Verhovayak Lapja, 1943. július-december (26. évfolyam, 26-53. szám)

1943-10-14 / 42. szám

jyoL. xxvi.

OCTOBER 14, 1943

NO. 42.

The bowling season started lor Branch 395 a couple of Thursdays ago, not with a big isplash, but with a very representative attendance— I hope. Of course, I think every one was conscious of the members Who weren’t there ( a case of being conspicuous because of absence) such as Julius Lenart, ‘Jimmy Makrancy, Steve Dobos and so many others I could mention. Most of these boys have an Uncle who has something else for them to do right now, »0 they sent us their regrets and hoped we’d carry on for a while until they were no longer unavailable.

But to get back to bowling; We didn’t do so badly — I believe each one of us broke 50, at least one game during the first evening, and the second Week Johnny Sabo and Missus were up to tournament standards. Helen Klein and Thelma Ross brought a friend (Mmmmmm) and although she hadn’t bowled before, waded in there and licked even Miss Ganyu. For a While it was neck and neck, but now I think Joan Fox has the edge, but then Helen always Starts out low enough to give her a lot of margin for improvement. That Joseph George is a regular “dark horse” — for a beginner he certainly tan put that ball where it ought to go. He had a little trouble .getting the right fingers in the right holes but after that, it was smooth sailing. Joseph Bartko was with us 395-ers, too; he was awfully discouraged because there was a decided slant in the alleys that didn’t agree j with the curve in his ball. Pinky Goyden did all right — She usually does — but Ann Bagi hit a new low (for her) but that’s not too bad, because now the only way she can bowl is better. My own scores I’d rather forget, and I hope everybody else does too; I made the pin boys happy — when it Was my turn to bowl, they Clapped. The members, most of .them, think we had better not Bend our scores into the Journal for a couple of weeks, and I think it’s a swell idea.

* * *

NEíVSLETS ... Kenny Norma* has gone to work for that Same Uncle I mentioned a While back; by now there should be enough boys from 395 to form a platoon all their own. The Makrancy boys were home recently; also Gus Nagy — Lt. J Nagy — you will remember i Gus was treasurer of 395 once

' »nd of course that makes him!

; «I good man. I was walking ! down Fifth Avenue, minding

my own business, when someone “toot-toot”-s at me and the next minute I was talking to A1 Goydan in a shoot suit. Al’s furlough came just in time for his first anniversary and I don’t think A1 himself could have asked for anything better, Mrs. Goydan couldn’t — that’s certain.

* * *

I think I'd like to extend Johnny Sabo a couple of pats on the back from our branch. He got himself made Supreme Auditor at the convention and we’re all basking in reflected glory in Branch 395. Johnny must feel like a Quiz Kid on the Supreme Court bench — but there’s a lot to be said for youth — you’ve got lots of time to get somewhere and we are sure Johnny is going somewhere.

* * *

Speaking of conventions, I just automatically think of Wilson Movie and the meeting when we elected the candidates; Wilson wasn't quite clear on the subject, but Ethel Rose H. explained it to his satisfaction, after he took a lot of ribbing. He’s in England now, but his sister and niece are going to come to our meeting one of these times, we hope.

* * *

At the Steve Lesnansky’s it was a boy; and by the time

this appears in print, the Elmer Halas’s will have welcomed the newest Halas, and Ethel will

be an Auntie. The Stork Section is almost a “must” in this column, anymore, so in it goes.

* * *

Here, I can give out with “the Army’s loss is 395’s gain” but I haven’t seen that bundle of profit as yet — namely

Albert Joczik. Where are you Albert? We would like to see you, so please don’t do a Garbo on us or give our nice warm welcome the cold shoulder; we always thought you were a nice fellow.

* * *

It seems just a little odd to be writing a column again, but Johnny left some shoes behind to fill, so I hope the former readers (all three of you) of Veni Vidi are glad to see us

back again.

Correction

In the September 30th issue, in the CONVENTION NOTES, second column, fifth paragraph was: Then he called upon Rev. Leslie John Papp, evangelist from Buffalo, N. Y., etc. This should have been: Then he called upon the Rev. John L. E. DePapp, minister of the Our Savior Hungarian Lutheran Church, Buffalo, N. Y.

