Comrade Don Camillo Read online

  Penguin Book 2411

  Comrade Don Camillo

  Giovanni Guareschi still lives at Parma, near the River Po, where he was born in 1909. His parents wished him to be a naval engineer; consequently he studied law, made a name as a sign-board painter, and, among other jobs, gave mandolin lessons. His father had a heavy black moustache under his nose: Giovanni grew one just like it. He still has it and is proud of it. He is not bald, has written eight books, and is five feet ten inches tall. “I also have a brother,” Guareschi says, adding “but I prefer not to discuss him. And I have a motor-cycle with four cylinders, an automobile with six cylinders, and a wife and two children.”

  As a young man he drew cartoons for Bartoldo. When the war came he was arrested by the political police for howling in the streets all one night. In 1943 he was captured by the Germans at Alessandria and adopted the slogan: “I will not die even if they kill me.” Back in Italy after the war he became editor-in-chief of Candido at Milan. He has also scripted a film, People Like This.

  Comrade Don Camillo

  Giovanni Guareschi

  Translated by Frances Frenaye

  Penguin Books

  Penguin Books Ltd, Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  Penguin Books Pty Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  * * *

  First published in Italy in 1963 as Mondo Piccolo: Il Compagno Don Camillo

  This translation published in the U.S.A. 1964

  Published in Great Britain by Victor Gollancz 1964

  Published in Penguin Books 1966

  * * *

  Copyright © Rizzoli Editore, 1963, © Giovanni Guareschi, 1964

  * * *

  Made and printed in Great Britain

  Hazell Watson & Viney Ltd

  Aylesbury, Bucks

  Set in Monotype Times

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way or trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contents

  Gold Fever

  Don Camillo’s Revenge

  Don Camillo in Disguise

  Operation Rondella

  A Forced Rest

  The Space Cell

  Politics on the Road

  Christ’s Secret Agent

  The Rains Came to Stay

  Three Stalks of Wheat

  The Cell Goes to Confession

  In the Jaws of Hell

  Comrade Nadia’s Coffee

  The Next-to-Last Wave

  A Story That Has No End

  A Note from the Author

  Gold Fever

  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 the 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.

  “Good morning, Comrade Pepito!”

  Peppone stopped hammering and stared at the priest in dismay.

  “What do you mean, Father?”

  “Nothing at all. Pepito’s a diminutive of Peppone, after all, and by some strange chance Sbezzeguti is an imperfect anagram of Giuseppe Bottazzi.”

  Peppone resumed his hammering.

  Don Camillo shook his head.

  “What a shame that you’re not the Pepito who won the ten millions.”

  “A shame, yes. In that case I’d be able to offer you two or three millions to go back home.”

  “Don’t worry, Peppone. I do favours for nothing,” said Don Camillo, going away.

  Two hours later the whole village knew what is meant by an anagram, and in every house Pepito Sbezzeguti was vivisected to find out if Comrade Giuseppe Bottazzi was lurking inside. That same evening the Reds’ general staff held a special meeting at the People’s Palace.

  “Chief,” said Smilzo, “the reactionaries have gone back to their old tactics of smearing a good name. The whole village is in an uproar. They say you won the ten millions. There’s no time to be lost; you must nail down their slander.”

  Peppone threw out his arms.

  “To say a fellow has won ten millions in the soccer sweepstake isn’t slander. Slander means accusing someone of having done something dishonest, and the sweepstakes are quite on the level.”

  “Chief, in politics to accuse someone of a good deed is a smear. And an accusation that hurts the Party is definitely slanderous.”

  “People are laughing behind our backs,” put in Brusco. “We’ve got to shut them up.”

  “We must print a poster!” Bigio exclaimed. “We must come up with a statement that makes everything clear.”

  Peppone shrugged his shoulders.

  “We’ll put our minds to it tomorrow,” he said.

  Whereupon Smilzo pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. “We’ve something ready, Chief, in order to save you the trouble. If you approve we’ll print it right away and paste up the posters tomorrow morning.”

  And he proceeded to read aloud:

  The undersigned, Giuseppe Bottazzi, declares that he has no connexion with the Pepito Sbezzeguti who won ten million liras in the soccer sweepstakes. It is useless for the reactionaries to accuse him of being a millionaire. All it proves is that they are a gang of neo-F
ascists.

