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28 November 2013
I Never Met a Hungarian Who Didn’t Want to Learn – Memories of the Traiskirchen Refugee Camp of 1956
I know there are lazy and disinterested people, even conniving rogues, in all nations, but I have had the good fortune never to have met Hungarians who fit that description. I know them only as a lerngieriges Volk. My encounter with Hungarians began in the fall of 1956 in a refugee camp in Traiskirchen, Austria, after the start of the Hungarian Revolution, and all my encounters with Hungarians since then have been positive experiences.
Fifty years ago, a mere decade after the Holocaust, many people still felt a lingering distaste for things German. But despite recent history, I still wanted to learn German and went to the University of Vienna for that purpose. The Winter Semester there had just begun, and I was barely settled in as a student when in November flyers began to appear at the university asking for volunteers to help the refugees who had crossed the Austrian border from Hungary. Although Austria was much concerned about preserving its constitutional neutrality at that time when Russian soldiers still guarded the Red Army memorial at Schwarzenbergplatz. Nonetheless, Austria remained committed to meeting its humanitarian obligations to aid people fleeing oppression.
The photos in the Austrian newspapers of young Hungarians, some barely more than children, attacking Soviet tanks with Molotov cocktails and students and workers confronting armed soldiers inspired my admiration. I little understood at that time the international ramifications of the Suez Crisis on the events across the Austrian border, nor did I know how to evaluate the promises from the Voice of America that urged revolution in Eastern Europe that were never honoured. As a naive young American answering the call for volunteers, I was motivated not by politics, but by the desire to help those who risked their lives for freedom of the press, free elections, independent political parties and a democratic socialism. The courage of a nation struggling to define its own way of life commanded my respect and won my sympathy.
At 6 o’clock one morning in November 1956, I joined a group of volunteers who met by the Votivkirche near the university. A bus took us south through the countryside of Niederösterreich to the village of Traiskirchen near Baden where an abandoned and ruined cadet school stood that was about to receive an influx of hapless refugees. The school consisted of a main building (Hauptgebäude), a riding school and stables (Reitschule and Ställe), a gymnasium (Turnhalle), a swimming pool (Schwimbad), dormitories (Wohnheime), a mess hall and kitchen (Eßsaal and Küche) and various other smaller buildings, situated on a large campus. Testifying to the past glory of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the school was a giant complex, a conglomeration of buildings that had served successively the military forces of Austria, Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. When the Red Army withdrew from Austria in 1955, it left the school in ruins and exposed to further ravages of sun, wind and rain. There was no electricity, no heating, no running water, no windowpane unbroken, only the ruined reminder of a once mighty Empire.
The volunteers, mostly Austrian and foreign students, men and women workers, a mother with two children, an elderly Gräfin with a Red Cross armband, together made up a strange assortment of idealists beginning an adventure whose end they could not anticipate. When we arrived at Traiskirchen, we were shocked to see the school in ruins before us. The Gräfin had, however, the requisite sense of humour to brighten our spirits. We burst into laughter when she said with a smile: “I think we should start with the Hauptgebäude.” Besides her healthy sense of humour, she possessed also a talent for organisation and an easy way of dealing with people. Her respectful and democratic disposition was in keeping with her worn duffel coat and her threadbare tweed skirt. Her orders took on the form of reasonable suggestions. We were all fully aware of the ridiculousness of a few inexperienced people led by an old countess standing before the immensity of the task before us.
On the following day the situation began to seem more hopeful when in the morning more buses with volunteers, vehicles with necessary supplies, and a contingent of experienced workers arrived. Members of the Austrian Red Cross, identifiable only by their distinctive armbands took charge of the camp. In small groups with workers who knew about wiring and glazing we began renovating one room at a time: washing, painting, putting in windowpanes, and restoring lighting. Since there was no running water in any of the buildings, we attached a hose to a hydrant by the main road. Because winter was not yet upon us, repairing the stoves in each room was postponed till later. After each room was cleaned and painted, we added the finishing touch: a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. We then moved in cots. Immediately afterwards refugees filled the room. Supplies came from international relief agencies and businesses in Vienna that provided such things as soap, brushes, clothes, food, pots and pans. Everything donated was used. Soon the kitchen was in working order, the mess hall cleared, and one of the buildings became the clothing centre (Kleiderausgabe). Because the plumbing in every building needed to be repaired, toilets were scarce and washing facilities rare during all the time I worked in the camp.
