Pope Pius XI. PHOTO | FILE
In the coming weeks, the almost cinematic feel of a conclave—that effectively resets the papacy—will hold vast swathes of the world’s population spellbound. The forthcoming conclave has shades of the one that took centre stage in 1922. The latter, though described for a fleeting moment by David Kertzer, sets the stage for the main merit of his argument in The Pope and Mussolini: The Secret History of Pius XI and the Rise of Fascism in Europe.
The argument that “the Vatican played a central role both in making the Fascist regime possible and in keeping it in power.” In a not-so-sharply observed, nuanced the 2014 book, Kertzer brings the contrasting worlds of the Catholic church and fascism together. But rather than sketch a contest with the gladiatorial trappings of a prizefight, his body of work holds the mirror up to Vatican hypocrisy that ultimately birthed an unholy alliance.
The story that has the intimacy of a family album and is told with such knife-edge precision starts with the papal conclave in February 1922. Pope Benedict XV, who, since childhood, writes Kertzer, walked with a limp, had died on the morning of January 22. An intractable cough later diagnosed as bronchitis had, with lightning speed, morphed into pneumonia.
“Giacomo Della Chiesa had been an unusual choice when the genial but repressive Pius X died in 1914, just as the Great War began. When the 52 cardinals assembled in late August that year to elect a successor, Della Chiesa had been a cardinal for only three months,” Kertzer wrote of the pope who chose the name Benedict XV in no small part because of his devotion to St Benedict of Nursia. He added: “Pius X had died at a frightening time for Italians, but his successor’s death, in 1922, came amid even greater unrest. Many feared that revolution could erupt at any moment, although they differed on whether it was more likely to be sparked by the socialists or the fascists.
The Great War, which the elite had hoped would help unify the hopelessly divided Italians and rally the population around the government, had done neither. Over half a million Italians had died, and even more had returned wounded. A demobilised army came home to find few jobs. The country’s political leaders seemed incapable of finding a way out of the crisis.” Then, with the punch of engaged reportage, Kertzer describes in granular detail the papal conclave in the Sistine Chapel that returned Pius XI—formerly Achille Ratti—as pope. We are told of black sedans bringing in cardinals who each waved “a hand in ecclesiastical benediction.” Then the conclave’s ceremonial marshal, with a massive antique key chain in his grip, locks from the outside the heavy door to what has since 1492 been the seat of the conclave. The windows to the most famous chapel in the world are also sealed. Like the heavy door, never to be opened until the College of Cardinals has elected a new pope.
Habemus papam Kertzer pointedly referred to the 1922 conclave as “a showdown between two factions”, giving a sense of the deep fissures that have come to typify the electoral process. At one end of the spectrum were the so-called intransigents or the zelanti. These cardinals, wrote Kertzer, “looked back nostalgically to the days of Pius X, eager to resume the Church’s crusade against the evils of modern times.” They were markedly different from the moderates or the politicians. These, Kertzer noted, “hoped to continue Benedict XV’s more middle-of-the-road and outward-looking policies.” If this felt like one of heavyweight boxing’s most absorbing contests, it was because—in a sense—it was. In the corner of the intransigents with a folded white towel on the shoulder was Pius X’s secretary of State, Rafael Merry del Val. Calling the shots in the corner of the moderates was Pietro Gasparri, Benedict’s secretary of State.
Michelangelo frescoed the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling with, to mention but two, the story of creation and the Last Judgement. During the 1922 conclave, which got underway on the evening of February 2, it was not until a 14th ballot was deposited—a whole four days later—that members of the College of Cardinals were spared the now familiar sight of Michelangelo’s flowing brushwork. But before the chimney installed on the roof of the Sistine Chapel belched out white smoke, concessions had to be made. Kertzer wrote thus: “In the middle of the conclave, when the zelanti realised that neither Merry del Val nor any other of their candidates would prevail, they too decided to meet secretly with Achille Ratti. They seem to have thought that, as someone not identified with either of the two factions, he could be a successful compromise candidate.
They also thought they could more easily influence someone with so little experience in the Church hierarchy, especially if he were to attribute his election to their support.” Further noting of the moment when Ratti passed the two-thirds mark, Kertzer writes: “Fifty-two cardinals formed concentric circles around the stunned cardinal as he sat straight in his chair, head tilted down as if his shoulders bore a new weight. The cardinal deacon asked the obligatory question in a voice that even the most hard-of-hearing could make out: ‘Do you accept the election that selects you canonically to be the supreme pontiff?’ Ratti did not respond immediately, and some of the cardinals grew nervous. After a full two minutes, he raised his head and replied in Latin. His voice trembled with emotion. ‘While deeply aware of my unworthiness,’ he began. The cardinals knew that they had a new pope.”
The here and now More than a century later, as the latest College of Cardinals readies itself for a papal election, following the death of Pope Francis on Easter Monday, it would hardly be revisionist to draw parallels between 1922 and 2025. True, it is a stretch likening the conservative cardinals and liberal cardinals split to the chasm between the intransigents and the moderates in 1922. But the rise of populism gleefully championed by Benito Mussolini on the one hand and Donald Trump on the other hand? Not so much so. Kertzer’s fascinating account contests the widely held view that the Catholic church, under Pius XI’s papacy, and liberals shared a sincere repugnance for fascism. In an account that leaves one with a deeper understanding of Italian history in all its darkness and its promise, Kertzer argues—convincingly—that in fact much of fascist ideology was inspired by Catholic tradition.
He counts the small but perceptible glimmer of mistrust and suspicion of the Jews amongst the forms of inspiration Mussolini and his acolytes picked from the Catholic church. Eight months after Ratti was elected pope, Mussolini steamrolled his way to the Italian premiership. Kertzer uses colourful vignettes in the portrayal of Mussolini’s coming-of-age story. Two vignettes particularly stand out—one when the dictator of Fascist Italy was still finding his feet and the other when he had just become prime minister. Vignette one: “In Lausanne in 1904, Mussolini agreed to debate a local Protestant pastor on the existence of God. After trying to impress his audience with citations ranging from Galileo to Robespierre, he climbed onto a table, took out a pocket watch, and bellowed that if there really was a God, He should strike him dead in the next five minutes.” Vignette two: “At [Sir Ronald] Graham’s reception, Mussolini made his way through the eight-course dinner by watching Lady Sybil, the ambassador’s wife. She soon realised what he was doing, as he followed her with every move of his fork and knife.
Although he was momentarily taken aback when she brought her little soup cup to her mouth rather than use one of the innumerable spoons to drink it, he followed her lead.” Eventually, Pope Pius XI drew a line in the sand. In January of 1939, he called a gathering of bishops on the 10th anniversary of the Lateran Accords and intended to call out Mussolini for his, among others, anti-Semitism. The Lateran Accords was a historic agreement that had Pope Pius XI and Mussolini sign on the dotted line in 1929 in a bid to restore relations between Rome and the Holy See to their proper channels. Kertzer describes an 81-year-old Pope Pius XI hunched over his desk, underlining passages in a speech he badly wanted to deliver. He did not—dying on the eve of the D-day. And, unsurprisingly, Mussolini asked that Pius XI’s desk be cleared, a request that Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli (soon to be Pope Pius XII) consented to. The rest, as they say, is history. But will history repeat itself? It often does, no?
