Acts of Faith

  “Don’t be silly, Your Grace,” she smiled broadly. “You have risen by your own merits. I only pride myself in having been among the first to find them.”

  “With due respect, Vostra Altezza,” Father Ascarelli interrupted. “I found him before you did.” He embraced his protege, murmuring, “Purple suits you, my boy. Continue to serve God as you have.”

  There were nineteen guests at the long table, since Archbishop Orsino had telegraphed his regrets at the last minute. The crystal shone, and the wine, from the Santiori vineyards in Tuscany, matched the color of the diners’ vestments—except those of Father Ascarelli.

  Tim was introduced to a number of foreign bishops making their ad limina visits to Rome as well as to several prefects of the Vatican Sacred Congregations. When the Cardinal of New York City shook Tim’s hand, he remarked with theatrical emphasis, “Archbishop Hogan, I am charged with the sacred duty of conveying an important message to you.” He paused for effect and then continued, “My colleague, the Cardinal of Boston, has entrusted me with the expression of heartfelt affection and congratulations from a list so long that I have no doubt it includes the entire Boston Red Sox!”

  Tim was about to reciprocate with a message of gratitude when the principessa appeared. Taking him by the arm, she smiled at his red-clad interlocutor.

  “Your Eminence will excuse me,” she bubbled, “I must steal the archbishop away for a moment, since one of my guests unfortunately has to rush off to a plane.”

  As he was whisked away, Tim could not help but think, What authority this little woman must have, to be able to preempt the most powerful prelate in the United States.

  The other guests were long gone when Ascarelli insisted that Tim sit with him overlooking the empty forum.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the old man murmured.

  “Do you?” Tim asked, his mind slightly blurred by the length and excitement of the day.

  “You’re wondering whether it’s your own merits or the principessa’s romanità that won you your appointment.”

  Tim’s silence was assent.

  “Believe me, you know I’m parsimonious with flattery. You well deserve your rank. The only influence she used was to get you affiliated with her own church. There were a great many fighting for that honor. These aristocratici own some of the most famous churches in Rome. Even that jewel in the Piazza Navona is private real estate.”

  “Do they charge rent?” Tim joked.

  “Each in his own way,” replied Ascarelli. “I’m told the principessa is satisfied to accept as recompense one dinner a year with His Holiness. But you’ll learn all about this when your time comes.”

  “My time for what?” Tim asked.

  “Come on, my boy, you don’t have to use romanità with me! You know that of all your classmates you’re by far the most papabile.”

  “Pope? Don’t be silly,” Tim answered dismissively. And fell silent.

  In such proximity to the Roman Forum, Ascarelli’s rhetoric was unstoppable.

  “Amazing, isn’t it, that the papacy is the last modern institution with the qualities of a Renaissance court—offering advancement based on talent. My good friend Roncalli—John XXIII—was the son of a poor Bergamese farmer. And Luciani—John Paul I—was the son of a migrant worker. Indeed, my father employed him in our vineyards on several occasions. And what’s more,” the scribe added with a chuckle, “our Church has chosen three Jewish pontiffs.”

  “What?” Tim assumed this was another of the old man’s practical jokes.

  “The Pierleoni family,” the scribe explained. “Once upon a time they were solid citizens of the Roman ghetto. Then, after a little holy water was splashed in the right places, they went on to produce Popes Gregory VI and VII and Anacletus II. So it would hardly be earth-shattering if an Irish boy from Brooklyn—”

  “Father Ascarelli,” Tim demanded plaintively, “what makes you think I harbor such lofty ambitions?”

  The scribe looked at him for a moment. “Your eyes, Timoteo. I look in them and see what can only be described as … longing. I can’t imagine why else you would be so unhappy.”

  72

  Timothy

  By the time Tim had returned to his new quarters in one of the elegant prelatial suites at the North American College on the Gianicolo, slender threads of dawn were streaking the sky. Under his door he found a linen envelope containing a card with the papal seal and a small handwritten note:

  His Holiness requests your company for the celebration of Mass at 6:00 A.M. Monday 27 May.

