Chapter Text
10 December 2027, 13:05
Altitude: 2,516 meters.
The black, fist-sized stone in Gänswein's hand was a trilobite fossil. His gloves dulled all sensation, yet he could easily imagine how cold it must feel.
One summer night in 2009, he had picked up a similar fossil and placed it in Joseph Ratzinger's palm. Back then, Ratzinger failed to hold on to it—his fractured wrist was causing him too much pain.
That pain Ratzinger once endured might have been much like the pain now stabbing through Gänswein's right rib.
He drew a deep breath. Tiny ice crystals in the air cut into his throat like splinters of glass, yet his breathing sounded normal—thank God, the broken rib had not punctured a lung. His altimeter showed an elevation of 2,516 meters, the temperature –7°C. In at most three hours, the sun would slip behind the towering outline of the Vorderseespitze, and the temperature would fall even further.
A human being can endure temperatures below –10°C for roughly ten hours.
Which meant that if he stayed curled up in this snow cave, he would die of hypothermia within thirteen hours.
No. He absolutely could not die here. If he had to die, it had to be in Rome.
He tried to push himself up. The moment his arms engaged, a spear of agony shot through his ribs. In the final second before losing consciousness, he remembered Cardinal Schönborn's words before he set off:
"You should not throw yourself into danger now, but wait patiently… Do not let it become a hurried farewell."
That had been three days earlier. They were standing in a meeting room of the Allgemeines Bezirkskrankenhaus (hospital) in Reutte. Reutte is a small town in the Diocese of Innsbruck, not far from Bach, the last stop for climbers heading toward the Fallenbacherspitze (Fallenbacher Peak, see Note 1). But there is no hospital in Bach; any injured climbers are taken to the nearest medical facility—this hospital in Reutte.
Gänswein's presence there was no coincidence, though he was supposed to be in Vilnius, resting for the final week of his sick leave. A skiing collision had left him with two cracked ribs on the right side, and the doctor had told him to stay in bed. But on December 3, he received an email from his former student—now Bishop Hermann Glettler of Innsbruck's canon-law adviser. A lone climber had slipped from the southwestern ridge of Fallenbacherspitze. By the time he was airlifted to the hospital in Reutte, he was barely alive: intracranial bleeding, contused lungs. The doctors had nearly lost hope.
"His family," the student wrote, "remembered the last Angelus address Pope Benedict XVI gave before his resignation, when he said: 'The Lord is calling me to scale the mountain.' So they went to the parish church, lit a candle before Benedict's portrait, and resolved to imitate his trust and obedience at the time of his resignation—placing their fear in God's hands, asking Him to look upon their son for the sake of Benedict's example of faith. And early the next morning, to everyone's surprise, the patient's vital signs stabilized. Bishop Glettler asks that the family and the doctors keep this quiet for now…"
A possible miracle connected to Ratzinger. But the waiting period for his canonization had not yet expired, and no formal investigation could begin (Note 2). Gänswein had hesitated, wondering whether he should write to friends in Rome to ask if he was on the shortlist to serve as postulator. But that night, he had a dream that made him cast the doctor's warnings aside. Without reporting to the Secretariat of State, he boarded a flight to Austria.
He dreamed of Ratzinger. In the dream, Ratzinger's white figure was vivid and alive, his smile as gentle and slightly shy as in life. He stood at the foot of a snow-covered mountain, pointing toward a summit gilded by sunlight, asking Gänswein to take him there.
It was the first time in five years that Gänswein had dreamed of him.
So, on the morning of December 7, Gänswein walked into the Reutte hospital like an ordinary German tourist, dressed in a Patagonia jacket and hiking boots, hoping to visit the injured climber. But the attending doctor refused—no visitors, and no information about the patient's condition.
Gänswein knew perfectly well how to handle such refusals; he had turned away countless audiences on Ratzinger's behalf and knew very well what reasons no one could actually refuse. After a brief conversation with the hospital director, and at the hospital director's request, the attending doctor begrudgingly agreed to speak with him. But as soon as they sat down in a small meeting room, Bishop Glettler and Cardinal Christoph Schönborn, Archbishop Emeritus of Vienna, walked in together—so perfectly timed it almost seemed staged.
Unlike the ceremonial splendor often accompanying high-ranking clerics on official visits, Schönborn wore only a simple black suit, as did Bishop Glettler. Each brought one secretary. With six people squeezed inside, the already small meeting room felt even more cramped.
"I thought… Mr. Gänswein, that it would be only you?" The attending doctor looked as though she had just been forced to swallow a pretzel crusted with coarse salt.
