10 Years of Freedom

by Natascha Kampusch

  I‘m ready for it. And yet, I still don’t want to give up my belief in the good in people. Nor in my courage, if that’s what you want to call it, to address issues I think are important.

  In an interview three years after my escape, I once said that I felt like an uprooted orchid, a plant that is washed up somewhere, lays down roots for short time, and then is forced to move on. It is planted where other people would like to have it and see it. I hope that this book will help generate some understanding for my need to grow and to thrive where and how I would like. And that it helps to foster reconciliation by providing a second look, a look behind the façade. And I would like to achieve closure to a story, in which at some point everyone has been at the mercy of outside forces.

  I would like to continue to trust in myself and the future. I only have one life to live, and I would like to take full advantage of it. Even if my path in life, toward my future may be difficult, it is getting easier with every step I take. Every day in freedom is a gift that I try to receive with happiness and gratitude. But also with courage and the energy to move forward.

  Nelson Mandela once said that being free not only means removing your own fetters, but living a life that also respects and fosters the freedom of others. I must remove my fetters myself – just like anyone else …

  1

  Caught between “Kaspar Hauser”

  and “Global Sensation”

  The first few weeks of my new life

  Like a swarm of bees everybody was buzzing around me. Everyone thought that there was something to be plumbed from her and her story. Figuratively speaking, I came crawling out of a hole, and the first thing that I saw were contracts. Everybody said, you only have to sign here, you only have to do what we tell you, and everything will be okay.

  The first few days of my new life in freedom were characterized, if you will, by a lack of freedom. It was actually meant to be a protected, gentle return to the world, as shielded as possible from the media storm raging outside, which broke out with an unanticipated intensity upon my escape and after reports that Natascha Kampusch, who had been missing for years, had surfaced once again. The choice for my first new home for the time being fell on the Vienna General Hospital (AKH), particularly as I needed to be given a thorough medical examination after eight and a half years in an underground dungeon. After all, my time in captivity had also left behind clear physical scars.

  I had serious problems with my eyes and was extremely sensitive to changes between light and dark. It was difficult for me to focus on one point, as my eyes continued to wander restlessly back and forth. When I felt overwhelmed – and in my first few days actually everything felt overwhelming – I began to roll my eyes around, which must have seemed like a tick to observers. A quirk from my time in the cellar.

  I had problems with balance and motor skills, and had difficulty judging distances. Walking across a larger room all by myself was a challenge. I needed something or someone I could hold on to so that I could put one foot in front of the other with confidence. The restrictions on my scope of movement, as dictated by the walls that had surrounded me for years, were burned into my brain. Those walls were an instrument of torture and torment on one hand, but had also provided me with safety and protection on the other. When I was allowed to leave them for the first time, the size of the house sitting on top of the underground dungeon terrified me.

  I was even afraid of the stairs leading up to the ground level, which according to the kidnapper were lined with numerous explosive traps that one false move could trigger at any time. In my underground room I was able over time to prepare myself for when the kidnapper came. I could hear the scraping noise of him pushing the safe aside, and I could estimate how long it would take for him to crawl through the small entrance way and operate the mechanism for the heavy door. Upstairs in the house, when I was forced to work for him, I felt more unprotected, much more directly exposed to his arbitrary behaviour and mood swings.

  Malnourishment meant that I had developed a number of allergies, and my skin and my stomach reacted sensitively to any change. The first images after my escape broadcast on television and published in the print media showed the hem of my colourful summer dress beneath the blue blanket, and underneath my thin legs. My chalk white skin was covered with red marks, brownish spots and bruises.

  All my years in captivity I had never once seen a doctor. Wounds inflicted on me by the kidnapper, such as burns caused by boiling water on my hands and arms, had never been professionally treated. Looking back I was certainly lucky that I never contracted a serious infection. After all the split personality of the kidnapper, so contemptuous of other human beings, was also evident in how he dealt with the issue of my health.

  On the one hand, he was nearly hysterical when it came to maintaining a supposedly healthy diet. Food seemed to him to be fundamentally suspicious. Large food companies were all in league with one another, trying to systematically and slowly poison humanity with contaminated foodstuffs. Spices primarily were full of radiation and had to be avoided under all circumstances. Later it was carbohydrates, sugar and even fruit that he banned from our menu – due to the poisons in the fruit peels. At the same time he had no problem in starving me for days on end if I was “too rebellious”. The stomach cramps and dizziness I suffered from were a just punishment for my transgressions. Even today I still have a problematic relationship with food.

  I can still remember that a program was recorded in December 2006 showing my “first Christmas in freedom”. After a half hour I called one of my lawyers on the phone, saying, “I’m in Gänserndorf.01 Please come immediately. Everything is so complicated.” The house being used for the filming belonged to an employee of the Austrian Broadcasting System (ORF). Out in front of the house was a large truck with furniture that people were using to redecorate the house. Everybody was bustling about, cables were everywhere, and I was sitting alone on the couch, like something somebody had ordered and forgotten to pick up. Nobody took the time to see how alone I was in the middle of all those people.

