“The stuff from America is here!” he shouted. “I mean the foodstuff. There are posters up to announce that the needy can call at the rectory for relief parcels. Spaghetti, canned milk, preserves, butter and sugar. The posters have created quite a sensation.”
“What’s the exact wording of the announcement?” the delegate asked him.
“The fatherly heart of His Holiness … etc. … etc. … parcels which all the needy are entitled to receive upon application to the parish priest, Don Camillo … etc. … etc.…”
“All the needy, did you say?”
“Yes, all of them, without distinction.”
Peppone clenched his fists.
“I knew that devil was cooking up something of the sort,” he said. “They speculate on human misery, the filthy cowards. We’ll have to do something about it.”
“Yes, Comrade, do something!” the delegate ordered. “Call a meeting of the cell leaders.”
After the cell leaders had hastened to answer the call, Peppone informed them of the latest reactionary manoeuver.
“Within half an hour the comrades must be told that if one of them accepts so much as a safety-pin I’ll strangle him for it. Smilzo, you stand guard in front of the rectory. Keep your eyes peeled every minute and take down the names of all those who go to pick up parcels.”
“Well spoken,” the delegate said approvingly. “A case like this requires decisive action.”
* * *
All day long there was a line in front of the rectory. The priest was jubilant, because the parcels were plentiful and well filled and people were happy to get them.
“Tell me if the so-called People’s Party gives you anything better,” he said, laughing.
“They give nothing but big talk,” everyone answered.
Some of the Reds were needy enough, but they didn’t show up. This was the only fly in the priest’s ointment, because he had prepared a special homily for their benefit. “You haven’t any right to this, since you have Stalin to look after you. But take a parcel just the same, Comrade, and here’s luck to you!” When none of the Reds put in an appearance and the priest was told that Smilzo was standing behind a bush, taking down the name of everyone who went away with a parcel, he realized that he would have to keep his homily to himself. By six o’clock in the evening all the “regular” needy had been taken care of and there were left only the parcels meant for “special cases”. Don Camillo went into the church to talk to Christ.
“See here, Lord, what do You think of that?”
“I see, Don Camillo, and I must admit I find it touching. Those people are just as poor as the rest, but they’re putting Party loyalty above their hunger. And so Don Camillo has lost a chance to deliver some sarcastic remarks at their expense.”
Don Camillo lowered his head.
“Christian charity doesn’t mean giving the crumbs from your table to the poor; it means dividing with them something that you need yourself. When Saint Martin divided his cloak with a beggar, that was Christian charity. And even when you share your last crust of bread with a beggar, you mustn’t act as if you were throwing a bone to a dog. You must give humbly and thank him for allowing you to have a part in his hunger. Today you simply played the part of an altruist and the crumbs you distributed were from someone else’s table, not your own. You had no merit. And instead of being humble, you had poison in your head.”
Don Camillo shook his head. “Lord,” he whispered, “just send some of those poor Reds to me. I won’t say a thing. I don’t think I’d really have said anything before, either. You’d have shown me the light before I could say it.”
Then he went back to the rectory and waited. After an hour had gone by he closed the door and the front window. But after another hour he heard a knock at the door. The priest ran to open it, and there was Straziami, one of Peppone’s most loyal followers, looking just as frowning and glum as ever. He stood silently at the entrance for a moment and then said:
“I don’t think any the better of you and your friends, and I intend to vote as I please. So don’t say I misled you.”
The priest barely nodded. Then he took one of the remaining parcels out of the cupboard and handed it to him. Straziami took it and tucked it away under his coat.
“Tell me the truth, Father,” he said ironically. “You might very well make a good joke out of the sight of Comrade Straziami sneaking in for a relief parcel from America.”
“Go out through the garden,” was all the priest said in reply, and he lit the butt of his cigar.
* * *
Peppone and the Party delegate were having supper when Smilzo came to report.
“It’s quarter past eight and the priest has gone to bed.”
“Is everything in good order?” asked Peppone.
“On the whole, yes,” Smilzo said with some hesitation.
“Speak up, Comrade,” said the delegate harshly. “Tell us the entire story.”
“Well, all day long there was just the usual crowd, and I got all the names. Then just a quarter of an hour ago, a late-comer went into the rectory and it was too dark for me to see who he was.”
Peppone clenched his fists.
“Out with it, Smilzo! Who was he?”
“It looked like one of our people to me.”
“Which one?”
“It looked like Straziami. But I can’t swear to it.”
They finished their supper in silence, and then the delegate stood up. “Let’s investigate,” he said. “Such things mustn’t be allowed to ride too long.”
* * *
Straziami’s little boy was pale and thin, with big eyes, and hair that tumbled over his forehead. Small for his age, he looked a lot and said little. Now he sat at the kitchen table and stared with wide-open eyes at his father, who was glumly prying open a jar of fruit.
“That’s for dessert,” said his mother. “First have your spaghetti and canned milk.”