"I apologize, Doctor," Schönborn said gently. "We did not arrange this with Archbishop Gänswein. The director is meeting other guests, so allow me to explain first…"
Schönborn clearly stated their hope to begin collecting evidence regarding a possible miracle. Across the long table, Bishop Glettler and the two secretaries nodded toward Gänswein, their surprise obvious—they had not expected the Apostolic Nuncio to the Baltic States to suddenly appear in Austria. Gänswein nodded back. His eyes met Schönborn's for a brief moment, then quickly moved away.
Schönborn had once studied under Ratzinger; privately, they even addressed each other as "du"—a mark of closeness. But after Gänswein revealed in his memoir that the crucial note persuading Ratzinger to accept the 2005 conclave's outcome had been written by Schönborn, the Cardinal publicly expressed displeasure. Their contact had dwindled to formal letters.
Gänswein was still considering how to break the ice when the doctor began arguing with Schönborn. She held her ground: "For any reason whatsoever, the patient needs quiet, not a miracle commission." Schönborn tried to reason with her: "We respect medical judgment, but if the family agrees, and the patient's condition allows it, the Church has a duty to understand what has happened."
Their voices stayed calm, but neither gave an inch. Finally, the doctor produced the patient's chart and added:
"As for this'miracle inquiry,' it's not something I know much about. But since you've asked for my professional view… I would say he will need at least another week before he is truly out of danger. And we have had patients who died within a month of leaving the ICU because of undetected aortic dissections. To speak of a'miracle' now is premature."
"That is exactly why we want the investigation to begin early."
Gänswein leaned toward her, fixing his eyes on hers, and said slowly, "You yourself had little hope at the beginning, didn't you? Medical knowledge said he shouldn't have recovered this fast. But what if he can walk again next week? Then we must record his progress, to see whether anything exceeds medical explanation. If God is truly watching over him, then the suffering he has endured will not be wasted before God. And for the patient and his family, that is at least some consolation."
The doctor involuntarily leaned back. A faint, unguarded doubt flickered across her face. Bishop Glettler turned his head, looking at Gänswein with curiosity. Schönborn kept his eyes on the table in front of him, hands clasped, expression unreadable.
"I am only a doctor," she finally said, closing the chart. "So, in my view, the greatest consolation is that neither the patient nor their family suffers from any pain. As for this matter, please speak to the director. I will follow her instructions. And if you'll excuse me, I have other patients to see."
"…She may be something of a scientistic rationalist," Bishop Glettler said after the doctor left the meeting room, trying to ease the tension. "She doesn't understand what a miracle means."
"Perhaps," Cardinal Schönborn replied before anyone else could speak. "Bishop Glettler, could you speak with her again? Please ask her not to reveal today's meeting to anyone—especially to the media."
"Of course. I'll go right now. And maybe I can take a look at the ICU from the corridor. I only hope the smell of disinfectant won't be too strong…"
Bishop Glettler had noticed that the Cardinal wanted to speak with Gänswein alone, so he sensibly took the two secretaries with him and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
"Why are you here?"
From the other end of the long table, Cardinal Schönborn spoke first. His voice was rougher than Gänswein remembered—perhaps age had begun to wear on his vocal cords—but it was still steady, revealing nothing of his emotions.
"I was planning to climb the Fallenbacherspitze. I came here to prepare for the ascent," Gänswein answered, calm and composed.
It was not a lie, but it was not the whole truth either. He said it because he did not want to "betray" his student.
"Is talking to doctors the latest trend in mountaineering?" Schönborn still sounded perfectly calm.
Gänswein was unsure of the Cardinal's intention and did not answer at once. The room was unnervingly quiet; he could even hear the faint electrical hum of the fluorescent light above them.
Seeing he remained silent, Schönborn went on, "You said earlier that you knew the patient's condition had been critical for days, and that the doctors had almost given up hope… You must have known about the rest as well."
He had been seen through. Heat crept up Gänswein's ears, though it seemed the Cardinal had no intention of exposing whoever had "tipped him off." He simply held Gänswein's gaze, waiting for him to continue.
"Since you already know…" Gänswein cleared his throat. "Yes. I admit it. I came because of this possible miracle."
"But what do you hope to do? The diocesan bishop is the one who must organize the investigation. The official postulator for the cause hasn't even been appointed yet. And you still have your duties as an Apostolic Nuncio."
"I'm on leave," Gänswein said, sitting up straighter. "A canon lawyer is required among the investigators, and I happen to hold a doctorate in canon law."
