IT WAS November in the year 1843. The trees in New Linden Street in Warsaw were fast shedding their leaves which hardly a few weeks before in a blaze of color had given that part of the city its distinctive signs of autumnal beauty. The chestnut, the maple, the sycamore, and the hardy oak, interspersed down the lane, all strengthened by each other’s example, with less and less reluctance released their hold on the myriads of life-giving forms of their multi-colored foliage. The one holding its position as sentinel at the curve of the road, now completely stripped of its earlier abundant clusters, revealed in small contrast to its drab-colored bark, an oddly shaped shrine, firmly attached to the trunk at a height easily reached by the stretch of an adult’s arm. The shrine contained a small statue of the Virgin and Child of unknown workmanship, faded and weatherbeaten. A small lamp placed there by some pious Varsovien glowed at her feet.
Though the features of their loving virgin were indistinguishable, those that lingered near read into them a feeling of seriousness, for the whole atmosphere surrounding her at the time was permeated with sadness. November of 1843 was one of the saddest months in one of the saddest of Poland’s centuries. It was a century in which she lay vanquished and captive at the mercy of her foes. And Warsaw was the concentration point of the melancholy feeling. As the capital of the enslaved nation, all hopes for an independent political and national life had sprung from here, only to be crushed time and time again by the preponderance of the physical might of those that had enslaved her. Hardly more than a decade had passed since the fatal fall of the November uprising of the patriotic Poles in Warsaw against the despotism of the Czar. Though the insurgent leaders had already paid for their ill-timed gallantry in a way that satisfied the autocratic ruler, many of the insurrectionists still lingered in the prisons in the very shadow of the city. In addition to confiscations, deportations to Siberia, the persecution of the Church, the closing of schools, a strongly-built citadel was erected at the gates with its cannon turned towards the city to remain there as a constant reminder of the despotic rule.
It was into this atmosphere that Mother Veronica was born, for she first saw the light of day November 5, 1843, at 2468 New Linden Street in the city of Warsaw. There was a great rejoicing, however, in the Grzedowski household when the baby girl came, for she was anxiously awaited. Apollonia Chodakowska, her mother, was already forty-two at the time of her arrival, having been married the second time a year earlier to Matthew Grzedowski, a Varsovien ten years her junior. Her first husband, Gasiorowski, gave his life in the ill-fated November uprising in 1831, leaving her a widow with two children, a girl of ten and a boy two years older. Honorata, the younger of the two, was then twenty when her little sister came on the scene. The doting care given the tiny infant by the four adults of the household can well be imagined. Mother Veronica’s oft-repeated statement was that she was a very spoiled baby.
Perhaps it was because of this over-solicitous care that she was not carried out of the house to the church for baptism until she was almost a month old. The church was within walking distance, but there were also the doroszki or carriages always hired for that very purpose. We may surmise, however, that it was rather because of custom, odd as it was, that the christening was delayed. For a christening in a Polish home was always an occasion for a great feast. Relatives had to be invited and with communication and transportation at the 1800 pace, time had to be measured accordingly to have them gather for the event. The baptismal record of St. Andrews Church signed by the Reverend Martin Zarzecki bears the time and date: Four P.M., December 3, 1843. The sponsors were Ignatius Powidzki, a citizen of Warsaw, and Mary Biernacka. Two witnesses in addition to the sponsors of the baptism were listed as Matthew Grzedowski and Michael Kolczykowski. The name given was Emily Eleanor.
