by Peter Watson
For the devout, the high point of the service was the chance it offered a few of the faithful to receive the sacraments from His Holiness himself. With such a large congregation, it needed several priests to administer the eucharist. But Thomas took his part, in the centre of the cathedral, and the lucky ones were to remember it all their lives.
Yet that wasn’t what made the headlines later; it was Thomas’s sermon. St Patrick’s has a magnificent pulpit in carved white stone. It was the perfect setting for the announcement.
‘Friends,’ Thomas began after he had climbed the short spiral staircase and gazed out over the faces turned to him. ‘We are today in a magnificent cathedral. We can be grateful, and give thanks to God that St Patrick’s Cathedral is without doubt the most beautiful building on what is, equally certainly, the most striking thoroughfare in the world. I mean, of course, Fifth Avenue. We can give thanks for the marvellous rose window behind you. We can give thanks for the outstandingly fine organ which provides us with timeless music of the ages, making this spot a refuge from the noise and the chaos that threaten us all. But these attractions, wonderful as they are, are still not the features which set this great House of God apart from others in the United States.’ Thomas pointed to his right and raised his voice. ‘Here in St Patrick’s are found the blessed shrines of two saints. On your left the shrine of St John Neumann.’ Thomas now swept his outstretched arm in a wide arc to the other side of the nave. ‘And here is the shrine of St Elizabeth Ann Seton, the very first American-born saint.’
He paused and beamed down at the faces of the congregation.
‘Friends, I have some glad news for you this morning. A piece of Christian news that will cause great rejoicing.’ The congregation stirred, not knowing what to expect.
‘In Rome, though it will soon move to Rio, there is part of the Vatican known as the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. The job of the Congregation is to examine the evidence in those cases where individuals are to be considered for canonization, whether or not they should be regarded as saints. It is a serious task, and can take much time – years, in a few cases, centuries.’ He paused again enjoying himself. ‘But, from time to time, the Congregation reaches a conclusion. And I can reveal to you today that the Congregation recently did reach a conclusion. I have considered the Congregation’s recommendation and approved it. So you who have come to celebrate mass here this morning shall be the first to know that we have a new saint, that he is American and that he is –’ Another pause for effect. Overhead was heard the faint roar of an early jet from La Guardia ‘– Peter Knaths who, as some of you will recall, was a missionary in the old west, the wild west. He rescued a number of outlaws, converted native Indians to Christianity and performed two acknowledged miracles. In one he caused the Holy Virgin to appear before a murderer who at that moment was free, with another man wrongly convicted. The murderer subsequently gave himself up, saving the life of the other man. In the second miracle a sheriff who was mortally wounded was held from death by a similar visitation. St Peter Knaths thus today becomes America’s third saint. His relics are in New Mexico and that is where his shrine shall be.’
As Thomas finished, and before he could bless the congregation, there was an instinctive reaction on the part of some people to applaud. But many of those present didn’t know whether a church was the appropriate place for applause. The result was that a few people applauded, and one or two cheered, but then quickly fell silent.
Thomas laughed at their confusion. ‘It’s good news. I think just this once we ought to cheer.’
And that was the shot the news bulletins carried all day: Thomas laughing as he led the congregation in the cheering. If anything could have enhanced the high esteem he was now held in, this was it. In New York, the news completely overshadowed everything else that day. It overshawdowed the daubings on the walls of Buckingham Palace Garden, it overshadowed the news of the growing bitterness in Northern Ireland, and it completely overshadowed an article on the Op-Ed page of the New York Times by a leading Jewish scholar.
