If you believe in the jews' fiction, you will fall prey to their fables
The jews have never stopped attacking Christianity
Estimates of deaths directly attributable to Mátyás Rákosi’s rule of terror in Hungary (roughly 1948–1956) generally range from 2,000 to over 3,000 executed or killed. However, the total human cost, including those who died in forced labor camps and due to the oppressive system, is significantly higher.
Executions and Political Murders: State security (ÁVH) under Rákosi executed around 2,000 people and imprisoned up to 100,000, with over 350,000 officials and intellectuals purged.
Soviet Labor Camps: An estimated 700,000 Hungarians were deported to Soviet labor camps (Gulags), where roughly half did not survive.
Border Deaths: At least 500 people were killed attempting to cross the "Iron Curtain" border into Austria to flee the regime.
Rákosi’s Stalinist policies, including forced collectivization, resulted in economic ruin, widespread famine, and severe repression of the population. Approximately 350,000 officials and intellectuals were purged under his rule, from 1948 to 1956.
This is the story of a man who suffered at the hands of a communist jew who ruled Hungary. That ruler was a jew named Mátyás Rákosi, and the victim was Cardinal József Mindszenty. Rákosi was born in the Kingdom of Hungary. Born to Jewish parents, the fourth son of József Rosenfeld, a grocer, his mother Cecília Léderer.
On December 26, 1948, Cardinal József Mindszenty stood at the door of his palace in Esztergom, Hungary, and wrote one sentence before the secret police took him.
“If you hear that I have confessed or resigned, do not believe it. It will be the result of human frailty.”
Then he opened the door. He was the highest Catholic official in Hungary. A Prince of the Church. And he knew what was coming. For thirty-nine days they tortured him in a basement at 60 Andrássy Street in Budapest — one of the most notorious buildings in twentieth-century Europe. They beat him naked with rubber truncheons. Drugged him. Starved him. Kept him awake until his mind broke. He signed confessions to crimes he never committed.
On February 8, 1949, they sentenced him to life in prison. The world erupted. President Truman called it “infamous.” Churchill condemned it. The Pope excommunicated everyone involved. Mindszenty heard none of it. He was in solitary confinement.
Seven years passed. Then, on October 23, 1956, Hungary rose up against Soviet occupation. Students marched. Workers joined. Soldiers defected. Within days, the communist government collapsed. On October 30, revolutionaries reached Mindszenty’s prison. He had been locked up for seven years and ten months.
He was driven to Budapest. Gave a radio address. Praised the uprising. Hungary was going to be free. It lasted three days. On November 4, Soviet tanks rolled into Budapest and crushed the revolution. Mindszenty ran to the U.S. Embassy and asked for asylum. The Americans said yes. He walked through the doors on November 4, 1956. He would not walk out for fifteen years.
His room was a converted office. No windows that opened. A bed. An altar. A corner for prayer. He couldn’t step into the courtyard. Couldn’t be seen from the street. Outside, every single day, a secret police car sat waiting. Three plainclothes officers watching the door. He said Mass every morning. Wrote his memoirs in secret. Paced the same hallways. Years passed. 1960. 1965. 1970. He was still there.
Then came the betrayal. The new Pope, Paul VI, wanted peace with the communist world. Mindszenty was in the way. In 1971, the Pope ordered him to leave. To come to Rome. To step aside. Mindszenty understood. He wrote back: “I accept what will be perhaps the heaviest cross of my life.”
On September 28, 1971, after 5,475 days, he walked out of the embassy. He put on a black fedora. Got into a car. As the car crossed the border, he removed the hat. Underneath was his red Cardinal’s biretta. He wanted Hungary to see who was leaving. He never returned.
In 1974, the Vatican stripped his titles. Declared his position officially vacant. He had not resigned. He was being pushed out so the Church could normalize relations with the men who had tortured him. Mindszenty called it a betrayal. Published his memoirs. Six months later, he was dead.
He died in Vienna on May 6, 1975, at age eighty-three. He had asked that his body not return to Hungary until “the last Soviet soldier has left.” He was buried in Austria. The Soviets left Hungary in 1991. That same year, Mindszenty’s body was exhumed, flown home, and buried in the basilica at Esztergom — where he had once been Archbishop.
He outlived the regime. Just not in his own body. He fought the communists. They tortured him for thirty-nine days. Gave him life in prison. He was freed for three days during the revolution. Then Soviet tanks came back.
