Luis Rocha - Papal decree

Hans Schmidt was advised by relatives and friends, ‘Careful what you say or write. It could cost you.’

His friends, the few who remained, were starting to avoid him. Persona non grata may have been too strong a term, but what did you call someone who was no longer invited by his social circle and relatives?

His mother would have sympathized if she were still alive. His father was unknown. He had grown up without a permanent male presence in the outskirts of the capital, in Essling, during the Second World War. Everything was excusable in that era, even abandoning a pregnant woman. Fortunately, he didn’t remember those times very well, but he remembered the Cafe Landtmann and seeing his real father with his wife and three small children one day when he returned from the seminary. What a dedicated father! He didn’t glance at Hans, maybe didn’t recognize him. He tenderly wiped away the kisses of his youngest child, ignoring his oldest there, looking at him, the fruit of another life. He didn’t remember now how he knew he was his father. His mother would have agreed with what Hans said or wrote, even though she was profoundly Catholic and devoted to the good Pope John, God protect him.

The Ringstrasse seemed different to him today. Full of life as always but with different nuances. Or that was his impression. He passed in front of the Landtmann and let himself look inside, as he did on that far-off day when he saw his father. Maybe he would still be there, decrepit, frozen by the years? He never saw him again after that return from the seminary. He wouldn’t be there today. Almost every table was occupied, but nobody fit the description. He was probably sleeping in peace in some cemetery in Vienna. Freud would have enjoyed Hans. Freud would have liked to analyze him there at one of the tables in the Landtmann he frequented. He wouldn’t have a coffee today, or leaf through the books in Thalia, either, or the newspapers.

He limited himself to walking, tasting the cold weather that conquered the city. The sun would yield to twilight and set at the time people gathered together at home to relax, eat, smile, and cry. Vienna at the close of day, the same as in every other city in the world, although with a charm of its own. Hans remained a little longer on the Ringstrasse, watching the people, the window displays, the lives passing by, absorbed in themselves and nothing else.

A difficult battle in a lost war awaited him. He had no illusions. Age had brought him wisdom and perspective. He didn’t feel lonely in spite of having no one left. He was living well and in peace, giving himself to others without asking anything in return. Perhaps that was why he felt so much. The formal summons sent three months before would not silence him.

To the attention of the reverend Father Hans Matthaus Schmidt,

The congregation directs the above-inscribed subject to appear for a standard hearing for the purpose of clarifying some doubts concerning the volumes authored by him The Man Who Never Existed and Jesus Is Life, which, according to the preliminary opinion of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, contain erroneous and dangerous propositions.

Rome, the seat of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, June 29, 2010, the day of the martyrs Saint Peter and Saint Paul.

Signed,

William Cardinal Levada

Prefect

Luis F. Ladaria S.I.

Titular Archbishop of Thibica

Secretary

Over the last one hundred days, he’d had a lot of time to read the cold text. And the day chosen to send him the notice didn’t seem innocent, either. The Day of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, the most important after Christmas, the birth of Our Savior Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of the Universe. It could be either an encrypted message or his own paranoia.

Hans took an envelope from the pocket of his cassock. From the quality of the paper it might be mistaken for the summons referred to above, but that was in his briefcase at his residence, ready to go on the trip with him. This one came from the same place, the Holy See, but in place of a formal return address without capital letters, it had a seal with a red background. A miter with triple crown, topped by a gold cross, a white stole that hung down from the crown to come together below with two interlaced keys, one silver and the other gold. The keys that open the kingdom of heaven. Those versed in coats of arms, blazons, and symbols would recognize these in the blink of an eye, since they are the most famous next to those of the Supreme Pontiff. They indicate an envelope from the secretary of state of the Holy See.

Hans pulled out a paper and reread it. He did this often these days. It didn’t take long, and as soon as he finished he understood the reason the Ringstrasse seemed different to him. From there in a few hours he would catch a flight to Rome. The next day he would not be here to admire the movement, life, and lights, he wouldn’t be buying a hot coffee in the Cafe Schwarzenberg, the oldest in Vienna, nor would he be browsing through books at Thalia. He wouldn’t feel this cold and watch his breath make clouds of vapor in the air.

It was good-bye. An unknown departure, indeterminate, of which he didn’t know the outcome. Who knew what would happen. If man planned, God smiled.

He felt good, at peace. Before turning his back on the Ringstrasse, he tore up the paper and envelope and threw them in a garbage can.

‘What’s it going to cost me to go sooner and help a friend?’ he murmured while he walked to his residence. ‘To give without regard to whom.’

If someone had looked over Hans Schmidt’s shoulder while he read over the letter, and no one did, he wouldn’t have been able to read the hasty scribble, but the signature

wouldn’t have fooled anyone: TARCISIO BERTONE, S.D.B.

His slow steps showed the heavy weight of years. He considered himself well preserved for his age, but he couldn’t fool himself about his own unsteady strength, which he tried hard to hide. His steps had brought him a long way so far, to places he never longed for in his youth, when distances seem shorter than they are.

The small chapel was for his use alone, only for him or whomever he wanted to invite. A statue of Christ at the back on the altar defined the space. Six feet of Carrara granite from which the sculptor, believed to be Michelangelo, removed the excess stone to reveal this immense Christ. His head hung toward His right side with an expression of suffering set there four hundred years ago. Human cruelty. Certainly this was not just any statue by any sculptor. It was Christ in person, in His divine aspect, whom he saw and to whom he prayed whenever he entered the chapel and knelt at His gleaming feet. He did it every morning and night, but today required a special prayer, and he dragged himself along the corridor. He was bending under the effort and worry. This was not an ordinary end of the day. They were never the same, but this one brought an additional weight.

‘Your Eminence,’ Trevor, one of his younger assistants, in a black cassock, called out at the door of the study.

His Eminence raised his hand in an abrupt, rude gesture that called for silence and entered the door of the chapel in front of him. He knelt at the feet of the angelic Christ, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head more in mercy than in reverence. He whispered an unintelligible litany for a few moments until he realized he was not alone. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

‘Can’t I pray in peace?’ he protested without looking behind him.

‘It’s not time to pray, Tarcisio,’ the other person replied, dressed identically in the scarlet uniform of a prince of the church.

‘Maybe not, but, certainly it’s something we do less and less,’ Tarcisio argued.