Don Camillo’s Dilemma

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “Ten,” Peppone answered decisively.

  “Very good, Chief,” said Smilzo, raising his fist again and swinging about on his heels.

  This time Peppone managed to finish his description of the engine’s woes. And at the end the stranger said:

  “Now tell me whether you can make the repairs, and if so how long you will take and what you will charge me.”

  Peppone shrugged his shoulders.

  “If we telephone to the bus station in the city, we may be able to get the necessary parts out by the evening bus. The work will take two and a half days and the cost will be, in round figures, between twenty and twenty-five thousand liras.”

  The stranger did not blench.

  “I’ll put in a telephone call to Milan and an hour from now I can give you an answer.”

  Peppone went back to his lathe.

  “Nuts to you!” he whispered to himself as the door closed behind the stranger.

  * * *

  Early in 1943, when Peppone had received his call-up papers, he went to the nearest recruiting station to say:

  “I’m forty-four years old and I went all through the last war. Why do you have to pick on me?”

  “If you hadn’t been called up and were left at home, what would you do?”

  “I’d keep up my usual trade, which is that of a mechanic.”

  “Then just pretend you’re still at home. It’s because you’re a mechanic that the army needs you.”

  Peppone was sent to some old barracks, which had been turned into a repair depot for army vehicles, and there, in the uniform of a corporal, he went on with his old trade. For a month this job was quite a soft one, because in spite of the grey-green uniform and insignia, Peppone and his fellows enjoyed considerable liberty. Until one day a cursed captain came into the picture, and then their troubles began.

  The cursed captain had been on active service all over the map. On his chest he wore a complete assortment of decorations and in his buttonhole a German ribbon. During the retreat from Russia a shell fragment had put his left arm out of commission, and because he didn’t want to be invalided home, they had sent him to create some order in the depot where Corporal Giuseppe Bottazzi was working. At first the boys thought that within a week they could make mincemeat of the captain with the withered arm. But instead, after a week had gone by, they found that their soft job had turned into a very tough one, for the captain was a martinet who had army regulations on the brain.

  Corporal Peppone, the top mechanic, simply couldn’t believe it when he was confined to the guardhouse for ten consecutive days. One morning, in the courtyard, when the captain with the withered arm passed by, he presented arms with a shaft of cement which the strength of three ordinary men would not have sufficed to lift off the ground. But the captain was not impressed. He looked at Peppone and said coldly:

  “An ordinary crane, without even the rank of corporal, can lift heavier weights than that with less waste of energy. Perhaps that’s because the crane is more intelligent than you are. Ten more days of confinement will give you time to think it over.”

  Two days later Peppone’s wife and child came to the nearby town for a visit, but Peppone wasn’t allowed to see them. When the captain looked in at his cell he found him a raging tiger.

  “Take it easy, Corporal,” he said, “or you may get into really hot water.”

  “I want to see my wife and son!” howled Peppone.

  “Thousands of better men than you would like to see their mothers and wives and children, but they’ve given their lives for their country. You’re a very poor soldier and you’re only getting what you deserve.”

  Peppone could have knocked the captain down with a single blow, but all he did was grit his teeth and protest:

  “I went all through the last war and brought home a silver medal!”

  “The fact that you were of age when the last war came around isn’t any particular virtue. And it isn’t enough to win a medal; you’ve got to live up to it.”

  Every last man at the depot had it in for the captain with the withered arm. He stood over them from reveille to taps, and because he knew a thing or two about motors, he wouldn’t let them get away with any work that wasn’t absolutely first class.

  On the evening of 26 July 1943 Mussolini suffered his well-known eclipse from the political scene. The next morning the captain was in the sleeping quarters when the men got up. Before they could go to breakfast he addressed them as follows:

  “There’s to be no change here. The same repair jobs are waiting for us, and it’s still our duty to carry them out as best we can.”