*
Not that David missed the article. He groaned when he opened The Times that morning. He was breakfasting by himself in the hotel and so allowed himself to swear out loud. The article was entitled ‘Why we are going to court over the scrolls’ and was written by a rabbi from Jerusalem, a man who was a recent immigrant to Israel from New York. The piece followed what was for David a familiar line of reasoning – namely that the scrolls did not belong to the government of Israel and therefore could not be sold by them. The scrolls, it was said, dated from a time before the state of Israel, as now constituted, ever existed. If they belonged anywhere, the rabbi argued, they should be in the safekeeping of the Jewish religious establishment. But such artefacts, he concluded, could never be ‘owned’, only held in trust for everyone – not only Jews but people of all religions.
David noted that the rabbi affected a high moral tone throughout his article, yet made no reference to the point of the sale, the high moral purpose to which the money raised would be put. But it was the article’s final paragraph that caused him to hurry to the phone. The paragraph read: ‘These arguments seem to us persuasive. So persuasive that today, on behalf of the Hasidic Biblical Archaeology Society, I am prepared to petition the New York District Court to have the sale stopped and these items withdrawn. I am convinced we can prevent this barbaric auction taking place.’
David made three calls. The first was to Norman Praeger, Hamilton’s attorney. Had he seen the morning paper? Yes, said Praeger and he was already in touch with the court, to find out where exactly the hearing would take place, and at what time.
‘Why didn’t they give us decent warning? There’s hardly time to prepare a defence.’
‘This is New York, David. They don’t have to let us know – that’s up to the court. Presumably they filed their case at the close of business yesterday, pleading urgency in view of the sale date being so close. In the circumstances their article in the paper was an early warning.’
Next, David called the Israeli consul to find out what line his government was taking. The attaché was phlegmatic. The arguments were familiar, he said, the organization was an extreme one, in so far as it was an organization at all and only consisted of the rabbi and one or two others. It certainly did not represent either Israeli public opinion or the general legal view in Jerusalem. He was having telexed from Jerusalem the results of a recent opinion poll which showed that most Israelis thought the sale a good thing. He would be in court with his own legal adviser.
Somewhat relieved, David placed his third call, to Eldon Fitzpatrick at his home. He too had read the piece. ‘I know what you are going to ask me to do,’ he said as soon as he recognized David’s voice. ‘Make twenty-two phone calls, right?’
‘Correct,’ said David. ‘Reassure everybody who might be a buyer that the sale will go ahead, that we are fighting the court action, that the Israeli government is fighting it with us and that the Hasidic Archaeology whatsit is a two-man, two-bit extremist operation. And make sure that all those who haven’t yet viewed the scrolls see them today. Okay?’
David then went to his office – there were more demonstrators today, no doubt as a result of The Times piece, but they were quieter, better behaved, since the focus of attention, temporarily, had shifted to the courts. Praeger came through an hour later to say that the case had been set for eleven thirty a.m. before Judge Fielding, who had a reputation for being rather anti-establishment and was himself Jewish. Praeger didn’t know how to read him.
David talked to London. The Buckingham Palace daubings were making news. Worse, new trustees had been appointed to the National Gallery and the National Galleries of Scotland. They included two board members from Steele’s – but none from Hamilton’s.
At eleven Praeger came into David’s office and they both travelled down to the court in Lower Manhattan together. As David had expected, the press, alerted by The Times piece, was there in for
ce. The attaché, a small, thick-set man, with a high forehead, looked very relaxed, smiled a lot and shook hands with David. ‘It was good of you to come, Mr Colwyn. But I’m sure there’ll be no bother.’
David wished he could be so sure.
The rabbi who had written The Times article was a burly man with a sharp nose and a pair of piercing eyes. Recognizing David, he nodded, none too politely. His lawyer knew Praeger and they exchanged formal greetings.
The case started ten minutes late, by which time David was getting jumpy. The court was an unassuming room, lacking the pomposity of a British court. David and Praeger, having no standing in the case, as simply the agents for the sale, sat in a neutral part of the courtroom, among the general public.
The judge, surprisingly young by British standards, had quick, blue eyes and a wide mouth. His copy of the New York Times was open at the Op-Ed page. He took out a large book and his pen and said, ‘Okay, who’ll start?’
