But I think he was not eager at all to go to Rome right away. He actually wanted to convince the Pope to leave him in Munich, and again and again he gave him good reasons to do so. But John Paul II only said that Munich was important but Rome was even more important, and that settled the matter for him.
In fact, my brother had a new, major, and very important task there. His predecessor, Cardinal Ottaviani (1890-1979), had not had a very positive reputation. At that time, people had the impression that the Holy Office, as it was still called in his day, actually steered opinion a bit too narrow-mindedly. Later, I understood that this was a mistake that arose only from a particular perspective but was not accurate. Whenever there is order somewhere, then there are always those who disturb that order, do not understand it, or else deliberately refuse to accept it. I only gradually became aware of the fact that order, in the sense of clarity and truth, must then be created over and over again. The motto that my brother had selected already as Archbishop of Munich, “Cooperatores veritatis”, was to that extent programmatic and directly addressed this point and his task in Rome.
John Paul II, who had read every single Ratzinger book in the original language and was much better acquainted with the German than the latter was with him, demonstrated excellent leadership qualities with his choice. Ratzinger complemented him perfectly and embodied everything that he was not. For no two men could have been more different than the athletic Pole and the delicate German. The charismatic, extroverted “John Paul Superstar” was a “pope you can touch” who wanted to embrace the whole world—whereas Ratzinger was always a quiet, introverted individual, a timid man with a fine intellect who shied away from publicity. The one was a mystic and a poet, the other a theologian and an analytic mind. The great heart of the Church and her razor-sharp intellect: the weaknesses of the one were the strengths of the other.
With German thoroughness, Ratzinger devoted himself to his new task. First, he rejuvenated and internationalized his congregation, appointed canon lawyers and theologians from all five continents who had just come from the university. Ultimately, his staff consisted of thirty-nine regular co-workers. The working relationship was collegial. For each one he had an open ear, and important questions were often discussed in a small circle during the coffee break, where the exchange could become quite controversial. One close collaborator said: “It never mattered to him if someone called his opinion into question. He was anything but stubborn and always willing to admit a mistake. He listened to his interlocutor patiently and thoroughly, then carefully formulated his response in prose that was always ready to print. When he wrote, he wrote the clean copy immediately, without having to revise it even once, such was his concentration on what he was doing. In a certain way he is a genius.”
The Romans loved him even in those days because he never took himself too seriously. They knew that he rose in the morning around six and went to sleep in the evening at around ten. They saw how he walked to work every morning across Saint Peter’s Square with his worn-out leather briefcase under his arm. When tourists took him for a routine priest and asked him something, he answered in a friendly way. Since he speaks ten languages, he could say something to anyone, and his French is so good that many a tourist thought he was a Frenchman. “Father, do you know where the pope lives?” “Yes, up there. The last three windows of the top story.” “Thank you, Father. We wish we could be there now. Don’t you?” The Cardinal laughed slyly but said nothing. He used to see the Pope at least once a week.
In the afternoon, he would stroll through the old quarter across from Saint Peter’s Square, the “Borgo Pio”, where he knew everybody. Often he would stop to greet the shop owners. A Bavarian in Rome. His favorite restaurant was still the Cantina Tirolese, where there was hearty Alpine food at low prices, for instance, dumplings or goulash with sausages. Yet he abstained almost entirely from alcohol. The Italians watched with mild horror as he ordered a glass of orange juice even with fish. His pride and joy were the flowerbeds on the terrace of his simply furnished apartment. His passion was his piano, on which he played Mozart to relax. His heart, however, belonged to the cats of the district. Thus “il tedesco”, “the German”, slowly became a Roman among Romans. The neighbors generously overlooked the thing about the wine.
He did not change much in Rome; over the years, he was actually very constant and always remained true to himself. I do not know how he adjusted to the work; I deliberately did not meddle in his professional duties. But other than that, it was not such a big change at all. He systematically continued along his path, even though it was now for a different goal and in a different style. He succeeded at that rather harmoniously.