Gradually the essentials became available. Served a tregular intervals in the mess hall, meals were more than adequate: Goulash, Auflauf, Semmeln, cottage cheese, and cans of Scandinavian sardines in such abundance that there was never a meal without them. Everyone had an army cot, and as more rooms were made habitable, families were able to enjoy a little privacy once they had a space to themselves that they no longer had to share with strangers. In the corner of one building an enterprising refugee opened a barber shop. A sporting goods store in Vienna contributed soccer balls. A local farmer mowed the parade ground (Exerzierplatz) for a soccerfield. A volunteer who had aspired to run track for the South African Olympic team now organised soccer games to provide the refugees a chance to exercise and to relieve some of the tension and the boredom of long days with little to do.
Among the refugees were many restless children who explored the limits of their new freedom by roaming the camp in undisciplined groups. But there were also among the refugees dedicated teachers who out of a sense of duty or longing for order asked to have rooms made available so these uprooted children could resume their education and have a daily routine of school and play. Although there were no books or supplies, the school opened nonetheless. To further help treat the many children and adults, traumatised by loss and separation from friends and family, psychologists and doctors among the refugees provided additional services and counselling. Workers quickly repaired the stoves in the newly opened classrooms, and for some time these were the only heated rooms besides the kitchen and by extension the mess hall. Thus the school provided not only discipline but also a degree of comfort as the weather turned colder.
By winter there were over three thousand refugees in the camp, all living now with adequate shelter and food, but with little warmth, and few opportunities for cleanliness and few constructive activities to fill the time. By December the Swedish Red Cross had taken over the running of the camp. In their grey uniforms they looked more like soldiers than angels of mercy, but they very soon established more order and efficiency. These well-funded Swedish administrators brought with them what the Austrian Red Cross did not have: money and better international connections. Soon after their arrival everyone working in the camp got paid a modest stipend. Further changes rapidly ensued. Teams of workers completed more renovations of the buildings, more help arrived, international aid increased, and representatives from various countries came to interview the refugees who wished to emigrate.
Although I was an inexperienced observer, I was struck by how the various countries operated their immigration services. The difference between the English and American methods was most pronounced. The English representatives interviewed refugees simply to find out who wanted to go to England. When they had identified a sufficient number, buses took the refugees to the airport and flew them to Great Britain: uncomplicated, efficient and egalitarian. The US representatives operated with a rating system based on how prospective immigrants could best benefit America. Doctors, lawyers, engineers, skilled workers, those with academic degrees all received preferential ratings.
After the US immigration officers completed their interviews, there was often still a wait of up to three months for applications to be evaluated. This situation created a limbo-like existence for the refugees, a period in which they never knew for sure if their acceptance was definite, a period in which they weighed going elsewhere. They had to be prepared for the unexpected and consider other options. Some of those hoping to go to America also needed sponsors and had to wait until someone was found who would guarantee that the new immigrant would not burden the welfare system. Nonetheless, even with all these time consuming procedures, the cautious Americans accepted the largest number of refugees. Some countries were even more open than England. Colonial African countries and various Latin American countries simply accepted refugees without interviews. Several European countries also welcomed fairly large numbers of refugees, including the Scandinavian countries, Germany and Austria.
The refugees’ desire and their necessity to emigrate made evident a pressing need. Wherever the refugees hoped to go, they would need to learn a new language to start a new life. As a result there were now about three thousand Hungarians wanting to learn English, German, French, Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, Spanish, Dutch, Afrikaans, Portuguese or Italian. This list is actually incomplete for we volunteers began offering classes in 13 languages.
To accommodate this need, the Swedish director of the camp authorised a language school. The first principal of the school was a former refugee himself, a student who as a child had fled Estonia after the war and had come to Traiskirchen from South Africa. His health was, however, delicate and early in 1957, he suffered a recurrence of tuberculosis, and soon after starting the ground work for the school was forced to leave the camp and seek medical aid. The camp director then asked me to take his place. The institution of the camp language school came at the right moment because the volunteers, although educated, had few practical skills and, therefore, had less and less valuable work to do in the camp. Many of the volunteers concluded that their usefulness was already over and were thinking of returning home or of going back to the universities they had left. Our value as volunteers in the camp was now about to be based solely on our possessing a little education and speaking a language that was in demand.
