Don Camillo meets Hell’s Angels

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “Don Chichi,” he snarled, “better to be a military chaplain the way I was than chaplain of the thugs of the world! As for you, flower of darkness, get out!”

  Flora began to sob and left, her head hanging. Don Chichi felt a wave of hatred for the reactionary, brutal, fat priest who made that weak and delicate creature suffer so. Seeing her shoulders shake with sobs, he suddenly imagined soft white wings sprout from them, and his indignation was so strong that he threw himself into his two-cylinder Fiat and fled to the city.

  * * *

  The next day, Don Camillo received a letter from the Curia that knocked the breath out of him. While he prepared for his transferment to Rughino, a remote mountain parish, and in order to forfend any heavier punishment, Don Camillo was called upon to: (1) Cease from causing secessionist subversion; (2) Cease from celebrating Mass in his private chapel; (3) Entirely cease from interference in the affairs of his parish, which upon his transferment would pass into the hands of Don Francesco.

  Don Camillo caught a fever and had to take to his bed.

  Clearly the devil is not as ugly as he is in the paintings. In fact, the devil must be quite beautiful; otherwise how could he seduce and deceive people? In any case, the devil is always the devil, and in this particular case, there is no doubt about it, Flora was the devil. And when she heard poor Don Camillo was ill, she went to call on him.

  “Most reverend Uncle,” she said immediately upon sitting down, “have you any last requests?”

  “Yes: I fervently hope you go to hell!” Don Camillo shouted. “You may pack your bags and go home now.”

  “Would you throw a poor orphan out on the street like that?” the dear little hoodlum whimpered.

  “Not at all!” Don Camillo exclaimed, tossing her the letter which lay on his bedside table. “It’s you who have thrown me out!”

  Flora read the letter and shrugged her shoulders. “What’s this got to do with me?”

  “You got Don Chichi all fired up. I had no idea you were that evil minded. And in the end you’ve won. How fortunate that your father is dead, so that he doesn’t have to see what a reptile of a daughter he brought into the world. So now leave this house, or I will get out my shotgun!”

  Flora went downstairs humming to herself, and as she left the rectory to go over to Anselma’s, suddenly Venom blocked her path.

  “Here’s a little present from Ringo,” he said, dropping Ringo’s mane at her feet.

  “Murderer!” Flora howled, horrified. “You’ve scalped him!”

  “Not this time, but if he ever comes round here again, I will… Or rather, before he’s able to get out of the hospital, his hair will come down to his knees.” Venom turned on his heel and stalked off; when he reached the gate, he turned and added: “Anybody who listens to you will always get into trouble in the end. Don’t let yourself be bitten by an asp like Cleopatra,” he growled. “You’ll poison the snake.”

  With one furious kick, Flora sent Ringo’s hair flying into a corner of the courtyard.

  Just then Don Chichi arrived back. When Flora told him what had happened to Don Camillo, he was not at all pleased. “I had no idea they would do that,” he said. “They overreacted!”

  “Not at all,” Flora answered. “They took exactly the right steps. I know Rughino, it’s the perfect place for him. All the young people, men and women, have moved out to find work, and there are only the old fossils and the tiny babies living there now. So he won’t be able to do any real harm there on the mountain-top. But this is a living town and it needs a young parish priest with modern ideas. Now Don Francesco, I hope you won’t become sentimental and make me lose all the respect I have for you. However…” she broke off and drifted away after giving the priest a sad little smile.

  She didn’t turn up for two days. The first thing Don Chichi said to her was, “‘However’ what?”

  “Forget it Don Francesco. If I’d told you, you would have been upset. It’s not exactly a subject one discussed with a priest. Priests are born, not made!”

  “That’s not true, Miss Flora,” Don Chichi answered. “I’m a priest not because I was ‘called’ but through rational conviction. I realized how much good the Church can do for people who suffer. To nourish faith in those who have it, restore it to those who’ve lost it, bring it to those who lack it…”

  “I understand,” Flora nodded. “Faith is the most precious blessing. But in a world so different from that of two thousand years ago, in the materialistic world of today, you can only bring faith through deeds, not words. Too many promises have been made in the name of Christ. Humanity is tired of being promised paradise after death.”

