Names make news. Last week these names made this news:
For the first time since losing his appendix and rebellious gall bladder (TIME, June 28), resilient Harry Truman left his bed for the length of a lunch in a Kansas City hospital, drew himself up to a table and with gusto devoured a square meal. Near by lay a get-well-quick wire from Washington, signed by two White House visitors, old British friends of Truman's: Winston and Anthony. While his obituaries were being filed away for another day, Truman was finding out that even some of his old enemies seemed happy about his recovery: the Chicago Tribune, which barked at the White House all the time Truman lived there, now said: "There are a lot of things wrong with Harry Truman, but there always was more candor, less hypocrisy, and more natural man in his words and behavior than most politicians would dare display."
At an international film festival in Berlin, all proceedings stopped as three of the world's most sightly actresses—Italy's Sofia Loren, Hollywood's Yvonne (The Captain's Paradise) de Carlo, and Rome's Gina (Beat the Devil) Lollobrigida—got together for the photographers.
Surrounded by "enemies" bent on "crucifying" him. Crooner Dick Haymes, fighting to escape being bounced back to his native Argentina, finally suggested the name of one of his persecutors. The accused: U.S. Attorney General Herbert Brownell Jr. In Haymes's deportation hearing, one of his lawyers insinuated in a question to a witness that Brownell himself had ordered Haymes arrested while the crooner relaxed off guard, during a supposed 60-day truce with the Government. At week's end, another bit of Haymes's past caught up with him. This time the persecutor was his former wife, Cinemactress Joanne Dru, who could now have Haymes arrested because he forgot to show up at another hearing, where Joanne had planned to charge him with forgetting to help support their three children.
To the roster of hardy booklovers who could never quite untangle its polysyllabic characters distinctly enough to muddle through War and Peace, a distinguished new name was added. The bored nonreader: Author Leo Tolstoy himself. In Chicago, on the eve of her 70th birthday, the great Russian novelist's daughter, Countess Alexandra Tolstoy, confided that her unpredictable father preferred his folk tales and short stories to the eye-straining 687,000 words of his most famous novel. "He never reread War and Peace," said she. "And when he heard us reading it aloud one day, he didn't even recognize it."
The Philippines' President Ramon Magsaysay, ordinarily a study in perpetual motion as he scurries about the 7,100 islands of his republic, was ordered to come to a dead stop by his doctor after Magsaysay had worked himself into a feverish cold. But after holing up for a single day in a friend's home, Magsaysay suddenly popped out of seclusion and galloped off in all directions again.