Not Enough Rope

Well, being a bear of very little brain, it took me a while to realize that, even if I wasn’t particularly proficient in Polish (though I do know the word pederastia which is…), the computer is! And so all you have to do is hit the little “translate this page” and the computer, after some thought, will give you a charmingly literal translation. Here’s a nice sample:

In the Vatican's diplomatic career structures could envy him many a clergyman.

Got that? What could be clearer? Definitely better than this, the Polish homologue:

Kariery dyplomatycznej w watykańskich strukturach mógłby mu pozazdrościć niejeden duchowny.

OK, so the syntax is a little screwy, but if you can wait until the end of the sentence to figure out what we’re talking about—both grammatically and logically called the subject—all will be well. Think of it as a game, perhaps, or a linguistic who-done-it. Keeps you in suspense!

And so I realized, yesterday, that the Polish press, unlike the Dominican press, is playing up the story. And they are embellishing their articles with photos like this:

Yup, Wesolowski himself….

And so I spent an interesting afternoon in Poland, yesterday, learning that Padre Alberto Gil, a fellow Pole working in the little mountain town of Juncalito, had taken 3 trips to Poland with about ten boys each time. My first reaction, of course was, “yeah?”

I had an interesting conversation this week with a friend who had been sexually abused by a Baptist minister while his parents slept in the room next to the minister, who was “sharing” his bed with my friend. And Carlos, my friend, swears that in most cases, the mothers either know or suspect that abuse is going on. But why don’t they speak out? Is it fear? Is it a lifetime of poverty, which grinds in the lessons of helplessness and despair and futility?

At any rate, Gil made three trips to Poland with assorted kids—where did the money come from? I’ve been through towns in the Dominican Republic that must have been the equivalents of Juncalito—for all I know, I’ve been through Juncalito. Didn’t look like there’s much money there. And if there is, they hide it well.

So were the Poles sponsoring the trip? And where was that money coming from? How wonderful, those Poles welcoming with open arms (in how many senses, one wonders?) those cute Latin kids!

Even so, it’s a little hard to wrap my mind around the how a parent would allow a child to go off with a priest for over a month. But as I think of it, it makes more sense. First, of course, the parents must have been dazzled by the idea—Europe! My child’s going to Europe! The world is opening for him, who knows whom he could meet, what door could open for him! How wonderful that Padre Alberto….

Then, of course, there’s the reverence for the Catholic Church. Over eighty percent of Puerto Ricans are Catholic—what percent of Dominicans? Probably much higher. Watching videos of families affected by the abuse in Juncalito, I got a visceral sense of the betrayal these families suffered.

Lastly, maybe we should ask if the abuse in the church isn’t structural. The organization is set up in a way that fosters abuse. There’s the hierarchical structure. There’s the control of power at the top, and the demand for complete obedience. There’s the demand to defend the church at all costs, and the terrible consequences doled out to anyone who blows the whistle. Even the pomp, the rituals, the fancy clothes—all contribute to the belief that they are special, invincible, infallible.

I look at Wesolowski, in the photo above—this man who was dressed in all his finery, this man surrounded by all the devotion of his parishioners, this man who, hours after the ceremony, would be chasing limpiabotas (shoeshine boys) on the malecón of Santo Domingo.

He thought he could have everything, could get away with anything.

Sadly, for the most part, he has….

The Priest Who Couldn't Be Bought (Not Part 2)

Well, I had thought to write the second part of The Priest Who Couldn’t Be Bought, the moving tale of a Polish priest, Wojciech Gil, who along with his fellow Pole and papal nuncio, Jozef Wesolowski, took on the drug lords of a narcotic-drenched Dominican Republic. They fought nails and teeth (strange how all the expressions get turned around in Spanish)—Gil increasing the number of altar boys from eight to 180—how dare you snigger out there! No shame!—and giving them money and cell phones and, oh, even trips to his native Poland. Wow—that’s a priest!

So in part 1, I had tidily gotten Wojciech Gil through his childhood, through the seminary (actually, that took about a sentence) and then to Santo Domingo and up the road to the little town of Juncalito, where he will spend the next eight years, and will be, by all accounts, well-received and loved by the residents.

There was just a little problem…

I spent yesterday afternoon watching YouTube clips about the case. There was the deacon, who spoke admiringly about the man, who described the house where Gil lived as being open to anyone, 24 / 7, where Gil was always prepared to listen, to make a good cup of coffee—Juncalito is in the prime coffee region of the Dominican Republic—and where….

