Magdi prepared very diligently for Christmas. She did everything she could to ensure that there would be a Midnight Mass not only at the factory parish church, but also in Litér. However, this plan encountered more and more difficulties.
As the saying goes, misfortune never comes alone. Father István O. suffered a severe gastric hemorrhage. Under the circumstances, proper medical treatment was impossible, so he had to return to Moson, his hometown. He left us with a heavy heart, hoping that he would soon recover and return.
“What shall we do now?” I asked Magdi. “How can we manage the Midnight Mass in Litér? If I could get some help, it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Let us ask for a substitute priest from Veszprém for the holidays,” she suggested.
“The idea isn’t bad,” I replied. “But you know that Bishop Mindszenty is also in prison. There is no one to make arrangements.”
“Then visit the Bishop, Father, and ask him to take action.”
“I can try,” I said, “but I don’t believe it will succeed.”
Encouraged by Magdi, I went anyway—and it succeeded.
Christmas arrived—Magdi’s last Christmas, though we did not know it then. Around six o’clock in the evening she came to see me. She brought her Christmas gift: a holy card with a spiritual bouquet and a small wax Baby Jesus placed inside a tiny golden walnut. She set it on the table.
“My little Baby Jesus is quite poor,” she said, “but I brought Him gladly.” She could not have offered a more touching gift.
Then she came forward with what she herself called her “great request.”
“If I manage to obtain permission from the authorities and the soldiers,” she asked, “will Father truly come to Litér to celebrate the Midnight Mass?”
“We have planned it,” I replied. “I promised that if Magdi removes the final obstacle, then of course I will come.”
“I’m leaving immediately!” she said.
“At that time,” Father József continues, “it was no longer possible to travel in the evening, especially around the factory settlement. Military guards were everywhere. The factory was an important war facility, and the front line was already not far away, somewhere beyond Balatonkenese. Throughout the country, Midnight Masses were celebrated in the afternoon on December 24 due to air raids and the severe wartime situation.”
On Christmas Eve, in the late afternoon and evening—when everyone longed to experience joy at the manger of the Child Jesus—Magdi was going from office to office to obtain permits. She rode her bicycle, tired and alone in the darkness, passing through military checkpoints, so that she could bring true Christmas joy—the light of sanctifying grace—into people’s souls.
I feared that a soldier, unfamiliar with courtesy, would refuse permission without a second thought. But Magdi was irresistible—she knew how to ask so beautifully. She obtained all the necessary permits. She even had to personally assume responsibility for the blackout regulations.
In addition to the military authorization, she also secured permission from the local magistrate so that the faithful could move freely to and from the Midnight Mass. She arranged the location of the Mass in the great hall of the castle.
About two hours later she returned, radiant with joy, and handed me my copy of the permit.
“Father,” she said, “please come a bit earlier—there will be penitents, even ‘big fish.’”
“I will be there an hour earlier.”
Every Midnight Mass is beautiful, but this one was extraordinary because of the many conversions and the great number of communicants. After the Mass, Magdi gratefully thanked me for coming—though in truth, I was the one who should have been thanking her. It was a quarter past two in the morning by the time I arrived home.
Source: József Temesi, Testimony with Lily and Blood