| Chapter Thirty - When the Rains Came
EVERYONE was waiting for the arrival of the new priest, but nobody came except old Don Anselmo, who for years had had the parish of Torretta, two miles away. Since the two villages were so close, he had obviously been asked to fill in until a replacement was found for Don Camillo.
Don Anselmo looked round during his first Mass, and saw that there were only two people in the church, himself and his acolyte. And the acolyte was there only because Don Anselmo had called for him at his own house. Things went on in this way for some time, until Don Anselmo went to talk to the Bishop.
"Monsignor," he concluded, "that's not all. It's a serious business. They behave as if neither church nor priest were there. No one comes to confession. 'I'll go when Don Camillo comes home,' they say. When babies are born, they don't bring them to be baptized. 'That can wait for Don Camillo,' is still the refrain. And they get married in the Town Hall and say they'll wait for Don Camillo to perform a church wedding. So far no one has died, and I suppose there'll be no necessity for a funeral until Don Camillo comes for it."
The Bishop threw out his arms in despair.
"That blessed Don Camillo is fated to be a thorn in my flesh even when he's not there!" he sighed. "But people must get it into their heads that he made a mistake and has to pay for it."
Don Anselmo shrugged his shoulders.
"It is my duty to report on everything I know," he said. "And I may as well tell you that many people don't think it was a mistake for Don Camillo to snatch the pitchfork away from someone who was trying to stick it into his stomach."
"Quite right," the Bishop agreed. "It wasn't a mistake to snatch it away; the mistake was to hit those two fellows over the head with the handle."
"Even then, some people think that Don Camillo had right on his side," Don Anselmo said in a respectful manner. "It is my further duty to inform you that under the circumstances I should have done the same thing myself." The Bishop raised his eyes to Heaven. "Lord, forgive this old madman!" he exclaimed. "He doesn't know what he is saying."
Don Anselmo was not just an impulsive boy; he was well on towards eighty, and now he hung his head in embarrass¬ment but continued to be of the same opinion. The Bishop delivered a long and very wise sermon, and ended up by saying: "Now go on house-to-house visits, to explain to the people that Don Camillo made a mistake and must be punished for it. It's your plain duty to make them see reason." Don Anselmo went from house to house, and everywhere he received the same answer:
"If he did make a mistake, then it's only right that he should pay. We're waiting for him to finish paying and come back, that's all."
Meanwhile the Reds were beside themselves with joy. They had got Don Camillo out of the way and no one was going to church. One evening Peppone accosted Don Anselmo.
"It's sad to see an old racket like the Vatican closing down," he sighed. "If we weren't excommunicated, we'd come to your Mass ourselves! Anyhow, if you decide to lease the premises, give me an option on them."
Don Anselmo did not let himself be perturbed.
"I can't even ask you to lease me your brain in return!" he retorted. "You leased that out a long time ago. I only hope you didn't let your soul go with it."
Then it began to rain. It rained on the mountains and in the valleys. Old oak trees were shattered by lightning, the sea foamed up in a storm, the rivers began to swell, and as the rain continued, they overflowed their banks and flooded whole towns with their muddy waters. Most dangerous of all, the mighty Po was rising, pressing harder and harder against its embankments. During the war, the embankment was bombed at a point called La Pioppa, and they had neglected to mend it until within the last two years. Everyone looked fearfully at La Pioppa, feeling sure that if the pressure became too great this was the point where the embankment would give way. The earth hadn't had time to pack solidly, and whereas the rest of the bank would hold just as it had always held before, La Pioppa would crumble.
Meanwhile it continued to rain, night and day, and after each momentary respite it came down harder than before. The papers were filled with news of squalls, floods and land¬slides, but the village people thought only of their own danger. Already a lot of old crones were saying:
"Ever since Don Camillo went away, taking the altar crucifix with him, there's been trouble brewing."
The crucifix had a long-standing association with the river. Every year the people of the village carried it in a procession to the banks, where the priest gave the waters his blessing. The old crones shook their heads.
"As long as he was here, we were protected. But now he's gone away."
As the river rose, they spoke more and more of the crucifix, and even the wisest among them lost their heads. One morn¬ing the Bishop found a village delegation waiting upon him.
"Give us back our crucifix," they implored. "We must form a procession at once and hold a blessing of the waters. Otherwise the village will be swept away."
The Bishop sighed.
"Brethren, have you so little faith?" he asked them. "God seems to be not within your souls but extraneous to them, if you pin all your trust to a wooden image, and without its help fall into despair."
