The Pope and Mussolini (58 page)

Still Ledóchowski kept the draft encyclical from the pope. In reluctantly forwarding it to the pope in January, he attached a letter of his own. Tellingly, he referred to the encyclical’s subject as “nationalism,” not racism, much less anti-Semitism. “It seemed to both Father Rosa and me,” Ledóchowski told the pope, “that the outline does not correspond to what Your Holiness had desired.” Rosa had been working on a new outline but died before he could complete it. Ledóchowski gave no explanation for what he had been doing with the material since Rosa’s death, but he offered to assist the pope in any way he could in preparing a more acceptable version.
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Rumors of the secret encyclical against racism had somehow leaked out, and Mussolini and his entourage were worried. In late January a police informer sent in a long report on the latest high prelate to criticize Nazi racism and its Italian echoes. The archbishop—or patriarch as he was called—of Venice had recently given a sermon for Epiphany, which
L’Osservatore romano
had published. Nothing, Cardinal Piazza had said, justified the “excessive exaltations of races,” which had no scientific basis and went against basic Church teachings.
³²

The informant warned that the increasing flow of antiracist pronouncements by high churchmen “represents a steady stream that has a substantial effect on public opinion, given the authoritative nature of the persons from whom it is coming, the wide Catholic sentiment in the
masses, the potent means of publicity constituted by the Catholic press, its circulation continually growing and much read by vast social strata.”
³³

Pignatti, commenting on the episode, argued that the problem was partly of their own creation. Cardinal Piazza would never have made his recent remarks against racism if the Fascist press hadn’t been so effusive in its praise of his earlier, more accommodating comments on the anti-Semitic laws. The patriarch had felt compelled to “clarify” his views. “No prelate,” argued Pignatti, “no matter how high-ranking he is, will dare oppose the pontiff, knowing he would be crushed if he tried.” There was only one hope: “Only a new pontificate—I have already written this repeatedly in the past—will be able to adopt a different, conciliatory approach to the racial question.”
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The pope began work on his speech, or rather his speeches, as he had decided to extend the celebration to two days, February 11–12. On Saturday the eleventh, he would mark the tenth anniversary of the Lateran Accords with the bishops in the presence of government and diplomatic dignitaries. On the following morning, he would speak to the bishops and other high clergy alone.
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Ciano was nervous, fearing what the pope might say. “The atmosphere for the celebration of the tenth anniversary is becoming murky,” he wrote in his diary.
³⁶

Mussolini was playing tough. No government official, he informed Pacelli, would take part in the celebration unless he received assurances that the pope would not use the occasion to criticize the regime.
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The pope was also keeping up the pressure. He told Pacelli to pass on a warning to the Duce: Italians would be shocked if the country’s leaders boycotted the anniversary event. He warned Mussolini that if the government were not represented at the highest level, he would feel compelled to comment on its absence in his address.

Cardinal Pacelli passed the pope’s new threat on to Pignatti, adding that the pope was still angry at the Duce for not responding to his letter on the marriage law. Exasperated, Pignatti reminded him that it was Mussolini who had dictated the king’s reply to the pope, and so the
Duce believed that he had already responded. He warned Pacelli that should the pope use the anniversary ceremonies to criticize the regime, “a situation in Italy similar to the one the Church faces in Germany could result.”
³⁸

Pignatti sought a compromise. He knew he would never get Mussolini to attend the pope’s speech in St. Peter’s, but if Ciano attended, that might be enough to keep the pope from saying anything truly damaging.
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The Duce was growing more and more bellicose, believing war was near and that Italy’s greatness—and his own—were soon to be proven on the bloody fields of battle. At a Grand Council meeting, held on the same day Pacelli and Pignatti were discussing who from the government would take part in the anniversary ceremonies, Mussolini unveiled his new watchword: “March to the Ocean!” Italy, he told his colleagues, was trapped in a Mediterranean “prison.” It had to gain access to the open seas. Among his first targets would be Corsica, and if it took a war with France to acquire the island, he was ready. Only a week earlier Franco’s forces, with Italian help, had taken Barcelona, the last major Spanish city not in their hands. Europe’s map was about to be redrawn.
⁴⁰

The Duce agreed to let Ciano represent him at the anniversary celebration at St. Peter’s. The Prince of Piedmont, the king’s son and heir, would represent the monarch.
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By midweek all of Italy’s newspapers were reporting on the magnificent celebration to take place during the upcoming weekend, trumpeting the participation of both the Italian foreign minister and the prince.

As the big event approached, the pope’s health worsened. His heartbeat became irregular, his blood circulation, weak to begin with, grew even weaker, and he became feverish. He had begun drafting his remarks for the Saturday address late at night on January 30. On the thirty-first Cardinal Jean Verdier, archbishop of Paris, came to see him and was shocked by how frail he looked. “A truly painful impression,” he recalled. “Physically this old pope is but a ruin. He was much thinner, his face shrunken and wrinkled.” But the pope’s mind was lucid,
and his voice still clear. He spoke rapidly, as if he knew he had little time left and much to say.
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Early the next morning, Pius, the former librarian, carefully went through the papers in his desk drawers, making sure they were all in order. After his morning audiences, he reread the text of his speech. He was so engrossed that his assistants had to beg him to stop and take his lunch break, for it was already three
P.M.
But he found it difficult to tear himself away from his text, reading it aloud with tears in his eyes. At last he relinquished the pages and gave them to Monsignor Confalonieri to type. At the elevator to go up to his apartment, he was met by his nurse, Father Faustino, who was alarmed by his pallor and weakness. Faustino felt the pope’s pulse, which he was shocked to discover had fallen to forty.
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It was Pacelli who brought the bedridden pope the welcome news that Ciano and the prince would attend the ceremony. In recent weeks, the pope’s constant refrain had been “What a boor and a traitor Mussolini has been with me!”
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Now he began to feel some peace.

