“Comrade” with Christ by E.A. Pereszlenyi, M.D. His eyes were piercing, but a more kindly face I perhaps shall never see. The first time I met him was in the sanctuary of the First Presbyterian Church in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Dr. Pereszlenyi did not know until sometime later that it was the same church which Dr. Clarence McCartney had pastored for twenty-six years. One of the latter’s best sermons had been translated from English into Hungarian by Dr. Pereszlenyi while he was still living in Hungary. Dr. Pereszlenyi is in General Practice in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. He was born in Mochacs, Hungary, in 1919, and holds a medical degree from the University of Pecs. During World War II, he was a medic and after the communist takeover, he served in the Hungarian army as a medical officer. In September,1958, he defected to the free world. Later he was admitted to Canada where he took additional training at Hamilton General Hospital and then was granted a Fellowship in Cardiology at the Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto. Five years after the doctor left communist Hungary, his fiancee, Julia, was allowed to join him and they were married in Hamilton. There is no room for God in the communist society. Communism, it is claimed, feeds, clothes, and provides for the people, and in a sense it provides the equivalent of what Christians know as “the way, the truth, and the life.” God, therefore, is irrelevant. I was fortunate enough to escape such a society, and I shall share with you some of my experiences as a Christian doctor behind the iron curtain. I shall also tell of my search in the institutional churches of the free world for a recognition of the real God. I hope, as you share my background, you will better understand my enthusiasm on discovering the Kathryn Kuhlman ministry where God is recognized and worshiped as the God of miracles — where He and He alone is given the glory as the Great Provider, the Great Saviour, and the Great Physician. The communist regime has established the most elaborate system of surveillance the world has ever seen. Someone is always watching. In every apartment house, there is a Committee of Tenantry which is supervised by the block warden. In every office, store, and factory, there is a Works Committee, which (though an organ of the Trade Union) is in fact the simple tool of the Communist Party. Everywhere there is the Basic Party Organization whose secretary is lord over the living. Nothing of any consequence may happen without his consent. Finally, there is the Political Police who hold the authority to arrest anyone, even a minister of the government. At the root of this entire system of oppression are the informers, without whom the system could not function. Every man, woman, boy, and girl under the communist regime is expected to be an informer and, as we have seen, organized groups of informers are strategically placed in every apartment house, factory, office, and business. The “Part.” is constantly offering favors and rewards to those who will inform on their neighbors or even their own families. Everyone is expendable. If a man is accused of being a reactionary, he is relegated to the most insignificant type of job. Large numbers of prisoners were sent to work camps in Siberia or even to Red China to spend their remaining years in miserable surroundings. Human life is useful only as it works for the Party. Thus, you see, in such a society where God is ignored, where the printing and even the reading of the Bible is hindered in every possible way, where man is expected to inform on his own father or mother to receive a favor from the almighty Party — life for the Christian can be quite perilous. Hungary has not always been a communist nation. In a series of tragic diplomatic blunders, she became the pawn of the victors following the two great wars. A helpless maiden, she was thrust into the cell of political rapists. I was an escapee from the old army because I did not want to retreat to Germany at the time my country was handed over to the communists after World War II. Although we cringed in fear at the prospect of becoming Russia’s slaves, such are the fortunes of war. Our people had been bartered into hell by the infamous stroke of a pen on the Yalta Treaty. I was converted to Christ sometime between six and seven o’clock in the morning on the third of July, 1940. I was a medical school student at the University of Pecs. For three years I had been diligently reading my Bible, but I had never fully accepted Jesus. The night of my conversion, I could not sleep and before dawn I got up and walked in the park, praying and praying for God to reveal himself to me. Just before the sun came up, the Person of Jesus became very real to me—and I knew—I knew that He died for my sin. I accepted Him that morning as my Lord and Saviour. In 1945, following the war, I returned to Pecs. There, as a young intern, I was exposed to extreme pressure (as were all students, interns, and doctors) to join the Communist Party. Lenin had written in one of his books that doctors should be “evangelists” for the cause of communism, and at least ninety percent of the Hungarian doctors at Pecs had already joined the party. I was offered rewards and a lucrative position if I, too, would join. I realized, however, that communism was not the remedy for society’s ills anymore than cholera can be cured by the plague. I knew that Jesus Christ alone was the answer for the world’s