If the act of baptism was the greatest event in the life of Emilia Grzedowski as it needs must be in the life of every Christian, it was likewise an event worth recording with blazoned symbols in the annals of the Catholic Church. For with the waters of divine grace that flooded her soul on that December day came a stream that flows on still and adds a brilliance to the luster of the glories of this Divine Institution. Coincidentally on the day before her birth in the course of a discourse pronounced at Rome, His Eminence Cardinal Pacca, Dean of the Sacred College, at the opening of the Academy of the Catholic Religion uttered these words: “he hearts of good Catholics are saddened at the sight of what is transpiring at both extremities of Europe. To paint the state of the Catholic Religion in the North, and above all, in Russia and unfortunate Poland, I find no other language than that of the Sovereign Pontiff: Status plorandus non discribendus – a state which must be deplored, not described. I dare not cast a scrutinizing glance into the uncertain future reserved for those people. …” After felicitating the academicians on the labors which they had undertaken for the defense of the Catholic religion by uniting their force of reasoning with the riches of learning for the destruction of evil, he describes the somber background of the perfidious deeds of the century. “But,” he adds, “from the midst of this lowering and frightful horizon there break forth some luminous rays, the consolatory forerunners of a better and happier future.” Perhaps the splendor of grace with which the soul of the newly-baptized Emilia had been endowed most assuredly complemented the rays designed by the prophetic words of the illustrious dean of the Sacred College. A century later hundreds of religious following her heroic example were spreading the faith or planting its seeds on the western continent in North and South America among many hundreds more of God’s children.
Completely unconcerned, however, about the occasion, and oblivious to the world and era into which she had come, little Emily was returned after the baptismal ceremony to the arms of her eagerly awaiting mother.
Winters may be very cold in the temperate zones and those in Poland’s continental climate additionally so. That of 1843 was extremely severe and Emily further added to the chill in her house in her own innocent way. She was mildly letting the family know that she had no desire to continue her natural life with them. Anguish filled the home. Efforts were doubled and redoubled to hold the soul captive within the little body; they were warmed by the breath of the continual Ave’s recited for her life and by supplications made to all the known saints in heaven, until her strength notably increased. When she greeted the warmth of spring with gleeful gurgles, the family was made happy by the knowledge that Emily was determined to stay.
After that first hard winter, fears for the life of their little pet never returned with the same intensity, but there were times in her later babyhood when she continued to cause concern. She remained frail, delicate, and lacking in the exuberance and energy so characteristic of the children of Mazovia. But the vivaciousness of spirit and the innocent gaiety that remained with her all her life manifested themselves early and never allowed themselves to be hampered by the frailty of her body. She established herself immediately as the center of interest around which the attention of the residents of 2468 New Linden Street always revolved.
Among the first articulate sounds that Polish children make, the word “Bozia,” a diminutive for God for which there is no English equivalent, is almost always found. Little Emily learned it early, and soon associated it with any religious object which she discerned. When her mother or any one of her elders took her out for an airing down New Linden and pointed out to her the Virgin on the oak, she gave her that name too, but loving interest in her awakening religious instincts prompted an explanation, and she soon learned to call the Virgin Mary by her name, the one she always later used: “Matuchna Niebeska” Heavenly Mother. She grew attached to this shrine, and whenever she wanted to go out into the open air, tugging at her mother’s skirts she lisped, “Take me to the Heavenly Mother.” Borne in strong arms or trudging along with baby steps she visited the Lady frequently, now calling her by her sweet name, now planting a caressing kiss on her weatherbeaten feet. Though she later recognized the larger representations of the Virgin in the niches on the facades of the wealthier citizens’ homes in Warsaw which the destructive forces of Czardom had not yet removed, the one on the oak remained the object of her love. It often loomed up in her memory in later years, perhaps for the important reason that the intense love that she bore for the Blessed Mother all her life was first awakened here.
As she grew older her walks in the city grew longer and took on added significance. Accompanying her father or her older brother she toured the city and reveled in the sights that were pointed out to her as historically important. Her elders had a unique pride in their capital city and in everything that was marked as distinctly native to it. The wide Krakowskie Przedmiescie with its magnificently arched chestnut trees led to the Castle Square where stood the palace of the kings of her country during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Beyond that was the cobble stoned square of the Old City, clinging to the sloping river bank. Here she was made acquainted with all that most ancient in the heart of her Mazovia. She easily learned the names of the streets which they passed on the way like Long Street, Baker Street, Warm Street, and Iron Street, and provided amusement for the family later by repeating that these were all she remembered from the planned excursion into town. If they set out in the opposite direction they used the Aleje Ujazdowskie, a broad boulevard with its rows and rows of linden trees, and came to a park not far from her home where they often spent many hours joining the other adults who came their with their children.
