“Ten entries, ten exits,” said the interpreter, as he handed the papers back to Peppone.
As they walked towards the plane Don Camillo asked Comrade Petrovna to tell him the exact meaning of the Russian words which the ship captain had pronounced at the moment of disembarkment.
“He was summing up what happened during the storm,” she replied. “‘In dire extremity man remembers his God’.”
“An outdated Russian proverb,” muttered Don Camillo.
As the travellers climbed into the plane Comrade Petrovna shook hands with them, one by one. When it came to the Neapolitan barber, who was also a refugee from Rumania, it was all she could do to contain her laughter. But the sight of Comrade Scamoggia froze the smile on her lips. Don Camillo was the last to climb aboard.
“Good-bye,” he said.
“Pray for me, Comrade,” Comrade Petrovna whispered, and there were tears rolling down her cheeks.
For a long time after the plane had left the ground Don Camillo could not stop thinking of the sorrowful expression in her eyes. Then he looked down at the endless expanse of mist-covered fields and remembered a Russian phrase which he had jotted down in his notebook: “Spasitjel mira, spasi Rossiu!—Saviour of the world, save Russia!”
A Story That Has No End
“Lord,” said Don Camillo to the crucified Christ above the altar, “for two whole weeks I’ve been back in my own familiar surroundings, and I still can’t get over the feeling of distress from which I suffered during my travels. Mind You, Lord, it was distress, not fear; I had no reason to be afraid. I was deeply ashamed, like an old soldier used to fighting out in the open when he finds himself under false colours, charged with penetrating the enemy ranks in order to plot their destruction. The crucifix concealed in a fountain pen, the breviary masked as a volume of excerpts from Lenin, the clandestine Masses celebrated before a bedside table.”
“Don’t torment yourself, Don Camillo,” Christ answered gently. “You weren’t a coward, trying to knife his neighbour in the back; you were trying to help him. Would you refuse a dying man a drink of water if it were necessary to lower yourself to practise deceit in order to bring it to him? The heroism of a soldier of Christ is humility; his only enemy is pride. Blessed are the meek….”
“Lord, you are speaking from a Cross that has all the glory of a throne, a throne which you won in open battle, without the humiliation of disguise. You never appeared to men in the likeness of the Devil.”
“Don Camillo, didn’t the Son of God humble himself when he consented to live like a man and die like a common criminal? Just look at your God, at His wounded sides and the ignominious crown of thorns on His head!”
“Lord, I am looking at You,” insisted Don Camillo, “but I see only the divine light of Your supreme sacrifice. No light at all, not even the wavering flare of a match, illuminates the wretched figure of ‘Comrade Don Camillo’.”
Christ smiled.
“What about the light you kindled in the eyes of the old peasant woman of Grevinec? And the candle you lit on the unmarked grave of a soldier whose family did not even have the satisfaction of knowing where he lay? Then think back to the storm at sea and the terror of your miserable companions at the thought that their last hour had come. When you held up your crucifix and asked God to forgive them their sins, did they ridicule the transformation of Comrade Tarocci into a priest of the Church? No, they fell down on their knees and tried to kiss that tiny figure with the collapsible arms. Haven’t you ever wondered what got into them?”
“But, Lord, any other priest would have behaved the same way,” murmured Don Camillo.
“Remember that only Peppone knew who you were. For all the others you were simply Comrade Tarocci. How do you explain their change of heart?”
Don Camillo threw out his arms. Only now did he realize what an incredible episode it had been.
“You see,” said Christ, “that some light must have been shed by ‘Comrade Don Camillo’.”
For most of the two weeks since his return Don Camillo had been trying to put his travel notes in order for the Bishop’s perusal. It was no easy job for, although the Bishop was old and forgetful, he had very exacting notions of grammar.
Ever since they had said good-bye at the Milan railway station, Don Camillo had had no news of Peppone. The Neapolitan barber had dropped out of the group in West Berlin; Comrade Tavan, with his three stalks of wheat, had left the train at Verona, and Don Camillo had got off, along with Comrade Bacciga and Comrade Peratto, at Milan.
“Shouldn’t you travel with us as far as Parma or Reggio Emilia?” Scamoggia had asked him. But Don Camillo claimed to have urgent business in Milan. This was quite true because there he had left his cassock and he was in a hurry to recover it. Peppone had counted his little troop and just as Don Camillo was leaving the train he heard him shout gaily at Scamoggia:
“There are only six of us from now on. Take this money and buy six bottles of wine. I want to treat you.”
Peppone’s laughter continued to ring in his ears and he racked his brain to know what had caused it. On the evening of the fourteenth day after his homecoming Peppone himself turned up to give him an explanation. For a moment Don Camillo failed to recognize his old friend. He had left him wearing a double-breasted dark-blue suit, a white shirt and a grey silk tie, and now here he was in his outfit of times long gone by: a corduroy jacket, wrinkled trousers, a cap pulled down over the back of his head, a handkerchief knotted around his neck and a peasant’s black wool cape over his shoulders. Don Camillo stared at him for some minutes and then shook his head.
