MARIKA GUBACSI AUTOBIOGRAPHY

The colour banner on the cover was designed by "Iris". When she had completed it she realised that the ascendancy of colour resembled a physical wave form expression for sound, which fits very appropriately with the title "Marika ... I have called you by your name". Iris believes that the concept was inspired by something related to Fatima. The text of this article is based on the booklet, printed by Robyn, and distributed at the 25th Anniversary celebrations for the Yarra Bay Eucharistic Prayer Community, Sydney, NSW, Australia, held on Saturday, 16 November 2002. The document was converted and uploaded to the web by Denis and editorial assistance was received from Terry, Denes, Josephine and Max. The author, Marika Gubacsi, may be contacted at: miklosgubacsi@bigpond.com

This booklet is an expression of my thanks for the years of encouragement so many have given to me personally, but also to the way of life I have supported. It is part autobiography and part philosophy of my religious belief, as well as the story of the "Healing Mass" which has formed such a big part in my life in the past 25 years. This booklet is respectfully and lovingly dedicated to:

Yahweh says: "Do not be afraid for I have redeemed you: I have called you by your name, you are mine. Should you pass through the sea, I will be with you; or through rivers, they will not swallow you up. Should you walk through fire, you will not be scorched and the flames will not burn you. For I am Yahweh, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Saviour" (Isaiah 43:1-2).

I was never a good sleeper; I am used to waking up in the early hours of the morning, my special time for enjoying peace and serenity and getting in touch with my inner self and my Maker. One morning in early February 1977, I was lying in bed awake when I heard a man’s voice in a clear Hungarian accent calling my name, "Marika... !" I sat up and turned to my husband Miklos, fast asleep beside me, "Did you call me?" I asked. Half awake he said, "No," and went back to sleep. I lay thinking over the experience, and feeling a certain peace flowing through me. About a week later exactly the same thing happened. I prayed, asking "Lord, if this is you, please identify yourself, reveal yourself to me!" Another week had passed; when I heard the same morning voice calling: "Marika... !" I sat up in bed, alert, listening with expectant faith. The voice called again, "I have called you by your name...!" For a moment I was paralysed. The voice was strong and clear. Then I was filled with the Holy Spirit. Joy and peace swept over my soul and I started crying. "Thank you, Lord, praise you Jesus. Glory to you for calling me and for whatever it is you want me to do, I say, "Yes, yes, yes, 0 Lord ... . "

There was no star rising in the sky to signal my birth, no wise men searching to pay homage. Only my parents thought the "Messiah" had been born when I arrived on a beautiful Spring morning in May 1933; I was their first and only child.

At that time, Hungary had almost recovered from the pain and destruction of the First World War. The country was under the leadership of Admiral Miklos Horthy as Governor-General. My parents were very well off. We belonged to the ‘upper ten thousand’. The Danube River divides Budapest into two parts: Buda and Pest. I was born in Buda, which is surrounded by hills, in a private maternity hospital. The surrounding countryside is often covered on Pentecost Sunday by a special kind of rose in all shades from pink to dark maroon. It is called the "Pentecost Rose". My maternal grandmother died two weeks before my arrival and as a result of the grief and pain my mother did not produce milk. In those days this was a great burden. My mother was faced with hiring a ‘wet-nurse’, or mixing her own formula, as a commercial formula was not available, or using diluted cow’s milk. She chose the impossible, none of the above. She ate milk-producing food and drank a litre of brown Guinness every day so as to get her milk glands to work, but to no avail. My grandfather came to the rescue. A chemist who owned a pharmacy in the heart of Budapest, he stayed up many nights concocting a formula consisting of a dozen or so ingredients. This proved successful and after a week in hospital, mother and child arrived home. A mothercraft nurse was waiting to take charge of me and give my mother a rest. Due to overeating and the consumption of so much Guinness, my mother’s beautiful body had gained close to 30 kilograms. She was a publicly adored opera singer, a diva, whose main role was Carmen, the young, slim, beautiful gypsy girl who would attract the handsome soldier, Don Jose. M y father started dropping hints that he would like to have a wife for himself and a mother for his child rather than an opera singer. So, my mother slowly withdrew from the stage and concentrated more on singing on the radio in Budapest. She was broadcasted all over Europe.

However, I was left more and more in the care of nannies, my mum being busy with engagements and high social life and my father with business and escorting my mother. As time passed and I was becoming more aware of my existence, these circumstances began to affect me. I entered the ‘poor little rich girl’ syndrome. At maybe six or nine months of age as I lay in a pram watching blue sky and white clouds passing a gust of wind swept leaves from a tree on to my face. This was a very frightening experience. Not being able to swipe them off I was frightened and screamed. I cried but nobody came. I was alone, totally alone. The nanny was too busy to hear my cry; she was kissing her boyfriend. This episode was the beginning of five years of misuse and abuse by nannies . Later I refused to get into the cot, the reason being that the nanny had hidden a wire brush under the sheet causing me such pain and fright that just getting near the cot made me hysterical .

Life went on, nannies coming and going. New faces, new routines and new rules. I remember starting to register the feeling, I am unwanted, having overheard many times my mother telling people how she had sacrificed her life and how her famous career was destroyed because "she was born". Despite having been born with a silver spoon in my mouth I missed being loved. I missed being tucked into bed at night, being kissed good night and having lullabys sung or stories read to me. I never sat on Mum’s lap. Very occasionally my father would show me some special care and tenderness. In other ways, I had everything one could dream of: luxury apartment, beautiful clothes, and toys from all over Europe. But I had no friends. I was not allowed to play with the other kids. No one was good enough for me.

When I was about three years old, my nanny took me to a park in the heart of Budapest; next to the Parliament House. It was a cold winter morning; snow and ice had covered everything. I was told to play by myself because nanny was too busy. A soldier came up and they started talking and kissing and embracing, totally ignoring me. I started pulling the skirt of my nanny to tell her that I had to go to the toilet. She paid no attention so I wet my pants. I felt uncomfortable and tired. I sat on a rock covered with snow and ice. When the nanny said goodbye to the soldier I tried to get up but my pants were stuck to the rock. I felt frozen. By late afternoon I was very sick with high fever. That night the ambulance took me to a hospital where I got steadily worse. My kidneys stopped functioning completely. For 10 days the doctors kept pumping litres of water into me but there was no urination. My condition was diagnosed as uremia and it was critical. I should have died but miraculously I survived. It was a slow recovery. I spent three years in hospital in a private room with my nanny looking after me. The doctors tried to cure me with a sugar treatment. I had to eat one kilogram of sugar every day as well as have a daily grape sugar injection and I was not allowed to move at all. When I left the hospital at the age of six I was like a little barrel. The sugar diet put a lot of weight on me. My metabolism went out of control. I was so weak I could hardly walk. I never told my parents what had caused my near-death experience. The nanny told me that she would kill me if I ever told anyone about what had happened in the park. My parents have been dead for many years. Sometimes in prayer I whisper the secret to them. I know they are now fully aware of what happened to me in my childhood and they also know that I forgive them and that I love them very dearly.

As I lived with my parents in an apartment block, I never owned a pet. When we settled in Australia we always had pets though my husband never let them come into the house. To compensate me for my not being able to have a pet my parents showered me with toys, toys from everywhere in the world but mainly from Europe.

My parents travelled a lot. At weekends they drove to Vienna for shopping, always bringing back a new toy for me. During my three years in hospital, they presented me with an expensive Käthe Kruse Puppe doll made in Germany. Its hair and face were nicely painted and it was beautifully dressed. I scratched under the dress until I had made a little hole with my nail. Then I started to scream and tore the doll apart before my parents' eyes. Finally, I threw the doll at them. My parents called me an ungrateful child for years because I had destroyed the doll.

