[Page 373]

[Page 374]

[Page 375]

When he made Aliyah, he joined the Gordonia group in [Kibbutz] Chulda, and became an active member. Asher regarded physical labor as a sacred obligation not to be transgressed, and this former yeshiva bocher became the hardest working member of the group. Whatever the task, he did it with skill and good cheer. In time, he was sent to the United States to pursue his studies, and here, too, he excelled, gaining the theoretical knowledge he later applied to his practical knowhow, which, combined with his work ethic, led to success after success.

From the day he arrived in the Land of Israel until his dying day, he was a member of the Haganah. He took part in the revenge operation in the village of Sitria and was wounded in the Kishle [prison in Jerusalem, where the British detained members of the Jewish underground organizations]. In the 1948 War of Independence, while defending his kibbutz, he fell to an enemy bomb.

I will not be long-winded in my homage to my father. I was six years old when he died at age thirty-eight. I am not here to chronicle of his life, but to conjure an image drawn from fragments of family stories, photo albums, scribblings by my mother on long lonely nights in Chulda, letters my father wrote to friends, scraps of journal entries and random bits of writings.

He was born in a well-to-do home. On his father's side, he hailed from a prosperous family in the cloth trade in Podkamien, near the border with Russia; on his mother's, a wealthy and distinguished family in Zborow. His grandfather, in my father's words, was “a pillar of the community”; his grandmother, daughter of a shochet [ritual slaughterer], “an extraordinary woman of boundless good will and generosity, who never thought of herself, only of the needs of others…” Apparently, her grandson inherited her attributes and followed in her footsteps.

He describes his father as a “prince of Torah,” with eyes only for holy texts, and his mother as beautiful, spirited, and with a zest for life uncommon in a Jewish woman of her time.

[Page 376]

Indeed, a remaining photograph of her reflects refinement and engagement. Her grandson is not blind to the discord that grows out of the contradictory natures of his parents, but he has warm memories of the abundant love showered upon the children–him, his sister–Selka, annihilated in the Holocaust with her family, and his brother David, may he live a long life. His upbringing is suffused with beauty, physical and spiritual. Love of family and fellow man are fundamental to him. “Woe for what is lost and cannot be replaced.” [Aramaic expression of mourning.]

A prodigy in yeshiva, my father excels in general studies, too. He passes his exams at the gymnasia in Lvov with distinction, and his penchant for literature continues long after he completes his formal studies.

To me, what seems to stand out most in my father's way of being is his idealistic search for meaning in theory and practice. His abiding love of literature is only one aspect of his pursuit of the goodness and beauty in human nature and of his trust in the promise of their fulfillment. This idealism brings him to Zionism and the Hechalutz movement. He joins the Gordonia group and is sent on hachshara, where, in 1930, he meets Lina–of the shiny braids and blue eyes–who leaves for the Land of Israel before him. He makes Aliyah only after completing his service in the Polish army, from which he refuses to be bought out by his parents, and joins the Chulda group and Lina.

The years in Chulda are not restful ones for him. The adage “I am a human being and thus nothing human can be alien to me” seems to have been coined for him. He lived by it for the next 38 years.

In his wish to plant roots in the Land, he learns to get along with his Arab neighbors. He studies their language and ways, and is firm but fair in his dealings with them, gaining their trust and respect.

Asher Halpern (first on the right) During Training

[Page 377]

From 1936-1939, he guards the fields of the kibbutz and the local Arabs know to steer clear of him on duty even though they are frequent guests at his home. In 1939, he is imprisoned by the British in Jaffa for participating in a revenge operation in a nearby village; he is also detained in Jerusalem after being fingered by local Arabs for taking part in an incursion into their community. He serves in security and defense posts. When a cache of weapons is uncovered in Chulda, he is first to confront British soldiers who subject kibbutz members to searches, and first to argue for admitting possession of the weapons and claiming our right to them.

In 1940, upon being recruited into the Haplacha [Agricultural Cultivation Center], he embarks on a rigorous study of all there is to learn in theory and practice in the field, immersing himself in professional literature, trials, surveys, soil and seed samplings, and methods of cultivation. In time, he launches a new section “Gidulei Sadeh” [Field Crops] in the monthly HaSadeh, to which he contributes regularly. He rises in the ranks of the Center and in 1942, is elected to the board of the Agricultural Laborers Union in Haifa, a post which requires frequent travel to and from farming settlements in the north and keeps him away from home most days of the week. In 1946, he participates in an educational forum organized by the United Farm Workers of America, where, in spite of his fledgling English, he emerges as a foremost spokesman for proponents of solidarity with the cause of his people back home. He returns on the eve of the War of Independence and prepares for publication of a book on agriculture in America.

