Reporting for NPR from Rome, I covered the last three popes.
My first encounter with Pope John Paul II was in 1983, when I was a budding radio reporter. It was a ceremonial event welcoming journalists. When he walked by me, I pulled out my microphone, broke the no-question protocol and asked, "When will you visit Russia?" — then still the Soviet Union. The Polish-born pope replied cryptically in Latin and moved quickly on. I was unable to decipher his meaning.
I had much better luck with Pope Francis. In 2015, I was among the Vatican reporters onboard the plane for a papal visit to Cuba and the United States. Shortly after takeoff, Pope Francis came back to the plane's economy section to greet members of the traveling media individually. Several reporters had photos of family members and asked the pope to bless them. Some others raised arcane theological subjects. I had no idea what I was going to say until he came to me.
After stuttering a few niceties, and as he was about to go on to the next reporter, I blurted out, "You know, you and I have something in common." That grabbed his attention. I went on, "both our parents were Italians, and both were anti-fascists. Mine left Italy for the U.S. and yours went to Argentina."
His eyes locked on mine, and I realized he was a very intense listener.
He then told me a story I don't believe had been publicized before then. When his grandparents and their only son Mario decided to leave Italy in the 1920s, they bought tickets for passage on a ship to Argentina. But for some reason they were unable to go on that trip.
A few months later, Francis told me, the Principessa Mafalda ocean liner that they were ticketed to travel on sank off the coast of Brazil in October 1927, killing hundreds.
The family emigrated to Argentina a year and a half later.
It's no surprise that throughout his 12-year papacy, Francis spoke out forcefully on behalf of immigrants, refugees and the dispossessed. He was one of their offspring.
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