Word: jam
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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While the committees went into their marathon, Beaverbrook and Harriman wasted no time contemplating their gavels. They talked figures at each other, rushed out to see a few sights, did a little shopping (Lord Beaverbrook bought some caviar and strawberry jam), met some real generals, called on Premier Joseph Stalin and roared mutual urgencies, and generally thrashed about at what the Russians delightedly called "Americanski temp...
This time Odessa has dug in for another bloody event. For trench digging, 100,000 spades have been manufactured in the caviar and sturgeon canning factories within, the past six weeks. Its defenders have been busy manufacturing "Molotov cocktails" (impromptu bombs) out of jam and fish cans; hatchets; crowbars; homemade armored cars. A sign in the telegraph office reads: "We do not guarantee time of arrival...
...identity of Der Snag was that he was a onetime Viennese journalist named Ernst Fischer. Russian circles in London also guessed that Foreign Vice Commissar Soloman Abramovich Lozovsky, who speaks perfect German and likes a little joke, slipped a word in now and then. The Nazis tried to jam out the voice, but succeeded only in jamming out their own broadcast. One night they put three news broadcasters on the air, one following another without pause so as to thwart the Red radio. They talked so fast that nobody understood a word they said...
...first "gasless" Sunday a steady stream of cars lined the roads; traffic was in its normal Sunday jam. Most drivers had filled their tanks on Saturday, but some set out with drums of gasoline strapped to their luggage racks. Few drove more slowly, as the Government had asked them to do, to save gas. Many guessed wrong on the day's consumption, abandoned their cars beside the road. Those who tried to bribe service stations to slip them a little bootleg were turned down: the rumor was out that the Government had spotters on the roads...
...strides ponderously up & down the big, dark-paneled office, his wide feet sinking heavily in the taupe broadloom carpet. John Llewellyn Lewis is thinking. Now his pale thick hands are clasped behind him; now they jam in great fists in his coat pockets. Deep in his heavy chops he grips a cigar the size of an auto's gearshift, and like a gearshift the cigar slides slickly from point to point along the wide mouth. A mountain in a white suit, rumpled, tired, his whitening bale of hair shaking as he walks, the 61-year-old labor leader strolls...