This park, the Saxon Gardens, was her mother and father’s favorite place for meeting their friends. The hardy chestnut trees, centuries old, forming a long beautiful avenue, afforded a welcome shade where they sat and chatted over matters trivial or seriousness. Here Emily drank in the beauty that was typically Varsovien, informal yet augmented by a touch of artistry in the structure of statues and fountains and pools. Her little mind was impressed with this patch of nature carved out in the center of the rapidly building city. From this park they often made the short distance to another equally cherished spot, the palace of the last Polish king, a real gem in a charming rustic setting. Here she could throw crumbs to the swans and feed acorns to the squirrels or run up and down the steps of the old amphitheatre.
When it was warm they went toward the river, the sandy Wisla, perpetuated in her mind by childhood experiences and a song which she often sang later and passed on to another generation. After running around in the lush grass a little away from the shore, she would wade in the water near the edge, or from the bridge look down and watch the watermen on their barges floating downstream. In her playful way she liked to call out to them asking for a ride on their long, long way down the river to the sea, always running immediately after this call, however, and hiding in the arms of her father where she felt safe and secure. She felt then that she would never want to leave her beloved parents or charming sister or devoted brother. She would remain in Warsaw always and walk along the river bank or play in the park, or stand and contemplate the huge statue of Zygmunt rising in the city square. She didn’t want the watermen to take her away.
The same natural feeling remained with her all her fifty years. With an unexplained tenacity she clung to her native land, never troubled by the shadow of a temptation to leave its shores, though the stream of emigration continued all through the century, increasing in volume as her years also rolled on. But God’s designs are not always patterned to fit our natural inclinations. He had eternally planned a work that was to be enriched by the merit of a heroic sacrifice, and Mother Veronica, the Emily of earlier years, was to be given the opportunity of being His chosen instrument for that work far away from her land and home. When that time came, He had already shaped her soul by the abundance of His grace making it a pliable instrument for His plans and master of an inclination that would otherwise have been a hindrance to a holy cause.
Meanwhile little Emily to the delight and joy of those who loved her was growing, and the time drew near when her formal education had to be thought of. The matter of selecting a school was long and seriously deliberated. She was Grzedowski’s only child and he felt that she was entitled to the best that he could provide for her. The meager salary brought home by him from the mint, where he was employed, certainly would not be sufficient to cover the cost of an expensive private education at home which was still very much in vogue even among the middle-class in mid-century Warsaw. But the private schools in the city, close to the headquarters of the foreign rulers, were not looked upon with trust. They were strictly supervised. Not only was the Russian language compulsory there, but indoctrination in an attitude favorable to the foe was always suspected.
Her parents were religious people. Mother Veronica often mentioned that she never heard any expression of bitterness or harshness uttered against the lot which they shared in common with all the Poles of the enslaved kingdom. They accepted it with resignation and schooled themselves to think that it was meted out to them in accordance with the supreme will of God, Who always arranges the course of our lives in harmony with a plan destined to merit for us an eternal happiness. Emily carried this lesson out of her home and applied it to the countless events of her long life. Though heavily-laden storm-clouds later often gathered over her, though forces hostile to her most sublime plans and intentions often prevailed, her humble submission to the will of God, her meek resignation to His Almighty power, her complete dependence on the strength of His word, and her utter abandonment to all His decrees remained ever unshaken.
When the choice of a school was finally made, it was the private boarding school of the Sisters of the Congregation of Mary in far-off Czestochowa. Here Emily would be assured of a religious training for which the Grzedowskis would accept no substitute, and here she would be at a reasonable distance from the strictly supervised capital schools and their enforced methods of Russification.
