Don Camillo’s Dilemma

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “Then you and your dummies can go to hell,” Peppone shouted.

  “If the committee have no more to say,” said Don Camillo, “we may as well adjourn.”

  The head of the committee chosen by Don Camillo threw out his arms in despair. And so did the head of Peppone’s committee. Then both parties went home.

  Three days later a new challenge arrived from Torricella.

  NOTICE

  In order to give a chance to the two teams

  which we have challenged

  Instead of beating them one after the other,

  Our Torricella team has decided to take

  them both on together.

  Hence the Torricella Eleven will play the

  Diehard-Dynamo twenty-two.

  The necessity of forming a single team was now more urgent than ever, and the chemist, together with the doctor, managed to form a committee to effect a liaison between the two already existing committees. This was a very complicated affair, but finally the two committees met for the purpose of making a final decision.

  “I bow to the will of the joint committee,” said Don Camillo who was the first to take the floor. “But since it’s inevitable that the committee make up a half-and-half team, I say that the Diehards will furnish six players and the Dynamos five.”

  “I agree,” said Peppone, “Diehards five and Dynamos six.”

  For a moment Don Camillo respected the silence which followed upon this declaration. Then he said:

  “Since this point is bound to hold up the committees deliberations, why don’t we settle it by drawing cards?”

  A pack of cards was produced, and Don Camillo and Peppone drew a card each. Peppone won by a single point, and it was decided that the Dynamos should contribute six men to the team and the Diehards five.

  “In that case,” said Don Camillo, “it’s only fair that a Diehard be the captain.”

  “Democracy has very definite regulations,” retorted Peppone. “You may not know it, Father, but there you are. In a democratic system the majority rules. So we shall choose our own captain.”

  Don Camillo shook his head.

  “That’s Communism for you!” he exclaimed. “Once they’ve seized power, they install a dictatorship under a democratic label.”

  “Sport has nothing to do with politics,” Peppone protested. “In order to give the lie to your reactionary slander, let’s settle it with another draw.”

  This time Don Camillo won, and the Diehards chose a captain for the team. The next day the mixed team met for a first practice. The game lasted exactly eight minutes, after which the two factions had a free-for-all-fight. The next day brought considerable improvement, because the Dynamos and Diehards began rough-housing in the dressing-room long before the game. On the third day the players didn’t fight either in the dressing-room or on the field. They fought outside the field, before they ever got there. On the fourth day, after they had exhausted all other possible dodges, they actually played a game but with the saddest results imaginable. And the following day things went even worse. They couldn’t muster any teamwork whatsoever, but seemed to be eleven savages who were making their first acquaintance with a ball and kicking it around at random.

  Meanwhile, time was going by. The day of the match was drawing near, and still no progress had been made. Finally the last day came. After the final, eminently unsuccessful practice game, Don Camillo and Peppone found themselves going back to the village together.

  “So,” said Peppone, “we’re going to reap the result of your stubbornness tomorrow. If you’d given in to me and let the Dynamos defend the honour of the village, we shouldn’t be having any of this trouble.”

  “Peppone,” said Don Camillo, “I know my boys, and I say that all our trouble is your fault. You used your usual obstructionist tactics to make us hand you over the controls. I said ‘make us’ because anyone with fine feelings and conscience will always yield a point, and that is exactly what were going to do. Your bullying has met with success. The Diehards are withdrawing and your Dynamos will play. Don’t pretend to make a fuss, because I know that the Dynamos have been holding a practice of their own every day, on the sly, and your pretence of training with us hasn’t hurt your form.”

  Peppone did not bother to make a denial. He slipped away, and two hours later the village was plastered with big red posters.

  The Diehards have withdrawn their men

  because of admitted technical failings

  and so tomorrow’s match will be

  played by an all-Dynamo team,

  sole defender of the village’s honour.

  Before going to bed Don Camillo went to kneel before the Crucified Christ.

