The Communist

by Guido Morselli

  “May I ask where they come from?”

  “The work I’ve done, I’ve done between Milan, Genoa, and Turin. The industrial triangle, and that’s not by accident. My method—you will call it elementary, like all my errors—is this: every time I’m off work I go to wait for the workers as they exit the factory gates, and call about twenty or thirty of them over to me. And then we sing ‘Bandiera Rossa.’ Yes, don’t be surprised, I begin by singing ‘Bandiera Rossa’ with them, and the older ones teach it to those who are my age or younger. Because ‘Bandiera Rossa’ is outlawed and nobody sings it anymore. Then afterward I say a few words, and the substance is this: Are you Bolsheviks? Do you want the party to be Bolshevik? And I explain the meaning of the term, because it too has been outlawed and nobody knows it. Here, I’d really like it if you could explain, even if it bores you. Why has the term Bolshevik been out of fashion among Communists for so many years?”

  Once again there was no trace of irony in his manner of speaking, thought Ferranini, a silent witness to the exchange. The young man’s question was serious, intent, respectful. Pisani stuck his thumbs in his vest and stretched out his legs. His eyes were fixed on the wall above the bed where a promotional calendar in color showed a mountain landscape covered with snow. He began to explain.

  “The term ‘Bolshevik,’ in parentheses, was regularly printed on Soviet government official documents after the words ‘Pan-Russian Communist Party.’ Up until 1922. After that it was discontinued, and for good reason. You, Mazzola, would know that if instead of engaging in dilettantish, itinerant propaganda, you bothered to learn some history. The reason, in any case, is this: at a certain point it was no longer necessary for Bolshevik Communists to distinguish themselves from the so-called revolutionary socialists of the left and right, or from the Mensheviks. Do you see? Those groups had ceased to be politically relevant. They disappeared.”

  Roberto Mazzola was silent for a moment. And then he said, calmly, almost sweetly, “Here among us, the Mensheviks have not disappeared. These days they are the majority inside the party.”

  The distant wail of a violin could be heard. A radio, downstairs. For several minutes, to Ferranini it seemed quite a long interval, the two men did not speak or move. To Ferranini’s relief, finally one of them spoke. The even, accentless voice of Comrade Pisani.

  “Would you please clarify your thinking?”

  Mazzola reached for the coffee cup, Ferranini pushed it toward him, and Mazzola downed a swallow. Then, addressing Pisani, he said, “We’re in a phase of de-Stalinization, are we not, comrade?”

  “And so?”

  “And so, forgive me, but if Stalin was not the whole of communism, he was much of it. He was, he personified, all that was rigorous, uncompromising, I want to say tragic, in a revolutionary phase that is not yet over. Not even in the Soviet Union. And I won’t mention, comrade, his dedication to plans for world revolution, plans for active intervention—”

  “But,” Pisani interrupted with a smile on his face, “are you speaking to me of Stalin or of Trotsky?”

  “Stalin!”

  “Are you certain you’re not confusing the two? At any rate, continue. Speak.”

  Mazzola pulled himself to a seated position and his eyes lit up. “I say, the PCI is de-Stalinizing and this exacerbates, speeds up its transformation. There’s a tendency to compromise, to back down. In my view, de-Stalinization in a context such as ours can have no other consequence. I feel that too many comrades are effectively becoming social democrats in their thinking and their political action.”

  Pisani raised his shoulders slightly. “You used the term Mensheviks before. Now you speak of social democrats. Shall I deduce that the two things mean the same to you?”

  The other thought for a moment. “Yes, in practical terms, yes.”

  “Well then, I must once again explain something. Long before the October Revolution, Lenin and his comrades chose to call themselves Bolsheviks, in opposition to the Mensheviks (the ‘minority’). However, up until March 1918, that is several months after the Revolution, Lenin and his colleagues kept their official title of social democrats. And thus ‘Bolshevik’ and ‘social democrat’ meant something quite different to them from ‘Menshevik.’ While according to you, ‘social democrat’ is the same as ‘Menshevik’ and can equally be used to vilify. Do you see, Comrade Mazzola?”

