The Pope's Last Crusade

by Peter Eisner

  LaFarge struggled with his emotions and found it difficult to focus on his work. Family members had told him that his eldest brother, Grant, five years older than Bancel, was also seriously ill.

  The timeline for returning home had been pushed from August to September and now perhaps not even before autumn. He had to concentrate and finish the encyclical. “About other things at home I just cannot think,” he wrote to Talbot, thanking him for his support. “If I start thinking, it has no end. All I can do is to pray and hope. After all it is God’s business, and not mine.”

  Rome, September 5, 1938

  The Vatican and the Italian government reached a temporary agreement to tone down their hostile rhetoric. But this did not assuage Mussolini’s anger at the pope for long and hardly made a difference in the pope’s criticism of Fascist policies.

  Mussolini told Foreign Minister Galeazzo Ciano, who was also his son-in-law: “Contrary to what people believe, I am a very patient man.” But he added, “I will react harshly. . . . No one should make me lose my patience.”

  The agreement fell apart after only a few weeks. On September 5, 1938, the first day of the school year across Italy, the government announced that Jewish children could no longer attend schools and universities and that all Jewish teachers and professors were fired. It was a great shock that raised greater fears for worse times to come. The school ban signaled clearly that Italy would march with Nazi Germany toward the systematic repression of Jews.

  The announcement was accompanied by a virulent anti-Semitic newspaper campaign. The newspaper Tevere (Tiber in Italian), long known for its rants, praised the school ban as well as a purge of Jews in the armed forces, judiciary, and politics. “During the Ethiopian War, all the forces that acted against Italy were unleashed by Jews,” the newspaper said. “The attempt to strangle Italy was particularly willed and favored by Jewish currents and the Jewish international [conspiracy] with its maneuvers to starve us and stab us in the back.”

  Another decree effective on September 5 ordered the expulsion from Italy of an estimated ten thousand Jews who had come to the country since the end of World War I. The law even applied to Jews who were naturalized Italian citizens and to those who had converted to Catholicism. As expected, Mussolini’s decision to protect “the purity of the Italian race” was hailed by Germany. The measures came less than a year after Mussolini and Ciano had said that there was no Jewish problem in Italy.

  Shaking with anger, the pope responded the following day when he spoke to a group of Belgian Catholic pilgrims. He made a declaration that would symbolize the most important months of his papacy. “Anti-Semitism is a hateful movement, with which we as Christians must have nothing to do. . . . No, it is not licit for Christians to take part in manifestations of anti-Semitism . . . anti-Semitism is inadmissible. Spiritually, we are all Semites.”

  The declaration, spoken by the pope almost in tears, followed no script. These were words from the heart, written by no one, nor vetted by others at the Vatican such as Cardinal Pacelli, who would have counseled caution and moderation. Instead, Pope Pius spoke without ambiguity. It was the clearest statement a leader of the Roman Catholic Church had ever uttered about the shared heritage of Christians and Jews. The pope had essentially said: We are the same people.

  The pope’s heartfelt words were long remembered and repeated. It became a recurring theme that encouraged bishops and cardinals in Germany, Italy, and around the world to speak out. Not all of them did, but those who took Pius’s message to heart made their own speeches. The pope’s words were grudgingly debated by churchmen who for decades had followed anti-Semitic tracts, listened to unsubstantiated nonsense that Jews started the French and Russian revolutions, and accepted as fact that the Jews killed Jesus of Nazareth.

  Mussolini thundered back at the pope in a speech in the northeastern city of Trieste. He was still irritated by the pope’s earlier charge that he was imitating Hitler and said that only “half-wits” could think that. This led to a new round of sparring between the dictator and the Vatican. At one point the Vatican had to ask Foreign Minister Ciano if Mussolini had referred to the pope as a half-wit. Nothing of the kind, Ciano replied, unconvincingly.