As a member of a collective, he grapples with complexities of ideology and human relations in a social context close to his heart: “If the creative spirit is stifled, there is no future for this endeavor… It seems to me that this is not a permanent model, but a shifting from conquest to creation, a Sabbath of sorts… but in our everyday existence, without the Sabbath, there is no renewal,” he writes to a friend. He is concerned about providing the young generation with the education they need to insure the group's ideological continuity, a concern surprising in a young man who only recently became a father. He is prescient in being apprehensive about the future of the kibbutz movement.

In his letters to family and friends, he is engaged and empathetic, careful not to impose his views but to offer advice with insight and sensitivity. Even from afar, he closely follows his family's everyday lives.

He pens thought pieces and literary sketches that reflect purity of soul, passion and purpose. His entries in newsletters and bulletins are sharp, analytical and highly articulate. Open to human innovation, true to the pioneering spirit of mankind in general and his cohort in particular, he never veers from his belief in its ideals, and demands of himself and others, action, to follow words.

Can we attribute wholeness of spirit to an individual? Can we seek it in mankind? In my father's everyday life, it was not to be; but in his essence it was, and I believe, merits aspiring to.

His essence was also reflected in his physical appearance–tall and handsome, beautiful eyes that matched his inner beauty.

He died as he lived. When the bombing of the kibbutz started, as the others ran to find shelter, he ran toward the fire that broke out in the tractor shed to try to save the equipment–and he was hit.

May his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.

[Page 378]

Before joining the Hechalutz movement, he was devout and observant and conversed often with his friend Kalman Ben Chaim Hirsch Shapiro, a scholar and shochet [ritual slaughterer], whose patrons were among the most stringent followers of the Belzer Chassidic sect. He also befriended another neighborhood shochet, dubbed “ the red shochet” for the color of his hair. It appears that their main topic of discussion was “The Land of Israel.” They bemoaned the darkness of the Diaspora and longed for the light that emanates from Zion.

The turning point in his life came at the congress of Hechalutz groups in Galicia. He was sent by the Gordonia branch and approved to go on Hachshara for the precursor of today's [Kibbutz] Chulda. As soon as he became involved in the activities of the movement, he became a different person, highly motivated and always serious. Reality intruded on much of his ideology, and he endured a harsh and draining required enlistment in the Polish army, while longing to leave for the Land of Israel. This difficult time found expression in his letters to Lina, who later became his wife.

When the long awaited Aliyah came, it was not merely an “ascent” it was the fulfillment of the agricultural ideal of the original Chulda collective. Here he began his service in the Haganah. He was a guard, and was detained by the British in Jaffa under harsh conditions. Upon his release, the situation in Palestine worsened as bands of marauders prowled the roadways, and the gateway to the kibbutz was stained with the blood of fallen members. At the same time, a malaria epidemic broke out and ravaged the settlement. The group relocated to a location further west, and Asher was put in charge of crop management and supervised the cultivation of thousands of acres. His dedication and perseverance were rewarded by better harvests and, as he gained knowledge and expertise, he set aside sections for experimentation, which in time, yielded superior results. He rose in the ranks of the Agricultural Laborers Union, took on a leading role in the field, and authored professional articles in the monthly Hasadeh, rousing the interest of veteran growers.

In 1948, he was sent by the Union to further his studies in the United States, excelling here, too, and returned with more knowledge and plans.

The struggle to reclaim the land raged on. In May of 1948, Egyptian warplanes converged on Chulda, which served as a command post for the operation to open up Burma Road [the supply line to the besieged Jewish community of Jerusalem]. The Egyptian shelling was unceasing. The kibbutz equipment shed lit up in flames and Asher ran towards it to try to contain the fire. One of the explosives hit him and he was pronounced dead by the doctor who was called to his side.

His death marked the end of his lifelong quest to realize the dream for which he fought with every fiber of his being.