Some of the men of the delegation hung their heads. And one of them, old Bonesti, stepped forward to say:
"We have faith in God, but we have lost faith in ourselves. All of us love our country, but when we go into battle, we need to see our regimental flag. The flag keeps us fighting for the country whose love is within us. That crucifix was our flag, and Don Camillo our flag-bearer. If we can have our flag back, we shall face our troubles more courageously."
Don Camillo came back during the night, when no one was expecting him. But he had no sooner walked from the pres¬bytery to the church the next morning than the whole village knew it. They crowded to hear his first Mass, and afterwards they gathered round him to say:
"We want a procession!"
"The Lord has gone back to His altar, and there He stays," said Don Camillo severely. "He will not move until we hold the regular procession next year. This year, the waters have been blessed already."
"Yes, but the river is rising."
"He knows that," said Don Camillo. "No one needs to refresh His memory. All I can do is pray that the Lord will give us strength to bear our sufferings serenely."
The people were obsessed with fear, and when they insisted on a procession Don Camillo had to speak to them even more sternly than before.
"Have a procession, then, but rather than carry a wooden cross about the streets, carry Christ in your hearts! Let every one of you hold a private procession of this kind. Have faith in God, and not in graven images. And then God will help you."
But the people's fear continued to rise, along with the river. Engineers came to inspect La Pioppa and declared it would hold, but they advised the villagers to get their belongings together and be prepared for evacuation. The engineers went away at ten o'clock in the morning, and at eleven the water was still rising. Then fear turned into terror.
"There's no time to save anything," someone was saying. "The only thing to do is to cross the river and cut an opening in the embankment on the other side."
No one knew who was the first person to suggest this blasphemy, but very soon everyone was repeating it. Eighty people out of a hundred were trying to work out the best way to cross the river and make a cut that would channel the overflow to the opposite shore. Sooner or later someone might have actually done it. But all of a sudden the rain ceased, and hope returned to their hearts. The church bells called them to the square, and there Don Camillo addressed them.
"There's only one thing to do, and that is to carry our most important belongings to safety."
Just then the rain began to fall again.
"There's no time!" the people shouted. "La Pioppa won't hold."
"Yes, it will," said Don Camillo firmly.
"That's what you say!" they shouted.
"That's the word left by the engineers," said Don Camillo.
"It's only a word!" someone shouted.
"It's a fact, I say!" Don Camillo retorted. "I'm so sure it will hold that I'll go and stand on the weakest point of the embankment. If I'm mistaken, then I'll pay!"
Don Camillo raised his big umbrella and walked towards the river, with a crowd following after him. They followed him along the embankment until he came to the newly built stretch at La Pioppa. There Don Camillo turned round.
"Let everyone go and pack up his things calmly," he called out. "I'll wait at La Pioppa for you to finish."
He walked on, and fifty yards farther he came to the exact point where everyone thought there would be a break. The crowd looked in bewilderment first at the priest and then at the raging water.
"I'm coming to keep you company," a voice shouted, and out of the crowd stepped Peppone, with all eyes upon him.
"The embankment will hold," Peppone shouted; "there's no danger. Don't do anything silly, but prepare to evacuate in good order, under the chief councilor's direction. To prove my confidence in the embankment, I'll stay here."
When they saw the priest and the Mayor at the point of what they thought was the greatest danger, the people hurried to get their livestock out of the stables and load their household goods on trucks and wagons. The rain continued to come down and the river to rise, and the village popula¬tion made ready. Meanwhile, Don Camillo and Peppone sat on two big stones under the umbrella.
"You'd be better off if you were still exiled in the moun¬tains, Father," said Peppone.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Don Camillo answered.
Peppone was silent for a few minutes and then clapped his hand to his hip.
"If this thing were to break while people are still loading their things and we're sitting here, that would be a pretty mess! We'd be done for and so would they."
"It would be a great deal worse if we'd saved ourselves by cutting the embankment, dealing out death and destruction on the other side. You must admit there's a difference between misfortune and crime."
Peppone shrugged his shoulders.
"I've got the better of you, in any case."
Towards evening the rain paused and the river fell. The village had been completely evacuated, and Don Camillo and Peppone left the embankment and went home. As they crossed the church square, Don Camillo said:
"You might thank God for saving your skin. You owe that good luck to Him."
"True enough," said Peppone. "But He saved your skin too, and that's enough bad luck to make us even!"
Go on to chapter thirty-one, The Bell on our site.
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