  A bit later, a catering company delivered boxes with rolls and sandwiches. People grabbed the food as they were walking by. They ate while walking or standing; crumbs spilled onto the carpets, and tomato and mayonnaise landed on the floor. I could only sit there in shock at how little respect people were showing for the food. Even a half year after escaping, the mechanisms of my underground dungeon were still in perfect working order. Food had to be earned. “Don‘t wolf it down, otherwise there won’t be any more. Now you’ve made a mess of yourself again.” Once while I was removing a piece of fish from the pan, a piece of breading had fallen off. The kidnapper grabbed my helping and poured dishwashing liquid over it so that I would learn not to make such a mess.

  Of paramount importance above all else: cleanliness. Germs were the worst evil. They lurked everywhere, dangerously invisible vectors of disease. Priklopil was genuinely compulsive about cleaning in a way that certainly did not only stem from his desire to remove every minuscule trace of me. A hair from my head, a piece of dead skin, fingerprint, nothing could be left behind in the house to be discovered. Aside from the paranoia that he increasingly gave into over the years, he was also terrified of diseases that could be triggered by germs, viruses or bacteria.

  At the same time he had no problem with inflicting the most severe punches and kicks on me, including bloody injuries. Once I slipped on the stairs going down into my underground dungeon and hit my head on the steps, knocking me unconscious for a moment. When I came to again, I was severely nauseous; there was nothing but a hammering in my head that wouldn’t stop. I was afraid that I could have fractured my skull. Over the next several days I could only lie in bed motionless. As soon as I lifted my head, my vision would go black. All of that was of no interest to the kidnapper. Quite the opposite, he punished me for my “stupid behaviour” because I had dropped a glass bowl when I fell and the steps had b
een dirtied by my blood. That was the moment it finally became fully clear to me that he would prefer to let me die than to get help, even in an acute emergency.

  I had to learn to tolerate and live with pain. I had to learn to tolerate hunger and to live with that torturous feeling that numbs all of your senses, makes you dizzy and even makes you lose your grip on reality. After an extended starvation phase, I could only take in food by the spoonful. The smell, the texture, everything that I had fantasized about in the days before was now too much. Swallowing felt like downright choking, and afterwards my stomach burned like fire, and my entire abdomen was swollen.

  *

  After my escape the marks of my years of captivity were clearly visible on the outside. But nobody knew whether or not I had suffered organ damage. The doctors at the Vienna General Hospital were to shed light on all of that, and my mental well-being as well.

  I could not be admitted to a normal freely-accessible floor for security reasons. So the decision was made to place me on the paediatric psychiatry floor. Because I was already legally an adult, I had to “admit” myself so that I could remain in the hospital by law.

  I was admitted to the locked ward, which meant that patients who posed a danger to themselves or others were unable to open the doors to their rooms from the inside. With just a few minor adjustments, the door handle can be removed if needed. Additionally, security guards were posted to the ward and guarded the entrance to my room today and night. Just as nobody could come in, I was not allowed to go out either in the beginning.

  On one hand, this was a good idea, because I was able to collect myself in this protected space and refocus my mental resources. But on the other hand, it was completely absurd. I had just regained my freedom, and again I was locked away. And what I had longed for most of all toward the end of my captivity was something I could not have during this initial phase: I wanted autonomy; I wanted to decide for myself. The kidnapper, who had styled himself the “lord and master” over my life, was now in a way replaced by an entire team that now monitored and dictated every one of my steps.

  Here I would like to ensure that there is no misunderstanding. When I make this comparison, it is of course not about the methods and the underlying motives, which could not have been more different. The point of comparison was what the situation triggered in me emotionally. In a way, I was once again reduced to object status even though that was probably not fully apparent to the people who were charged with my care. The focus was only on my protection, my mental and physical health and stability.

  Shortly after my escape a guardianship commission was established to look after my well-being, initially made up of: Prof. Dr. Ernst Berger from the Rosenhügel Neurological Rehabilitation Centre, at the time a consultant to the Psychosocial Services of the City of Vienna and in that capacity “Municipal Project Head” for paediatric psychiatric care; Prof. Dr. Max Friedrich, head of the University Hospital for Paediatric Neuropsychiatry; Monika Pinterits, Ombudsperson for Children and Young People of the City of Vienna, and Udo Jesionek, the head of the victims’ assistance organization “Weißer Ring”.

  That was the only decision that I made for myself while I was still at the police station I had been brought to just after my escape. I knew of the organization from the radio; once down in my dungeon I had heard a broadcast on victims of violent crimes. I thought at the time that they would be right for me. At the police station I also met Prof. Dr. Ernst Berger for the first time, who carried out an initial psychological examination of me after my first questioning by police and explained the next steps to me. He was also the one who suggested a temporary stay in the hospital and told me about his friend Max, considered a genius in his field.

