The influence of Roberto’s conspiracy-driven mindset began to make Mario’s head whirl. Except this was different—Mario had truly stumbled onto something substantial. The evidence was right there, glaring at him in black and white. In this new light, Roberto’s outlandish theories, once dismissed as crazy ideas, suddenly didn’t seem so far-fetched.
Mario had been too naive, too trusting in his belief that the Catholic Church was a haven of peace and tranquility. The proof was undeniable—those in power had hidden their corruption behind the glory and honor of basilicas, cathedrals, and churches.
The word ‘basilica’ echoed in Mario’s mind. An honored title, bestowed upon a church of special spiritual, historical, or architectural significance. Now the term dripped with hypocrisy. The pope himself granted this title, a mark of honor that remained with the church in perpetuity. Could this too be a cunning ploy by the Vatican, a means of concealing something within these specially titled churches scattered across the globe? Nothing seemed too far-fetched now.
Mario’s unwavering faith in the Catholic Church had been shattered and replaced by a newfound skepticism. He was seeing the Church with new eyes. Critical eyes. Roberto’s eyes.
With a newfound determination, he opened the journal. He was no longer a mere pawn in a grand chess game orchestrated by an institution claiming to be his protector; he was now a player in a game of subterfuge and deceit that had far-reaching implications, affecting billions of unsuspecting souls across the globe. The magnitude of the deception was staggering. How many years, decades, or even centuries had this charade been going on? Was it still happening today?
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Mario prepared himself for the revelations that lay ahead. He began to read where he’d left off the previous day, his eyes scanning the pages with a newfound intensity.
14 September 1924
The Art of War
#23 Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance.
The seed has been sown. Hitler’s obsession with the Führermuseum shall be the catalyst that propels the Council’s mission.
Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli
Chapter 28
14 September 1924
Munich, Germany
“Your collection of art is truly magnificent,” Hitler said, his eyes drinking in each piece of artwork adorning the cardinal’s library.
“Thank you. I’ve devoted considerable effort amassing this collection,” the cardinal responded, a hint of pride in his voice.
Art had always held a magnetic pull on Hitler, even as a child. Despite the brutal beatings from his abusive father, young Adolf’s rebellious spirit never wavered from wanting to nurture his artistic talents.
Hitler scrutinized every detail of the Monet hanging on the wall. He was captivated by its intricate brushstrokes, the masterful interplay of light and shadow, the spatial imprecision. A pang of jealousy stirred within him at Monet’s natural skill.
“I see you’re quite taken with my Monet. It’s an original, naturally.”
“Very impressive, Your Excellency. Art has always been a passion of mine.”
“Tell me about this passion,” Pacelli urged, sensing the opportunity to gain more of the leverage he needed over Hitler. With Hitler’s deepest desires exposed, Pacelli could manipulate him along the path to power, thereby advancing the Council’s grand plan.
“My father never permitted me to chase my dream,” Hitler confessed, his voice tinged with a melancholic remembrance of that oppressive chapter of his life. “When I was about seven, he enrolled me in a technical school. But I yearned to attend a classical school and become an artist. I thought that my poor grades would force him to withdraw me from the technical school and enroll me in the classical one instead.”
“Did you ever make it into the classical school?”
“No. My father passed away when I was just thirteen. After that, my inclination towards that art school dwindled,” Hitler confessed, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face.
“And then what happened?” Pacelli probed, eager to delve deeper into Hitler’s hidden desires.
“When I turned sixteen, I passed the final exam and bid farewell to my school days, vowing never to return,” Hitler shared, his voice heavy with the weight of his past. Suddenly tiring of standing, he moved away to seek the comfort of the leather chair in front of Pacelli’s desk.
Pacelli’s gaze followed Hitler, observing his somber demeanor as he sank into the chair. The cardinal remained silent, providing a safe space for Hitler to continue his narrative.
“At the age of eighteen, I applied to the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna only to face rejection twice,” Hitler confessed, his gaze dropping as he relived the crushing disappointment of his dreams.
“That must have been traumatic.”
“Nothing compared to the devastation of losing my mother that Christmas,” Hitler admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Still, in the presence of the cardinal, Hitler felt a sense of security. It was as if he could share his deepest secrets without fear of judgment. Pacelli seemed to truly listen and understand him, much like his mother had.
“After that, I embraced a bohemian lifestyle,” he said, his posture straightening as he recalled this transformative phase of his life. “I believed that was how true artists should live, and I wanted to experience it firsthand.” He looked up at Pacelli, searching for any signs of disapproval, but all he found was empathy and understanding in the eyes of the esteemed diplomat. It was clear why Cardinal Pacelli was a respected ambassador of the Vatican in Germany.
“I attended Wagner’s opera production, Lohengrin, ten times,” Hitler said, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into his voice. This opera was one of his favorites by the renowned German composer.
“Is that so? Amazing. I had the extraordinary honor of attending his awe-inspiring opera Tristan and Isolde,” Pacelli said, sharing his reverence for the brilliant composer.
Hitler, visibly moved, leaned forward in his seat, his eyes sparkling with exhilaration. “Then you understand my sentiment. He is not just a composer, but the epitome of musical genius,” Hitler proclaimed, perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovering a shared passion with the esteemed cardinal.
“You mentioned earlier the Academy in Vienna rejected your application not once, but twice?”
“Yes.” Hitler’s demeanor hardened, his face a mask of stoicism at the painful reminder.
“What if the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts wasn’t the only path to recognition?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Your Excellency.”
“What I’m suggesting is, what if you were to establish your own museum?” Pacelli watched as the gears in Hitler’s mind began to turn, his face illuminated by the tantalizing prospect.