  Tim glanced at his watch. There was barely enough time to shave and change.

  Yet by a quarter to six he was waiting in the incongruously modernistic papal chapel, fresh and awake thanks to the unfailing combination of caffeine and adrenaline.

  A cluster of papal household nuns, all in black except for a single red heart embroidered on the breast of their habits, were already kneeling in prayer.

  At precisely five minutes to six, the pontiff strode in, followed by three or four other clerics in various garb. Spying his new archbishop, he smiled and offered his right hand. “Benvenuto, Timoteo.”

  Tim was about to kiss the papal ring when His Holiness demurred, “Please, we are about to pray. Before God we are all equals.”

  After intoning the Mass, the pontiff beckoned Tim to join him in his velvet-lined elevator. The only other passenger was a priest whom Tim recognized as the papal secretary, Monsignor Kevin Murphy. This freckle-faced, red-haired Dublin boy was known to jog ten miles along the Tiber before anyone else in the Apostolic Palace had put on slippers.

  As His Holiness introduced the two young men, he joked, “As you know, Timoteo, I’m here to serve God. But it is Kevin who fixes the agenda. Bear that in mind.”

  Tim and the Irishman exchanged smiles as the elevator came to a stop. Its passengers disembarked into an elegant sala whose vaulted, gilt-stuccoed ceilings and artwork made the illuminated panels in the papal chapel seem like Hong Kong plastic. Other high Vatican officials were waiting to join the Holy Father for a working breakfast at the large oval table.

  It was easy to distinguish Franz Cardinal von Jakob, for the strapping German stood nearly a foot taller than the other prelates, his height accentuated by the straightness of his posture. Tim took the initiative and introduced himself.

  The austere von Jakob responded with the semblance of a smile and a laconic, “Welcome, Your Grace.”

  It was not surprising that von Jakob was seated at the Pope’s right hand. Tim was somewhat overwhelmed, however, to discover that he had been placed directly opposite. It was—it seemed to him—as if the pontiff wanted to assess him at close range.

  The German wasted no time and immediately began his catechism to determine how acquainted Tim was with the Church’s problems in Brazil.

  “Well, I know it’s the biggest Catholic country in the world—and the poorest,” Tim replied nervously. “Some say we should be doing more to help them—including a lot of their own priests.”

  “They rant about ‘the triumph of the proletariat,’ ” the Cardinal stated with irritation. “It sounds like something from Das Kapital.”

  The pontiff then declared in quiet, measured tones, “I am convinced that the true Armageddon will be between the soldiers of Christ and the dark forces of Marx.”

  “The Brazilians are on the verge of rebellion,” von Jakob continued. “The priests stirring up the peasants are encouraged by some of our most charismatic theologians, especially the overesteemed Professor Ernesto Hardt.”

  Tim nodded. “I’ve read a few of his articles. He’s certainly a persuasive advocate for reform.”

  “ ‘Reform’ is the key word,” the German pronounced. “The man thinks he’s another Martin Luther. We’re most disturbed by the rumor of a book he’s preparing. They say it could be the rallying cry the Brazilians are waiting for.”

  A voice at the other end of the table inquired, “I still don’t understand, F
ranz. Why can’t your office simply order him into penitential silence? This certainly proved successful with his countryman, Leonardo Boff.…”

  “No, Hardt’s too dangerous,” von Jakob responded. “Unless we handle him carefully, he’d leave the Church—and God knows how many thousands he’d take with him.” He turned to Tim and asked, “Do you have any idea of the inroads the Protestants are making?”

  “It seems more like a tidal wave,” the new archbishop acknowledged. “I’ve read a report estimating that every hour of the day, four hundred Latin American Catholics leave the Faith.”

  There were murmurs of distress from all around the table.

  Von Jakob continued to address Tim. “It is for this reason that you must persuade Hardt not to publish his book. I needn’t tell you how important this assignment is.”

