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BRUNETE EN LA MEMORIA |
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BATALLA DE
BRUNETE - GUERRA CIVIL ESPAÑOLA - Julio 1937 |
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Ultima
Revisión: 01/03/2011 |
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"SPANSK SOMMER” Nordahl Grieg Gyldendal Norsk Forlag |
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..... The road went through a gobelinquiet
forest of low hard oaks, where the kings earlier had their hunting grounds.
Soon the The grain had been burnt; the fields were black and burnt after the
fascists incendiary bombs had hit them. In the low pine forest the fire still
crackled; the sparks flew towards the car as we whizzed past. To the right of
us, on a slope a couple of hundred metres away, brown columns of earth
sprayed towards heaven at short intervals; enemy shells were looking for our
artillery. A company of soldiers stood alongside the road in the shelter of a
hill, and drank coffee. They wore thin yellow summer uniforms with green
steel helmets and sandals. Around the waist they had wound several
metres long fuse lines for the fireworks. We left the car, and some officers followed us on. A man lay on the
road as we came around the bend, blood gushed out of a wound in his
thigh, the medic tied a red rubber hose around it. A Moroccan patrol on
horseback had turned up and fired a few shots here. We came to the first trenches which had been taken the day before.
They had been dug in; between the pieces of earth a face or a muddy hand
poked out. A stream of sweet sickly stench of corpses rose through the hot
summer day as far as the lines stretched. White letters were strewn over the graves. I took one up, it was a
father in Zaragossa who wrote to his boy: "We have no food to send you,
only some lettuce. But next week don Benito will be here and then we can
perhaps manage some sausage and cheese" The letters and cards were marked to the Everywhere there were rifles, ammunition belts, ammunition, uniform
items and Moorish capes. The photographers threw themselves over a pile of hand grenades, and
demanded to photograph them in action. As for an explosion, they explained,
there is no use in improvisation. A lieutenant took a hand grenade that looked like a cob of corn
with hundred small iron protrusions and threw it along the ground. Everyone
threw themselves on the ground, but in a glimpse we saw the photographers far
ahead, delightful like dancers in gracious cooperation, while the shrapnel
flew about them. One was down on his knees, the other one stood. They had
split the work with scientifical precision, the explosion was theirs. What had once been the The stench of corpses was hardly bearable inside the village. We had
to tie our handkerchiefs around our noses and mouths. Medics with gas masks
threw buckets of burnt lime into the graves. Around the houses shots were
heard, soldiers hunted the dogs and shot them. If they would not get rabies
here, where else would they get it? The photographers had found a yellow and red nationalist flag and a
saber, they were now playing toreador and bull, switching the parts quite
often. They danced around on the scalding hot plaza which was strewn
with mattresses, clothing, violet priest vestments and the body of a yellow
cock. It was most desirable to be toreador, only one step to the side, an
almost unseen movement of the body and the bull flew past. From a ruined house I heard voices. In the almost dark room I saw
8-10 soldiers who sat around a long table. They were studying the Franco
Pesetas they had found. One of them mentioned some names, Pepe and Juan,
comrades who had fallen. Another one started humming a song of mourning, the
rest caught on. They sat with their heads in their hands between the paper
pesetas, looked out into the air and sang. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ We were told that the division general, El Campesino, was right
outside the town(1) with his staff. To get there we had to run across an open field. Now and then a rifle
bullet whistled past, a shell whined over us. A couple of times we had to
throw ourselves down in the dry pale grass, where red poppies flamed. I
envied the Spaniards, because they were so small. Lino especially was
perfectly built, one metre and sixty centimetres, in a grey/yellow overall
and clean shaven head. In the Nordic countries we are so proud that the
height of our bodies increases from year to year, God only knows if this is
not some degeneration that makes us unfit to take part in the culture(2). I felt terribly big and long haired. We came to a small ditch in the earth that got deeper and deeper, in
the end it was a trench as deep as waist height. We followed it until it went
into the earth. We stood in a dark dugout, where some men lay sleeping. The photographers immediately went for one of them, it was the hero
of the people, the division general El Campesino. He lay in short white
underpants, and it was now important to get him out in the sunshine to