"As a canon lawyer, you should know that the recusal rule applies here, shouldn't you?"
Gänswein fell silent. He knew it well. In a miracle investigation, anyone with a "personal or relational interest" in the candidate must be excluded to avoid bias. As the longtime personal secretary of Pope Benedict, he clearly belonged to the group that must recuse itself.
"Then I'll act only as a witness," he said at last. "I'll provide what I know, but I won't take part in the investigation itself."
"If a witness is very close to the candidate for beatification, the credibility of his testimony will still be questioned," Schönborn reminded him.
"There can be many witnesses! (Note 3)" Gänswein stood up. "Even if mine is excluded in the end, it won't affect the final judgment."
"But if you already know your testimony may be excluded, why insist on appearing at all?"
The incomprehension in Schönborn's eyes stung him. It brought back the countless baseless doubts and accusations he had endured. And yet this was who he was—the more he was pushed, the more fiercely he resisted.
"What exactly are you worried about? I told you I won't interfere with the investigation."
"When the case reaches Rome," Schönborn said with a weighty calm, "the people reviewing the witnesses may not be your friends. They will seize on this opportunity. And…"—he paused, sighing—"I do not mean to reopen old matters, but ever since you kissed Benedict's coffin before millions of mourners present at the scene and watching via live broadcast, even people in China know how unusually close you were to him. If you insist on involving yourself now, even if Rome eventually approves the cause, public acceptance will be damaged. People will think the miracle was staged by you."
"Then let them prove it!" Gänswein's voice rose sharply. "They'll have no proof—because I haven't done anything! I don't understand: in the past, the more I did, the more injustice I suffered. Now I won't do anything except testify, and you still single me out—"
"I'm not singling you out," Schönborn interrupted, unable to help himself. "I would advise anyone close to him to avoid unnecessary complications at this stage—including myself. He is not the private father of a single person. Beatification and canonization are not one man's mourning ritual—"
"But this is my duty!"
Gänswein pulled up his left sleeve. Thin, curved red marks covered his forearm—the same line scratched again and again with his fingernails on the way here.
"Testimonium perhibere veritati," Gänswein said, trembling. He had to clench his teeth to speak the words clearly. "To this end I was born, and for this cause I came here, to bear witness to the truth."
It was the motto on his episcopal coat of arms, echoing Ratzinger's own: "Cooperatores veritatis." Once, they had stood side by side—Ratzinger's white hair and Gänswein's clear blue eyes shining like a pair of bright stars. Now they were separated on opposite sides of the galaxy.
Schönborn froze. "Your arm… you did this?"
"I needed some pain to clear my mind," Gänswein said with effort. "The skin isn't broken, so it's allowed."
"Forgive me—I don't understand."
Schönborn squeezed through the narrow space between table and wall, trying to see the marks more clearly.
"I can see his apparition. So, to make it disappear…"
Gänswein forced his breathing to steady. The Cardinal sat down beside him again, staring gravely at the red lines curling into letters, his silence an invitation for Gänswein to continue.
"…At first, he moved in photographs—only on the page. I could hardly believe my eyes. So I stared at his photos for hours… Then, at some point I can't even pinpoint, he became three-dimensional. Maybe it was the long months of insomnia finally breaking my mind, or maybe I drifted into a waking dream without realizing it. Either way, it doesn't matter. I was overjoyed. God had finally answered my prayer. And I, I become the most successful Pygmalion of our time."
A faint smile appeared on Gänswein's lips.
"Have you talked to a doctor about this?"
"No. If I seek treatment, he'll disappear forever. I don't want him to vanish."A sting rose behind Gänswein's nose. "It's been five years… In all the real dreams I've had in five years, I never saw him once.
"But three nights ago—on the very day I heard about the possible miracle—I finally dreamed of him. He asked me to take him to the summit of a snowy mountain. I don't remember the mountain's shape, but the dream and the miracle together… I'm almost certain he meant the Fallenbacherspitze."
"That's why you want to climb the Fallenbacherspitze?" Schönborn asked softly. "Alone?"
Gänswein evaded the question. "I believe the mountaineer's miracle on the Fallenbacherspitze is very likely genuine."
"You said earlier you were going to climb it, didn't you?"
Pressed again and again, Gänswein finally admitted it. He regretted mentioning mountaineering at all; now he would have to lie to deny it. And he could not lie.
"Did he tell you why he wants to go there?" Schönborn asked.
