I agree that I saw no firing line。 I saw groups of tranquil men and women strolling on the Ramblas。 When； on occasion； I ran against a barricade of militiamen in arms； a smile was often enough to open the way before me。 I did not e at once upon the firing line。 In a civil war the firing line is invisible； it passes through the hearts of men。 And yet； on my very first night in Barcelona I skirted it。
I was sitting on the pavement of a cafe； sipping my drink surrounded by light…hearted men and women； when suddenly four armed men stopped where I sat； stared at a man at the next table； and without a word pointed their guns at his stomach。 Streaming with sweat the man stood up and raised leaden arms above his head。 One of the militiamen ran his hands over his clothes and his eyes over some papers he found in the man's pockets； and ordered him to e along。
The man left his half…emptied glass； the last glass of his life； and started down the road。 Surrounded by the squad； his hands stuck up like the hands of a man going down for the last time。
〃Fascist！〃 A woman behind me said it with contempt。 She was the only witness who dared betray that anything out of the ordinary had taken place。 Untouched； the man's glass stood on the table； a mute witness to a mad confidence in chance； in forgiveness； in life。 I sat watching the disappearance in a ring of rifles of a man who five minutes before； within two feet of me； had crossed the invisible firing line。
My guides were anarchists。 They led me to the railway station where troops were being entrained。 Far from the platforms built for tender farewells； we were walking in a desert of signal towers and switching points； stumbling in the rain through a labyrinthine yard filled with blackened goods wagons where tarpaulins the color of lard were spread over carloads of stiffened forms。 This world had lost its human quality； had bee a world of iron； and therefore uninhabitable。 A ship remains a living thing only so long as man with his brushes and oils swabs an artificial layer of light over it。 Leave them to themselves a couple of weeks and the life dies out of your ship； your factory； your railway； death covers their faces。 After six thousand years the stones of a temple still vibrate with the passage of man； but a little rust； a night of rain； and this railway yard is eaten away to its very skeleton。
Here are our men。 Cannon and machine…guns are being loaded on board with the straining muscles and the hoarse gaspings that are always drawn from men by these monstrous insects； these fleshless insects； these lumps of carapace and vertebra。 What is startling here is the silence。 Not a note of song； not a single shout。 Only； now and then； when a gun…carriage lands； the hollow thump of a steel plate。 Of human voices no sound。
No uniforms； either。 These men are going off to be killed in their working garb。 Wearing their dark clothes stiff with mud； the column heaving and sweating at their work look like the denizens of a night shelter。 They fill me with the same uneasiness I felt when the yellow fever broke out among us at Dakar； ten years ago。
The chief of the detachment had been speaking to me in a whisper。 I caught the end of his speech：
〃 。 。 。 and we move up to Saragossa。〃
Why the devil aid he have to whisper！ The atmosphere of this yard made me think of a hospital。 But of course！ That was it。 A civil war is not a war； it is a disease。 These men were not going up to the front in the exultation of certain victory； they were struggling blindly against infection。
And the same thing was going on in the enemy camp。 The purpose of this struggle was not to rid the country of an invading foreigner but to eradicate a plague。 A new faith is like a plague。 It attacks from within。 It propagates in the invisible。 Walking in the streets； whoever belongs to a Party feels himself surrounded by secretly infected men。
This must have been why these troops were going off in silence with their instruments of asphyxiation。 There was not the slightest resemblance between them and regiments that go into battle against foreign armies and are set out on the chessboard of the fields and moved about by strategists。 These men had gathered together haphazardly in a city filled with chaos。
There was not much to choose between Barcelona and its enemy； Saragossa： both were posed of the same swarm of munists； anarchists； and fascists。 The very men who collected on the same side were perhaps more different from one another than from their enemies。 In civil war the enemy is inward； one as good as fights against oneself。
What else can explain the particular horror of this war in which firing squads count for more than soldiers of the line？ Death in this war is a sort of quarantine。 Purges take place of germ…carriers。 The anarchists go from house to house and load the plague…stricken into their tumbrils； while on the other side of the barricade Franco is able to utter that horrible boast： 〃There are no more munists among us。〃
The conscripts are weeded out by a kind of medical board ； the officer in charge is a sort of army doctor。 Men present themselves for service with pride shining in their eyes and the belief in their hearts that they have a part to play in society。
〃Exempt from service for life！〃 is the decision。
Fields have been turned into charnel…houses and the dead are burned in lime or petroleum。 Respect for the dignity of man has been trampled under foot。 Since on both sides the political parties spy upon the stirrings of man's conscience as upon the workings of a disease； why should the urn of his flesh be respected？ This body that clothes the spirit； that moves with grace and boldness； that knows love； that is apt for self…sacrifice … no one now so much as thinks of giving it decent burial。
I thought of our respect for the dead。 I thought of the white sanatorium where the light of a man's life goes quietly out in the presence of those who love him and who garner as if it were an inestimable treasure his last Gords； his ultimate smile。 How right they are！ Seeing that this same whole is never again to take shape in the world。 Never again will be heard exactly that note of laughter； that intonation of voice； that quality of repartee。 Each individual is a miracle。 No wonder we go on speaking of the dead for twenty years。
Here； in Spain； a man is simply stood up against a wall and he gives up his entrails to the stones of the courtyard。 You have been captured。 You are shot。 Reason： your ideas were not our ideas。
This entrainment in the rain is the only thing that rings true about their war。 These men stand round and stare at me； and I read in their eyes a mournful sobriety。 They know the fate that awaits them if they are captured。 I begin to shiver with the cold and observe of a sudden that no woman has been allowed to see them off。
The absence of women seems to me right。 There is no place here for mothers who bring children into the world in ignorance of the faith that will some day flare up in their sons； in ignorance of the ideologist who； according to his lights； will prop up their sons against a wall when they have e to their twenty years of life。
We went up by motor into the war zone。 Barricades became more frequent； and from place to place we had to negotiate with revolutionary mittees。 Passes were valid only from one village to the next。
〃Are you trying to get closer to the front？〃
〃Exactly。〃
The chairman of the local mittee consulted a large…scale map。
〃You won't be able to get through。 The rebels have occupied the road four miles ahead。 But you might try swinging left here。 This road ought to be free。 Though there was talk of rebel cavalry cutting it this morning。〃
It was very difficult in those early days of the revolution to know one's way about in the vicinity of the front。 There were loyal villages； rebel villages； neutral villages； and they shifted their allegiance between dawn and dark。 This tangle of loyal and rebel zones made me think the push must be pretty weak。 It certainly bore no resemblance to a line of trenches cutting off friend from enemy as cleanly as a knife。 I felt as if I were walking in a bog。 Here the earth was solid beneath our feet： there we sank into it。 We moved in a maze of uncertainty。 Yet what space； what air between movements！ These military operations are curiously lacking in density。 *
Once again we reached a point beyond which we were told we could not advance。 Six rifles。 and a low wall of paving stones blocked the road。 Four men and two women lay stretched on the ground behind the wall。 I made a mental note that the women did not know how to hold a rifle。
〃This is as far as you can go。〃
〃Why？〃
〃Rebels。〃
We got out of the car and sat down with the militiamen upon the grass。 They put down their rifles and cut a few slices of fresh bread。
〃Is this your village？〃 we asked。
〃No； we are Catalans； from Barcelona。 munist Party。〃
One of the girls stretched herself and sat up on the barricade； her hair blowing in the wind。 She was rather thick…set； but young and healthy。 Smiling happily she said：
〃I am going to stay in this village when the war is over。 I didn't know it； but the country beats the city all hollow。〃
She cast a loving glance round at the country…side； as if stirred by a revelation。 Her life had been the gray slums； days spent in a factory； and the sordid pensation afforded by the cafes。 Everything that went on here seemed to her as jolly as a picnic。 She jumped down and ran to the village well。 Probably she believed she was drinking at the very breast of mother earth。
〃Have you done any fighting here？〃
〃No。 The rebels kick up a little dust now and then； but 。 。 。 We see a lorryload of men from time to time and hope that they will e along this road。 But nothing has e by in two weeks。〃
They were awaiting their first enemy。 In the rebel village opposite sat another half…dozen militiamen awaiting a first enemy。 Twelve warriors alone in the world。
Each side was waiting for something to be born in the invisible。 The rebels were waiting for the host of hesitant pe