Comrade Tavan’s ears had turned bright red.
“Look again at our own country,” said Don Camillo. “Who promoted the black market during the war? The peasants! And who promotes it here? The peasants of the kolkhos! With us, where is it that the priests still have most power? Among the peasants! And in the Soviet Union how do the surviving priests continue to retard the general progress? Thanks to the roubles they collect from the kolkhos!”
Comrade Tavan’s ears were no redder than the cheeks of Peppone.
“Comrade,” said Don Camillo, by way of winding up his peroration, “here we have a country that has beaten world records in every domain and won first place in the race to the moon. But among the kolkhos you still find selfish obstruction to progress. Beware of peasants! They’re an ugly lot, I tell you!”
“Well spoken, Comrade!” said Scamoggia, from his seat in front of Peppone. “People make me laugh when they talk about giving the peasants land. Give it to them, and see what they’ll do! They’ll starve us! The land should be publicly owned, cultivated by the State. And peasants should be treated like workers. Just because the peasants work the land, are they to have its produce? Then why shouldn’t a worker in an automobile factory be given a car? Who gave us our Fascist régime? The peasants! Wasn’t a black shirt their everyday working garment in Emilia and Romagna, where you and the Comrade Senator come from…? Just look at the way that stupid fool out there is assassinating that tractor…!”
The careening tractor in the immediate vicinity of the bus seemed dangerously out of control. As a matter of fact the driver was not a peasant; he was a Government farm-bureau agent. But although his ineptitude was not forwarding the sixth Five-Year Plan it fitted in most opportunely with the purposes of Don Camillo.
“Lout!” called out Scamoggia as the tractor passed alarmingly close by.
But the lout took this interpellation for a friendly greeting and raised a clenched fist in reply. Comrade Tavan’s ears had grown deadly pale. Peppone scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Don Camillo. For the benefit of their companions he said:
“Make a note on what we are seeing for the report we are to take back home.”
But on the paper he had written:
“Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll fracture your shin!”
Don Camillo nodded gravely. Meanwhile Scamoggia was distracted from his diatribe against the peasants by an explanatory harangue from Comrade Nadia Petrovna.
“We are not stopping at the ‘Red Flag’ sovkos, because it is concerned only with the cultivation of grain. The grain has already been harvested and there is nothing for us to see. We are proceeding now to the kolkhos at Grevinec, a co-operative enterprise covering four thousand acres of land which goes in for truck gardening and for raising cattle and hogs as well. It is completely autonomous and receives no Government aid, although the Government farm-bureau supplied its mechanical equipment… Just now, Comrades we have crossed the kolkhos boundary line…”
This last bit of information was quite superfluous, because, although the terrain was the same as before the general picture was entirely different. Here everything was the way it should be; the fields were tidily ploughed and the grazing livestock well fed. The village houses were the usual wooden shacks, but each one had its own neatly trimmed orchard and vegetable garden, a chicken yard, a hog run and a stall for the cow. Two solidly constructed buildings housed the administrative offices and the community school. Comrade Petrovna explained that ninety-seven per cent of the kolkhos were electrified, but unfortunately this one belonged to the more primitive minority.
In order to reach the heart of the village the bus had to go over a typically rutted road, and so while it was still half a mile away the ‘Space Cell’ group requested permission to get out, stretch their legs and cover the remaining distance on foot. The mud had dried and hardened, and by taking care not to stumble into the ruts the visitors were able to walk without too much difficulty. Along the way they were overtaken by a horse and cart. In the cart sat a chubby man wearing high boots, an oilskin raincoat with a fur collar and a fur cap. Don Camillo scrutinized him attentively and hastened to catch up with Comrade Petrovna.
“Who is that fine gentleman, Comrade?” he asked her.
Comrade Petrovna laughed She passed the question on to Comrade Oregov, who seemed to share her amusement.
