him.' They moved together through huge doors into the cooler, incense-scented twilight of the great church. Like every other building Glynde had visited so far in Austrian Poland, it showed signs of neglect. He saw tarnished gilding and holy pictures darkened by time as they walked silently down the aisle, to pause at last by the shining tomb of St. Stanislas, Bishop of Cracow and patron saint of Poland.
âI'm surprised the Austrians haven't seized the silver,' he said, low-voiced.
âNot even they would dare! The Catholic Church is a powerful mother. The only protector Poland has.' When they came at last to the huge marble sarcophagus of King Jan Sobieski, his namesake reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and produced a little box. âIt was my mother's.' Opening the box,
he took out a silver brooch in the shape of an eagle. âShe always wore it. When she was dying, I promised her â¦' He laid the shining emblem gently down among the bunches of flowers that already lay on the tomb.
âThe Polish eagle?' Glynde looked at the flowers. âThe Poles don't forget, do they?'
âThey never will, not so long as there is one still living.'
âYou feel so strongly, even though you have never been here before?' They were moving back now towards the great doors.
âYes.' It was an absolute statement. âI sure was lucky to meet you,' he went on as they climbed the wide stairs to the old royal apartments with their unpolished parquet and ragged tapestries.
âIt's depressing, I'm afraid.' Glynde was amused to find himself almost apologising to his companion. âBut I imagine the decline here started long before the partitions of Poland, when the Kings moved their capital to Warsaw. Here's the audience chamber. The King's subjects keeping their eye on him!'
The carved ceiling of the huge room was divided into squares, and from each one a carved head looked down, amazingly individual and lifelike. âListening.' Jan gazed upwards. âI wonder what it felt like to dispense justice under so many eyes and ears.'
âCharacteristic plight of the Kings of Poland,' said Glynde drily. âAlways aware of the threat from their nobility.'
âYou know a remarkable deal about Poland.' Something distracted him. âAh, there she is, the one my mother talked about. See! The woman in the gag. I wonder what my cousin thinks of her.'
âYou've relatives still in Poland?'
âI'm grateful to you for calling it Poland! It's not many do since the final partition in 1795. Seven years ago! I was only a boy, but I remember that day. I think it's when my mother began to die. Yes, I've some kin here still, though one whole branch of the family died in the massacre of Praga in â94. You know about that, too?'
âYes. I'm sorry.' What was there to say? âHow did your mother get to America?'