  “Lord,” he prayed, “don’t let them lose the match tomorrow. Not for their sake, because they don’t deserve to win, but for mine. Don’t let them lose, that is, unless you want to lead me into the temptation of rejoicing over their defeat.”

  “Don Camillo,” Christ answered, “you know that I have no dealings with sport!”

  * * *

  Peppone’s men made a miserable showing and Torricella scored a large number of goals against them. Don Camillo was unable to resist temptation and inwardly rejoiced over their discomfiture. He rejoiced outwardly as well, and with the devil hot upon his trail challenged the Torricella team to a match with the Diehards the following Sunday. The Diehards won. This victory seemed to call for a celebration and he called the Diehards together.

  “Boys,” he said, “I have three magnificent capons in my chicken coop. On Sunday evening we’ll eat them and drink to the health of the Dynamos. This isn’t top secret, so if you happen to say something about it, no harm is done.”

  Obviously several people did, quite accidentally, spread the good word, because almost immediately the whole village knew that on Sunday evening the rectory would be the scene of what was dubbed “the revenge supper”.

  In order to make the occasion more festive, the Diehards needed a song, and Don Camillo sat up most of one night in order to write the words and most of the next in order to set them to music on the church organ. On Thursday night, he emerged from the sacristy with words and music complete and plenty of time to teach his boys the song so that they could come out with it at the supper. The tune was simple, and if necessary they could always read the words. He was quite pleased with himself as he returned to the rectory for the night, and before going to bed, he decided to take a look at the three capons in his thicken coop. Alas, the capons were gone, and so were three hens. All that was left were one bedraggled chick and a scrawny rooster. To take the place of the missing capons, a sign was hung on the wall which said in dog-Latin: Crescete et moltiplicorum.

  Increase and multiply, indeed! Don Camillo was breathless with indignation, and seizing the sign, he went to tell his troubles to the Christ over the main altar.

  “Lord,” he panted, “they’ve stolen my chickens!”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Christ answered with a smile. “But before making any such categorical statement you’d better make sure they didn’t just run away.”

  Don Camillo held up the sign.

  “I know what I’m talking about, Lord,” he said. “Look what the thieves left behind! Isn’t it disgusting?”

  “You don’t expect a petty thief to write good Latin, do you, Don Camillo?”

  “I’m not talking about the Latin. I’m concerned with the impudence of his adding insult to injury. Lord, who in the world could it be?”

  These words reminded Don Camillo of the real delinquent, his dog Thunder. Why hadn’t Thunder barked and given the alarm? He went to look for the dog and found him lying peacefully in his kennel.

  “You traitor!” the priest shouted. “In enemy pay!”

  What angered him even more than the loss of the chickens were the disturbances of the festive supper. He was pacing up and down the church square, when a voice roused him from his ire.

  “Have you insomnia, Father? What keeps you
up so late?” The speaker was the carabinieri sergeant, who was coming back from his evening rounds, together with one of his men.

  “I’ve been robbed of my chickens!” Don Camillo exclaimed. “At ten o’clock, when I went into the sacristy, they were there, and when I came out at eleven, they had disappeared. I was playing the organ, and someone crept up, under cover of the music.”

  “Didn’t your dog bark?”

  “That’s just what I mean. Perhaps he did bark, but I couldn’t hear him.”

  “And do you suspect anyone in particular?”

  Don Camillo threw out his arms.

  Don Camillo shut himself up in the rectory and refused to see a soul. The whole village knew what had happened, and the Reds were rubbing their hands and laughing.

  “It seems that the Sunday-night supper will be a paltry affair. Well, if they haven’t the capons they can feed on their new song.”

  The supper was cancelled, and that evening Don Camillo was in the depths of despair. At eight o’clock he whistled for Thunder to come and get a bowl of soup, but Thunder failed to respond. Don Camillo resolved to find him, and went out on the road leading away from the village. Ten minutes later he walked through Peppone’s vegetable garden and into the dark hall of his house. From the kitchen there came echoes of loud laughter, and Don Camillo turned the doorknob and went in. Peppone was sitting at the table, together with Smilzo, Brusco, Bigio and the rest of the gang, over a dish of roast chicken, and at the sight of Don Camillo they were positively petrified in their chairs.

