The five barely had time to get out of the stable by one door before the squad appeared at another, where cans of milk were lined up, ready for delivery. The squad leader kicked over one of the cans and said: “I’ll give you a lesson in making butter!” Then, turning to his followers, he added: “Some of you take care of the rest of the cans, and the others come with me to give a lesson to the strike-breakers.”
He advanced threateningly toward the five, but the iron bars wielded by the three with the broad shoulders did the work of eight, and their two smaller companions were as slippery as eels and gave just as much trouble. Before long the squad retired, licking its wounds. But, three hours later a veritable army came to reënforce it. The five picked up pitchforks and awaited the attack, while their new enemies stopped some sixty feet away.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” shouted their leader. “We’re after the farmer that went and got you from the city. You go on about your business, and we’ll settle accounts with him.”
The women of the family began to cry, and the farmer and his two sons were white with fear.
“No, we can’t let you do that,” mumbled one of the five, and they held their ground, while the others, waving sticks, advanced toward them.
“Look out,” said one of the giants. And he threw the pitchfork in the direction of the advancing enemy, who drew back while the pitchfork went into the vacated ground. Then he ran into the stable and reappeared just in time to face the enemy’s regrouped forces with a Tommy gun in his hand.
A Tommy gun is no laughing matter, but what is even more frightening is the face of the man who bears it, which reveals from the start whether he intends to shoot or not. In this instance the bearer’s face made it very clear that if the enemy didn’t cease and desist, he would mow them down. They made another attempt late at night to besiege the stable, but a volley of shots convinced them to keep their distance. The strikebreakers stayed on the job twelve days, until it was all over, and when they went away they were loaded down with foodstuffs and money.
No one ever knew exactly who the strike-breakers were. But for some time Peppone, Smilzo, Lungo, and Straziami were very quiet. When Don Camillo discussed the matter at the altar, Christ reproached him for having carried a Tommy gun, but Don Camillo insisted it was Peppone. Finally, however, he threw out his arms and gave in.
“What do you expect, Lord?” he said. “How can I explain it to You? We were so alike that no one could say which one was me and which Peppone. All strikebreakers look the same by night.”
And when Christ insisted that the Tommy gun had been carried by broad daylight, Don Camillo only threw out his arms again and said: “There are circumstances that cause a man to lose all notion of time!”
Thunder
TWO DAYS before the opening of the hunting season, Lightning died. He was as old as the hills and had every reason to be sick and tired of playing the part of a hunting dog when he wasn’t born one. Don Camillo could do nothing but dig a deep hole beside the acacia tree, toss in the body and heave a deep sigh. For a whole fortnight he was depressed, but finally he got over it, and one morning he found himself out in the fields with a shotgun in his hands. A quail rose out of a near-by meadow, and Don Camillo shot at him, but the quail flew on as calmly as before. Don Camillo nearly yelled “You wretched dog!” but he remembered that Lightning wasn’t there, and felt depressed all over again. He wandered about the fields, over the river bank and under grape arbors, discharged as many volleys as a machine-gun, but never made a single hit. Who could be lucky without a dog beside him?
With the one cartridge he had left, he aimed at a quail flying low over a hedge. He couldn’t have missed, but there was no way to be sure. The quail might have fallen either into the hedge or into the field on the other side. But to search for it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Better give the whole thing up. He blew into the barrels of his gun and was looking around to find out where he was and what was the shortest way to go home when a rustle caused him to turn his head. Out of the hedge jumped a dog, holding a hare in his mouth, which he proceeded to drop at Don Camillo’s feet.
“Heaven help us!” Don Camillo exclaimed. “I shoot a quail and this dog brings me a hare!”
He picked the hare up and found that it was soaking wet, and so was the dog. Obviously he had swam across from the opposite side of the river. Don Camillo slipped the hare into his hag and started home, with the dog following. When he reached the rectory, the dog crouched outside the door. Don Camillo had never seen a dog like him. He was a fine animal and seemed to be in the pink of condition. Perhaps he was a dog with a pedigree like that of a count or a marquis, but he had no identification papers on him. He wore a handsome collar, but there was no plate or tag attached to it.
