Swans Are Fat Too by Michelle Granas Page B

that says 'God, Honor, Fatherland,' and I thought––why not 'Peace, Charity, Brotherly Love'?––I'm sure God would like that better, at least the God of the New Testament.
    No really, he thought, she goes too far.
    It does seem that too many of the ideals we hold up for future generations are belligerent. How about statues to men of the medical profession instead? I don't mean to flatter you but surely they've done more for humanity than soldiers? When one considers that in medieval and early modern Europe two-thirds of all children died before their teens––I'd put up statues to Pasteur, Fleming, the smallpox man, the Japanese fellow who experimented with anaesthesia, etc. It would be a very international group, too, and that would be good.
    Speaking of which, I've rewritten these sentences about poor Queen Bona––who was brought from Italy to Poland, then retired again to Italy, only to be poisoned at the Spanish king's bequest, by her…doctor.
    Why couldn't Agata write to me like this? wondered Konstanty, as he mused over Hania's letter. Why is it that the first person with a kindred-seeming mind that I meet in a long time should be the size, the size of…––Tsk, unkind, unkind, he chided himself; why did you write to her if you intend to insult her, even in your imagination? But some part of his intellect wasn't listening, some part was already formulating a reply: '... the research of the Nobel laureates North and Fogel indicate that it was better nutrition not medicine that caused the drop in mortality...shall we put up statues to cooks? '
     
    The next days passed pleasantly. Kalina and Maks had been instantly claimed by a gang of neighborhood children––girls in pink sandals and boys in football tees––with whom they spent the whole day. Kalina had made efforts to disassociate herself, considering herself too old, but had been quickly drawn in. Curiously to Hania, who was accustomed to the strict age and gender divisions of childhood friendships in America, the group was comprised of all ages and sexes, from five-year-old Kuba up through his thirteen-year-old sister Patricia. Hania had trouble distinguishing some of the middle members, but Patricia stood out as a live wire, a leader. Patricia was slim and long-legged and going to be beautiful. She was also untruthful, unreliable, and self-centered. So if life were like a chick-lit novel, thought Hania, watching the children out the window, Patricia would grow up to marry a rich, sensitive, humorous, perfect man and live happily ever after. On the other hand, her cousin Yola, pale and quiet and sweetly mothering all the younger children, was obviously destined for hard work and a husband who beat her.
    In the meantime, the children were having fun. They never seemed to be at a loss for ideas, but if all else failed there was always the unending game of berek ––tag––to be played. And when it rained one day, the game of berek was played through the rooms of the house, while Hania sat typing.
    "Don't you mind them?" said Kalina, who had not joined in the chase, but was sitting on the sofa beside her. "Mama won't let them in the house. That is, she didn't, the time she came here."
    Hania shook her head, "No, I don't mind. Children have to do something." She was pleased Kalina spoke to her; the girl had been doing so more and more often, usually only to voice some dissatisfaction, but still––it was a start.
    "Anyway, it lets me work. I'm typing this nice bit about Zygmunt August and Barbara. Well, I don't know if 'nice' is the word for it. This romantic bit, I should say. Could I read it to you?" And, not waiting for an answer, she began:
    " The habits of Zygmunt August, the last Jagiellonian king , were refined and ascetic. He dressed habitually in black, woke and slept early, was served by one personal servant. His disposition, wrote a papal nuncio, 'is very pleasant and engaging, his character far from stern, but he is constant and