Cold Open

It’s March 2nd, 1939, in the Vatican City.

63-year-old Eugenio Pacelli stands in the narrow antechamber leading to the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica. He straightens the cuffs of his new white cassock, smoothing the unfamiliar fabric at his wrists.

Beyond the thick stone walls, a vast crowd outside is growing restless. 

For two days, thousands of people have been watching a single chimney on top of the Sistine Chapel. They are waiting for the white smoke that will tell them that they have a new Pope. But so far, only black plumes have followed two inconclusive rounds of voting.

But now, a third ballot has been counted, majority has been reached, and the cardinals have chosen. The new pope will be Eugenio Pacelli. And in the minutes since, he has donned his new frocks and chosen his new name. But as of yet, the world is still unaware of his election.

From the antechamber, Pacelli hears the crowd outside stir. But it's not a chorus of cheers. It’s tentative—a low swell of confusion spreading around the square. 

But Pacelli remains calm. This has happened before. Sometimes the materials they use to produce the smoke don’t mix properly at first, and it comes out darker than it should. But he knows all will become clear soon enough. 

The sound changes and the uncertainty dissolves. The roar changes pitch, and Pacelli smiles. The smoke is white. 

Footsteps pass behind him in the antechamber. The protodeacon steps out onto the balcony, and the noise outside surges again.

Pacelli listens as the protodeacon delivers the two anticipated words to the crowd: habemus papam. We have a pope.

Pacelli then smooths down the front of his cassock one last time. In a few moments, he will become one of the most famous men in the world. 

After the protodeacon finishes speaking, it will be Eugenio Pacelli’s turn to greet the crowd. He has chosen the name Pope Pius XII , but the decisions that will truly define his papacy lie ahead. As Europe moves closer to war, the Vatican will have to confront regimes determined to reshape the world. The choice Pius makes and the policies the Church pursue will affect the lives of millions and be debated for years to come as one of the most significant papacies in the modern era begins on March 2nd, 1939.

Introduction 

From Noiser and Airship, I’m Lindsay Graham and this is History Daily.

History is made every day. On this podcast—every day—we tell the true stories of the people and events that shaped our world.

Today is March 2nd, 1939: The Election of Pope Pius XII.

Act One: Habemus Papam

It’s June 1939, in Vatican City, three months after the election of Pope Pius XII.

Pius sits at a broad desk inside the Apostolic Palace, reading through diplomatic cables. They arrive every day from Berlin, Rome, Paris, and Warsaw and he reads them all carefully, but each carries the same dark undertone. Europe is bracing itself for war.

Pius has inherited a Church encircled by hostile powers. Italy is ruled by the fascist government of Benito Mussolini. In Nazi Germany, thousands of priests and nuns have been arrested on trumped up charges. And the vast Soviet Union is openly anti-religious. Vatican City is a tiny enclave of less than half a square mile in the heart of Rome, with no army and no defenses. 

So Pius believes that if there is going to be war in Europe, then the only way to protect the Church will be through neutrality and diplomacy. It’s a conviction that has been shaped by years of experience.

Eugenio Pacelli was born into a Roman family with deep ties to the papacy. For generations, his family has worked as trusted lawyers and administrators for the Vatican. This upbringing shaped Pacelli’s understanding of the Church, and he came to think of it as both a spiritual authority and a legal institution.

So, as a young man, he studied theology and law at the Pontifical University. His professors marked him as disciplined, reserved, and intellectually formidable. He worked alone, he was careful and precise, and these were strengths that would take him far.

Pacelli was ordained in 1899, at the age of 23. He rose quickly through the ranks at the Vatican, proving politically adept during periods of instability in the early 20th century. He learned how the Vatican could best wield power in the modern world—not through force, but through negotiation.

