1949

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Those who had been vanquished in the Civil War had just swept their way into power.

  The rigors of the election campaign took their toll on de Valera. For a week he was unable to meet anyone. But when the Dáil assembled on the ninth of March, he entered Leinster House accompanied by his son Vivion, who was carrying a pistol.2 Some of his colleagues were also carrying revolvers. De Valera’s tense face and watchful eyes reminded observers of the IRA commandant of 1916.

  Members of the Irish Press staff in the gallery jokingly remarked that the reason Dev looked so worried was his knowledge of Vivion’s marksmanship.

  There was no assassination attempt.

  W.T. Cosgrave declined to stand for the presidency of the Executive Council. His closest associates said he simply did not want to return to open warfare in the Dáil.

  When Eamon de Valera was nominated for the office his winning margin was higher than anyone had predicted. At the age of fifty, the onetime mathematics teacher, gunman, and rebel, was head of Saorstát Éireann.

  Bonfires were lit on the Aran Islands. Pope Pius XI sent de Valera a message of congratulation.

  The following day all IRA prisoners were released by government order. Shortly thereafter the banned Republican newspaper, An Phoblacht, resumed publication.

  “De Valera is the best hope we have for getting back what the Treaty cost us,” Ursula said to Finbar as they shared a hasty lunch in Flynn’s a few days after the election.

  He put down his cheese sandwich. “That’s like saying the Devil is our best chance of heaven. The leaders of the Rising sacrificed their lives in hopes of creating a democratic republic, but you can forget about democracy if Dev lets the IRA gain sufficient strength. He and the Army Council will rule the country between them, and then God help us.”

  Ursula said icily, “The IRA is the true army of Ireland. Every bit of freedom we have now, they won for us.”

  “I just think—”

  “I know what you think.” Standing up, she took some money from her purse and threw it on the table. “This is for my lunch.”

  Finbar rose when she did but then sat back down. His eyes followed her to the doorway, where she disappeared into a dazzle of afternoon light. “This isn’t going to work,” he muttered under his breath. “This is never, ever, going to work.”

  He had been brought up to believe it was unmanly to show emotion. For once he could not help it. Pushing his half-eaten sandwich aside, Finbar laid his forehead down on the table.

  The other patrons of the café politely averted their eyes.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pope Pius XI declared the Virgin Mary to be Queen of Ireland and selected Dublin to host the next Eucharistic Congress. It was to be held during the last week of June 1932, to commemorate the 1500th anniversary of Saint Patrick. A committee was appointed to organize the huge event. The first year under Eamon de Valera would be a mighty reaffirmation of the Catholicism of the Free State, as well as demonstrating just what the new nation could accomplish.

  Meanwhile de Valera set about implementing his election promises. His first act was to cut his own salary and that of his government ministers. To Ursula’s intense pride he sent the announcement direct to her at 2RN, in an envelope addressed in his own hand.

  “Decent but frugal living is to be an Irish watchword,” he wrote. Ursula made certain he was quoted exactly. De Valera was creating a new identity for the new nation; one corresponding to his own interpretation of the character of the people. Ursula approved. She understood frugality.

  Within a fortnight of taking office de Valera suspended the military tribunals that had tried and executed Republicans, then nominated Frank Aiken as minister for defense. Aiken had succeeded Liam Lynch as chief-of-staff of the IRA after Lynch was shot by Free State forces. Yet his heart had not been in civil war. Frank Aiken had no blood lust.1

  Seán Lemass would be the new minister for industry and commerce. De Valera kept the external affairs portfolio for himself but named a Cumann na nGaedheal man as minister for justice. The shrewd political move placated some of his most vociferous opponents—for a time.

  De Valera’s announced plans for government came as a thunderbolt. He intended to abolish the oath of allegiance to the British Crown, introduce protective tariffs, and withhold payment to the Royal Exchequer of the land annuities.

