Acts of Faith (57 page)

At last I was my father’s son. Rav Daniel Luria—the Silczer Rebbe.

Even though it was a Thursday and I arrived a full half hour early, the synagogue was packed. As I walked down the aisle wearing an old
tallit
which had belonged to my father, worshipers rose, bowed their heads, and shouted words of greeting—
“Yasher-koyakh!”
“More power to you!” “May you live to one hundred and twenty!”

I ascended the three steps, stood before the Holy Ark, and prayed.

I turned toward the congregation, placed both my hands on the sloping table, and looked out. Beneath me was a sea of worshipers in what looked like a thousand white prayer shawls. Uncle Saul was seated in a wheelchair in the first row, Eli at his side.

I glanced up to the ladies’ gallery, where I could see the shining eyes of the three people I loved most on earth—my mother, my sister, and sitting between them, my beloved Miriam, who would be my wife in three more weeks.

For an instant I was silent. And then I pronounced the only prayer appropriate for such an occasion:

As, unbidden, the congregation began to pray, I covered my face with my hands. And wept.

O
n New Year’s Eve, after the other guests—worker priests, students, and assorted neighbors—had left, Hardt took Tim into his study, poured each of them a large
ginjinha
, and said, “Let’s drink.”

“To anything in particular?” Tim asked.

Hardt responded by opening his desk drawer and pulling out a thick stack of paper. He looked at Tim and beamed.

“It’s finished. This is the book von Jakob wants so badly to suppress. As a token of fraternity I offer it to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s yours,” the older man insisted. “You can read it tonight and burn it in the morning. Or you can burn it right now.” He paused and then said, “Or—you can help me publish it. Happy New Year, Dom Timóteo.”

Tim stood motionless as his friend left the room. Then slowly, he sat down behind the desk and trained the feeble lamplight on the manuscript. Hardt’s university secretary had obviously spent many hours typing it, binding it, and affixing the title cover:
The Crucifixion of Love.

He did not need to peruse all its four hundred and eighteen pages to know what they contained. Hardt’s
theme was the impossibility and, as he saw it, the futility of priestly sexual abstinence.

What was potentially explosive was the multitude of data. Hardt had facts, case histories, names, and testimonies of prelates everywhere throughout the Catholic world who were willing not only to be interviewed but also to permit their names to be used. These men continued to perform their sacerdotal functions, at the same time admitting to personal relationships crowned by physical love.

Tim knew the history of the Church was strewn with fallen priests, with popes who lodged their “nephews” in the Apostolic Palace, but he was nonetheless struck dumb by the reports from America.

Richard Sipe, a Baltimore psychotherapist who had been a Benedictine monk, estimated that half the fifty thousand Roman Catholic priests in the United States were breaking their vows of celibacy.

And yet for all this, Ernesto Hardt had not composed a document intended to destroy the Church. Rather, he sought to vest with dignity the lives of men who both served God and their own emotional needs.

At four-thirty
A.M.
, Tim had finished the last page and realized that Hardt’s argument for the legitimate fulfillment of human desire in men who serve God was no better embodied than in his Brazilian friend’s own life.

During breakfast the next morning, his host seemed to be deliberately avoiding the subject of his book, talking almost exclusively to the children. Nonetheless, as Tim chatted with Isabella, it became clear that she, too, was anxious to know his reaction.

A little after eight she hurried Alberto and Anita out the door, and they, with typical childish reluctance, set off toward the school organized by one of Dom Ernesto’s worker priests.

At last, Hardt grinned at Tim and asked mischievously, “Did you sleep well, my brother?”

Timothy took the initiative. “I think your book is dangerous,
seditious—and very important. Von Jakob has every reason to fear its publication.”

“Good,” Hardt smiled. “Then I have done my job well.”

“I’m still amazed at how you could marshal such information by yourself.”

“Oh, Timóteo, my name may appear on the cover, but I have literally hundreds of co-authors who have helped me gather information throughout the world. Only this week my office at the university received a hand-delivered report from Czechoslovakia.” He went on to explain that because the Church there had had to operate clandestinely for so long, secretly ordaining priests and even bishops, there was now an entire underground clergy, many of whom were married.