“How silly of me to forget,” he exclaimed, “that the representative of the working class has to carry his load in a senatorial suit in Rome and in the rig of a mayor in his native village. It must be hard lines for you to travel only at night. Won’t you sit down?”
“I can say what I have to say standing up,” grumbled Peppone. “I’ve come to pay my debt.” He pulled a candle out of his pocket and put it down on Don Camillo’s desk. “This is to thank the Lord for having saved me from shipwreck.”
“‘In dire extremity man remembers his God’, as the Russian sea captain said,” answered Don Camillo. “Usually when the extremity is past he proceeds to forget Him. I congratulate you on your good memory.”
“And this is to thank the Lord for saving me from a certain priest whom the Devil sent to torment me,” added Peppone lugubriously, drawing forth another candle, a giant one, four feet long and eight inches in diameter.
Don Camillo’s jaw dropped.
“I had it made to order,” Peppone explained. “It’s big, if you like, but if it were really to represent the danger of that priest it would have to be four times bigger.”
“You flatter me,” said Don Camillo. “A country priest doesn’t really deserve such consideration.”
“There are country priests more dangerous than the Pope in person,” said Peppone. He threw a parcel and three letters on to the desk and added: “These were sent to me with the request that I should turn them over to Comrade Tarocci. I don’t like it, not a bit. I warn you that if I receive any more I shall burn them.”
Don Camillo opened the parcel, which was full of photographs, and looked hastily at one of the letters, which was addressed in the same writing.
“They are…” he began.
“I’m not sticking my nose into your business, Father,” said Peppone.
“But they pertain to Comrade Tarocci, who as cell-Leader is obliged to inform his superior. They are pictures sent by Comrade Peratto, and he says I am to do what I please with them. Look at this group, where we are in the front row together. Doesn’t it interest you?”
Peppone snatched the picture, examined it, and said between clenched teeth:
“I hope you’re not going to get me into any more trouble!”
“Don’t worry, Senator. Comrade Peratto has sent another set, of a strictly unofficial nature, which he asks me to place without ment
ioning his name. The Party doesn’t pay him very well and he wants to make a bit of money.”
“Would you play a dirty trick like that?”
“It’s up to you. What if we fail to give him satisfaction and he sends a picture that has me in it to a Party paper?”
Peppone lowered himself into a chair and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. While he looked through the pictures Don Camillo read the second letter and informed him of its contents.
“This one is from Comrade Tavan. He thanks me for my good advice and says it has done wonders for his mother. He has planted the three stalks of wheat and goes to look at them every day. ‘If they were to wither,’ he says, ‘I’d feel that my brother was even more dead than before.’ And he sends his best wishes to the Comrade Senator.”
Peppone only grunted in reply.
The third letter was a very short one, enclosing some money.
“It’s from Comrade Gibetti,” said Don Camillo. “When he got home he began to wonder about the contents of the Russian letter which told the story of the girl with whom he was in love. Finally he got it translated and found that she was dead. He has sent me a thousand liras to say a Mass for her soul. I’m going to send back the money and tell him I’ll say a Mass for her every month.”
Peppone brought his fist down on the desk.
“Who the devil told these fellows that you were a priest?” he thundered. “That’s what I’d like to know!”
“Nobody told them. They simply got the idea.”
“But how did they get it?”
“It was a question of seeing the light,” said Don Camillo. “Since I’m no electrician, I can’t explain.”
Peppone shook his head.
“Perhaps the fault is mine. Perhaps there on the ship my tongue slipped and I called you ‘Father’.”
“I don’t remember you doing any such thing.”
Peppone showed him a picture in which Comrade Oregov occupied a prominent place.
“When I saw him for the last time,” he said with bowed head, “the fury of the storm was over. How did it happen that a wave washed him into the sea? What happened up on the deck after we had gone below?”
“Only God can say,” said Don Camillo. “And He alone knows how often the poor fellow is in my thoughts.”
Peppone gave a deep sigh and got up.
“Here are the pictures I’d choose,” he said.
“Agreed,” said Don Camillo. “And what am I to do with the candles?”
Peppone shrugged his shoulders.
“The big one can be for the escape from shipwreck,” he muttered.
“That’s what you said for the smaller,” Don Camillo reminded him.
“The smaller can be for the escape from the priest,” shouted Peppone, and he went away without saying good-bye.
Don Camillo went over to the church. There was no candlestick large enough to contain the giant candle, but he managed to fit it into a big bronze vase. When he had put both candles on the altar and lit them Don Camillo said:
“Lord, Peppone is mindful of you.”
“And of you, too, if I’m not mistaken,” Christ replied.
When the Bishop had read Don Camillo’s report, he sent for him. “Now give me the whole story,” he said.
Don Camillo talked for several hours uninterruptedly and when he had finished the Bishop exclaimed:
“It’s incredible! Conversion of Comrade Tavan and Comrade Gibetti, liberation of a Neapolitan barber, communion given to the old Polish woman, the marriage of her daughter to an Italian veteran and the baptism of their six children, the veteran’s confession and rehabilitation, a Mass for the Dead celebrated in a forgotten cemetery and the absolution given to eighteen persons in imminent danger of death! And besides this you became a cell leader. All in the space of six days in the territory of the anti-Christ! I can hardly believe it!”
