10 Years of Freedom

by Natascha Kampusch

  The first person to do so was a construction worker at the hospital. A snapshot taken using his mobile phone, shot between a cup of coffee and a plate of kolatschen03 pastries. I was with the social worker who had been assigned to me several days prior to that. We had gone down to the cafeteria for a moment. The picture was completely blurry, and I was fortunately unrecognizable. But the newspapers printed it anyway. The same goes for an interview “with me” that appeared in an Austrian magazine one week after my escape despite me having never made a statement of any kind to the publication in question. The eye-catcher was a picture stemming from a computer-generated photograph that had been used by the police to search for me. The data from the original missing persons photo had been combined with pictures of my parents when they were young in order to get some kind of idea of what I could have grown to look like.

  The thirty-page article also showed sketches of my underground dungeon, reported about my life in the “house of horrors” and with “Mr. Strange”. All of it was supported by quotes that I had never expressed either in that way or had made either during my initial questioning by police or during my interview with the police psychologist. A young female police officer who was the first person I told my story to in rough outlines had caved to the pressure after just a few hours. Untrained in how to deal with the media, relatively new to her job, in the end nobody protected her either.

  Later a media researcher said that my “case” was the first in which the comparatively disciplined Austrian and German media had dropped any semblance of restraint. It wasn’t until later on that it became clear just how right he was and just how much the politicians, the representatives of the judiciary and many a self-appointed investigator could, in good conscience, be lumped in with the media.

  Even the police officers who had been tasked with establishing my identity had come under massive pressure. They were offered astronomical amounts of money for a photograph from the police station. Anyone who had anything to do with me either at the hospital or anywhere else, or had any connection to me, above all my parents and my relatives, was literally besieged. A counsellor from Vienna’s psychosocial service was intercepted one evening in front of the hospital by a journalist, who said “Photograph? I can give you € 70,000 right now, cash in hand.” He turned him down.

  Although everybody was trying their level best to keep me away from the insanity raging outside as much as possible, I was aware of more than enough of it. To all of those who say that I decided to step out into the public spotlight either entirely of my own free will or even to satisfy my “craving for media attention”, as many accused me of again and again later on, let me be clear that the situation at the time offered very little margin for manoeuvre. Efforts to “chase me down” would not have been tenable either for me or for my family, or for my advisors and the investigators over the long-term. The most farfetched guesses as to the details of my abduction and captivity were already being sold as facts, and the pressure weighing on everybody was enormous.

  Added to this was the fact that I was repeatedly and regularly questioned by police during my first several days in the hospital. Again and again I tried to emotionally come to terms with my ordeal in the past. And at the same time with what lie ahead in the future. I met with the legal expert who had been appointed to me by the Vienna Municipal Department of Youth and Family to discuss privacy protections, dealing with the media and my future. After he threw in the towel, my meetings were continued with the attorneys from a law firm that had a great deal of experience in dealing with the media and primarily with protecting victims.

  Once we hired the law firm, I was constantly caught between competing approaches. On one hand with the doctors who saw me as a victim, a patient or even to some extent a research object and wanted to go public with me as such sooner or later; and on the other hand there were those whose job it was to develop a strategy to keep me away from that same public for as long as possible. One or two of the doctors even viewed the attorneys as part of the public, because they came from the outside. Just the fact that they had to be in contact with me, in order to evaluate me and to develop a strategy, gave rise to many a discussion. The everyday workings of the hospital must not be disturbed, which was understandable, and any kind of additional strain on me was to be avoided anyway, they said. Also understandable. But it was still kind of like trying to square the circle.

  A few minutes after the first meeting with my new attorneys began in my room, a psychologist came in. At first the attorneys thought that she just had a question, and they interrupted their meeting with me. But she pulled up a chair and sat down. She said that it was her job to know what was being discussed here, as I was traumatized and had to be treated with the necessary caution. That was certainly correct, but somehow we had to move on from there. And of course there are issues that are essentially subject to confidentiality. One of my attorneys informed her that confidentiality was respected even in maximum-security prisons housing dangerous criminals. And I was here of my own accord. Aside from that, they were all on the same team, working toward the same goal, namely to make sure that no further damage was inflicted on me. In the end she left the room, but the fissures between the two sides remained. They eyed each other with mistrust, and I was caught in the middle, just like my parents who had very little understanding that they were being kept from me as much as possible – so as not to agitate me any further.

  Early on my mother had attracted the attending physicians’ anger when she complained that her child was being taken from her for a second time. Immediately after our brief reunion at the Criminal Police Office I was taken into so-called protective custody and taken to the province of Burgenland. At the time it was yet unclear what happened with the kidnapper. For my own protection I was taken to a strictly isolated hotel accompanied by a police psychologist. Arriving after a long drive, I was still very wound up and tense at the same time. I wondered what was happening in the search for the kidnapper and if he had been captured alive. Nobody would give me a straight answer when I asked about him.