  Land annuities were loans that had been made by the British government to Irish tenant farmers, in order to facilitate the purchase of their holdings. The annuities were doubly hated. Many thought the interest rate charged amounted to usury, while almost everyone felt the injustice of having to borrow money to buy back lands that had belonged to their forefathers for a thousand years.

  Of all de Valera’s plans, the withholding of annuities cut the deepest. In effect he was declaring economic war on Britain. It was the sort of grand gesture his admirers expected of the Chief.

  Ursula’s soul ached to perform a grand gesture. She thought of Helena Moloney and the other women who rescued the broken lead type that had printed the Proclamation of the Republic. They had used it to reprint the Proclamation in time for Easter 1917—and brought a steeplejack over from London to raise the tricolor on the tallest flagpole in Dublin, defying the furious British authorities.

  The women always had been the staunchest Republicans.

  When Ursula Halloran was personally summoned to de Valera’s office to receive the text of his latest announcement, she felt as if all her Christmases had come at once. Oh Papa, I wish you were here to see this!

  It would be Ursula’s first visit to the hub of power. She did not know just what to expect, but when she saw de Valera’s office she was not surprised.

  The room was awkwardly proportioned, the ceiling too high for the limited floor space. Tiny blisters in the paint on the walls revealed underlying damp. In keeping with Dev’s policy of frugality there were no curtains on the tall windows. The glass panes radiated the cold. A thick carpet, the only touch of luxury, failed to muffle the sound of a clock that struck the quarter hours with a jarringly loud chime. Prominently displayed were a statue of Abraham Lincoln and a copy of the American Declaration of Independence.

  The tall, thin man behind the desk glanced up when Ursula entered. At that moment a telephone on the desk rang. He carried on a brief conversation in Irish, put down the receiver and half-rose from his chair to extend his hand.

  “Miss Halloran? It was good of you to come.”

  “I appreciate your thinking of me.”

  “I have been giving a great deal of thought to broadcasting recently,” de Valera said. “The wireless is proving to be a most satisfactory way of communicating with the people.” As usual, he spoke in slow, measured tones. The folds of his face were draped into somber lines.

  Must he look so lugubrious? Ursula asked herself. I wonder if that expression frightens children.

  “Therefore,” de Valera was saying, “we have authorized the erection of a high-powered radio transmitter at Athlone, which will be capable of receiving a live broadcast from the pope in Rome and transmitting it to the Eucharistic Congress in Dublin.”2

  “That’s wonderful!” Ursula responded—thinking not of the religious aspect but of the excitement of a more powerful transmitter.

  The man behind the desk smiled. “I am glad you agree.” When he smiled his whole face changed; rearranged itself, became kind and human and almost endearing. “We are grateful for your support in the past and trust we may continue to rely upon you.”

  “You can of course!” she promised. De Valera trusts me, Papa!

  Opening a desk drawer, de Valera took out a manila folder and handed it to her. “Then please have this announcement broadcast this evening.”

  As soon as Ursula was back at her own desk she read the typescript she had been given by de Valera. Twice.

  According to this latest announcement, de Valera was going to retain Cosgrave’s anti-divorce legislation permanently. He also addressed the Censo
rship of Publications Act, originally devised to criminalize Republican propaganda. De Valera was reassigning the censorship board to the protection of public morality.

  Ursula gave the announcement to the newsreader; she had no choice. She listened to the subsequent broadcast with misgivings.

  I hope this isn’t as repressive as it sounds.

  Dev’s announcement greatly pleased the Church hierarchy. Once they had denounced republicanism. Now they praised Eamon de Valera.

  Although he had marked Ursula out as an important broadcasting connection, de Valera did not encourage the advancement of women in politics. At Fianna Fáil meetings they were once more relegated to what Ursula thought of as “tea-serving.” That, and approving whatever the men said. There were increasing mutterings among the Republican women who had supported him so strongly.

  The mutterings grew louder when a law was passed preventing the hiring of married women as teachers. Soon it was expanded to the whole civil service.3

  Although Ursula and Finbar still met from time to time, he avoided any mention of politics. He was afraid of saying something that would cause a permanent break between them. Republicanism was Ursula’s center of gravity. Finbar had no trouble with the philosophy; it was the gunman lurking in the shadows that he rejected.

