The Pope's Last Crusade

To my parents

It is on the whole more convenient to keep history and theology apart.

H. G. Wells,
A Short History of the World

Dedication

Epigraph

PROLOGUE
A Settling of Accounts

ONE
Nostalgia Confronts Reality

TWO
A “Crooked Cross”

THREE
The Imposition of the Reich

FOUR
The Pope's Battle Plan

FIVE
The Flying Cardinal

SIX
A Democratic Response

SEVEN
In the Heat of the Summer

EIGHT
The Pope's Discontent

NINE
Shame and Despair

Photo Section

TEN
A New Year and an End to Appeasement

ELEVEN
Will There Be Time?

TWELVE
Change Overnight

THIRTEEN
The New Regime

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

Excerpts From LaFarge's Encyclical

Notes

Bibliography

Index

About the Author

Also by Peter Eisner

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

T
HE REVEREND JOHN
LaFarge was fully aware of his place and moment in life. He had dedicated himself to kindness and goodness, to peace and principles. Now in his final years, at age eighty-three, he recognized that his life was coming full circle.

“If by chance death comes suddenly and unannounced—and who can be sure that it won't,” he had said, “it will come as a friend. Our own terminal Amen will ring true as the response to the Creator's primal Amen which sent us into this world.”

He had accomplished a great deal, though there was still a lot left to do. High among the priorities these days was his support for Martin Luther King's upcoming march on Washington. LaFarge had spoken out strongly and frequently about civil rights as fundamental to the promise of America. He was frequently in touch with King and others planning the march, especially his longtime friend, Roy Wilkins, the executive director of the NAACP. For half a century, LaFarge had been one of the Catholic Church's clearest voices calling for racial justice.

LaFarge had been a young Jesuit priest working, praying, and living with poor blacks in rural Maryland and defended their chance to obtain equal education and equal rights. He marveled at their resilience; they were downtrodden yet they still possessed “that great flame of faith . . . for three centuries had glorified the lives of Maryland's black folk.”

He knew, however, that “without adequate schools, the Faith would perish, and the folk themselves would be defrauded of their legitimate development.” LaFarge had long wanted the Catholic Church to be a leader in fighting discrimination. Before World War II, LaFarge was a lonely voice among white clergy when he called for an immediate end to racism. In 1936, he had written an influential book,
Interracial Justice,
which called on churches to lead the fight against racism. “Once the light of science is turned upon the theory of ‘race,'” he wrote, “it falls to pieces and is seen to be nothing but a myth.” The obliteration of racial injustice and intolerance would continue to be his life's work.

He still felt the fire of justice and saw reasons for optimism. Dr. King had been leading a protest movement in Birmingham, Alabama, where eleven hundred African American students had been arrested for civil disobedience against segregation—bravely seeking the simple right to sit at a luncheon counter, to drink from a water fountain, or to read a book in a library. The civil rights movement was maturing. Great leaders had emerged; white men and black men walked together, demanding justice. The end of legalized racism was in sight.

The younger Jesuits around LaFarge adored him and noticed with dismay that Uncle John was ailing, haggard at times and hiding his discomfort as he ambled about the Jesuit community residence at
America
magazine on West 108th Street. Sometimes he appeared to be in so much pain that he could hardly take a step at all.

Not that LaFarge had pulled back on his schedule. He never complained about physical ailments and always maintained his good humor. He had lived and worked with his Jesuit brethren at the
America
magazine headquarters since 1926, rising from associate to the editor of the magazine, and now writing a frequent column. Even today, he came and went, prayed, shared meals, and discussed current events with the others around him.

And yet Uncle John was a distant, mysterious figure. He seemed to carry secrets with him. Perhaps, in these final days, LaFarge's determined silence was wavering, and he was ready to unburden himself. Every evening after supper, the Jesuits gathered in the downstairs recreation room, where they chatted and sipped after-dinner drinks. One night, LaFarge began talking about something he had never mentioned. He began by asking if he had ever told them the story of his trip to Europe, the summer before World War II. He knew he hadn't and all other conversation stopped.

Exactly twenty-five years earlier, in May 1938, LaFarge had been sent to Europe on a reporting assignment; his goal was to study the church's welfare under siege, while at the same time taking the pulse of the continent. LaFarge described his trip, in part, as a fact-finding mission. He had heard very clearly what was being said about Europe and Hitler and the threat of war, but he wanted evidence, wanted to understand and to describe life under Hitler and the prospects of war. It was his first trip to Europe in decades and his first as a foreign correspondent. There was an aspect of nostalgia to the trip—recalling the time as a young man when he had set out on his first life adventure at the turn of the century, steeped in old-world literature, devoted to his faith.