  The psychologist talked to me throughout the entire trip there, telling me about her holidays in Greece and Italy, evidently in an attempt to distract me. She wouldn’t even stop talking at the hotel, where we had to share not only a room, but even a double bed. I kept imagining to myself that she had an off switch and I could shut down the avalanche of words at the touch of a button. I wanted to collect my thoughts, have some peace and quiet and primarily turn on the radio in order to finally know what had happened to the kidnapper. That wouldn’t be good for me, as I needed to get some distance, I was told. Actually at that moment it would’ve been the first enormous step toward gaining distance if I had been able to find out that my ordeal was really over – one way or another.

  Instead, she insisted that I finally eat something. Another officer went to get hamburgers and chips from McDonald’s. The smell of the grease alone turned my stomach. After just a few bytes I pushed my food side and asked for chamomile tea. It was much easier on my stomach.

  When she was done eating, I asked if I could take my first unmonitored bath in years. I had barely sat down in the tub when she began knocking at the door asking if everything was okay. Yes, yes, I answered. Barely five minutes later she was knocking again, asking when I would be finished, if everything was really okay. After the third time she knocked I told her that I was not in the process of committing suicide, but merely wished to take a bath.

  That night neither of us hardly slept a wink. She didn’t because she wanted to keep an eye on me, and I didn’t because being so close to somebody I didn’t know was very uncomfortable. Today I can laugh at such an absurd situation, but at the time my feelings were in turmoil.

  The next day, as we were driving back to Vienna, somebody told me that the kidnapper had killed himself. After yet another round of questioning, I was taken to the Vienna General Hospital. My mother was not informed until
two days later, after a number of telephone calls. She was told that her daughter was traumatized and was undergoing examinations by medical experts, completely isolated from the outside world. The gentlemen themselves, who my mother thought had primarily clinical coldness and medical questionnaires to offer, not the emotions of a mother, were constantly appearing on her television screen. Everybody had something to say, although nobody was actually supposed to say anything. When my mother vented her anger, demanding to know why she was being kept from me, she received a call from the hospital, saying that she had better refrain from taking such unilateral steps in the future.

  *

  Further questioning by police took place in a small room on the basement level of the hospital from them on. Grey concrete, a number of tables and chairs, artificial light. The discussions with my attorneys were also moved to that room, because they were now “banned from the floor”, whether it was due to the incident with the “curious” psychologist or in an attempt not to overly impact the daily operations of the hospital. The main issue of our discussions was always the media. I had asked my attorneys to bring me a copy of Austrian legislation governing the media, but I was so exhausted that I had difficulty concentrating. The light hurt my eyes, my head swam, and it was all too much for me to take in.

  Cautiously I was informed that “the whole world wanted to talk to me”. After a meeting with me that lasted perhaps an hour, one of my attorneys received 55 new messages. Voicemail, e-mails, from countries such as Russia, Brazil, even New Zealand. The pressure was enormous, and everybody who was involved with my situation was under the microscope, being scrutinized by the global public. Speculation about my time in captivity ran wild. Five days after my escape, at a press conference on 28 August 2006, Dr. Friedrich read out a letter intended to answer the initial, most pressing questions, as well as to request a more moderate approach:

  “Dear journalists, reporters, dear world public,

  I am very much aware of how strong an impression the events of the last several days must have made on all of you. I can well imagine how shocked and frightening it is to think that something like this is even possible. Furthermore, I am aware that you are somewhat curious about me and would naturally like to know more details about the circumstances under which I lived. However, allow me to first state that I do not want to and will not answer any questions concerning intimate or personal details. I will call out any attempts to violate my personal boundaries no matter who violates these boundaries in a voyeuristic way. Anyone attempting to do so will be in for a surprise. I have grown into a young lady with an interest in education and in human needs.

  The room I lived in: My room was sufficiently furnished. It was my room. And not meant to be shown to the public.

  My daily life: My daily routine followed a particular schedule. We would most often eat breakfast together, as he did not have to go to work most of the time. Housework, reading, television, talking, cooking. That was it, for years on end. Everything was tied into fears of loneliness.

  On my relationship: He was not my lord or master. I was just as strong as he was, but - symbolically speaking – I was carried in his arms and trampled underfoot. However, he – and he and I knew it – picked the wrong one to mess with.

  He was the only one behind the kidnapping, and everything had already been prepared. Together with me, he set up and furnished the room, which was not only (?) 1.60 meters high. By the way, I did not cry after I escaped. There was no reason to be sad. In my eyes his death was unnecessary. Surely his punishment would not have meant the end of the world. He was a part of my life. That is why I do mourn him after a fashion. Of course it is true that my teenage years were quite different from those of many others. But essentially it is not my feeling that I have missed out. I was spared many an experience, such as trying alcohol and cigarettes, and having friends who were a bad influence on me.

  Message to the media: The only aspect the press should spare me are the constant slanderous accusations levelled against me, the erroneous interpretations, know-it-all attitudes and the lack of respect shown to me.