  During the heavy air-raids of that August, the captain arrived at the men’s quarters along with the first signal of alarm and stayed until the all-clear had sounded. On 8 September the Germans’ liberation of Mussolini complicated the political situation further. There was panic and disorganization everywhere. The captain gave each of his men a gun and a round of ammunition and said simply:

  “You’ll sleep fully dressed, in order to be prepared for any emergency.”

  He slept on a table in the quartermaster’s office and the next morning, after inspecting his men, he told them:

  “The colonel has assigned us to the defence of the west side of the barracks and the vehicle entrance. Our orders are to let nobody in.”

  The west side of the barracks, including the repair depot, was located in the former stables, adjacent to the open fields, and when Peppone and the others heard the word “defence”, they thought of the single round of ammunition each one of them had upon him, and stared nervously at one another. At ten o’clock the place was surrounded by German tanks and a German officer came to ask the colonel to surrender. Upon the colonel’s refusal, the heavy Panzer in front of the main gate shattered it with a single shot and rolled in. Meanwhile the Panzer at the vehicle entrance didn’t even bother to fire. It just bumped the rusty gate, and with the first bit of pressure put upon the hinges, the whole thing collapsed, as if it had been attached to the walls with thread.

  Some of the mechanics were drawn up along the wall, while Peppone and four others were stationed in the sentry-box which guarded the gate. Now, where the gate had been, there stood the cursed captain with the withered arm, his legs spread far apart and a pistol in his hand, pointing at the Panzer. It was a ridiculous thing, if you like, but the captain wore a German ribbon in his buttonhole and this brought the German tank to a stop. These professional military types have a special way of looking at things and you can’t take it away from them. Out of the tank turret popped a German officer, who proceeded to give a salute. The captain put his pistol into its holster and answered in kind. The German jumped down from the Panzer, drew himself up with puppet-like stiffness in front of the Italian and saluted him again, receiving the same salute in return.

  “I’m sorry to say, I must ask you to surrender,” said the German type in hesitant Italian.

  The Italian type took the decoration out of his buttonhole and handed it to the German. Then he stepped out of the way. The German made a slight bow, climbed back into the tank, stood up to his waist in the turret and shouted an order, which caused the vehicle to move forward. As he passed before the Italian, the German raised his hand to his cap in a salute, which the Italian duly returned. After that, the Italian calmly lit a cigarette and when two German soldiers approached, he preceded them to the centre of the courtyard, where the colonel, along with the other officers and men who had been made prisoners, had been standing waiting.

  The mechanics made for the open fields. Peppone was the last of them to run for freedom, because he wanted to see the business of those two military types through to the end. Two hours later he was in civilian clothes, and the next day, from the attic in which he was hiding, he saw a little group of Italian soldiers marched off under German tommy-guns to the train that was to take them to a prison camp far away. At the end of the group were the officers, and among them the cursed captain with the withered
arm.

  “I hope you don’t come back until I call for you in person,” Peppone mumbled to himself.

  But he did not forget the captain. The final insult still rankled in his mind. When the Panzer was still outside the gate and the captain was on his way to meet it, he had called out to Peppone, who was trembling in the sentry box with his four companions:

  “Now we’ll see if Corporal Bottazzi is a real weight lifter!” Peppone had sworn that one day he would make the captain with the withered arm eat these words, and now by some miracle he had the fellow at his mercy. It gave him no little satisfaction to see that cocky “active service” officer reduced to the status of travelling salesman.

  * * *

  The stranger didn’t go to make a telephone call. He went to sit down in the church, where he could quietly count his resources. Turning his pockets inside out and squeezing the last penny from them, he figured that he had twenty-two thousand three hundred liras. And he would have to spend two or three days in the village.

  “If it comes to the worst, I can always pawn my watch,” he concluded, and he went back to Peppone’s workshop.

  “All right, you can go ahead with the work,” he said. “And when you’ve finished, send word to me at the tavern, where I expect to rent a room. Try to get it done as fast as you can.”

  Without looking up Peppone muttered:

  “As fast as I can, eh? We’re not in the army now, good-looking. Here I work as I please.”