  “I think so.”

  “In Italy the party of the Social Democrats is our adversary for the simple reason that they are not social democrats. They are reformists, mere reformists. To use a phrase from Lenin, they are not red but yellow. Comrade Mazzola, have I been able to resolve your misunderstanding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Spend less time propagandizing and pay more attention to your terminological baggage and you’ll be spared the need for second thoughts. Note, also, that I am not concerned with the substance of your accusations against party leaders. There are organs dedicated to making discipline respected, to bringing to heel those who violate it even if only in rash judgment, and the task of reporting on your case to those organs falls to Comrade Ferranini, I think. My job relative to you is to identify the criteria (let us call them that) that direct your, shall we say ‘factionalist’ approach. As for the practical manifestations, as for the consequences of that approach, it is Comrade Ferranini’s job to look into that. Ferranini, do you have a clear picture of what Mazzola has been saying? Speak up, please. Have you no questions to pose?”

  Comrade Ferranini in turn considered the matter before he replied, “No.”

  A shadow of disapproval passed across Pisani’s eyes as he turned his gaze on him. “You wish no further clarification?”

  “I think things are already clear.”

  “As for myself,” Pisani continued, “I need a bit more information. From what I understand, one of the preferred targets of your attacks has been Comrade Deputy Gildo Montobbio. Just a few days ago at the Turin Federation offices, Bordino and other leaders present, you accused Montobbio of deviationism. Once again, it isn’t the substance of the matter that interests me. I ask you: In what way does this deviationism express itself, in your view? First off, what does deviationism mean to you?”

  While Pisani spoke, Ferranini studied the young man’s leg in plaster, awkward and immobile, so evident under the bedclothes. He saw that when the name Montobbio was pronounced, all that was alive in that body shuddered. He looked at his face, that gentle and determined smile he had liked. He no longer looked the same; the face was drawn, frantic.

  “Montobbio? Montobbio is pitiful; a poor, puny man corrupted by the bourgeois leprosy. That’s what I have to say to you.”

  Pisani frowned, raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Be careful now. I’m not interested in the personal, as I said.”

  “The personal, in this case, is a human matter, a serious, very serious matter that concerns me, that concerns the party that this individual pretends to represent in the chamber and elsewhere!”

  “Mazzola, calm down,” Pisani advised him. He took his hand.

  “Let me say it, let me say it! You ask: In what way does Montobbio deviate? Here’s how! He’s rotten with particularism, that man, he’s rotten with personalism. What drives him—and he’ll use any means to get it—is his triumph as an individual, is winning, pushing others aside, undermining this person or that, replacing them, and you people in Rome, how can you not know that? The party counts for nothing, what counts is that he’s talked about, that he stands out, that he gains a lot of space, that finally he, a man who has suffered (he even said as much!), has the good life. You want proof? You will find it, the most recent proof, in the newspapers of Rome and Turin (not in ours, not in l’Unità, mind you) of October 10, 11, and 12, and November 1 and 2, under the headlines ‘Flora Construction Co-op’ or ‘Tyrrhenian Real Estate’ or ‘Tyrrhenian Bus Lines,’ et cetera. You propose I study the history of Russian communism; I propose, forgive me, that you read what the press has to say about Roman comm
unism!”

  “Is the comrade very sure he is not committing the same sin he so vehemently berates others for?” said Pisani, calm, superior, indulgent. “I mean particularism, personalism. Are there not strictly personal motives, or rather familial motives, behind this attack? Can you guarantee that?”

  Mazzola thrust his elbows down, as if he meant to get out of bed. He was shaking all over. He raised a hand to brush away the hair in his face, and came down on one hip facing Ferranini, his back to the other man. Without trying to change position, without looking at him, he spoke.

