“Come now, Comrade!” interrupted Don Camillo. “It’s disgraceful to rake up our petty personal differences here in a foreign land. Hurry up and memorize the passages underlined in blue. Those underlined in red are for me.”
Peppone stared at him suspiciously.
“You’re cooking up some mischief, for sure.”
“Nothing of the sort. If you don’t want to play the fool, go ahead and learn what I told you. You’ve got only half an hour.”
“Very well. I’ll have more to say to you later.”
He sat down at the table, fixed his attention on the text and proceeded to learn his lesson. There were only two passages of a few lines each, but he was so indignant that he could have memorized a whole page.
“Now, let’s hear you,” said Don Camillo, putting the other papers back in the suitcase.
“Comrades!” said Peppone, “Lenin has said: ‘Extremes are never advisable. But if we have to choose, we prefer absolute clarity, even if it is narrow and intolerant, to elusive and intangible haziness…’”
“Good! When I pretend that I can’t remember a certain quotation from Lenin, then you are to come out with that. As for the other passage your cue is when I ask you for the official opinion of the Party.”
“For God’s sake, what Party do you mean?”
“The one and only Communist Party, of course,” said Don Camillo. “Which, as it says in the Manual, ‘demands of all its members that they…’”
“‘That they should, in their personal conduct…’” broke in Peppone. And angrily he recited the whole piece, without omitting a single word or even a comma. Don Camillo listened with a somewhat sanctimonious air and said at the end:
“Good work, Comrade! I’m proud to be your pastor!”
Dinner was abundant and also educational, because Comrade Oregov illustrated with numerous statistics the progress which the Soviet Union would achieve in 1965. At the end, after the customary toasts to peace, the easing of international tension and the inevitable victory of Communism, Don Camillo rose from his chair.
“Comrades,” he said. “Party membership obliges every one of us to follow certain principles, to exercise self-examination and constructive criticism of our fellows….”
He talked very slowly, emphasizing every word and looking proudly at Comrade Oregov, to whom Comrade Petrovna conscientiously interpreted him.
“Before his Party conscience, a Communist must scrutinize his every action and question himself as to whether he could have performed it better. He must not hesitate to speak the truth, no matter how disagreeable it may be. Comrade, I can’t remember the exact words of Lenin on this subject. Lenin said…”
He fumbled agonizingly for the words and Peppone put in:
“Don’t fret, Comrade. Lenin said: ‘Extremes are never advisable. But if we have to choose, we prefer absolute clarity, even if it is narrow and intolerant, to elusive and intangible haziness.’”
Comrade Yenka Oregov nodded his head and smiled complacently.
“Thank you, Comrade,” said Don Camillo, keeping his eyes on Comrade Oregov. “On this basis I feel myself authorized to speak clearly. The little unpleasantness of yesterday, concerning Comrade Rondella, recalled to me the fifth paragraph of the Party Constitution which says: ‘In case of an infraction of Party discipline every member has a right to be judged by a regular Party organization and to appeal to the assembly of his fellow members and also to higher authorities.’ Now I have this to say: If one member of the group led by Comrade Senator Bottazzi is guilty of an infraction of Party discipline, what Party organization is to judge him? Of course, the Comrade Senator represents the Party, and can call his case to the attention of the federation, the regional section or the cell to which he belongs. But if the infraction is committed on Soviet soil and involves a local situation, who is to judge it? I maintain that it is to be judged here and now. Since we are not presently connected with any Party organization, such as those described in paragraph ten of the Party Constitution, I believe we can and should organize our own cell.”
When Comrade Petrovna had translated these words, Comrade Oregov voiced no reaction and waited imperturbably for Don Camillo to go on.
“Comrades,” he continued, “you look at me as if you were wondering what kind of cell I mean. Not a labour-union cell, since we are not engaged in labour; not a regional section, since this is not where we live. Of course it’s true that we didn’t come to the Soviet Union to amuse ourselves, but rather to learn and teach, and this is work of a very important kind. And even if we do not live here the Soviet Union is our spiritual home. Let me tell you, then, what I have in mind.”