So he lived in a single room in a foreign embassy, in his own capital city, for fifteen years. Couldn’t open a window. Couldn’t walk outside. Watched by secret police every single day. Then his own Church told him to leave. His own Pope pushed him out. Because the Vatican wanted peace with the men who had broken his body. He died in exile. Four years after leaving Hungary. Stripped of his titles.
But tyranny falls. And the truth doesn’t.
Cardinal József Mindszenty fought Nazis. Fought communists. Was tortured. Imprisoned. Trapped. Exiled. Stripped by his own Pope. Died without ever seeing home again. But he won.
Because he refused to let them break what was inside him. And sixteen years after he died, his body finally came home.
“If you hear that I have confessed or resigned, do not believe it. It will be the result of human frailty.”
Then he opened the door. He was the highest Catholic official in Hungary. A Prince of the Church. And he knew what was coming. For thirty-nine days they tortured him in a basement at 60 Andrássy Street in Budapest — one of the most notorious buildings in twentieth-century Europe. They beat him naked with rubber truncheons. Drugged him. Starved him. Kept him awake until his mind broke. He signed confessions to crimes he never committed.
On February 8, 1949, they sentenced him to life in prison. The world erupted. President Truman called it “infamous.” Churchill condemned it. The Pope excommunicated everyone involved. Mindszenty heard none of it. He was in solitary confinement.
Seven years passed. Then, on October 23, 1956, Hungary rose up against Soviet occupation. Students marched. Workers joined. Soldiers defected. Within days, the communist government collapsed. On October 30, revolutionaries reached Mindszenty’s prison. He had been locked up for seven years and ten months.
He was driven to Budapest. Gave a radio address. Praised the uprising. Hungary was going to be free. It lasted three days. On November 4, Soviet tanks rolled into Budapest and crushed the revolution. Mindszenty ran to the U.S. Embassy and asked for asylum. The Americans said yes. He walked through the doors on November 4, 1956. He would not walk out for fifteen years.
His room was a converted office. No windows that opened. A bed. An altar. A corner for prayer. He couldn’t step into the courtyard. Couldn’t be seen from the street. Outside, every single day, a secret police car sat waiting. Three plainclothes officers watching the door. He said Mass every morning. Wrote his memoirs in secret. Paced the same hallways. Years passed. 1960. 1965. 1970. He was still there.
Then came the betrayal. The new Pope, Paul VI, wanted peace with the communist world. Mindszenty was in the way. In 1971, the Pope ordered him to leave. To come to Rome. To step aside. Mindszenty understood. He wrote back: “I accept what will be perhaps the heaviest cross of my life.”
On September 28, 1971, after 5,475 days, he walked out of the embassy. He put on a black fedora. Got into a car. As the car crossed the border, he removed the hat. Underneath was his red Cardinal’s biretta. He wanted Hungary to see who was leaving. He never returned.
In 1974, the Vatican stripped his titles. Declared his position officially vacant. He had not resigned. He was being pushed out so the Church could normalize relations with the men who had tortured him. Mindszenty called it a betrayal. Published his memoirs. Six months later, he was dead.
He died in Vienna on May 6, 1975, at age eighty-three. He had asked that his body not return to Hungary until “the last Soviet soldier has left.” He was buried in Austria. The Soviets left Hungary in 1991. That same year, Mindszenty’s body was exhumed, flown home, and buried in the basilica at Esztergom — where he had once been Archbishop.
He outlived the regime. Just not in his own body. He fought the communists. They tortured him for thirty-nine days. Gave him life in prison. He was freed for three days during the revolution. Then Soviet tanks came back.
So he lived in a single room in a foreign embassy, in his own capital city, for fifteen years. Couldn’t open a window. Couldn’t walk outside. Watched by secret police every single day. Then his own Church told him to leave. His own Pope pushed him out. Because the Vatican wanted peace with the men who had broken his body. He died in exile. Four years after leaving Hungary. Stripped of his titles.
But tyranny falls. And the truth doesn’t.
Cardinal József Mindszenty fought Nazis. Fought communists. Was tortured. Imprisoned. Trapped. Exiled. Stripped by his own Pope. Died without ever seeing home again. But he won.
Because he refused to let them break what was inside him. And sixteen years after he died, his body finally came home.
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