  Timothy had led a sheltered life. Even as far as Church politics was concerned, he was an innocent. But this did not mean that he was without scruples, and the idea of suppressing a book—any book—struck him as morally repugnant.

  He wondered if George Cavanagh would have accepted this assignment. And he wondered something else.

  “With respect,” he asked, trying to hide his discomfort, “how did you come to choose me?”

  “For a diabolical genius like Hardt, we needed a very special envoy. When I called Archbishop Orsino in Washington, he unhesitatingly suggested you.”

  “But are you aware that I don’t speak a word of Portuguese?” he asked.

  “You are fluent in Latin, Italian, and Spanish,” said the Cardinal, holding up a document that was obviously part of Tim’s dossier.

  His Holiness added affably, “I’ve had occasion to learn a few words for my South American journeys. And with no disrespect to our Lusitanian brothers, I found that to speak Portuguese, you merely have to talk Spanish with pebbles in your mouth.”

  There was a ripple of appreciative laughter.

  “In any case,” von Jakob continued, “my Congregation has expert language tutors whose total immersion technique would be the envy of Berlitz. I have no doubt that in three months you will be speaking Brazilian Portuguese like a native.”

  “There is only one problem,” His Holiness added good-humoredly. “You then have to discover what to say.”

  On this note, the breakfast was adjourned.

  As the princes of the Church dispersed to their several domains, Tim followed Monsignor Murphy to his office, which served as a sentry post for the pontiff’s inner court.

  The papal secretary explained that Tim’s linguistic inculcation would consist of three daily four-hour sessions, each with a native Brazilian priest. They would even remain with him during meals, making sure only Portuguese was spoken.

  “After that,” Monsignor Murphy joked, “you can relax with some light reading—like the history of Brazil.”

  “Thank you, Monsignor,” Tim responded. “But something tells me these language lessons will be less of an ordeal than what comes after.”

  The papal secretary hesitated, and then lowering his voice, said, “Your Grace, may I tell you something in confidence—as one Irishman to another?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think you should know that you’re not the first legate to be sent to Ernesto Hardt.”

  “Oh,” Tim replied, “and what happened to my predecessor?”

  Murphy’s answer was laconic.

  “He never came back.”

  73

  Deborah

  Dear Deb,

  I enclose an item from the Boston Globe—which I’m pretty sure escaped the attention of the Israeli press.

  To be honest, I hesitated before finally deciding to send it. I mean I know Tim’s always somewhere in your thoughts—how could it be otherwise when you see his face every time you look at Eli?

  But I still wondered how you might feel on the far-off shores of the Galilee to learn about your “old friend” becoming an archbishop.

  Would it make Rabbi D. Luria happy—proud, even?

  And then the 64-shekel question: How would it make Eli feel?

  Don’t you think he deserves to know his father is a Christian? And more important, the bitter truth that even if his father were the pope—and in Tim’s case that is even a possibility—he would still be despised by the anti-Semites of the world for having Jewish blood.

  Far from injuring him, it would actually give more meaning to the life that he will soon be risking for us all.…

  If that is a sermon, so be it. If you won’t say amen, then I’ll …

  Two days later

  I still can’t finish the preceding sentence.

  Maybe you will.

  All my love,

  Danny

  Though she was determined to keep the enclosed picture, Deborah knew she should have burned her precious letter. Was not the photograph enough? Could not she feed her soul merely by looking at his picture and letting her heart provide the text?

  Yet some inward force compelled her to hold on to everything that Danny had sent. And even afterward it was not hard for her to comprehend why she had merely placed these documents in the top drawer of her desk.

  She had spent the fourteen years since Eli’s birth desperately searching her heart to find the proper words. Now, she had them. But like a coward—or so she later thought—instead of facing him to let him know the truth, she simply left the letter where he was certain to find it.

  Nor did it take long.

  The following evening, Eli did not appear in the refectory for dinner.

