When I was a kid I coveted a small plaster bust that had pride of place in my granny’s display cabinet alongside souvenirs of holidays in Bray and the tea service she got for a wedding present.
The little figure had a hooked nose and a severe look. He seemed very regal.
My grandad was no monarchist, but this guy had been crowned in a lavish ceremony attended by other heads of state; world leaders and celebrities craved his attention; and hundreds of millions looked to him as their father protector.
The name inscribed on the plinth was Pius XII.
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I don’t know where the statue is now – do you have it Uncle Larry? –but I have outgrown my childish fascination with it, and I now know a little more about the man they call Hitler’s pope (Given how quiet the news is over Christmas, I am sure the editor will welcome a tide of letters on this subject.)
Pius was dead and buried in his triple coffin by the time I was born, but – as someone said in another context – he hasn’t gone away you know. Historians are poring over his record.
Pope Pius XII pictured in St Peter's SquareThe first pope of my lifetime was the avuncular John XXIII – now a saint. I........