“If he doesn’t come from another world but has a rightful owner in this one, surely someone will turn up to look for him,” Don Camillo thought to himself. And he let the dog in. That evening before going to bed, he thought about the dog and finally put his conscience at rest by saying to himself: “I’ll mention him in church on Sunday.” The next morning, when he got up to go say Mass, he forgot all about the dog until he found him at the church door.
“Stay there and wait for me,” Don Camillo shouted.
And the dog curled up in front of the sacristy door where after Mass he gave the priest an enthusiastic greeting. They breakfasted together, and when the dog saw Don Camillo take his shotgun out of the corner where he had left it and hung it on a nail, he barked, ran to the door, returned to see if Don Camillo was following and, in short, would give him no peace until Don Camillo slung the gun over his shoulder and made for the fields. He was an extraordinary dog, one of the kind that puts a hunter on his mettle and makes him think: “If I miss my aim, I’m a dirty dog.” Don Camillo concentrated as if he were under examination and showed himself to be a worthy master. On his way home with a bag full of game, he said to himself: “I’ll call him Thunder.” Now that the dog had done his work he was amusing himself by chasing butterflies in a meadow.
“Thunder!” Don Camillo shouted.
It seemed as if from the far side of the meadow someone had launched a torpedo. The dog streaked along with his belly close to the ground, leaving the long grass parted in his wake. He arrived in front of Don Camillo with six inches of tongue hanging out, ready for orders.
“Good dog!” said Don Camillo, and Thunder danced and barked with such joy that Don Camillo thought: “If he doesn’t let up, I’ll find myself dancing and barking.”
Two days went by, and Satan dogged Don Camillo’s heels, whispering to him that he should forget to say anything about the dog in church on Sunday. On the afternoon of the third day, when Don Camillo was on his way home with a bag of game and Thunder frisking ahead of him, he ran into Peppone. Peppone was in a gloomy mood; he had been hunting too, but his bag was empty. Now he looked at Thunder, took a newspaper out of his pocket and opened it.
“That’s funny,” he said. “Looks just like the dog they’re advertising as lost.”
Don Camillo took the paper from him and found just what he had hoped not to find. Someone from the city was offering a reward to anyone who found a hunting dog with such and such marks upon him, lost three days before along the river.
“Very well, then,” said Don Camillo. “I needn’t make any announcement in church. Let me keep this paper. I’ll give it back to you later.”
“It’s really too bad,” said Peppone. “Everyone says he’s an extraordinary dog. And they must be right, because when you had Lightning you never brought home a haul like that one. If I were in your shoes…”
“And if I were in yours…” Don Camillo interrupted. “But I happen to be in my own, and as an honest man I must restore the dog to his rightful owner.”
When they reached the village Don Camillo sent a telegram to the man in the city. Satan was just working out a new argument to use on Don Camillo, but he was too slow, because he had counted on Don Ca
millo’s sending a letter rather than a telegram. That would have taken fifteen or twenty minutes, time enough for anyone so persuasive as Satan to upset the apple-cart. But a five-word telegram was so quickly despatched that Satan was left with his mouth hanging open. Don Camillo went home with his conscience in good order, but with a feeling of deep depression. And he sighed even more deeply than when he had buried Lightning.
The city slicker arrived the next day in a low-slung sport car. He was vain and unpleasant, as might have been expected from his taste in car bodies.
“Where is my dog?” he asked.
“There’s a dog been found that must belong to somebody,” said Don Camillo. “But you’ll have to prove your ownership?”
The man described the dog from stem to stem.
“Is that enough?” he asked. “Or do I have to describe his insides as well?”
“That’s enough,” said Don Camillo glumly, opening the cellar door.
The dog lay on the floor without moving.
“Thunder!” called the city slicker.
“Is that really his name?” asked Don Camillo.
“Yes.”
“That’s funny.”
Still the dog did not move and the man called again:
“Thunder!”