ills, and I intended to be a “comrade” with Him alone. Dr. Istvan Kenesse, a prominent member of the Communist Party Organization of Doctors, warned that my “hesitation” to join the Party would be overlooked no longer. Within three months, I was compelled to leave my position as an intern at the University Hospital in Pecs. Dr. Lajos Rostas, my chief and a trustee of the Communist Party, had written a three-page letter accusing me of being a reactionary on the basis that I read my Bible every day, a brand which I was powerless to remove. As is often the case in communism, a short time later Dr. Rostas was expelled from the party and lost his job at the University. Fortunately for me, the Secretary of the Alliance of the Communist Trade Unions in Pecs became sincerely concerned about my future. The previous year, I had dissuaded his wife from committing suicide and when he heard of my situation, he helped me obtain a residency in the Bajcsy-Zsilinszky Hospital in Budapest. God’s promise to me was fulfilled: “The rod of the wicked shall not rest upon the lot of the righteous...” (Psalm 125:3). One evening, one of my old patients, a Roman Catholic, was dying and she wished to see a priest. In order to allow a priest to enter the hospital, the dying patient had to apply for an approval and the resident on call had to sign it. The priest came and I whispered to one of the nurses, “There is another dying patient in the ward. Let the priest hear her confession also.” Early the next morning I was called to the office of the Secretary of the Party Organization in the hospital. The entire Executive Committee was present, along with a typist to take down my statement. “What happened last night?” the secretary asked. “What do you mean?” “About the priest,” he replied. I knew I was in big trouble, but the Lord took over and guided my tongue as I answered. “There was an old woman dying. If I refused to let the priest come, the rest of the people in the ward (and there were about twenty people in that ward) would have said there was no freedom of religion in Hungary. I was working in the interest of the People’s Democracy by letting him come to prove we honor everyone’s constitutional rights.” The men all turned and looked at one another and nodded. I was allowed to return to my job on the floor. Dr. Galocsi, a leading communist and my chief in the Bajcsy-Zsilinszky Hospital realized I was a trustworthy and hard-working man. In spite of the fact that I was a Christian, he made an effort to change my political standing. In the fall of 1950, I was drafted into the medical center of the Air Force doing specialist work. However, when the political department of the Air Force learned I was a Christian, they decided to transfer me to the army because they considered me “not reliable.” After a series of transfers from one military post to another, I was finally assigned to a military engineering camp at Midszent on the Yugoslavian frontier in the capacity of medical officer. One morning, one of the soldiers appeared at the office with dysentery. I was panic-stricken. Only a few months before, Major Dr. Szanto had been hanged in Tata because the soldiers under his care had contracted diarrhea. Apparently the communists believed that through fear they could force doctors to do their best. In fact, the fear pervaded all the professions. If a building collapsed or settled on its foundations, they would hang the architect or engineer — a threat to all others that they had better not make the same mistake. Over the following days, several more soldiers reported to my tent with dysentery. An epidemic was breaking out. In despair I began to pray and called on some Christian friends to pray for me. The epidemic grew worse and the surgeon of the Army Corps came to inspect the camp. I told him the problems resulted from poor sanitation. He looked at me for a long time. “All right, Comrade lieutenant, I make you a dictator. Anything you say about health is law. Even the commanding officer must obey you.” God blessed our efforts, and our sanitary conditions improved so marvelously that I received a citation from the surgeon general for stopping the epidemic among the soldiers at Mindszent. (However, the citation never reached me since it was intercepted by the Political Department of the Ministry of Defense who thought this too great an honor for a “clerical,” the repugnant stigma borne by those who attend church in Hungary.) As a result of this good work, though, I was transferred to the Crack Division (the best in the country) in Kalocsa. There I was to be the commanding officer of the hospital of the division. Every commanding officer had a counterpart, a political officer. I knew such a man would be arriving as my constant companion — to live in my tent with me and spy on me. My political “comrade” was young and ambitious and I had no doubt that he hoped to prove his alertness and be promoted if he could find cause for my imprisonment. However, I determined I would not back down from my convictions. On the night of his arrival, I said, “Since my nineteenth year, I have been reading my Bible. I hope you will not mind if I continue this practice. After all, this is my personal tent.” A faint smile spread over his face. “That’s fine, Comrade, go right ahead.” I sensed then that my days were numbered. My political companion’s zeal knew no bounds. He was determined to prove I was an agent of the “American Imperialists.” My suitcase was often searched in my absence and all my conversations