He left behind his sons, daughter, grandchildren, and an extended family who honor his memory.

[Page 379]

One evening, in the spring of 1938, he returned from Lvov, carrying a big secret. Earlier that day, he got word that he could join a shipload of Pioneers due to sail in a week. He had two days to sign on and come up with a large sum to cover his passage. At the end of the week, he left town without telling anyone. The reason for secrecy was that the decision to go ahead with the sail, following a four-year crackdown on illegal immigration, was made by the Histadrut leadership headed by Berl Katzenelson and Shaul Avigur, over the objections of Dr. Chaim Weizmann and other Zionist leaders.

Seven days after David's leaving, a telegram arrived announcing his safe arrival in the Land of Israel, but in Zborow, it was not believed for several days.

A month after his arrival, we were shaken to read one morning that in Kibbutz Ein Ha-Choresh one David Schneider had been shot to death by a local Arab. I read the notice on my way to Lvov and hurried to the Hechalutz Center. After hours of calls and inquiries, we learned that the victim was someone else by the name. When I returned to Zborow in the evening, many townspeople were waiting anxiously. Once they read the news that morning, they ran over to M. Ch. Silberman's shop, where all publications were deposited to be distributed, and cut out the notice from all the newspapers so that his parents wouldn't see it. Only after my return, did the parents understand why there was a hole in their paper.

[Page 380]

A few days after arriving, David enlisted and served as a guard over Jewish settlements for four and a half years. He then moved to Tel Aviv, bought a truck, and earned his living by transporting water from springs in the hills surrounding Jerusalem to the city, often fighting off Arab attackers.

With the outbreak of the War of Independence, he and his truck were enlisted to deliver supplies from the port of Haifa to Tel Aviv and Jerusalem in convoys guarded by the Haganah. A week before his death, I saw him upon his return from delivering supplies and water to Jerusalem. He looked different from when I saw him last, and I began to be worried about him.

A week later, travelling in a convoy from the port in Haifa, the convoy was attacked by Arabs from the villages G'bah [?] and Ein Razel [?] (today, Ein Eilah) on the outskirts of Zichron Yakov. An enemy bullet pierced his heart and the truck lurched into a ditch. Haganah members, who accompanied the convoy, risked their lives to pull his body from the vehicle before the Arabs set it on fire.

David in Military Uniform		David Schneider with Students at the Farm in Beit Shemen

Two days later, on the 17^th of Adar, he was to rest at the military cemetery of Nachalat Yitchak in Tel Aviv. He left behind his wife, Chana and three week old son Shmuel, as well as his sister, Elka, and brother, the writer of these lines.

[Page 381]

Raised in Chulda, he graduated from the local high school and was rooted in the life of the kibbutz, its landscape and the land he so loved to work.

From childhood, he was compassionate and peace loving. As he grew to maturity he exhibited a rare combination of extraordinary motivation and phenomenal intellectual capacity. He planned, in time, to become a serious scholar in fields close to his heart. Cherished by his friends, he knew to speak his mind, but also to listen. They called him Mishka, in affection and admiration.

He was an outstanding athlete, especially in basket ball. His friends memorialized him by naming the Chulda basketball team “Micha.”

In the Six Days War, he went out to defend his country with the rest of us. He fell in brutal and bitter battle, face to face combat in the taking of Ammunition Hill in Jerusalem.

His memory is etched in our hearts.

His parents: Hela and Natan Heiman

[Page 382]

For Michah– The days go by, summer and fall pass, now springtime too. A War of Six Days, a legend, brave and glorious, told anew. You, Michah, and your fellows, set forth–your nation to serve, In our hearts a prayer: God Almighty, guard them from harm! We knew your want. On your own, not on order, you heeded An inner command, legacy of the Palmach, call of the heart! I see your image before me, in uniform, Belted and buckled, angled beret, boots shiny and bright. Bound by dual duties–to the unit, to the nation. Hard to leave all so dear, no time left: “I need to be there!” Father's trembling embrace, Mother's silent whimper, wipes a tear, Brother and girlfriend smile in good cheer, and you enter within yourself… You return the smile as toward Mother and Father you turn, A muscle moves in your face, a soothing wave of the hand–“See you soon” And in a blink of an eye, you are on the road, the roar of the engine pierces the silence. On the way, towards where? To where needed, somewhere… And the wait begins. When will Michah return? When will a missive arrive? A call? A quick trip home? A surprise? The nation is at the brink, the army at the ready– “We're on the move!” A message from Michah, to parents, to friends, “We're on the move!” The fifth of June, the sixth… toward the walls of Jerusalem, toward the battle of the ages To free the Temple Mount, our airborne fighters descend in the line of fire and shells! In the open, no cover. You too, Michah, among the fallen. And we–how do we bear it? Where do we find comfort? Among the nation's heroes, you are brought to rest. The hills of Jerusalem and its valleys sing your praises We–your parents, your near and dear everywhere– Lower our heads in pain and in homage to your noble soul!