  The Fascist response to the pope soon took a new tack and had something of truth to it. Roberto Farinacci, the journalist and presiding anti-Semite in Mussolini’s Fascist movement, advised his Nazi friends that the pope was becoming irrelevant. “The Germans are mistaken in assuming that the Catholic Church agrees with the Pope on each and every issue. We know that on the racial issue the clergy are split into two camps and that the Pope is powerless to do anything about.” Farinacci went further, though, and accused the pope of siding with the Communists and atheists.

  But as long as the pope felt healthy enough, he had the time and the will to control the dissent to his policies inside the Vatican. He could also still receive LaFarge and his encyclical and force its publication. When would it be finished?

  Paris, September 15, 1938

  John LaFarge was editing the final touches of the draft encyclical and told Talbot he engaged in “healthy debates” with his Jesuit colleagues Gustave Desbuquois and Gustav Gundlach, “the two Guses.” They were often joined by their fellow Jesuit Heinrich Bacht. LaFarge originally feared that these other writers might pressure him to dilute his statements about racism and its connection to the terrorizing of Jews in Europe. He was delighted that Gundlach, who despised Hitler and Nazi Germany, had become his greatest advocate.

  The priests knew their words would likely have an impact on politics and history. At breaks from the writing, the men often sipped coffee, ate cake, and, as LaFarge recalled, they debated “the problems of the world.”

  The crisis between Germany and Czech Sudetenland had been percolating all summer, and the pressure increased toward the end of August when word spread about an imminent German invasion of Czechoslovakia. The number of Jewish refugees was increasing, although no country was opening its doors to these immigrants. LaFarge had included a passage in the encyclical about the forced exodus of the Jews, “this flagrant denial of human rights sends many thousands of helpless persons out over the face of the earth without any resources. Wandering from frontier to frontier, they are a burden to humanity and to themselves.”

  LaFarge had been hearing how near war was for the entire four months he had been in Europe, and now it was turning to reality. By late summer, it was clear that Hitler was prepared to invade Czechoslovakia. On September 15, British prime minister Neville Chamberlain flew to Hitler’s mountain retreat at Berchtesgaden to urge him to seek a road to peace. This began Chamberlain’s shuttle between England and Germany, during which he begged Hitler to negotiate a resolution. Britain and France were offering Sudetenland to Germany if Hitler would only take a pledge of peace. Chamberlain would give Czechoslovakia to Hitler, which would result in the disappearance of that country. But Hitler would not stop there.

  War was a constant theme in Paris, but LaFarge said that people “managed to put on an appearance of quiet indifference . . . [though] they did appear completely prepared for the worst, as far as defense went. High army officials assure you with what seemed a well-founded satisfaction that every screw was tightened, every man ready to fly to his post; all that was needed was a telephone call, for a ‘button to be pushed,’ and in twenty minutes the General Staff would see their planes soaring, their artillery rumbling, to the East.”

  On September 18, LaFarge said the encyclical’s final draft copies were being edited and typed. The document would be a timely tool in the pope’s arsenal for dealing with the European crisis. LaFarge was satisfied, relieved, and amazed that the job was done. He felt himself to be “exhausted to the very limit of my mind and body,” but he thought the final product was a success.

  Much of the encyclical was presented in indirect language, especially Gundlach’s obscure historical statements and distant references to liturgy. They retained some of the church’s rejection of J
udaism as a religion; the encyclical did not deny the church’s history in that regard. But the Nazi threat led to the conclusion that religious differences should be irrelevant. Even though the entire document would be read widely, only a few pages—those written by LaFarge—would be dissected and published in every newspaper in the world. Those several hundred words would anger the Nazi regime and would be seen as a direct attack on both Hitler and Mussolini. This was what the pope wanted, and in a sense this would be LaFarge’s legacy.

  The encyclical’s title was the first shot to be fired at the monolith of anti-Semitism—Humanis Generis Unitas—The Unity of the Human Race. The preamble declared: “The Unity of the Human Race is forgotten, as it were, owing to the extreme disorder found at the present time in the social life of man.”

