The Fallen Angel (25 page)

39

VATICAN CITY–JERUSALEM

A
S LEADER OF A SOVEREIGN
country, the pope has a post office, a mint, a small army, a world-class state museum, and ambassadors stationed at embassies around the world. He does not, however, have an airplane. For that, he must rely on the kindness of Alitalia, Italy's troubled national carrier. For the flight to Israel, it lent him a Boeing 767 and rechristened it
Zion
in honor of the trip. His private compartment had four executive swivel chairs, a coffee table piled with the morning papers, and a satellite television that allowed the pope to watch his departure from Fiumicino Airport live on RAI, the Italian television network.

The pope's Curial entourage and security detail sat directly behind him in the business-class section of the aircraft, while the Vatican press corps was confined to economy. As they clambered aboard laden with their cameras and luggage, several were wearing black-and-white-checkered Palestinian kaffiyehs as scarves. The second stop on the pope's busy itinerary would be the refugee camp of Dheisheh. Apparently, the Vaticanisti felt it was important to make a favorable impression on their hosts.

Despite the early-morning departure, Alitalia served a sumptuous in-flight lunch. The priests and bishops devoured the meal as if they had not seen food in days, but Gabriel was far too preoccupied to eat. Seated next to Alois Metzler, he reviewed the protection plans one final time, making a mental list of everything that could possibly go wrong. When the number of nightmare scenarios reached twenty, he closed the briefing book and stared out the window as the aircraft swept low over the Mediterranean toward Israel's verdant Coastal Plain. Five minutes later, as the wheels thudded onto the runway at Ben Gurion Airport, a member of the Vaticanisti shouted, “Welcome to Occupied Palestine!” To which a doctrinaire archbishop from the Secretariat of State murmured, “Amen to that.” Clearly, thought Gabriel, there were some within the Curia who were unhappy over the pope's decision to spend Eastertide in a Holy Land controlled by Jews.

At Donati's direction, Gabriel was to be part of the pope's core protection unit, meaning he would never be more than a few feet from the pontiff's side. And so it was that, as His Holiness Pope Paul VII, the Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, and successor to St. Peter, stepped off his borrowed airplane, he was trailed by the only child of Holocaust survivors from the Valley of Jezreel. Following in the tradition set by his predecessor, the pope immediately lowered himself to his hands and knees and kissed the tarmac. Rising, he walked over to the waiting Israeli prime minister and gave him a vigorous handshake. The two men exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, surrounded by concentric rings of security. Then the prime minister escorted the pope to a helicopter. Gabriel climbed in after him and sat between Donati and Alois Metzler.

“So far, so good,” Donati said as the helicopter rose swiftly into the air.

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “But now the fun begins.”

 

They headed eastward into the Judean Hills, above the winding staircase-like gorge separating Jerusalem from the sea. Gabriel pointed out some of the villages that had seen the worst fighting during Israel's War of Independence; then Jerusalem appeared before them, floating, as though held aloft by the hand of God. The pope peered intently out his window as they crossed the city from west to east, new to old. As they passed over the Temple Mount, the golden Dome of the Rock sparkled in the midday sun. Gabriel showed the pope the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Church of the Dormition, and the Garden of Gethsemane.

“And your son?” asked the pope.

“There,” said Gabriel as they passed over the Mount of Olives.

The helicopter banked gently to the south and flew along the 1949 Green Line, now commonly referred to as the pre-1967 border. From the air, it was plain to see how the border had effectively dissolved after more than forty years of Israeli occupation. In the span of a few seconds, they passed over the mixed Jerusalem neighborhood of Abu Tor, the small West Bank Jewish settlement of Har Homa, and the Arab village of Beit Jala. Adjacent to Beit Jala was Bethlehem. Manger Square was easily visible from the distance, for it was crammed with several thousand people, each one waving a small Palestinian flag. On the roads leading into the city, not a car moved, only the trucks and jeeps of the IDF.