  “Miss Flora,” Don Chichi protested, “faith helps one to live.”

  “Not at all, Don Francesco. It helps one to die. If you haven’t any shoes, even if you firmly believe that when you go to heaven you’ll have a fine pair of golden sandals, your mortal feet get wet and you catch pneumonia. ‘O mortal soul who walkest on the crisp winter snows, in heaven wilt thou be given sandals of gold’—but in the meantime: ‘don’t forget your galoshes.’ Don’t you think that should be part of the proverb?”

  “Well, it’s exactly for that reason that the Church has tried to bring itself down to the level of everyday life,” Don Chichi exclaimed.

  “Marvelous,” Flora said. “But the people who die of starvation today, how are you going to cajole them into believing in heavenly banquets? Faith is the bread of the spirit, not the body.”

  “Miss Flora,” the little priest tried to protest, “forgive me, but this discussion has become rather too materialistic.”

  “I admit that, Don Francesco. But the Pope should ask for money, rice, medicine, machinery to help starving India, not for faith and prayers. A few boring, trite material necessities.”

  “Yes, but the Church can’t…”

  “Quite,” Flora cut in. “The Church can’t solve these practical problems. Don’t you ever think about how much good you could do for people if you used your intelligence, your education, your enthusiasm, your persuasive, gentle way of speaking, your sincere, profound Christian faith in practical ways? You would never follow the footsteps of those vultures who use the name of Christ for political purposes—instead you’d use politics for Christian purposes!”

  “But I…” Don Chichi stammered.

  “Wouldn’t you,” Flora went on, “know how to treat workers well if you became an employer? Wouldn’t you study the problems and propose good reforms for the poor if you were a deputy or a senator? Wouldn’t you be able to keep the masses moving forward if you were a labour leader? Wouldn’t you be able to formulate a wise foreign policy if you were Foreign Minister?”

  “Well actually,” Don Chichi stuttered, “I don’t really think I…”

  “But I do!” Flora shouted jubilantly. “I know it! I’d give up all my life, all my inheritance, all my love if…”

  She broke off and shook her head sadly. “Forgive me. I’m saying some crazy things…” Then she ran off, sobbing.

  * * *

  A week later Don Camillo had calmed down, pulled himself together, risen from his bed, and was puttering about gloomily packing his trunks.

  “What are you up to, oh esteemed reverend Uncle?” Flora asked, with her usual impertinence.

  “I’m getting ready to turn things over to Don Chichi,” Don Camillo snapped.

  “Well, forget it, because Don Chichi left last night.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he’s going through that famous spiritual crisis that causes so many priests to leave and get married. Poor Don Chichi! He’ll never come back here.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “I know it because I would shut myself up in a convent rather than marry an unfrocked priest.”

  Don Camillo gaped at her, horrified. “You!” he shouted. “You serpent, you had the shamelessness to…”

  “Well of course I did! I mean, you were ha
rdly in a position to turn his head.”

  Don Camillo’s huge chest inflated fiercely. “Vade retro, Satanas!” he thundered. “Go away! Leave me in peace!”

  The girl looked at him, amused, and retorted laughing: “Too bad, Uncle. Flowers come up, but they won’t go away.”

  Don Camillo raised his eyes to heaven. “Lord,” he said, “will you ever be able to forgive this poor lost soul when she comes before you on Judgment Day?”

  “It’s hard to tell, Don Camillo,” the distant voice of Christ replied. “It all depends on how her lawyer pleads her case.” But it was a distant voice, and only Don Camillo could hear it.

  Old Parish Priests Have Bones of Steel

  The East–West street through the town cut the large square at the centre of the town into two rectangles, and one of these was furnished on three sides with a colonnade of thick stone pillars and was considered the vital property of the Church.