carefully weighed. Every shred of evidence that could be used against me was put into a file. Though such oppression was constant, I gained strength from my daily Bible readings from the little Moravian Bible Guide that I used then and still do. One verse in particular comforted me during those times. “And they shall fight against thee; but they shall not prevail...” (Jeremiah 1:19). And they did not. It was about this time that another influence entered my life — Julia. I met her in Budapest when I was taking a course for senior administrative medical officers. Though despised as a “clerical,” my work was so much appreciated and I was so valued as a medical officer that I was among the first sixteen who were chosen for this course. I was the only non-member of the Communist Party. Julia and I saw a good bit of each other and I found out she was a believer in spiritual healing. I, too, knew from the Bible that spiritual healing was possible, but felt that much of the church could no longer claim this gift due to its lost estate and frailty. Suffering, I had been told, is a part of life and something to be endured. It should not be prayed away. This, my friends tried to make me believe, also applied to my own oppression as a Christian in the communist army. When you are oppressed there is nothing you do about it but bear it, I was repeatedly told. I was told this by all of my friends except Julia. “No,” she said, “God does not want you to suffer. He wants to lift your burden.” “I have always been told that it makes a man strong to suffer,” I replied. But Julia’s logic made sense, I had to admit. It was what the Bible taught and I believed the Bible. I began to think she was right. I could actually pray for release from the military service so I could practice medicine without restriction. I was encouraged and my hope began to take roots and grow. Life in the communist army remained unbearable. Unwilling to have me exterminated merely on the grounds that I was a Christian, they tried to find some fault with my medical work Everything I did was under close scrutiny. However, through God’s grace, the hospital was judged most highly in the military service. This time the citation was given to my counterpart—the political officer. Because of my religious beliefs, eventually I was sent to Budapest on “compulsory vacation,” which amounted to open arrest. My pay was withheld and I was forbidden to practice medicine because I was still a part of the army. I was followed constantly. When I walked down the street, I was always aware that someone was following me. When I stopped, he stopped. When I turned, he turned. At night I could peek out my apartment window and see him on the sidewalk below. I had one satisfaction, however—attending a preaching mission at a famous Lutheran church. This meant the spy had to attend, too. What a sense of humor God must have, I thought, as I glanced across the church and saw that poor fellow sitting there and listening to the Gospel because of his assignment — me! My “compulsory vacation” lasted two months. I had received no pay in that time and I had gradually used up all my savings and realized that I soon would face starvation. One night I boarded a local bus, paying the fare with my last few cents, and encountered the army corps surgeon. He shook his head when he saw me. “What did you do, Comrade lieutenant? Why did you do it?” he asked. “All I have done is my job,” I said. “Oh, no, there are eight testimonies against you. They say you spoke about religion.” “But I never started any conversation on religious matters,” I said. “I only answered questions that were asked of me. I never went to church in my uniform. I cannot see what bad things I have done to deserve this.” “Nonetheless, things look very dark for you, Comrade,” he said. “Very dark.” Frightened, I returned to my apartment. My Bible reading for the day was still open before me. “So Daniel was taken up out of the den, and no manner of hurt was found upon him, because he believed in God.” If God could shut the mouths of lions, He could also handle the communist bear, I thought. I took fresh courage from the Word. In June, 1953, there was a big change in the communist policy. Stalin had been dead three months and the “melting” reached into Hungary, and for one single week, Hungary seemed to be free under a new prime minister. I was ordered to the Ministry of Defense where they almost apologized for my treatment and I received all my back pay. During this week, the decision was made for my release from the army. My record was clean and I was dismissed and classified as “professionally and politically blameless.” I was free! At least I thought I was free until I returned to Budapest and found that no doctor discharged from the army could practice medicine in the capitol. He was considered a poor political risk. I had been set free from one chain and bound with another. I made up my mind to escape from the country as soon as I could. Julia and I continued seeing each other, and I spent much time studying English. In spite of the fact that I was considered a poor political risk, God intervened once again and I received a very fine appointment to take further training in internal medicine and later in cardiology in one of the best hospitals in the city. My evenings were spent doing translations from English into Hungarian, translating not only Dr. Clarence McCartney’s sermon, “Come Before Winter,” but the entire manuscript of Billy Graham’s Peace With God and Torrey’s How To