ANDY GNORA

U. S ARMY .

Andy, you’re just an Army Corporal —

Not a Captain, General, or even a Sergeant; Doing your share for Uncle Sam;

You’re the kind of a fellow a girl would want.

Giving your all for the red, white and blue, Never forgetting the girl you left behind;

Of all the fellows I ever knew,

Right from the bottom of my heart I find,

Andy, you are best of all.

U. seless to loose hope and weep;

S. O I’ll keep right on saying;

Andy, I’m still waiting and I’ll keep Right on praying Mightily, for your return; because You belong to me.

—EMMA JENE EVANS, Age 14.

(Note: Emma Jene wrote the above poem for Corp. Andy Gnora, somewhere in North Africa, at the request of his girl, Helen Drotas.)

Widening Horizon-------------By KATHRYN RAW-------------It all happened so quickly, thought the man in the prison camp, one night as he lay staring into dark space. His thoughts traveled back over his past life. Only a few short months ago he had led a soft, easy life; his personal needs looked after by Jenkins, his man, who had pampered him since early boyhood. Now he was held captive in the enemy camp. He was crowded—herded— with several hundred men in quarters that were unfit for human beings to live in. How long could they stand the inhuman treatment to which they were subjected, day after day, week after week?

The men in his battalion had fought hard, but the odds were against them from the beginning. Some of them died on the battlefield, and those left alive did not have time to bury them. They were marched away into the enemy prison camp, their dead left irreverently lying on the fields, where their flesh would soon be picked clean off their bones by vultures. These men had been brave — unafraid to die and enter into the unknown.

Months passed; slow, torturous months in which they were forced to endure captivity, shame and degradation. They were not properly fed and their bones stuck out of their skinny bodies, their strength to fight back was gone. How much longer could they go on like this?

He looked around at the men huddled close to keep warm. Some of them were just boys who not yet had time to live, to develop latent talents and bring into being worthy desires and ambitions. He realized that if help did not come soon they would all perish in the camp. He was tortured with the thought of death. Miserable as he was in prison, he still clung to life, which seemed doubly precious to him now, since there didn’t seem to be much tirnq left to him.

His thoughts kept going back over and over again to past years. How foolishly he wasted them! His thoughts and ambitions were not always of the highest type; in fact, most of his time was spent at bars, and making love to other men’s wives.

He rebelled at the thought of being held a prisoner. In the past his body had been free to move about at will; it was a comfortable body that served him well. But now it was illfed, ill-clothed, ill-housed. He wondered idly if he had a soul,

and if so, what it was madg of. His soul — what was it? —. what its purpose? Suddenly, ha saw a faint ray of light within the darkness of his being. He had a soul! — a thing of beauty! — and it had been fettered —* chained to sordid thoughts and desires. Shame overwhelmed him at the remembrance of the forbidden pleasures he had indulged in; while the man within was completely ignored, his thoughts and desires unknown. In the past his soul had been imprisoned, within the parishabla clay, but now his body was also held prisoner — tortured and abused almost beyond endurance.

Strange visions upon visions crowded his brain — fascinating, persistent dreams of a new kind of freedom that held him fast in their grip. His consciousness expanded, and he looked out upon widening horizons that reached into infinity. He couldn’t analyze what was happening to him; but he grew calm and peaceful.

The days passed slowly. He no longer rebelled against the abuse of the guards, whose voice was fiery and angry as a stormy sea; nor did he weep over his unhappy fate. There were moments when he was actually cheerful, despite the intolerable situation. The men crowded round him gradually grew aware of the change in his personality. His attitude had a strange effect upon them. They did not know how or why, but their «own rebellious spirit grew calm and their curses ceased.

An epidemic broke out among them. The man seemed endowed with a sixth sense, as he went about ministering to the ailing, making them as comfortable as possible. When he spoke, they were encouraged by his words; for his voice and manner abated their fears. His eyes grew earnest and dreamy, as though they had seen far-off things, witnessed miracles that happened mysteriously in the vastness of his soul — miracles never to be forgotten, their trace left indelibly on his personality.

The men renewed their faith and hope — knowing that help was not far distant, that soon they would again be free men.

WHERE THE FUEL GOES/

%

AN AIRPLANE ENGINE burn! up its own weight in"gasolinq in about 2 hours.

VEN I, VI1H

■ By Helen Stipkovits “