But everything was different in Europe—and he wasn't sure what he would find. He did not trust the reports in the New York newspapers and the dispatches from news agencies. Was Europe on the brink of an inferno? Would a new world war engulf Europe? Or was it all an exaggeration? He wanted to listen, to ask questions of people he could trust, of common folk, and of politicians. Being a correspondent had given him a privileged status to meet with opinion makers, other journalists, key politicians, and friends in the clergy. LaFarge was able to observe the final throes of freedom.

By the spring of 1938, Hitler's Greater Germany extended into Austria; the priest had expected to be followed, monitored, and spied upon.

Then came the part of the story never told. Midjourney the nature of LaFarge's mission changed. After two months traveling across Europe, he arrived in Rome, where he had expected to stay for a two-week pilgrimage before returning home. For reasons not clear, Pope Pius XI found out the American priest was in the city and summoned him to a private meeting. He told LaFarge that
Interracial Justice
was a groundbreaking book, and he agreed with LaFarge that Nazi Germany was employing the same racist ideology as a means of conquest, violence, and murder. The pope had become the world's leading voice in opposition to Nazism and Fascism and laws threatening the lives of European Jews. Adolf Hitler saw the pope—a man whose army was nothing more than the scriptures—as a threat to his drive toward world domination. Closer to the Vatican, Benito Mussolini shared Hitler's hatred of this troublesome eighty-year-old pope. Mussolini saw Pius XI as a rival for the affections of the Italian people.

The pope had drawn LaFarge into his effort to awaken world leaders to the imminent menace that Hitler was marching to world war. Pius XI had few allies at the Vatican. Most of the cardinals and bishops around the pope preferred the status quo. Many were appeasers and anti-Semites and some even secretly sided with Hitler and Mussolini. For that reason, the pope had reached beyond the Vatican, had identified and singled out a progressive American priest. LaFarge had intended to return to New York in July, but he changed his plans and remained in Europe for the summer of 1938. Now, in 1963, he was a bit older than the old pope had been that summer. He was going to tell the story of what he had done and what had happened during five fateful months on a continent and in a world collapsing into war. The other Jesuits' faces were reflected in Uncle John's spectacles as he gazed off, focused on a distant time, far away.

T
HE NORTH ATLANTIC
was pleasant in the spring of 1938 with weather good enough at midday to face the chilly wind at the rail and look for signs of life—seabirds, an occasional whale—or the trace of another vessel on the horizon. In the evenings, John LaFarge could gaze up to an eternity of stars against the blackness. He occasionally saw meteorites streaking downward, celestial light, and the waning moon could be seen weakly over the twin smokestacks above the SS
Volendam
's decks as it cut through the sea.

The isolation he felt gazing upward matched the emptiness on board. There were so few other passengers, it was almost as if LaFarge was traveling alone on the ten-day trip to Plymouth, then onward to Rotterdam. Not many private citizens had the means or interest in going to Europe. The
New York Times
acknowledged how uncommon international travel was with a regular feature tracking the incoming and outgoing ships in New York harbor and the names of prominent travelers. On April 23, 1938, it reported “The Rev. John LaFarge” as one of the passengers leaving that day on the
Volendam,
from the Fifth Street Pier, Hoboken, New Jersey, 11:00
A.M.

Ships left New York comparatively empty and returned fully booked with passengers who managed to find passage to New York or any other destination away from Europe. LaFarge, however, was not a tourist; he was a journalist. His editor at the Jesuit magazine,
America,
had sent him to report on the Thirty-Fourth International Eucharistic Congress in Budapest, a sexennial meeting that would draw Catholic clergy and laypeople from thirty-seven countries. At the same time, the trip would also give LaFarge the chance to visit London, Paris, Rome, and other capitals to examine church-state issues and report on the prospects for war.

LAFARGE CELEBRATED
Mass each day of the crossing for a congregation that included nine nuns and anyone else of faith. The rest of the time, he read or took notes for a possible second edition of
Interracial Justice,
which would update issues concerning repression and discrimination against blacks in America. More and more, newspapers were reporting the rise of anti-Semitism in Germany and Hitler's persecution of Jews and increasingly of Catholics. LaFarge saw clear parallels between racial discrimination in the United States and what was happening in Europe. He had been working closely with the National Conference of Jews and Christians and just before leaving New York, he had signed onto a joint document that focused on Hitler's recent occupation of Austria, which had been accompanied by new attacks on religious figures and especially on Jews.

The document said: “Although there are differences between Catholics, Protestants and Jews . . . they stand together on common ground in defending human rights and liberties. We therefore join in expressing our profound abhorrence of the course of oppression and incitation, the denial of the rights of minorities, the restriction on freedom of conscience and the arbitrary suppression of political and civic equality already instituted in Germany and now extended into Austria.”

THE TRANSATLANTIC
shipping lines transmitted daily news summaries by wireless and posted the information on the ships' bulletin boards. News agencies reported that the Gestapo had begun expelling Jews and seizing their property in Austria. And frantic Jews lined up for visas at U.S., British, and Australian consulates, among others, where they were not always welcome.