But wait…

Because there was also, on several clips, the shocking photo of women’s panties and other accouterments not commonly associated with a priest’s wardrobe. Oh, and what about the reports that Gil could be found, with friends, completely sloshed—there was always vodka, his preferred tipple, whisky and gin in the house.

There was a clip of the collective luto, or grief of mourning, of the community. And then the clip of the fifteen year-old boy who had been abused for three years. And in addition to the gifts, there were the threats as well—there was a photo in the clip showing Wesolowski’s gun on his belt. Yup—the priest was packing.

So who was this guy? Had he been abused as a kid? What was going on in Poland, in those years when Wesolowski was growing up? Well, I knew that Gil was 38 or 39—a conscientious blogger would look that up—so he would have been born in the mid-70s. Which would have put him in his mid-teens by the time the Solidarity movement finally toppled the communist regime. What had that been like?

Then there was the interesting question—what was the power of the Catholic Church in those years? And what was the power of the church after democracy had been restored? I had a dim notion that the church ruled with a medieval hand—authoritarian and unchallenged. But was that true?

So it was time to zip over to Poland via the Internet and here’s what I found, on the first page of a Google search:

Paedophilia is caused by divorce, says Poland's top Catholic bishop as he blames parents for not bringing up children properly

•   Archbishop Jozef Michalik says child abusers are 'looking for love'

•   Claims divorce can be as harmful to children as paedophilia

•   Catholic church in Poland has been hit with paedophile priest allegations

Right—you know I had to read that one, so I did, and here’s Michalik’s tangy twist on orthodox thinking. These priests are not predators. The children, you see, come from broken homes—that’s the divorce part—and come seeking comfort and succor to a father figure—that’s the priest—and so things sometimes get out of hand. So it’s not all the priests’ fault: the children are partly to blame too—as well as those damned divorcing parents.

Well, to no one’s surprise, the archbishop came out the next day, and what he said was—hold on tightly to your seat, here—that he had been misinterpreted, his words twisted and indeed wrenched out of context. Of course he hadn’t meant that kids were responsible for the abuse, or were wantonly tempting those good men of the cloth on.

So that got me thinking. I’ve been to the Dominican Republic just once, but it was abundantly clear—it’s poor, but it is very, very Latin. The men are drinking beer and smoking and listening to bachata and trying to get into any girl’s pants, and the music is blasting everywhere, and the chickens are running around everywhere, and there is—paradoxically—a strange undercurrent of danger underneath all the seemingly loose and hot and casual enjoyment of life. The wrong look at the wrong girl? A gun will flash, blood on the floor, Mamita wailing as she grinds her face into the blood-soaked shirt of her son; she raises her head to scream at God, and her hands and face are smeared with her child’s blood.

Or this….

Pablito sees his chance, and takes the deal Julito has offered him—cut out the middle man, Carlitos. What does Carlitos do, anyway? It’s Pablito out there, making the deliveries, and everyone knows him, trusts him. And for a few weeks it’s fine, until Carlitos puts the screws on the otherrunners. And if Carlitos lets that pendejo, that bastard get away with that?! Replay Mamita on the floor, from the paragraph above.

Then there was the interesting question of the 41 or 42 year-old man who is claiming that he was sexually abused here in Puerto Rico. The archdiocese offered $25,000, the guy wanted a million bucks. So that made me think—um, fifteen years old?

Time for some political incorrectness. At age fifteen, your body is awash in testosterone—if you’re a boy—and you are thinking more or less constantly about sex. In fact, a good number of 15-year olds are having sex. And we are not living The Bells of St. Mary’s, or whatever that 1950’s film was.

At this point, a group of kids who were probably 15-years old passed me, each one of them talking loudly and profanely, wearing gangster clothes, addressing each other as cabrón—which if you don’t know what that is, good for you! So the priest abuses a six-year old? Cut his balls off. But I’m a little unsure about a 15-year old.

Especially in a Latin country, where—as Mr. Fernández insists—it is part of the cultural responsibility of the older brother to explain to the younger brother that:

 1.     all priests are gay
2.     don’t let any one of them touch you
3.     if he does, tell me, and I’ll beat the shit out of him

See?

Well, all of this had taken most of the afternoon, since I was also absolutely riveted by a clip of the archbishop of San Juan, who looked anguished and also, I felt, deeply culpable. In fact, guilty as sin. And where was the post of the day, the tidy conclusion to The Priest Who Couldn’t Be Bought?

Stay tuned, Dar Reader—but it may take a while.

