The robbers were not satisfied with what they had taken, and two of them went with the proprietor to the trailer where he had his sleeping quarters in order to dig out something more. When they came out they were more dissatisfied than ever and began to manhandle their victim.
“It’s no use insisting,” he protested. “I took the rest of the money to the bank this morning. Look in my wallet and you’ll find a receipt for it.”
They found it and tore it angrily into a thousand pieces. And the merry-go-round kept on turning.
“Stop this thing, blast you!” shouted Smilzo as he passed by.
One of the bandits aimed a revolver threateningly in his direction and all the members of Peppone’s flying squad pressed their levers simultaneously until the little planes were every one high flying. At this point the merry-go-round really looked like an umbrella turned inside out by the wind. The bandits were furious that their haul was so meagre, but their leader had an abundance of bright ideas.
“We’ll separate those fools up there from their money,” he suggested, and raised his face to shout in their direction:
“Empty your pockets, or else we’ll shoot the brains out of you.”
“Go to hell!” answered Peppone.
The leader gave an order to his second-in-command, who went into the cabin and turned a handle which caused the planes to whirl faster. Peppone’s men cried out, but the bandits’ third-in-command turned up the music until it drowned their cries. After half a dozen rounds, the leader jerked his head and the second-in-command brought the velocity to a little less than it had been before.
“Put your money in your handkerchiefs, knot them, and then, when you pass in front of the cabin, throw then in, I’m giving you exactly half a minute to do what I say.”
When the half-minute was up, he went on:
“Beginning with that fellow all in black, start throwing them in!”
Don Camillo, who was obviously the one answering this description, took what little money he had in his pocket and threw his knotted handkerchief into the cabin, and the others followed his example. The bandit leader picked them up and counted the money.
“Too little!” he shouted. “Throw your wallets with all the rest in them, or else I’ll step up the speed… I give you exactly five seconds. Beginning with that fellow all in black, start throwing them in!” Don Camillo, knowing he had practically nothing in his wallet and feeling that this was certainly one time that the poverty of the clergy paid of, threw his wallet. The others followed somewhat more reluctantly but soon seven wallets landed at the leaders feet; they were duly emptied and tossed into a corner. Then the leader turned to the proprietor.
“Don’t stop that merry-go-round until a quarter of an hour after we’ve gone. And you’d better not try to double-cross us, because we’ll know how to find you again. We’ll set your whole outfit on fire and roast you alive.”
Then the four of them ran for the car they had left on the road and drove away at top speed.
“Stop us, damn you!” shouted the high flyers to the proprietor below. But he was shaking with fear and let the merry-go-round run for the full quarter of an hour which had been enjoined upon him. Then the motor came slowly to a stop and the umbrella gradually closed. The seven took twenty minutes to collect sufficient strength to get out of their planes. Finally they joined the proprietor in the cabin and picked up the empty wallets from the floor. So far, no one had said a word, and now Peppone was the first to speak, grasping the lapels of the proprietor as he did so.
“If you breathe a word of what went on here tonight, I’ll not only smash your head, but I’ll see to it that you can’t hold your carnival in any of the villages in our control.”
“And those in our control won’t have you either,” added Don Camillo.
Then all seven of them trudged across the field together. Behind the rectory they said good-bye.
“When all is said and done, we had a very pleasant if somewhat expensive evening, did we not, Mr Mayor?” said Don Camillo.
Peppone answered him with a roar which shattered the velvety stillness of the night and roused echoes miles and miles away.
Don Camillo slept well that night, dreaming of a heavenly merry-go-round which transformed even the most black-hearted customers into little children roaring with delight.
The Rains Came
THE weather continued to be wretchedly unseasonable. After a few sunny days, just enough for the ground to begin to dry, there came another downpour. It had started raining early in July of the preceding year, just when the wheat most needed sun. Then, when the wheat crop was practically ruined, the implacable rain went on to kill off the grapes. There was no opportunity to do the regular autumnal sowing, and immediately after Christmas, when the rain finally stopped, it was followed by an unprecedented fall of snow. And as soon as this melted there came more rain. The peasants were beside themselves, because the sprouting wheat was yellow instead of green, and many of them had to give back the seeds distributed by the beet-sugar manufacturers. Both oxen and tractors risked bogging down if they were taken out, for the irrigation canals were filled to overflowing and the fields were one vast sea of mud.
That Tuesday was a market-day, and the arcades around the square were crowded with peasants and tenant farmers, condemned to idleness by the bad weather. Their talk was all of the farm chores which the rain had prevented them from accomplishing, and some of them went so far as to involve the Deity in their tribulations.
“I don’t see why Almighty God has it in for us poor farmers!”
As Peppone and Smilzo came out of a café together they caught this exclamation on the wing, and Peppone was quick to turn it to his advantage.
“Almighty God has nothing to do with it, my friends. He’s attending to His own business, and there’s no use dragging Him in. The fault lies with those people who are exploding the universe.”
Peppone was a natural rabble-rouser. He knew just when to put in a word and had an infallible eye for spotting the one man in tile crowd that would make a perfect foil. This time it was Girola, one of the oldest peasants for miles around, who was standing in the front row of the little assembly.