  Added to the mix was a media consultant and an attorney from the Vienna Children and Youth Ombudsperson’s Office, who was introduced to me at the hospital. He had a very pleasant and reserved way about him, and our conversation went actually pretty well, as I saw it. I was relieved that an experienced victims’ attorney was to take my case. Unfortunately, he withdrew from the case after only four days, saying that he could not manage it all on his own. He told me to look for a large law firm that was experienced in handling such complex cases, particularly one that generated such intense public interest.

  Suddenly one of the pillars of my team had broken away. The next was to follow in September. The media consultant who had been provided to me was faced with the enormous task of dealing with the many requests from Austrian and foreign print and broadcast media. We needed to ensure that the reporting was as serious as possible, controlling the flow of information with the main focus on protecting me. Also at stake was an enormous profit-making enterprise, he said.

  When it became clear that the public pressure would not subside and that I had to make some kind of statement, we drew up a press strategy, providing for a television interview and two interviews with the print media. After I had gotten through all of that more or less in one piece, my media consultant brought an armful of flowers with him to the hospital. A nice gesture for the nurses and for myself. He was beaming from ear to ear when he came into my room and sat down on one of the chairs.

  What came next completely stunned me. He just came right out with it, not mincing any words. I was completely taken aback. In the first few days and weeks there was absolutely nobody who showed me more devastatingly clearly that the preservation of my interests in terms and protecting me as a victim was not going to be standard operating procedure. My unusual case involved diverse interests of a wide variety of people involved. I was the object that made all of it possible. The object of analysis, of ambition, of her own fame, the “golden goose” that had to be plucked as soon as possible. After all, according to a representative of the press at the time, the story was going to be considered journalistically dead in four weeks and out of the media spotlight.

  The world of good people had hit a clear snag. This kind of focus on selfish interests disturbed me. I can understand that people were in over their heads with the case, or even with me. Everybody was in completely uncharted territory, and nobody was prepared for it. But my experience very early on, sadly, was that I was being moved around on a chessboard depending on which move, or whose interests my position benefitted most. A board game whose rules I did not, or could not know. In my dungeon the rules and the roles were clearly defined. I was only a pawn until I slowly redefined my assigned role. Until I had determined what was possible, until I asserted my position, with all of the humiliations and punishments that resulted.

  Here I was no longer a pawn in the sick world of the kidnapper’s mind, caught up in his fantasies, but rather surrounded by people who are supposed to advocate on my behalf. Most of them certainly did, but at least a few of them made me feel that I was being instrumentalized in a completely different way. Although they were all experienced and respected experts in their fields, I was also a bit like a global sensation for them after all. My story eclipsed everything that had come before, promising to attract attention from far beyond Austria’s borders. Nobody had any kind of blueprint for how to deal with anyone like me “correctly”, but everybody had an interest in this “case”. Unfortunately their interests were not always entirely altruistic.

  *

  After I had undergone all of the normal medical examinations, I was made to take various intelligence tests, and my brain was scanned on several occasions. As if the doctors were looking for that one particular trait, that one particular difference that could provide the answer to why I had survived my time in captivity relatively unscathed, at least at first glance. They were likely hoping to produce images spit out by all manner of medical equipment pointing to an area of the brain with a label reading “location of the centre for Natascha Kampusch’s special resilience capabilities.” The images were completely normal, with no anomalies of any kind.

  Just a few days after my escape one of the doctors put a piece of paper in
front of me to sign. I was to agree to be available for the next ten years exclusively for study purposes. Like a rare animal, put on display the world over and taken from lecture hall to lecture hall, while its behaviour, its physical and mental condition were analyzed and evaluated by the attending experts in front of a crowd of students.

  From the point of view of the doctors, psychiatrists and psychologists I may in fact have been an interesting object of study. However, those interests did not intersect very much with the idea of protecting me – and that is exactly why the meeting of advisors and advocates had actually been called, and exactly why I had temporarily admitted myself to the Vienna General Hospital. I will never forget the time that everybody was sitting in my room, including the two new attorneys who had taken my case in the meantime. The discussion about what was to happen next became so heated that it would not have taken much for the gentleman to come to blows. Everybody was pulling me in a different direction, as if they wanted to tear me apart.

  The patients on the psychiatric floor were the most normal aspect in all of this insanity. Most of them were younger than I was, suffered from eating disorders such as anorexia or bulimia, or engaged in cutting in order to dull their inner pain by injuring themselves on the outside. I participated in a number of group therapy sessions and was simply accepted by the other young people as somebody who also had their burden to bear, just like they did. Nobody asked how that burden had come about. Nobody was interested in performing an autopsy on it and conducting an evaluation. I was able to just sit with them, to talk about this and that and to enjoy a moment of peace.