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New Europe. The Pope consciously showed that his church was above the war by choosing three cardinals each from victorious France, defeated Germany and neutral, totalitarian Spain. But once more he was practical as well as spiritual: in France and Germany he took care to pick shining lights of the resistance. Outstanding selections: small, half-paralyzed Archbishop Jules-Géraud Saliege of Toulouse, who during France's occupation openly attacked German treatment of Jews and conscription of Frenchmen; massive, blue-blooded Bishop Clemens August von Galen of Munster, whose anti-Nazi sermons and pastorals nearly cost him his life; benign, bald Bishop Konrad von Preysing of Berlin, who, when the Nazis came into power, said publicly: "We have fallen into the hands of criminals and fools." Typical Spanish appointment: small, bespectacled Archbishop Enrique Pla y Deniel of Toledo, who was the first prelate appointed in Spain after Franco signed his agreement with the Vatican in 1941, and whose palace at Salamanca Franco used as headquarters during part of the civil war.
In selecting two red hats for the Red-dominated part of Europe, Pius showed again that he knew exactly what he was doing. Poland's courageous, 78-year-old Archbishop Adam S. Sapieha had shared his people's sufferings and welcomed the Red Army. Hungary's new Primate, Archbishop Joseph Mindszenthy, had been imprisoned by the Nazis.
Nor did the Pope neglect the traditionally Protestant part of Europe. Britain's stocky, genial Bernard Griffin, 46, was the youngest cardinal appointed; Archbishop Johannes de Jong of Utrecht was the first Dutch diocesan to receive the red hat since the Reformation.
New Clothes. As further innovation, the Vatican last week said that the Pope had decided to abandon the usual custom of holding the consistory in private. To show that world brotherhood was both necessary and attainable, the ceremony would be held in St. Peter's. Thus on Feb. 18 spectators would see cardinals from the 19 nations—including French and German—publicly embrace in accordance with ritual and exchange the "kiss of peace."
Unhappiest man in Rome the day the list came out was Signor Gammarelli, the thin, clear-eyed tailor who has the arduous task of supplying cardinals with all the paraphernalia of a prince of the church. Even in the best of times a cardinal's wardrobe costs about $4,000, from his moire silk skullcap to his red silk socks and red morocco, silver-buckled shoes. Since one complete costume (a cardinal usually has a half-dozen or more) takes up to 30 yards of material, and Italy's weavers are still short of supplies, Gammarelli feared there would not be enough for all the cardinals "unless they ruthlessly cut down their wardrobe." First to place his order was Palermo's Archbishop Ernesto Ruffini, who knocked at the tailor's door the very morning he heard the happy news. Said Gammarelli last week: "I would want to satisfy them all but they will have to be patient and make do a bit."
?*There has never been, a Hadrian VII—except in "Baron Corvo's" brilliant, perverse novel about an English Pope who chose that title.