“Do you think von Jakob knows?”

Hardt shrugged. “I’m sure the Holy Father does. This may surprise you, but because we are so short of priests in the Upper Amazon, the Pope has just granted a dispensation to allow two married men to be ordained and serve there.”

Tim was astounded. “How can he do something that goes against all he believes in?”

“Because he is a realist,” Hardt responded. “And his duty as Christ’s Vicar is to keep the Church alive. In this regard he and I are of one mind.”

“So tell me what in Heaven’s name I’m doing here,” Tim demanded.

“Did it ever occur to you that God had chosen you to proclaim the truth rather than suppress it? Tell me honestly what you believe now.”

Tim answered slowly and deliberately. “Well, speaking as a realist,” he said, emphasizing the word, “if a married priest can serve in the Amazon, then why not in the Vatican?”

Hardt smiled at Tim with affection. “Thank you, brother. But what will you tell them in Rome?”

At this point Archbishop Hogan turned the tables.

“I know what you’d like me to say, Ernesto. But let
me tell you something. The truth, however admirable, isn’t always the best means to a worthy end. Never mind what happens to me, let’s say you publish—and they excommunicate you.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Hardt.

“I know that, brother. But I don’t want the Church to lose you—”

“But what can you do about it? Rome doesn’t seem to care.”

“Why don’t we try to change that? Why don’t you help me build something?”

“For example?” Hardt demanded.

“A hospital, to begin with,” Timothy replied. “The greatest joy in my life as a priest has been the baptisms I’ve performed here.” He paused and then said softly, “And my greatest pain—the funerals. Give me the chance to raise money for a children’s hospital.”

Hardt answered dismissively, “Until the people run the Church, you won’t see hospitals springing up in the jungle.”

“If you’ll just give me time to try, Ernesto, I’ll not only help you publish your book in English, I’ll even translate it myself. I know some very rich laymen who would be sympathetic to our cause.”

Hardt hesitated for a split second, and then spoke with quiet emotion, “You said
our
cause, Dom Timóteo. For that alone, I’m willing to hold off the publication.”

“For how long?” Tim asked.

“As long as necessary,” Hardt replied. “Or, until you give up trying to raise that money.”

The night before Tim was to leave for Rome, he stood solemnly before the fire with Ernesto and Isabella, groping for words to express his feelings.

The Brazilian priest was holding a sheaf of papers under one arm.

Suddenly, he let it drop into the flames.

“What did you do, Ernesto?” Tim asked confusedly.

“Now you don’t have to tell a lie to the Holy Father,”
Hardt replied. “You can say with all honesty that you’ve seen me burn every page of my book.”

“But Ernesto, I just asked you to wait—not destroy it.”

Hardt grinned. “Oh, I’m afraid you can’t tell the Romans I’ve ‘destroyed’ it. Actually, it’s one of my goingaway presents to you.”

He went to his desk and pulled out several small black plastic disks.

“It may surprise you, my brother, but even universities at the edge of the jungle have computers these days. Be sure to wrap these in foil before going on the plane.”

“But why?” Tim stammered. “Why are you giving them to me?”

“A precaution,” Hardt explained. “If something should happen to me—or our computer—I would always have the security of knowing our book is in friendly hands.
Adeus
, Tim—pray for me.”

The two men embraced.

A
Vatican car met him at the airport. Timothy used its telephone to call Father Ascarelli.

“No, my son, how could you have awakened me when—since your capricious departure—I’ve been obliged to do my own work? I’ve even had to train my left hand—”

“What?” Tim interrupted.

“Nothing, nothing.” Ascarelli brushed off the question. “Why don’t you come around first thing in the morning?”

“Thank you, Father, but may I see you for a few minutes now?”

“Of course, my son. I’ll boil the kettle and make us both some tea.”

Minutes later, the long black limousine pulled up in front of the Governatorio, and Tim, tightly clutching his valise, leapt out.

