The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins

      Yet even Mussolini could not dim my enthusiasm about being in Rome and St. Peter’s Basilica. In my seminary days, the papal Masses were resplendent affairs, the pope being carried into St. Peter’s in the richly adorned sedia gestatoria, or portable throne, always to an avalanche of excited clapping and yelling from the assembled congregation.

      And the beatification Masses raised the excitement level a notch higher. At one of my first, I was standing next to a group of Austrian nuns. As Pope Pius XI was carried in, they flew into a fury of excitement and joy. Unfortunately, however, their view of the Pope was partially blocked by several tall men standing along the aisle. Desperate, one tiny Sister spied me and marched right up: “Pick me up!” she demanded. Dumbfounded, I didn’t immediately react. “Pick me up!” she firmly repeated, grabbing my arm. Obeying orders, I did as I was told, discovering, much to my chagrin, that the little nun was not so little in gerth. Still unable to satisfactorily see the Pope, she yelled again, “Higher!” Exerting myself to the max, I finally managed to raise her a few inches higher, whereupon, applauding loudly, she screamed like a Beatles fan: “Viva il Papa!” and crossed herself as the Pope extended his blessing to the nearby crowd. At that point, I dropped her. As she half smiled in thanks, I quickly and prudently moved a safe distance from the Sisters. As I soon learned, when it comes to St. Peter’s, expect anything, especially the odd, sometimes hilarious question. One day, standing in the Piazza San Pietro, I was approached by a stylish American woman. “Which denomination,” she asked, “owns that church?” My answer was most polite.

      Pope Pius XI and Pope Pius XII

      I shall never forget the “audience” that Pope Pius XI granted the seminarians from the Archdiocese of Baltimore. Making his five-year report to the Holy Father, Archbishop Michael Curley of Baltimore asked that the seminarians from his city be allowed to see the Pope and receive his blessing. Gathering in the anteroom of the Pope’s office while the Archbishop gave his report, the door suddenly opened and we were allowed to enter. Upon entering, we knelt in response to the order of the Archbishop, who asked the Pope to give us a blessing — which he did along with a medal for each of us. Arising, we departed, awash in gratitude.

      The rector of the North American College, Bishop Ralph Hayes, always understood that seminarians were in Rome to profit from all these opportunities. As a result, we were able to attend the funeral of Pope Pius XI in February 1939 and the election of Cardinal Pacelli as Pius XII. The change in pontificates began one morning before Mass with the simple announcement by our spiritual director, Monsignor Fitzgerald, that the Pope had died. (In Rome, His Holiness is always well until the moment he dies.) During each day of the conclave to elect a new Pope, we raced to St. Peter’s, watching for the “white smoke” from the burning ballots signifying a completed election. Since the Cardinal electors indignantly rejected the Nazi threats to harm the Church if Cardinal Pacelli got in, the election of Pope Pius XII was very quick. And, of course, they voted him in largely because, having been a nuncio in Germany, the Cardinal was famous for his opposition to Hitler.

      When it came to announcing the results, however, there was a glitch. When one of the cardinals, in an operatic voice boomed out: “I announce to you a great joy. We have a Pope, Cardinal Eugene …” a burst of thunderous applause broke out among a group of French students and visitors, who, standing in St. Peter’s Square, were convinced that their famous French Cardinal Eugene Tisserant had gotten the bid. Pausing until silence returned, the Cardinal continued, “… Pacelli, who has taken the name Pius XII” eliciting even more raucus cheers from the Italians. As Americans, we felt that a friend had been elected. Cardinal Pacelli had not only visited the United States, but had held an important meeting and dinner at the North American College with the Under-Secretary of State of the United States in a last-ditch effort of the United States and the Vatican to avert the coming World War. That night at the College, there was celebrating indeed.

      In the summer of 1939, with war inevitable, my folks did not make the trip to Europe. But free for the summer, I was determined to see Budapest, whose national feast day was reputed to be the most beautiful of any national celebrations in Europe. The only difficulty was the date — August 20 — by which time the trip could be too dangerous. Undaunted, I enlisted my intrepid classmate Butch Burke, from a Kansas diocese, to accompany me to Budapest.

      During the train ride, I was seated next to an elderly lady loaded down with an abundance of packages and baggage. Arriving in Budapest, I helped her with her belongings. When it became apparent that she had no money for a taxi, I gave her enough to take care of the fare. She then drew me aside. “Are you really an American?” she asked. I showed her my passport. “All right,” she said. “You did me a big favor. I’ll do one for you. I am fleeing from Germany, where I saw railroad cars full of our troops going to the Polish border. The war will start in a few days. If you’re here for the holiday celebration, get out as soon as it’s over, get out of here. Go to the west, anywhere in the west. But leave.”

      When I told Butch about our conversation, he wasn’t impressed. Armed with the name of a modest hotel, we went to register, learning that the heart of the celebration, a big parade, was scheduled for that afternoon. It did not disappoint. The parade and its attendant festivities were grand and gorgeous. The relics, including the royal crown and the remains of King Stephen, who led the Hungarian conversion to the Church, were carried in procession, followed by the Regent and the Cardinal in his flowing robes.

      Adding to the spectacle were detachments of the Hungarian military, each representing an epoch in the history of Hungary, beginning with the soldiers of the time of King Stephen. That gave a unique splendor to the event. They were followed by peasant representatives of the various regions of Hungary, each with the brilliant and varied colors of their festive costumes.

      Mindful of the elderly woman’s admonition to leave Budapest, we spent just one night in our hotel before Butch returned to Rome and I headed for Paris the next morning. I figured if I was in Paris when the war started, I would be able to secure a boat ticket back to the United States or get back to Rome if the war did not disrupt the college program.

      My route to Paris was via Munich. When the train pulled into Munich on the way to France, a large agitated crowd was milling around the station. As I looked out the window from the train, an excited German, sizing me up as an American, rushed over to me and shoved a copy of a newspaper, the Voelkischer Beobachter, into my hands. The headline read: “Germany signs an agreement with Soviet Russia.” “This very same newspaper reported yesterday that Germany was condemning the Communists,” he said, “How can this new headline be true?” Of course, I had no answer, only a better understanding of Nazi perfidy. After a four hour delay in Munich, we left for Paris.

      The City of Light was grim, quiet, and uneasy. At the office of American Express only three customers were ahead of me. By the time I got to the teller my remaining German marks had dropped by 50 percent.

      Blitzkrieg

      On September 1, the Nazi blitzkrieg hit Poland. For safety reasons, I decided to return to Rome via Switzerland where, along with another student, Henry Cosgrove, I decided to climb the Matterhorn. Though the day was gorgeous, “very unusual weather,” they said, its beauty waned when, hiking up the mountainside, we encountered Swiss troops walking to machine gun emplacements on the mountainside.

      Back in Rome, the city was feverish with expectation. Everyone in Italy was delighted that the terms of the Axis agreement did not require Italy to go to war. For its part, gallant Poland immediately rejected the Nazi ultimatum, the only European country to do so sans hesitation; ultimately Poland was overpowered and divided up between Germany and Russia. Thus began the year of the “phony” war — “No action on the Western Front.”

      As the 1939 academic year approached, my focus was more on my upcoming ordination to the priesthood than world peace. In the vortex of excitement about war, the twelve members of my class and I prepared diligently for our December ordination in the chapel of the North American College.

      None of us, truthfully, found the situation that troubling. To live in Rome, even during a War, is to live in the company of saints. Our daily walks took us to churches dedicated to heros of Christ who literally lived the phrase of St. Paul: