For Whom the Bell Tolls Read Online Free PDF Page A

They’re valuable.”
    Anselmo grunted. “I am going for wine,” he told Robert Jordan. Robert Jordan got up and lifted the sacks away from the caveentrance and leaned them, one on each side of a tree trunk. He knew what was in them and he never liked to see them close together.
    â€œBring a cup for me,” the gypsy told him.
    â€œIs there wine?” Robert Jordan asked, sitting down again by the gypsy.
    â€œWine? Why not? A whole skinful. Half a skinful, anyway.”
    â€œAnd what to eat?”
    â€œEverything, man,” the gypsy said. “We eat like generals.”
    â€œAnd what do gypsies do in the war?” Robert Jordan asked him.
    â€œThey keep on being gypsies.”
    â€œThat’s a good job.”
    â€œThe best,” the gypsy said. “How do they call thee?”
    â€œRoberto. And thee?”
    â€œRafael. And this of the tank is serious?”
    â€œSurely. Why not?”
    Anselmo came out of the mouth of the cave with a deep stone basin full of red wine and with his fingers through the handles of three cups. “Look,” he said. “They have cups and all.” Pablo came out behind them.
    â€œThere is food soon,” he said. “Do you have tobacco?”
    Robert Jordan went over to the packs and opening one, felt inside an inner pocket and brought out one of the flat boxes of Russian cigarettes he had gotten at Golz’s headquarters. He ran his thumbnail around the edge of the box and, opening the lid, handed them to Pablo who took half a dozen. Pablo, holding them in one of his huge hands, picked one up and looked at it against the light. They were long narrow cigarettes with pasteboard cylinders for mouthpieces.
    â€œMuch air and little tobacco,” he said. “I know these. The other with the rare name had them.”
    â€œKashkin,” Robert Jordan said and offered the cigarettes to the gypsy and Anselmo, who each took one.
    â€œTake more,” he said and they each took another. He gave them each four more, they making a double nod with the hand holding the cigarettes so that the cigarette dipped its end as a man salutes with a sword, to thank him.
    â€œYes,” Pablo said. “It was a rare name.”
    â€œHere is the wine.” Anselmo dipped a cup out of the bowl and handed it to Robert Jordan, then dipped for himself and the gypsy.
    â€œIs there no wine for me?” Pablo asked. They were all sitting together by the cave entrance.
    Anselmo handed him his cup and went into the cave for another. Coming out he leaned over the bowl and dipped the cup full and they all touched cup edges.
    The wine was good, tasting faintly resinous from the wineskin, but excellent, light and clean on his tongue. Robert Jordan drank it slowly, feeling it spread warmly through his tiredness.
    â€œThe food comes shortly,” Pablo said. “And this foreigner with the rare name, how did he die?”
    â€œHe was captured and he killed himself.”
    â€œHow did that happen?”
    â€œHe was wounded and he did not wish to be a prisoner.”
    â€œWhat were the details?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he lied. He knew the details very well and he knew they would not make good talking now.
    â€œHe made us promise to shoot him in case he were wounded at the business of the train and should be unable to get away,” Pablo said. “He spoke in a very rare manner.”
    He must have been jumpy even then, Robert Jordan thought. Poor old Kashkin.
    â€œHe had a prejudice against killing himself,” Pablo said. “He told me that. Also he had a great fear of being tortured.”
    â€œDid he tell you that, too?” Robert Jordan asked him.
    â€œYes,” the gypsy said. “He spoke like that to all of us.”
    â€œWere you at the train, too?”
    â€œYes. All of us were at the train.”
    â€œHe spoke in a very rare manner,” Pablo said. “But he was very brave.”
    Poor