  One morning some workers employed by the town arrived in the square and started to hack away at one of the columns with picks and drills. Two seconds later Don Camillo was on the scene.

  “This is Church property,” he announced. “Hands off.”

  “The Mayor ordered us to…” the head of the crew began.

  “Tell the Mayor that if he wants to tear down our columns, he can come round in person,” Don Camillo snapped.

  In past years, Peppone wouldn’t have hesitated to march into the square armed with picks, axes, drills, sledge-hammers, spades and anything else the job required. But even Communist mayors get old, so he took his time and didn’t appear in the square until an hour later, driving a lethal-looking steam-shovel borrowed from the construction crew building a suspension bridge across the Po a few miles away.

  He pulled the monster up a few yards away from one of the fat pillars and lowered the shovel. Then he got down, strung a steel cord around the pillar and connected it with the arms of the steam shovel. Then, just as Peppone was about to get back in the cabin of the monster, Don Camillo calmly clambered up and perched on top of the pillar.

  Even though the Vatican Council has given all the power of the parish priests to the bishops and the laymen, it is still forbidden to uproot a fat column with a fat parish priest perched on top of it: so the square promptly filled up with townsfolk.

  “Look here, you can’t block public works voted in by the town council!” Peppone shouted at Don Camillo.

  “Well, you can’t tear down this column, which is on Church ground and which was put here by Father Antonio Bruschini in the Year of Our Lord 1785,” Don Camillo said, lighting up a Turkish cigarette.

  But Peppone had an answer for that. “Listen here,” he shouted, “you forget that in 1796 this piece of land became part of the Cispadane Republic and therefore…”

  “Therefore,” Don Camillo drowned him out, “therefore if Napoleon didn’t order these columns torn down, then it’s hardly for you to pull them out, since you’re quite a lot less important than Napoleon.”

  Peppone had to give up because fairly soon Don Camillo was dragging out connections between Napoleon’s wife and the Duke of Parma, Piacenza and Gustalla. However, two days later, the Bishop’s secretary plunged into Don Camillo’s office. The young priest, like all the progressive priests of the Aggiornamento, despised and detested all parish priests, and this sentiment was much aggravated by his knowledge of Don Chichi’s poor showing.

  “Reverend Father!” he ranted. “Is it possible that you lie in wait for opportunities to show your obtuseness as regards political and social matters involving the Church? What is the meaning of this latest sideshow of yours? Quite rightly Mayor Bottazzi intends to encourage tourism and adapt the town to the needs of the motorised times—and to do this he wants to create an ample parking lot here in the square. How can you have the arrogance to oppose this project?”

  “No arrogance at all: I’m simply preventing the destruction of Church property.”

  “What Church property! You can’t clutter half a town square with useless columns. Don’t you understand what an advantage it will be to you? Aren’t you aware that many people don’t come to Mass because they can’t find a place to park their cars?”

  “Certainly I know that,” Don Camillo answered calmly. “However, I don’t believe the mission of a pastor of souls should be to organise parking lots and rock Masses to provide the public with a religion complete with all the modern conveniences. The Christian religion is not, and should not be, either comfortable or amusing.”

  His point of view was a bit hackneyed and it caused the Bishop’s priest to explode. “My dear Father, you appear not to have grasped that the Church must attempt to bring itself up to date, and it should be helping progress, not blocking it!”

  “But you on the other hand, appear not to have grasped that your so-called progress has taken the place of God in the soul of too many people and the devil, when he tours around the city streets, no longer leaves behind the stench of sulphur but rather one of gasoline. The Lord’s Prayer ought to be amended to read not ‘Deliver us from evil’ but rather ‘Deliver us from prosperity’.”

  There was no point in arguing with such an old fossil, so the secretary wound up the discussion. “Don Camillo, are you saying that you refuse to obey?”