During World War I, Pacelli worked behind the scenes on the Vatican’s diplomatic efforts. The Church refused to pick sides in the conflict. It declared itself officially neutral and presented itself as a potential mediator between the warring nations. But it still sometimes spoke out against indiscriminate violence. And from within the Church, Pacelli saw how even mild public condemnations could backfire. Statements meant to restrain violence sometimes hardened governments against the Church or even provoked retaliation. Catholic institutions were sometimes searched. Clergy were harassed or detained. Efforts at moral clarity often seemed only to close down opportunities for dialogue and make a bad situation even worse. It was a lesson Pacelli would never forget.

In 1917, he was appointed as an ecclesiastical envoy in Germany. And during the 1920s, he witnessed firsthand the country’s recovery from the first world war, and then the beginning of its descent into radicalism. As political authority fractured around him, he tried to negotiate agreements to protect the interests of the Church. But he saw how quickly political instability could turn violent, and how easily old institutions could become targets if they spoke out unwisely.

So by the time Pacelli returned to Rome as Cardinal Secretary of State, his philosophy was well-established. Neutrality was not a retreat. It was a shield.

And now that he leads the entire Catholic Church, this conviction continues to guide him.

Only weeks after he became pope, Nazi Germany annexed much of Czechoslovakia and each day seems to bring Europe closer and closer to war. Catholics across the continent are looking to the Vatican for moral leadership with many wanting the pope to call out the perpetrators in forceful terms. But Pius remembers the past, and he hesitates.

So instead of publicly pointing the finger at the aggressors, or singling out leaders like Adolf Hitler, he calls for peace, restraint, and dialogue. He appeals for all nations to respect treaties and human dignity. Even behind closed doors, he advises his bishops and officials to manage relationships with secular authorities carefully. Conciliatory letters are sent to the fascist governments in Berlin and Rome, appeals are made to Catholic officials within Nazi territory, polite requests are made to protect Church institutions, prevent reprisals, and preserve channels of communication whenever possible.

But if Pius hopes this will help avert war, he's mistaken.

On September 1st, 1939, Germany will invade Poland. Two days later, Britain and France will declare war on Germany. And just six months into his papacy, Pope Pius XII will have to navigate a world increasingly consumed by violence. Many Catholics will implore him to speak out and take action against the evil taking place in the world. But Pius will hold fast to his philosophy. He will put his faith in God and neutrality. 

Act Two: Qui tacet consentit videtur

It’s just before dawn on October 16th, 1943, in Rome, four years into World War II.

A senior Vatican official moves quickly through the cramped streets of the city’s Jewish quarter. It’s close to the Tiber River here, and the air is damp with the smell of rot. 

Suddenly, the stillness of the city is disturbed by the low rumble of engines, and a convoy of Nazi trucks grinds to a stop along the street ahead. 

The Vatican official ducks into a narrow doorway as soldiers fan out of the vehicles. Doors are struck by rifle butts. Orders are shouted. House by house, residents are forced into the street, loaded onto the trucks, and taken away. This isn’t random. It’s systematic—one building, after another. 

The Vatican official doesn't stay to watch. He turns and moves quickly, cutting through side streets, heading back toward Vatican territory. He has seen enough to grasp what's happening—and he knows where this information must go. 

Rome has been under German occupation for weeks. After Italy tried to negotiate a separate peace with the Allies, Nazi forces seized control of the country. But the authority of Adolf Hitler’s troops stops at the borders of the Vatican City. Within those walls, the pope still rules. 

Within minutes, the Vatican official is back at the Apostolic Palace. He delivers his report directly to Pope Pius himself—the mass roundups have begun on their doorstep.

By this stage of the war, whispers of Nazi atrocities have been reaching the Vatican for a long time. Bishops have written from occupied territories. Priests have described deportations and mass shootings. Reports from Eastern Europe have even spoken of camps designed for mass extermination.

But Pius has done little. In his Christmas message last year, he did decry the violence and spoke of “hundreds of thousands” being killed because of their “nationality or race.” To some listeners, the meaning was unmistakable. But to many others, it was still too evasive.