A Käthe Kruse collectible doll from the 1930s - 1940s, now on sale for over $3,000.

They did not understand that presents could not compensate me for the fact that I felt they had no time for me during the week or, indeed, on weekends. Father was busy with his work and mother with her social life. After I had reached school age and learned to read, my greatest joy was reading. My parents supported me in this and bought me every book I ever wanted. Before the second World War broke out, I had over 1,000 books on my shelves. I read classics, fiction, history and art. I read autobiographies and biographies and philosophy and theology in three languages. German and Hungarian was my "mother tongues" and I learned English at the age of six. One particular book had a very significant effect on me: Aldous Huxley’s The Brave New World. I still think of it often and sometimes cannot believe that those prophecies became facts in my world. I lost all my books during the war but some live forever in my mind.

One day a miracle happened. In the park my nanny started talking to another nanny and the two little charges began playing together and talking. We had so much fun. We had so much in common. Her name was Lotte and spoke German. Her father was a solicitor. Her mother was from Czechoslovakia but she spoke German. We became inseparable. Our two nannies also enjoyed the company of each other. Lotte visited me regularly during my three year stay in hospital. Later we went to school together. I remember looking through the window waiting for her to call me ... "Marekka" ....with a German accent. She had an unusually deep voice for a two-year-old. She still calls me "Marekka" 60 years later. She emigrated to Australia with her mother. Her father died when she was 14. I came as a refugee to Australia eight years after her and we met again. We are still friends. Our parents, now all dead, were friends in the old country and out here. Our friendship lives on. We are now watching our children and grandchildren live their lives.

I can remember only one other little playmate. She was a classmate who lived only a couple of houses from our apartment block. Her name was Scarlet. Her parents were artists - painters. I was allowed to walk to her place only when my mother or nanny were watching. They would watch my every step from the balcony until I was let into Scarlet's house. I can still smell the oil paint and the canvass. She and her younger brother had a rocking horse with hair and a bushy tail. I was totally overwhelmed by the experience of being in the house of someone else but that did not happen often. Most of the time I was kneeling on a piano chair looking out from the window of my bedroom in our sixth floor apartment and watching the world go on. From there I could see many units and rooms. Slowly I was able to recognise people and their habits and timetables. I could see children my age and other kids playing in the park. I was often envious and lonely. I felt like I was in prison. But that didn’t last. The war intensified when I was about nine. I was growing up fast and soon my life was going to change dramatically. I was to become an adult overnight.

I always find talking about my father easy and peaceful. He was gentle and kind, a dreamer with great plans for the future and the courage and strength to see them through. He loved me; I was his princess. Being proud of me he always found a way of excusing my shortcomings. He wanted to make up for all the pain and hurt my mother had caused me. He tried to make me feel wanted and special.

He was one of three children born to Gyula Kutasi and Rosalie Endler. Named Bela, he was affectionately known as "Bobby" and was the youngest following his brother Zoltan and his sister Ilona. There were another four children in the family as it was his mother's second marriage. Having seven children to raise, feed and educate was a big burden to parents who were very poor. My father left high school after getting his School Certificate and enrolled in a Technical College. As a boilermaker he worked hard during the day to pay for the University course he had started at evening college. Having achieved excellent results he became an Engineer and specialised in heating and cooling. At the age of 18 and to fulfil the last wish of his father, my father married the girl next door. She was 16 and her name was Berta. As they were the victims of an arranged marriage they were never truly happy. Soon Berta had a baby boy, Tibor, whom she never really wanted. As my father was working and studying, the young couple spent little time together. One day when the temperature was below zero in Budapest, Berta placed her young son naked near the open window. He became ill with pneumonia and died. My father was heartbroken. The hospital notified the police. Berta was convicted of manslaughter and sent to gaol. My father applied for a divorce which in those days took a long time to obtain. He waited for over ten years to be free again. Tibor would have been my brother, my half brother. I often think of him. I know of only two of my father's half sisters. One, Ida, went to America and married Imre Pressburger who was the founding director of Metro Goldwyn Mayer Film Productions. The other, Margaret, met a university student and moved to Vienna where she became a professor and lectured in political science. It took a long time for my father to recover from the effects of his first marriage. Slowly he picked up the pieces and started again. He eventually bought a timber yard and worked it up. He sold all sorts of material for heating. He lived alone and concentrated on building up his future. One night a friend, being unable to attend himself, gave him a ticket to the Royal Opera House. Bizet’s "Carmen" was on the programme; my father loved Carmen. His seat was in the middle of the front row. He was absolutely taken by the beauty and the quality of voice of the young Carmen. He could not keep his excitement to himself. A lovely, very well dressed, lady sat next to him. At the end he kept singing out ‘isn’t she beautiful’, ‘what a talent, ‘what a magnificent voice’. After the final curtain-call, she turned to my father and said: "If you are so taken by the talent of my daughter, would you like to meet her in the dressing room?" She escorted him to the dressing room almost before my father was able to answer. After knocking, Carmen’s mother opened the door and there was the beautiful young opera singer standing in front of the mirror with a man kneeling in front of her kissing her hand. Dressed in the costume of Don Jose, the man was none other than the famous singer, Benjamino Gigli.

The lovely lady introduced my father to her daughter. A new chapter began in his life; he had met the woman who was to be my mother. By the mid-1920s Hungary had recovered from the devastation of the First World War. The economic situation was excellent. My father started a business manufacturing heating and cooling equipment, mainly for large buildings such as schools and churches. He patented his inventions, soon becoming well-known and wealthy. However, he never forgot his simple background and the poverty in which he was raised. He always remained a humble, easily approached man. My mother's background and upbringing were exactly the opposite. The only child of a wealthy family, she was spoiled rotten. She grew to be selfish and authoritarian in her attitude towards others. Like me she had nannies and governesses and the loneliness of being an only child. Her parents were involved in high society and traveled extensively. My mother became a boarder at the best school, Sacre Cour. After her High School Certificate she attended the Conservatorium, obtaining a degree in opera singing and, later, another in piano. After her studies she became a member of the Royal Hungarian Opera House. There she took on solo singing and sung major parts in Carmen, Traviata, Tosca, La Boheme, Cavalleria Rusticana, etc. She sang with Caruso, Fleta and Chaliapin, among others. Almost overnight she became well known throughout Europe. She contracted with La Scala of Milan in Italy where she planned to marry Benjamino Gilgi. She lived in his mansion for two years . But my father's entering the scene changed things suddenly. She must have loved my father greatly. He asked her to marry him but they had to wait for years for my father’s divorce to come through. She tried to settle down and spend more time with him. Finally, in 1931 they tied the knot. She was 29 and he was 39. While waiting for my father’s divorce, my mother earned a degree in Greek Mythology. She spoke five languages fluently. By the time of their marriage, she had become a life member of the Royal Hungarian Opera House.

People said of my mother that she lived on stage all her life. Her heart was always there. She was Carmen, Santucca, Mimi. Her stage name was GerØ Margit. I can see now why she resented me from birth. She had to sacrifice an awful lot to be a wife and a mother. Her pain was obvious and deep-seated. So was mine, in being unwanted and unloved for so long.

