Don Camillo and his Flock

by Giovanni Guareschi

  “Keep your nose in your own dirty business,” said Peppone.

  “My business is to get you to repair the church tower.”

  Peppone shot him a somber look.

  “All right,” he said between clenched teeth. “But some day I’ll settle accounts with you.”

  Don Camillo started back to the rectory. There was nothing more to see or to say. He meant to go straight home, but he knew that Christ was waiting for him.

  “Don Camillo,” said Christ severely, when the priest stood before him in the half-dark church. “Aren’t you going to thank Me because the People’s Palace was struck by lightning?”

  “No,” said Don Camillo, with his head hanging. “A stroke of lightning is part of the natural order created by God. Surely God wouldn’t inconvenience wind, clouds, lightning and thunder simply in order to please a poor devil of a country priest and knock down the walls of a village shack.”

  “Exactly,” said Christ. “and how could God take advantage of a storm to throw a bomb on the roof of the People’s Palace? Only a poor devil of a country priest could think up a thing like that.”

  Don Camillo held out his arms.

  “Yes, Lord, but even in this shameful deed there is evidence of God’s mercy. If the poor devil of a country priest, tempted by Satan himself hadn’t tossed a bomb on the roof of the People’s Palace, then the case of dynamite hidden in the Palace attic wouldn’t have exploded, and its presence there was a menace. Now the menace has been eliminated and the poor devil of a country priest has found a way to have the spire of his church tower properly replaced. Moreover, an individual who took the Lord’s name in vain has received the punishment he deserved.”

  “Don Camillo,” said Christ, “are you sure you did the right thing?”

  “No,” Don Camillo replied. “God leaves man free to choose between right and wrong. I did wrong, I admit it, and I shall repent.”

  “Aren’t you repentant already?”

  “No, Lord,” whispered Don Camillo. “It’s still too early. I must ask for an extension.”

  Christ sighed, and Don Camillo went off to bed. In spite of his guilty conscience he slept like a log and dreamed that there was a gleaming gold spire on the church tower. When he woke up, he thought happily of his dream. But he realized that he had forgotten one very important thing. So he dropped off to sleep again and dreamed that on the gleaming spire there was a wonderful lightning rod.

  Red Letter Day

  BARCHINI, the village printer and stationer, had been ill for some time, and there was no one to replace him in the shop, for his was the sort of business where “boss” and “working class” are combined in one and the same person. So it was that Don Camillo had to hire someone in the city to print his parish magazine, and when he went back to read the proofs he amused himself by poking about the machines.

  The devil is a rascal who has no respect for anything or anybody, and plays his tricks not only in night-clubs and other so-called resorts of perdition but also in places where honest men are at work. In this case, the devil was lurking near the machine where a man was printing letterheads, and when Don Camillo got out on the street he found himself in a pretty pickle. Since the flesh is notoriously weak and even the most honorable of parish priests has some flesh and blood in his makeup, what was Don Camillo to do when, upon his return to the village, he found his pockets stuffed with five or six sheets of writing paper, bearing the address of the provincial headquarters of a certain political party?

  * * *

  A few days later Peppone was surprised to receive a registered letter with a city postmark and on the back the name Franchini, which he had never heard before. Inside, there was a letterhead winch made him instinctively draw himself to attention.

  Dear Comrade:

  Of course, you are already acquainted with the latest American betrayal, a secret clause in the nefarious Atlantic Pact which compels the other conspiring nations to watch over their democratic parties and sabotage any efforts on behalf of peace. Since we are under watch by the police, it is folly to put our Party name on our envelopes, that is, except when we actually want to have the police find out about something. When the time comes you will receive detailed rules for the conduct of your correspondence.

  We are writing you today about a delicate and strictly confidential matter. Comrade, the capitalists and clergy are working for war. Peace is under attack, and the Soviet Union, which alone has the benevolent power to defend it, needs the help of active friends.

  The Soviet Union must be ready to bear the onslaught which the Western World is preparing to launch against it. The sacred cause of Peace needs men of unshakable faith and professional ability, ready to discipline themselves for action. We are so sure of you, Comrade, that the Special Committee for Political Action has unanimously decided to admit you to the inner sanctum. Here is a piece of news that should fill you with pride and joy: you are to be sent to the Soviet Union, where your mechanical talents will be put to work in the cause of Peace.

  The Socialist Homeland will accord to the members of the Peace Brigade the rights and privileges of a Soviet citizen. We call this to your attention as one more sign of our Soviet comrades’ generosity.

  Instructions as to the day of departure and the equipment you should take with you will follow. You will travel by air, in view of the delicacy of this matter we order you to destroy this letter and to send your reply to the comrade whose name and address are on the envelope. Take good care. Today more than ever, the sacred cause of Peace is in your hands, in the expectation of a prompt reply…

  For the first time in his life Peppone disobeyed a Party order. He did not burn the letter. “This is the most eloquent testimonial I have ever received from the Party,” he said to himself; “I can’t part with an historical document of this kind. If some fool should ever question my merits I’ll wave this in his face and send him to the mat. There’s nothing more powerful than the printed word.”