He had a very good relationship with the Pope; every Friday he went to his apartments for an audience. In the Vatican it is arranged so that on Mondays the Cardinal Secretary of State visits the Pope, on Tuesdays the second-in-command from the Secretariat of State, and so forth. On each day of the week, a different high-ranking Curia official comes for an audience and to give a report, and on Fridays the Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith had his turn. I often accompanied him on his walk as far as the entrance to the Vatican at the Porta Sant’ Anna. But he never spoke much about it. He esteemed John Paul II very highly, not only his kindness and humanity, indeed, his almost fatherly character, but also his erudition.
It is only partially true that he used to feed the cats in his neighborhood. Roman cats are all very shy. On the other hand, it is true, and there are witnesses, to the following: every Thursday he used to celebrate early morning Mass in the Campo Santo, the church of the German cemetery on the grounds of the Vatican, and a cat would sit there in the cemetery and wait for him. It was there only on Thursdays. German theologians are lodged in the adjacent building, and they observed this: every Thursday at around the time when he would arrive there, the cat was waiting at the entrance to the Campo Santo to be petted! I must admit that we Ratzingers all like cats very much. A well-behaved “pussycat” is nice to have around! But, as I said, Roman cats are usually very shy.
Now there is another story about my brother having a special relationship with Chico, the tomcat belonging to our neighbor, Herr Hofbauer, but that is not true at all. Chico actually can be rather nasty. At the start he was quite nice, but by now he is rather old and can get quite vicious, and then he scratches and bites. Once my brother was in his house in Pentling, and Chico crept in. Then when my brother wanted to leave, he did not dare carry the tomcat out himself; he called Herr Hofbauer, who had to come and fetch his Chico. For he himself would at most pet him, but no more than that. . . . That Chico is simply a difficult animal with two souls in his breast.
Cardinal Ratzinger’s job in Rome was to define, disseminate, and defend the doctrine of the Catholic Church. He was not entitled to take any unauthorized actions. What the Church believes is laid down both in Sacred Scripture and in an almost two-thousand-year-old doctrinal tradition. In order to make a reliable summary of this teaching readily available to believers throughout the world, John Paul II commissioned him in 1986 to compose an authoritative catechism. After five years of work [by an international team of authors and editors] the volume was ready to be issued in 1991. “Of course, it’s a book produced by human beings that can always be improved,” Ratzinger said, “but it is a good book” (SE 92). It became a worldwide best-seller; in the United States alone more than two million copies were sold. Further documents, for instance, a commentary on the “Third Secret of Fatima” that was first made public in the year 2000 or the declaration Dominus Iesus, were published at the Pope’s behest.
Ratzinger’s team was responsible for making sure that the teaching of the Catholic Church was neither diluted nor distorted. If an official representative of the Catholic Church wrote something that was not in keeping with her clearly defined doctrine, then this had to be pointed out to him. If a professor being paid by the Church who was supposed to be training the next generation of priests was
teaching his own version of Christianity, then that contradicted his employment contract. In any business in the world, it is taken for granted that every co-worker has to abide by the policies of the firm, and those who do not are fired, but when the Church tried to deal with such problems in a similar way, this led to indignation and attacks. The scapegoat then was always Ratzinger, whom the press alternately called “God’s watchdog”, “Panzerkardinal”, and “Great Inquisitor”. “There are nice watchdogs, too”, he once commented with warm humor.
As Prefect, he was never one of those people who are intent on putting others down. “He always spoke in a soft, gentle tone of voice. He never got loud, never gave the impression of being annoyed or furious”, one of his closest co-workers told me. “He is a man without prejudices and ready in principle to speak with anyone. He respects every human being and never attacked the person per se but only an idea he considered wrong. He avoided quarrels and, instead, used to invite an opponent to a meal, so as then to explain to him quite calmly and in great detail where he was wrong, in his opinion. This all happened in a peaceful, friendly, modest way, without anyone having to feel injured or attacked.”
