ERNEST HEMINGWAY. For Whom the Bell Tolls CHAPTER 3
They went down the last two hundred yards, moving carefully from tree to tree, in the shadows, to meet the last pines on the slope, at a very short distance from the bridge. The afternoon sun, which still illuminated the dark molar of the mountain, drew the bridge against the light, gloomy, against the abrupt emptiness of the gorge. It was a single-arch iron bridge and there was a sentry box at each end. The bridge was wide enough for two cars to pass through at once, and its single metal arch jumped gracefully up and down the ravine. Under a stream, whose whitish water drained between boulders and rocks, it ran to join the main stream that flowed down from the harbor.
The sun shone into Robert Jordan's eyes and he could not distinguish the bridge that was in silhouette. At last the star turned pale and disappeared, and as he looked through the trees toward the dark, round top after where he had hidden, Jordan saw that his eyes were no longer dazzled, that the mountain next to it was a delicate new green, and that it had spots.
He immediately began to study the bridge and examine its construction, taking advantage of the scant light he had left in the afternoon. The work of demolition was not difficult. Without taking his eyes off him, he took a notebook from his pocket and quickly took some notes. He drew without calculating the weight of the explosives charge. He would do it later. For the time being, Jordan was writing down only the points where the charges should be placed, to cut the arch support and precipitate one of the sections into the void. The thing could be achieved calmly, scientifically, and correctly with half a dozen charges placed in such a way that they exploded simultaneously, or, more brutally, with only two large charges. It would be necessary for these charges to be very thick, placed at both ends and placed so that they exploded at the same time. Jordan drew quickly and with gusto; He was satisfied to finally have the problem at hand and satisfied to be able to give himself to it. Then he closed the notebook, tucked the pencil into the leather case on the edge of the cover, put the notebook in his pocket, and buckled it up.
While he was drawing, Anselmo looked at the road, the bridge, and the sentry boxes. The old man thought they had gotten too close to the bridge and when he saw Jordan finish the drawing, he was relieved.
When Jordan finished fastening the wallet that closed his chest pocket, he stretched out on his stomach, at the foot of a pine tree trunk. Anselmo, who was standing behind him, took him with his hand on his elbow and pointed with his forefinger to a certain point.
In the sentry box in front of him, above the road, sat the sentry, holding his rifle with the bayonet fixed on his knees. He was smoking a cigarette; he wore a knitted cap and a cloak made simply of a blanket. Fifty yards away you couldn't make out their shots, but Robert Jordan took the cufflinks, made a visor with the palm of his hand, though there was no longer any sun that could draw any reflection, and behold, the parapet of the bridge appeared, so clearly that It seemed that could be touched by reaching out to the arm.
And the face of the sentinel, with sunken cheeks, cigarette ash, and the greasy gleam of the bayonet. The sentry had the face of a peasant, thin cheeks under high cheekbones, a badly shaved beard, eyes shaded by thick eyebrows, large hands holding the rifle, and heavy boots sticking out from under the folds of his cloak. An old wineskin, darkened by use, hung on the wall of the sentry box. A few newspapers could be distinguished, but no telephone was to be seen. It could happen that the telephone was on the hidden side, but no visible thread came out of the booth. A telephone line ran along the road, and wires ran across the bridge. At the entrance of the booth there was a brazier made of an old gasoline can without a lid with some holes; The brazier was supported by two stones, but it had no light. There were some old cans, blackened by fire, among the ashes strewn around.
Jordan extended the cufflinks to Anselmo, who was stretched out beside him. The old man smiled and shook his head. Then he pointed to his eyes with his finger.
"I see," he said, speaking very carefully, without moving his lips, so that, rather than speaking, it was only a murmur. He looked at the sentry as Jordan smiled at him and, pointing with one hand forward, gestured with the other as if cutting his throat. Robert Jordan nodded, but stopped smiling.
The sentry box, located at the opposite end of the bridge, faced the other side, towards the road down, and the interior could not be seen. The wide, well-paved road turned sharply to the left, on the other side of the bridge, then disappeared in a curve to the right. At this point the road widened, adding to its normal dimensions an open band in the solid rock wall on the other side of the gorge; Its left or western bank, looking down from the harbour and the bridge, was marked and protected by a series of stone blocks that fell steeply over the precipice. This gorge was almost a canyon at the place where the river crossed under the bridge and poured into the torrent that flowed down from the harbor.