“You there, Girola,” said Peppone, “in all the ninety-seven years of your life, have you ever seen anything like this crazy weather?”
“No,” said Girola, slowly shaking his head. “I’ve seen a bit of everything, storms and floods, and hurricanes that lasted for days or even weeks at a time. But an upset like this, going from one year over to another, is something I’ve never seen.”
“And what do you say is the cause?” asked Peppone.
“Who knows?” muttered Girola, shrugging his shoulders.
“Don’t say that, Girola,” Peppone shouted, warming up to his subject. “You know, and you’ve been heard more than once to voice your opinion. There’s no reason for you to keep mum about it now. No one’s going to claim that it’s a fairy-tale, that the rain comes only when God wills it.”
So saying Peppone pulled a newspaper out of his pocket.
“Girola’s not the only one to have seen clearly; now scientists have reached the same conclusion.”
And Peppone held up the headlines for all to see. No one could say that this was a Party publication; it was an independent newspaper with a Rightist slant.
“Here is the voice of world science,” Peppone continued, “and it says that we are quite right to be disturbed in our minds over the explosion of the Americans’ hydrogen bomb. Their atomic energy has got out of control, and there’s no telling what may happen. If you want to read about the damage caused in a three-hundred-mile radius by this last explosion, you can buy the paper. Just to bolster up Girola’s opinion, I can tell you this much: a group of Swiss scientists has studied the matter thoroughly and concluded that the earth’s balance is threatened by the atomic bomb. Here it is:
“‘Atomic explosions have created powerful currents in the upper atmosphere, moving in the directio
n of the North Pole. When the resulting centres of condensation reach the Pole, they are precipitated in the form of snow and ice. Such artificial precipitations may affect the balance of our planet: already the North Pole is eighteen per cent heavier than the South.’”
Peppone lifted his head from the paper and looked triumphantly about him. But his satisfaction was marred by the sight of a newcomer to the group, whose presence was anything but welcome. Nevertheless he asked a rhetorical question:
“What is the meaning, then, of this lack of balance between the poles? I never went further than the fifth grade and don’t know a word of Latin, so I turn the problem over to an eminent Dutch scientist.
“‘Dr Schneider, director of the Legerkusen Laboratories in Holland, says that the radio-active particles launched into the atmosphere by atomic explosions act as nuclei of condensation and determine the precipitation of rain and snow.’
“So why hold it against Almighty God if we have three feet of snow or a whole year of rain? The Americans are to blame.”
Don Camillo had made his way up to the front row of Peppone’s interlocutors, and when Peppone once more lifted his head from the paper, he immediately encountered the priest’s eyes. They angered him to the point where he became aggressive.
“Yes,” he repeated. “Don’t hold it against God, hold it against the Americans. Unless the Reverend Father, here present, has such regard for America that he’d rather you took it out on God!”
“No indeed!” exclaimed Don Camille. “God has nothing to do with human folly. And He meant men to use their brains to think clearly. We’ve no business to hold anything against God; let us rather examine ourselves.”
“Father, let’s stick to the point,” said Peppone. “The criminal stupidity of which we are talking is not ours, it’s the Americans. We’re speaking of the hydrogen bomb, you know.”
Don Camillo nodded assent.
“Right, Mr Mayor. These things are too serious to be mixed with political propaganda. We must truthfully say that all the disasters, present and future, inherent in experimenting with the atomic bomb are to be laid at the Americans’ door. Because, as the mayor has just told us, only the Americans have the bomb.”
Without stopping to think, Peppone retorted:
“Nonsense! The Russians have the bomb too, and in a form a hundred times more powerful. It’s no use your trying to twist the facts.”
Don Camillo shook his head mournfully.
“Things are even worse than I thought, Mr Mayor. If it goes on raining, these people will have to be told that the Russians, as well as the Americans, are to blame.”
The little crowd laughed, and Peppone gritted his teeth.
“The Russians are not in the least at fault,” he protested. “The Americans had the bomb first, and the Russians were forced to develop it for the sake of self-protection.”
Don Camillo threw out his arms in mock despair.
“Mr Mayor, if I were to shoot off my gun, whom would you blame? Me?—or the inventor of gunpowder?”
“And if I were to shoot off a gun at you,” shouted Peppone, “whose fault would that be? Mine—or that of the bell-ringer at Torricella?”
“Neither one,” said Don Camillo calmly. “I’d say it was the fault of those who taught you to deny God and shoot at the defenceless clergy.”
“No one has taught me to deny God or shoot at the clergy!” shouted Peppone.
“Then your masters’ teaching programme isn’t up-to-date. But they’ll catch up in time. That’s what they’ve taught everywhere else.”
At this point Smilzo stepped forward.
“Chief, there’s one thing we have been taught, and that’s not to let an adversary who’s in patent bad faith bait us. Don’t waste time arguing with him.”
But Peppone was like a dog with a bone, and wouldn’t let go. “We’re not to be trapped by professional baiters,” he said, “but this is an amateur. He deserves a lesson, and we shall see that he gets it.”