"No," Gänswein said with a helpless gesture. "Maybe he just wants me to take him up for a view."
"But the Fallenbacherspitze has no established climbing route. If you go alone and something happens—no, forget the difficulty of rescue for a moment."Schönborn paused, his voice dropping as his gaze swept the room in disbelief."Have you considered what would happen if an Apostolic Nuncio assigned to another country disappears in the mountains of Innsbruck? What would Bishop Glettler face then?"
"You don't need to worry," Gänswein said. "This is my private action. Even if something happens, no one will hold him responsible."
For a moment, Schönborn's expression shifted rapidly, as if conflicting feelings were fighting for space across his face.He pressed a hand to his chest and took several deep breaths. Then he pulled out his phone and began typing furiously.
"What are you doing?" Gänswein asked, instantly on alert.
"Texting Bishop Glettler," Schönborn said without looking up. "Telling him to call Rome immediately and inform them that you're here—"
Before Schönborn could finish, Gänswein snatched the phone from Schönborn's hand. In the quick motion, Gänswein accidentally brushed the power button. Before the screen went dark, he caught a glimpse of the message—it seemed to have already been sent.
He fumbled to check, pressed the power button again, and the lock screen lit up with a photo of Schönborn and Ratzinger together.
He squeezed his eyes shut at once and fell back into his chair, as if trying to hide from a sudden burst of blinding light.
But it was already too late. After a brief wave of dizziness and ringing in his ears, the afterimage of Ratzinger on his retinas slowly grew arms and legs. When Gänswein slowly opened his eyes, he saw the white-robed figure descending silently from midair.
"…Are you all right? Should I call the emergency doctor?" Schönborn held him by the shoulder, but Gänswein only pressed his lips together and struggled to get up—he wanted to stop Bishop Glettler before the call went through.
Yet to his surprise, the moment he stood, the apparition of Ratzinger shuffled forward with his familiar, small, careful steps. It stopped in front of the conference-room door, wearing an expression of sorrow Gänswein had never seen on his face.
"…Why are You doing this?" Gänswein asked, sounding suddenly drained of all strength.
"I should be the one asking you that," Schönborn said behind him, assuming the question was meant for him. "Over a sentence in a dream, you were ready to climb an unmarked, snow-covered mountain alone. With all due reverence—may God forgive me for saying it—how is that any different from throwing your life away (Note 4)?"
"You don't have to stop me… I understand. If Rome learns I acted on my own and summons me for questioning, I won't be able to intervene in the cause anymore."
"So far, all you've done is go on a trip during vacation but forgot notifying Rome. That's hardly a crime. But the problem arises when Rome discovers your absence first, especially if it's entangled with a sainthood cause—then it won't end with a simple inquiry!"
Schönborn was losing his composure now.
"This isn't like when you published your memoir. Pope Leo XIV bears no personal grudges against you, and he had only limited contact with Pope Benedict. That means he can handle this case however he wishes without any fear of being accused of retaliation."
"He'll understand me."
"Whether he understands you is not always up to him," Schönborn hit the nail on the head. "Especially now, at the very moment the cause for Pope Benedict is about to open. If he pardons you—or even issues only a mild rebuke—it will look like a deliberate signal to curry favor with the conservatives. They'll seize on it; the progressives will retaliate inside the cause; and before long both sides will be at each other's throats. The safest course for the Pope is to discipline you firmly and then push the cause forward swiftly. Only that keeps both sides steady."
"Even if he disciplines me, I accept it willingly."
"But now that I know, I can't stand by." Schönborn's tone hardened. "As a Cardinal, I'm responsible for easing the Holy Father's burdens. And personally… if I just watched you lose your office and spend the rest of your life in ruin—when I die, how could I face my teacher?"
Gänswein lifted his head. Ratzinger's apparition was still gazing at him with that pained, earnest look. He could imagine that Schönborn, behind him, wore the same expression.
"…You know how much my teacher cared about your future," Schönborn continued after a deep breath. "Writing was one of the things he loved most. But during the co-authorship controversy, he was even willing to give up the right to publish—for your sake.（Note 5）"
The words dropped into Gänswein's heart like a pebble into a deep well—creating faint ripples on the surface, but echoing heavily in the depths.
"I don't fail to understand you. You're desperate to speak, desperate to bear witness, to fix his image before anyone else can reshape it. As if saying it first and loudest could keep him from being rewritten by others. But this urgency can lead people to think…"
Schönborn paused, choosing his words carefully.
"…to think that you don't want others to love him too."