  He read the letter over any number of times, and when he knew it by heart he added: “I’ve worked hard, all right, but this is a great reward!” His only regret was that he could not show the letter around. “Now,” he said, “I must write an answer in equally historic terms, an answer that will bring tears to their eyes. I’ll show them what kind of feelings I have in my heart, even if I never went past the third grade in school.” That evening he sat down in the cellar to work over his reply.

  Comrade:

  I overflow with pride to be chosen for the Peace Brigade and awate further Party orders. Let me anser with the Socialist cry, “I obey!” like the red-shirt Garibaldi, even if my first impulze is to go rite away. I never asked a favor befor, but now I ask to be alowed to be the first to go.

  Peppone read this over and saw that it needed a bit of polish and punctuation. But for a first draft it would do very well. There would be time enough to make a second draft the next day. No need to hurry. It was more important to write the kind of a letter that would be published in the Party papers with a note from the editor above it. And he calculated that three drafts would do the job.

  * * *

  As Don Camillo was smoking his cigar and admiring the beauties of Spring, one evening along the road that led to the mill, he found Peppone in his path. They talked about the time of day and the weather, but it was obvious that there was something Peppone wanted to get off his chest and finally he came out with it.

  “Look here, I’d like to talk to you for a minute as man to man instead of as man to priest.”

  Don Camillo stopped and looked at him hard.

  “You’re getting off to a poor start,” he observed, “by talking like a donkey!”

  Peppone made an impatient gesture.

  “Don’t let’s talk politics,” he said. “I’d like you to tell me, as man to man, what you think of Russia.”

  “I’ve told you that eighty thousand times,” said Don Camillo.

  “We’re quite alone, and no one can overhear u
s,” Peppone insisted. “For once you can be sincere and leave political propaganda out of it. What’s it like in Russia, anyhow?”

  Don Camillo shrugged his shoulders.

  “How should I know, Peppone?” he said. “I’ve never been there. All I know is what I’ve read about it. In order to tell you anything more, I’d have to go see for myself. But you ought to know better than I.”

  “Of course I do,” Peppone retorted. “Everyone’s well fixed in Russia; everyone has a job. The government is run by the people, and there’s no exploitation of the poor. Anything the reactionaries say to the contrary is a lie.”

  Don Camillo looked at him sharply.

  “If you know all that, why do you ask me about it?”

  “Just to get your man-to-man opinion. So far I’ve always heard you talk strictly as a priest.”

  “And I’ve always heard you talk as a comrade. May I hear your man-to-man opinion as well?”

  “To be a comrade means to be a man. And I think as a man just the same way that I think as a comrade.”

  They walked on for a while, and then Peppone returned to the attack.

  “In short you’d say a fellow’s just about as well off in Russia as he is here.”

  “I said nothing of the sort, but since you say it, I’ll admit that’s more or less my opinion. Except, of course, for the religious angle.”

  Peppone nodded.

  “We agree then,” he said. “But why do you suppose people speak and write so much against it?”

  Don Camillo threw out his arms. “Politics…”

  “Politics!… Politics!…” muttered Peppone.

  “America is all mixed up with politics the same way. But no one talks about America quite so violently as about Russia.”

  “Well, the fact is that people can go see America for themselves, while very few of them have ever set foot in Russia.”

  Peppone explained that Russia had to be careful. Then he grasped Don Camillo’s sleeve and stopped him.

  “Listen … as man to man, of course. If a fellow had a chance to take a good job in Russia, what would you advise him to do?”

  “Peppone, you’re asking me quite a tough…”

  “Man to man, Father… I’m sure you have the courage to be frank.”

  Don Camillo shook his head.

  “To be frank, then, I’ll say that if it were a question of taking a good job I might advise him to go.”

  Life is a queer sort of proposition. Logically, Peppone ought to have leaped into the air with joy. But Don Camillo’s reply did not make him at all happy. He touched his hat and started to go away. After he had taken a few steps he turned around.

  “How can you conscientiously advise a fellow to go to a place where you’ve never been yourself?” he asked.

  “I know more about it than you think,” Don Camillo said. “You may not realize it, but I read your newspapers. And some of the people that write for them have been to Russia.”

  Peppone wheeled abruptly around.

  “Oh, the newspapers!…” he grunted as he walked away.

  * * *

  Don Camillo was jubilant and he hurried back to the church to tell Christ the whole story.

  “Lord, he’s got himself into a real mess! He’d like to say he won’t go, but in view of his position he doesn’t dare turn down the honor. And he came to me in the hope that I’d bolster up his resistance. Now he’s caught worse than ever and doesn’t see how he can get out of it. I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes, I can tell you!”

  “And I shouldn’t like to be in yours, that is, if God would allow it,” Christ answered. “For they’re the shoes of a wicked man.”

  Don Camillo’s mouth dropped open.

  “I played a good joke on him, that’s all,” he stammeringly protested.

  “A joke’s a joke only so long as it doesn’t include joy over the victim’s pain,” Christ enjoined him.

  Don Camillo hung his head and left the church. Two days later Peppone received another letter.