Mordechai Sheinman, the lawyer colleague of the rabbi who had written The Times piece, stood up and put the case. It was, essentially, the same as that advanced in The Times. He argued that antiquities discovered in the ground belong, not to any individual, but to the state – and that meant every citizen, not simply the government of the day. He claimed further that this was even more true in the case of the scrolls since, as they were documents of purely religious significance, if they belonged to anyone in Israel, it was not to the government but to the Chief Rabbi.
Although Sheinman finished without advancing any new points, he made the case seem far more reasonable than the rabbi had in the newspaper and David became seriously apprehensive.
Then the attorney for the Israeli government rose. Lawrence Kohler was a tall man with lanky silver hair and a voice full of warm, generous vowels. ‘I have three points only, Judge, and I needn’t take too much time over it.’ He smiled. ‘First I shall seek to show that the Hasidic Biblical Archaeology Society is not representative of Israeli public opinion on this matter – therefore they do not have the moral authority they claim. Second, I shall seek to show that the Israeli government does own the scrolls, and therefore may sell them if it so wishes. And third, I shall seek to show, though you may deem it inappropriate, that religious authorities in Israel have no objection to this sale.
‘Now to the details of my first point.’ Kohler held up a telex. ‘This came in from Israel, Your Honour, earlier today, from Jerusalem.’ There was a rustle of interest in the public part of the court. ‘It gives the result of an opinion poll conducted in the past few days by a very reputable organization, totally independent, I might say, of the government. The poll shows the results of two questions put to the Israeli people.’ The attorney pulled his spectacles from his jacket pocket and put them on. ‘The first question asked was: “Do you approve of the sale of some of the Dead Sea Scrolls in order to provide funds to help building projects in Gaza, Galilee, the West Bank and South Africa?” Seventy-eight per cent of those asked said they approved, ten per cent disapproved and twelve per cent didn’t know. In other words, Your Honour, far from being outraged, as is claimed in this morning’s New York Times, and as my learned colleague has just argued in this court, Israeli public opinion overwhelmingly supports this sale.
‘Now to the second question. This time people were asked: “Do you think the sale of certain Dead Sea Scrolls marks a significant loss to the religious and archaeological heritage of this country?” To this question seventeen per cent said it was a loss, sixty-seven per cent said wasn’t and the don’t knows stood at sixteen per cent.’ Kohler polished his spectacles with a handkerchief. ‘Clearly, Your Honour, there is no deep sense of loss in Israel that these relics are being sold. People know that there are many scrolls and that by no means all of them are being sold . . .
‘I turn now to a separate piece of paper.’ He held up what looked like another telex above his head. ‘This too came in from Israel this morning. It is a joint statement from the Minister of the Interior and from the Minister in charge of archaeological work in Israel. The statement reads: “Under Israeli law, any archaeological find, whether of religious significance or not, is the property, first, of the state of Israel and, second, if the state is not interested, of the owner of the land on which the discovery is made, provided he or she is an Israeli citizen and resident.” The Minister of the Interior adds a postscript of his own, Your Honour. It reads: “Permission to excavate or cover over any site must be obtained from me. Although I consult with the relevant religious authorities where appropriate, I retain full authority in such matters.”’
Kohler handed both telexes up to the judge. Then he raised yet a third piece of paper. ‘Finally, Your Honour, I have one more statement for the court, this time from the office of the Chief Rabbi in Jerusalem.’
David looked across to the Israeli consul with admiration. Either he had anticipated these troubles or he had worked damned hard that morning.
The lawyer continued, ‘The Chief Rabbi says: “I welcome the opportunity to comment on the sale of archaeological material found in the caves at Qumran, known popularly as the Dead Sea Scrolls, in New York. These materials are clearly of great importance in the history of Israel and, equally clearly, it would be very wrong to dispose of the majority. But that is not the plan. We should remember, too, that the importance in documents of this kind resides less in the materials themselves than in the information they contain. Since these particular documents have been studied now for several years, and their contents published and therefore preserved for all time we see no reason why the sale should not proceed. Indeed, for religious relics to perform such an excellent service for humankind is to be applauded.”’