  At first, Deborah merely thought he had—yet again—stayed late with Gila at her kibbutz. But when she got home and discovered Danny’s letter crumpled into a ball in the center of the floor, she called her son’s girlfriend, who only compounded her dismay by saying that Eli had not even been in school that day.

  Deborah hung up and ran to share her anxiety with Boaz and Zipporah.

  To her surprise and relief she found that Eli was at their srif. And judging by the thickness of the cigarette smoke, the conversation must have been going on for several hours. Her son stared at her, his angry eyes burning with betrayal.

  “Eli—”

  He turned his back to her.

  “You have every right to hate me,” she said helplessly. “I should have told you long ago.”

  “No,” Boaz interceded. “We’re all to blame. As I’ve been trying to convince him since he got here. We were the ones who put you up to it.”

  Zipporah nodded wordlessly.

  Eli began to vent his rage, starting with his “grandfather.”

  “How could you do this? How could you desecrate your own son’s memory?”

  This at least was something to which Boaz could respond.

  “I—we did it as an act of love.”

  “Love,” the young boy sneered. “Who for? Some Christian that my so-called rabbi mother went to bed with?”

  “Eli!” Deborah snapped. “You have no right to talk that way.”

  “Oh, no? You should be ashamed.…” His rage continued though he had exhausted speech.

  It was Deborah’s turn to try to make him understand.

  “Eli, I am ashamed. But only for lacking the courage to tell you. There’s one thing I insist you understand because it’s why you came into this world.” She paused and then continued softly, “I loved your father. He was kind and good—and pure of heart—and I swear to you our love was mutual.”

  Eli turned to look at Boaz and Zipporah. Contrary to his expectations, they both nodded.

  “Your father was a mensch,” Boaz asserted.

  “Which ‘father’ do you mean? Your son or … my mother’s ‘priest’?”

  Again, Eli’s piercing stare took in all of them. Deborah was paralyzed, but Boaz answered passionately.

  “I don’t have to tell you what a man our son was. You’ve been hearing that for fourteen years. The only lie we ever told you was that he’d been your father. And I tell you frankly, El
i, even if you cut me dead from this day on, I’ll always be grateful for the time you let our boy live on in you. And now,” he said, “I want you to apologize to Deborah. She barely knew him—and for that part of the lie your anger rightfully should fall on me.”

  Eli was confused. “But, Boaz,” he stammered, “I … I’m not angry at you.”

  “Why?” the old man countered. “You mean you hate Deborah because your father was a Christian? Dividing the world into ‘them’ and ‘us’ is the kind of twisted thinking that created the Holocaust. I have the right to say this because that arbitrary hatred lost me my parents and my son. The most important thing is not to be a Jew or a Christian, but to be good. Your father—whom I knew—was good.”

  At last Deborah found her voice.

  “He still is,” she said with quiet strength. “Tim is still alive. And now I owe it both to Eli and to Tim to have them meet each other.”

  “Never!” the boy shouted. “I never want to meet that man.”

  “Why?” Deborah demanded angrily. “You’ve been castigating all of us for sheltering you from the truth. What are you afraid of now—that you might like him?”

  “How could I after what he did?”

  “No,” Deborah exploded. “You’re wrong if you imagine he abandoned me. He offered to … leave the priesthood … live in Jerusalem. And afterwards I never told him about you. He still has no idea.”

  A look of consternation crossed the boy’s face as Deborah continued.

  “God knows I love you, Eli, and I’ve tried to be as good a parent as I could. But I realize now that I was wrong. I’ll never forgive myself for letting you grow up without a father.”

  The boy’s eyes filled with tears.

  Until this moment, Zipporah had only been a witness. Now she spoke in judgment.

  “How much longer must I listen to this? How much more can we apologize and flagellate our guilty consciences? We’re all alive. And until yesterday we loved each other like no other family on earth. How could we”—she focused her gaze on Eli—“let a simple piece of paper alter that? Now, I suggest we have a glass of schnapps.” Looking again at Eli she cautioned, “Just a drop for you, boychik. And then we’ll sit down and talk until we can remember who we are and what we mean to one another.”