"And the other place?" Jordan asked Anselmo.
"It is five hundred yards below this revolt. In the truck laborer's box next to the rock wall.
"How many men are there?" Jordan asked.
He looked back at the sentry with his twins. The sentry crushed his cigarette against the wooden planks of the sentry box, took a leather snuff-box from his pocket, tore the paper from the cigarette butt and cleared the remaining tobacco from the flask, got up, leaned his rifle against the wall, and. Then he took the rifle again, put it on his shoulder and walked towards the bridge. Anselmo crushed himself to the ground. Jordan put the twins in his shirt pocket and hid his head behind the pine tree trunk.
"Seven men and a corporal," said Anselmo, speaking in his ear. The gypsy told me so.
"We'll leave when he stops," Jordan said. We are too close.
"Did you see what I wanted?"
"Yes. Everything I needed.
It was beginning to get cold, for the sun had set and the light was fading as the glow of the last flash in the mountains behind him faded.
"What do you think?" Anselmo asked in a low voice, as they watched the sentry walk across the bridge in the direction of the other sentry box; the bayonet shone with the last gleam; his silhouette appeared shapeless under the hood.
"Very well," Jordan replied. Very good.
"I'm glad," said Anselmo. Let's go? Now it is not easy for him to see us.
The sentry was standing, with his back to them at the other end of the bridge. From the hollow rose the sound of the torrent against the rocks. Suddenly, above that noise, a considerable tremor broke through, and they saw the sentry looking up, his knitted cap thrown back. They turned their heads and, raising it, saw in the evening sky three monoplanes in a V-shape; The apparatus looked like delicate silver objects in those heights, where there was still sunlight, and they passed at an incredibly fast speed, accompanied by the regular hum of their engines.
"Will they be ours?" Anselmo asked.
"They seem to be," Jordan said, though he knew it's not possible to say for sure at this point. It could be an afternoon patrol of one side or the other. But it was better to say that the fighters were "ours," because that pleased the people. If it was bombers, it was something else.
Anselm, evidently, was of the same opinion.
"They are ours," he said; I know them. They are flies.
"Yes," Jordan replied; it also seems to me that they are flies.
"They are flies," Anselmo insisted.
Jordan could have used the cufflinks and made sure they were; but he preferred not to use them. It didn't matter to know who the planes were that night, and if the old man liked to think they were theirs, he didn't want to take away his illusion. However, now that they were driving away on their way to Segovia, it did not seem to him that the planes resembled the green Boeing P. 32s, with low wings painted red, which were a Russian version of the American planes that the Spaniards called Moscas. I couldn't make out their colors well, but the silhouette wasn't that of the Flies. No; It was a fascist patrol that was returning to the bases.
The sentry was still with his back to the farthest sentry box.
"Let's go," Jordan said.
And he began to climb up the hill, moving carefully and always trying to be covered by the grove. Anselmo followed him at a distance of a few yards. When they were out of sight of the bridge, Jordan stopped and the old man came up to him, and they began to climb up the mountain in the darkness.
"We have a formidable air force," said the old man, happily.
"Yes.
"And we're going to win."
"We must win.
"Yes, and when we have won, you must come with me to hunt.
"What does he hunt?"
"Bears, deer, wolves, wild boars...
"Do you like hunting?"
"Yes, man, I like it more than anything. We all hunt in my village. Don't you like hunting?
"No," Jordan replied. I don't like killing animals.
"The opposite is true of me," said the old man; I don't like killing men.
"Nobody likes it, except the ones who are out of their minds," Jordan remarked, "but I have nothing against it when it is necessary. When it is for the cause.
"That's different," said Anselmo. In my house, when I had a house, because now I don't have a house, there were tusks of wild boars that I had killed in the mountains. There were wolf skins that I had killed. He had killed them in winter, hunting them in the snow. I once killed a very large one on the outskirts of town, when I was returning home, one night in November. There were four wolf skins on the floor of my house. They were very worn from stepping on them so much, but they were wolf skins. There were deer antlers that I had hunted on the heights of the sierra and there was an eagle stuffed by a dissecter from Avila, with outstretched wings and yellowish eyes, as true as if they were the eyes of a live eagle. It was something very beautiful to see, and I really liked looking at it.
