I did have some free time during the summers, and that was when my mother would take me and several of my siblings on pilgrimages to some of the great shrines in Canada. We went to Montreal one summer, and I actually got to meet Blessed Brother Andrè, who is responsible for building the incredible Oratory of St. Joseph on the slope of Mount Royal. Blessed Brother Andrè was a simple porter for forty years at the College of Notre Dame-du-Sacrè-Couer in Cotes-des-Nieges. He did not know how to read or write until he was twenty-five years old, but he had a renowned spiritual gift for healing. He shook hands and talked with everyone at the doors of the oratory, and he always concluded his remarks with, “Pray to St. Joseph.” He was a very holy, very simple man.
In 1935, I received my AB degree in philosophy after completing a dissertation on “The Concept of Immortality in the Writings of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.” The following year, I received my master’s degree in philosophy. That commencement marked a new era in my life. Each year the Archdiocese of Baltimore — including at the time Washington, D.C. — would send two seminarians (with stellar academic records) to the North American College in Rome to complete their studies for the priesthood. At the end of my final year at the Basselin, I knew, thanks to my good marks, that there was a possibility that I could be sent to Rome. Following normal procedure, Archbishop Curley decided that Johnny Linn, a student from Baltimore, and I would make the cut. I was completely thrilled. My sister Mary, knowing the value in seeing the heart of the Church and expanding my world view, had encouraged me to focus and do my best. And, as usual, Mary was right.
CHAPTER 4
Four Years in Rome
Johnny Linn and I embarked for Rome in September 1936 from Hoboken, New Jersey, aboard the S.S. Exochorda, a combination freighter-passenger vessel of the Export Line. It was the season for the equinoctial storms. These are violent rainstorms that occur at or near the time of the equinox (where the sun is directly above the earth’s equator), normally occurring around March 20 and September 23 each year. Just a half-day out of port we encountered a hurricane that blew us almost all the way to southern Europe. Few meals were eaten, and the porthole in our cabin, punched open by a swell, left us swamped. The ship’s roller coaster movement was so intense that the dining room staff had to wet tablecloths to keep plates and cups from slipping off the table and crashing to the deck. Eventually, we arrived at Naples, where we were escorted to Rome by Charlie Gorman, a third-year seminarian from Baltimore (stopping long enough in Naples to see Mount Vesuvius and visit the Shrine of Our Lady of Pompeii where, inside the door, a mother breast fed her baby while saying her prayers — welcome to Europe).
The North American College in Rome was located in a 400-year-old building at Number 30 Via dell’ Umiltè, named after a stunningly beautiful painting in the chapel, Our Lady of Humility, by Guido Reni. Following a brief stay there, we traveled to the College’s summer villa for seminarians — the Villa Caterina — located close to Castel Gandolfo, the pope’s summer residence. Besides a swimming pool and tennis courts, the view of Rome from the main building was spectacular. Though peaceful, the feeling among the Italian populace was anything but serene. Adolf Hitler, in the midst of his rabid campaign to conquer the world, had convinced Benito Mussolini, following “jackal-like,” to share in the spoils of his conquests. The war in Spain, meanwhile, also winding up, had unleashed divisions of soldiers throughout Europe. Everyone, it seemed, proclaimed a political aim and wore a uniform — myself included. While each seminary had its own distinctive garb, ours, a black cassock, trimmed in light blue with a red sash, was particularly so. As a result, we dubbed ourselves “bags,” derived from the Italian world bagarozzi (meaning cockroaches), a derisive term used by anticlerical Italians.
In October, we packed up and left the villa to return to Rome and the North American College, where we would begin our studies. “Packing up,” in this instance, was literal: that is, picking up your actual mattress and clothes, which were loaded onto a truck and, entering via the rear of the college, dumped on the ground. Instantly, a mad scramble ensued as each seminarian fought to grab a good mattress and haul it off to his room. Our first Christmas at the College, meanwhile, taught us to be thankful for small favors. Due to inconsistent heat and electricity, we were forced to wash and shave in water so cold it barely remained liquid. As it turned out, the College, aiming to impress visitors to the annual ordinations, turned on the heat only in December. All classes at the Gregorian — an old Jesuit university commonly called the “Greg” — were conducted in Latin, as well as Hebrew, which was also taught from a Latin text. Both the College and the “Greg” were a mere stone’s throw from the famous Palazzo Venezia, the office of Mussolini.
Mussolini, a classic demagogue, was a real piece of work. Only five feet seven, he never addressed his troops from street level, instead, elevating himself in the public eye by sitting on a horse or standing on the second-floor balcony of the Palazzo Venezia, where he would whip his audience into a frenzy. When Italian soldiers appeared in the piazza below his balcony, he would incite them. Since each carried a short sword, the end of Mussolini’s orations, detailing his plan to restore the former glory of Rome, were marked by soldiers, trained to punch their swords into the air, shouting: “Duce! Duce! Duce!” If the cheers weren’t loud enough, Mussolini disappeared inside. Seconds later, when one of his stooges popped out on the balcony, the people would cheer, and Mussolini, depending on how he felt, would return for an encore — or five or six. While overrating Hitler, Mussolini underrated England and France. Moreover, he had his own goals: restoring the Roman Empire, where he would be enshrined in the pantheon of famous Roman emperors.
Seminarians from the Archdiocese of Baltimore in the North American College. I am standing on the far left
My first walk in Rome was, of course, to St. Peter’s Basilica, which was simply overpowering. Exhausting every faculty of my mind and heart, I tried to grasp its enormous scale and breathtaking beauty. St. Peter’s was not only an unbelievable work of art, engineering, and history, it was, above all else, an inexhaustible source of inspiration. It is not simply the size of St. Peter’s that is the source of its grandeur but also the congruity of every unique element of the whole piazza: the stupendous church that stands like a creed (credo) of faith; the arc of the Colonnade of Bernini, which welcomes the human family to its place of worship; the paved surface of the piazza that conveys charm to its visitors. Of course, the Scavi — or underground excavations — attest to the presence of St. Peter, the first Vicar of Christ on earth and our pastor in the faith. As a Washingtonian, the dome of St. Peter’s bespoke the capitol of the United States. Not surprisingly, there was an architectural legacy responsible for that similarity. Christopher Wren had Michelangelo’s dome of St. Peter’s in mind when he designed St. Paul’s Cathedral in London in the late seventeenth century, and Thomas Ustick Walter, the architect of the Capitol dome in the 1850s, was inspired by Wren’s design. Not surprisingly, all roads led back to Michelangelo.
After a few visits and prayer sessions, I finally began to comprehend St. Peter’s. And it became a home — one that never dulls but continually uplifts the soul with a fresh surprise or thrill. In short, it possesses the spirit of God, never lacking inspiration, never growing old. The tomb of St. Peter, the Pieta, the Blessed Sacrament chapel, the underground excavations (Scavi), mosaics, and marble were stunning. But the discreet feature that truly epitomizes St. Peter’s is the near invisible mosaic directly above the central front door — the Navicella (little boat) — a respresentation of Christ rescuing St. Peter during the storm on the lake. Having bade St. Peter to come to Him across the water, Christ is saving Peter as he begins sinking from lack of faith. As such it typifies the history of the Church: “It is battered but never sinks.” That treasured mosaic was preserved from the old St. Peter’s and placed in the new basilica