[Page 383]

His mother raised little Shmulik and managed to survive together with him. After long wanderings through Displaced Persons camps, they arrived in Israel, at Kibbutz Mishmar Ha-Emek. They adapted quickly and soon Shmulik was “one of the boys” in the Aluma group. He was lively and well liked by his friends, and at age 12, he made his first independent decision–to stay on in the kibbutz after his mother's move to the city.

He grew to be an engaging young man, full of vim and vigor, always in the center of group activities, be they social gatherings, discussion groups, or mischief making.

Early on, he expressed interest in agricultural cultivation and as a graduation project he submitted a noteworthy and well received thesis on the subject.

In the army, he stood out as a model soldier, a good leader, and a loyal mentor. Beloved by his superiors and his underlings alike, he knew how to project a positive image of a “kibbutznik” and to integrate kibbutz values with military values.

After completing his active service, he had only one year left to live on the kibbutz as a civilian, tending the chicken coups and serving as instructor in the school's training program.

With the first call to action, he joined his unit and was thrilled to be among the first to breach the walls of the Old City and to clear the way for those who followed. And there in Jerusalem, he met his death on June 6, 1967.

He was 23 when he fell.

May his memory be for a blessing.

In March of 1944, the Russians stood at the border of my town and were about to enter. For strategic reasons, they pulled back, and another three months passed before we were liberated.

On that March day, the Germans cleared the civilian population from the city, leaving only a security unit. Later that month, Shmuel's father chanced coming out of hiding to search for food, thinking that the Germans no longer “bothered” with Jews, but he never returned.

Shmuel was born on October 8, 1944, soon after the liberation. Kind-hearted strangers came to my aid and my child did not lack for food or shelter or care. He was a beautiful baby–healthy and strong, happy and joyful.

[Page 384]

In 1945, after the war ended, we moved to the western part of Poland, as part of the repatriation of Polish citizens. When we arrived in Silesia, we heard it made no sense to stay in Poland and everyone was signing up to go to Germany because from there, it was said, you could leave for the Land of Israel. I was among them and waited to be assigned a date of departure.

At the time, an epidemic of dysentery broke out in Bytom and Shmulik, too, was stricken. This was shortly after the war and there was no proper treatment or medication.

The boy suffered greatly, lost weight, and was much weakened. Just then, we were told it was time to go. I couldn't postpone the departure date because I was not economically independent and I also feared missing the date as the future was so uncertain.

The journey from Poland to Germany was frightful, the thought of it still is: December–frigid, icy, no food, stifling conditions in jam-packed freight wagons, no one knows when it will end. A full month of shuttling from place to place with a sick child left its mark on his development. His legs bent, his body scrawny, he could hardly stand on his feet. It was a longtime before I finally saw him walk. He had chronic diarrhea until he was three years old, when we got to Mishmar Ha-Emek.

And with it all, he was a wonderful child. His good nature, his capacity to adapt and to overcome hardships, stood him in good stead. Always positive, he quickly found a place for himself among other kids, even if he was the weakest in the bunch.

In 1947, we finally made it to the Land of Israel. The long, arduous wanderings left their marks on my nerves and state of mind. We arrived on September 3^rd and were warmly welcomed by my family in Tel Aviv. Our four month stay in the Hebrew city seemed no less than a miraculous one to me. As I was a Hashomer Hatzair member, we looked for a kibbutz where we could make a home, not an easy task in those fretful days on the eve of the War of Independence. In January 1948, we arrived in Mishmar Ha-Emek.

We quickly settled in our new surroundings. Before I knew it, we were speaking Hebrew and Shmulik completely forgot his Yiddish. He became part of a group of friends and felt welcomed and accepted. His legs straightened, his health improved, he flourished and was full of life.