"I think so," Jordan said.
"At the door of the church in my village there was a bear's paw that I killed in the spring," Anselmo continued. I found him on a mountain, in the snow, spinning a log with that same leg.
"When was this?"
"Six years ago. And every time I saw the paw, which was like a man's hand, although with those long nails, stuffed and nailed to the door of the church, I liked to see it very much.
"You were proud.
"I was proud to remember the encounter with the bear on that mountain in early spring. But when you kill a man, a man who is like us, there is nothing good left.
"You can't nail your paw in the church door," Jordan said.
"No, it would be outrageous. And yet, a man's hand is much like a bear's paw.
"And a man's chest is very similar to a bear's chest," Jordan said. Under the skin, the bear closely resembles man.
"Yes," Anselmo added. The gypsies believe that the bear is the brother of man.
"The Indians of America believe it too. And when they kill a bear, they explain why they did it and ask for forgiveness. Then they put their heads on a tree and beg Him to forgive them before leaving.
"The gypsies think that the bear is the brother of man because it has the same body under its skin, because it likes to drink beer, because it likes music and because it likes dancing.
"The Indians believe it, too," Jordan said.
"Are the Indians gypsies?"
"No, but they think the same about bears.
"Yes. The gypsies also believe that the bear is the brother of man because he steals for fun.
"Are you a gypsy?"
No, but I know many, and, from the Movement, many more. There are many in the mountains. For them it is not a sin to kill outside the tribe. They don't admit it, but that's how it is.
"Just like the Moors."
"Yes. But the gypsies have many laws that they do not claim to have. In war, many gypsies have become bad again, just like in the old days.
"They don't understand why we are waging war; they don't know what we are fighting for.
"No," said Anselmo; they only know that there is war and that people can kill again, as before, without being punished.
"Have you ever killed?" Jordan asked, drawn from the intimacy created by the shadows of the night and day they had spent together.
—Yes, many times. But not for pleasure. For me, killing one—By who?
A sin is a sin. Even if it is fascists that I kill. For me there is a big difference between the bear and the man, and I don't believe in the spells of the gypsies about fraternity with animals. No. I don't like to kill men.
"But you killed them.
"Yes, and I would do it again. But if after this I continue to live, I will try to live in such a way, without hurting anyone, that I can be forgiven.
"I don't know. Since we have no God, no Son, no Holy Spirit, who is it that forgives? I don't know.
"Doesn't God have him anymore?"
"No, man; Of course not. If there were God, I would not have allowed what I have seen with my own eyes. Let them have God.
"They say it's yours."
"Well, I miss him, because I've been brought up in religion. But now a man must be accountable to him.
"Then it's you yourself who have to forgive yourself for having killed.
"I think so," Anselmo agreed. You have said it so clearly, that I think it must be so. But, with or without God, I believe that killing is a sin. Taking someone's life is a very serious sin, in my opinion. I will, if necessary, but I'm not Paul's kind.
"To win the war we must kill our enemies. It has always been like this.
"Yes. In war we must kill. But I have very strange ideas," said Anselmo.
They were now side by side in the shadows, and the old man spoke in a low voice, sometimes turning his head toward Jordan as he climbed.
"I wouldn't want to kill a bishop. I would not want to kill a landlord, no matter how great. I would like to put them to work, day after day, as we have worked in the fields, as we have worked in the mountains, making firewood, all the rest of our lives. That way they would know the good. I would make them sleep where we have slept, eat what we have eaten. But, above all, it would make them work. That's how they would learn.
"And they would live to enslave you again.
"Killing is of no use," Anselmo insisted. You can't kill them, because their seed grows back more vigorously. Nor is it any use putting them in prison. It only serves to create more hatred. It's better to teach them.
"But you have killed.
"Yes," said Anselmo; I have killed several times and I will do it again. But not for pleasure, and it will always seem to me a sin.
"And the sentinel?" You were happy with the idea of killing him.