  The pope was talking about race, the threat of war, and a fearful future. “In one place a magical remedy is prescribed . . . elsewhere people are roused to enthusiasm by a leader’s intoxicating appeal to the Unity of the Race, while in the eastern European sky dawns a promise reddened with terror and blood of a new humanity to be realized in the Unity of the Proletariat.

  This statement would declare to the world that the pope sided with neither the Nazis—Hitler and his mania about race—nor with the Soviets.

  LaFarge did not want to deal with Communism in this encyclical. He knew the pope had done that before in his 1937 encyclical Divinis Redemptoris. Everything had its time and place. Here, the pope would tell the world clearly that there was only one race of humanity, and no other racial divisions existed. The pope had called in LaFarge to make this point. LaFarge, the American Jesuit, had simplified the question by declaring that racism is a fraud and a myth.

  This pope was the first in history to confide in an American Jesuit to take on such a world-changing task. Yet, spurred on and counseled by Gundlach, LaFarge had worked within the system. The draft would have to go through other hands. They needed to build their case, Gundlach said, and pay attention to structure. If for nothing else, the writing had to be circumspect enough both to pass the virtual censorship around the pope and to protect the ideas he had asked LaFarge to provide.

  The encyclical’s introduction would make a general declaration, pointed directly at Adolf Hitler:

  When we come to the question of race we find most completely exemplified the harm that is done by the loose, sentimental, almost mystical manner of speaking which has been applied to the ideas of nation, people, and State . . . racial bond is used, in accordance with present-day scientific parlance, to denote the common participation of a group of human beings in certain definite, permanent physical qualities, and in association with the bodily constitution which is marked by these physical qualities are certain constantly observed psychological characteristics. But so-called racism . . . contradicts the principle that no type of separation can be genuinely human, unless it shares in that which forms the common bond of humanity.

  The key point emerged deep into the encyclical after a statement of purpose and series of section headings: “Denial of Human Unity; effects of the totalitarian state on human unity; right of association suppressed, manipulation of public opinion, authority derives from God, the waste of war . . .” Then after a methodical development, tracing history and the rights of man, the encyclical came to the essential substance: racism denies humanity; religion can recognize no divisions in race; there is no such thing as an inferior race. More specifically, in dealing with the plight of the Jews, the encyclical stated that Nazis had built a myth about a master race; and that the lies about a master race had devolved into the persecution of Jews; that as a result of racial policies (in Germany and Italy), Jews were under attack and were being deprived of their most basic rights of life and liberty. Racism, LaFarge wrote,

  is not content with denying the validity of the universal moral order as a benefit that unifies the whole human race; it likewise denies the general and equal application of essential values in the field of economic welfare, or art, of science and, above all, of religion. It maintains, for instance, that each race should have its own science, which should have nothing in common with the science of another race, particularly of an inferior race. . . . Respect for reality . . . does not permit the Catholic to remain silent in the presence of racism. [Totalitarianism] destroys the basic structure of humanity as a true unity in true diversity and thereby betrays its own inner falsity and worthlessness.

  LaFarge was certain the pope would remember having said: “Say simply what you would say if you were pope.” LaFarge had done just that.

  LaFarge sent a message to Ledóchowski that the job was done, and the Jesuit General responded that he was pleased and told LaFarge there was no need for him to bring the encyclical to Rome. He could ship it by messenger and return to the United States. Your task is done, the Jesuit leader seemed to be saying: Now go home. Ledóchowski said he would forward the document to the pope right away.

  LaFarge was tempted by this offer, in part because he hadn’t been feeling well. He was always tired, wasn’t eating properly, and was losing weight. Part of his state of health could be attributed to sadness about the loss of his brother. Part was also accumulated tension over completing the encyclical, and insomnia. He had remarked about his health concerns to Talbot and his family, though he never mentioned any specific ailment. Throughout his life, LaFarge had been considered sickly, and his family surmised that he might be having prostate problems. Later in life, he had several operations that forced months of convalescence, but he never disclosed details. In Paris, LaFarge had tried to suffer his ailments in silence, but he had probably made too much of it when speaking to those around him. Perhaps Ledóchowski’s offer might in part have come in response to those health complaints.