  “I can guess (oh, can I guess!) what you refer to, comrade. And I guarantee you that I do have reasons, not to detest him, no, but to know him. I know Montobbio better than anyone. He was a soldier in Croatia and after the armistice in ’43 he came back to Italy and went in a military hospital to be treated for otitis. My mother, a Red Cross nurse, worked in that hospital. Afterward Gildo joined the partisans and was active in Lombardy, around Brescia; I used to see him often. He would come to see my mother, who was living with me and my grandparents in a villa on Lake Garda. He became friends with my mother, and with me. I was fifteen, he was a grown man; he intimidated me but I admired him, wanted to be like him. He was a sincere Communist, a good fighter; he won both of us over, he converted us. I say ‘converted us’ intentionally, because he came from the working class, while we were of the masters; my maternal grandfather had owned a wool mill in the Veneto. We felt we had discovered a new world in him, and we entered that new world with all our enthusiasm. Gildo went to Rome after the war, and we followed him. My mother had been widowed for twelve years; she was still young, free. I studied engineering in Rome, while he began his climb up the party hierarchy, was named a deputy, changed. He changed in the way I told you. He renounced his past, and it was logical that he would renounce his ties with my mother and me. We finally came back up north. He had mistresses; there was one in Turin who had a child by him and he’d invite her to Rome—”

  “Enough!” Comrade Pisani interrupted him. “Such particulars are not necessary. Your story amply confirms one fact, the only one that interests us. Your political judgment about the person of whom you speak cannot in any way be considered objective. Be good enough to admit that!”

  •

  “May I?” came an energetic voice from the hallway.

  It was the doctor. He came into the room, a man about the same age as his patient; he didn’t look around and paid no attention to the two visitors. He sat unceremoniously on the edge of the bed.

  Ferranini got up and left; Comrade Pisani followed.

  Not a word was said between them. Standing, smoking a cigarette, Pisani looked around inquisitively at the three rooms, one after the other (one was the kitchen), that could be seen from the small dark hallway. The doctor remained with his patient for no less than twenty minutes. Coming out, he said, “Mazzola’s case is atypical, and quite severe. He needs rest. He must be left in peace.”

  Pisani shrugged his shoulders. “No one’s threatening his peace.”

  The other man opened the door to leave. “When I was coming up the stairs,” he replied dryly, “I heard the sounds of an argument.”

  “You mean to say, of a conversation,” Pisani corrected him.

  They went back in.

  Mazzola picked up immediately, continuing to speak without turning toward Pisani.

  “You were saying, comrade, that I’m unable to be objective. But I was speaking of facts—facts in the public domain. The bourgeois press has been able to exploit these. No denials have been issued.”

  “Permit me to insist that your objectivity is deficient,” replied Pisani with great didactic patience. “A deficiency that is evident and I would add excusable, if we consider the peculiar character, the peculiarly private character, of your relationship with the person who is the object of your attacks. But now, before terminating this conversation so far as I am concerned, let me restate what has emerged. Your ideas suggest a certain confusion, or imprecision, and so I shall try to reorder them in terms of what I’ve understood. In the first place, you are opposed to the political line vulgarly known as de-Stalinization. Which line amounts, in your opinion, to a form of revisionist backsliding (defeatism, fence-sitting) already today manifest among the PCI leadership. Furthermore, generalizing from a single case that you claim to know and be competent to judge, you speak of moral laxity. What’s more, you don’t rule out a broad, overall tendency toward deviationism. A rightward ‘drift,’ shall we say, of the entire movement. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The cadres, at the top, and also in the middle ranks are here and there (did I get that right?) guilty of Menshevism, of social democracy, in your opinion. Both of those terms to mean a propensity toward reformism. Correct? The remedy you suggest is obviously a shift to the left, both in organization and objectives. Incidentally, I wouldn’t say you show much originality. Shift to the left and return to the Stalinist line: this is ‘your’ hard line, your maximalism? Among other things you suggest that the anthem ‘Bandiera Rossa’ be reinstated. And this, perhaps, is your most concrete proposal. I invite Comrade Ferranini to present it in the appropriate forums.”

  Mazzola looked calmer now.

