In 1989, Zita, the last empress of Austria and the last queen of Hungary died. The day of her funeral, 8,000 mourners filed out of Vienna’s St. Stephen’s Cathedral and fell in line behind the hearse drawn by six black horses over the cobblestones of the city. Two hours later the procession concluded at the Capuchin Church. As they arrived there, in keeping with tradition, a member of the funeral party knocked on the door and a priest asked, “Who goes there?”
A man speaks loudly amid the echoes of great silence: Zita’s titles were read aloud: “Zita, Queen of Bohemia, Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, Galicia. Queen of Jerusalem. Grand Duchess of Tuscany and Cracow . . .”
“I do not know her,” came the voice from within the crypt.
The funeral group knocked a second time. “Who goes there?”
“Empress Zita of Austria Queen of Hungary,” was the reply.
“I do not know her,” came the voice from within the crypt.
Still the door remained shut.
The mourners knocked yet a third time. “Who is there?”
“Zita, a sinning mortal,” was the answer. The door swung open.

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