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No Hungarian ever stopped smoking in those years unless he was dead. They seem to only inhale, never exhale. The argument about whether to inhale or not could take place only in America, never in Hungary. The inhaling was deep and full of longing—longing for the next puff, that is, the next cigarette that was on its way right now and would lead to the next pack.

Because they inhaled so deeply and for so long, Hungarians would smoke a cigarette in two-thirds or, in some cases, even half the time it would take other smokers, whether they were French, Israeli, South American or anything else. Hungarian smoking had other striking characteristics apart from its intensity: there was no place where smoking was inappropriate, and going from one place to another did not mean taking a break from smoking. On the contrary. After all, it was a waste of time not to smoke when you have to go somewhere.

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Already during the first kibbutz meetings in November , the Israelis pleaded to issue regulations about smoking restrictions in various places, including during the meetings themselves. The Hungarians objected firmly to regulating or restricting smoking in any way. For fifty-six years, a file was left sealed in the Yehiam archives. He was killed in January , in the War of Independence, during the first, fierce attack on Yehiam, which also killed three others. He was buried under his name, but no one knew his true identity or his family. People on the kibbutz had barely gotten the chance to get to know him because he was killed a very short time after he came there.

In , a man arrived suddenly from Tel Aviv asking for details about him. The only thing the old-timers could recall after straining their memories to provide a few answers for the man who had been searching for him for fifty-six years, was that he had been older than most of them and even a worse chain smoker than the other Hungarian chain smokers.

His archived file contained only one letter he had received from his sister in Hungary ten days before he was killed. There was no address on it. To the man from Tel Aviv who was searching for him, they gave the letter that had been left in the file, the letter that had come for the Hungarian smoker whom no one on Yehiam had a chance to get to know, the letter that came such a short time after he arrived on Kibbutz Yehiam from the war in Hungary, and ten days before he was killed, a soldier on the southern post of the fortress, by a mortar shell in a battle that went on for six straight hours.

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During the long siege of Yehiam, the members sent the other half of the kibbutz which was still in Kiryat Haim with the children Morse Code messages listing the supplies they needed. After the list of vital supplies was decoded, they were airdropped from the skies over Yehiam. Ezer Weizman was one of the pilots who airdropped those supplies. That evening, they learned that a mistake in deciphering the Morse Code message had led to the bitter substitution of candy for cigarettes because in Hebrew, the words are so similar candy is sucariot and cigarettes is sigariot.

Two weeks before the disaster of the convoy that was attacked on the way to Yehiam in March , the members trapped in the fortress had completely run out of cigarettes.


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When the war ended, the commander there, Zvi Gershon, wrote about that:. But for some reason, I had collected about two hundred cigarettes. I used that stockpile to help the smokers who were suffering the most, handing out half a cigarette a day. The lack of cigarettes made them jumpy, and they launched a search for something they could smoke. That was a very significant discovery. When the plane appeared overhead, the smokers would look at it, breathless with anticipation.

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I remember one of the professional smokers running after the parachute and opening it, and when he saw that it contained only bread, he kicked it furiously. That was when I began using my hidden treasure of cigarettes to encourage people to go out on patrol. My Morse Code messages and demands to send cigarettes were to no avail, and the people suffered terribly.

Zvi Gershon, who was both wartime commander on Yehiam and the inventor of agricultural machines and techniques in peacetime, hit the nail on the head in describing the professional smokers. Because with all that the Hungarian smokers had in common, they fell into different categories.

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The categories of smokers cut across lines dividing urban from rural, members of The First of May from member of the Workers, touching only on the number of cigarettes the smokers consumed. Papa, my mother, Agi, Esther N. One cigarette was stuck in their mouth and another waited its turn behind their ear or in their hand, or had been placed on a chair beside them.

They lit the cigarettes with matches, not lighters.

There were also more stylized Hungarian smokers, but only for the sacrosanct purpose of making people laugh, and they would exhale the smoke through their ears, like Zambo. The very best, in a league all their own, were the Szandors. Flawless professionals. The Szandors were master craftsmen of smoking.

Archives in Literature: Chapter from 'We Were the Future' — A Memoir of the Kibbutz

All the ash of their cigarettes remained hanging in one piece and never broke in the middle. The identical way they smoked made it seem as if there were many more than two of them, as if they were an entire troupe and not just a couple. Miriam Szandor, in addition to her regular job, ironed and folded laundry for soldiers on Saturdays. And even when both hands were full of work, the eternal cigarette was stuck in her mouth. Avraham Szandor had the same smoking technique. The cigarettes in their mouths never went out, not even for a second, as they did for every other smoker.

And they inhaled constantly. We used to watch them as if they were magicians. Readers, prepare to discover a world where it does, in fact, matter from which side of the Mason-Dixon you come; proprietors are assisted by double-barrel shotguns, and creative accounting wasn't created during the s. A great novel for those who like to remember, or for those who are visiting post-World War II America for the first time. You still laugh when Curtis recounts Wanda's attempts to train that mutt she adopted; housebreaking remains a sore subject for poor Wanda, and a mystery to her canine.

Black-and-white photographs capture the essence of dogs; brief, large text descriptions remind humans of the joys of dog ownership lest they forget the next time they discover that their potted plants have been mutilated! On the brink of a new millennium, teenagers everywhere have opinions about the world that they are inheriting.

Author Anthony Allison is a photographer and youth counselor who has traveled to various points on the map, talking to at risk children about their experiences and their hopes for the future. Complete with striking black-and-white photographs, Hear These Voices presents gripping stories in a forthright and respectable manner. Perfect for educators, counselors, or anyone else who is concerned about today's youth. A time management queen like Wanda probably feels like her reign is always in jeopardy. Her emotional ups and downs, even to the point of near suicide really took me in and I thought a lot and am still thinking about this book.

Jerry Lee Lewis was born in in Ferriday Louisiana, a place where the water would rise up routinely, flooding the land, destroying homes and farms, and leaving behind writhing nests of copperheads and diamondbacks. His family was poor. His mother picked cotton and his father was a bootlegger and sometime carpenter. I felt it in my whole body. Formal piano lessons, of which there was only one, did not work well for Jerry Lee.

Formal schooling also did not work out well for Jerry Lee. His upbringing in the Pentecostal Church would create a life-long tension between the fear of the Holy Ghost and the love of the secular music he chose to play. He lasted three months. He was asked to do a piano solo at the singspiration, a night of religious entertainment. It was back to the clubs and for that every music lover should be grateful. Rick Bragg chronicles all the highs and lows of the quintessential rock and roll life — the wives six by some counts, seven by others , the women, the drugs, the fights, the honky-tonks and juke joints.

His command of music encompasses rock, country, gospel and he is as inspired belting out Great Balls of Fire as he is performing the old hymns, Will the Circle Be Unbroken and Railroad to Heaven, on another recent release Mean Old Man. Read about his life to a background of his music. As far as human interest and reader involvement, it far out shone this book. But again, the books are written from two different points of view. Who will like this book : Anyone interested in Sotomayor or politics in general.

What started out as twitches at an early age progressed into frequent harmful tics as Josh grew older. As Josh struggled attending classes and holding down jobs, you begin to wonder how this guy is ever going to make it in the world. His certainty comes from the love and support of his family. He is left with hope of getting his tics and life under some control. The way Josh challenges himself, whether with weights or by working in an environment that requires silence, is inspiring.

He incorporates humor in his story where you expect to find none. Think that this book could be your next read? He is the father of 5 children, all under the age of 9.