  Books were Ursula’s refuge. Sometimes she would close one and stare off into space, repeating a favorite phrase as someone else might smell a rose in a garden. She loved beautiful words, the grace of language. When several of her favorite books were condemned as obscene by the government censors, she grumbled to Finbar, “They want to pretend there’s no such thing as sex in Ireland.”

  He had never heard any nice girl use the word sex before. “Why are you complaining?” he asked. “I didn’t know you had any interest in the subject.”

  “I simply don’t have time for that sort of thing.”

  “Other people do,” he said quietly. “Married people.”

  She gave an elaborate shrug. “Good enough for them.”

  In spite of his best efforts he was losing ground with her, and he knew it.

  Fashionable shops in Grafton, Dawson, and Dame Streets, whose clientele were predominantly members of the Ascendancy, continued to display the Union Jack on every important date in the English calendar. On the third of June the shop fronts blazed with celebratory flags and banners for the birthday of King George V.

  That night many were torn down. No one saw it done. No one had the slightest idea who the culprits might be.

  In late June the entire Catholic world seemed to be coming to Ireland for the Eucharistic Congress. Temporary buildings had to be erected to accommodate the overflow of pilgrims. One hundred and twenty-seven special trains were laid on to bring people to the city. Special Masses were held in churches throughout the countryside so that everyone could take part in the triumphant celebration of the Eucharist.

  Dublin was en fête. Ropes of flowers and colored bunting disguised peeling shop fronts and decaying tenements. Shrines decked with more flowers were set up in almost every street. A replica of the round towers found at many ancient monastic sites was erected in Dame Street. The air rang from morning to night with the sound of choirs practicing. Five thousand priests, one hundred sixty bishops and eleven cardinals from forty countries arrived, adding their numbers to twenty thousand Irish clerics.4

  2RN undertook a week of outside broadcasts beginning with de Valera’s official welcome for the papal legate, Cardinal Lorenzo Lauri, on the twentieth of June. A squad of the newly formed Irish Air Corps flew in the formation of a cross over the ship carrying Cardinal Lauri as it sailed into Kingstown Harbor. Subsequently Rev. John Charles McQuade, president of Blackrock College, hosted a lavish garden party at the college in the legate’s honor.

  McQuade had been a friend of the de Valera family since 1928, when their son Vivion was a student at the college. At de Valera’s suggestion, McQuade’s invitation list was sent to Ursula well in advance.

  “Special guests at Blackrock,” the 2RN newsreader breathlessly informed listeners, “will include our own Cardinal MacRory, Cardinal Hayes of New York, Archbishop Dougherty of Philadelphia, and Archbishop O’Connell of Boston, plus a number of leading ecclesiastics from many nations. Such a distinguished assemblage has never been gathered in Ireland before.”

  Following the party, newspapers were filled with photographs of de Valera’s Soldiers of Destiny being warmly greeted by the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church.

  A candlelit Mass for men only was held in the Phoenix Park. The following evening the Mass was celebrated for women. On Saturday one hundred thousand children marched to the Park through intermittent rain to offer up the Holy Sacrifice.5 Little girls in white dresses and white organdie headpieces, surreptitiously comparing ruffles and ribbons. Little boys in white sailor suits, their high spirits controlled by stern parental adjurations.

  The climax of the celebrations was a Pontifical High Mass in the Phoenix Park on Sunday. When Finbar asked Ursula to attend the event with him, she accepted. It was predicted that the crowd in the Park would number over a million people—twice the normal population of Dublin. A slightly-built woman would need a male escort.

  For the occasion Ursula chose a lightweight frock of sprigged muslin in a shade of ice blue so pale as to look white, and a broad-brimmed summer hat. White cotton gloves and the first new shoes she had bought in years completed her ensemble.