Most people have very strong memories of their mother's cooking. I have never experienced that. The wonderful meals prepared in our home were produced by Anna, the cook and housekeeper who lived in from the time I was born until the Germans occupied Hungary during the second World War . My mother could not boil an egg! She never went near the kitchen, never had to do the shopping or prepare a meal. Only once, I remember, she decided to surprise my father by cooking him a chicken soup. In those days poultry was sold in Hungary plucked but ungutted. My dear mum put the chicken on to boil with plenty of lovely vegetables, herbs and spices, boiled some noodles to go with the soup then put the bird and all into a soup-tourine. We looked into the dish to discover that she had cooked it with all the insides still within the bird. My Father loved her so much he laughed it off and said it was a good try! Anna was a friend to me, I spent many, many hours talking to her in the kitchen when my parents were out and my Nanny had a day off. My parents were good to her. She was able to save enough money during the years she spent with us to buy her own home, get married and have two daughters. I kept in touch with her until I left the country. I remember vividly the meals in our beautiful formal dining-room, furnished with antiques. Persian carpets were on the floor, and a beautiful venetian chandelier hung from the ceiling. A bell hanging from the lamp signalled to the cook the finishing of a course. Whenever my mother reached for the bell, I panicked and jumped off the chair, because Mum said to Anna: "water!" or "sugar!" I felt very uncomfortable with this attitude. What is wrong with "could you, please" or "may I have some". I hated having servants! After the beginning of the war we never had servants. The great miracle finally happened: mum learned to cook, first the basics, and, later on, the art of Hungarian cooking. We often use some of her wonderful creations today, saying "grandma’s chocolate cake" or "grandma’s pancakes". My father adored her always.

Their love lasted until death. They had survived so much together: the war, the holocaust, the loss of everything they had ever owned. They followed me to Australia full of hope for the future but three months after they arrived my father died of cancer. My mother’s life became empty and meaningless. Everything had gone: fame, wealth, friends and most of all the person she loved best in the world. But she did have three beautiful grandchildren whom she loved. She passed away at the age of 77. I can picture her standing on a cloud singing loudly in heaven fulfilling her dreams. Death is a continuation of life indefinitely.

Thinking about the past and my early years, I can still feel the emptiness, frustration and loneliness of not having loving caring grandparents around me. From my bedroom window, observing the street and the neighbourhood, I often saw grandmothers pushing prams and playing with their grandchildren in the park. I heard laughter and singing by happy kids getting ready to go to the zoo with Pop. My paternal grandfather, Julian (Gyula) Kutasi was dead well before my birth. He was born in Veszprem, a town in western Hungary, to a very poor family. His incredible talent at painting was evident very early but, because of the poverty in which he lived, it was never acknowledged nor fostered. He became a house painter instead. In those days such painters mixed their own paint from earth, clay and lime. He didn’t have much work and lived very simply. He married a widow with four children and had three children by her. My father was nearly 18 years old when my grandfather replied to an ad in a newspaper and got a job. This job was the fulfillment of a lifetime dream. It involved painting frescoes in and around the cupola of the Royal National Theatre in Budapest.

He worked day after day for weeks to complete the work, missing a lot of sleep. He had to climb very tall ladders. All but exhausted, he carried on regardless. The day came when he climbed the ladder for the last time. He finished the paintings which were magnificent. At the last stroke, he became dizzy and fell off the ladder. He died a few hours later but his mission was accomplished.

My only recollection of my grandmother is from a couple of visits I made to her at a nursing home. She put her hands on my head and prayed in words I could not understand. Perhaps she was praying in Hebrew. I remember tears running down her cheeks and then I realised that she was blind. I don’t remember exactly when she died, she seemed to fade out of my life when I was about six. We never talked about her. I wondered if my father was ashamed of her or if the memory of her was too painful for him. My grandparents on my mother’s side came from a totally different background. My grandfather Izso Gero Gunsberger was one of fourteen children of wealthy landowners and graziers in western Hungary. He was born in Csaktornya, a small sleepy town. His father made sure that all of the children had a university education. My grandfather, a pharmacist, like many of the wealthy young men, travelled frequently to Vienna. During one of these visits he met a beautiful wealthy young woman named Olga Neuman. Her father was a well- known furrier in the heart of the city. The youngsters were soon married and lived in Hungary. There they purchased a pharmacy in Keszthely, a holiday resort on the banks of lake Balaton, an icon of Eastern Europe. They lived there for years, having their first and only child, Margit (Margaret) my mother. Being one of 14, my grandfather had sworn that he would have only one child. Later my grandparents moved to Budapest, buying a Chemist shop in the heart of the city and another in the outer suburbs. My grandmother was in her early 40s when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It spread to her lungs. She died at the age of 49, only a few days before I was born. Grandfather lived on for another six years. He was found dead after suffering a stroke in his bed. God has blessed me with three beautiful grandchildren, a boy Jaceson, aged nine, a girl Bernadette, aged nine, and a boy, Damian, aged four. I am trying to be for them the loving grandmother that I never had. It is a wonderful experience to watch them grow older and wiser. They are my consolation for everything I have missed out on in life.

The terms of the the Treaty of Trianon which the Allied Powers and Hungary signed at the Trianon Palace in France on June 4^, 1920, were bitterly resented in Hungary for their harshness and injustice. Over three million Hungarians became foreigners in their country as Czechoslovakia, Rumania and Yugoslavia were granted valuable parts of Hungary. As a child I was constantly surrounded by the pain the country was experiencing. After starting Primary School in 1939, I heard the slogans ‘Never More Trianon’ and songs and hymns expressing the hope in the resurrection of Hungary. I started school a few months after my discharge from hospital. I was weak and could hardly walk. A physical education teacher came to the house twice a week to give me gentle exercises to strengthen me. I had a new nanny. I called her affectionately ‘Frauli’ after Fraulein in German which means ‘missy’. She was about fifty years old and could not speak Hungarian so my German improved. However my Hungarian deteriorated which was not a good thing. Frauli was good to me; I liked her. I received four years of education in a public school (Marczib´ nyi Teri Ellemi Iskola) only ten minutes walk from my home. My Nanny walked with me to and from school daily. In Europe there were four years of primary schooling and eight years of secondary. Latin was compulsory in High School for children wishing to go on to tertiary studies.

During the Second World War, as Adolf Hitler became a household name, people were filled with fear, expecting the worst. Horror stories had spread, bunkers were being built and sirens installed on telegraph poles. Doom was in the air. Aware of what the Nazis were doing to Jews in Germany, my parents were afraid of what could happen in Hungary. They reasoned that if they could take on a Christian religion they would be safe. So, not being at all particular about the religious aspect of what they were doing, they started shopping around for a minister, priest or religion to take them on immediately and give them a certificate without their really studying. They felt the matter was too urgent for any delay. Almost next door to our apartment block was a Franciscan Friary where the parish priest agreed to receive the family into the Catholic Church after a crash course in the Faith. I first knew about it as my Catholic nanny was dressing me in my blue silk best dress and black patent leather shoes. She told me in a few words what was going to happen before I was taken down to the church where I had never been before. Inside, I was absolutely enchanted by the beauty around me, by the statues, the golden decorations, the whole atmosphere of the place. The delight must have shone in my eyes as afterward the priest encouraged me to visit him with my nanny. He also visited our home very often, and then, a year later, when I joined the school, he was my religion teacher. He talked so beautifully about Jesus to me that I fell in love with Jesus and the whole Catholic religion. He prepared me for first Holy Communion and not long after that was sent away to the missions to Africa, to the Belgian Congo, and on his tenth day there he was killed by Africans. I have never forgotten him as the one who first introduced God to me and me to God. I think I had wanted to say 'yes' to Jesus from the time I was a very young child but I did not know how. My first acquaintance with Him came when I was five years old. You could say then that he first called me by name then when I was baptized "Marika," in the Franciscan church next to my home in Budapest. This event, and the careful tutelage of these saintly men of the Order of Saint Francis, were divine turning points for me. I was claimed. My attraction to the beauty of the Church was to grow with the years. The Catholic tradition still speaks to my senses, especially in its liturgy and rituals, which express the deepest feelings of our nature. As a child I grew to love the Liturgy of the Holy Mass and, as I grow older, this love has deepened. The school years brought a welcome change to my life. I was with children, which was infinitely better than being a prisoner in the sixth floor apartment.

