“Close your eyes and dream that when the electorate in this great nation repudiates this putrid regime, my brother, the day that happens there will be a joyful noise from the bowels of this great country that makes Hungry repudiating the Orban will look like an Amish Sabbath.”—Jon Stewart
The day Hitler’s war ended is stamped permanently on my consciousness. Our street was electrified. A taxi driver, horn blaring, his shirt flapping out his window as though shot from a canon, barreled bare chested down our street. My mother was racing around the house, preparing to go to town, where there would be a great celebration with the soldiers stationed there, and with her girlfriends, and the soldier she was dating. I begged to go along. I had never asked before. I thought war was the very worst thing that could happen. It took my father away. It made us ration our food and some of our clothing. People sacrificed, bought war bonds to help fund it. It killed people. I saw newsreels of it at the movie theater. It was terrible. But we were going to celebrate its end.