  Giuseppe Bottazzi.

  Peppone shook his head.

  “It’s all right,” he said, “but until I see something in print I’m not going to rush into print myself with an answer.”

  But Smilzo stuck to his argument.

  “Why wait to shoot until someone has shot at you? Good strategy calls for beating the opponent to the draw.”

  “Good strategy calls for a kick in the pants to anyone who sticks his nose into my private affairs. I can defend myself without help.”

  Smilzo shrugged his shoulders.

  “If you take it like that, there’s nothing more to say.”

  “That’s how I do take it!” shouted Peppone, bringing his fist down on the table. “Every man for himself, and the Party for the lot of us!”

  The general staff went away grumbling.

  “To let himself be accused of having won ten million is a sign of weakness,” observed Smilzo. “And besides, there’s the complication of the anagram.”

  “Let’s hope for the best,” sighed Bigio.

  Soon enough the rumour appeared in print. The landowner’s paper published an insert that said: “Scratch a Peppone and you’ll find a Pepito,” and everyone in the village found this exceedingly clever and funny. The general staff held another meeting in the People’s Palace and declared unanimously that something had to be done.

  “Very good,” said Peppone. “Go ahead and print the poster and paste it up.”

  Smilzo made a bee-line for the printer’s. Little more than an hour later the printer, Barchini, brought Don Camillo a copy of the proofs.

  “This is bad business for the newspaper,” said Don Camillo sadly. “If Peppone really did win the money I don’t think he would put out such a statement. That is, unless he’s already gone to the city to collect it or sent someone else to collect it for him.”

  “He hasn’t made a move,” Barchini assured him. “Everyone in the village is on the alert.”

  It was late and Don Camillo went to bed. But at three o’clock in the morning he was awakened by the news of a visit from Peppone. Peppone sneaked in from the garden, and when he was in the hall he peered out anxiously through the half-closed door.

  “Here’s hoping no one has seen me,” he said. “I feel as if I were being followed.”

  Don Camillo glanced at him anxiously.

  “You haven’t gone crazy, have you?” he asked.

  “No, no fear of that.”

  Peppone sat down and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

  “Am I talking to the parish priest or to the village gossip?”

  “That depends on what you came to say.”

  “I came to see the priest.”

  “The priest is listening,” said Don Camillo gravely.

  Peppone twirled his hat between his fingers and then confessed:

  “Father, I told a big lie. I am Pepito Sbezzeguti.”

  For a moment Don Camillo was speechless.

  “So you did win the millions, did you?” he said when he had recovered his aplomb. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I’m not saying so. I was speaking to you as a priest, and you should have no concern with anything but the fact that I told a lie.”

  But Don Camillo was concerned with the ten millions. He shot a withering look at Peppone and moved to the attack.

  “Shame on you! A proletarian, a Party member winning ten million liras in a soccer sweepstake! Leave such shenanigans to the bourgeoisie! Communists earn their living by the sweat of their brow.”

  “I’m in no mood for joking,” gasped Peppone. “Is it a crime to place a bet in the soccer sweepstake?”

  “It’s no joke,” said Don Camillo. “I didn’t say it was a crime. I said that a good Communist wouldn’t do it.”

  “Nonsense! Everyone does.”

  “That’s very bad. And all the worse for you because you’re a leader of the class struggle. The soccer sweepstake is a diabolical capitalist weapon turned against the People. Very effective, and it costs the capitalists nothing. In fact, they stand to make money. No good Communist can fail to combat it.”

  Peppone shrugged his shoulders in annoyance.

  “Don’t get excited, Comrade! It’s all part of a vast conspiracy to persuade the proletariat to seek riches by other means than revolution. Of course that’s pure fraud, and by abetting it you’re betraying the cause of the People!”

  Peppone waved his arms wildly.

  “Father, let’s leave politics out of it!”

  “What’s that, Comrade? Are you forgetful of the Revolution?”

  Peppone stamped his feet, and Don Camillo smiled indulgently.

  “I understand, Comrade,” he said, “and I don’t blame you. Better ten million liras today than the Revolution tomorrow!”

  He went to poke up the fire and then turned around to look at Peppone.

  “Did you come here just to tell me you’d won the money?”

  Peppone was in a cold sweat.

  “How can I get the cash without anyone’s knowing?” he asked.