Because of my illness I was much older than the other children in the class. I was also much better read and much more informed. However, I was inferior physically as I was never allowed to exercise, never allowed to swim or run which the other kids did all the time. One teacher had a deep effect on me. She was caring and always nice. I had a small leather-covered book which I called a Memory Book. My friends would draw in it or write poems or quotes. Her message in the book became the Fifth Gospel of my life. It read, "Your faith in God is very strong and you do love your neighbour. If you always fulfil your obligations then your life will be peaceful and happy". I still have the little book. I remember this teacher with great affection. Halfway through primary school my Frauli left us. My parents hired a Governess to look after me. She was a Catholic school teacher and, very intelligent and well educated. Her name was Emilia Baki. By this time we were all baptised Roman Catholics. Emilia was put in charge of my education. I took piano lessons and had a private English tutor. But still I was not allowed to make friends outside the school hours. In my last year, near the end of fourth grade, Hungary’s involvement in the war grew. Air raids occurred more frequently near Budapest. We spent more and more time in the shelters. Frequently I was unable to go to school as it was too dangerous to cross the street. At the end of the school year the first bomb hit Budapest. Falling only about two kilometres from where I lived, the bomb killed a family of four in a private house. This marked the end of Primary school and the beginning of a chain of horror stories I would rather wipe from my memory.

My parents sent me to an exclusive Catholic school, Saint Margaret's. A little more than a year later, the Germans were in control of Hungary and we Jews were obliged to wear a large yellow star.

I remember the day the Germans came to our home to give us our stars. From our window I watched them coming up the street in little carts with box-like seats on top. They gave each of us a yellow Star of David to wear and told us we had to wear it all the time. It was my first realisation of being a Jew and I hated it. I would not wear the star, I was so embarrassed. At school one day in 1944, three German SS troopers stormed into our classroom with their guns drawn. They asked for me by name. They told Sister that I was a Jew, a Jewess, hiding from the Germans and they wanted to take me away. They quickly stuck the Star of David, cut out of yellow material, on my dress, and pulled me out of the bench to the front of the room. I'll never forget the Sister saying, "You dirty pig! You never told us you were a Jew!", and how the kids in the class, all 10-year-olds, pointed their fingers at me and "spat" at me, "You dirty Jew!" I suddenly met the agonizing question, What am I? am I a Jew, or am I a Christian? The sister did not let the Germans take me away. The Principal came in and said she would take the necessary steps. When they had gone she telephoned my parents and they collected me.

Life became very hectic. I was living in bunkers, travelling in fear to school, and waiting in hope for a miracle and freedom. Jews were first being gathered together in ghettoes, then transported in large groups to concentration camps and certain death. Having heard of all the horrors, and knowing that where we were living, people knew us too well, my father decided to move our family to a one bedroom unit in Pest, on the other side of the Danube. The solution was short-lived. One day, by which time I no longer went to school, my father received a phone call from a friend of the family, a commissioner of police in Budapest, who said, "Get your family and RUN, you have got no time to take anything with you, GO NOW!! .... Mum left the soup on the stove, we grabbed our handbags, and ran down the stairs from the sixth floor. As we ran down , the Germans were coming up in the lift to get us. We were on the run and in hiding for well over a year. My father was a genius, whom God used to protect our family. We usually stayed only one night in a place, carrying false, forged documents. I slept under a Cinema screen, stayed in a padlocked boilermaker’s workshop, where the liquid food was lowered through the radiator-pipe, and in many other bizarre places. The main problem was having no change of clothing. For over a year we wore the same clothes we escaped in. Winter came, with temperatures well below freezing, we felt frozen, but thanks to Divine Providence never got sick.

My father eventually joined the Red Cross, using a false name. He was appointed to one of Budapest’s largest hospitals, which was underground because of the air-raids and street-fighting. We were given as live-in quarters a tiny room with one bed. It was a nice change however after all the terrible places we had been in. The hospital was overcrowded ,the injured and the dead being constantly brought in. The corridors were so packed with stretchers one could hardly climb through. There was no food and no drinking water. We began to starve. One evening I walked the corridors trying to find some food for us, looking in the garbage tins for scraps, but could find none. Suddenly the lights went out due to an air raid. It was pitch-dark. I tried to walk back to our room, feeling my way with my hands, touching the walls, at the same time climbing over the stretchers on the floor. I found a door, opened it and stepped in. The door closed behind me. As I walked in the dark, I tripped over something. I touched it, it was cold. On further investigation I realised I had walked into the temporary morgue. Surrounded by mutilated bodies, I crawled back to the door and tried to get out, but could not. It did not open from inside! It was freezing and I was petrified. I hit the door and shouted for help but nobody heard me. Next morning, when a new body was brought in, they found me frozen and crying. I was only ten years old!

I "witnessed history", when one day in March,1945 sitting on our one bed, I saw the German army racing out and a few seconds later members of the Russian army bursting in. The Second World War had ended, we were free to go "home". Home to where? Weak as we were, we walked to our last home to find it burned out and gutted. On the terrace, covered with human excrement, I found the body only of my crucifix, which Zsazsa Gabor my godmother, later to become a Hollywood actress, gave me for my baptism christening. The cross, made of ebony had burned. Life went on. We cleaned up our unit, and later changed it with someone for a 2-bedroom unit in the same house. My father re opened his factory, and started manufacturing heaters. But Communism was in full force, and the Russians now occupied the country.

My last 10 years in Budapest seem to pass quickly but were a painful time. I continued with my education but could not study the subjects I really wanted to do. In 1946 I was confirmed by Cardinal Joseph Mindszenty; soon afterwards he was arrested and tortured by the communists and Russians. Charged with spying and other war-crimes, he was sentenced to death but escaped to the American Embassy. He died in Vienna at Regnum Marianum, a Catholic college. During his trial in Budapest schoolchildren in every secondary school were asked to sign a petition for him to be hanged. I refused to do that. I could not condemn the head of the Church I loved so much.

As a consequence I could never attend University. Funnily, after achieving my HSC I was appointed as secretary to the Vice Chancellor of the University of Technology. I often attended lectures in engineering in the evening - unofficially. Hungarians lived in fear in their country. Democracy had died. I witnessed some members of the secret police pointing guns at my father demanding the keys to his office and factory. He was thrown out and forbidden ever to enter his plant again. After this sudden shock my father became paralysed in both eyes . I wrote to the then Pope, Pius XII, asking him to send my father some vitamin B injections which were not available in Hungary.

A carton of injections soon arrived with a beautiful letter from the Pope. His eyes got better, but my father never fully regained his health. The Church had to go underground. The practice of religion was proscribed. Masses were celebrated secretly in homes. Priests and nuns had to find jobs or go into hiding. Yet, my faith was growing and getting stronger. I secretly joined the Carmelites in Budapest, but in the second year had to leave when the Russians took over the convents. I ran home, taking my spiritual director, Father Lucian with me. He stayed with us in hiding for over a year, but the police caught up with him and put him in gaol, a fate that befell so many other priests. He sat in his cell in knee-high water, until his legs began to rot and he died. My love for God and people kept on growing. I visited the sick in their homes and hospitals and attended underground prayer-meetings. Lots of my friends were priests and religious, and some of whom I remember with especially great affection as they helped me so much on my journey.