  “No, if his excellency the Bishop orders us to transform the colonnade into a parking lot, we will do so, even though the Council has reasserted that the Church of Christ is the Church of the poor people and consequently should not have to worry about the cars of the faithful.”

  Naturally, no orders ever arrived from the Bishop, much to the disgust of the Bishop’s secretary.

  * * *

  Punctually every morning Smilzo deposited Unity on the rectory doorstep, and no less punctually Don Camillo skimmed through it with apathy, either because it was the official organ of the Communist Party or because it reminded him of the unfortunate circumstances by which Flora had won the free subscription to it. However, one day he was shocked to find on the third page a photograph of an altar surmounted by a crucifix, and beside it a blow-up of the crucifix itself. The photos were not particularly good reproductions, but there was no doubt about it, they showed Don Camillo’s altar and crucifix. He quickly read the article, then jumped on his bicycle and sped over to his private chapel.

  “Lord, Lord,” Don Camillo wailed, “here’s your picture in Unity.”

  “So I see, Don Camillo,” the Christ answered. “Let’s hope I haven’t made a mess for you like the ones your niece concocts. But if so, I had nothing to do with it.”

  It was a remarkable tale, going back to 1944, when a troop of German soldiers was billeted in the town. Among them was an officer who, while he was supposed to be keeping his mind on the war, could not forget that he was a famous professor of art history. The Christ and certain of the altar ornaments had struck him and he had photographed them with extreme meticulousness. When he got home, he studied the photographs at length, discovering that the crucifix was a major work by a famous German artist of the fifteenth century, who specialised in painted carved wood. The German art historian after twenty-five years had returned to Italy to study and photograph the carvings in colour, but he hadn’t been able to find either the altar or the Christ. So he had published his attribution anyway in a popular German picture magazine, using the photos he had taken in 1944. And Unity had reprinted the article and pictures, with the simple comment: “Where can the poor Christ have gone? Has he been forced to emigrate, like so many other poor Christs?”

  Then other newspapers reprinted the article from the German magazine, and a minor scandal was brewing. Finally one day the bishop’s secretary plunged into Don Camillo’s office a second time. He was indignant and confronted Don Camillo self-righteously. “I see, reverend Father, that you haven’t given up trying to make trouble for us! Now where are the crucifix and the altar that are smeared all over the newspapers?”

  “You ordered us to remove everything, and everything was rem
oved,” Don Camillo answered calmly. “In fact, you even sent us a political commissar to speed up the process.”

  “It certainly might have crossed your mind that the object in question was a major work of art!” the secretary objected.

  “We neither knew it or suspected it, given our profound ignorance, since we are only a poor parish priest. However, by mere good fortune, we have taken the altar and crucifix into safekeeping.”

  “Thank heaven!” the secretary cheered. “Recover them immediately. Have them wrapped very carefully and when they are prepared for shipping, telephone us immediately. We will arrange for transportation to the Bishop’s palace where they will have a dignified and proper home.”

  Don Camillo nodded his head, the model of pious obedience.

  * * *

  “Mayor Bottazzi…”

  Peppone raised his head from the mountains of papers before him, and seeing Don Camillo standing there, clenched his fists.

  “What do you want?” he growled aggressively.

  “I’d like to talk to you about the parking lot. I’ve been giving it some thought and now I realise my position was unreasonable,” Don Camillo said. “You can remove the columns.”

  Peppone eyed him warily. “‘If a priest offers so much as a button, it can only mean he’ll demand your suit in exchange’,” he quoted. “What’s the deal?”

  “Comrade Mayor,” the priest explained humbly, “we have noted that for quite a few years now your Party has involved itself with enormous love and devotion in the major and minor problems of the Church. We would simply like to request that you and several of your comrades be present at the farewell ceremony for our precious crucifix, which after three hundred and fifty years of honourable service to our town is being moved to the city to a fine new home in the Bishop’s palace.”

  Peppone leapt out of his chair. “You’re out of your mind, Father! That crucifix is a work of art, and it belongs to this town! And it stays in this town!”