Cardinal Pacelli urged the pope to put off the celebration until he recovered his strength, but the pontiff knew he had little time left. On February 7 he dictated a message for
L’Osservatore romano
, beginning, “The Holy Father is well.” When later that day Pacelli again urged the grievously ill pope to postpone the celebration, he replied, “But didn’t we announce this morning that the pope is well?”
⁴⁵

The next day it looked as if the end could come at any moment. The pope’s breathing was labored, he was heavily medicated, his heartbeat irregular. But he did not forget the speech that meant so much to him and asked Pacelli to read it. The cardinal made some small suggestions. The sheets were sent to the Vatican printer to make copies for the bishops.
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Monsignor De Romanis normally came to take the pope’s confession every Friday. When the timid monsignor appeared at his bedside that Wednesday, the pope first told him he must have made a mistake. When the tongue-tied monsignor sputtered, too embarrassed to explain why he had been called in two days early, the reason for his visit
dawned on the pope. “We understand,” said the pope, weakly. “Confess me.”

On Thursday, February 9, feeling a little better, Pius XI again asked to be sure that his text for the big event was printed and ready to give the bishops.
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Together with his two loyal assistants, who had served him since his days in Milan, he recited the rosary as he lay in bed. He then asked them to say the prayer he had learned as a child:

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, I give you my heart and my soul,
Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, be with me in my final moments,
Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, may my soul go forth in peace with you
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That evening Pignatti reached Ciano with word that the pope was gravely ill. He passed the news on to Mussolini, who simply shrugged. Ciano was worried. Should the pope die before the anniversary celebration, the result could be “a conclave quite hostile to our purposes.” After weeks of worry, he had finally been convinced that the Vatican’s spectacular ritual at St. Peter’s would help heal the tension; it would impress on Italian Catholics how solid the link between the Holy See and the Fascist regime still was. Should the ceremony be canceled, “we might have to expect unpleasant surprises.”
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That night, as the pope lay in bed, his condition worsened and last rites were again given. In the early hours of Friday morning, February 10, it was only with the help of an oxygen mask that he could breathe. Around four
A.M.
Cardinal Pacelli and others nearby were alerted and joined the sorrowful scene. Weeping, they asked for the pope’s blessing. With great effort, Pius opened his eyes and, too weak to speak clearly, mumbled a few words, stopped, then mumbled something else. Most could not make out what he said, but those closest to him later reported his words as “God bless you, my children,” followed by an even weaker “Let there be peace.”
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At 5:31
A.M.
, the long-suffering Pius XI died. Following tradition, the chamberlain, Cardinal Pacelli, was charged with officially verifying the death. He knelt beside the bed, drew back the veil that had been
placed over the pope’s face, and in a loud voice addressed him using his baptismal name, Achille, while tapping his forehead gently with a silver mallet. There being no movement from the pope, Pacelli uttered the ritual declaration: “The Pope is truly dead.” He pulled the Fisherman’s Ring from the pope’s cold finger.
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The bishops had already arrived in Rome for the celebration that had meant so much to the pope, a celebration for which Ciano had his hopes and Mussolini his fears. On the pope’s desk was the folder of
Humani generis unitas
, the encyclical prepared by Father LaFarge. Rejecting the idea that a good Christian could embrace racism, it demanded an end to the persecution of the Jews. It was Pius XI’s fervent hope that such a statement be issued, but among those who survived him, many were eager to see it buried along with the pope.
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C
HAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

A DARK CLOUD LIFTS

A
LTHOUGH HE HAD MET WITH PIUS XI MANY TIMES, THE FRENCH
ambassador had never seen his private quarters. Now, a few hours after the pope’s death, he joined the macabre scene on the top floor of the papal palace. He entered a large, high-ceilinged room, its majestic appearance ruined, he thought, by the jumble of mismatched, amateurish artwork that littered its walls. One displayed “an exotic embroidery of mediocre taste,” an offering of the nuns who had woven it. Assorted other objects decorated the rest of the room, gifts to the pope from missions around the world.

After signing his name in the guest book, Charles-Roux made his way through the narrow hallway that led into the pope’s bedroom. There the pope’s body lay on his iron-frame bed, dressed in a white soutane, a red, ermine-edged papal cap pulled down to his ears. His head rested on a simple pillow. In his hands, which lay together on his chest, were a crucifix and a rosary. “Life,” observed the French ambassador, “had abandoned his body in a pitiful state.” His face was completely changed, “defeated, ravaged.” A large candle burned at each corner of the bed. A Noble Guard stood at attention on each side, clutching his saber.

As he passed back into the reception hall, Charles-Roux was appalled. Other members of the Noble Guard, awaiting their turn, were biding their time chatting in small groups with an assortment of high prelates and lay functionaries. The men talked loudly, showing no trace of sorrow or respect.
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