photograph him in this embarrassing outfit. A delighted battle ensued, the
general managed to put his khaki trousers on with one hand while he with the
other swatted at the attackers who danced like calves around him. The photographers lots but were delighted anyway. One of them took,
in the Spanish manner, a firm hold of his private parts and shook them as a
sign of his admiration. - Oh, that is a man! He shouted. El Campesino now came back dressed, himself folded the blanket and put
out a small chair which apparently he was very proud of. It was brand new,
lined with light blue silk. On it he sat with oriental dignity on the middle
of the earthen floor, while we others sat on a small bench that had been hewn
out of the clay. Right across from us a seventeen year old boy was on his
knees and minded the telephone, - the youngest captain in the Spanish
people’s army. El Campesino, "the farmer", could perhaps be thirty years
old, broad, heavily built, his skin shone as oil, and the lustre looked like
it circulated out into the hair that fell haphazardly down over the brown,
always inquisitive eyes. A naked girl sat cross-legged, tattooed in blue ink
on his right arm. I asked him what he had been before he became a division general. - Prisoner,
he quickly answered, always a prisoner, in We got yellow wine in a tin can and dry bread. The shells started
striking closer. - Have they found us? The 17 year old asked. - Arriba, El Campesino answered, they are shooting too high. That
settled that question once and for all, he was the general and it would be as
he said. A meal has never tasted better. From the roof of the dugout came the
fresh smell of leaves and grass. A prisoner was brought in. - Sit and have a drink. He was a carpenter from He was taken away and the general eagerly looked over the things that
had been found in his pockets. He was especially interested in a tiny brass
binocular, just a few centimetres across. When one looked into the oculars
that were pin sized, one could see two pictures, Maria and the Crucifixion. El Campesino shook his head astounded. Some Fascist bombers flew at great height over the valley, and threw
their bombs a kilometre away. But when we were back on the road came a swarm
of leaflets that they had dropped at the same time, swinging down through the
air. It said that the Jews and the Freemasons were to blame for Lino took a shell fragment from the road. - This is the bread, he said, and while he nodded his
head towards the destroyed houses of Quijorna: that is the work that
awaits us. Later during the day we met another of the people’s army’s famous
generals, Lister. A ditch had been dug under an olive tree out in a field;
down in that he stood with his staff. He was unusually stocky with huge
limbs, he was leaning on his arms, which was as thick as a thigh, while he
studied the map. His features were course, with a quiet friendliness. His
uniform cap had been pushed back, it was as if the thick flowing hair would
not carry it. There was something Russian about him, a communist type of
heavy, slow self consciousness. Before the war he was a stone carver. Towards the tree where Lister stood and explained the situation to us
on the map, a group came walking across the field. Among the men was a tall,
calm man with a Greek face and curly hair. It was the third of the young
Spanish workers generals, With him he had two young girls, one dressed in Khaki with an
overseas cap on the blond hair, the other looked like a broad, strong peasant
girl with a colourful scarf on her head. They were his interpreters, his connection with the international
brigades. Lino was already running towards the car; the rest of us followed,
over the stiff sharp stubble that stung through our rubber soles. * On the way we met big, grey Lorries on their way towards Other trucks followed, fully packed with soldiers, they laughed and
clenched their fists and shouted Salud while they whizzed past. Were they on
their way to leave? They were Franco’s young conscripts who had just been
taken prisoner. Villanueva de Pardillo was up on a small hill, surrounded by pale
yellow, ragged fields. Five tanks were stranded on their way up the hill;
everywhere along the road and in between the grain, lay dead bodies. Her they
had fought for every metre of land. Insane; earth is to be plowed and
harvested, grass and grain should grow; humans should rest on it after a good
days work. But perhaps the price for the simplest basic human needs was higher than
we thought. A people got themselves the right to the land, with the law on
their side; those who worked on it should no longer be the impoverished
slaves of the rich. Dead men lay on the fields that had been denied them. I
could be no cheaper, it was the price of land. Inside the city there was nothing to see. It was a normal Spanish
village: ruined, shot to pieces, where an unharmed house, a place for humans
to live, appears to be against nature and insane. On the bridge beneath the village some trucks had been driven
forwards; the dead bodies were to be removed. Medics put them on stretchers