"It was a joke. It would kill the sentinel, yes. I would kill him, with a clear conscience if that was my duty. But not at ease.
"We'll leave this for those who enjoy it," Jordan concluded. There are eight and five, which add up to a total of thirteen. That's quite a few for those who are amused.
"There are many who like it," Anselmo said in the darkness. There are many. We have more of those than those that are good for a battle.
"Have you ever been to a battle?"
"Well," replied the old man, "we fought in Segovia, at the beginning of the Movement; but we were defeated and escaped. I went with the others. We didn't know what we were doing or how it should be done. In addition, he only had a pistol with pellets, and the Civil Guard had Mauser. I couldn't shoot at them a hundred yards away with pellets, and they killed us like rabbits. They killed everyone they wanted and we had to flee like sheep. He was silent and then asked, "Do you think there will be a fight on the bridge?" —For a while he had been talking abroad.
"It is possible that I do.
"I have never been in a battle without fleeing," said Anselmo; I don't know how I will behave. I am old and cannot answer for myself.
"I'm answerable for you," Jordan said.
"Have you been in a lot of fighting?"
—In several.
"And what do you think of the bridge?"
"First I think about blowing up the bridge. It's my job. It is not difficult to destroy the bridge. Then we will make arrangements for the others. We will make preparations. Everything will be given in writing.
"But there are very few who can read," said Anselmo.
"We will write it, so that everyone can understand it; but we will also explain it in words.
"I will do as I am told," said Anselmo; but when I remember the shooting in Segovia, if there is a battle or a lot of shooting, I would like to know what I should do in any case to prevent the escape. I
agreement that he had a great inclination to flee to Segovia.
"We'll be together," Jordan said. I will tell you what you should do at any time.
"Then there is no question," said Anselmo. I'll do anything, as long as it's sent to me.
"Go on with the bridge and the battle, if there is to be a battle," said Jordan, and as he said this in the darkness he felt a little ridiculous, though it sounded good in Spanish after all.
"It will be a very interesting thing," said Anselmo, and listening to the old man speak with such honesty and frankness, without the slightest affectation, without the feigned elegance of the Anglo-Saxon or the cockiness of the Mediterranean, Jordan thought that he had been very lucky to have found the old man, to have seen the bridge, to have been able to normalize, and he was irritated by Gonz's orders and the necessity of obeying them. He was irritated by the consequences they would have for him and the consequences they would have for the old man. It was a very bad task for everyone who had to participate.
"This is not a decent way to think," he said to himself; think about what can happen to you and others. Neither you nor the old man are anything. They are instruments of their duty. Orders are not your business. Here is the bridge, and the bridge may be the place where the future of humanity takes a turn. Anything that happens in this war can change the future of mankind. You only have to think of something, of what you must do. Devil, in one thing? If I were on just one thing, it would be easy. Okay, stupid. You only need to think about yourself. Think of something different."
So he began to think of Mary, of the girl, of the skin, the hair, and the eyes, all of the same golden color; in their hair, somewhat darker than the rest, although they would be more and more blonde, as their skin became darker; in its soft epidermis, pale golden on the surface, covering a deep burn. His skin must have been soft, like the whole body; He moved with little trace, as if he saw something that hindered him, something that was visible even though it was not, because it was only in his mind. And he blushed when he looked at her, and he remembered her sitting, with her hands on her knees and her shirt open, revealing her neck, and the lump of her little breasts turned under her shirt, and at the thought of him her throat would dry out, and it was difficult for her to keep walking. And he and Anselmo spoke no more until the old man said:
"Now we just have to go down these rocks and we'll be in the camp.
As they slid along the rocks, in the darkness they heard a man cry out, "Stop! Who lives?" They heard the sound of the bolt of a rifle being thrown back, and then the blow against the wood, as it was propelled forward.
"We are comrades," said Anselmo.
"What comrades?"
"Paul's comrades," replied the old man. Don't know us?
"Yes," said the voice. But it is an order. Do you know the sign and sign?
"No, we come from below.
"I know," said the man of darkness; Come from the bridge. I know. But the order is not mine. He must know the second part of the sign and sign.
—What is the first? Jordan asked.
"I've forgotten," the man said in the darkness, and he laughed. Fuck off with your dynamite shit.