Peppone had recovered his aplomb and now he turned to Don Camillo with a smile.
“Father, you say that atomic disasters are due to Americans and Russians alike, because both of them have the bomb. But can you tell me this? Why has public opinion been aroused only now, after the explosion of the American hydrogen bomb? Why is it that committees of scientists and statesmen have chosen to protest at this particular time? Because we’ve had ten months of rain and can’t sow our beets? Is that it?”
“That I can’t say, Mr Mayor.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Public opinion and world science have been mobilized for a very good reason. The explosion of the last bomb has proved that atomic energy has escaped the Americans’ control. When they set off bombs, nowadays, they don’t know what may happen. That’s the scientists’ opinion, not mine. And who, may I ask, has been clamouring for years for mutual control of atomic energy? Russia or the United States? Russia, Father! America is to blame for having lost control of the atom, while Russia has kept it.”
Don Camillo looked as if he were hard hit by the logic of Peppone. After a pause he said:
“Mr Mayor, I can’t say you’re altogether wrong. You admit, then, that the American bomb is more powerful than the Russian?”
“I admit nothing of the sort!” shouted Peppone. “The Russians have the most powerful bomb by far. Only they haven’t lost control of it, like the Americans. An effect obtained by calculation and one due to mere chance are two different things altogether.”
Don Camillo nodded his head.
“Mr Mayor, what do you say to continuing the argument with your hands?”
“Hands, feet, machine-guns, cannons, anything you say….”
“Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t want to get you into a boxing-match. The rain has let up, and we can play a game that may prove to be amusing.”
In the middle of the square there were still some remnants of the carnival: a shooting-gallery, a merry-go-round, and an instrument for measuring a fellow’s strength by means of a hammer. The test was to swing a hammer and bring it down on an iron base to which there was attached a measuring-rod and a mobile block which rose, under the blow, to a point numbered between zero and one thousand. If the block went all the way to the top it rang a bell and won a prize. When the two men stood in front of the instrument Don Camillo said:
“I’m the United States, and you’re Russia; does that suit you, Mr Mayor?”
The crowd ringed them round and listened in silence.
“The iron block is atomic energy. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“I’m America, and since I’ve lost control of atomic energy I strike at random, not knowing how far I’ll go. You’re Russia and in full control; you strike a calculated blow.”
Don Camillo took an enormous handkerchief out of his pocket and put it over his eyes.
“I’ll just take one last peek in order to see where I’m to place the blow.”
Then Peppone and he each took a hammer.
“Ready?” said Don Camillo.
“Ready,” said Peppone.
Don Camillo spread his legs apart, raised the hammer, and brought it down. The block went up to six hundred.
Peppone struck the next blow and sent it up to seven hundred.
With his second blow Don Camillo sent it up to eight hundred and ten.
Peppone nine hundred.
Don Camillo nine hundred.
Peppone struck wildly and went back to eight hundred and fifty.
“Russia’s weakening,” jeered a reactionary at Peppone’s shoulder.
And Don Camillo proceeded to score nine hundred and ten. Peppone summoned all his strength, clenched his teeth, and struck a blow that would have shattered an anvil. The iron block went up like a V-2; it passed the thousand mark and hit the electric bell. When he heard the bell ring Don Camillo laid down his hammer and took the handkerchief away from his eyes.
“It happened to you,” he said, “but it might just
as easily have happened to me. Anyhow, now that we’ve hit the ceiling and made the world go up in flames we may as well go and have a glass of wine together.”
Peppone was perplexed for a moment and then exclaimed:
“No, Father, the comparison doesn’t hold water. The fault is yours. If we were to make an agreement to control atomic energy, neither of us would hit the ceiling.”
“Exactly,” said Don Camillo, “if we knew what the ceiling was. What if it were seven hundred and fifteen or six hundred and three? Do either American or Russian scientists know the limit of Divine Patience?”
It was raining again, and after witnessing the contest, the little crowd had once more taken refuge under the arcades. Don Camillo and Peppone were left alone beside the atomic machine.
“Devil take all bombs!” muttered Don Camillo.
“It’s Almighty God’s fault for having created Americans and Russians,” said Peppone ill-humouredly.
“Don’t be blasphemous, Comrade,” said Don Camillo severely. “The human race has a big bill to pay, and the present generation has to make up for the deficiencies of the one that preceded it. We’re late in coming upon the scene.”
“Then the late-comers are fools,” observed Peppone.
“No, Comrade; the only fools are those that haven’t won a good place for themselves in the eternal life to come.”
Peppone pulled the lapels of his coat together and said wryly:
“And while we’re waiting for the life to come, it just goes on raining.”
Made in U.S.S.R.
“DON CAMILLO,” said the old Bishop, “your letter grieved me, not so much for what it said as for what I read between the lines. What is the meaning of your discouragement? Have you lost the faith that has been your bulwark for so long?”
“My faith is unaltered, Your Grace,” said Don Camillo sadly; “it’s a question of technique, of mechanics.”
And when the Bishop looked at him in astonishment he went on to say:
Don Camillo and the Devil Page 5