  At present I feel comfortable and safe where I am, albeit somewhat deprived of agency. But I have decided only to contact my family by telephone. I will decide for myself when I will contact journalists.

  On my escape: When I was cleaning out the car in the yard and using the vacuum cleaner, he moved away from me as the vacuum cleaner was making so much noise. That was my opportunity, and I simply left the vacuum cleaner on.

  By the way, I never called him “Lord” although he wanted me to. I think he wanted me to call him that, but he wasn’t really serious.

  I have an attorney that I trust who is organizing the legal aspects of my situation together with me. Youth Ombudsperson Pinterits is a person I have taken into my confidence, and I am able to talk comfortably to Dr. Friedrich and Dr. Berger. The team led by Mr. Frühstück04 has been very good to me. I would like to express my friendly greetings to them, but they were indeed a bit curious. To be sure, that is what they do for living.

  Intimate questions: Everybody always wants to ask intimate questions that are nobody’s business. Perhaps I will tell a therapist some day, or somebody if I have the need to, or maybe never. This intimate knowledge belongs to me alone.

  Mr. Ernst H05– this is my message – should not feel guilty. He cannot help it, as it was Wolfgang’s own decision to throw himself in front of the train. I feel empathy for Wolfgang’s mother. I can put myself in their situation and feel what they must be feeling. The two of us and myself are thinking of him.

  However I would like to thank all of those people who have expressed their empathy for my fate. Please allow me some peace and quiet in the upcoming weeks and months. Dr. Friedrich will explain with this statement. Many people are taking care of me. Give me some time until I can give you a report myself.

  Natascha Kampusch”

  There was a great deal of speculation about that letter. Dr. Friedrich had appeared on stage in public with a convoluted piece of handwriting. The shutters clicked, and the video cameras whirred. After the press conference graphologists analyzed close-ups of video and photographic images and declared that the handwriting was not consistent with the handwriting of a young woman. Deletions and corrections could be seen in the script. It is correct that the lines Dr. Friedrich read out had not been taken down in my handwriting, but rather in his. It is also correct that I felt the need to compose this appeal to the public. I had been allowed to sit at the computer in the nurse’s room to put a few lines to paper. It is also correct that many of the statements that were made in my “letter to the world public” originated from my thoughts. But also from the talks that I had had with Dr. Friedrich.

  Despite the enormous time pressures of the upcoming press conference, Dr. Friedrich absolutely insisted on copying out my words by hand – and “lending a hand” here and there, as he admitted, or in other words was forced to admit, to the media later on06.

  The scorn that was heaped on him afterwards was certainly not correct. However, his handling of the words that I had written myself or had entrusted to him was also not correct. The greatest difficulty for me came later, as the letter had built up expectations that I could only fail to meet. As a result a certain kind of poise and aptitude for analytical thought and serenity were attributed to me that I do possess in a way. I am analytical and clear-headed and aware of both my situation and the situation at large, because I would not have survived without those skills. I attach importance to nuances because if I had been unable to perceive the varied shades between black and white I would have given into despair, feeling only hate and anger for the kidnapper. But of course I live my life between a victim’s two extremes of strength and weakness.

  These two extremes are very far apart. At times I was all of that, and at times I wasn’t. Because with everything that I had experienced in my very recent past, I had come from a p
osition of strength and survival, and a victim would never characterize him or herself as such, because it would make the kidnapper powerful, or subsequently legitimize his position after the fact.

  Still, I was a young, vulnerable woman, a little girl who had been through hell. It took a while for me to allow people to see myself this way. Today I can show this side of me to a small circle of the people closest to me, and I can even talk about this dark, painful side in a protected space. About what it’s like to process my memories so that they do not weigh on me and hurt me permanently. And yet, even today it is extremely rare for people to see me cry in public or break down in sobs. I handle those feelings in private. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t experience such moments. Even today I have problems defining my terrible experiences to myself. I don’t mean to say in the least that nobody could understand me if I were to speak openly about my feelings. But for some things there are simply no words and no definitions. And I don’t want to burden anybody with something that they perhaps are unable to shoulder. It may sound strange, but for me it has to do with the respect I have for others and with dignity.

  2

  “Ms. Kampusch, how are you?”

  The Interview

  The crime perpetrated against me, for whatever motives, was a crime against many people. He inflicted trauma on an entire society, throwing it off balance. Because evil did in fact come along in the shape of a person you would find to be perfectly ordinary.

  That letter was the foundation of an image that is held against me even today. What was still interpreted in the beginning as my unbelievable strength, earning me nothing more like respect and a certain admiration, turned against me as time went on. People had expected a kind of “Kaspar Hauser”07 figure, somebody who divided the world into black and white, in good and evil. Somebody who tended to express herself rather woodenly, just as people later suspected the children from Amstetten to be able to speak only in grunts and hisses. A person, broken down from everything that had been done to her. And I was, of course. But I had not shattered during all my years in captivity, otherwise I would not have survived. I made a pact with my older self, who was to help me escape one day.