“This is where things are going to get political,” Gabriel told Donati. “It's important to keep things moving, especially since the guest of honor will be the only male dressed entirely in white from head to toe.”

As the helicopter set down, President Mahmoud Abbas and the leadership of the Palestinian Authority waited on a dais outside the Church of the Nativity. “Welcome, Your Holiness, to the ancient land of Palestine,” Abbas exclaimed, loudly enough for the remark to be heard by the reporters standing nearby. “And welcome to Bethlehem and Jerusalem, the eternal and indivisible capital of Palestine.” The pope responded with a noncommittal nod and then greeted the rest of the delegation. Most were clearly pleased to be in his presence, but one, Yasser Abed Rabbo, a former leader of the terrorist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, seemed far more intrigued by the bodyguard who never strayed more than a few inches from the pope's shoulder.

Entering the church, the pope spent a few minutes in silent prayer at the Altar of the Nativity. Then he asked Abbas to show him the damage that had been done to the church in 2002, when a group of Palestinian terrorists seized the sacred Christian site in an effort to evade capture. At the conclusion of the ninety-three-day standoff, Israeli forces discovered forty explosive devices concealed within the church, while Franciscan clerics held hostage during the siege described how the Palestinian terrorists looted the church of gold icons and used pages of the Christian Bible for toilet paper. All this, however, was apparently news to Mahmoud Abbas. “The only damage done to the church,” he insisted, “was done by the Israelis. As you know, they are profoundly anti-Christian.”

“If that is the case,” the pope replied coolly, “why has the Christian population of Bethlehem fallen from ninety-five percent to just one-third? And why are Christians fleeing the territory controlled by the Palestinian Authority at an alarming rate?”

Abbas smiled weakly and looked at his wristwatch. “Perhaps, Your Holiness, it might be a good time to pay a visit to Dheisheh.”

The camp was located about a mile to the south of Bethlehem on a patch of land leased from the Jordanian government after the conclusion of the War of Independence. Originally, some three thousand Palestinians, mainly from Jerusalem and Hebron, lived there in tents. Now, more than sixty years later, the tents had been replaced by cinderblock structures, and the population of the camp had grown to nearly thirteen thousand registered refugees. With unemployment rampant, most were permanent wards of the United Nations, and the camp was a hotbed of militant activity. Even so, the residents cheered the pope as he walked the narrow streets with Gabriel at his side.

At the conclusion of the tour, in the camp's dusty central square, the pope lamented what he described as “the terrible suffering of the Palestinian people.” But in an abrupt departure from his prepared text, he pointedly criticized the failure of three generations of Arab leadership to achieve a just and viable solution to the refugee crisis. “Those who would perpetuate human suffering in the service of politics,” he said solemnly, “must be condemned as strongly as those who would inflict it in the first place.”

With that, the pope blessed the crowd with a sweeping sign of the cross and climbed into an armored limousine for the short drive to Jerusalem. Entering the Jewish Quarter through the Dung Gate, he inserted a plea for peace between the stones of the Western Wall before making his way on foot through the streets of the Muslim Quarter to the Chain Gate, one of the eastern entrances to the Haram al-Sharif. A sign posted by the chief rabbinate of Israel warned that, in its opinion, Jews were forbidden to set foot on the Mount due to its sacredness.

“I never realized,” said the pope.

“It's complicated, Holiness,” said Gabriel. “But in Israel, most things are.”

“Are you sure you want to come with me?”

“I've been here before.”

The pope smiled. “I shudder to think what would have happened to poor little Isaac if it wasn't for you.”

“It was God who spared the boy. The Archangel Gabriel was only his messenger.”

“I hope he sees fit to spare me, too.”

“He will as long as you listen to me,” said Gabriel. “Things can go wrong here in a hurry. If I see something I don't like—”

“We leave,” said the pope, cutting him off.

“Quickly,” said Gabriel.

