The Cardinal's Comeback

In his bestselling book and movie, The Little World of Don Camilla, Italian Author Giovanni Guareschi tells a series of stories about the bitter rivalry between a resourceful village priest and the equally resourceful Communist mayor of his town. The city of Bologna last week saw a real-life episode that might have come straight out of Don Camillo's Little World.

The real-life priest was no ordinary padre. He was the Cardinal Archbishop of Bologna, Giacomo Lercaro, 61, known as the most unconventional cardinal in the college and one of the most papabile (Italian for papal timber). Only six years ago, jovial, friendly Giacomo Lercaro was a mere parish priest, but one who had distinguished himself as an antiFascist. During the war he preached outspokenly against the Germans, aided partisans and sheltered refugees so effectively that eventually he was forced to flee for his life to a monastery cell. In 1947, when the Communists were riding high, the Vatican made Father Lercaro an archbishop and packed him off to Ravenna, one of the Reddest cities in Italy.

Lercaro went to work with social action instead of pious platitudes. When the Pope gave bishops authority to pool and redistribute the income of their clergy, he was one of the few who tried it and made it work. "To everyone, something," he said. "Those who have more should not have so much." In Ravenna, not long after, the Christian Democratic vote doubled and the Communists lost control of the city. Lercaro was promptly posted to Bologna, the biggest Italian city still run by the Reds. Last January he became a cardinal.

The First Round. Cardinal Lercaro's red hat was barely two weeks old when he attempted his first major stroke of psychological warfare. There would be a huge pre-Lenten carnival for children, he announced, and it would be held in Margherita Gardens, the city park used so often for Communist rallies that Bolognesi call it "Red Gardens."

This was a direct challenge to Bologna's Communist Mayor Giuseppe Dozza, who knew all about what had happened in Ravenna. Big, smiling Comrade Dozza, 53, decided to stage a children's party of his own--a masked ball in the city's stateliest chamber, the frescoed Sala Farnese, in what had once been a palace, and was now the city hall. Blandly assuring newsmen that there was no connection, he scheduled his ball for the same day as the cardinal's carnival.

When the big day came, Comrade Dozza strutted and beamed. Some 400 children romped in the Sala Farnese--some in 18th century costumes, some dressed as little workers, with appropriate red masks. Outside, Margherita Gardens lay silent and deserted under a foot of snow, while the cardinal gloomed at home. With the long, austere days of Lent stretching ahead, it looked as if there would be no carnival that year.

Cardinal Lercaro admitted that Mayor Dozza had won the round. "But it is only the first round," he said, "and the match is a long one. There will be a comeback."

The Second Round. The cardinal thought long & hard, decided to risk an unconventionality. He rescheduled his carnival for the middle of Lent.

Last week the appointed day came. A cold wind swept in from the Apennines and over Margherita Gardens. But 20,000 children--and thousands of grownups--cheered and laughed and danced there; 40 floats and 200 walking masks paraded past the reviewing stand, where happy Cardinal Lercaro stood, tossing out little sacks of cookies and sweets and being pelted with confetti and rice. A few days later, on St. Joseph's Day, the cardinal again broke out his carnival displays--the giant Mickey Mouse, the enormous papier-mache caterpillar, the ducks and the Martian flying saucers. This time, 40,000 people came for the fun, while Mayor Dozza's city police dutifully kept order.

"I am very moved," said the cardinal, flicking confetti from his round black hat.

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