The Pope and Mussolini (46 page)

Together the king and the Führer rode in a magnificent horse-drawn carriage through the crowd-lined streets, Italian soldiers in double file facing the throngs, kept behind wooden barriers. Searchlights illuminated Rome’s ancient monuments. Smoke rising from huge Roman vases filled with burning magnesium powder lent an unearthly quality to the ruins of the Forum and the Palatine Hill.

The guest and his host made their way to the royal residence, the vast Quirinal Palace. They were not a happy couple. The king confided to his inner circle that he thought Hitler was a mental degenerate and drug addict. Hitler, in turn, wondered why he was not being hosted by his fascist ally, and he described the royal palace as “melancholy, uncomfortable,
and resembling an antique shop.” The Führer’s sidekick, Joseph Goebbels, when shown the royal throne, remarked that it should properly be the Duce’s seat. That one, he muttered, pointing to the king, is too small for it.
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The next day in Castel Gandolfo, in remarks to hundreds of newlyweds, the pope lamented the “sad things” taking place in Rome, the appearance of “another cross that is not the Cross of Christ.” “Evidently,” Pignatti observed, “the Pope felt the need to let off steam and, given his temperament, you could say he did so in a relatively bland way. But will he stop there?” He answered his own question: “I doubt it.”
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Mussolini, Hitler, King Victor Emmanuel III, May 1938

(
photograph credit 21.3
)

Mussolini had worked for months to ensure that Hitler would be impressed by Fascist Italy. In addition to Rome, they would visit Naples and Florence. In every city, the day of their arrival would be proclaimed a holiday. Triumphal arches were built and special lighting mounted. Banners and flags hung everywhere.
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After various ceremonies held at Rome’s sacred places, the party moved to Naples. Escorted by the king, the procession marched with great pomp to the port, where Mussolini awaited them at the battleship
Cavour
for a day of naval maneuvers, followed by an evening at the opera. The low point of the trip for the Führer came that evening when, following the opera, he found himself outside, in his evening dress, standing next to the king, who wore his full royal uniform, as they inspected an honor guard. As he raised his right arm in Nazi salute, Hitler frantically clutched his waistcoat with his left hand in an attempt to quell his flapping coattails. He looked, observed his aide, like a flustered headwaiter in a restaurant.
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After returning to Rome for another three days of military maneuvers, opera, receptions, and speechifying, the party left for Florence for the final day of the visit. More than one hundred thousand banners and flags—Italian and Nazi—hung from windows and were draped over the tops of buildings for the occasion; floral festoons were everywhere. New lights tripled the city’s illumination. Lining the streets were eighteen thousand Fascist militiamen, three infantry regiments, hundreds of police from both Florence and Rome, and fifteen hundred carabinieri brought in from around the country. For three weeks police had checked the papers of all who came into the city by car. Preventive arrests were made of any of doubtful loyalty. According to the U.S. consul general, “many Jews were either forced or ‘advised’ or thought it wise to go away from Florence during the visit.”
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First Hitler and then Mussolini processed triumphantly in their cars through the streets of the swastika-adorned city. In the majestic Piazza della Signoria, a huge crowd acclaimed the two dictators; then Hitler forced the reluctant Duce to take him for a tour of the Uffizi art galleries.
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At the train station, as Hitler prepared to leave, the two men warmly bade each other farewell. “Now no force,” proclaimed the Duce, “can ever separate us.” The Führer’s eyes filled with tears.
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Just how enthusiastic Italians were about the Führer’s visit is a matter of dispute. William Phillips, the American ambassador in Rome, contrasted their enthusiastic cheers for Mussolini with “the apathetic
greetings given Hitler.” But he concluded that Mussolini had achieved his goal, for Hitler was delighted with his visit, especially impressed by Rome’s ancient ruins.
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While Mussolini and Hitler proclaimed their mutual admiration in front of hundreds of thousands of cheering Italians, the pope seethed. A few days after the visit, he told French ambassador Charles-Roux that what bothered him most was the colossal scale of the tribute to Hitler—it was the latest sign of Italy’s servility to the Führer.
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L’Osservatore romano
did its best to ignore the visit.
La Civiltà cattolica
concluded its dry account on a somber note: the grandiosity of the official festivities could not hide the disappointment of the Catholic faithful: the head of a nation that counted twenty-seven million Catholics had traveled to Rome but had failed “to pay his respects to the One who is loved by those millions of Catholics as father and Supreme Pastor of their souls and venerated as the Vicar of Jesus Christ on earth.” The result, in
La Civiltà cattolica
’s view, was “a grave, gaping absence” that had greatly diminished the visit.
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This view was not universal among the Catholic clergy. Heedless of the pope’s warning, many found themselves unable to contain their enthusiasm for the dictators’ triumphal procession. In the diocese of Orte, on the train line between Rome and Florence, parish priests joined in the celebrations, adorning their black robes with military medals that they had acquired in the Great War. Knowing that the local Franciscans’ Fascist faith ran deep, the Orte bishop had warned them not to participate. But on the day Hitler passed by, they completely covered their monastery with Italian and Nazi flags and even decorated their bell tower with swastikas. Worse, the friars positioned the hundred children enrolled in their school along the train line. When the train passed, the friars led their little charges in chanting: “Viva Mussolini! Viva Hitler!”
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C
HAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

A SURPRISING MISSION

W
HILE VISITING ROME IN JUNE 1938, JOHN LAFARGE, A FIFTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD
American Jesuit priest, was surprised to receive a message that Pius XI wanted to see him at Castel Gandolfo.