  “ ‘My’ maximalism is quite different from what you imagine,” Mazzola said. “It’s not reckless or illusory. It’s a call for cohesion, for discipline. I believe that to build communism we need men willing to sacrifice, to become ‘masses’ in the real sense. Not men who see in communism a way to stand out. The bourgeois accuses us of negating the personal, that is, accuses us of just what we’re proud of, what ought to be our merit. He gets his back by exciting that domineering instinct of personalism, the individual, in us, too. And so he breaks us apart. The nations in the Communist bloc must exalt their nationalism (see, Yugoslavia detaches itself, Hungary revolts), and the men who make up the communist masses must exalt their individualism: this is what the bourgeois wants, because he knows that is the way to liquidate his enemy. And Montobbio and his like are the liquidation of communism. I say ‘and his like’ because individualism (or personalism, or careerism, et cetera) is a widespread phenomenon among us.”

  Ferranini put a hand on the bed to shake Mazzola’s. Widespread, he thought: Yep, do I ever know about that!

  “We must submerge ourselves in the mass, and repudiate ourselves as individuals.”

  “I see there is also a mystical component in you,” Comrade Pisani observed, half smiling. “Don’t forget that reality (including that of the Turin PCI Federation) lies in praxis.”

  “I am being fully practical! I say, if we add together even as many as five million individuals, men who perceive themselves above all as individuals, that doesn’t add up to a communist movement. Are you going to tell me otherwise? There are two tendencies that favor individualism and discourage cohesion with the collectivity, and one of these is the pursuit of affluence, which means the motorbike, the cheap car, the TV for the worker, and for Montobbio, as we know, a great deal more. The other tendency is attachment to hierarchy. I don’t want to rely on others, I want to stand out, take command over others. Note that this second tendency has nothing to do with interest in politics. It’s the death of that interest. Those of us who work with the base know that today the base is all too often apolitical. Largely apolitical.”

  Ferranini could not help but think: Is he right! He’s right.

  “This hierarchism doesn’t represent a desire for responsibility; it’s the wish to gain position even inside the party organization. Against hierarchism, I preach comradeship. Be very wary of positions! When they offer you a position on the internal committee, in the cell, in the section? You turn it down. Don’t worry, there will always be plenty of people, too many, who want that position and will take it.”

  Standing in the embrasure before the window, Comrade Pisani was drumming his fingers lightly on the glass. He turned around, smiling.

  “Yours is an old anarchist e
rror. Please take note. An error that leads us a long way from socialism. Nevertheless, if your words imply that you profess humility, personal subordination, and discipline, that will be taken into account quite willingly. We shall see how disciplined you are in your own particular case. If, and in what spirit, you obey the instructions the party may deliver.”

  “Instructions and perhaps measures,” said Mazzola. “I’ve thought about that. I don’t have many responsibilities, and those I have are modest. Will you divest me of those too? Very well, I’m happy to go back to being one hundred percent a follower. Certainly I won’t have another opportunity to speak to someone as influential as you, comrade, so allow me to take advantage of the situation and make a suggestion, however presumptuous. Bureaucracy, even in the USSR, is fought on a technical level. We must fight it at the moral level. We must make it so that in the party, people would prefer to work, rather than to command.”

  The other man didn’t bother to reply. He cast a last gaze out the window, at the mighty cedar bough whipping in the wind.

  “Get well, Comrade Mazzola. I hope you’ll get well! You’ll need to.”

  There were no farewells. Ferranini alone shook the young man’s hand, without saying anything. He would have liked to, but couldn’t find the words.

  Outside, Comrade Pisani said he’d like to walk for a bit. They did—some two hundred paces from the gate of the house to the main street—the Federation automobile trailing behind them. As they were about to get in the car, Mazzola’s wife caught up with them. She was out of breath, she had run, with two long loaves of bread and a bottle of milk poking out of the string bag on her arm.

  “Roberto will be on sick leave for a while. If you gentlemen are staying in Turin, please come back to see him. Come back. And thank you, sirs!”

  She shut the car door.

  7

  ON THE 1:00 p.m. rapido back to Rome, Ferranini looked around in vain for company.