  “Excuse me, Peppone,” said Don Camillo, “but I’m looking for my dog. Do you happen to have seen him?”

  Peppone shook his head, but Don Camillo had keen eyes and knew better. He lifted up the edge of the tablecloth and saw Thunder crouching under the table with a heaping dish of chicken bones before him.

  “He just dropped in,” Peppone exclaimed lamely.

  “I see,” said Don Camillo.

  Thunder flattened himself out on the floor in shame.

  “If you’d care to join us, Father, please sit down,” said Peppone.

  “I’ve had my supper, thank you. Good evening.”

  Don Camillo walked out, and Thunder, after a questioning look at Peppone, followed the priest at a distance, dragging his tail. When they reached the rectory, the priest turned on him and said indignantly:

  “You thief!”

  And since this word seemed to make very little impression the priest added with utter scorn:

  “You’ve sold out to the Russians!”

  The next day the carabinieri sergeant received several anonymous letters, and the affair assumed a sudden importance. Six chickens don’t amount to much, but when there is reason to think that the theft has been committed by the mayor, then there is a political angle to it. Peppone received an unexpected visit from the law.

  “Sorry, Mr Mayor, but I must do my duty. Can you tell me where you were between ten and eleven o’clock of last Thursday evening? You weren’t at home, we know that. At five minutes past ten you were seen climbing over the fence around the rectory garden. There are three witnesses to that. And others saw you climb over your own fence three quarters of an hour later.”

  Peppone was as confused as a child.

  “That’s my business,” he finally sputtered.

  “And where did you get the five chickens you ate at your home Sunday night?”

  “That’s my business, too.”

  The sergeant received equally unsatisfactory replies to his other questions, and finally went away saying:

  “You’ll have to tell the court.”

  Now the affair took on really colossal proportions. Mayor Giuseppe Bottazzi was accused of being a vulgar chicken thief and summoned to appear before the magistrates’ court in the nearest city. How had the mighty fallen, when the tamer of lions was laid low by a church mouse.

  Don Camillo found himself in court, without knowing exactly why. But there he was, and there in the dock, was Peppone. It looked very much like the end of his career.

  “The accused has steadily refused to say where he spent the hour between ten and eleven o’clock, that is between the time when he was seen climbing the rectory fence and the time when he was seen sneaking back over his own. Has he, even at this late date, anything to say?”

  The magistrate looked at Peppone and everyone in the courtroom turned their eyes in his direction. But Peppone helplessly threw out his arms.

  “I can’t say where I was,” he answered in a low voice.

  “Do you refuse, absolutely?”

  “It isn’t that I refuse, Judge. I simply can’t do it.”

  At this point Don Camillo asked if he might be allowed to say a word.

  “From ten to eleven o’clock, Mayor Bottazzi was with me in the sacristy,” he stated.

  “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “Nobody asked me. And besides, before testifying, I had to secure my superiors’ permission.”

  The magistrate shot him a questioning look.

  “Excuse me, Father, but what brought him to the church at that hour, when you were playing the organ. Was it for a singing lesson?”

  “The sound of the organ doesn’t prevent one of the faithful from saying his prayers.”

  “I don’t deny that, Father, but I don’t see why the accused didn’t give the law this explanation. No one need hesitate to use church-going as an alibi. If I’d spent my time in church I’d be glad to say so.”

  “But you’re not a Communist Party leader and mayor of a village in a region where the Party is so strong,” Don Camillo replied. “He comes to church at an hour when his Party comrades can’t see him. If your Honour requires any further explanation.”

  “No, nothing more,” the magistrate interrupted, smiling broadly.

  “Then just let me say this: Giuseppe Bottazzi is a good-hearted, hard-working, God-fearing fellow,” concluded Don Camillo.