The rest of the story is known: the attack on Mishmar Ha-Emek, the evacuation of the children and their return, the bombing of the children's quarters, followed by relative quiet for 19 years–beautiful years for Shmulik, who was happily involved and active in kibbutz activities, beloved by group leaders, teachers, friends, and younger children.

Though he grew up without a father and only his mother as immediate family, he did not give in to negativity, loved people, connected with young and old, and exuded positivity and joie de vivre.

[Page 385]

Much time has passed since I saw you. It seems as if years have passed and yet it has only been a few weeks. Every day is like a year and more.

Woe to the mother who loses her son, her beloved son. Woe is me that it happened to me. Tears choke my throat, my hand trembles. A difficult task I have taken upon myself. I know that words amount to nothing and bring no consolation, not to me and not to all those who loved and treasured you.

We all felt that this war was unavoidable. We knew that there is no war without sacrifices, and still the heart does not stop asking: Why? Why? Why did you not return? Why did you not get to live to see the victory?

So many trials and tribulations were our lot. The two of us together, a tiny bit of a family. We were granted life to see the downfall of the Nazi beast and make Aliyah, to live among and celebrate the re-birth of our people.

We went through so much together. As a child with a debilitating illness and hope waning for your recovery, I wandered the lands with you, my weakened little boy, and we prevailed. By the strength of our will, we prevailed. You always knew how to overcome. You grew and flourished and exuded life and joy. You personified joie de vivre. You didn't like hearing sad stories; your wonderful, green eyes, so soulful, would fill with tears, and stop my reading.

More than once, you asked why you did not have a father, a grandfather, a brother; why we were such small family. And I realized that my love, focused entirely on him, weighed on him, that it's not easy being the only son of a bereaved mother.

I expanded our family. I didn't want to stand in your way, and we grew into a happy family, of which you were an inseparable part.

When I left the kibbutz, I felt it would not be easy for you without me, but knowing how strong your ties were to your group, to your school, I did not want to force you to follow me and I made the choice I made. But know that there was not a moment in all those years that my heart and mind weren't with you. I followed your growth and advancement with trepidation and pride. And indeed, you grew into a young man of so much charm and spirit.

You were blessed with the love and respect of your friends, colleagues and teachers, for you had a special way with each and everyone in your life.

You had many plans for the future. Beautiful plans for peace and creativity. You were not a man of war. You loved life and all that is good and fine in mankind.

And now it is all over. Snatched away–plucked from life. And you won't return to us. And we will not hear your rolling laughter or behold your beautiful eyes.

If you only knew how bereft we are, how we long for you, how unbearable the thought of never seeing you again

And all that is left for us is to treasure in our hearts is your image, which will forever stand before our eyes.

May your memory be for a blessing.

[Page 386]

A year has passed since I last saw Moti. He would always spend part of his free time at my house, be it to talk things over, ask for advice, play with my children, who had such love for him, or to just drop in: “Hi, sister-in-law, anything to eat?” Or just for a quick hello, before rushing out.

On the day I saw him last, he came to say good bye before leaving for reserve duty. It was the first time he didn't try to get out of it because he heard that his unit would be heading to Sharm El-Sheikh and he was looking forward to it. He even bought a bathing suit…

I don't know if this past year has been a long or a short one. It seems as if I just saw him yesterday, but I know it has been a year… a terrible year, during which not a day went by without my thoughts somehow cycling to Moti, and then it got even harder to bear.

I got word that Moti would never return five days after he fell, only after a “partisan” [unofficial?] trek to the Kuneitra area (where he was stationed, as far as I knew) to learn what was going on. As a rule, I do not believe in premonitions, but I had a feeling that something was not right since there was no word from him and he hadn't called in a week–it was not like him. I don't know if I did a good thing or a bad thing by not telling anyone (including my wife and father) the dreadful news, that we would never see our Moti again, but I wanted to delay delivering the horrendous blow.

We do know that Moti will never return, but we resist believing it. It seems unreal, unjust, and unfathomable that Moti, just on the verge of reaching his goals and building his life, will never do so.

Moti built his persona and his future steps in his own way. After graduating from Trade School and before enlisting in the IDF, he worked in the Dead Sea Works as a metal worker, and after completing his army service he engaged in several business projects and did well.

