They always carry at least a touch of grandeur, yet they are also marked by prosaic efforts, preparations, and sometimes even family quarrels. Yet there are occasions when, at the Christmas Eve table, alongside family, loved ones, and everyday topics, sit national pride and great historical questions. Christmas has its profoundly Polish faces.
The king very much wanted to spend Christmas Eve with his family. Indeed, he was a great warrior, having just defeated the mighty Turks near Vienna, a statesman with detailed reforms planned in his palaces in Jaworów and Żółkiew, a devout Catholic ready to go wherever God and country required, but above all, he was a man, a loving husband and father. During his autumn campaign through Austria and Hungary, Jan III Sobieski saved the Habsburg capital from the world’s most formidable army, fought successive battles, and oversaw the marches and capture of Hungarian towns, yet he was clearly eager to return to Poland, to Kraków.
The Liberator of Christianity
His letters to Marysieńka grew shorter, written more tersely, almost enigmatically. Whereas in September he had written at length about every detail of battles, political nuances, and their son Jakub’s behavior—who, having turned sixteen, went to war with his father—by winter the monarch was writing letters almost on the fly. He reported about his eldest, saying he was “very content with him, but there is not always time to write about it.” Of the fights near Preszów he noted he would “tell orally.” Two weeks remained until the Christmas Eve of 1683, and the military council was already focused mainly on hastening the army.
The king did not yet know that his wife had been worried about a letter from a month earlier, in which he had written that he could not go directly to Kraków, that his return route would be different. The queen’s court hurriedly packed to set out to meet him, and she herself urged her husband on. “If I loved Your Majesty less, I would not invent so many anxieties for myself,” she wrote wistfully. She feared he might fall ill with dysentery, which had decimated the army at the end of the campaign. “I am constantly plunged in anxiety, and it will not change until I can embrace Your Majesty, my dear love, with all my heart.” On December 14, Sobieski wrote from Lubowla that they should meet in Stary Sącz, near the border, so she could quickly depart from Kraków—unaware that she was already waiting for him there. They met at the market square in Stary Sącz, accompanied by crown officials and the victorious army. They prayed in the local monastery, giving thanks there for the grace of victory, then proceeded north, through Nowy Sącz, to the capital. At every stop, they visited the local church, both devout. Even in old age, the king did not avoid daily Mass, let alone then. On the way back to Wawel, they finalized elements of the triumphal entry plan into Kraków and the Christmas celebrations for the family and the capital. They gossiped a lot—because the Kraków bishop Jan Małachowski was pressing in Rome for the beatification of Princess Kinga, whose earthly remains they had just visited in Stary Sącz. They received news of the death of Mikołaj Hieronim Sieniawski, Crown Field Hetman, who had succumbed to illness at the end of the campaign. Prince Jakub recounted his first hussar charge on Kahlenberg hill near Vienna. They debated slightly over the Crown Grand Hetman Stanisław Jabłonowski, who sometimes seemed devoted to the king for life and death, and at other times appeared to ignore pleas and orders. Along the way, they read letters from all European monarchs—even in Moscow, bells had been rung in gratitude for the Polish victory over the Muslims. Pope Innocent XI sincerely admired Sobieski: “Truly your name, full of glory, shall be placed on the most glorious pages of the history of the Catholic Church,” he wrote. The Swedish queen Krystyna warmly envied him, “I envy your hardships and dangers, the title of Liberator of Christianity.”
The Royal Christmas Eve
Military losses were not small, as frost, poor supply, and disease had thinned the Crown Army, but for statesmen of the time, this was neither surprising nor devastating. And the later generations of historians and publicists’ groans about how the Vienna relief could have been done differently—or not at all—had not yet reached those Poles. They truly understood this triumph deeply, almost metaphysically. The Rzeczpospolita had finally emerged from isolation, while even the smallest neighboring states mocked its decline, and arrogant Turkish officials, a year earlier, had pointed with a stick at lands they wanted—lands the Poles could not contest. Christianity had truly been saved, the aggressive Muslims defeated at Vienna and Parkan, and the French king Louis XIV, who had wished Muslims even to water their horses in the Elbe, embarrassed.
The Sobieskis, their relatives, and friends felt that something great had happened, and Christmas—snowy, frosty—was illuminated in Kraków on December 23 by the king’s triumphal entry and a multi-day fireworks display. Some gunners were injured in the fireworks (one perhaps even died), but what celebrations do not bring burnt cake, under-salted borscht, or minor mishaps! The royal Christmas Eve took place in the halls of the royal castle at Wawel—12 traditional dishes and a bundle of hay under the tablecloth were already served then. As always, grandparents told stories (the queen’s father was seventy, loved recounting his youth, and lived nearly 100 years, even enjoying Carnival with his great-granddaughter!), and personal plans, achievements, and problems were discussed—Marysieńka wanted the second son to be quickly enveloped in war legend, like her firstborn, Jakub. He was already being matched with European ladies, possibly even a Portuguese princess. Daily Mass was attended, and that winter the hymn Te Deum Laudamus was sung with particular excitement. Special installations throughout the city—the triumphal gates and decorations illustrating the victories of ancient Caesars and the current king—enhanced the impression. They already understood that the “West” was a distinct civilization. Sobieski ceremoniously distributed exotic war spoils—tents of Vizier Kara Mustafa were displayed under the open sky to admire the defeated enemy’s grandeur. The Prophet Muhammad’s banner, a sacred Muslim relic, crashed under the tomb of Saint Stanislaus at Wawel. Two Tatar banners Sobieski placed behind the tomb of Saint John Cantius in his former academic church, St. Anne’s, where they still hang discreetly, unknown and untouched, now completely blackened and forgotten. Even today, one can touch that Christmas, that battle, that sense that Poles are made for great deeds if they do not fear greatness.
