Since August 8, London was bombed every night, and we lived in London knew the terror, the uncertainty of death, but we learned to hide our feelings and show alone. We went quietly to the shelter just begun alarms, stayed silent as they heard the blasts, sirens wailing obeyed ordered us back to the home: many were damaged or destroyed. People who had seen us, not see her again; lived pending radio, radio or moral was our food, our support. I do not know if Hitler's strategists had been taken into account when calculating the psychological effects of bombing, radio presence in the consciousness of this hope and absolute faith in what we say. We knew about everything that is not deceiving us, because the truth of his statements could be verified in the street. The text of my chronicles came to be monotonous tonight bombed this area, or that city, there was such damage and many deaths. So until the next day. Human relations are altered, but only in appearance. Had to eat, but was rationed. And you had to exit looking for a girl who, in turn, would have to find a boy of pleasure rather than necessity, but for other reasons, or causes, which could only be described in a novel, which had no place in the chronicles. Strangers who were confronted in the street, which were recognized by sight, seeking refuge in the remaining homes or broken homes, at unusual times. That kind of love was a desperate affirmation of life, and everyone understood this. I do not know if I ever, and in general, relations between man and woman had had that effect, but I guess yes, so have gathered, over history, in every moment of terror.
Torrente Ballester, Gonzalo; Filomeno, to my regret, Memoirs of a Master misplaced. Planeta, 1988.
Premio Planeta 1988.
I liked infinity.
0 comments:
Post a Comment