out in the fields and tossed them into the cars. Some stood up in the pile of
bodies and caught them. It was like a hay wagon at home. There was room for
20-30 in each car. I stood watching them for a while while they were tossed up. On one
the steel helmet had been pushed into the brain, one had no head, it was as
if they handles a bloody headless fish; but one lay on his back with his
intestines out of his underbelly and his mouth open in a white happy smile. Down under the bridge, on the dried out riverbed, the remains of a
battalion were resting. They were Spanish farmer boys. Some slept, others lay
silently and stared up into the arch of the bridge; one gnawed calmly and
ceaselessly on the rifle butt. In a couple of hours they were to go on. To what? Perhaps to the car
that the dead bodies were tossed up on. Maybe to Victory: a new village shot
to pieces. Those were the two alternatives for today, tomorrow, for months,
perhaps years. We were going back to It was the ones down under the bridge that counted. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 9 Next morning Gordon and I stepped, with the headquarters permission,
into an ambulance and lay down on stretchers, that were still moist from the
last transport. In the sickening chloroform-stinking heat we drove out; on
the walls and in the roof were pasted photographs of the leaders of the
international labour movement. Ten kilometres from Outside the Brunete plain lay in front of us; the blue tarmac road
cut a diagonal straight across. The enemy shells fell just by the road. A
couple of kilometres further to the front we could glimpse the fascist
trenches. We waited half an hour to see whether it would calm down; it did
not get any better. Arco put his steel helmet on and leapt into his Ford
beside the driver and off we went. We shuddered out through the glistening
white hills; now we were on the main road; the chauffeur trod the
accelerator pedal all the way down, an explosion threw the earth up a hundred
metres in front of us in the ditch to the left. Suddenly the brakes ground,
the car stopped abruptly. Three Spaniards stood in front of us on the road.
They had lean, poverty marked faces under large straw hats; they lifted their
thin arms and screamed. They tottered forwards mad from over exhaustion and
heat. On the road stood two stretchers where some blooded pieces of humans
lay whimpering. Shouts of woe rose from the medics too: "let's shoot them now.
We cannot manage to carry them like this." Arco went out to them; "A new ambulance will be here in five
minutes. Be patient." We drove on. Somewhat further we arrived at the ambulance that had
been theirs. It lay toppled, destroyed by a direct hit; between shards of
wood and engine parts lay four dead bodies. Down the road to the right was a cannon with its crew around it; the
chauffeur slowed down. "Drive on!" Arco shouted, and to the
artillerymen: "Fire!" There was a bang as we drove by, we
looked into the guns muzzle where the yellow-red flame shot out. Just ahead a
shell had ripped up the road; we had to drive into the field and around. It
was slow going; the speed had given us some protection; now we had no cover.
Then the speedometre increased again, we could be passive anew, the car acted
for us. Some hills rose up ahead; here we went out and walked up a small
valley. We were almost in the same area where I had visited el Campesino.
After a five minute walk we found some holes dug in the earth; heads
peaked out; we had come to the staff of the 11th brigade. Under a tree a
strange character sat on a leather seat that had been taken from a car. He
was totally naked except for a white loincloth and Alpargatas. The
friendly, learned, Ghandi-face with glasses was bent over a map. It was
Ludwig Renn, who now was Brigade Commander. He made us welcome, and was immediately willing to show us the
position. Gordon would go to We came to the trenches; the height where they lay sloped steeply
downwards; in the slope on the other side, two hundred metres away the
fascist lines were. This was the right flank of the front; otherwise it stretched
along the road we had driven on. As pieces of coagulated blood inside black
smoke the fascist’s shells exploded in the air over the valley(4). We went back again and sat down under the olive tree. In the slope,
forty-fifty metres away, the explosions welled up with a few minutes between
them; it was as if they somehow belonged there; here under the tree there
should be peace. Sometimes a bird whistle sounded up in the leaves; it was a
rifle bullet passing. Renns messenger, Erich, a sun burnt , German worker boy, brought
food, rice and grapes. "If I get out of this war alive," he said
angrily as he sat down with his plate, "I will not eat rice for fifty
years." Someone called for Renn. He ducked into one of the holes in the
ground, where the field telephone was installed. Gordon and I lay in the
shadow and talked, when we heard Renns friendly voice: "Comrades!".
He stood outside the dugout and looked up towards the sky. Some planes came.