The dog growled and there was an ugly look in his eyes.
“He doesn’t seem to be yours,” observed Don Camillo.
The city slicker went and took the dog by the collar in order to drag him up from the cellar. Then he turned the collar inside out, revealing a brass plate with a name on it.
“Just read this, Father. Here are my name and address and telephone number. Appearance to the contrary, the dog’s mine.”
Then he pointed to the car.
“Get in!” he ordered.
The dog obeyed, with his head hanging low and his tail between his legs, and curled up on the back seat. The city slicker held out a five-thousand lira note.
“Here’s for your trouble,” he said.
“It’s no trouble to restore something lost to its rightful owner,” said Don Camillo, proudly pushing the money away.
“I’m truly grateful,” said the city slicker. “He’s a very expensive dog, a thoroughbred from one of the best English kennels, with three international blue ribbons to his credit. I’m an impulsive sort of fellow, and the other day, when he caused me to miss a hare I gave him a kick. And he resented it.”
“He’s a dog with professional dignity,” said Don Camillo. “And you didn’t miss the hare, because he brought it to me.”
“Oh well, he’ll get over it,” said the city slicker, climbing back into his car.
Don Camillo spent a restless night, and when he got up to say Mass the next morning he was immersed in gloom. It was windy and pouring rain, but Thunder was there. He was covered with mud and soaked like a sponge, but he lay in front of the sacristy door and gave Don Camillo a welcome worthy of the last act of an opera. Don Camillo went in and spoke to Christ.
“Lord, Your enemies are going to say that Christians are afraid of wind and water, because not a single one of them has come to church this morning. But if You let Thunder in they’ll be confounded.”
Thunder was admitted to the sacristy, where he waited patiently, except when he stuck his nose through the door near the altar, causing Don Camillo to stumble over his prayers. They went back to the rectory together, and the priest sank into his former melancholy.
“No use fooling myself,” he said with a sigh. “He knows the way, and he’ll come back for you.”
The dog growled as if he had understood. He let Don Camillo brush him off and then sat dawn by the fire to dry. The city slicker returned in the afternoon. He was in a very bad humor, because he had got his car muddy. There was no need of explanations; he walked into the rectory and found Thunder in front of the spent fire.
“Sorry to have given you more trouble,” he said, “but it won’t happen again. I’ll take him to a place of mine in the next province, and he couldn’t find his way back from there even if he were a carrier pigeon.”
When his master called this time, Thunder gave an angry bark. He would not get into the car of his own accord, but had to be lifted onto the seat. He tried to escape, and when the door was closed he scratched and barked without ceasing.
* * *
The next morning Don Camillo left the rectory with his heart pounding. Thunder was not there either that day or the next, and little by little the priest resigned himself to his absence. A fortnight went by, and on the fifteenth night, at about one o’clock, Don Camillo heard a cry from below and know that it was Thunder. He ran downstairs and out on the church square, quite forgetting that he was in his nightshirt. Thunder was in a very bad condition: starved, dirty, and so tired that he could not hold up his tail. It took three days to restore him to normal, but on the fourth day, after Mass, Thunder pulled him by his cassock over to where the shotgun was hanging and put on such a scene that Don Camillo took his gun, bag, and cartridge belt and set out for the fields. There followed a most unusual week, when Don Camillo’s catches made the most seasoned hunters green with envy. Every now and then someone came to see the dog, and Don Camillo explained:
“He’s not mine. A man from the city left him here to be trained to chase hares.”
One fine morning Peppone came to admire him. He stared at him for some time in silence.
“I’m not going to hunt this morning,” said Don Camillo. “Do you want to try him?”
“Will he come?” said Peppone incredulously.
“I think he will. After all, he doesn’t know you’re a Communist. Seeing you in my company, he probably takes you for a perfectly respectable person.”
Peppone was so absorbed by the prospect of trying the dog that he did not answer. Don Camillo turned his gun and bag and cartridge belt over to Peppone. Thunder had been excited to see Don Camillo take down his gun, but now he seemed taken aback.
