46 / CHRONICLESntoo, and was able to warm my chillednfeet at the same time: a mathematieiannacquaintance estimated the number ofncandles then burning at 70,000.nThere were about as many aroundnthe Katyn monument, recently erected:nit consists of a large but simple andnrough-hewn cross in an area surroundednby a low fence. Someone hadndefaced the cross by painting on it—atnnight, I was told—a fairly professionalnJ 940. That was all that was on it, andnall that needed to be on it. The questionnhas always been who murderednsome thousands of Polish officers atnKatyn, officers who were prisoners ofnwar. The Soviets blame the Nazis, butnthe Nazis were not occupiers of thatnterritory until 1941: in 1940 it wasnoccupied by the Soviets.nVarious hand-lettered placards werenhere and there along the fence andninside it; the one I liked best, itself litnby many candles, read in Polish thatn”If we forget them, God will forgetnus.” Some might already have despairednof God’s memory in regard tonPoland, and not only because of the sixnmillion of them who died at Nazi andnSoviet hands in World War 11. Mostnwho died then were murdered by thenformer, of course, especially the threenmillion who were Jews. (Historiansnoften cite six million victims of Nazinextermination camps, but the figure isnincomplete: six million Jews so died,nbut so did six million Gentiles—aboutnhalf of them Poles.) The Soviets didnkill quite a few, though, especiallynwhile establishing hegemony afternWorld War 11.nThe country has been much foughtover—innmilitary terms, it’s what isncalled “good tank country”—yet thenPoles seem to think God has them innmind. Indeed, much is forgiven thenChurch because it has for so long beennthe preserver of Polish consciousness,nsometimes against Lutheran and Orthodoxnneighbors, and now againstnCommunist neighbors and visitors.nThere are more applicants at presentnthan places available at seminaries.nThe Church, quite simply, is the alternative.nAnd so a quiet night of reverencenand civic and religious piety came tonan end. Scout troops marched off tonbuses, a few girls in their numbers, allnlooking as military as they couldn(whole troops of them died fighting innWorld War II). I paid my respects atnthe graves of Home Army (that is,nnon-Communist) officers and men,nand I too left. The graves of the HomenArmy people, some of whom werenburied long after their military service,nwere well lit, marked by uniform birchncrosses.nAs I left I recalled a bit of familynfolklore passed on by my grandmother,nlearned by her, I suppose, from hernhusband’s mother’s folk (it was hernfather who never whipped a one of hisn60 slaves). After the War—the War-nFederal troops made the slaves leave;nbut after the bayonets were out ofnsight, the ex-slaves returned. I thinknmy great-grandmother thought it annendorsement of her father’s vanishednworld instead of its condemnation—ncondemnation because it actuallynturned people into slaves.nThe Poles are not good slaves. Goodnslaves, after all, achieve only the gratificationnof their owners, making thenowners feel justified in what they’rendoing. The Poles on All Saints and AllnSouls show at Pow^zki and I suppose atnother cemeteries that they’re not songood at giving the desired gratification.nJames H. Bowden is associate directornof the American Studies Center innWarsaw, Poland.nLetter From thenHeartlandnby Jane GreernSave the ChildrennSuddenly, we may receive a son—ansix-year-old, our first child—and wenmay get him in weeks. My smallnworries grow immense.nSome background on one of them:nMy husband and I have what has beenncalled a “mixed marriage” (sort of anhot dish, like franks and beans). He isnfirmly Catholic; I, by upbringing,nProtestant: a lukewarm Presbyterian,ndropped off at Sunday school, in mynyouth; a more staunch Episcopalian innadulthood. We worship together, alternatingnchurches, and enjoy it. (Sonwe aren’t your textbook conservatives.)nI love the old enclaved Roman Catholicntradition he grew up in (“I was 18nnnbefore I knew there were people in thenworld who weren’t Catholic, Bohemian,nand Democrat,” he brags, not a bitnsheepishly), and he likes the intimacynof my small church in a state rife withnlarge, unwieldy Catholic and Lutheranncongregations. I chose Episcopalianismnbecause it seemed to offernall the ritual I hungered for, all thenhistory and pomp and tradition, yetnlacked the few Catholic beliefs thatnkept me from converting.nStill, I often deplore—loudly—nwhat I see as a growing horizontality, ansideways thinning, a puddling, of traditionnand, with it, religious conviction.n(My husband is concerned, too,nbut he’s not a complainer.) My grievancesnhave become cliches to be foundnin nearly every conservative journal innany given month. In my husband’snlarge, modern church, few “hymns”nthat we sing were written before 1979,nit seems (when we come across annanomaly dating all the way back to then1960’s, he elbows me, points to thenyear, and smirks), and no one hasnbothered to make them rhyme—ornscan, for that matter. They’re unmemorable,nstrictly for sanctuary use,nnot for humming in the car. There arenno quiet times unmolested by guitar ornorgan or singer or “commentator.” Wenare requested to sing a ditty as we kneelnin preparation for receiving the HolynMysteries and as we make our waynforward. We play the whole service bynear. At my little church, which looksnas if it has been lifted in rapture fromnthe English countryside, the situationnis similar: Oh, we sing the great oldnhymns most of the time, but have thenirritation of unrestrained children runningnamok in the aisles to “worship”nnoisily in their own way, sometimesnwith balloons. (To his credit, my priestnhas never held a Clown Mass, althoughnhe has allowed teenagers withnguitars from time to time, after whosen”performance” we must clap.) At neithernchurch do we waste much timenon confession or meditation.nBut, as I say, this is old news, thenlong-standing but mainly private objectionsnof mainstream America, thosenof us too polite or embarrassed orncynical to grumble out loud. Joining anparticular church is like marrying:nOne doesn’t get a divorce just becausenone’s husband’s relatives lack aplombn—and the Bridegroom is ever con-n