  That evening, before he laid off, he cast a scornful glance at the dilapidated car.

  “His good times are over, all right!” he sneered.

  At the tavern he saw the stranger sitting in a corner over a plate of bread and sausage, with a bottle of water in front of him.

  “If all your customers are so lavish, you’ll soon be a rich man!” he whispered to the proprietor.

  The proprietor grimaced.

  “They’re just as proud as they’re poor,” he grumbled.

  Peppone went home early. Sleepy as he was, he went into the workshop first. The bus had brought the parts necessary for the repair of the car. Peppone looked at the package and then swung it against his bench.

  “As fast as you can, eh?” he exclaimed angrily. “Half starving, and he thinks he can still give out orders in the old way! I’ll take three or four days, or a whole week, if I want to! And if that doesn’t suit you, push your rattle-trap straight to hell. If you start kicking, I’ll give you a couple of punches to go with it!” And as he passed in front of the midget car, he spat into the engine. “There’s for you and your driver, you little fool!” he exclaimed.

  After he had gone to bed he thought with irritation of the stranger, sitting there in the tavern.

  “Stony broke, and yet he eats his salami with a fork!” he said disgustedly.

  “Who’s that?” asked his wife, waking up with a start.

  “A pretty rascal, I can tell you! If he has the nerve to open his mouth, I’ll murder him.”

  “Don’t get yourself in trouble, Peppone,” murmured his wife, going back to sleep.

  His anger at the rascal with the withered arm so upset Peppone’s stomach that he got up after half an hour and went down to the kitchen for some bicarbonate of soda. He fancied he heard a noise from the workshop and took a look inside. Everything was in good order, and the dilapidated midget car was waiting peacefully, with its guts exposed to the air.

  “As fast as you can, eh?” he exclaimed ironically. “Go and give orders in your own house, jackass! The days of the puppets in uniform are over, you beastly reactionary warmonger!”

  A moment later he turned back from the door.

  “I want to look at those parts that came down by bus,” he said to himself. “Here’s hoping there are a few mistakes, such as to cause further delay. And you’ll have to grin and bear it, that is unless you want to push your car away.”

  The parts seemed to be quite satisfactory. In order to be quite sure, Peppone took the worn parts out of the engine and compared them. One piece had to be fitted more closely, and he started to adjust it.

  At six o’clock in the morning, Peppone was still working frantically, sweating and swearing all the while.

  “I want to get this thing out of the way,” he shouted between clenched teeth. “Otherwise I’ll find myself in trouble.”

  At noon Peppone got into the car, slammed the door and tested the engine.

  “It moves, and that ought to be enough to suit you,” he grumbled. “If once you’re out on the highway it breaks down, that’s just too bad.”

  The important thing was to be sure it really would reach the highway. With this end in view, it was natural enough for Peppone to regulate the engine again, change the oil, test the clutch, brakes, points, carburettor and tyres, tighten some screws on the chassis, fill the battery with distilled water, grease all the points that needed greasing and finally take a hose and wash the body. There is a limit to everything, and logically enough Peppone did not feel like doing any more. So Peppone’s wife was the one to brush the upholstery, and not knowing anything about the rascal of an owner she did the job with impartiality and care.

  When everything was done, Peppone sent his boy to tell the proprietor of the tavern to pass on the word that the car was ready. Meanwhile Peppone went upstairs. He wanted to impress the stranger with his physical appearance as well as his accomplishment, and so he washed, shaved and put on a clean shirt.

  “Now is the time for the real fun!” he said, inwardly rejoicing. From the living-room he took a big sheet of paper with the heading “Giuseppe Bottazzi. Repairs. Welding. Brakes. Ignition. Grease and oil.” He had always been proud of this paper, and now if ever was the time to use it. “Bill no….”

  And he proceeded to add the date and the debtor. He knew the stranger’s first and last name perfectly well, but it seemed to him more impressive to leave them out. Let him appear to be someone totally unknown. Then he began to itemize the charges.