Kohler put down the paper slowly and took his time removing his spectacles. There was no sound in the courtroom. ‘It is my contention, Your Honour, that the Hasidic Biblical Archaeology Society came here this morning more for the sake of publicity than with any real hope of stopping this sale. As I trust I have shown, the sale is legal. The HBAS is not representative of any substantial body of opinion and it is wrong on matters of law. I therefore contend that the sale should be allowed to proceed – and I go further. In giving your judgement I ask that the Hasidic Biblical Archaeology Society be instructed to pay all costs.’
David tensed. Kohler seemed to have forgotten that the judge was a conservative man, Jewish and would not welcome an attack on the HBAS. As if to confirm his fears, he saw the judge frowning to himself as he finished making his notes. Eventually, he looked up and nodded to the rival attorney. ‘Do you want to come back on any of that, Mr Sheinman?’
Sheinman stood. ‘We do not seek publicity, Your Honour, as I’m sure you realize. We seek only to have the sale stopped. I would add this: the sale, however legal it may look in the eyes of my learned colleague, sets a dangerous precedent. The world, if it has any claim to civilization at all, ought not to be blinded by statistics and opinion polls. The right place for the artefacts of a nation’s cultural heritage is in that nation. There it can inspire future generations. Without a sense of historical continuity, civilization, religion, mean nothing.’
Clever, David thought as Sheinman sat down. Whereas their side had hit the judge with facts, the other side had appealed to his emotions and sense of pride in his religious feelings.
‘I will retire to consider my judgement.’ Everyone rose.
Outside the courtroom no one said much. The Israeli consul still looked relaxed. Kohler was already reading the papers of another case. But David was nervous.
An usher beckoned them back in and the judge reappeared. The two attorneys stood and approached the bench.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the judge, ‘I cannot see any reason to stop the sale. Whether the Israeli government’s actions are popular or not is no concern of this court. My concern is only whether the sellers have the legal right to sell what is on offer. I see no reason to disbelieve a minister of the Israeli government when he takes the trouble to contact the court f
rom thousands of miles away. The appeal to have the sale stopped is therefore dismissed and all costs are to be borne by the plaintiff.’
Immediately, before anyone could say anything, he rose and strode out through his private door.
David went to shake the attorney’s hand. Now that they had won, the Israeli consul looked no more relaxed than he had throughout the entire proceedings. He was delighted, he said, to have no costs to meet. David grinned. As they came out of the courtroom, however, the rabbi-scholar, the man who had written The Times article, approached David.
‘All smiles – eh Mr Colwyn? Well, let me tell you, we’re not finished yet. This was a peaceful attempt to get the sale stopped. Since the court wouldn’t listen to us, we’ll have to try something else. That means Hamilton’s itself comes under attack. Believe me, sir, by the time we’ve finished with you this will cost you far more than it cost us today.’
*
One thing to be said for Quentin’s, the restaurant on the Upper West Side where Bess and David finally managed to have dinner together that night, was that if your reservation was for nine o’clock that was exactly when you were shown to your table. It was one of the few places in Manhattan where the maître de table didn’t abuse his position.
David had not had a good day. After the tribulations of the court battle, he’d had to face the New York correspondents of the British press who wanted his reactions to the Buckingham Palace graffiti. Then he had to worry about the threat that the HBAS would now attack Hamilton’s. All this, he told himself, was a long way from the usual sheltered life of a fine arts enthusiast.
But if he was exhausted, Bess looked stunning. She was wearing a black silk dress, edged with purple piping, like a monsignor’s cassock.
‘I don’t know which to admire more, the Pope’s tour or your dress . . . How was the White House?’