One day, aged 18, I went shopping in the inner-city with my parents. We went into a butcher-shop and there was Miklos, whom I had known since I was eight. He was manager of the shop and used to work in a shop in the apartment block in which we had lived. There was an instant spark between us. I took his phone number, thinking of at least a wonderful meat supply at a time when it was impossible to get decent meat. My birthday was coming up so I rang him and asked if I could get enough veal steak for 16 people for my party. When I went to pick it up we had a short conversation. The next day, my birthday, I was coming home from university on the tram, when two women got on, carrying an enormous beautifully decorated basket containing dozens of red roses . As they sat opposite me, and I thought how happy and blessed was the woman or girl who would get the basket. Getting off the tram I realised that the women were following me and when I entered the house, they came in too. I rang the bell for the caretaker to open the elevator and they got in too! The roses were for me! It was so beautiful, I just burst into tears, wondering who the sender could be? It was him, my friendly butcher. Soon after he asked me out and our friendship blossomed. We spent a lot of time together. I grew to love him for his generosity, hospitality, and courtesy. We went to the opera, concerts, movies, nights out, dinners and dance parties. I realised that I AM IN LOVE! Working at the university I was surrounded with lecturers, professors, academics, most of them available bachelors, but no one was as wonderful to be with, as him! For a couple of years everything was fine for us.

One day in September, 1956, Working at the University of Technology in Budapest, I suddenly realised that something was going on. I could not put my finger on it despite having spent such a lot of time in the complex. Students were standing in groups, whispering, missing lectures. I told Miklos: "Something terrible is going to happen, I can feel it..."And it happened! One morning the students took over at gunpoint the university head office, the chancellor and vice chancellor’s office, the Union-office and all the entrances and exits. From every building and auditorium students joined the armed young men and THE 1956 HUNGARIAN REVOLUTION WAS BORN!

There was no way of "getting out" of or running away from it, but I would have joined them anyway. Hungarians had had enough! We marched from the University to the central park in the City. People from "everywhere" joined us! There were hundreds and thousands of people protesting against the communist rule and the Russian occupation. The people took over the three radio stations and shooting started. Thousands of people died. I was able to walk home without much trouble. But soon after street-fighting erupted and the city began to burn . Miklos was all right, he got home somehow too. Next day I tried to go back to work and at the university I couldn’t believe what I found. The beautiful marble floors were covered in blood, bodies were everywhere. I walked aimlessly and then realised that I was in danger too. I ran all the way home and I never went back to the university again. The fighting continued. Young children joined the people on the streets. It looked as if " people-power" had won! But freedom was short-lived!

On 23 October 1956, we a woke about 4:00 am to find Russian tanks moving in, the Russians firing canons and guns, roads being cut, people hiding.

We locked ourselves in our unit too scared to even look out. Soon after, Miklos arrived. He had been shot at, but not hit, crawling behind barricades to make it to our place. He could not go to work, it was too dangerous. He decided to try to escape the country, to go to Austria, to freedom. He took from his neck a gold chain bearing a little gold heart and gave it to me. And he went, I was devastated.! There was a little hidden chapel behind our street and I ran there and stayed there all day! I prayed that God would return him to me and protect him on his way. Late that afternoon I walked home, just in time to answer the phone. It was him! The Lord had answered my prayers. He couldn't get through, as there were too many Russian soldiers near the border, so he had turned back. I thanked God for bringing him safely back to me! For the next few weeks the fighting went on and on. The situation began to look hopeless. Food and water was rapidly disappearing, the dead were left on the streets because nobody would risk going out, getting killed. We started talking with Miklos. What future have we got in Hungary? I had an aunt in Vienna. If we plan our escape carefully, we might be able to leave and start a new life of freedom.

For a large amount of money My father arranged with someone to provide a guide who would show us where to go. We left on the 23rd of December, exactly two months after the revolution. I'll never forget my parents tears, as we crept out the house during the night. We thought, we'll never see each other any more! We travelled by train with false papers, slept a night in a farm-house and at dawn started walking towards Austria with the guide. He took us for a while, then left us in a snowfield, not knowing where we were or which way to continue. We had nothing to carry. Miklos had a bottle of brandy to keep us warm in minus 20 C cold. I had a small New Testament and my camera with me. No change of clothing, no food, nothing. We waited till dark and started crawling in the snow. Suddenly we heard people talking in German. We knew then that we were at the Austrian-Hungarian border. The guards helped us over and we were FREE. In tears we hugged each other, and the guards. We had made it! They gave us hot chocolate and something to eat. I'll never forget the taste of the food, the welcome and the feeling of freedom. That night, (Christmas-Eve) we arrived in Vienna. We went to my aunt who wasn't very happy to have refugee members of her family call in the middle of the night. We left her and went to a hotel to sleep one night. We had enough money for one day. Christmas day! We had nowhere to go, the offices for refugee status were closed; no one was available to help. So, we went back to aunt Margaret, and begged her to help us. The next day we went to ask for political asylum. We lined up with hundreds of people trying to do the same.

100,000 Hungarians left the country in a few weeks. Many died, many were captured and sent to gaol. We were the lucky ones. God was with us right through the ordeal. As I was from the University of Technology, where the revolution had started, we got special attention. Instead of the large refugee-camp we were sent to a University Campus on the outskirts of Vienna and were supplied with tickets for meals in a brasserie in town. On the 2nd of January, 1957 we married civilly in the Town Hall Registry Office. The next day in the church we were married in St Stephen's Cathedral, in the heart of Vienna. We were one of four refugee couple married together, by a Franciscan priest, himself a refugee.

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Left: St Stephen's Cathedral, Vienna, in which Miklos and Marika were married.

Above: Marika and Miklos in Vienna.

We were very happy. I thanked God for helping us through all the danger. OUR JOURNEY HAD BEGUN! We did not waste any time. Miklos started work in a butcher shop. I was about to start in the Canadian Embassy as an interpreter but we received a telegram saying that next morning a bus would take us to Camp Roder in Salzburg, where we were to wait to fly to our destination, Australia! Praise God! We spent about four weeks waiting for a flight. They took us to Linz, where we boarded a KLM four-engined aircraft. Australia, here we come!

It took a week to reach Darwin. Then it was to Bonegilla Camp where we spent one night. Next day we were offered a lift to Melbourne. We were dropped off in front of the Town Hall. We had enough money to buy The Age newspaper. Not knowing anything, we found a room in St Kilda, where the landlord agreed to receive the rent at the end of the following week. Miklos started working next morning at a Continental Butchery. I got a job as a photo-laboratory worker. Soon we rented a small house in Fitzroy and waited on my parents' arrival; they had asked the International Red Cross to bring our family together. I started feeling sick and it wouldn't go away. The doctor diagnosed my symptoms as those of a pregnancy. By the time my parents arrived, I was about ready to give birth. They set foot on Aussie soil at the beginning of April, 1958.

Christine was born on the 16th of the same month. My father was sick when he arrived and went straight to bed. Despite having had a thorough health check in Hungary and Austria he now felt ill. A doctor diagnosed an inflamed gallbladder due to the greasy food on the Italian ship they travelled on for six weeks. He loved Australia; his dream was to migrate here with his family. He made it here but never saw anything of it. X-rays showed gallstones, but in the operation small cancerous tumours were found covering his liver and other organs He died less than three months after arrival in Melbourne. But at least he saw his first grandchild. He was only 65. It was not a good start for my mother in our new country. We had little money and only Miklos was working. I started doing nightshift in a restaurant as a waitress, so that I could be with Christine during the day, while my mother looked after her at night. Within a few months we had moved to Sydney. My mother accepted an offer from a rich Austrian businessman to housekeep for him, while we bought a run-down shop-and-dwelling in Waverley. We had three mortgages on the place, I entered the most difficult period in my life. I had three young male boarders (full-board), three toddlers to look after in working hours, (one full-time), plus my little one. I cooked and cleaned for everyone with no equipment whatsoever. Then, in the evening, a knitting mill delivered a few large bags of cardigans and jumpers that I had to "finish" for the morning. I was on the verge of breaking down. It went like that for a year, until the third-mortgage was paid off. After that it was a little easier. The bank lent us money and we opened a small delicatessen shop, called Budapest Delicacies.