"That's what's called guerrilla discipline," Anselmo said. Unbolt your rifle.
"It's already out," replied the man of darkness. I dropped it with my thumb and forefinger.
"If you did it with a Mauser, you would be shot.
"He's a Mauser," the man explained; But I have a thumb and forefinger like an elephant. He always holds it like this.
"Where is the rifle pointing?" Anselmo asked in the darkness.
"Towards you," the man replied. I've got it pointed at you all the time. And when you go to the camp, tell someone to come and relieve me, because I'm so hungry that I can get the hell out of me. the stomach and I have forgotten the sign and sign.
"What's your name?" Jordan asked.
"Augustine," said the man. My name is Agustín and I'm dying of boredom in this place.
"We'll give your message," Jordan said, and he thought boredom was a word no peasant in the world would use in any other language. And yet it is the most common word in the mouth of a Spaniard of any kind.
"Hey," said Augustine, and coming closer he put his hand on Robert's shoulder. Then he lit a plaster cast and blowing into the wick, to illuminate himself better, he looked at the stranger's face.
"You think the other one," he said; but something different. "Listen," he added, turning out the plaster and picking up his rifle again. Tell me, is the bridge true?
"What about the bridge?"
"That you'll blow that shit bridge and we'll have to get out of these fucking mountains."
"I don't know.
"You don't know," said Augustine; What barbarity! Why then is that dynamite?
"It's mine."
"And you don't know why?" Don't tell me stories.
"I know why it is, and you'll know when the time comes," Jordan promised. but now let's go to camp.
"Fuck you," Augustine said. J... with the uncle. Do you want me to tell you something that interests you?
"yes, if it's not bullshit," Jordan replied, using the rude word that had peppered the conversation.
The man spoke so rudely, adding an indecency to every noun and adjective, using the same indecency in verb form, that Jordan wondered if he could say a single word without embellishing it. Agustín laughed in the darkness when he heard shit.
—It's a way of speaking that I have. Maybe it's ugly. Who knows? Each one speaks in their own style. Listen, I don't care about the bridge. I get as much from the bridge as from anything else. Besides, I get bored to death in these mountains. Hopefully we will have to go. These mountains don't mean anything to me. Hopefully we should abandon them. But I want to tell you something. Store your explosives well.
"Thank you," Jordan said. But who should I keep them from? From you?
"No," said Augustine. Of people less than j... than me.
"And why?" Jordan asked.
"Do you understand Spanish?" Augustine asked, speaking less seriously. Well, beware of this shit of explosives.
"Thank you.
"No, don't thank me. Take good care of them.
"Has something happened?"
"No, or I wouldn't waste my time talking to you like that.
"Thank you anyway. Let's go to camp.
"Well," said Augustine. Tell them to send someone here who knows the sign and the holy sign.
"Shall we see you at the camp?"
"Yes, man, right away.
"Come on," Jordan said to Anselmo.
They began to brush the prairie, which was shrouded in a gray mist. The grass formed a thick carpet under the feet, with the needles of pine, and the dew of the night wet the soles of the espadrilles. Beyond, among the trees, Jordan saw a light that he imagined pointed to the mouth of the cave. "Agustí is a very good man," Anselmo warned. He speaks in a very filthy way and is always joking, but he is a very trustworthy man.
"Do you know him well?"
—Yes, for a long time. And he is a man of great confidence.
"And is what you say true?"
"Yes, that Pablo is a bad thing; you'll see.
"And what could we do?"
—You have to be on guard constantly.
"Who?"
"You, me, the woman, Agustín. Because Agustí has seen the danger.
"Did you think things would go as badly as they are?"
"No," said Anselmo. They have suddenly become ill. But you had to come here. This is the region of Paul and the Deaf. In these places we must understand them with them, unless something is done for which no one's help is necessary.
"And the Deaf?"
"Well," said Anselmo. The other is as good as it is bad.
"Do you think it's really bad?"
"I've been thinking about it all afternoon, and after hearing what we've heard, I think it's so. That's right.
"Wouldn't it be better if we left, saying that it's another bridge and looked for other bands?"
"No," said Anselmo. In that part they rule. You can't move without them knowing.
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