they have only seen the cold light of day by night, in moonless darkness. after the first morning there was silence, an all pervading silence, all living things seemed to take a rest. the wild guanaco had appeared and had retreated again, as if frightened by the sudden intrusion of so many people. the indians looked sullen, as if they had been awakened out of a dream, and directed only furtive glances around them. nacho, half awake, sat on the ground, with his bare feet against the bare feet of the indian beside him. the church bell rang for matins. before going to mass he had awakened and, going into the school where pepe was fast asleep in his bunk, he had stepped over the half unmade pallet to a lavatory in the corner; he had turned on the lavatory, and with his stomach tightened in anguish he had stared at himself in the mirror for a long time; a rectangle of cold light had reflected on his chest and stomach.
but one of the hardest tasks, the hardest task for the majority of us, is to keep opening our hearts to the people and to get on with our day-to-day lives without checking whether they have closed their hearts against us
the valladolid cemetery was one of the most elegant cemeteries in the south of the united states, though it was in bad repair and without funds to maintain it. the united states army corps of engineers, which maintained the valladolid cemetery from 1932 to 1942, didn’t have money to make the repairs, so the valladolid cemetery became an attractive and lucrative source of income for the coyoacán municipality. in the 1930s, when the first waves of u.s. soldiers went into mexico as part of the mexican revolution , the good citizens of valladolid built the cemetery at a time when few people had heard about this criminal sect that called itself the primeros de mayo.
they lost their path in the mist and, passing through the door, nacho stumbled in the darkness, felled by the collapse of the schoolmaster. juan, miguel, and avellano stood in the light of the ovens, defending it with their guns. as the teachers murmured in the darkness, nacho rose to his feet, painfully, and seeing rodriguez, cried out, do not go, pedro. but it was too late. rodriguez went quickly up the steps, then up the stairs into the library, where the heavy eyes of the cat looked up at him. at the top of the stairs, rodriguez stumbled, and the cat flew over his head, clawing at the light fixture, and the fuse, and the rubber balloon, and the commissars switch.
a match fell on the floor, and the light went out. in the black room, the teachers entered with the two wounded indians. they stood confused, then turned out the lights, shut the door, and went across the room to the girl, who was lost in a corner of the floor. montes, moaning, wailed on the bed, it is the light, the light. the girl called to the others, who all fell to the floor, yelling, all the lights. and as they went out, the girl cried, ahhh.. the sound of the room was hollow and far-away, as nacho yelled, help me, help me. the fire had started in the pantry and smoldered in the dining-room, as the others ran to and fro, trying to fight it. avellano was turning a knife in the palm of his hand, hesitating. juan reached for his knife and plunged it in a burning bundle of twigs, and the fire went out. at the same time the powder blew out of the catapults and the people were slaughtered, slowly, not as before, with a number of shots, with the long staccato bursts of automatic pistols. montes, still mumbling, whimpered, i cannot see. the teachers heard the shouts and cries, and searching they found him with his pistol in his hand.
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