Don Camillo was obviously sincere, and the others listened to him attentively.
“Comrades, we are a group of travellers who have removed themselves from an outworn, decrepit civilization and journeyed to a civilization which is in the pride of its youth. We are the crew of a flying machine which has left behind it the decaying world of capitalism and is making a voyage of exploration over the fascinating world of socialism. Our little crew is composed not of isolated individuals but of a group of men united by a single faith and a single will: to spread Communism throughout the globe. No, we are not a labour-union cell, or a regional cell, we are an interplanetary cell, a space cell. For the world from which we came is more distant from the socialist world than this planet of ours from the moon. And so I propose that our group organize itself into a cell named after the one man who embodies the Soviet people’s desire for peace and progress: Nikita Khrushchev!”
Comrade Oregov was so overcome with emotion that he stood up, amid ringing applause, and pumped Don Camillo’s hand for at least ten minutes. Don Camillo conferred with him, through the interpreter, and then said:
“In the name of the Italian Communist Party and in agreement with the representative of the Communist Party of Russia; I announce the constitution of the ‘Nikita Khrushchev Cell!’”
The nine cell members held an immediate meeting, a very simple matter since they were all seated around the table, and pursuant to paragraph twenty-eight of the Constitution they voted for officers to represent them. Comrade Camillo Tarocci was elected leader; Comrade Nanni Scamoggia secretary and Comrade Vittorio Peratto treasurer. Peppone did not vote and it was not until he was raising his glass in a toast to the officers that he realized that the leader was to be Don Camillo. It was all he could do to choke down his glass of wine.
“Comrades,” Don Camillo announced gravely, “I want first of all to thank you for this expression of confidence and to promise that I shall do everything I can to deserve it. I propose we start functioning without delay. Is there a suggestion of any business to be brought before the meeting?”
When no one spoke up, he jumped into the breach himself, to the accompaniment of an anguished glance from Peppone.
“Then Comrades, I have something to suggest. No real Communist is afraid of the truth. The Party teaches us to be intolerant of failings, dissatisfied with anything that falls short of perfection. A Party member who is incapable of criticism, who does not demand a maximum of effort both of himself and his comrades cannot hope to be a leader or to win outsiders to the cause. Among the obligations listed in paragraph nine of the Constitution is that of ‘leading a private life of exemplary integrity’. Comrade Bacciga, do you admit that this afternoon, in the course of our visit to the General Store, you bought a mink stole?”
“I do,” replied Comrade Bacciga, turning deathly pale. “Comrade Oregov authorized us to buy anything we wanted.”
“Correct. Do you further admit that you paid for the stole not with money but with nylon stockings which you brought from Italy? If you don’t admit it, then you’re a liar. And if you do, then you’re admitting at the same time that you are party to one of those black-market transactions which are notoriously damaging to the Soviet economy, in short, that you’re a saboteur. In either case your private life is not an example of integrity. With this I rest
my accusation. Now the comrades will listen to your defence.”
While Comrade Bacciga struggled to collect his thoughts Comrade Petrovna translated Don Camillo’s words for the benefit of Comrade Oregov. When Comrade Bacciga did stammer a few lame excuses, they were unanimously judged to be insufficient. First, he had defrauded the Soviet customs; second, he had sabotaged the Soviet economy; third, he had betrayed the trust of his Soviet comrades. Comrade Oregov looked like a Robespierre come to judgement, and Comrade Bacciga had to conduct his self-examination before him.
“The frank admission of your fault is in your favour,” Don Camillo concluded. “But that is not enough. On this matter I shall ask the opinion of Comrade Senator Bottazzi.”
Striking up as authoritative a pose as the circumstances would allow him, Peppone replied:
“The Party does indeed demand that every comrade’s personal conduct should be an example to others. It cannot be indifferent towards behaviour which lowers it in the public esteem. According to Marxist-Leninist philosophy a Communist’s private and Party life are one. The Party organization exercises a disciplinary function; it corrects such members as subordinate social responsibility to personal well-being and thereby tar themselves with the capitalist brush.”