“Comrade, you have eagle eyes,” she said to Don Camillo. “That ‘fine gentleman’ is a priest.”
“What? A priest?” exclaimed Comrade Scamoggia, who was of course walking at Comrade Petrovna’s side. “What business has he here?”
She looked at him severely.
“Comrade do you remember Paragraph 128 of the Constitution: ‘In order to assure freedom of conscience, the Church is separate from the State and the Schools from the Church. Every citizen has a right to observe religious practices or to conduct antireligious propaganda, as he chooses.’
“But that fellow’s not a citizen, he’s a priest!” said Scamoggia indignantly.
Comrade Petrovna laughed again and when she had explained the reason for her hilarity to Comrade Oregov he once more chimed in.
“Comrade,” she said, “in the Soviet Union priests have the same rights as anyone else. As long as they do not go in for obnoxious proselytizing no one disturbs them. If someone wants a priest he is free to pay for his services.”
Scamoggia turned to Don Camillo.
“Comrade, you were right. And to think that one of my reasons for wanting to come here was to get the priests out of my hair!”
“Priests are the lowest order of creatures on earth!” roared Peppone. “When Noah got into the ark, he didn’t want to take any snakes along, but God Almighty shouted to him: ‘Noah without priests how am I to survive’?”
When Comrade Oregov was informed of this witticism he laughed louder than ever and took it down in his notebook. Don Camillo laughed too, unenthusiastically, and fell back to the end of the line, where Peppone was walking.
“Comrade, that’s cheating!” he protested, “I didn’t tell you the story that way. Noah didn’t want to take donkeys, and God said: ‘Without Communist senators I wouldn’t have any fun’!”
“My version is better,” retorted Peppone. “Only I owe an apology to the snakes.”
“You fraud!” hissed Don Camillo. “You’re taking advantage of the fact that I’m a cell leader!”
They walked along in silence for a moment and then Peppone returned to the attack.
“I saw that fellow myself,” he muttered; “all of us saw him. But you were the only one to detect the smell of a priest. The call of the blood, no doubt! But don’t fool yourself. When we come to power you won’t go about in a cart, or a car or even on your own two feet. Dead men don’t stir.”
“That’s all right with me,” said Don Camillo, calmly lighting the butt of his cigar. “Under a Communist régime anyone who stirs is dead, and one dead man’s as good as another.”
As they entered the village Scamoggia turned around and shouted back to Don Camillo:
“Comrade, you were right again when you said priests live off the ignorance of the peasants. Just look at that fellow now!”
In one of the vegetable gardens the priest was busily talking to an old couple. Don Camillo saw him plainly and so did Comrade Tavan. Once more the latter’s flapping ears turned crimson. Comrade Petrovna shook her head.
“Don’t get excited, Comrade,” she said to Scamoggia. “He’s in contact only with a few old people. That’s the way it is all over. When they die off, then God will die, too. Even now He lives only in the minds of those who were brought up in an era of superstition. And when God is dead, the priests will follow. The Soviet Union has plenty of time ahead of it; we can afford to wait.”
She spoke in a loud voice and even Don Camillo, at the end of the line, heard her.
“God can afford to wait too,” he mumbled in the direction of the silent Peppone.
Comrad
e Salvatore Capece, a thirty-year-old Neapolitan, with an expressive face and flashing eyes, was standing nearby, and Don Camillo said to him provocatively:
“Comrade Petrovna has really got something, don’t you agree?”
“She’s got plenty,” Capece eagerly responded. “I don’t mind telling you that she’s right up my alley.”
Don Camillo smiled.
“From the way she keeps looking at you I think you’ve taken her fancy,” he remarked.
Comrade Petrovna hadn’t intentionally looked at him at all but Capece was more than ready to swallow Don Camillo’s flattery.
“Comrade, you know what’s what,” he agreed. “A woman can’t be anything else but a woman.”
And he quickened his step in order to rejoin her.
“You’ll go to any lengths to stir up trouble, won’t you?” said Peppone.
