I first decided to put up with the unavoidable and spent about one tenth of my time on coursework, enough to gain top marks in the twice-yearly examinations. In the rest of my time, I read literature, wrote poetry and, having found some books by Henri Bergson, tried to familiarise myself with his philosophy. That kept me reasonably pacified during the first year. However, by the start of the second year my patience snapped and I became profoundly unhappy. The only person I could approach was Bogdánffy.

I screwed up my courage, told him how I felt and that my sole intention was to give my best to the Church. To achieve this, I needed a greater challenge and timidly asked for transfer to the Central Seminary attached to the theological faculty of the University of Budapest, where Bogdánffy himself had obtained his doctorate. I was put in my place in no uncertain terms and felt totally devastated and humiliated. Bogdánffy did not try to placate me by telling me that there was no such provision in the budget, but maybe later on something might be done, or that in the worsening circumstances with anti-Semitism increasingly affecting all walks of life, it might be safer for me to lie low until the dawning of better days. 

He appeared to be unable to grasp anything unconventional. Instead, he bluntly told me to exercise humility and obedience and accept without question, as was my duty, the decision of my superiors. The man whom I trusted showed not an ounce of sympathy. Never again did I seek his guidance. The close relationship between spiritual adviser and advisee abruptly came to an end. If I had been asked then whether Bogdánffy was or ever would become a saint, my answer would have been predictable. Today my milder reply to the same question would be: pass, but RIP.

William Apor constitutes a special case. Unlike Scheffler and Bogdánffy, he was a towering Church figure and my personal indebtedness to him is immeasurable.