With Christine in kindergarten, I managed the shop while Miklos worked as a smallgoods-agent, delivering as far as Wollongong from early morning till late at night. One day I realised that I was pregnant again. Despite the hard work and my difficult Circumstances, I was very happy, thanking God for His wonderful gift to us. Unfortunately, I lost my baby in a late miscarriage; I was six months pregnant. I was very sad, and did not even have the consolation of the sacrament of Baptism, the baby being snatched from me without my seeing it. Life went on. I could not go to Mass on weekdays anymore, because mornings were hectic, The shop opened early and I had to walk Christine to kindy before it opened. I never had a minute to myself and all my energy went into trying to cope with life.

In 1963, Kathy was born, a beautiful, healthy baby girl. She was so good and peaceful. I kept her in a playpen behind the shop in the lunchroom. She played and slept while I was working. The shop was getting popular. We imported most of the goods we were selling and I also made a lot of home-made delicacies, which people loved. We bought the house next door and converted the two terraces into one big shop, butchery, delicatessen and grocery self service.

After a while, the bank financed the re-modelling of the first floor into one big penthouse style unit. We built a granny flat for my mother and she moved in with us. I got pregnant again, never thinking that life was going to change dramatically for me soon. I was six month pregnant, when one morning, taking the two girls to school by car, I stopped in front of a yellow line to let some schoolchildren pass. Another car ran into mine with full force causing the car to fly about 20 meters further down the road. My children were already at school, thank God! I got hurt, suffering a whiplash, and was in bad shape. The full extent of the injury became gradually evident. I was in pain all the time.

When Eva, our third beautiful daughter was born and it was getting worse and worse. It was March, 1970 and I had to employ a shop-assistant to help me. I could hardly walk. I didn't go to Mass on Sundays, because the shop was open seven days a week, I was depressed and in agony. I went every second day to physiotherapy. I was in traction, with heat and massage but nothing had helped! This went on for years. There was no hope of ever recovering. We put the combined shops and dwellings on the market in 1975. Soon it was sold and the big burden of having to be constantly in attendance was lifted. The family decided, that working day-and night for nearly 20 years called for a reward; so while still in the house, we agreed to take an overseas trip, visit relatives and show our children their roots. I didn't have anyone to meet except friends in Hungary but I was very excited to see the place of my birth and childhood, to re-live the past, and be with my beloved family without the constant pressure of work. My first meaningful experience happened on the plane. I started humming the old hymn: Nearer, my God to Thee ....and felt overpowering joy coming over me at about 32,000 feet. I talked to God, I asked for His forgiveness for years of neglect and promised a lot of things. Even the constant pain could not turn me off my newly acquired joy. We travelled for a month. For a while we stayed in Budapest, then visited Fulopszallas, the country town where Miklos was born. We sailed on a ship on the blue Danube to Esztergom, the "Hungarian Vatican" then back to Budapest, where I visited my long-time spiritual director and confessor. I went to confession and felt newly born after which I made a plan for what I was going to do once back in Sydney.

After waving "Good bye" to Hungary, we saw Vienna, Salzburg and the Black Forrest. We thanked God for our escape from Hungary and for the hospitality of the Austrian people for granting us asylum in 1956. Back from overseas we had to quickly look for somewhere to live. We bought a lovely four-bedroom Federation home with a big backyard and an ocean view and set only about 200 meters from where we had the shop. We moved in and began to restore it, building a new kitchen, bathroom, laundry and terrace. Miklos bought a double terrace in Pyrmont, where he opened a wholesale-retail butcher shop. We bought both properties on a bank-loan and, again, had to work hard to pay them off. I had received $20,000 compensation for my injury in the car accident. Half of it went to doctors and lawyers I owed money to. The first week-day Mass after our return has remained in my memory. The Doxology has touched me: "Through Him, with Him, in Him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all Glory and Honour is yours, almighty Father, for ever and ever, AMEN!"

My children went to St Charles School and St Clare's College, Waverley. A young, newly ordained Franciscan friar from Ireland, Father Jude, who taught them Catechism, started visiting us at home. The girls loved him. He soon became a very good friend of the family. He spent a lot of time with us feeling at home. I often asked him, if he knew something about how could I get better, and get rid of the pain? He always told me: "Yes, I know something, but you have to ask for it yourself!" I felt hurt, why didn't he tell me, if he knew the answer?! One day the whole family was sitting in the lunchroom, including Father Jude and my mother, and suddenly I asked Father: "What is the Charismatic Renewal?" After a minute's silence he said: "Why do you ask this question?" I said that I don't know, I had never heard that word and that I didn't know why I had asked that question! Father was a flaming-red haired Irishman, with a lovely, expressive face. He turned to me with tears in his eyes and said: "You know, Marika, I have been praying for nearly a year now for you to ask me this question. Because I am under obedience from my Superior not to ever utter the word: Charismatic Renewal." I had to get ready quickly, my mum, and the children came with us: He drove us to the Brigidine Convent in Coogee, for a Charismatic Prayer Meeting. It was Wednesday, the 11th of August, 1976, the feast of Saint Clare of Assisi.

As I entered the hall, I stopped in disbelief. About 30 people including the leader were sitting. It must have been at the time of meditation or silent prayer; people had their eyes closed and their hands up in the air. The only "normal" thing I spotted was an electric heater in the middle of the circle. If I had not been disabled, I would have run away, but I could not. A lovely nun stood up and came to greet us smiling, she was warm and kind. She got more chairs, and I found myself joining the circle of, I thought, mentally affected people. How can I get away? That was the only thought in my mind. A priest was there in a Franciscan habit. After a few prayers he said: "There is someone here today who was injured in a car accident and is in great pain, back pain. Could you put your hand up, if it is you?" My family nudged me, "put your hand up", so I did. The Franciscan friar came over. Standing in front of me he laid his hands on my head and prayed in a language I had never heard before. "Let's get over and done with this stupid thing" was the only thought on my mind. After finishing the prayer the priest asked me to stand up and touch my toes. I said that I could not do that. He repeated it again in a firm voice, with real authority: "In the name of Jesus, stand up, bend down and touch you toes"! I did it. I got up, bent down, and touched my toes, thinking that I could not do it. But I was able to do it! And it did not hurt. No pain whatsoever!! I tried it again, and again, and again, I was going up and down like a yo-yo but IT DIDN'T HURT! Everybody's eyes were upon me, I felt this warmth going through my body, my back, my spine, like someone had reconstructed my injured back. People started singing "He touched me, yes He touched me...". I just stood there, crying and still disbelieving. After the meeting Father Jude took me home.

So that was it, that is what he knew but couldn't tell me. I had to ask for it. And God put the question on my lips! When we got home, I went to our bedroom, where Miklos was fast asleep, and woke him. "Look at me, look what's happened to me! Still half asleep, he turned to me and said:"go to bed and go to sleep!" For a long time I couldn't fall asleep. Is it possible for God to be healing me? Why? I've been away from the church for so long ...". Early in the morning I took my young daughter, Eva, to Bronte Beach. She was running along the water edge and as she was returning I bent down, to get her, got her in my arms and lifted her high up in the air. IT DIDN'T HURT!! I knew, God had HEALED me! Praised be His Name! Next morning, Father Martin, the Franciscan friar from the prayer meeting, came to our place. He wanted to check if I was still alright. I thanked him from all my heart as the instrument in my healing and promised to help him wherever I could. When I awoke that morning, I sat up, went for a shower, and when I came back quietly started to get dressed. Miklos sat up in bed, looked at me and said: "My God, something HAS really happened to you!" It was him who helped me every morning to enable me to start the day and now: I can do it on my own! Miklos offered our car to Father Martin who was going around into hospitals and homes to pray with the sick. But, Father didn't have a licence, so I offered to drive him around. A new life began, heaven opened for me! I witnessed many healings, many miracles. I felt privileged to be part of it and slowly, I emerged from the depression I had suffered because of the physical pain and stopped drifting away from the church.