Post-November Christmas Eve
Yet the significance of historic moments is felt not only at the top of power and in the capital. Even the deepest provinces understand when something important happens. Aleksander Gołyński, owner of a small estate near Kamieniec Podolski, was excited from early December. For months, he had read delayed, lightly outlined, censored reports of the political revolution in Paris that had brought King Louis Philippe to the throne. Finally, at the start of December, strange news “began running through Podolia (…) first among the Jews, who through their trade connections always had the first political news; murmuring quietly among themselves, they reported it to us under strictest secrecy.” Revolution in Warsaw! Prince Konstanty had fled the capital! Uprising against the Russians! The November Uprising! On December 5, envoys of the National Government arrived—including the secretary of Prince Czartoryski, Adolf Dobrowolski. “Join us,” came the exciting news from Warsaw.
Newspaper clippings slowly reached Podolia, showing the nation embracing itself. Masses for the homeland, patriotic balls, people publicly forgiving debts and abandoning lawsuits—on the remote Podolian estates near Kamieniec Podolski, this could not go unnoticed. Even the smallest gentry began gathering in manors and churches, as if schooled in conspiracy for years. Some feigned mourning, others pretended to hold card games, but everywhere they discussed, collected money, and counted weapons. On December 18, the local Russian officer, General Kablukov, held a banquet for Tsar Nicholas’s birthday, recalling various historical events—including the Vienna relief. Suddenly, when decorations commemorating recent Russian victories over the Turks appeared on stage, instead of applause, the sound of chairs and boots was heard—the local guests left the theater en masse. This Polish display might not have impressed so much if, about two hours later, Russian generals did not receive orders: mobilize soldiers and move to the Bug—for the Poles had taken up arms.
The dominant seasoning of all dishes at that Christmas Eve was satisfaction. Martial law imposed by the Russians frightened the occupiers more than the locals. Jews mockingly asked soldiers: “Whom will you shoot at when Poland does not yet exist here?” Even travel between villages required a separate passport—but families still arrived for the holidays, perhaps more than usual. The Gołyński family was large, with men serving in Kamieniec, Berdyczów, and even Galicia. Noble gossip became the best revolutionary newspaper—news quickly spread that veteran of the Kościuszko Insurrection, General Benedykt Kołyszko, already 80, would join the fight. No young man or weakling had an excuse to avoid involvement.
They also enjoyed the traitors, as the biggest collaborators fled to towns under Russian gendarmerie protection or even left the province, having previously urged visits to General Kablukov with apologies for the banquet demonstration. Yet conversations at the Christmas Eve tables—with the same dishes and the same hay under the tablecloth—were different. “Half a century of enemy yoke could not erase from memory such strong love of the homeland and attachment to freedom and national liberties,” recalled Aleksander Gołyński. On Midnight Masses, the Russians stationed spies, and Cossack patrols with authority to search any home suspected of harboring arms or suspicious discussions rode between villages. Yet no word was needed—the Poles were exceedingly careful. Perhaps only the carol by Franciszek Karpiński, specifically “Raise your hand, O Child of God, bless the beloved homeland,” brought too many knowing glances and discreet smiles. The sense of satisfaction—that the Russians, not the Poles, were in the province—was felt at almost every noble Christmas table. Years later, Gołyński answered critics of the uprising with words from the Gospel: “Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
During the preparations for the Podolian uprising, no one yet knew that on that November night, which ignited the revolt, one of the bravest cadets who rushed to the Belweder was Seweryn Goszczyński, writer, poet, and officer of the Polish army—but above all, a native of Podolia, raised on conversations, legends, and encounters with its people.
The Independence Christmas Eve
They had no idea what Poland would be like, but they knew there would definitely be some independence. Similarly, Christmas Eve 1918 was shaped by war crises and the march of fronts, which brought severe poverty to their ancestors. “Basic necessities were incredibly expensive, growing costlier every day, while valuable goods were sold and bought for a pittance,” recalled Karol Wędziagolski, who had just arrived in Warsaw. “Yet despite this economic strangeness, despite widespread concern for tomorrow, moods were good, festive, and solemn,” he added. There was no single interpretation of events—Poles scattered across all partitions, in armies throughout Europe, from different social classes and cultural backgrounds—it was more challenging than today. Wincenty Witos described how in Galicia the Polish Liquidation Commission, a national institution organizing public life in the south, was treated: “Jews were highly dissatisfied, complaining that the commission did not protect them from greater and lesser annoyances, and even did not allow them to form their own guard.” Others accused the same commission of being in the hands of Jews! “On the contrary, peasants loudly complained that the commission was effectively an office defending the manors and the Jews!” Some wanted to redistribute noble estates and expel the clergy, while on the other side, beyond the Berezyna, descendants of minor nobility asked Polish officers who would be king of the reborn Rzeczpospolita.
Yet on Christmas Eve 1918, something happened that no press dispatches captured, and even the memoirs of Poland’s independence fathers remain silent. Politics intertwined with private life. While in Warsaw, Józef Piłsudski, freed from Magdeburg, ate a modest dinner, allegedly spending more time over letters from his daughters than military reports, in Lublin, Ignacy Daszyński calculated if he had enough food rations for local workers. In Gniezno, young soldier Sylwester Szymański, who had just deserted the German army to soon fight in the Greater Poland Uprising, married 17-year-old Zosia, fearing the local gendarmes. There was hope for Poland, hope for a happy family, and much fear for both.
Even during the happiest, profoundly Polish Christmas Eves, there was cause to complain, worry, pray for great deeds, and thank God.
At the end of 1918, in the former Polish provinces, one could still hear a greeting—now forgotten—that also served as a Christmas wish:
“Poland will be.”