On his arrival at the pope’s summer residence, LaFarge was escorted to a patio, where the pope had just returned from a walk. His white cane lay on a ledge behind him. The pope told LaFarge he wanted to talk to him about the problem of racism. He had sought him out because his recent book,
Interracial Justice
, was the best one on the subject he had ever read.

Although largely unknown in Vatican circles, LaFarge was an intellectual presence in the American Church. He was born in Newport, Rhode Island, his father a prominent artist, his mother a descendant of Benjamin Franklin. LaFarge graduated from Harvard in 1901 and was ordained four years later. He then spent fifteen years in Maryland ministering primarily to African-American congregations. In 1926 he joined the editorial staff of
America
, and in 1934 he founded the Catholic Interracial Council, aimed at promoting interracial understanding.

Three years later he published the book that brought him to the pope’s attention.
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As they sat together, Pius XI entrusted the American priest with a shocking mission. He was to secretly draft an encyclical on what the pope considered to be the most burning questions of the day: racism and anti-Semitism. Hitler’s visit to Rome the previous month was still on his mind, and he no longer felt that his words condemning the glorification of race in his 1937 encyclical were enough. He had been mulling over the idea of a new encyclical when he learned that just the right person was visiting Rome. God, Pius told the flummoxed American, had sent him.

LaFarge expressed doubt that he was up to the task. But the pope persisted: “Say simply what you would say if you yourself were pope.” He went on to outline the topics he wanted addressed and the principles that should guide LaFarge.

“Properly,” the pope added, “I should have first taken this up with Father Ledóchowski before speaking to you; but I imagine it will be all right.”

The pope was being less than forthright here, for he knew the Jesuit general would not be sympathetic. Even more telling was the fact that the pope had kept the matter secret from Cardinal Pacelli and the entire secretary of state office. Nor did he consult the various Vatican offices whose experts normally drafted papal encyclicals.

“The Pope is mad,” Ledóchowski remarked, in English, after meeting with Pius that Sunday and learning of the task he had given the American Jesuit.
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The next day Ledóchowski met with LaFarge. Taking advantage of the American’s anxiety—“I am simply stunned … the Rock of Peter has fallen on my head,” LaFarge confided to a friend—Ledóchowski suggested that two more experienced Jesuits help him.

When LaFarge arrived in Paris a few days later, these colleagues joined him. Over the summer they worked on the encyclical, to be known as
Humani generis unitas
, “On the Unity of Humankind.” If the pope had chosen LaFarge due to his work against racism in the United States, Ledóchowski had chosen his two colleagues—the forty-six-year-old German Gustav Gundlach and the sixty-nine-year-old
French Jesuit Gustave Desbuquois—for very different reasons. Ledóchowski viewed the Jews as enemies of the Church and of European civilization, and he would do all he could to prevent the pope from slowing the anti-Semitic wave that was sweeping Europe. Gundlach and Desbuquois had previous experience working on papal encyclicals and closer ties with the Vatican. They would help constrain LaFarge, who keenly felt his utter lack of experience.

Gustav Gundlach, professor of moral philosophy at the Gregorian University in Rome, was one of the foremost Jesuit experts on the Jews. In 1930 he had authored the entry on anti-Semitism in the authoritative German Catholic theological encyclopedia
Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche
. There Gundlach differentiated between two kinds of anti-Semitism. The first, which went against Church teachings, fought Jews “simply because of their racial and national foreignness.” The second, embraced by the Church, combated the Jews “because of the excessive and deleterious influence of the Jewish segment of the population.”
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In September the three men completed their draft and sent it to Ledóchowski, assuming he would send it immediately to the pope. Instead, he sent an “abridged version” to Enrico Rosa. It was Rosa, then
La Civiltà cattolica
director, whom the pope had turned to a decade earlier to explain the dissolution of the Friends of Israel. But Pius’s attitudes toward the Jews were now evolving away from Rosa’s. In turning to LaFarge, the pope had kept clear of him. Yet the draft encyclical now lay on his desk.

Despite the pope’s apparent change of heart on the Jewish question, he had done nothing to rein in the stream of anti-Semitic venom that was being published in Rosa’s journal. As Hitler was terrorizing the Jews of Germany, and while Austria, Hungary, Poland, and other European countries were introducing laws to restrict Jews’ rights, the journal—its pages approved in advance by the Vatican secretary of state office—was urging them on. In May 1937
La Civiltà cattolica
published an article on “The Jewish Question and Zionism,” praising the work of “the illustrious English Catholic author, Hilaire Belloc,” a notorious anti-Semite. The article got to the point with its opening: “It is
an evident fact that the Jews are a disruptive element due to their spirit of domination and their preponderance in revolutionary movements.” Belloc, the journal reported approvingly, compared Judaism “to a foreign body that produces irritation and reaction in the organism in which it has penetrated.” Giovanni Preziosi—a former priest and noted Fascist—was delighted by the Jesuit journal’s screed. He had long been pushing Mussolini to launch a campaign to protect Catholic Italy from the Jewish threat. The
Civiltà cattolica
article, he gushed, was “so perfect that I would wish to present it to those Italians who, for love of Jewish gold, deny the existence of the Jewish peril.”
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