He stood breathless outside Ascarelli’s apartment and knocked softly. From within he heard the approach of shuffling feet. The door opened and there was his mentor, wearing the same old threadbare bathrobe.

“Benvenuto, figlio mio.”

As they hugged, Tim realized Ascarelli was affectionately patting his back with his left hand only. The entire right side of his body was rigid.

“What’s happened to you, Father?” Tim asked anxiously.

“Nothing, nothing. A little injury.”

As they sat down the scribe nonchalantly recounted that a mild stroke had cost him the use of his right hand. Now, in the eightieth year of his life, he was obliged to learn how to do everything with his left.

The whistle of the kettle interrupted their dialogue. Tim persuaded his overeager host to sit quietly while he made the tea.

He carefully placed a cup where the old man could reach it and then sat opposite him.

“Don’t worry,” the old man reassured him. “I’ll still be around when you get your cardinal’s biretta.”

“Would you believe that I don’t care about those things?” Tim protested. “I never did and I certainly don’t now.”

“Well, like it or not, the whole Secretariat is buzzing with your achievement. All the time you were in Brazil, Hardt didn’t write a single heretical word. I’m sure von Jakob will reward you.”

“Wrong, Father. He’s written plenty, he just hasn’t published it—yet.”

Tim then told Ascarelli of his experiences with Hardt and the bargain they had struck.

“A children’s hospital—that sounds wonderful. But where do you expect to find the millions of dollars you need to build this worthy project? The world is full of generous Catholics, but they’re only human. They want their monuments where their friends can see them on their way to work.”

“Let that be my problem, Father. Now may I ask you a favor? I have a copy of Hardt’s book.”

“You what?” the old man asked excitedly. “Quickly—let me see it.”

Tim reached into his valise and pulled out a four-inch-square object wrapped in aluminum foil.

The old man eyed it suspiciously. “What’s that? A sandwich?”

“I can only say it’s food for thought,” Tim replied, unwrapping the package and revealing six computer disks. “Remember my thesis topic?”

“Of course. ‘The Obstacles to Priestly Matrimony.’ Why?”

Tim answered quietly, “This book demolishes the obstacles.”

“Are you sure?” Cardinal von Jakob asked with the closest to a smile that Tim had ever seen on the Prussian’s face.

“Yes, Your Eminence. I saw him burn the book myself.”

“Deo gratias,”
the Cardinal responded. “You’ve done an excellent job.”

But evidently not a complete job. For the prelate then asked, “Did you make a note of his contacts—the sources of his information?”

“With respect, Eminence,” Tim replied, trying to suppress his disdain for the Grand Inquisitor, “I fulfilled my assignment to the letter. No one gave me a microfilm camera or asked me to play James Bond.”

The German nodded. “Yes, quite. Still—it’s a pity you missed the opportunity. But I promise you the pontiff will be pleased.”

Timothy’s immediate reward was a small but elegant cubicle among the offices at the Apostolic Palace.

After unpacking the last of his books, he made his first call as a special Papal Assistant.

Principessa Santiori was delighted to hear his voice and—as Tim had hoped—invited him to lunch the next day.

“Everyone is talking about you,
caro.
Plan to stay late so I can hear about everything.”

Flushed with optimism, Tim strolled briskly to the Governatorio to fulfill his previous night’s promise of taking Father Ascarelli for dinner at Da Marcello in Trastevere.

No one answered his first knock. Perhaps the scribe
was asleep. Tim banged even louder. Down the hallway, a
portiere
who had been vacuuming the long carpet scampered to his side.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m afraid they took Father Ascarelli to Santa Croce earlier this afternoon.”

Tim went pale. “How bad is it?”

“Your Grace,” said the janitor, “he’s eighty years old. How good could it be?”

He ran the dozen blocks to the hospital, causing at least one cleric he passed to remark, “Another crazy Irishman like Murphy. They must all run.”

Within five minutes of his arrival, Tim established that, although the scribe had suffered another stroke, he was still very much alive. Moreover, if he returned that evening, after Professor Rivieri examined the patient, perhaps he might be allowed to visit.