“Comrade. I’ve got to get busy while God is still alive. Tomorrow may be too late,” said Don Camillo.
Christ’s Secret Agent
Grevinec was prepared for the Italian visitors’ arrival; the propaganda and publicity director was waiting for them at the entrance to the village and led them to the administrative headquarters of the local soviet, where the district Party leader and the head of the kolkhos gave welcoming speeches, translated by Comrade Nadia Petrovna. Peppone made a carefully rehearsed speech in reply and followed the local custom of joining in the applause.
Besides the bigwigs there were several minor dignitaries whom Comrade Petrovna introduced as the directors of the various departments: cattle and hog breeding, fruit, vegetable and grain production, machinery repairs and so on. The room in which the reception was held was barnlike in structure, furnished with a rough wooden table, rows of chairs and a portrait of Lenin on the wall. The reception committee had adorned the gilt-framed portrait with green branches, but this decoration attracted less attention from the guests than did the presence of numerous bottles of vodka on the table.
A glass of vodka, downed as rapidly as if it were red wine, is stimulating to both heart and body, and Peppone responded promptly and intensely to it. After Comrade Petrovna had explained that this particular kolkhos was a recognized champion in the production of pork, milk and cereals, he asked for the floor. Standing squarely in front of Comrade Oregov, he began to speak, quite extemporaneously, pausing after every sentence to give Comrade Petrovna time to translate it.
“Comrade,” he said, “I come from the province of Emilia, where, exactly fifty years ago, some of the first and most successful people’s co-operatives were established. In this region agriculture is highly mechanized, and the pork dairy and cereal products are tops in quantity and quality alike. In my village my comrades and I have founded a co-operative of farm workers which was honoured, not long ago, by a magnificent gift from the Soviet Union!”
Here Peppone pulled out of his brief case a sheaf of photographs, which he handed over to Comrade Oregov. The photographs showed the triumphant arrival in the village of “Nikita”, the gift tractor, and its operation on the co-operative’s land. They were passed around to all those present and received unanimous approval.
“In our country the undermining of capitalism is under way,” Peppone continued. “It is not yet in the final stage, but it is making progress, as Comrade Tarocci, who comes from the same region, can testify. Inevitably the privileges of the landowners and clergy will be wiped out, and a new era of liberty will begin. Soon agricultural co-operatives modelled on the kolkhos and government projects modelled on the sovkos will replace the slave-labour conditions which form such a shameful hangover from the past. You can understand how deeply interested I am in the Russian kolkhos. I should like to ask Comrade Oregov and your leaders to show me every detail of the Grevinec operation.”
Comrade Oregov replied that he did indeed understand the importance of the Italian comrade’s request and would do everything in his power to satisfy it. He parleyed with the kolkhos leaders, and Comrade Petrovna transmitted the gist of their deliberations to Peppone.
“Comrade, everyone appreciates your interest in the technical and organizational aspects of our undertaking. But if I were to act as an intermediary between you and the kolkhos leaders for the whole time of your visit, your comrades would not be able to make the complete tour of the area which the programme provides for them. Fortunately, among the technicians here present there is one who can give you complete information in your own language.”
She paused to beckon to one of the Russian group, and a thin, dark man between thirty-five and forty years old, in mechanic’s garb, stepped forward.
“Here we have a man whose job is concerned with farm-machinery supplies and repairs, Stephan Bordonny, an Italian…”
“Stephan Bordonny, citizen of the Soviet Union,” the thin man interrupted, holding out his hand to Peppone, but looking reproachfully at Comrade Petrovna. “Yes, I am a Soviet citizen, and so are my children.”
Comrade Petrovna smiled to cover up her embarrassment. “I stand corrected, Citizen,” she said. “I should have specified that you are of Italian origin. While the rest of us make a general tour, you will be a private guide to Comrade Senator Bottazzi.”
She went to join the group and Don Camillo started to go after her, but Peppone blocked the way.
“You are to stay with me, Comrade Tarocci,” he said firmly, “and to take notes on everything we see.”
“At your orders, Comrade,” said Don Camillo wryly.
“Are you a Party member, Comrade?” Peppone asked their guide.
“No, I haven’t yet been accorded the honour,” the other replied with an impersonal and detached air.
Citizen Bordonny gave definite answers, which Don Camillo transcribed in his notebook, to every question asked by Peppone, but it was plain that he did so in the least possible number of words. He knew every detail of the kolkhos’ operation and cited exact dates and figures, but without any comment of his own. He courteously refused the cigar and the cigarette which Peppone and Don Camillo in turn offered him. Because they were smoking he finally took out of his pocket a piece of newspaper and a pinch of makorta and deftly rolled a cigarette. They visited the wheat silos and then the warehouse used to store fertilizers sprays and small agricultural tools.
Everything was listed and in perfect order.
In one corner of the warehouse was an odd-shaped brand-new machine and Peppone asked what it was used for.
“It’s for carding cotton,” Bordonny replied.
“Cotton?” exclaimed Don Camillo. “Do you mean to tell me that in this climate you can grow cotton?”
“No,” said Bordonny laconically.
“Then what are you doing with this machine?”
“It came here by mistake. We had asked for a threshing machine for our wheat.”
Peppone shot Don Camillo an atomic glance but Don Camillo had caught on to a good thing and had no intention of letting it go.
“So are you going to adapt it to threshing?” asked Don Camillo.
“No,” their guide said icily. “We’ve put together a machine of our own.”
“And how do you suppose the other fellows who ordered the carding machine are managing to handle their cotton?”
“That’s not our affair.”
“Mix-ups of this kind shouldn’t be allowed,” said Don Camillo with a curtness which equalled Bordonny’s.
“The area of your country is a hundred and fifty thousand square miles, and ours is eleven million,” answered the other.
At this point Peppone intervened, at the same time stepping with an utter lack or delicacy on Don Camillo’s foot.
“Citizen Bordonny, are you in personally charge of this operation?” he inquired.
“No. I have only a limited share of the responsibility.”
“I’d like to see some of the larger machines,” said Peppone.
The warehouse for the larger machines was not much to look at. It was a big, wooden barn with a rusty corruga
ted-iron roof. But inside it was truly impressive. The beaten-earth floor was immaculately clean and the machines were polished and lined up as if for exhibit at a fair. Citizen Bordonny knew the date of purchase, the oil and gasoline consumption and the horsepower of every one.
At the far end of the building there was a workshop with brick walls. It contained a strict minimum of tools but it was kept in such perfect order that Peppone was very nearly moved to tears. A tractor was currently under repair and the various parts of its motor were lined up on a work-bench. Peppone picked up one of the parts for closer examination.
“Who’s been working on this?” he asked.
“I have,” said Citizen Bordonny indifferently.
“With this lathe?” asked Peppone, pointing in surprise to an instrument that had something vaguely lathe-like about it.
“No, with a file,” the guide answered.
Hanging from a big hook on the wall there was a connecting rod, tied together with heavy string. Bordonny took a screwdriver and struck the rod, causing it to ring like a bell.
“It’s out of balance,” he said. “I can tell from the sound. All it takes is a practised ear.”
Peppone took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“What do you know about that?” he exclaimed. “I thought there was only one man in the world who used that system. And here in the middle of Mother Russia I find another!”
“Who’s that?” asked Don Camillo.
“The mechanic at Torricella,” said Peppone. “A perfect wizard, who specialized in tuning racing-cars. A fellow that didn’t look as if he had a penny to his name but racers used to send him their cars from all over Europe. During the second year of the war his machine shop was hit by a bomb aimed at the bridge over the Stivone. He and his wife and two children were killed on the spot.”
Comrade Don Camillo Page 7
