Free Swans Are Fat Too by Michelle Granas Page A

spending the whole summer with the children.
    "Please will you ask your mother to call me later? Tell her it's important. Tell her I had to go out. Will you do that?"
    "If I remember." Kalina spoke in a tone of total detachment.
    "Maks, will you help Kalina remember?"
    "I'm trying to watch this," he waved her impatiently away.
     
    Late that evening, Hania sat in bed with the laptop propped before her, opened the email program, hesitated a moment and typed. Respected Sir, Thank you for the lovely evening … And then erased it. She had walked down Nowy Świat Street. There had been the two lines of 18 th -century façades, arched doorways, decorated window piers, curlicued balconies, stucco swags and intricate cornices; a mass of fashionable women sweeping past––less lacquered than Manhattanites, but less haggard too––they were slim and light and natural. (And just occasionally, one with something unusual in her costume––that one, for instance, with the snakes on her fishnet stockings, winding round her legs.)  And the luxury goods in the shop windows––that hat with the fluffy feathers––but what had that to do with her? She could not wear any of those things, and she had her meeting ahead. Konstanty was standing waiting for her outside the café. She saw him almost every other day or so at the grocery; there was no reason for her heart to skip a beat. Only he was so distinguished looking, so exquisitely polite as he held the door open. And then the café––a memory of plush chairs and columns and people who looked like they'd never had anything to do with communist Poland. That middle-aged woman over there with the wild hair and the brocade shawl could only belong to the theatre, but the white-headed, humorous-looking man in an expensive jean jacket, or the young woman in pearls, embroidered skirt, and pointy sandals, carrying a briefcase, what were they? The café was probably the only place she'd yet been in Poland where people weren't instantly identifiable as construction worker, government clerk, humanities teacher, nouveau-riche businessman, thug…And then they had begun to talk and she hadn't noticed her surroundings anymore at all…
    Respected Sir, I really enjoyed …
    Should she be writing to him on a personal note? In spite of numerous friendly conversations, she certainly couldn't consider him a friend. She didn't want to sound pathetic.
    … discussing work …
    She erased the message. Dear Konstanty …She blushed at the very words. Erase. Why couldn't she just write to him in a breezy American fashion? Hi Kostek, Nice talking to you tonight… She erased the words, closed the email program and went back to typing. But this part too was about a marriage. What had he thought in writing this, she wondered?
    …In 1384, the grandniece of the last Piast ruler was crowned king––not queen––of Poland. Jadwiga was beautiful, multilingual, educated, refined, and ten years old. Much to her horror, within a year or two her marriage was arranged to Jagiello, Grand Duke of Lithuania, a pagan, and much her senior. Before the wedding a former fiancé came to attempt her rescue from Wawel Castle, but he was discovered and departed through a window, by a rope, while Jadwiga hewed desperately at the door with an axe. To no avail. Perhaps she gave in to pressure then, or perhaps––the official Catholic view––being very pious, she was moved by the idea of bringing Lithuania into the Christian fold. After assurances that Jagiello was not a wild animal––the chronicles mention a discreet inspection in a bath-house by a messenger––she agreed to marry him and the result was the personal union of Poland and Lithuania in 1385. Although Jadwiga continued to take part in running the country, she mostly engaged in philanthropy, and before her death from childbirth complications in 1399, sold her jewelry and clothes to finance the future University of Cracow. She was canonized in 1997 and is the