Pray. The translations had to be handwritten, but then later were typed and passed around secretly among the Christians. Then came October 23, 1956.... The chairwoman came running into my office and screamed that I should go to the window. Below were thousands of Hungarian men and youth, marching down the street, waving banners and shouting “Russians go home!” It was the revolution. We were all taken by surprise. There had been great unrest among the Hungarian people, but we had no idea that so many thousands and thousands of young people were willing to pay with their lives for the cause of freedom. One of my friends with political connections confided to me that the entire revolution had been instigated by the Russians, to make the Hungarians force their hand so that all rebels could be liquidated—and that was exactly what happened. The fighting lasted three days and then the Russians withdrew to the perimeter of the city. As a former military officer, I knew what was coming. I knew they were bringing up the tanks. Inside Budapest freedom reigned, but it was like the eye of a hurricane. On the morning of November 4, the rumble of tanks was heard in the streets. The Hungarian Army and the Freedom Fighters attempted the impossible: fighting the tanks with guns and grenades. But it was hopeless. The tanks slaughtered the men by the thousands and the streets were strewn with the dead and dying. The tanks mercilessly punished the slightest resistance, destroying whole apartment buildings for one single gun shot. The slaughter by the Nazis was almost humane compared to the treatment by the Russians. We kept waiting for help to come from the free nations — but none came. Tens of thousands were slaughtered and the streets turned red with blood. At night the trucks would patrol the streets, picking up the corpses and taking them to mass graves in the cemeteries. The hospital staff worked night and day trying to save thousands who had been dragged in, wounded and maimed. Any reservations I had about defecting to the free world were all wiped away during those days of hell. Even Julia, who had been opposed to leaving Hungary, was now encouraging me. She promised to follow as soon as she could. My problem was how to get out. The border to the west was heavily guarded. About one hundred kilometers from the border, all papers were checked and none but residents of the area were even permitted to enter the frontier zone. Extending from the Austrian border were kilometer after kilometer of guard towers, all equipped with bright searchlights, telephone connections, and machine guns. All the guards carried submachine guns and patrolled the areas between the towers with bloodhounds specially trained to capture anyone who might venture into the area. Signal wires, camouflaged to look like plant runners, would set off alarm bells in the towers when touched, and rows of land mines were buried in the earth along the border. All this was enclosed by three rows of barbed-wire entanglements. These barriers, of course, did much to dissuade me from trying to defect across the border. Then, early in 1958, I applied for permission to participate in the Third World Congress of Cardiology to be held in Brussels. I was afraid that because of my past record I would be turned down, yet God was working. The door opened and I received my passport to attend. The time had come to leave the land of my birth forever. Even though we could not announce it publicly, Julia and I pledged our love to each other. One week later, September 12, 1958, I left Hungary and when I arrived in Brussels, I stepped into the police station and asked for political asylum. It would be five years before I would see Julia again. In Brussels, days turned to months, but eventually I was granted immigration to Canada. I took resident work at Hamilton General Hospital in cardiology at the Hospital for Sick Children in Toronto. The political police in Hungary repeatedly rejected Julia’s application for an exit permit until she began to pray together with her friends. A miraculous chain of events were set in motion, for suddenly a prominent politician obtained the document that allowed her to emigrate to Belgium. The Belgians, however, refused to grant her an immigrant visa because I could not provide any guarantee that she would be subsequently admitted to Canada. The adamant position of the Belgian Ministry of Justice changed, however, when a personal friend of the attache requested the visa. As I worked in Canada to bring Julia to Toronto, a new Minister of Immigration and an impending general election finally removed the Canadian objections. I met Julia at the ship in Montreal on July 12, 1963, and we were married. Julia and I were completely happy to be together again. We had found the long-awaited freedom our hearts yearned for under Communist rule, but Julia’s health was not good. I became increasingly alarmed about her. She had a bad inflammation of the gall bladder and possible stones. She had a recurring infection of the kidneys and I knew her appendix was in bad shape — very elongated and surrounded with serious adhesions. She had an ulcerated colon accompanied by extensive bleeding. I was concerned because she would not take medicine. She reacted violently even to children’s doses. It seemed I could treat everyone but my own wife. Our frustrations deepened as we sought for a church in which to worship and serve. While in Hamilton, a dear pastor had helped prepare me to find my way in the jungle of liberal and confused