She brought the bowl to the table and stirred its steaming contents, while Straziami went to sit down by the wall, between the fireplace and the cupboard. From this vantage point he gazed wonderingly at his son, whose eyes wandered in bewilderment from his mother’s hands to the jar of fruit and then to the can of milk on the table.
“Aren’t you coming to supper?” the woman said to Straziami.
“I don’t want anything to eat,” he mumbled.
She sat down across from the boy and was just about to fill his plate with spaghetti when Peppone and the Party delegate threw open the door. The delegate looked at the spaghetti and examined the labels on the milk and the jar of fruit.
“Where did you get this stuff?” he said harshly to Straziami, who had risen hesitatingly to his feet.
He waited in vain for an answer. Then he calmly gathered the four corners of the tablecloth into his hand, picked it up and threw it out the window. The little boy trembled, holding both hands in front of his mouth and staring at the delegate with terror. The woman had taken refuge against the wall and Straziami stood in the middle of the room with his arms hanging at his sides, as if he had been turned into stone. The delegate closed the window, walked over to Straziami and struck him across the face. A thread of blood trickled out of one corner of Straziami’s mouth, but he did not move. The delegate went to the door and then turned around to say:
“That’s Communism for you, Comrade. And if you don’t like it, you can leave it.”
His voice aroused Peppone, who had been gaping from one corner of the room as if the whole thing were a dream. They walked away in silence through the dark countryside, and Peppone could hardly wait to get home. In front of the inn the delegate held out his hand.
“I’m leaving at five o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said. “You’ve got everything straight, haven’t you? Saturday you resign and put Brusco in your place. You’re to make your first speech at Castellino and tomorrow you’ll receive the main body of the text. You can insert references to local conditions in the blank spaces.
Goodnight, Comrade.”
“Goodnight.”
Peppone went straight to Smilzo’s.
“I’ll beat him up,” he said to himself, but when he reached the door he hesitated and retraced his steps. He found himself in front of the rectory, but there he did not linger either.
“That’s Communism for you, Comrade. And if you don’t like it, you can leave it.” The delegate’s words were imprinted in his mind. At home he found his own son still awake in his crib, smiling and holding out his arms.
“Go to sleep,” Peppone said brusquely. He spoke in so harsh and threatening a voice that no one, not even he himself, could have suspected that he was thinking of the wide-open eyes of Straziami’s son.
In the room at the inn the Party delegate’s mind was quite empty. He was fast asleep, satisfied with both himself and his Communism. But there was still a frown on his face, because Communists are on duty even when they are sleeping.
A Matter of Conscience
FOR some time Peppone had been bringing the hammer down on the anvil, but no matter how accursedly hard he struck it he could not get a certain tormenting thought out of his mind.
“The fool!” he mumbled to himself. “He’s going to make a mess!”
Just then he raised his eyes and saw the fool standing before him.
“You scared my boy,” Straziami said gloomily. “He was restless all night long, and now he’s in bed with fever.”
“It’s your own fault,” said Peppone, hammering away with his eyes on his work.
“Is it my fault that I’m poor?”
“You had orders and Party orders have to be obeyed without discussion.”
“Hungry children come before the Party.”
“No, the Party comes before everything.”
Straziami took something out of his pocket and laid it on the anvil.
“I’m turning in my card. It doesn’t stand for Party membership anymore; it just means that I’m under special surveillance.”
“Straziami, I don’t like your way of talking.”
“I’ll talk as I choose. I won my freedom at the risk of my own skin, and I’m not going to give it up so lightly.”
Peppone put down the hammer and wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. Straziami was one of the old guard; they had fought side by side, sharing the same hunger and hope and despair.
“You’re betraying the cause,” said Peppone.
“Isn’t the cause freedom? If I give up my freedom, then I’m betraying the cause.”
“We’ll have to throw you out, you know. You’re not allowed to resign. If you turn in your card, you’ll be thrown out.”
“I know it. And anyone that cheats too much is thrown out three months before he does it. To think that we have the nerve to call other people hypocrites! So long, Peppone. I’m sorry that you’ll have to consider me your enemy when I’ll still look on you as a friend.”
Peppone watched Straziami walk away. Then he took hold of himself, threw the hammer into the corner with a loud curse, and went to sit in the garden at the back of the workshop. He couldn’t get used to the idea that Straziami had to be thrown out of the Party. Finally he jumped to his feet.
“It’s all the fault of that damned priest,” he decided. “Here’s where I get him.”
The “damned priest” was in the rectory, leafing through some old papers, when Peppone came in.
“I hope you’re happy!” Peppone said angrily. “At last you’ve managed to hurt one of our people.”
Don Camillo shot him a curious glance.
“Is the election affecting your mind?” he asked.
“Proud of yourself, aren’t you? Just to have ruined a fellows reputation, when this social system of yours has given him nothing but trouble.”
“Comrade Mayor, I still don’t understand.”
“You’ll understand well enough when I tell you that it’s all your fault if Straziami is thrown out of the Party. You took advantage of the fact that he’s so poor to lure him into accepting one of your filthy food parcels from America. Our Party delegate got wind of it and caught him at his own house, red-handed. He threw the food out of the window and struck him across the face.”