Nevertheless, a certain distorted image developed even in ecclesiastical circles, especially in Germany. Anyone who did not dare to attack the beloved, charismatic John Paul II made Ratzinger his “shadow”. “The Pope would like to,” the story then went, “but Ratzinger does not let him.” This was sheer nonsense, as insiders always knew. “John Paul II was much too much of a stubborn Pole to allow anyone to tell him what to do,” a co-worker said, “much less would Ratzinger have ventured to dictate something to the Pope. He respected him much too much for that, and he considered himself much too unimportant.”
Ratzinger was never a man for politics or intrigue. He always refrained from building up a dynastic power for himself, never pulled strings, and as a matter of principle rejected secretive ties with special groups that considered themselves the new elite. Power, career, and influence had never interested him. His world was books, his goal: the exploration of truth; his life revolved around the faith. Anyone who ever saw him vested for Mass and lined up with other cardinals could see the innocence in his almost childlike features, the simple devotion of his piously folded hands. “He is a man of prayer, one of the few who deserve the adjective ‘God-fearing’ and celebrate Mass with real fervor—a true priest”, the aforementioned co-worker confided to me.
Of course he suffered from the attacks; it is not as if they did not matter to him; he does react to such things. But I never spoke to him about them. Through our very natural, relaxed time together, as it always was, I wanted to push such things into the background and to enable him to gain a certain interior distance from them. At least with me, he should enjoy the normal life he knew and loved. This was especially true after our sister died.
During his first years in Rome, he always used to send her, as I mentioned, to Regensburg for the Feast of All Saints to visit the grave of our parents. In 1991, too, she went back to Pentling and, of course, lived in my brother’s house. On the day after her arrival, the neighbors phoned me and told me that my sister was sick. Naturally I drove there immediately and alerted the doctor, who determined that it was a heart attack. We called for an ambulance, which brought her to the hospital of the Brothers of Mercy. At first they said it was a serious heart attack but that she would get over it soon. But then, on November 2, 1991, Iwas not allowed to go to her room. They told me I should first report to the doctor. She told me my sister had suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and was unconscious. On that same day, in the late afternoon, she died from that hemorrhage. Of course my brother came to Regensburg right away. The Pontifical Requiem took place on November 8, 1991, in the Regensburg Cathedral, and afterward she was buried in our parents’ grave in the cemetery in Ziegetsdorf.
In her obituary, it said that “for thirty-four years she served her brother Joseph at all the stages of his career with tireless devotion and great kindness and humility.”
My brother himself was sick at that time. He suffered from constant headaches and happened to be spending a few days with nuns in the vicinity of the airport. Maria had therefore booked only a one-way flight to Regensburg and intended to plan the return flight separately, because she feared that something could happen to him and he might need her care. In reality, she then died, not he. I do not know whether this fatal blow welded us brothers even closer together, whether it further deepened our good relationship or not. In any case, we knew that from now on we had only the two of us; our family had again become smaller by one member.
After that we intensified even more our efforts to spend our vacation together. There were certain localities we always liked to visit. One of them was Brixen in South Tyrol; we always enjoyed traveling there. Another was Hofgastein (Austria)—he had met the pastor of that locality at a lecture. We also liked to visit the Petrinum, a minor seminary and gymnasium in Linz (Austria). Naturally he always had a pile of work with him, correspondence, and God knows what else.
Nevertheless, we usually had enough time for extended walks and excursions. We were often invited, for instance from Brixen or Linz, to visit some place or other. They would send us a car, and then we always liked to see the sights there. Other than that, we just celebrated Mass together and then had breakfast. In the mornings he would work, and then we had our midday meal, and in the afternoon we went for a walk, if he did not have to work again. Usually, though, it was a lighter daily schedule and a nice time.