I have often visited Father Martin and, if nothing else, would pick him up every day to drive him around. One day I met the Parish Priest, Father Peter. We had a cup of tea together, and a long conversation. He asked whether I would consider working for the parish as a "girl Friday". He would love to have someone around with a smiling face. I thought for a moment, and said: "yes". It was only four hours work every day and I needed the money too, but most of all, I could still be part of the newly found "healing ministry" and work next door to the church. I never had a boss like Father Peter. I just could not do anything wrong. I loved being there, he was kind, considerate, loving. I was able to spend time with the Healing Ministry. I answered the phone, practically every five minutes, as someone rang to ask for healing prayers or for a visit to pray with a sick, loved one. If I stayed behind at the presbytery, I found that the door bell rang all the time as well, as people came to ask for prayers.

The "Healing Mass" started with my anger, I believe. I told Father Martin: "I am really upset that when people ring and ask for prayers, you are out. When they come to the door, you are out. Why can't you say, that you'll be here once a week between 10 am midday. So I could give them an appointment." "O.K., you said it," Father said, from now on I'll be here every Thursday from 10am-12pm." I started to give appointments. The next Thursday about a dozen people waited outside the Presbytery for prayers. Father came and said to the people: "I am sorry, but I was out praying with people and I haven't said Mass as yet. Do you mind joining me for Mass and afterwards I will pray for you". And so it started! During Mass, which we offered for the healing of the people present at the time of consecration, at the elevation of the chalice, someone cried: "My back is healed, Oh, my God, the tumour disappeared from my spine! Thank you, Jesus!" Next week about 30 people turned up. Things happened the same as in the previous week. Mass was held and two people claimed healing. Father said to me after Mass: "Can you see what I see?" I said:" You mean the incredible healing power in the Eucharist?" "Yes! People get healed without special prayers said for them, just by participating in the Mass!" The following week I gave appointments for the Healing Mass. People kept coming, some from far away places. The good news travelled fast. The small church of St Joseph's soon proved to be too small. Hundreds came every Thursday morning, so we started a Thursday evening Mass as well. Car loads of police were directing the traffic.

Only one other time did I hear what I believed was God’s voice speaking to me. Early one Sunday morning, as I lay in bed, after the Masses had been going for about two years, I heard a voice say, "Tell him to get up and walk." I turned to my husband and asked, "Did you say something?" As on the previous occasion he said, "No," and went back to sleep. I was puzzled and wondered what the message could mean. That afternoon I went to a healing service at a nearby parish and had to pick up a couple of priests on the way. In the car I mentioned what I’d heard in the morning. One of the priests said, "Just keep it in your spiritual pantry. You never know when you might use it." When we arrived at the church we found it packed. As we stood at the front we saw a young man in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse in a white uniform. She brought him right up to us in front of everybody. One of the priests nudged me, "Say what you shared with us this morning," I said. "How can I? What if it doesn’t happen?" He said "Don’t forget if you trust God, he never makes a fool of you." (This may not always be the case!) Nonetheless, at the encouragement of this priest, who believed in the authenticity of the word of knowledge I had received earlier, I went over to the young man and said, "In the name of Jesus get up and walk." The congregation went quiet as the man struggled to get out of his chair. It took about half an hour before he got really moving. First he slowly moved his fingers, then his hands and his arms. He pushed himself up and out of the chair and started walking, jerking, like the Tin Man from Oz. Everyone else now seemed paralysed and the whole church was absolutely still as we watched. Finally the man was walking, up and down, then freely, backward and forward, in front of the altar. Two days later he was discharged from the hospital. The prayer ministry team working today consists of people with their own healing stories, not unlike my own. They feel the desire to give something back to God and they are the best witnesses. It was not long after that the Healing Masses stopped as the priest who started them was transferred. Their message was spreading through the diocese and the world. We realized there was still work to be done.

One night I had a phone call from the parish priest of the church where the healing of the young man in the wheelchair had taken place. He had heard of the closure of the Masses and wondered if I would be interested in looking at a possible new site. We drove over to a lonely place on the shores of Yarra Bay where I saw a little church in terrible need of repair. Like San Damiano, the church Saint Francis of Assisi had repaired, it was a near ruin. The ceiling had fallen on to the pews. "I hate to see a church closed," the priest said, "Could you use this place?" "Me? "Yes. You might be able to continue the Healing Masses here." "How? I am a laywoman?" "What about the priests who used to concelebrate. Can’t you call on them?" "There would be no rent. Only keep it in order ... ." He gave me the keys, one for the front door and one for the side, and then left me. I sat there and prayed for an hour among the ruins. "I am a laywoman ... ." I have never had the slightest desire to be a priest.

As a woman I have found more than enough to do in the Church. My only sorrow is I have not time to do more. There are things that women can do that men can’t, and things that men can do that women can’t. We do not have to take each other’s roles but we do need to support them. The Church is opening more and more doors to women as lay ministries expand. Why did Jesus only choose twelve men for his leaders? Was he sexist or did he realize women have their own important things to do? I think the special gifts of the average woman are needed in the Church today as they have never been needed before! The world needs to be loved and cared for in the daily business of life and I think this is a unique charism of women. As I prayed in the church that day I realized there was further work that I was called to do. I contacted one of our most faithful priest supporters and, with his encouragement, called in the prayer team. Within two weeks the church of Our Lady of Good Counsel at Yarra Bay, was back in working order. The ceiling was up, the church was painted and the altar restored. Everything was supplied, including a set of vestments made by a friend who was a tailor.

On January 23, 1980 the church was rededicated. At the first Healing Mass celebrated a few days later, I recalled the message which had come to me while I prayed among the ruins, "Consecrate yourselves to me and dedicate yourselves to the needs of others." This message became the one upon which I based my ministry, as did the members of the prayer team who adopted my calling and my wish to follow this special invitation. We recalled also the words from John 15:9-16: " As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you. Remain in my love. You did not choose me, no, I chose you: and I commissioned you to go out and to bear fruit, fruit that will last." Every Tuesday we celebrate a Mass for healing. We celebrate with song. Joyfully we try to help one another; receiving strength and blessings. Our aim is "just to be there..." for anyone who needs love, care, an ear to listen, or a shoulder to cry on. Some people call this little church at Erskineville (the new location for the Community.) an "Oasis in the Desert." There is an atmosphere of peace, love and joy within the church. It is a special place where we can be ourselves, without having to pretend. Those who come here can show that they are hurt, wounded people who are suffering from pain, loneliness and rejection. We don’t have to fight back our tears because we are accepted and loved the way we are, as the persons we are, even in the midst of experiencing the Cross. After Mass and healing prayers, we share fellowship together over a cup of tea. There is much healing in sharing and fellowship. Countless friendships started as a result of our life sharing experiences. Indeed, we experience the Resurrection together as well as the Cross. The Lord’s calling to me has never weakened in my ministry over the last twenty-plus years. I realize more than ever the support of the Franciscan spirit from the time I was baptized to the time of my work at Our Lady of Great Counsel. As a Secular Franciscan I am trying to live the Gospel life simply and joyfully As the vice president of the Holy Spirit Fraternity I am glad to see the great numbers of "regulars" at the Healing Masses.

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St Mary's Church, Erskineville, where the Community now meets each Tuesday.

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The congregation at one of the Healing Masses.