  “Go for it, that’s all.”

  “I can’t. They’re watching me like hawks. And besides my denial is coming out tomorrow.”

  “Then send a trusted comrade.”

  “There’s no one I can trust.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Don Camillo, shaking his head.

  Peppone held out an envelope.

  “You go for me, Father.”

  He got up and went away, leaving Don Camillo to stare at the envelope.

  The next morning Don Camillo set out for the city. Three days later he made his return. He arrived late in the evening, and before going to the rectory went to talk to the Christ over the altar. Opening up his suitcase he said sternly:

  “Jesus, here are ten bundles, each one of them containing a hundred ten-thousand-lira notes. In other words, the ten million liras that belong to Peppone. All I have to say is this: he doesn’t deserve them.”

  “Tell that to the sweepstake operators,” Christ replied.

  Don Camillo took the suitcase away. When he reached the second floor of the rectory he switched the light on and off three times in succession as a signal to Peppone. Peppone replied by means of the light in his bedroom. Two hours later he arrived at the rectory, with his coat collar turned up to hide his face. He came in from the garden, through the door with the heavy padlock hanging from it.

  “Well, then?” he said to Don Camillo, who was waiting in the pantry.

  Don Camillo pointed at the suitcase, which was lying on the table, and Peppone approached it with trembling hands. When he saw the bundles of banknotes he broke into perspiration.

  “Ten million?” he whispered questioningly.

  “Ten million cold. Count them for yourself.”

  “Oh no,” demurred Peppone, staring fascinatedly at the money.

  “A pretty pile,” commented Don Camillo, “at least for today. Who knows what it may be worth tomorrow? A single piece of bad news is enough to bring an inflation and turn it into worthless paper.”

  “I ought to invest it right away,” said Peppone. “With ten millions I could buy a farm, and land always has value.”

  “It’s the peasants that have a right to the land,” said Don Camillo. “At least that’s what the Communists say. They don’t mention blacksmiths. They’ll take it away from you, you’ll see. Communism is the wave of the future, Comrade…”

  Peppone was still staring at the banknotes.

  “I have it!” he exclaimed. “Gold! I’ll buy gold and hide it away.”

  “What good will it do you? If the Communists take over, everything will come under the control of the State and your gold will lose its purchasing power.”

  “I could always deposit it abroad.”

  “Tut, tut! Like a regular capitalist! You’d deposit it in America, I suppose, because Europe is going Communist for sure. But when America is left out on a limb it will have to surrender to th
e Soviet Union.”

  “America’s got real power,” said Peppone. “The Soviet will never take it over.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, Comrade.”

  Peppone took a deep breath and sat down.

  “My head’s whirling, Father. Ten million liras.”

  “Please oblige me by taking them home. But don’t forget to send back my suitcase. That’s my private property.”

  “No, Father,” said Peppone. “Keep the money for me, will you? I’d rather talk about it when I can think straight, perhaps tomorrow.”

  After Peppone had gone away Don Camillo carried the suitcase up to his bedroom and went to bed. He was dead tired, but his sleep was interrupted at two o’clock in the morning by the reappearance of Peppone, together with his wife, both of them swathed in heavy coats.

  “Forgive me, Father,” said Peppone. “My wife just had to take a squint at the money.”

  Don Camillo brought down the suitcase and deposited it on the pantry table. At the sight of the banknotes Peppone’s wife turned deathly pale. Don Camillo waited patiently, then he closed the suitcase and escorted the two of them to the door.

  “Try to get some sleep,” he said as they went away.

  He tried to do the same thing himself, but an hour later he was once more awakened by Peppone.

  “What’s this?” he protested. “Isn’t the pilgrimage over?”

  “I came to take the suitcase,” explained Peppone.

  “Nothing doing! I’ve stowed it away in the attic and I have no intention of bringing it down. You can come back tomorrow. I’m cold and tired and entitled to my rest. Don’t you trust me?”

  “It’s not a question of trust. What if something were to happen to you during the night? How could I prove that the money is mine?”

  “Don’t worry about that. The suitcase is locked and there’s a tag with your name on it. I’ve thought of every contingency.”

  “I appreciate that, Father. But the money’s safer in my house.”

  Don Camillo didn’t like his tone of voice. And he changed his own to match it.