It was clear that Peppone was highly excited.
“Calm yourself, Peppone,” said the priest.
“Calm yourself, my eye! If you’d seen Straziami’s boy when the food was practically taken off his plate and he watched his father being struck, you wouldn’t be calm. That is, not if you had any feelings.”
Don Camillo turned pale and got up. He asked Peppone to tell him again exactly what the Party delegate had done. Then Don Camillo shook an accusing finger in Peppone’s face.
“You swindler!” he exclaimed.
“Swindler yourself, for trying to take advantage of poor people’s hunger and get them to vote for you!”
Don Camillo picked up an iron poker standing up in one corner of the fireplace.
“If you open your month again, I’ll slaughter you!” he shouted. “I haven’t speculated on anybody’s starvation. I have food parcels to distribute and I haven’t denied them to anyone. I’m interested in poor people’s hunger, not their votes. You’re the swindler! Because you have nothing to give away except printed papers full of lies, you won’t let anyone have anything else. When somebody gives people things they need you accuse him of trying to buy votes, and if one of your followers accepts, you brand him as a traitor to the people. You’re the traitor, I say, because you take away what someone else has given. So I was playing politics, was I? Making propaganda? Straziami’s boy and the children of your other poor comrades who haven’t the courage to come for food parcels don’t know that they come from America. These children don’t even know that there is such a place. All they know is that you’re cheating them of the food they need. If a man sees that his children are hungry you’d say that he’s entitled to steal a crust of bread for them to eat, but you wouldn’t let him take it from America. And all because the prestige of Russia might suffer! But tell me, what does Straziami’s boy know about America and Russia? He was just about to tuck away the first square meal he’s seen for some time when you snatched it out of his mouth. I say that you’re the swindler.”
“I didn’t say or do a thing.”
“You let another man do it. And then you stood by while he did something even worse, while he struck a father in the presence of his child. A child has complete confidence in his father; he thinks of him as all-powerful and untouchable. And you let that double-faced deputy destroy the only treasure of Straziami’s unfortunate boy. How would you like it if I were to come to your house this evening and beat you up in front of your son?”
Peppone shrugged his shoulders. “You may as well get it out of your system,” he said.
“I will!” shouted Don Camillo, livid with rage. “I’ll get it out of my system, all right.” He grasped both ends of the poker, clenched his teeth and with a roar like a lions bent it double.
“I can throw a noose around you and your friend Stalin as well,” he shouted. “And after I’ve got you in it, I can pull it tight, too.”
Peppone watched him with considerable concern and made no comment. Then Don Camillo opened the cupboard and took out of it a parcel which he handed to Peppone.
“If you’re not a complete idiot, take this to him. It doesn’t come from America, or England, or even Portugal, for that matter. It’s a gift of Divine Providence, which doesn’t need anybody’s vote to rule over the universe. If you want to, you can send for the rest of the parcels and distribute them yourself.”
“All right I’ll send Smilzo with the truck,” muttered Peppone, hiding the parcel under his coat. When he reached the door he turned around, laid the parcel on a chair, picked up the bent poker and tried to straighten it out.
“If you can do it, I’ll vote for the ‘People’s Front’,” leered Don Camillo.
Peppone’s effort made him red as a tomato. The bar would not return t
o its original shape, and he threw it down on the floor.
“We don’t need your vote to win,” he said, picking up the parcel and going out the door.
* * *
Straziami was sitting in front of the fire, reading the paper, with his little boy crouching beside him. Peppone walked in, put the parcel on the table and untied it.
“This is for you,” he said to the boy, “straight from the Almighty.” Then he handed something to Straziami: “And here’s something that belongs to you,” he added. “You left it on my anvil.”
Straziami took his Party membership card and put it into his wallet.
“Is that from the Almighty too?” he asked.
“The Almighty sends us everything,” muttered Peppone, “the good along with the bad. You can’t ever tell who’s going to get what. This time we’re lucky.”
The little boy had jumped to his feet and was admiring the profusion of good things spilled out on the table.
“Don’t worry; no one’s going to take it away from you,” Peppone said reassuringly.
* * *
Smilzo came with the truck in the afternoon.
“The chief sent me to pick up some stuff,” he said to Don Camillo, who pointed out the parcels waiting stacked up for him in the hall.
When Smilzo came to pick up the last lot of them, Don Camillo followed him as he staggered under his load out the door and gave him a kick so hearty that both Smilzo and half of his parcels landed in the truck.
“Make a note of this along with the list of names you gave to the Party delegate,” Don Camillo explained.
“We’ll settle with you on election day,” said Smilzo, extricating himself from the confusion. “Your name is at the head of another list of ours.”
“Anything more I can do for you?”
“No. But I still don’t get it. I’ve had the same treatment from Peppone and Straziami already. And all because I carried out an order.”
“Wrong orders shouldn’t be carried out,” Don Camillo warned him.
“Right. But how can one know ahead of time that they’re wrong?” asked Smilzo with a sigh.
Don Camillo and his Flock Page 3