  Sunday dawned cloudless and bright; high summer. By the time Finbar called for Ursula, only foot traffic had a hope of getting through the crowded streets. As they walked toward the Phoenix Park they were caught up in a tidal wave of humanity. Men, women, and even small children were fingering their rosaries and praying audibly as they moved forward. “Hold onto me,” Finbar warned Ursula, “or you’ll be carried away entirely.”

  They were swept through the Park gates without any chance to speak to the welcoming priests waiting on either side. The crowd inside was even larger than the one in the streets. Fifteen acres of parkland were tightly packed with humanity giving off great quantities of body heat. The air turned steamy.

  Steel bowls filled with water had been placed at intervals throughout the Park to restore anyone who fainted.

  Jockeying for position, moving only a few steps at a time, Finbar steered Ursula toward the white marble colonnade where a glass-sided dome shielded the high altar. The vast multitude gave way grudgingly. Ursula’s dress was soon damp with perspiration. Her eyes were dazzled, her head beginning to throb. She could feel a blister rising on her heel: punishment for her extravagance in buying new shoes she could not afford.

  “Here comes the procession now!” someone cried.

  Ursula protested, “I can’t see a thing.”

  “Here, I’ll lift you up.” Finbar’s hands clasped her waist before she could object. With a grunt of effort, he thrust her toward the sky.

  She gazed out across a sea of worshipers. Women wearing bridal white with veils, their snowy purity punctuated by fathers and husbands in their best Sunday suits. Laborers in caps. Tenement dwellers in rags. But their best rags, their cleanest rags.

  As the procession paced solemnly forward, the ecclesiastics in robes of scarlet, purple, and gold stood out like princes.

  At the heart of the procession was a silk canopy embellished with tassels. Ursula saw Eamon de Valera himself carrying one of the poles. He towered above the other supporters, causing the canopy to dip and waver precariously above the head of the papal legate.

  Near the colonnade a sound crew from 2RN was waiting to broadcast the Mass to the nation. Ranged on either side of the altar was a choir composed of five hundred men and boys in dark red robes and white surplices. To the front an army honor guard stood at rigid attention. The overwhelming impression was of sanctity and might in equal measure.

  In the breathless heat the scene shimmered like a vision of heaven.

  Finbar’s arms were trembling. He let Ursula slide down until he
could brace her body against his chest with his arms tightly wrapped around her hips. Through the thin fabric of her sweat-drenched frock she felt the warmth of his body.

  “Can you still see?” he asked. She did not answer. He would not be able to hear her anyway. A chorus of nine hundred children had begun an exultant paean to Mary. This was the prelude to the Panis Angelicus, which would be sung by the world-renowned Irish tenor, John McCormack.

  People swaying in an excess of emotion, music soaring…

  Finbar’s body against hers…

  He lowered her to stand on her own feet. Pressed against him. With his arms still around her.

  Neither of them moved.

  Before the liturgy began a shiver of anticipatory exultation ran through the crowd. Ursula closed her eyes.

  The great crowd murmured, breathed, took on a life of its own. Life in the sun. In the Park, in the Garden…

  In the kitchen of the Halloran farmhouse, as in most homes in Ireland, was an oil-lit Sacred Heart lamp. From spring through autumn a small vase of flowers always stood beneath it. When Ursula lived at the farm one of her duties had been to change the water every day and replace the flowers when they wilted. She had never questioned a ritual that was as much a part of life as eating or sleeping.

  The liturgy of the Mass was the same. She did not need to hear the Latin the priests intoned; it was carved on her bones.

  Mass was a mighty river in which they were a million tiny little droplets glistening in the sun. Flowing together toward God.

  Kneel. Stand. Give the responses.

  Finbar behind me. Still touching me. Still touching. Flesh and spirit joined…

  She felt his hands on her waist again. Touching her as lightly as a butterfly’s caress.

  The sacrament continued, carrying them toward God.

  Finbar’s hands slowly eased along her ribs until they reached the sides of her breasts. Ursula’s entire consciousness concentrated in the tiny area of flesh touched by his fingers. She should pull away at once. She should turn around and slap his face.