He turned towards us and pointed smiling at a hole beneath the tree:
"Bitte!" We leapt down; there was just barely enough room for us both. We
pushed ourselves into the earthen walls; in a glimpse I saw the fighter
planes dive low along the valley and at the moment they rose again they
fired. I lay with my head in my hands; the hammering of the machineguns could
be heard quite clearly through the engine noise. I had one of Gordon’s feet
against my abdomen and tried to turn; now I saw the fighter planes further
away, they circled our trenches; suddenly they were back again over our
heads, machineguns working. Gordon always used to speak to me in English, now
he used his native tongue: "Ein gruss auf der heimat," (5) he
whispered. From all the pits under the trees shots were fired; the soldiers
fired antitank cartridges. The day before they had hit a fascist fighter
plane; the wreck of it lay up on the hilltop. Three times the fighters came
back. Then it was over. We crawled trembling out of the pits and said
"sons of whores", as was correct. Arco now had to get back, and Gordon went with him; I was allowed by
Renn to stay. Here was thin hot high mountain air; I learnt from him and the
others and walked around only dressed in shorts. Every hour Renn had to go to
the observation post right behind the trenches; Erich who followed him
wherever he went threw the gun onto his shoulder and went after him; I was
allowed to come along. We went upwards through the sparse yellow grain. The
height was like a moon landscape of shell craters; in several of them bodies
lay buried. Renn looked in the binoculars, turned around and said: "Ah, our
friends." Fifty fascist planes came gliding towards us; twelve huge, black
three engine Junkers; the rest fighter planes higher up. We lay down in the
nearest shell crater; Erich threw himself down a bit further away.
Intolerably slowly the huge planes came in over the hill; until they were
almost straight over us. It was as if acid burnt my wrists: I pressed my face
down into the earth and waited. Here was nice light brown gravel, I
recognized it from the pavements in Suddenly Renn stood up and wiped the sand off himself; it looked as
had he stood up on the beach in A shell hit twenty metres away from us. Another beside it, another
one, seven in all that exploded exactly in a row. I stood watching them
stupefied. It never occurred to me that the next one could actually reach us;
they should fall in that way, so it was decided. We returned to the valley. I walked over to a waterhole that had been
dug a half metre into the earth that was hard as cement. The water was muddy
but drinkable. Tired I sat down on the ground. Renn looked thoughtfully
outwards. "Here there is water everywhere," he said, "when we
have won the war, we shall bring it out, and we shall plant woods. Then the fighter planes were above us again. I ran into a dugout and
lay down there; it was comparatively safe. I found it better not to be able
to see the planes; my imagination could to some degree deny their existence.
It was good that nothing was demanded of me. Half an hour afterwards the
bombers came back; thunder after thunder outside. The faces in here in the
semi darkness were tired and starved; the Brigade had been a month by the
front for a month without being relieved. Not very many were killed by the
bombardments; but they got on ones nerves. The Fascists anti aircraft guns
were ten times as good as ours; the republican planes had no chance here by
the front even if they were superior plane against plane. We stood up and went out. They looked towards the enemy lines wondering
what those dogs were planning now. Renn did not for a second stop his clear,
calm style, and spoke about the fascists as "der gegner", the
adversary; Erich followed him faithfully in this too. We went up on the hill again. Renn stared towards our trenches some
kilometres away, south of the Brunete road and said: "This is not
sensible of them." We saw the soldiers walk back over the plain; in
large flocks they went towards the road. They were young inexperienced
Spaniards; the last bombardment had been hellish out there; they could not
stand to lie in the shallow trenches to wait for the next one. All of a
sudden the fighter planes whizzed down low onto them. The soldiers ran, some
suddenly stopped and fell; the others ran on. The fighters played above them
in wide turns, it was like an elegant show, they whizzed downwards shooting
from their tails when they triumphantly rose again. The men hung together
like men sentenced to death; the mitrallieuses flew around them and mowed
them down. Renn went back in a hurry. Messages came every moment on the field
telephone; riders in steel helmets hurried on sweaty horses along the ground
towards him; "I cannot make myself say that you ride prettily," he
said in a sad tone and took the message. Medics came down carrying wounded.
The artillery commander, Walter, a long red blond young Jew with an under
bite came running in long bounds, and ran back with heaving breath. The
artillery started rapid fire towards the fascist positions; an attack was
underway. Again up on the hill. Renn looked through his binoculars.