“Go along with the mayor,” said Don Camillo. “I’m busy today.”
Peppone put on the belt and hung the gun and bag over his shoulder. Thunder looked at first one man and then the other.
“Go on,” Don Camillo encouraged him. “He’s ugly, but he doesn’t bite.”
Thunder started to follow Peppone, but then he stopped in perplexed fashion and turned around.
“Go, go,” Don Camillo repeated. “Only watch out that he doesn’t enlist you in the Party.”
Thunder went along. If Don Camillo had turned over his hunting equipment to this man, he must be a friend. Two hours later he bounded back into the rectory and laid a magnificent hare at Don Camillo’s feet. Soon, panting like a locomotive, Peppone arrived upon the scene.
“Devil take you and your dog!” he exclaimed. “He’s a perfect wonder, but he eats the game. He stole a hare a yard long. After he had brought me the quails and the partridges, he had to steal a hare.”
Don Camillo picked up the hare and held it out to Peppone.
“He’s a thinking dog,” he answered. “He thought that if the gun and the cartridges were mine, I was entitled to part of the kill.”
It was plain that Thunder had acted in good faith, because he did not run away from Peppone but greeted him with affection.
“He’s an extraordinary animal,” said Peppone, “and I wouldn’t give him back to that man even if he came with a regiment of militia.”
Don Camillo sighed.
* * *
The city slicker turned up a week later. He wore a hunting outfit and carried a feather-weight Belgian shotgun.
“Well he got away from up there, too. I’ve come to see whether he landed here again.”
“He arrived yesterday morning,” said Don Camillo glumly. “Take him away.”
Thunder looked at his master and growled. “I’ll settle accounts with you this time,” said the city slicker to the dog.
Thunder growled again, and the city slicker lost his head and gave him a kick.
“You
cur! I’ll teach you! Lie down!”
The dog lay down, growling, and Don Camillo stepped in.
“He’s a thoroughbred, and you can’t handle him with violence. Let him quiet down, while you drink a glass of wine.”
The man took a seat, while Don Camillo went down to get a bottle from the cellar. While he was there he found time to scribble a note which he gave to the bell-ringer’s son.
“Take it to Peppone at his workshop, and hurry.” The note contained only a few words: “The fellow’s here again. Lend me twenty thousand liras so I can try to buy the dog. And get them here fast.”
The city slicker drank several glasses of wine, talked idly to Don Camillo, then looked at his watch and stood up.
“I’m sorry, but I must go. Friends are expecting me for the hunt, and I’ve just time to get there.”
Thunder was still crouching in a corner and as soon as he saw his master he started growling. He growled louder when the man came near. Just then there came the roar of a motorcycle and Don Camillo saw Peppone dismount from it. He made an interrogative gesture and Peppone nodded an affirmative answer. He held up two open bands, then one, and finally one finger. Then with his right hand he made a horizontal cut through the air. Which signified that he had sixteen thousand five hundred liras. Don Camillo sighed with relief.
“Sir,” he said to the city slicker. “You can see that the dog has taken a dislike to you. Thoroughbreds don’t forget, and you’ll never make him put it behind him. Why don’t you sell him to me?”
Then he made a mental calculation of all his resources and added.
“I can pay you eighteen thousand eight hundred liras. That’s all I possess.”
The city slicker sneered.
“Father, you must be joking. The dog cost me eighty thousand and I wouldn’t sell him for a hundred. He may have taken a dislike to me, but I’ll make him get over it.”
Heedless of Thunder’s growling, he seized him by the collar and dragged him over to the car. As he tried to lift him in, the struggling dog clawed some paint off the fender. The city slicker lost his head and with his free hand beat him over the back. The dog continued to struggle, caught the hand that was holding his collar and bit it. The city slicker let go, and the dog went to lie against the rectory wall, still growling. Don Camillo and Peppone stood staring and did not have time to say a word. The city slicker, as pale as a corpse, pulled his shotgun out of the car and aimed it at the animal.
Don Camillo and his Flock Page 8