  Gundlach warned LaFarge that Ledóchowski’s proposal seemed suspicious and advised him to hand deliver the encyclical to Rome. Gundlach had once been an ally of Ledóchowski, but now that he was cluing in LaFarge on the Vatican politics swirling around him, he was an antagonist. Even so, Gundlach could not have predicted that Ledóchowski would try to delay publication of the encyclical indefinitely.

  Gundlach warned LaFarge as best he could. Still, he was careful not to go too far. He knew LaFarge’s earnestness and devotion would prevent him from believing that Ledóchowski, the leader of his order, could have ulterior motives.

  LaFarge may not have been thoroughly convinced by Gundlach’s cautions, but he did agree that he should hand carry the document down to Rome. He sent a message to Ledóchowski that he “could not accept his offer [to leave for home directly from Paris], tempting as it was (for I dread the trip). I’m convinced one must be on the spot to explain the why’s and wherefore’s and have learned the need of this from various sources.” The pope had said he expected to see him again, and LaFarge anticipated questions and requests for revisions.

  By September 20, the writing team had finished clean drafts of the encyclical in the required languages. The Jesuits then agreed to split up. Gundlach took a train to Switzerland and would relax there for a few days. At about the same time, LaFarge traveled from Paris down to Rome. They had agreed to reconnoiter in Rome where they would await queries and fine-tuning of the encyclical.

  LaFarge checked in this time at the Jesuit community residence on Borgo Spirito Santo, just off St. Peter’s Square. Ledóchowski saw him quickly and gave his assurances that everything would work out well. Ledóchowski said he would read the encyclical and then deliver it promptly to the pope.

  LaFarge stayed in Rome for a week and met with Ledóchowski a few other times, but never did he press for a meeting with the pope, although it was his right to do so. LaFarge stayed on and waited for further instructions from Ledóchowski or the pope, though none came. It is unlikely the pope was told that LaFarge was in Rome. LaFarge was sandwiched by his duty to the head of the Jesuits—following the chain of command—and by his exhaustion and desire to go home. He was still grieving for Bancel, and he had heard more bad news
about Grant’s deteriorating health. He felt he needed to be with his family and began to look for passage back home. The possibility of war created a flood of mostly Jewish refugees overwhelming steamship offices with requests for tickets to leave Europe immediately.

  By September 23, news came that Chamberlain had hammered out a draft agreement with Hitler that gave Sudetenland to Germany along with the right to occupy the territory by October 10. Essentially the Nazis got Sudetenland without a fight—and the agreement severed the pact of mutual assistance that Czechoslovakia had maintained with Britain and France.

  The Appian Way, September 24, 1938

  Cardinal Pacelli drove down to Castel Gandolfo from Rome on Saturday morning, September 24, for a regular audience with the pope, their final meeting before Pacelli was leaving on his extended annual vacation in Switzerland. The tensions in Europe must have dominated their conversation. Even if they did not yet know of the agreement with Hitler, they were aware of Chamberlain’s negotiations with the German dictator over the future of Czechoslovakia.

  Pacelli told the pope about his meeting the previous day with Diego von Bergen, the German ambassador to the Holy See, and what he’d said about the negotiations with Hitler. There was speculation that the Vatican might become involved directly or as an intermediary toward peace, but the pope merely expressed “optimism because everything is in God’s hands.” Pius resisted making any statements because he agreed with Chamberlain’s critics who said that Hitler could not be stopped by appeasement and peace treaties.

  Pacelli left the pope, rode the small elevator down to the courtyard, and returned to his car. His driver was waiting just outside the apostolic palace gates. Soon after they pulled away, they turned onto the road for the ride back to Rome. Rounding one sharp turn on a road riddled with curves and embankments, the driver had to swerve suddenly to avoid a boy riding his bicycle. The driver lost control and sideswiped the boy, who was thrown from his bike. Pacelli was hurled violently forward and smacked his head and cheek on one of the car windows.