theology that prevails in much of the free world. In Hungary, we had always been able to find Christian friends who believed and with whom we could find fellowship in prayer. But here...? The longing for Christian fellowship and love became a terrific burden upon our hearts. We felt even more lonely in the free world than we had under communist oppression. There the people knew what it cost to be a Christian. We knew that any moment the political police could knock at the door and take us all to jail; it was a matter of life and death. Here, however, living was so easy, so free of restraint on beliefs, that religious worship seemed abstract, lacking reality and personal meaning-fulness. No one really seemed to understand our loneliness, our longing for Christian fellowship without the trappings of a complex organization. “Back in Hungary, prayer meetings were necessary,” we were told, “because you were under oppression. But here you are free. You don’t need to gather for prayer and Bible study in your home. Here you can go to church on Sunday and attend the scheduled services and that is enough. There is no need for more.” As our confusion grew, Julia’s health problem became more acute. Though the pain would not keep her in bed, she was constantly beset by suffering. I treated her the best I could, but no medical help seemed to make any difference. Then some Hungarian friends gave Julia a newspaper clipping from the Toronto Daily Star that told something of the Pittsburgh ministry of Kathryn Kuhlman. The article gave a brief description of the miracle services that were being conducted at the First Presbyterian Church in downtown Pittsburgh. Our friends were planning to attend; Julia went with them. This was our introduction to a ministry that has changed our entire outlook on life and brought not only hope for the future but health for the body. Because of my medical practice I could not attend that October 18 meeting. Julia, however, returned and recounted in great detail the marvelous miracles she had seen. “I have read books,” she said, “about the great German healers of the last century; but in Pittsburgh, I saw miracles happening before my very eyes.” Never had I seen Julia more vibrant and enthusiastic. “My greatest impression was the love. The healings were marvelous, but it was the love and acceptance that I felt that made me know this was the answer to our search.” My excitement beginning to match hers and I asked Julia countless questions. “Miss Kuhlman gives all the glory to God. She is not like others who try to claim some of the glory. She gives it all to God,” Julia said. “And such tenderness. It makes no difference what your race, she loves all people. If she loves all races, then surely she loves Hungarians also.” I nodded my head. “Yes, this must be the place for us.” By now I, too, believed this was God’s work and I promised Julia I would take her to Pittsburgh to attend another miracle service. I invited George, a young patient of mine, to go with us—he had been stricken by a rare case of cerebral multiple sclerosis (MS of the brain). Thursday, December 5, we drove to Pittsburgh to attend the meeting the following day at the Presbyterian Church—Julia, young George, his father, and I. The youth had to be led into the auditorium and propped up in one of the pews. Julia’s pains were severe, but not so bad that she could not walk. The tingle of excitement of preparing to see the power of God in action was almost more than I could stand. Even as I entered that spacious auditorium, I knew I had found the answer to my long search. The service had barely gotten underway when Miss Kuhlman said, “Somebody is being healed of an intestinal condition.” Julia stood to her feet beside me. She was trembling and crying. I stood with her, tears in my eyes. The power of God came down upon her that hour. Miss Kuhlman prayed for Julia and the glory of God rested upon her. Never in all her life had she felt such power, such love, such glory. Julia reached out and touched the youth’s shoulder with her fingertips. The glory was still on her and I could literally see an unbelievable improvement in his body. I knew. I knew that finally I had tapped the source of power of the universe. It was to be found in the Holy Spirit. All those years, I knew He was there. All those years under communist oppression, He had been leading and protecting me. But that morning in Pittsburgh, I acknowledged Him and became a part of all He wants to do in this world. Julia’s pain has disappeared and her bleeding has stopped completely. My young patient also continues to show evidence of the healing power of God. Some of my medical colleagues have suggested that if God is the Great Healer, then there is no use for the medical profession anymore. I disagree. I am called of God to practice medicine. I prescribe drugs and refer patients to surgery or specialists when necessary. However, now I also realize that there is a prayer ministry that must go hand in hand with the practice of medicine. Often, from my office, I phone my wife to ask her to pray for a patient whom I cannot help, for now I know that what medicine cannot do, God can do. With Him, nothing is impossible. Yes, I believe that God gives some persons special gifts to be used in spiritual healing. Just as I refer many of my patients to specialists, I now have no reservation about referring those who cannot be helped by medicine to the greatest Specialist of all—the Great Physician, Jesus Christ.” Look Everyone: Chapter 19 |