Gänswein opened his mouth to protest, but something lodged in his throat. His hand unclenched, then tightened again.
"How could I not be urgent?" His voice trembled. "I'm seventy-one. This year my hair has gone fully white and thin; a few teeth have started to loosen; my strength and my clarity fade by the day. Friends who once served him beside me are scattered across the world—and dying one after another.Perhaps I'll follow them soon.
"What else can I still do for him? Whatever I've done in my life, it's never been enough to repay even a fraction of what he gave me. If…"
He bit down hard and swallowed the rest: If I can no longer serve him, my life will no longer mean anything at all.
He refused to relinquish the final thread of dignity before Schönborn.
"So if my career collapses, or I end up penniless, I'm not afraid of any of that."
He lifted his eyes toward the apparition—the one only he could see.
"None of it will last long anyway. I myself won't last long. But before the end, I must leave behind as much as I can—some proof that our years together were real and will never vanish."
He paused, then added in a bitter whisper:
"Even if it's only a name, a forgotten line in the corner of the positio, saying,'Testimony discounted due to personal closeness to the candidate.' That would be enough."
"…A canonization is meant to bring out the candidate's sanctity, and the presence of those around him is inevitably diminished. You fear being reduced to a blank line in history, and so you crave proof that will never vanish."After a long silence, Schönborn spoke again—this time with a kind of gentle compassion."But a canonization file is still only fragile paper covered in ink. Humans invented paper two thousand years ago—and how many manuscripts from that time have truly survived fire, decay, and time?"
"That's different. The positio will be stored in a nitrogen-filled archive."
"Which means almost no one will ever open it again. I doubt that's what you want."Schönborn sighed."And electronic records are even more fragile. Storage decays, formats change, systems fall out of use, and the world is turbulent. In a few decades, the data may be unreadable. Even today, the only reliable way to preserve something for centuries is still carving it into stone."
"Stone…"
Gänswein suddenly thought of the trilobite fossil, and the poem that should have been carved onto his gravestone.
"But a person's life can't be carved into rock," Schönborn said softly. "It's carved only into the hearts of those who encountered him. Your bond with my teacher, your memories—they matter. But they are not the whole of him. There are people he taught, inspired, consoled—people whose faith or direction was shaped by him. Each person's memory is a grain of sand. Gathered together, and through the slow workings of geology, they harden into mighty stone.
But if you try to hold all the sand in your own hands—always clenching your fist—it will slip away between your fingers."
"…Is that why you oppose my involvement in the cause?" Gänswein murmured.
Before Schönborn could answer, an uncertain knock interrupted them. Bishop Glettler's secretary entered, holding out a phone. Ratzinger's apparition drifted aside, now studying a poster on emergency treatment for fractures with the absorbed look of someone reading a theology essay.
"…A call from Rome, Your Eminence. They're asking for you."
"Thank you. I'll take it here—please stay close, I believe it concerns you."
Gänswein stepped back politely. Schönborn answered the call, listening with a frown, replying only in short phrases. Then, unexpectedly, he lifted his eyes toward Gänswein with a hint of surprise.
"…I see," he said into the phone. "I'll tell him."
He hung up.
Gänswein's heart pounded. "What is it? What did Rome say?"
"His Holiness already knows you're here," Schönborn replied. "Bishop Glettler didn't talk about it, but the Pope deduced your purpose. Rome has sent you an email."
Gänswein hesitated for a moment, then pulled his phone from the inner pocket of his jacket. His fingertips, cold and trembling with nerves, kept failing the fingerprint sensor. He forced himself to breathe deeply, entered the passcode twice, and at last unlocked it.In his inbox, an unread message from: Office of the Papal Secretariat.
He opened it.
Your Excellency Archbishop Gänswein,
His Holiness Leo XIV has been informed of the circumstances.
Regarding your possible role in the canonization process, he will take into full account the memorandum left by the former Pope and will review the relevant precedents before making a final decision.
The Holy Father asks that you return to Vilnius on schedule at the end of your holiday.
May love and restraint accompany you always.
—Enclosed is a photograph from Jerusalem. During the Holy Father's visit there this September, I saw the olive tree that Pope Benedict himself planted in May 2009. After eighteen years, it has grown to eighty feet tall.
Gänswein stared at the words, reading them three times before opening the attached photo. Beneath Jerusalem's sky, blue and flawless, an olive tree stood with its branches layered, its crown like a heavy green cloud casting deep shade upon the earth. For an instant, he thought he could glimpse Ratzinger's figure within that steadfast tree. He enlarged the image, carefully sliding the screen, his fingertips pressing against the thin glass as though touching the rough, life-filled bark itself—imagining the lines of the bark as Ratzinger's palm lines, and beneath them, the memories and time that had settled into the rings of eighteen years.