"Interesting," he said, " the fascist officers are trying to
drive the men up out of the trenches, they threaten with revolvers, beat
them, no one obeys. This is great." The day would never end. Two more times the fighters came, twice the
bombers. In the evening a messenger arrived from The kitchen had come driving out; there was food to be had. One of
the other kitchen cars which was on its way to a unit further east, had gone
too far, though the chauffeur knew that he was to stop there, where the three
bodies lay on the road. He had travelled straight into the fascist lines. Under one of the olive trees the cook stood and ladled out meat and
soup from a kettle. A barrel of wine was there too; I drank two large cups. Warm streaks of light came out of the ground. The men sat and wrote
around candles inside the dugouts. The rest of us sat talking under the tree;
the moon came up, the grasshoppers sang. I got a blanket and lay down under a
tree. The earth was torn up right by, an aircraft bomb had fallen there the
night before. At midnight I awoke; two fascist planes were over us. The
searchlights were turned upwards; the one plane was caught in the projector
light; our anti aircraft guns fired. With a sudden maneuver the plane tried
to get out of the light; suddenly there was a crash up there in the dark; the
two planes had collided. A red bonfire was flaming down on the plain; for a
long time smoke hung like a huge parachute above the wrecks. At four o'clock Erich came to wake me up. Renn was at headquarters.
There was a state of alarm. We were to be relieved and leave the position
before morning light. We walked down the valley in a column of men with heavy
packs. A lovely pale scythe of a moon lit up the grain. Chapter 10 Down on the road stood trucks. We climbed in and drove on the blue
tarmac road that was dark and wet by dew. Two kilometres away we stopped,
jumped down and walked along a path between the hills. It was now clear
shimmering day. In the grass a company sat eating; some blond wild heads of
hair among them. "Scandinavians?" I shouted. "yes." At
that moment one said "Aviacion." The fighters were coming. We ran
along to find cover, we jumped into a ditch; it was quite shallow, but there
were bushes around it. The fighters had found us, and fired. I lay beside Erich, who was the
only certain point of existence now that Renn was absent. As the planes had
gone he said: "They will probably return." We remained there
waiting. ' I got Erich to talk. He told about his life as an emigrant, he was
sent from country to country and back again, from jail to jail. In Holland he
was sentenced to six months for illegal immigration. He had held the defense
speech himself; do you want to hear it? There was nothing I would rather do. "There are émigrés and émigrés; once another émigré came from
Germany; he is now in Doorn. And why honoured judge? I said. Because
this is not a question of justice, but of money I said." He told about the war. Once during an attack he had thrown a hand
grenade towards a fascist; the adversary was wounded, fell, but did not drop
his rifle. " I saw that he was a worker boy like me. It was
terrible." "And so?" "Then I threw a hand grenade again and finished him." The fighters came. Afterwards we tried to sleep. It was not possible. "Now we'll
have the bombers here soon," Erich said. I took my notebook out of the
back pocket and started to write; I tried to remember what had happened the
last 24 hours, in sequence. "There they are." The twelve huge slow Junkers from yesterday came sailing along. I
kept writing, to pass the time of waiting. It did not become any coherent
story. I hastily wrote a name as a magic spell; thereafter: Pale golden straws against the heaven, Smell of hay Gunstadsæter Birds over the field Erich: Now the non-intervention committee should have been here. Three and three Junkers. I dropped the book and pushed myself down; Erichs rifle was
against my mouth, but I did not dare to move. I tried to burrow my way into
the earthen wall on the side; a small edge of grass was above me; I could not
get further in. The big birds were right above us. Erich said: "Now they drop their eggs." Glints came from under the belly of the machines; they were now a bit
further away. The bombs fell. It was over. I turned on my back and thought. Two years ago I walked alone from
Gunstadsæter(6) a
morning at about four. I walked in there in my own thoughts and as I came to
Vulua, I got away from the marked red Ts. I walked up the river on the right
hand side; suddenly there was a pond in front of me. Through the clear water
trouts swam; the shadow followed down on the sandy bottom. A green field lay
around; the morning sun shone. Later something unreal came about about this summer morning. I now
decided that the same night I would take the train to Ringebu. Up there I
would be at about 23.30 at night; then I would walk up to Gunstad farm, where
I had friends, but not wake anyone up; there was an empty bedroom in the
loft. The next day I would walk into the mountains to look for the pond. Shells started falling about a kilometre away, around the main road.