You don’t write a novel in a day…..

The Priest Who Couldn't Be Bought (Part 1)

It’s the stuff of movies.

He was a man of God, a man with a mission, a man who stood firm against the narco-traffickers who were using children—“children!” he exploded, when he first heard of it—to act as runners in the drug trade. As they grew up, they rose in the organizations, gradually working the puntos de drogas, picking up the drugs from the cigarette boats (so-called because they were low, to escape detection by radar, and resembled a box of cigarettes) as they skimmed over the emerald waters of the placid Caribbean.

He was in another world, a world far away from his native Poland, from his town 200 miles south of Warsaw, a town where his family had lived for generations, and where each day, his mother would rise at 5:30, dress hurriedly to the sound of church bells, and start her day by attending mass at the Holy Trinity Catholic Church.

The church—how much had he loved the church! The scent of incense, the swishing of the priest’s cassock as he waddled to the altar, the altar boys lighting candles, their eyes raised in adoration at Father Jozef. The mothers at mass were surging with pride. One day, vowed little Wojciech, it would be he standing at the altar, helping the priest, smelling the incense, feeling the heat of his mother's love as she watched her beloved boy.

There was never any question of it. Did anyone doubt that this quiet, solitude-loving boy had a vocation? He was as much a fixture in the church as the altar itself. And what an exciting time to be Polish, as the whole world fell in love with the first Polish pope, who had stood up to the Communists and won, who travelled the world so that the multitudes could roar the approval and love! He entered the seminary as you and I enter our homes.

There were hints of it, of course. A priest would be moved suddenly, sent off to a distant parish. Wojciech himself had had various priests keep their hands just a bit too long on his shoulder; gaze into his azure eyes just a bit too long. Had he done something wrong?

Later, he would know more about the filth, the corruption that had crept into his beloved church. There were the priests who organized the camping trips—just the priest himself and five or six boys. Never any parents to sleep in the tents or the cabins; why, wondered Wojciech? And a boy who had left sunny and mischievous, afraid of nothing and no one, would come back sullen and inward.

The day of his ordination, the happiest day of his life! All his family there, his mother beaming, telling Father Jozef, now so old but no less fat, how happy she was to give her son to the church.

“My child, you have made the greatest sacrifice to the Church. Wojciech may travel far, to distant lands, spending years toiling in the meanest, poorest hamlets, bringing the light of our holy church, shining the beacon of our Lord Jesus Christ. God will reward you, my dear….”

But in his first years, he had stayed in his beloved Poland, endured its winters, rejoiced in its lissome spring, and most, savored its rich food, and swum in the comfort of his native tongue. His family he saw frequently, his parishioners claimed him as their own.

“You do speak Spanish, don’t you?” asked the Monsignor.

“Hardly,” replied Wojciech.

“But you studied it in the seminary?”

The teachings of Paul, Sir Thomas Aquinas? Those he had devoured, his pursuit of Spanish was leisurely.

‘It was like being shoved into a sauna,’ he thought, as he remembered standing at the top of the runway steps, paralyzed by the heat and humidity, which the Dominicans behind him so much wanted to embrace, to frolic in. He looked out the window at a road well paved but carless. Indeed, the activity on the road was principally on its side, as streams of bikes and scooters—with several people clutching precariously atop them—whizzed by. The road was flat, but moving relentlessly to the Cordillera Central, the backbone of the island of Hispaniola. Shacks appeared now and then on the side of the road—men sat sitting on broken wooden chairs, seemingly with nothing to do. ‘Why aren’t they working the fields,’ thought Wojciech. In Poland, no man would have dared to be seen out of his house, sitting idle.

The car began to rise, to climb the foothills, to slow slightly as they passed villages—wooden shacks with rotting zinc roofs, the doors open and the barefoot, dirty children gazing out at the passing car. They passed dozens of villages; Wojciech’s heart thudded when he thought, ‘this car will stop, and I’ll get out in the infernal heat, and look around at the poverty and squalor, and that’ll be my town, until somebody tells me it’s not. My God, can I do this?’

He thought back to his homeland; the poor there did their best to hide it—keeping their clothes tidy no matter how old or how mended. They would have scorned to have junk in their yards, to be braying so blatantly their indifference to their own poverty. But these people! Their poverty was a sheet on the wash line, hung for all to see!

The car slowed, slowed more than it did merely to pass through the town. Wojciech’s stomach churned.