In addition, he came to Regensburg regularly, of course, usually three or four times a year. Then we often ate at his place, in his house in Pentling. Fortunately, dear nuns always put something in the refrigerator, because neither of us is a very great cook. Afterward, he washed the dishes and I dried. Then we usually took a little walk and talked meanwhile about God and the world, the news of the day and everyday things. He was very attached to the house, and so, even when he was back in Rome, I would often drive to Pentling on Sundays to check for him whether everything was in order. Usually I telephoned him from there and told him right away that “the house is still standing” and that he had nothing to worry about.
In 1994, after thirty years with the Domspatzen, I bid them farewell. My brother came especially for this occasion to Regensburg, celebrated Solemn High Mass in the cathedral, and gave a beautiful sermon. It was a festive event; every seat in the cathedral was occupied. At the conclusion, the choir, under the direction of a singer from the Mendelssohn Chorus, sang “Denn er hat seinen Engeln befohlen”, a piece that actually is always performed only for very special occasions. There was thunderous applause afterward. That was followed by another celebration, a reception in the Kolping House, at which my brother gave the formal address. There was already a rather melancholy farewell mood, but I was prepared for it. I had already turned seventy, and it is usual for a seventy-year-old priest to go into retirement. So then I followed suit. When the boys went on vacation soon afterward, I took care of moving, together with Frau Heindl, whom I had already hired at the time and who has been my housekeeper ever since.
At that time, I did not want to move to Rome, and even today I have no intention of doing so. Rents there are very high; it is difficult to get a halfway decent apartment; and besides, I speak only a few bits and pieces of Italian. I had actually hoped that my brother would regularly come visit, and that would have been enough for me.
For that was actually his plan. He never wanted to come back to Germany, not even after his retirement, which he hoped to take in 2002. He simply did not want to transport over the Alps the pile of books he had collected in the meantime. Then too, in Pentling he would never have had enough room for that many books. Instead, he wanted to keep living in Rome but also to come more often to Germany and for a longer time, so that we could be together more. Moreover, he intended to write a few more books and to finish other works he had not yet completed. But John Paul II simply did not let him go. Again a
nd again, he asked him to stay in office. And then came the conclave that definitively ruled out all his plans for the future.
Thus the bear of Saint Corbinian, which he already had on his coat of arms as Archbishop of Munich and Freising, in fact became a symbol of his career. It is funny how bears have always played a special role in his life. Starting in 1928, when as a little boy in Marktl he fell in love with the teddy bear in the store window, which he then received as a Christmas present, and later another bear that was a little bit bigger. He liked them very much, his teddy bears; they were always dear and precious to him, so that the bear had a certain place in our family, a very congenial place. And then it turned out well that in the story of Corbinian, a bear appeared again, which at first was the villain and mauled the saint’s pack animal. But then Saint Corbinian evidently reprimanded it so vehemently that the bear felt regret and carried the Bishop’s baggage to Rome. That is a nice story and at the same time a metaphor for my brother’s life, who as Archbishop of Munich and Freising was not only the successor of Saint Corbinian but also the first of his successors who was summoned to Rome permanently, who remained there and was elected the successor of Saint Peter. The bear got his freedom back, but he must carry the burden the dear Lord has imposed on him to the very end. Yet this burden is rich in blessings!
When Pope Benedict XVI visited his Bavarian homeland in September 2006, he took up the image of Corbinian’s bear and explained it with the words of Saint Augustine, “I have become for you a beast of burden, but as such ‘I am always with you’ (Ps 73:23)”, as a metaphor for his own ministry. For precisely by carrying the burden, the Pope said, the animal remains constantly near his employer. Thus the bear encourages him “to carry out my ministry with confidence and joy . . . and to say my daily ‘yes’ to God. . . . Saint Corbinian’s bear was set free in Rome. In my case, the Lord decided otherwise.”
My Brother, the Pope Page 19