He delivered this harangue with such conviction that for the second time Comrade Oregov favoured him with an approving smile.
“But self-examination and condemnation do not atone for a crime,” Don Camillo added, “Even priests who are the embodiment of hypocrisy and dishonour, tell a penitent that he must make amends for his sins, and in the case of theft he must return the stolen goods to their rightful owner.”
“Comrade, you don’t know priests!” Peppone interjected angrily. “They’re much more likely to connive with the thief than to condemn him.”
“I was speaking of what they should do rather than of their actual practice,” Don Camillo explained. “Certainly Comrade Bacciga’s barter must be considered a theft.”
After some further talk Comrade Scamoggia entered a resolution:
“I move that the stolen object be restored to the Soviet Union. Let Comrade Bacciga give it to Comrade Nadia Petrovna.”
There was a chorus of murmurs, interrupted by Comrade Petrovna in person.
“I am grateful for your kind thought,” she said, “although it is to some extent ‘tarred by the capitalist brush’, as the Comrade Senator was saying. But I have already told Comrade Oregov that you would like to give the stole to his wife, Comrade Sonia Oregovna.”
This ingenious solution won a round of applause. Comrade Bacciga had to hand over the stolen stole to Peppone, who then presented it to Comrade Oregov, on behalf of the newly formed ‘Nikita Khrushchev Space Cell’. As for the nylon stockings, they were entirely forgotten, that is except by Comrade Bacciga. When Don Camillo closed the meeting by sentencing Comrade Bacciga to six months of suspension from all Party activity, the latter shot him a look of fierce resentment. As they were going upstairs he caught up with his persecutor and hissed:
“Comrade, the Communist Party isn’t big enough to hold the two of us!”
“Then surely the dishonest member should be the one to drop out,” said Don Camillo.
Before putting out the light Don Camillo opened his famous notebook and wrote down: “No. 2—Comrade Bacciga, morally liquidated.”
Peppone stretched his arm out of bed, snatched the notebook and read the annotation. Then tossing it back to Don Camillo he said:
“Your next entry will be: ‘No. 3—Liquidated: the undersigned, by Comrade Peppone.’”
Don Camillo looked down his nose.
“Comrade,” he replied, “you forget that you’re talking to a leader. And a Communist leader isn’t so easily liquidated.”
“You don’t know your Communist Party,” retorted Peppone.
Politics on the Road
“Comrade, have you the Party files of the members of our group with you?”
Peppone, who was busy shaving wheeled angrily around.
“That’s strictly my affair.”
“Our affair, you mean. Now that I’m a cell leader I’m entitled to know my men.”
“You’re entitled to go straight to hell, and take your cell with you.”
Don Camillo raised his eyes to heaven.
“Lord, did You hear him? Of all the Communist cells in the world this is the only one to have an accredited chaplain, and he says it can go to hell!”
Everything has its limits, and when a safety razor is used like a hoe it can be a very dangerous weapon. Peppone was hacking away at his chin, and his chin began to bleed. But how can a Communist senator have any peace of mind when he has brought with him to Russia a priest disguised as a Party militant of long standing and this diabolical Vatican emissary has set himself up as the leader of a cell? While Peppone was swabbing his nicked chin Don Camillo managed to replace in his room-mate’s suitcase the files which he had deftly taken out of it for study.
“Comrade, if those files are so very private,” he said, “let’s forget them. But don’t be surprised if I make some embarrassing errors.”
Just then Scamoggia came to tell them that the bus was waiting in front of the hotel.
It was a grey autumn morning. Women in men’s overalls were washing and sweeping the streets, running the trolley cars, tarring a paved square and doing construction work on a new building. In front of a Gastronom a long line of women, in simple but more feminine clothes, was patiently waiting. Don Camillo leaned towards Peppone and whispered in his ear:
“These women not only have men’s rights; they have women’s rights as well.”