The church was the only thing that Wojciech could appreciate; it was erected with twin towers in the Italian style sometime in the 19^th century. The toadstools of huts had seemingly sprung up decades ago, and had refused to be eradicated.

His dislike of Padre Julio, standing to greet him in the rectory, was visceral—less a feeling than a blow. Sweat and grease and the stench of garlic oozed out of him, his eyes shifted away from Wojciech and drifted off to something more interesting—or was it an insult? A dismissal? Padre Julio spoke a greeting, not bothering to clean up his broad, coarse Dominican Spanish.

“Cerveza?” asked Wojciech, pronouncing his zeta with the Castilian th. Padre Julio snorted, and ambled off, not even bothering to show him his room. Though, it was obvious; opening one door, Wojciech saw a room strewn with clothes on the floor, an overflowing ashtray, beer cans resting where they had been tossed. The next room was hardly clean, but at least visibly unoccupied. Wojciech put his suitcase in the exact center of the bed, and began placing his shirts on hangers. They’d have to be ironed, of course, but they still had to be hung—one the right, as he had done since childhood. The pants, mostly, were permanent press, and might need just a firm hand to flatten out the wrinkles. Fortunately, the dresser was in good condition, and could receive his t-shirts in the top drawer, underwear below, socks underneath that….

Wojciech washed his face and stood facing the door. A clash of music from the several open bars slashed through the door. ‘Do I have to?’ a voice pleaded within him.

But he knew: if he didn’t face it now, he never would.

Note: I have written so much about the two Polish priests, the nuncio Jozef Wesolowski and Wojciech Gil accused of sexual abuse of minors in the Dominican Republic, that even I am tired of it. The Dominican government wants them extradited: Wesolowski is in the Vatican, which has no extradition policy; even if it did, Wesolowski is protected by diplomatic immunity. As for Gil, Polish authorities have refused to turn him over. Or as the Dominican press reports:

Más temprano las autoridades polacas informaron que no hay posibilidad de trasladar al sacerdote a República Dominicana para ser juzgado.

(“Earlier, Polish authorities announced there is no possibility to transfer the priest to the Dominican Republic to be processed.”)

Gil has claimed that the power drug lords have framed him, as he fought courageously in defense of the children who were being lured into a life of crime and violence. He pointed out that the computer on which the 500 photos of underage children engaged in sexual acts were put there by someone else—it was a shared computer.

And now, according to one account I read and now cannot find, after the denunciations of last May the village has gone silent. Why? Is everybody just tired of it? Or is someone putting screws? The drug lords? The Church?

I thought about it all over the joe of the morning, and thought, ‘well, what if?’ Jack, my newspaperman father, had been glowering—one of his talents—down at me for a while. Dig for the facts, tell ‘em straight, give both sides of the story, and then go hunt for the next story. Had I been doing that?

So here’s the other side….          

The Clerics and the Choir Boys

Where’s Wesolowski?

The best answer is that Jozef Wesolowski, the former papal nuncio to the Dominican Republic, is somewhere in the Vatican, after he was recalled in August before reports of his alleged pedophile crimes were made public.

Right, you are saying. Another pedophile priest—ho-hum! Get on with it, Marc—find something new!

Well, here’s what’s new. First of all, the papal nuncio is an ambassador—he is the pope’s personal ambassador to—in this case—the government of the Dominican Republic. So? He’s got diplomatic immunity.

Second, Wesolowski is the highest Vatican official to be charged with sex abuse crimes, and more importantly, he’s a Vatican employee. Why is that important? Because for years, the Vatican has held that individual priests and bishops are not Vatican employees. Therefore, American courts cannot haul the Vatican into court, or force the Vatican to reveal documents or files.

This, of course, is a little screwy because when a priest is defrocked, or asks to leave the priesthood, or is accused of sexual abuse of minors—what happens? The bishop sits down and writes to the Vatican, and waits for an answer.

Well, the Vatican is on God’s time—and God, it appears, moves slowly, majestically, and without care for the hustle and haste that the rest of us spin out our lives with. So that means the bishop is down checking the mailbox every morning for years on end, and the pederast priest is still in business. No wonder the bishops were shuffling the pederast priests around—what else could they do?

Ah, but wait! Because in July of this year, Pope Francis…well, here’s a quote from The Huffington Post:

Francis in July also signed off on legislation criminalizing child sex abuse and other sexual crimes, with punishments ranging up to more than a decade in prison – laws that apply to Vatican employees as well as diplomatic staff. Those new laws, however, can't be applied retroactively in this case, officials say.    

