I have never written about my experience with Pope John Paul I, and my special devotion to him. I have though told the story in conversation with family and friends numerous times.
I was in Oslo, Norway when I saw a newspaper with Pope Paul VI’s picture on the front page. The Norwegian word for “dead” was printed next to it. I asked a passerby what it said, and he told me the pope had died. So rather than going to Bergen and seeing the fiords as I had planned, I hopped the next train to Rome. It was a long ride, much of it on my feet or sleeping on the floors and the train was very crowded.
As the conclave of August, 1978 began, I was back in my room on the Janiculum Hill only about a 15 minute walk from St. Peter’s. I knew that there would probably be a couple of votes that first day, and I was able to surmise fairly accurately when the smoke would come billowing out of the makeshift chimney on the Sistine Chapel. So I imposed upon the “Suore tedesche” (the German Sisters) who lived literally a stone’s throw from St. Peter’s to allow me to sit on the roof of their home, drinking limonata and having a clear view of the piazza below. None of us really expected the conclave to end the first day, but I was wary enough not to be absent from anything going on at the time. The smoke was an unusual color the times we saw it, so I wasn’t sure whether I should run to the piazza or not, but I did. There really weren’t all that many people in the piazza that day. When the loggia doors opened and the tapestry was unfurled over the balcony, we finally knew a new pope had been elected. He was announced to be Albino Luciani, who was an unknown to me at that moment. His name of Giovanni Paolo Primo was a complete surprise too. Yes, it was announced as Ioannes Paulus Primus, so I am pretty sure that was the exact name he had chosen for himself, not simply Giovanni Paolo.
I remember being somewhat disappointed. The names we were bantering about in the days previous were other names. Then the new pope came out and gave his first blessing. His voice was so weak, fragile, almost feminine. Again, I was disappointed. I was actually afraid. I thought, “We need a strong man!” The final disappointment that afternoon was that he didn’t address us in the crowd. He just smiled and waved stiffly. He appeared so fragile, retreating back into the basilica.
I lingered in the piazza afterward, not really knowing if something more would happen. Sure enough, it wasn’t long and a couple of paperboys walked in, carrying bundles of Extra editions of the Osservatore Romano with Luciani’s face on the front page. The cost was to have been 200 lire, but those poor boys were literally engulfed by people, reaching and grabbing for a copy. The boys dropped their loads and ran away, and I had a free copy. (I still have it in storage to this day.) It is obvious the publisher did not anticipate a Luciani election. The eight to ten pages of the edition contains only a few columns about Luciani; the rest is general stuff about the papacy.
I went back to my room, knowing I was privileged to have been in a witness to all of this, but strangely disappointed too. The piazza hadn’t been filled; the pope’s voice was fragile; he was an unknown to most of us; the smoke was deceptive; and the conclave was so short.
Little did I know what was to come.