He then decided to follow in my footsteps. He qualified for licenses to operate all types of vehicles and then became a licensed driving teacher and joined me in operating the driving school. He was well liked by his students and their test results reflected his success. He also volunteered as a driver for Magen David Adom, and was always ready to answer a call for help. When a bomb went off in the Machane Yehuda market, he immediately left work sped to the Magen David Adom station, and in minutes arrived at the market in an ambulance to aid the victims, as attested by the letters of appreciation he received from Magen David Adom. Moti also served on the national roadway safety committee. He was thrilled to be granted membership in Egged [the largest transit bus company in Israel], but his happiness was cut short, as was his life, six short months after his induction.

[Page 387]

In his last stint on reserve duty, he was, always, quick to volunteer. He asked to be assigned as a driver in the thick of the move toward the canal, rather than stay back at headquarters. He was supposed to go on leave on Yom Kippur, but he stayed back in favor of a friend, for whom it was important to be home for the holy day. And he went on to take the place of a religious friend on an observation post so that his friend could take part in a prayer service.

He fell as a volunteer too. The commander of the unit issued a request (not an order) for two soldiers to man a position under Egyptian fire. Moti volunteered. His own captain told him to stay in the bunker in case he is needed as a driver (he was the only driver at the front if an evacuation by land was called for). But Moti said: “Never mind, these men are tired, I'll go and I'll drive later even f I'm tired.” And so he went to join his friend at the outpost. And just then, within two or three minutes, the cursed bomb hit and they were both cut down on the spot.

And since then, Moti, I feel as if a part of me has been amputated, and the pain is great. And there is no relief. No replacement for a brother that is no more, and no consolation. His memory is in my heart forever, and his image is always before my eyes.

The image held dual meaning for me, as it was my only memory of our departed mother and my first of Moti. Moti was a rowdy child from an early age. In time, as he dealt with the trauma of losing our mother, he turned into a stubborn youth–more and more so as he grew into manhood. His devotion to causes and determination to pursue the goals he set for himself and defined himself by were, in my mind, the results of that early mindset.

What stood out about Moti, was that he always went his own way. From childhood on, he loved working with his hands and went on to study framework at the ORT [Jewish Educational Network] High School in Jerusalem, where he excelled in practical arts and craftsmanship and paid no mind to the humanities. He knew how to stand out in crowd and he drew a large circle of friends, with whom he remained close throughout the years, becoming a fixture in some of their households. Moti had a special rapport with children and always won their hearts. His affection for children had no bounds and I remember him amusing his nephews, Dror and Amir, for hours on hours. After he joined Egged, he used to come by and take the boys and other friends' kids for a spin.

[Page 388]

It was Moti who, at an early age, imbued me with a love for all living things, which eventually led me to become an expert on the cultivation of ornamental fish and birds.

By selling and trading ornamental fish, young Moti turned his hobby into a little business that actually broke even–all before he turned 14. Who knows, it could be that early venture that turned him on to the world of business and finance.

Throughout his service in the air force, Moti always earned appreciation and recognition for his skill and aptitude, but did not find much in common with his cohort, nor much of interest or challenge in army life. His natural inclination was to follow his heart rather than follow orders from above.

Moti and I grew up together, in the same room. We learned to know each other's ways and whims. As the years passed, our understanding of each other deepened and we were each other's confidants and fellow mischief makers. At times, on returning late at night from a party, he would find me bent over a book, and poke fun, telling me I was wasting my time studying and would do better to get some sleep. Eventually, when I decided to pursue my studies in Ber Sheva, he encouraged me and pledged to support me in my chosen way. We often addressed current problems in conversations with our father. Moti was very critical of the national administration. From time to time, he would take to task, orally or in writing, one or another government agency and would encourage me to do the same. The Yom Kippur War is proof there was much truth to his critique.

The temporary marker over his grave Mordechai Shapira, 11 Tishrei 5734 (7th October 1973)

My daughter, who was born two days before Moti was brought to rest, will never see his impish smile, but in my heart, his image and his soul live forever.

May your memory be for a blessing.

Yakov

  Zborov, Ukraine     Yizkor Book Project     JewishGen Home Page

Copyright © 1999-2024 by JewishGen, Inc.
Updated 19 Sep 2024 by JH