The same article goes on to say:

The Vatican's own rules for conducting sex abuse investigations under church law calls for cooperation with civil authorities and reporting of abuse allegations to police where such laws require it. Those norms were crafted in the wake of the explosion of sex abuse cases in 2010, where thousands of people came forward in Europe, South America and elsewhere detailing abuse by priests who were never reported to police even though their bishops knew they were pedophiles.

Attorney General Francisco Domínguez Brito has said if the government finds any concrete evidence against Wesolowski, it would seek his extradition. He noted, however, that the Dominican Republic has no extradition agreement with the Vatican.

Hey, wait—the Pope was told in July of this year about Wesolowski, but did anyone run over to the police headquarters to fill them in? They had, after all, a couple of months—easily—to do so, before the Vatican withdrew its ambassador.

The article was written on September 12 of this year. Five days ago, Brito announced that the case against Wesolowski is nearly complete—he was putting the finishing touches on it. The article then goes on to quote a cardinal in the Dominican Republic:

En ese sentido, el cardenal Nicolás de Jesús López Rodríguez reiteró que esa situación le “avergüenza” y manifestó que destituido embajador del Vaticano será juzgado en la Santa Sede por un tribunal especial que conoce esos casos.

“El nuncio tiene que ser juzgado en el tribunal del Vaticano. Allá hay muchos tribunales, pero el que conoce el caso es Doctrina de la Fe”, puntualizó.

Agregó que Wesolowsky no puede ser extraditado por su condición diplomática y conforme a lo establecido en el tratado de Viena, del que la República Dominicana es signataria.

“Los diplomáticos tienen que ser juzgados en los países que representan, según la convención de Viena”, resaltó López Rodríguez.

What’s the cardinal saying? “The nuncio has to be tried by a Vatican court. There are many courts there, but the one which has knowledge of this case is the Doctrine of the Faith.

“He added that Wesolowski cannot be extradited do to his position as diplomat as established by the Treaty of Vienna.”

Right—that’s not Brito speaking, but a cardinal, though one could ask how he got into the picture. So it’s unclear—what’s Brito thinking?

Several other questions come to mind. According to one report:

REDACCIÓN CENTRAL.- El ex nuncio Josef Wesolowski obstaculizó investigaciones de pederastia en Puerto Rico contra más de una decena de sacerdotes de la diócesis de Arecibo.

I won’t translate except to say:

obstaculizó—hindered

decena—dozen

sacerdote—priest

Hmmm—just a second. Wesolowski was on American soil, hindering investigations of sexual abuse by priests. Hey, guess what! Wesolowski may have the privilege of being the first Vatican official on a witness stand in an American court. 

Next on the list—Wesolowski was not the only Polish guy running around in the Dominican Republic. There was also a priest… but let El Nuevo Día tell the story:

Precisamente, el jueves, las autoridades dominicanas le solicitaron  a la Interpol que ayude con la captura de otro sacerdote de origen polaco, Wojciech Gil, quien presuntamente también cometió actos sexuales contra menores en el vecino país.

And why do the Dominican authorities need the help of Interpol to find Wojciech Gil? Because at about the same time that the Vatican recalled Wesolowski, Gil got it into his head to return home to his beloved Poland.

So we have the perfect storm for the Vatican. It says it cooperates with local authorities—does it? And why is it that they pulled Wesolowski, and didn’t report to the local authorities, as their own policy dictated? Will the Vatican allow for extradition of one Polish priest but not another—an ambassador? Its new laws allow for up to ten years in prison—but will it loophole Weslowski? As it is—the worst thing that could happen to him is to be defrocked.

Two things come to mind. First, whatever the legality of the situation is, the morality is—to this old atheist—pretty clear. A guy was screwing around with kids—he should be punished, and punished by the laws of that country. If the Vatican insists on diplomatic immunity, the whole world will be laughing. Or at least those of us who have no illusions about the Vatican. The faithful will be seething.

Second, get ready, both of you guys, for a taste of the Dominican legal system. As I understand it, it operates on the belief that the defendant is guilty until found innocent. Oh, and guess what? Dominican jails are notorious—filthy, dirt floors, rats, no food or provisions unless provided by family. Puerto Ricans will remember dear Laura Hernández….

But look at the bright side.

Won’t be cold!

The Archbishop Leaves Victorious

Well, the archbishop won.

Readers of this blog will remember the 19-month long inquisition of the archbishop, who was alleged to have committed various wrongs: selling a school without permission, covering up pederast priests, supporting legislation that would allow straight or gay couples living together to get insurance, and—here was the real dirt—setting up an altar to the patria—or motherland—in the cathedral.