  Don Camillo made the trip home on Peppone’s motorcycle, but Peppone did not open his mouth the whole way. When they came to the rectory he gave a deep sigh:

  “You made a laughing stock of me,” he said plaintively. “The reactionary press will have a field-day with this story.”

  “They’d have treated you a good deal more roughly if you’d been convicted of being a chicken thief,” said Don Camillo.

  “But you’ve got me in hot water with the Party. If I tell the truth they’ll bawl me out for being so stupid as to steal chickens. And if I stick to your version of events, then they’ll brand me as even more of a fool.”

  “Never mind about the Party,” grumbled Don Camillo. “I’m in hot water with Almighty God. Here I am, a priest, and I’ve given false testimony before a court of law! How shall I ever get up my nerve to go into church?”

  Peppone jumped off his motorcycle and marched into the church and straight up to the main altar. He remained standing there for several minutes and then went back outside.

  “You can go in now,” he said. “I’ve fixed things up for you. I’d like to see you straighten things out for me with the Party in the same way!”

  Don Camillo threw out his arms.

  “Of course it’s easier to deal with God than one of your Party bosses. They never forgive anything.”

  Exactly in what terms Peppone had “fixed things” up no one ever knew. But when, late that night Don Camillo summoned up the nerve to go into church and kneel in front of the main altar, the Crucified Christ said:

  “What in the world have you been up to now, Don Camillo?”

  “I had the bishop’s permission,” said Don Camillo in justification of his perjury.

  “He’s quite a fellow, too!” Christ sighed, half smiling.

  The Man without a Head

  DON CAMILLO leaped to his feet and very nearly shouted, because the discovery was so sensational. Just then the sound of the clock in the church tower ringing three o’clock in the morning brought him around to the thought that the only s
ensible thing to do at that hour was to go to sleep. But before dozing off he read over the extraordinary bit of news he had just found in his predecessor’s diary. “On 8 November 1752,” the passage began, “something quite terrible happened….”

  The eighteenth-century parish priest had explained the mystery of the black stone and at the same time provided Don Camillo with an excellent subject for his Sunday sermon. Now he closed the book and hurried to bed, because three hours of Sunday morning had already gone by.

  * * *

  “Brethren,” Don Camillo began his sermon, “today I want to talk to you about the black stone, the one you have all seen in one corner of the cemetery with the mysterious inscription: 8 November 1752. Here lies a man without face or name. For years this stone has been the subject of research and discussion. Now at last the mystery has been made clear.”

  A murmur of amazement greeted these words. And Don Camillo continued:

  “Every evening for the last few months I’ve been looking over the old books and registers which turned up in a forgotten wardrobe some time ago, and as you know I’ve found all sorts of interesting information. But just last night I came across the most extraordinary item of all, which I shall now translate into contemporary language for your benefit.

  “‘On 8 November 1752 something quite terrible happened. For a whole year some marauders known as the ‘hole-in-the-wall gang’ because of the method they used to break into respectable houses, had been wreaking havoc all over the countryside. None of them had ever been caught red-handed. But on the night of 8 November, Giuseppe Folini, from Crocilone, a merchant by profession, was awakened by a suspicious noise and after he had got out of bed to go down to his cellar storeroom, he realized that the noise came from that part of the wall which bordered on the open fields and had no door or window of any kind. Obviously someone was boring his way into the cellar and such an enterprise could only be conducted by the ‘hole-in-the-wall’ gang.

  “‘A few minutes later, while Folini was still standing there indecisively, a piece of plaster fell from a spot about six inches above the floor and the moonlight streaming in from a window across the way allowed him to see a brick moving. Soon the brick was lifted out and a gaunt white hand came through the hole and removed another brick beside it. Now that the hole was sufficiently widened, an arm came through, all the way up to the elbow, and began feeling the surface of the surrounding wall in order to ascertain whether anything hung there which might fall and spread the alarm.