An officer came along the ditch, where we lay one by one along it; we were
moving on. It was not far to walk; in a ravine that cut between two hills we
gathered. It was a natural trench where the sides were three-four metres
high. It had been used before; some small rooms were dug into the northern
wall. Soldiers came backing back against the fall right over our heads while
they were spooling out telephone wire which they had in a roll tied to their
waists. Others carried young trees that they had cut down by a dried out
river bed; creaking the crowns were dragged through the narrow ravine. The
trees were stood up along the trench wall to give shade and camouflage. A
fighter flew around up in the blue and disappeared. The trench was of glittering white chalk; the eyes grew weary; it was
terribly hot. To the north a small slope was still in shadow; here we lay
very close, like people huddled together on a cold night to keep warm. The
sun lapped up all darkness. The leaves did not help; some warm black spots shivered on our
clothes. We had had to put trousers and shirts on; our naked ankles over the
alpargatas stung. The shells hit closer. There was no drinking water; we drank some
tepid sugared tea which Erich had in his water bottle; the thirst grew worse
and worse. Arco the doctor was back again. An hour ago he had gone the main
road; now it was not possible. Our trenches up there had been destroyed by
the shellfire; the road was not ours anymore. We had been here in reserve,
now we were the first line. The enemy artillery had found its aim. The shells were not just a
long line of sound, the sound was material, as if something was treated with
coarse sanding paper; the hits were on the hill behind us. A voice repeated
something louder and louder inside one of the dugouts, louder and louder. The
telephone operator came out. The shells had cut the wires to the first and
third company; he had no more wire, and it would have been torn to pieces
anyway. Two soldiers were sent out with dispatches; just follow the wire,
where it was. The explosions tore up the hill; the chalk pieces fell down. Erich
came with a can of preserved food: "Here I got us some meatballs."
I could not; I just now and then gnawed some dry bread. Artillery Walter sat beside me, with his friendly under bite.
"No shells can get down here. We can get some earth on us, but that is
all." Renn was back again now. With 15 minutes intervals he climbed the
hill to observe whether there was any news. No one else was allowed up there;
" We should not show our opponent where we are more than strictly
necessary." A Spanish soldier was taken into the ditch by two comrades. He had a
thick olive yellow face; it was totally without expression; the eyes looked
dead. "Simulant." Erich said. Arco showed him his watch; he did not
see it. "But I'll let you have it," Arco shouted. A puzzled child’s
smile lighted up his face; suddenly he lifted his head listening; his
features froze in a terrible fear, he started whimpering with little fearful
sounds. It was a plane he heard. "You will get to go to the
hospital," Arco said to him. "Sit here with me." A new man had arrived with the doctor, Heiner, the politkommissar of
the brigade. He had been to Escorial to have some shell fragments removed
from his hand. He was a powerful man at the end of his thirties, with broad
furrowed features; the eyes were deep and friendly; the combed back hair was
almost white. Earlier he was a well known German politician. As
Politkommissar his task was to take care of the human in the soldier; to give
them resolution and strength. He now demanded to be helped shaving. A soldier
poured a little water from his canteen in a cup and started soaping him. But
there was no way to use the knife; the soap foam was full of gravel from the
explosions. Renn came jumping down the hill, calm and pleasant. The officers had
a council of war. One of the things they talked about was the transport of
the wounded to the first aid station. The main road was cut off; the only
chance was to find a way up the steep hillside behind us in the north, which
was full of black smoking shell holes. Arco would have to try. Renn came over to me; " You must go with him. There is little
room here and there will be enough wounded." I said goodbye to Erich and the others. I turned as I was on my way
out of the ravine. I did not know whether I should see them alive again.
Heiner sat patiently and picked the gravel off his face; several stood around
him and laughed and gave good advice. Ludwig Renn was once again up on the hill, very tall and thin,
uncovered towards the blue summer sky. As no one else he belonged in Don
Quijotes landscape. Despite all reason I thought that such men cannot die. (1)
Quijorna (2) Grieg often uses the word culture sarcastically, calling war and
murder culture... (3) In Scandinavia branches with green leaves are an important part of
midsummer celebrations... (4) He must mean Shrapnel ammunition that explodes in the air and throws
steel balls in all directions. (5) A greeting from home (6) In Norway. |
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