Though the Waqf controlled the Noble Sanctuary itself, it did not control the entrances, which meant the Israeli government had been able to enforce the Vatican's request that the Haram be closed for the pope's brief visit. As a result, the delegation of Islamic dignitaries waiting on the steps leading to the Dome of the Rock numbered just forty. They included the Grand Mufti, the members of the Waqf's Supreme Council, and several dozen armed security guards, many of whom had links to Palestinian and Islamic militant groups. Within minutes of the pope's arrival, the mufti invited him to pray inside the Dome of the Rock, despite the fact the Waqf had assured the Vatican that no such invitation would be forthcoming. The pope diplomatically declined and then spent several minutes marveling at the building's glorious mosaics and windows. Gabriel quietly pointed out the Arabic-language inscriptions that openly mocked Christian belief and invited all Christians to convert to Islam, which Muslims considered the final and decisive revelation of the word of God.

“Do you read Arabic?” the mufti asked.

“Nein
,” Gabriel replied in German.

The tour complete, the pope and the mufti adjourned to the garden for tea. Alone with the most powerful religious figure in the world, the keeper of Islam's third-holiest shrine used the opportunity to expound upon his oft-stated theory that the Holocaust had never happened and that the Jews were secretly plotting to destroy the Dome of the Rock with the help of fundamentalist Christians from America. The pope listened in stoic silence, but in his public remarks afterward, he called the conversation “most enlightening.” Then, after delivering his planned apology for the murderous excesses of the Crusades, he pointed out that the Israelis were the first conquerors in the history of Jerusalem to leave the status quo of the Holy Mountain unchanged. As a result, he declared, Islam had a special duty to not only care for the mosques that stood on the surface of the Noble Sanctuary, but to protect the sacred ruins that lay beneath it as well.

“All in all,” the pope said, climbing into his limousine on Lions' Gate Street, “I think that went quite well.”

“I'm not sure the mufti would agree,” said Gabriel, smiling.

“He's lucky I didn't lose my temper. You should have heard the things he said to me.”

“We hear it every day, Holiness.”

“But I don't,” the pope replied. “I can only imagine that God made me sit through that drivel for a reason.”

Looking down at a copy of the Holy Father's itinerary, Gabriel couldn't help but wonder whether it was true.

The next stop was Yad Vashem.

 

Donati had set aside one hour for the visit, but ninety minutes elapsed before the pope finished his private tour of the newly designed Holocaust history exhibit. From there, he went to the Hall of Names, the somber repository of information about the dead, and then walked along the Avenue of the Righteous Among Nations and through the Valley of the Communities. In the Children's Memorial, a dark, haunting place of reflected candlelight, he became momentarily disoriented. “This way,” said Gabriel softly. And when the pope emerged once more into the brilliant Jerusalem sunlight, his cheeks were streaming with tears. “Children,” he said. “Why in God's name would they murder little children?”

“Do you need a minute to collect your thoughts?”

“No,” said the pope. “It's time.”

They made their way past the soaring Pillar of Heroism to the Hall of Remembrance. In the plaza outside, several hundred Israeli dignitaries and Holocaust survivors sat facing the simple podium where the pope would deliver the most important remarks of his trip. Owing to the somber location, the mood was funereal. No flags waved, and there was no applause as the pope entered the hall. Following him into the cool shadows, Gabriel felt a sense of peace for the first time since their arrival on Israeli soil. Here in this hallowed chamber of memory, the Holy Father was safe.

The flame of remembrance had been temporarily extinguished. With Donati's assistance, the pope reignited it and then knelt for several moments in silent, agonized prayer. Finally, he rose and made his way outside to the plaza where the crowd was now stirring in anticipation. As the pope approached the podium, Donati removed the black binder containing the prepared text and in its place left a single sheet of ruled white paper. On it were the handwritten notes the Holy Father had made during his final conversation with Gabriel in the Apostolic Palace. The pope was about to deliver one of the most important pronouncements of his papacy without a script.