I have been asked, "What is the goal of 'Yarra Bay'; what do you want to achieve?" I feel God wants us just to be there, not just for the hour of the Masses but to encourage those who come in any way. If people come for counselling and if we feel it is beyond our ability and they need professional help, then we refer them to those whom we think can give it. We work with the Sisters of Charity, Saint Vincent’s Outreach, Centre-care or Catholic and other institutions where counselling or advice on physical care, housing, or whatever, might be needed can be given. The people feel that coming to this little church is like coming home. In my own spiritual journey, it seems as if all the searching in my life came to fulfillment in Yarra Bay through our healing ministry and fellowship. The people coming to Our Lady of Good Counsel have also had a great effect on my life, especially those in the prayer team and core group. When we have suggestions for what we might do in the future, we consider, "Is it serving God; is it helping us to dedicate ourselves to others?" These are the directions we must always follow. In this ministry we have discovered that it is essential to keep these two points in the forefront of our minds. I have been asked in the past if I am a feminist. I am not. I do not like some of the things this movement attempts to accomplish in the Church. If the Church says there are to be no women priests, I am quite happy with that. I was brought up to respect authority and I respect the Pope and the authority of the Church. I believe the Pope is the Vicar of Christ. We simply have to accept him and believe Christ is speaking through him in union with the College of Bishops. If a member of the hierarchy were to come to me tomorrow and say, "Sorry, we have to close Yarra Bay," I would probably carry on a bit but would say, "Yes. Thank you Lord. This must be your will," as I believe God uses His Church to direct her members. I suppose I could best describe myself as conservative who always looks for the middle way and no extremes. I love the beauty of the Liturgy. I do not like the way the fabric of the Mass in many cases has been changed (even torn), to accommodate this or that popular trend. The Holy Mass is so beautiful as it is, priests need just to present it and the laity need only to participate with reverential prayer. Christ established His Church. Even if our human nature brings in faults, sins and mistakes, it is still a God-centered place.

I am not a theologian. I am just an average woman with a little tertiary education. I can only speak from my heart. I know God in His great mercy has entrusted me with something beautiful. Because of this, I feel a great sense of responsibility about the ministry in which I am called to serve. I rejoice that God has given me the wonderful gifts of being a wife and mother and also allowed me to work in a particular area of the Church. I have never missed priestly ordination or felt the need for it in my life. I feel I can work as much as I like and reach out with compassion to others without wearing priestly garb or acting with a clerical "authority" My natural reaction to life is to rejoice in my womanhood. I rejoice in the opportunity of being able to have children and grandchildren and still serve the People of God. I am a happy Catholic. I experienced a taste of religious life when I was in the convent for two years. I loved religious life dearly and left over from those days is my deep love for the Office of the Church. In this daily prayer we are united with the whole Catholic world. It is the Church’s official prayer and we cannot have better prayer than that. Today the ministry of healing exercised through the masses at Yarra Bay is continuing. Prayerfully, with God’s help, we might carry on for some years yet. But the future is in His hands. If He calls me tomorrow then I have had the most beautiful fulfilling life despite the tragedies of its early years. At St Mary's Church, Erskineville, people are still touched and healed by God. People refer to the little church as, "A Power House" and it is. Here, God’s call can be heard more clearly and we answer as best we can. We acknowledge the words of the prophet Isaiah and are grateful to know that: "God called me before I was born, from my mother’s womb he pronounced my name" (Isaiah 49:1). Glory to you for calling me, and for whatever it is you want me to do, I say, "Yes, yes, yes, O Lord ... ."

"IN MY BUSY LIFE, I AM NOT ALONE. I DO NOT WORK WITHOUT GOD, BECAUSE HE NEVER LEAVES ME AS LONG AS I TRY MY BEST TO DO HIS WILL AND LISTEN TO HIS VOICE. WHEN I GO IN TO CHURCH TO SAY SOME PRIVATE PRAYERS, I CARRY WITH ME MY TABERNACLE, BEAR WITHIN ME THE REAL PRESENCE; THEREFORE ALL I HAVE TO DO WILL BE DONE IN THE COMPANY OF THE DIVINE GUEST. I MUST NOT BECOME IMMOBILE IN STATIC ADORATION, BECAUSE MY DUTIES OBLIGE ME TO WORK, NOR MUST I WORK FRANTICALLY, WITHOUT AN ASPIRATION OF ADORING LOVE, FOR I BEAR A GUEST WITHIN ME, " I AM A LIVING CIBORIUM". Olu Abiola - "The Tablet"

I always thought that because I was an only child, as was my mother, that we have no relatives, especially not in Australia. About 15 years ago I wrote a letter to a lady called "Esther", who came to Sydney from the USA to talk to people interested in the movement "Jews for Jesus". I suffered from a broken toe and was housebound, so the letter ran to five foolscap pages long, and was more of a life story, than a letter. When I got better, I printed a few copies and gave it out at the Yarra Bay Church after Mass to those who were interested in my past. The priest celebrating the Eucharist was Father Vince Doyle, parish priest at Wauchope, NSW, who must have taken a copy of my story home with him, and who rang me the next day, saying: "Marika, I think I have found an Uncle for you." I tried to convince Father, that I am an "orphan" here and have no relatives, but he insisted that I get in touch with a parishioner of his, with the same name "GUNSBERGER" that I have mentioned in the story. I rang John Gunsberger, and he came to Sydney to visit me. We could not communicate well, because he is profoundly deaf. For the next few years we sent Christmas cards and left it at that.

A few months ago I decided to go to Port Macquarie, where John lives these days. It took me only a minute to see my family in his children. I spent only a day with them, and came back to Sydney. But I was able to work out the relationship with him and the rest of the family. A couple of days ago I had Uncle John and his brother Fred, who lives in Sydney in my home with some of their families. And a wonderful story has unfolded. I came from a totally agnostic family with Jewish roots. So did my two uncles. They believed in finding their own way in religion, but both of them were seriously searching. Uncle John became a Catholic in 1939 and a Third Order Franciscan. He is a very strong practising Catholic. Uncle Fred became an Anglican. He was ordained an Anglican deacon and achieved a doctorate in Divinity despite being totally blind. Of his three children, one became a Baptist preacher, and another an observant Orthodox Jew. The diversity in religious belief is unbelievable! I thank God, for raising up a new family for me for my old age. Praised be His Name!

August, 2002. I have just finished writing the booklet and looking back nearly seventy years, I feel I have to do bit of stocktaking. Twenty five years, a quarter of a Century later I wonder: Did I do what God wanted me to do during those years? Did I do His will? Did I try hard enough to "CONSECRATE MYSELF TO GOD AND DEDICATE MYSELF TO THE NEEDS OF OTHERS?" My ministry was always "JUST TO BE THERE", to show people, that I was interested in their problems, that I wanted to love them, to listen to them when they wanted to talk, to be available when needed! In hindsight, I realise how much more I could have done!

The Healing Mass is still continuing at St Mary's Church, Erskineville, every Tuesday. The numbers are down compared to the hundreds attending every week years ago. We are an aging group! Every week someone gets sick, moves away into a Retirement Village, or a Nursing Home. Some cannot drive any more, some find the public transport trying or physically difficult. Some go to God and no young people are coming in place of the oldies, a typical sign of our time in the Western World! At the same time, often 50,000 people gather for a Healing Mass in India, or Africa and in other underdeveloped areas. We are going to carry on regardless, as long as we can manage! Because "where two or three are gathered in My Name, I am amongst them". The Spirit blows where it wants to. I hope that what we started will carry on as long as He wants it! Then I will pray with the words of the "Nunc Demittis" (Luke 2, 29-32) "Now, Lord, you have kept Your word: Let Your servant go in peace. With my own eyes I have seen the salvation which You have prepared in the sight of every people: a light to reveal you to the nations and the glory of Your people Israel."