  New Parts (detailed) . 11,000 liras 3 quarts of oil . . . 1,200 Greasing and washing . 800 Telephone call and bus delivery . . . . . 500 Total expenses . . . . . 13,500 Labour . . . . . . . . . 7,000 Overtime . . . . . . . . 4,500 ------ Grand total . . . . . 25,000 ------

  Twenty-five thousand liras, and he could cough up every last one of them, if he wanted his car back. “As fast as you can, eh?” But it costs more to get something in a hurry. It used to be different, but that was in the army!

  Peppone came downstairs upon the stranger’s arrival.

  “Your car’s ready,” he said coldly.

  “All fixed?”

  “All fixed.”

  “And how much do I owe you?”

  Peppone was inwardly jeering. This was the big moment. He took the bill out of his pocket, looked at it and then put it back.

  “Everything included, parts and labour, 13,100 liras.”

  The stranger took three five-thousand lira notes from his wallet.

  “Keep the difference,” he said, getting into the car. At the door he leaned out to ask:

  “Do I make a left turn for the highway?”

  “Yessir!” said Peppone, clicking his heels.

  “Good-bye, Sergeant Bottazzi,” said the stranger.

  A quarter of a mile along the road, the stranger wondered why the devil he had dubbed the fellow a sergeant when he knew perfectly well that he was only the most pestiferous of corporals? Then he listened to the hum of the engine, which was acting as if it had only three instead of thirty thousand miles behind it.

  Peppone stood at the door to the workshop, looking after the car.

  “Devil take you and whoever brought you this way!” he exclaimed angrily as he went back inside. But he felt as puffed up as if he really were a sergeant.

  The Gold Rush

  THE news exploded like a bomb around Monday noon, upon the arrival of the newspapers. Someone in the village had won ten million liras in the national soccer sweepstakes. The papers gave the name of th
e winner as Pepito Sbezzeguti, but no one in the town was known under such an exotic name. The bet collector, besieged by a curious mob, threw out his arms hopelessly.

  “I sold any number of tickets to fellows from out of town at the market on Saturday,” he said. “It must be one of them. Ten million liras! He’s bound to show up.”

  But no one showed up, and the village continued to fret, because they felt sure there was something fishy about the name. Sbezzeguti was plausible, someone of that name might have come to the market. But Pepito was going a little too far. Nobody who dealt in wheat, corn, hay, livestock and Parmesan cheese would be called Pepito.

  “It’s a phony name, if you ask me,” said the proprietor of the Molinetto. “And someone using a false name isn’t likely to be a stranger. It must be a villager who doesn’t want it known that he played the sweeps. Maybe he doesn’t want his debtors to know, or his wife.”

  The argument was logical enough. The villagers dropped the theory of the winner being an outsider and concentrated upon their fellow townsmen. They concentrated as intently as if they were trying to identify a common thief rather than the winner of a legitimate pool.

  Don Camillo followed the affair less passionately but with a certain amount of interest. And because he felt that Christ did not altogether approve of his leanings towards the trade of a detective he offered Him an explanation.

  “Lord, it’s not a matter of idle curiosity; I’m doing my duty. A man who has received such a favour from Divine Providence has no right to hide it.”

  “Don Camillo,” replied Christ, “Divine Providence may take an interest in the soccer sweepstakes although personally I doubt it, but surely not in all the publicity about the winnings. The fact of the matter is all that counts and it’s quite adequately known. Someone has won a considerable sum of money, but why must you beat out your brains to discover his identity? Your business is to look after those who are less fortunate.”

  But Don Camillo couldn’t rid himself of his curiosity. The mystery of Pepito continued to occupy his mind until finally a great light dawned upon him. It was all he could do not to ring the church bells in exultation, and quite beyond his powers to resist putting on his cloak and going for a walk in the village. In time he arrived at the workshop of Peppone, mayor and blacksmith. Don Camillo stuck his head through the door and greeted his enemy.