“Your Grace, besides my word there are the photographs and the letters. And I have a senator for a witness.”
“A senator!” groaned the old man. “Then the damage is irreparable.”
Don Camillo looked bewildered.
“My son, can’t you see that under these conditions I’ll simply have to raise you to the rank of monsignore.”
“Domine, non sum dingus,” he murmured, raising his eyes to heaven.
The Bishop shook his head.
“Just what I said myself, many years ago, but no one paid any attention. God be with you!”
In the month that followed, the Russian adventure ceased to occupy Don Camillo’s mind. But one morning as he was coming out of the church he caught Smilzo pasting a poster on the rectory wall. He did not make his presence known but when Smilzo came down from the ladder and almost knocked him over, he asked:
“Comrade, what if someone were to tear down your poster while the paste is still fresh and ram it down your throat?”
“Father, no man alive would do a thing like that!” Smilzo replied.
“Just suppose such a man is alive and standing here before you!”
He had taken hold of the lapels of Smilzo’s ragged jacket and seemed to have no intention of letting them go.
“All right… That would be a very different situation.”
Don Camillo went on in a different tone:
“Look here; do I ever stick up posters on your ‘People’s Palace’? Why do you have to inflict your political idiocies on me?”
“This isn’t politics,” said Smilzo. “It’s the announcement of a cultural event.”
Without releasing his grip on Smilzo’s jacket Don Camillo looked up and read a notice to the effect that Senator Giuseppe Bottazzi was to talk the following evening about his recent trip to the Soviet Union. A period of questions and answers would follow.
“You’re right,” he said, letting go of Smilzo’s jacket. “It’s a strictly cultural proposition. Where can I get a ticket?”
“Everybody’s welcome and entrance is free,” said Smilzo, straightening out his lapels. “And there are no holds barred on the questions.”
“Even questions from me?”
“Even from the Bishop,” said Smilzo, beating a cautious retreat. “We particularly want to educate the clergy.”
He had retreated too far for Don Camillo to lay hands on him again, and besides the priest had other matters on his mind. He went into the rectory and picked up his pen. Half an hour later a boy delivered a letter to Peppone, which read as follows:
“Dear Comrade Senator: I can hardly wait to come to tomorrow night’s meeting. Just let me submit one advance question: Why are you looking for trouble? Best regards from—Comrade Tarocci.”
In the late afternoon Peppone was unexpectedly called to Rome and the next morning Smilzo had to add a postscript to the poster: Because of the unavoidable absence of the speaker the meeting is postponed to an indefinite date.
Once more, when he climbed down from the ladder, Smilzo found himself face to face with Don Camillo.
“Too bad!” said the priest. “Who knows how long the clergy will have to remain wrapped in the ignorance of the Dark Ages?”
Smilzo quickly picked up his ladder and retreated to a position of safety.
“Don’t you worry, Father. We’ll open their eyes!”
No later date was ever announced, and after rain had washed the poster away it received no further mention. Six months went by, and because Don Camillo had no opportunity of talking about his Russian trip he began to wonder whether it was all a dream. But one morning, when he was putting his papers in order, the sexton came to tell him that a stranger was at the door. To his utter amazement Don Camillo saw, over the sexton’s shoulder, the face of Comrade Nanni Scamoggia.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“There are such things as trains,” said Scamoggia. “And I persuaded Comrade Bottazzi to give me your address.”
“I see,” said Don Camillo, although he didn’t see at all. “What’s the reason for your visit?”
Scamoggia was still the same devil-may-care fellow as before. This was quite plain from the way he lit his cigarette and threw himself into a chair. But his nonchalance did not deceive Don Camillo, who remembered the tears in Comrade Nadia Petrovna’s eyes.
“I have a problem, Comrade… I mean Father. It’s that girl….”
“Yes. What happened to her?”
“She came to Rome two months ago with a Russian women’s delegation. When they left she cut loose and stayed behind.”
“So what did you do?”
“In my Party position I couldn’t have dealings with a traitor to the Soviet Union.”
“So what next?”
“In order to marry her I had to leave the Party,” said Scamoggia, tossing his cigarette butt into the fire.
“Is that the problem?”
“No, it’s this. We’ve been married for a month now, and every day she says the civil ceremony isn’t enough. She wants a church wedding.”
“I don’t see much to worry about,” Don Camillo observed calmly.
“You wouldn’t,” said Scamoggia. “But don’t forget that the very sight of a priest turns my stomach.”
“I understand, Comrade. You have a right to your own opinions. But if that’s the case, why have you come to me?”
“Because if a priest does have to be dragged into it, I’d rather he were a regular fellow. And you’re a sort of ex-comrade, like myself. In fact, you’re my former cell leader.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Don Camillo.
Scamoggia went to open the door and shouted:
“Nadia!”
A second later Comrade Petrovna entered the room. As soon as she saw Don Camillo, she rushed to kiss his hand.
“How revolting!” muttered Scamoggia. “So short a time in this country and she knows all the rules!”
Comrade Don Camillo Page 15