Peppone did not even look up. He and Don Camillo were sitting on the back seats of the bus. Comrade Oregov and Comrade Petrovna sat in front, directly behind the driver, and the eight other comrades occupied the seats between. Whenever Comrade Petrovna stood up to translate some remark of Comrade Oregov she faced the entire group. This seating arrangement also allowed Don Camillo to talk in a low voice either to Peppone, who was sitting just across the aisle, or to Comrades Tavan and Scamoggia, who were sitting in the two seats directly ahead. Now that Don Camillo had liquidated Comrade Rondella of Milan and shaken the faith of Comrade Bacciga of Genoa, he was gunning for Comrade Tavan.
“Tavan, Antonio, forty-two years old, a native of Pranovo in the province of Veneto. Party member since 1943. Tenant former. Active, loyal, trustworthy. To be used only in peasant circles, on account of his limited acquaintance with social and economic problems. Socialist father. His family has worked the same land for 120 years. A skilful and hard-working farmer.”
This was the description which Don Camillo had pilfered from Peppone’s files, and now the peasant Tavan was a marked man.
They had left the city behind them and were travelling across the desolate countryside.
“We are now going through the ‘Red Flag’ sovkos,” Comrade Petrovna was explaining, “one of the first of its kind to be established after the Revolution. It has a total area of 30,000 acres, of which 10,000 are under cultivation, and is equipped with fifty-four tractors, fifteen reaping machines and fifteen trucks. There are three hundred and eighty agricultural workers. At the present time there are six thousand sovkos in the Soviet Union with a total of four million head of cattle, six million hogs and twelve million sheep….”
Rising up out of the wide, flat land they suddenly saw signs of human habitation, small houses clustered around large buildings with corrugated iron roofs, silos, barns and warehouses. As the bus bumped over a narrow dirt road, they noticed dozens of huge tractors abandoned hither and yon over the ploughed fields and covered with rust and mud. In the inhabited area other tractors, trucks and agricultural instruments stood about on the ground, exposed to the weather, in front of the farm buildings.
“Four million head of cattle!” exclaimed Don Camillo with a deep sigh.
“That’s quite a number!” agreed Peppone.
“When you add those to th
e twenty-seven million of the kolkhos, they come to thirty-one million.”
“Colossal!”
“By the end of 1960 there are supposed to be forty million,” Don Camillo went on. “But for the time being there are still two million two hundred head less than there were in 1928, before collectivization.”
Peppone could not see what Don Camillo was after.
“Comrade,” Don Camillo explained, “the Soviet Union is the only country in the world where everything is out in the open, where there is a public statement of whether or not things are going well. These are official statistics and from them we must conclude that whereas there has been enormous progress in science and industry, agriculture is still lagging. Volunteers have had to be sent from Moscow, Kiev and other cities to break ground in Siberia.”
He threw out his arms in mock sympathy, then aiming his words at the ears of the peasant Tavan he added, ostensibly to Peppone:
“Comrade, you’ve seen the condition of those tractors and you can judge for yourself the validity of my conclusions. I tell you that the trouble is this: peasants are peasants the world over. Just look at the way things are at home. Who are our most backward people? Peasants! Yes, I know that the day labourers are struggling to improve their situation, but they are workers. Just try to change the ways of a peasant or a tenant farmer! See if you can make him class-conscious or involve him in the proletarian movement!”
Comrade Tavan had pricked up his ears and was not losing a single word of the conversation going on behind him.
“And now consider the state of things here in Russia,” continued Don Camillo. “What people are holding the country back? The hard-headed kolkhos holders, who don’t give a hang for the collectivized land and insist upon cultivating the few acres which the government has generously given them for their own private use. There are eighty thousand kolkhos and six thousand sovkos, but the kolkhos peasants have seventeen million head of privately owned cattle, as compared to fourteen million collectively owned between kolkhos and sovkos together. Those peasants don’t deserve to own any land at all. And, mark my words, it will be taken away from them.”
Comrade Don Camillo Page 6