He kept looking at it until hot tears welled up, spilled over, and traced down the weathered lines of his face before breaking apart on the back of his hand.
Schönborn had seen the email as well. He let out a long breath, then softly asked his secretary to go fetch some tissues.
"I believe the question you asked earlier no longer needs an answer," Schönborn said as he turned back, facing Gänswein whose tears had not yet dried. His voice was calm and steady. "The Holy Father will give you a fair reply."
"But I will still go up the mountain," Gänswein said, wiping his face hard and meeting Schönborn's eyes. "Before my vacation ends. I still have five days."
"On that point, I cannot agree," Schönborn replied with a wry smile. "I have always believed you should not throw yourself into danger now, but wait patiently, like that olive tree, until spring arrives. Still, since you have made up your mind, do not go alone. Prepare thoroughly before you set out. Do not let it become a hurried farewell. Good luck."
Gänswein nodded, his silence expressing gratitude. Beyond Schönborn's shoulder, he saw in the corner of the meeting room a vision of Ratzinger bathed in winter sunlight. The profile of the apparition was outlined in warm light, gazing quietly toward the direction of Mount Fallenbach, the lips faintly curved.
It was the first time that Ratzinger's apparition had ever given him such a tender smile.
-TBC
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Note 1:
Fallenbacherspitze, located in Tyrol, Austria, belongs to the Lechtal Alps. Its main peak rises to 2,723 meters. Because of its remote location and the absence of marked climbing routes, Fallenbacherspitze is rarely ascended. The previously mentioned Vorderseespitze lies to the southwest of Fallenbacherspitze, with an elevation of 2,889 meters.
Note 2: According to the author’s research, the canonization process may begin only five years after a person’s death. It normally requires two miracles: one for beatification and another for canonization.
After the waiting period, if the candidate has a “reputation for holiness” and “reputation for intercession”, the petitioner (actor) submits a request to the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. If a nihil obstat (“no objection” decree) is issued, the cause formally begins and a postulator is appointed.
The first step is to investigate the candidate’s holiness and writings. If “heroic virtue” is confirmed, the candidate is declared Venerable. Only then does the investigation of miracles begin (though evidence of alleged miracles occurring earlier may be collected and preserved for later examination).
Miracle investigations are conducted under the local bishop, then reviewed by medical and theological commissions, and finally submitted to the Pope for approval.
For a deceased Pope, the petitioner is usually the Diocese of Rome (the current Pope as Bishop of Rome). The Holy See often appoints an experienced postulator directly. In this narrative, Gänswein is assumed unlikely to be chosen due to limited experience.
Note 3: During the miracle investigation stage, witnesses are summoned. Their role is similar to that of eyewitnesses, recounting what they saw of the miracle or healing process. To ensure fairness, if a witness is closely related to the candidate, their testimony may not be accepted or may only serve as supplementary evidence. However, even if one witness's testimony is not accepted, as long as other independent witnesses exist, the investigation is not necessarily affected. Moreover, witnesses are not subject to recusal rules; that is, they cannot be barred from testifying simply because of close personal ties.
Note 4:
The original Chinese word is "殉情", which specifically refers to suicide because of love. But in the original Chinese word, there is no character directly representing "love" (爱) or "suicide", and considering that Schönborn would not explicitly disclose the love relationship between B&G, the English translation avoids literal phrasing like "suicide because of love" to maintain narrative subtlety and contextual appropriateness.
Note 5:
Ratzinger accepted the position of Prefect of the CDF on the condition that he could continue publishing works under his own name. However, after the co-authorship controversy in 2020, Ratzinger wrote two letters to Pope Francis to explain the situation, both of which included pleas on Gänswein's behalf.
The first letter (February 13) was followed by a conversation between Francis and Gänswein, but no consensus was reached. In the second letter (February 17), Ratzinger promised not to publish any further works for the rest of his life, and added: "I humbly ask you again to have a word with Monsignor Gänswein." This content can be found in Gänswein's memoir (English edition), around pages 23, 203, and 208.
Thus, Ratzinger did not intend to "exchange" his promise of no further publications for Francis granting Gänswein another meeting. The two matters were simply written in the same letter. The author fictionalizes this connection.
The olive tree Benedict planted: https://t.co/MKa5JeS8cO