  Dear Comrade:

  We are sorry to say that, on account of unexpected complications, neither you nor any of the others chosen as members of the Peace Brigade will be able to go to the Soviet Union at this time. Forgive us for causing you this disappointment, but for the moment you can best serve the cause of Peace by staying where you are.

  No one ever knew who it was that brought an enormous candle into the church under the cover of darkness that evening. But Don Camillo found it burning near the crucifix when he went that night to say his prayers.

  The Strike

  DON CAMILLO walked into Peppone’s workshop and found the owner sitting in a corner, reading his paper.

  “Labor ennobles man,” Don Camillo observed. “Take care not to overdo it.”

  Peppone raised his eyes, turned his head to one side in order to spit, and went on with his reading. Don Camillo sat down on a box, took off his hat, wiped the perspiration away from his forehead and remarked calmly: “Good sportsmanship is all that really matters.”

  Just then Smilzo came in, out of breath from having ridden his racing bicycle so fast. At the sight of Don Camillo, he raised a finger to his cap.

  “Greetings, Your Eminence,” he said. “The influence exercised by the clergy upon minds still beclouded by the Dark Ages is a brake upon social progress.”

  Peppone did not stir, and Don Camillo continued to fan himself with his handkerchief, only imperceptibly turning his head so as to look at Smilzo out of the corner of one eye. Smilzo sat down on the floor, leaned up against the wall, and said no more. A few minutes later, Straziami came in with his jacket over one shoulder and his hat pushed back on his head. Taking in the situation at a glance, he stood against the doorpost and gazed at the world outside. The next to arrive was Lungo, who pushed some tools to one side of the workbench and sat down on it. Ten minutes went by, and the only sign of life among the five of them was the fanning motion of Don Camillo’s hand. Suddenly Peppone crumpled up his paper and threw it away.

  “Devil take it!” he exclaimed angrily. “Hasn’t anyone got a cigarette?”

  Nobody moved, except for Don Camillo, who went on fanning.

  “Haven’t you one?” Peppone asked him maliciously. “I haven’t smoked since early this morning.”

  “And I haven’t even smelled tobacco for two whole days,” Don Camillo answered, “I was counting on you.”

  Peppone kicked an empty can.

  “You asked for it,” he shouted. “I hope you’re enjoying your De Gasperi government.”

  “If you were to work instead of reading your paper, you’d have some cigarette money,” Don Camillo said calmly.

  Peppone threw his cap on the ground.

  “Work! Work!” he shouted. “How can I work if no one brings me anything to do? Instead of having their mowers repaired, people are cutting their hay with a scythe. And my truck hasn’t been called out for two months. How am I supposed to get along?”

  “Nationalize your business,” Don Camillo said calmly.

  Smilzo raised a finger.

  “The Marshall Plan is the enemy of the people,” he began gravely. “And the proletariat needs social reforms, not just a lot of talk.”

  Peppone got up and stood with his legs wide apart in front of Don Camillo.

  “Stop raising a breeze with that damned handkerchief, will you?” he shouted. “And tell us what that government of your choice is doing about the general strike.”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Don Camillo. “I can’t fit newspapers into my budget. This last month I haven’t read anything but my missal.”

  Peppone shrugged his shoulders.

  “It suits you not to know what’s going on,” he said. “The fact is that you’ve betrayed the people.”

  Don Camillo stopped fanning.

  “Do you mean me?” he asked gently.

  Peppone scratched his head and went back to sit in his corner with his face buried in his hands. In the half-dark wor
kshop silence once more reigned. Each returned to his thoughts on the general strike which had been called from the national headquarters of the Party. Bulletins had been issued, pamphlets distributed and posters put up to explain what the Party leaders were accomplishing for the people, with the result that in the little world of Don Camillo the people were hungry and life in the village was at a standstill. As the days seemed to grow longer and the tempers shorter, Don Camillo had begun to worry.

  “To think that on the other side of the river there are people who might work and choose to strike instead!” Don Camillo exclaimed. “At a time like this, I call that a crime!”

  He had diplomatically referred to the neighboring township which was outside Peppone’s jurisdiction. It was an important agricultural center and there, as everywhere in the valley, the farmers, unable to get labor, were forced to tighten their belts and watch their harvest rot.

  Peppone raised his head.

  “The strike is the workers’ only weapon,” he shouted. “Do you want to take it away? What did we fight for in the Resistance movement?”

  “To lose the war faster.”

  So they began to discuss who should pay for the war, and that argument took quite some time. Then they emptied some cans of gasoline into the tank of Lungo’s motorcycle and Smilzo and Lungo rode away, while Don Camillo returned to the rectory.

  * * *

  At midnight a boat shot silently out over the river. In it were five men in overalls with grease all over their faces, looking like mechanics of some kind; three of them were fellows with especially broad shoulders. They landed on the opposite bank, quite a way downstream, and after walking a mile through empty fields found a truck waiting to take them to a big commercial farm. They proceeded to clean the stable and then to milk the cows. Although there were only five of them, they worked like a whole battalion. Just as they were finishing up with the cows, someone breathlessly spread the alarm: “The squad!”