The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins

      St. Peter’s Basilica

      One must live with St. Peter’s on a daily basis to truly appreciate its majesty. One of my favorite stories is that of the Egyptian obelisk in the center of the piazza. Following the custom of the time, the Emperor Caligula brought it to Rome, erecting the obelisk at a spot near the Palace of Nero before relocating it near the first St. Peter’s Church. After the completion of the “new” basilica in 1586, Pope Sixtus V decided to place the obelisk in the center of the piazza. Moving it, of course, was perilous, requiring the efforts of 800 men, 150 horses, and 150 cranes — all supervised by Domenico Fontana. To ensure calm during the delicate operation, the Pope decreed that any bystander making an outcry would be subject to the penalty of excommunication. As the men tried to lift the obelisk in place, it became apparent that the ropes were not strong enough, eventually becoming so taut they were unable to lift the spire, prompting a sailor named Byesca from Bodighera to yell out: “Water to the ropes!” His sage advice salvaged the operation, and the obelisk settled into place. In thanksgiving for the savvy seaman’s advice, the Pope awarded him the honor of having his village supply the palms to St. Peter’s on Palm and Easter Sundays.

      As we new seminarians settled into our studies, there was an informal initiation ceremony at the North American College, a seminary which over the years garnered a reputation for being a bishop “factory.” Upper classmen would take you aside — always very politely — and ask that you recite the obscure prayer said before putting on your surplice. Then, when they had you reeling, they would ask: “Which course of studies do you want to follow? Do you want to be in the advanced courses?” Of course, everyone said yes. “So you’re saying you want to enroll in the course,” they continued, intent on embarrassing the guys with any such ambition, “that teaches you to be a bishop?” At that moment, you knew you’d been had — albeit all in good fun.

      Life at the College, organized according to a camerata system with roots in the old Florentine educational society, centered on small groups of students gathered for learning. Each afternoon a camerata, eight to ten students living in the same section of the college and led by an upper classman — a prefect assisted by a “beadle” — would take walks. And though our group might pass another camerata inside a church or on the street, we weren’t allowed to mingle much less swap stories. My cam leader was Bob Arthur, a fellow student from the Archdiocese of Baltimore, who dutifully took us to all the important churches in Rome. Besides Bob, our diverse, congenial camerata was populated by types rebelling against the long-standing Roman traditions of behavior for seminarians studying in Rome. They included: George Spehar, a huge, Croat-descent from Crested Butte, Colorado; Frank Latourette from Denver, who, ultimately left the seminary to become a successful TV producer; Ed O’Connor and Marty Killeen from Atlantic City; Charlie Noll from Cincinnati; Tom Powers from Philadelphia; Jim Woulfe from Binghamton, New York; and Johnny Linn from Baltimore.

      All Gregorian classes were in Latin, producing a challenging, immensely rewarding spectacle. Sessions in moral and dogmatic theology, for instance, were held in a huge aula seating, arena style, around 300 students from almost every nation in the world. There were no textbooks. The professors simply delivered their lectures in Latin as we, scribbling furiously, tried to keep up. Needless to say, three or four months were required to become capable of understanding and recording a whole lecture.

      Although we had outstanding professors — each an expert in his field — we never really met them. Leaving as soon as the lecture was finished, they discouraged any attempts at conversation. If a seminarian happened to be late, the professor gave everyone permission to make a hissing sound, which I found rather childish. During class, meanwhile, the silence and solemnity were never interrupted except, that is, by an intrepid English seminarian whose raucous rooster cackle invariably provoked utter disgust in our lecturer. Though a few dared laughing, the culprit was never apprehended thanks to his neighbors concealing his identity. The courses, prepared for an international student body of nearly every race and nationality, were taught by equally diverse professors: Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, French, Hungarian, and a lone American. As a result, teaching, emphasizing principles applicable to individual cases and problems, was, nonetheless aimed toward a worldwide Catholic congregation, ultimately making it impossible to conclude that there could ever be an American, French, or African Church. (Later in my priesthood, encountering diverse problems in diverse national and ethnic contexts, I thanked God for my education at the Gregorian.)

      Examinations, held once a year in July, were a sheer terror. Students were summoned by name to sit in a chair opposite one of several professors, also seated and giving the oral exams which, being public, were open to any student who wished to observe. Inevitably, a group of Italian students, fluent in Latin, would gather to wallow in the discomfort of the less-talented, especially the Americans. In my case, I never had an examiner from the United States nor one with whom I’d actually taken classes. Talk about a home-field disadvantage! Standing near the Greg’s front door, a gaggle of pious, indigent women, begging and offering to say prayers on behalf of the nervous students, invariably pulled in a rich harvest of coins each day of scheduled exams. One first-year American student really cracked under pressure. Throwing him a softball question, the professor asked in Latin, “Quid est philosophia?” — “What is philosophy?” Rattled, the poor guy gave the first answer that leapt to mind: “Chi lo sa” — “Who knows?” — causing loud, audible snickering from the Italians in the audience.

      Food at the North American College was lousy, mainly because the English, trying to starve the Italians into quitting their cooperative agreement with Germany, posted part of their navy at Gibraltar and the Suez Canal. As a result, not many good food products were getting in — resulting in delicacies like sardine soup for lunch. It got so bad, in fact, that the rector, firing the cook, allowed a committee including the seniors to search for a new chef, proving true the adage that “God so loved the world that he did not send a committee.” Ultimately, the rector hired a fellow from Hungary who was told that American seminarians liked pies. Finally, the big day arrived. The new cook was finally in charge and out came his pies — filled with spaghetti! It was the end of his — and almost the rector’s — career.

      I became so intrigued with the current events and history of Rome that, aided by Ed Latimer, a seminarian from Erie, Pennsylvania, we published an annual magazine called “Roman Echoes” (dropping off the magazine at the printer, Vatican City’s famous Polyglot Press, afforded me the chance to get a snack and drink at the bar — a liqueur costing six cents — a rare treat in the days of food blockades). For one issue, besides normal stories about prominent visitors and major events, I decided to interview Giovanni, the elderly, respected waiter at the head table. “Of everyone you’ve ever served, cardinals, statesmen, presidents, and movie stars,” I asked, “who was the most outstanding?” Giovanni didn’t hesitate. “Buffalo Bill,” he shot back. “Now that was an extremely gallant man.”

      Traveling through Europe

      Each July, exams over, I traveled through Europe, often with my mother and father — always generously paying for traveling as part of my education — or brother Bill. Though mother was thrilled by European life, the Boss desperately missed his home-cooked meals back in Washington. In the summer of 1937, his first encounter with Italian coffee engendered instant pity for his son. Joining my parents for breakfast at a good hotel on Rome’s Via Veneto, I watched with amusement as Dad, inveterate “Irish breakfast” addict, ordered coffee, two eggs, and a small steak. “Si, si,” the waiter replied. When the java arrived, his first sip made him grimace. “Son, is this what they give you to drink every morning?” “Actually, our College coffee isn’t this good.” Subsequently, he slipped me extra cash to buy real coffee outside of the seminary.

      In fact, the Boss made only one transatlantic trip, combining a visit to Rome with a pilgrimage to his native Ireland. Though he liked seeing St. Peter’s and the Pope up close, the hundreds of other churches and art galleries didn’t much impress him. As a result, we had to fool him into visiting Venice, which Mother desperately wanted to see, saying we’d merely pass by on the road to Ireland. Once in Venice, Dad hated the Venetian gondolas, seeing no sense in using canals as streets. Since he couldn’t swim, being in a town that was virtually underwater