Faithful Wait Hours for Glimpse

In an extraordinary spectacle of devotion, tens of thousands of Roman Catholic faithful filed past the crimson-cushioned bier of Pope John Paul II late Monday, after waiting for hours in a hot sunshine that faded into the cool shadows of evening and finally the chill of night.

"What I wanted most was to see him before he died," said Kuttalam Iyappam, a pilgrim from Madras, India, who had planned his trip before the pope's death Saturday. "Since I could not, I felt something pulling me like the tide, drawing me close to him to pray."

Almost from the moment Monday afternoon that the Vatican announced that the pope's body would go on public view in St. Peter's Basilica after nightfall, a sea of waiting humanity filled the broad Via della Conciliazione leading from St. Peter's Square to the Tiber River.

Sandwiched between police barricades, the thick column snaked for more than a mile, with people standing shoulder to shoulder on the time-smoothed cobblestones.

There were scruffy-bearded students, stooped pensioners, nuns in gray habits and fleece warmup jackets, African women in colorful tribal dress, parents pushing strollers.

To pass the hours, people prayed, chatted on cellphones and bonded with strangers, showing off baby pictures and gesticulating in animated conversation before the crush grew too tight and forced people to keep their arms pinned by their sides.

They offered each other bottles of water distributed by emergency personnel watching over the crowd. A few people fainted and were helped away from the crush; others who grew weak leaned on the shoulders of newfound friends for support.

"This is nothing at all to suffer for a chance to see a pope who taught us so much about suffering and how to bear it bravely," said 64-year-old Roman schoolteacher Gilda Paolilli, whose bad knee began paining her as the wait passed its fifth hour.

Once inside the basilica, some dissolved in silent tears at the sight of the pope's reclining body dressed in red vestments, a white bishop's mitre on his head. Under the gaze of two Swiss Guards in striped uniforms and plumed helmets, mourners passed close enough to glimpse John Paul's pale, drawn face, a staff tucked in the crook of his arm, stolid brown shoes on his feet.