Archbishop Roberto González Nieves is an independentista, and is perfectly happy to have everyone know it. So he set up the altar in the cathedral—take a look:

OK—not a problem, right? Well, seen through Puerto Rican eyes, there was just a little omission, namely the absence of another flag, called la pecosa, or the freckled one. Puerto Rico, you see, has but one star on its flag—the US flag has fifty. Hence, freckles—see?

Nor was that all. González conceived the wonderful idea of digging up the bones of a long dead statesman, Ramón Power y Giralt, a man who had represented Puerto Rico in a fledgling attempt at representation in Spain. And there he had died, and there he was buried—away from his beloved Puerto Rico, and away from his beloved friend, the first Puerto Rican bishop, Juan Alejo de Arizmendi. And wouldn’t it be wonderful if these two great Puerto Ricans at last could be united, these many centuries later, here at the Altar to the patria, in the land which they had loved so much, and for which they had battled so arduously?

“He was buried in a mass grave,” sputtered Mr. Fernández, referring to Alejo de Arizmendi, “he died of yellow fever, or some such thing. So the damn Spaniards dug up some old bones, and sent them over here! They’re probably still laughing!”

Well, it was true—the Spaniards sent over their training ship: it docked; a troop of cute Spaniards got out in their best ornamental uniforms; trumpets and fifes and drums got played; the Spaniards carried with great formality the “remains” to the state capitol, where they were received with Caribbean effusion. 

Well, the other music in the room—or on the island—was the collective gnashing of the teeth by those who favor statehood. The archbishop, they frothed, was injecting politics into religion; he was shoving his belief down their throats. They complained to the papal nuncio, who lives on the next island over. Being a territory, Puerto Rico cannot have a nuncio of its own, so we have to share.

And apparently the nuncio, Jozef Wesolowsky, was all too happy to launch an investigation, which he did by calling in a bishop from Ecuador, Guayaquil Antonio Arregui Yarza. Letters flew back and forth, leaked to the press—and in May, it was rumored that the archbishop had been asked to resign.

Ah, but by then the archbishop had gotten his break—Benedict decided to thumb his nose at half a millennium of church history and resign. And guess who got the job? A fellow Latin American—a guy who was both a pana and a pala.

Translation—a buddy and a connection.

In June, the archbishop was crowing victory. And in August?

Well, this is a dish that was served on ice, if not completely deep-frozen. For the papal nuncio, Jozef Wesolowsky, has been sacked, and charged with molesting young boys.

Here’s an account from Pedro Espinal, the bird who decided to sing:

“Nosotros una vez fuimos a Juan Dolio con 48 monaguillos de lo cual, eeehh, yo dormía en la parte afuera de la casa del Nuncio apostólico, que está en  Juan Dolio, de vacaciones. Y  nos repartimos, como entre cinco adultos que estábamos, los niños; cinco dormían conmigo, cinco con otro y cinco con otro, y así sucesivamente. Pero él (el padre Wojciech) siempre escogía  los niños más pequeños.”

Translation: Once we went with 48 altar boys to Juan Dolio, where I slept outside of the house of the Papal nuncio, who was there on vacation. We shared, among the five of us adults, the kids: five slept with me, five with the other, and five with another, and so on. But he (father Wojciech, a friend and fellow priest) always chose the youngest.

And so on the 21^st of August, the papal nuncio was stripped of his positions. And where is he? Nobody knows. Oh, and the friend mentioned above, Wojciech? He went on the lam to his native Poland.

Nor, apparently, did Wesolowsky engage in this behavior only while on vacation—he was well known in the old city of Santo Domingo, where he plied kids with alcohol, and then had sex with them in an abandoned monument to Fray Antón de Montesinos. Here’s an account:

SANTO DOMINGO, República Dominicana.-La periodista Nuria Piera denunció que el hasta hace poco embajador del Vaticano en Santo Domingo, Joséf (o Joseph) Wesolowski, era un habitual visitante de la Zona Colonial, lugares donde tomaba alcohol y luego pagaba a niños para sostener relaciones sexuales en el abandonado   a Fray Antón de Montesinos, en el malecón de Santo Domingo.

Well, the district attorney in Santo Domingo, Yeni Berenice Reynoso, has decided to open an investigation, even without having spoken with the victims. So Wesolowsky, if they can find him, is cooked.

Anybody want to bet he’s in the Vatican?