What has changed now though is the proximity of the violence—it's now unfolding in the streets surrounding the Vatican walls, and Pius can no longer look away. He issues immediate instructions. Religious houses across Rome are to welcome anyone who arrives asking for protection. No questions will be asked, and no records will be kept.

The order is quietly spread across the city to churches, convents, monasteries, and seminaries. And before nightfall, Italian Jews and refugees from elsewhere in Europe are quietly being welcomed through side doors and ushered along hidden hallways. Every building owned by the Church has become a place of refuge—including the Apostolic Palace itself.

Some advisors press Pius to do even more, though. They argue that a public condemnation of the raid on the Jewish quarter might halt the deportations. It might force restraint. It might save lives.

But others in the Vatican warn Pius that any public protest will only endanger the very institutions that are now sheltering Jewish families. In retaliation, German forces might storm the convents and monasteries. Clergy could be arrested. The network of hiding places Italy’s Jews now rely upon might collapse. 

And that’s not the only threat. Pius believes his foremost duty as Pope is to safeguard the long-term survival of the Catholic Church. A direct confrontation with the Nazi authorities could lead to the persecution of the Church across occupied Europe. And that's not a risk he is willing to take.

So, ultimately, Pius sticks to his old philosophy. Publicly, he continues to speak only in general terms. He condemns the violence, mourns civilian suffering, and repeats his appeals for peace. But yet again, he does not name Hitler directly. And he does not acknowledge that it is Jews who are being especially targeted by the Nazi regime.

There is disappointment among Jewish leaders and Allied governments that Pius will not speak up more forcibly. Pius doesn’t change his strategy. It’s the only way he believes he can defend the Church.

But as the war goes on, and Germany’s grip on Europe falters, attitudes toward Pius begin to harden. To a growing number of detractors, he is a moral authority who has withheld his voice at the very moment it was needed the most. 

And when the war finally ends in 1945, those feelings will not fade away. As the world begins to reckon not only with what was done during the war, but what was not, the criticism will intensify. All the Vatican’s wartime decisions will be examined—and Pope Pius XII will stand at the center of the storm.

Act Three: Urbi et Orbi 

It’s Easter Sunday, 1946, in Vatican City, almost a year after the end of World War II.

Pope Pius XII stands at the high altar of St. Peter’s Basilica, his hands raised in blessing. He prays for peace, he prays for the dead, and for the rebuilding of a shattered continent.

Then he delivers his final blessing, Urbi et Orbi—to the City and to the World. With this, the Mass draws to a close.

In the months since Germany’s surrender, the world has learned the horrifying truth about the scale of the Nazis’ crimes and Pope Pius’ wartime decisions are now judged in a different light. 

Only he will ever know how much he understood about the Holocaust while it was happening. But without a doubt, he knew that millions of European Jews were being targeted by the Nazis, that mass violence against them was underway. 

Supporters argue that the pope did as much as he could to help. They point to the thousands of lives saved through Vatican diplomacy and by the Catholic institutions that sheltered those in danger. They argue that silence was not indifference, but a necessary strategy in desperate circumstances.

Critics remain unconvinced. They argue that moral authority carries its own obligation and that allowing the Holocaust to proceed without challenge or criticism was a form of complicity. 

The papacy of Pius XII will continue until his death in 1958. But in the eyes of many, it will always be defined by his actions during the war. They will become one of the most contested moral questions of the 20th century, with his public silence and secret diplomacy remaining controversial in a way Pius could not possibly have imagined when he became Pope on March 2nd, 1939.

Outro

Next on History Daily. March 3rd, 1934. The American bank robber John Dillinger makes a daring escape from prison.

From Noiser and Airship, this is History Daily, hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Lindsay Graham.

Audio editing by Muhammad Shahzaib.

Sound design by Mollie Baack.

Music by Thrumm.

This episode is written and researched by Olivia Jordan.

Edited by William Simpson.

Managing producer Emily Burke.

Executive Producers are William Simpson for Airship, and Pascal Hughes for Noiser.