At first the volunteers were reluctant to teach their native languages because none had previous teaching experience; nevertheless, they agreed to do so. We had no books, no materials: paper, pencils, chalk or blackboards. Space, however, was no problem. We simply had to clean up a few more rooms. The Berlitz school in Vienna provided some valuable books. Various stationery and school supply stores came through with pencils, paper and chalk. Blackboards were impossible to get, so we painted a wall in each classroom black. It worked well enough. I did not, however, want the responsibility of organising the language classes. It seemed a job much too big. I had no teaching experience, was myself in the process of learning German, and had never organised anything before in my life much less a school for nearly three thousand pupils. I sought to have someone else run the school. But despite my disinclination to serve in this capacity, the other volunteers, nevertheless, elected me principal, a position that soon turned out to be much more demanding than ever I thought. But the most difficult problem of trying to teach about three thousand people of all ages, all backgrounds, and all levels of education in one school with limited resources was overcome by one unifying factor: the refugees’ desire not to be where they were and their longing to go somewhere else.
Bookkeeping for the school was simple. I told the director of the camp how many teachers there were. He multiplied that number by the amount of money each was to receive. Every Friday I received that amount in Schilling, had each teacher sign a receipt, which I returned to the director who checked the total. It was a simple process that never led to problems. There were not enough Berlitz books for all the languages we taught, but each teacher of English received one, and most of the classes were in English. Paper from unknown donors began coming to the camp in large quantities. It seemed as if every scrap of paper in Vienna that was blank on one side came our way, as did enough pencils and chalk. Boxes of this used paper stood by the door of each classroom and our students could take sheets as they needed. With only one textbook in each classroom, the teacher had to write every word on the painted wall and frequently clean it with a damp rag. Under these circumstances the paint did not last long. When necessary the wall was repainted at the end of the day. The paint was always dry by next morning.
It was immediately clear to me that conditions in the refugee camp would not allow for a regular organisation of a school with set times for classes arranged by level, with enrolments and attendance checks, with assignments and grading. The only practical way to proceed was simply to designate certain rooms for specific languages and admit whoever wanted to come and let everyone learn as he could. For English we needed several rooms and enough teachers to keep classes running from morning to evening. There were often not even breaks for lunch because not everyone could ate at the same time anyway – the mess hall was simply too small for that. What went on in the various classrooms other than my own, I do not know. I taught most of the day, as did the other volunteers. I never heard a complaint. A teacher would teach for one hour (sometimes two or three in a row), then be replaced by another who just took over. Where one teacher started or left off did not seem to matter because every bit of material was worth learning. Many of the refugees stayed in the classroom all day, leaving only to eat.
A typical class held as many pupils as the room could hold. There were few chairs, most sat on the floor, some on the window sills. People of all ages and backgrounds were in each class. Mothers held babies in their arms; doctors sat next to workers, engineers next to shepherds, one of whom brought his dog to class every day. On more than one evening the shepherd provided entertainment for us by having his dog demonstrate its skills and feats of obedience.
People came into and out of our classes as they needed and wanted to, but usually they learned all day long. Whenever a word, phrase or sentence was not clear, someone in the class would eventually figure it out and call out the meaning or whisper it to his neighbour; then the translation passed by murmur through the room. We drilled pronunciation, explained grammar, formed questions and answers. We followed the Berlitz book when it made sense to do so and neglected it when it did not. In the midst of this pedagogic chaos, there ruled a unique form of order that produced ceaseless progress. Often children learned faster than adults, and laughter at mistakes was the norm. We and our students broke every rule of standard pedagogy. As one volunteer put it: “There is no rule and no method.” Motivation was the real teacher. Learning meant new life.
I obtained from one of the Americans interviewing the refugees the prepared questions they asked the refugees and also obtained an idea which answers the immigration officers preferred to hear. This pre-knowledge of the questions and answers added structure and purpose to the various English classrooms. We drilled the questions and prepared our students to provide good answers. At first I acted as the interviewer and interviewee. Later the refugees played those roles. Soon we learned to vary the questions and the answers and demonstrated how the form of a simple question or statement could be used in multiple situations of everyday life and even in philosophical discourse. Every day there was improvement. English was becoming the language of the camp. Like most of the other volunteers, I spoke only English to every refugee I met. He or she was almost certain to have been in one of my classes or recognised me by sight. I heard over and over that the interviews were going better and better. More and more people were passing their “examinations” with the immigration officers and graduating to a new start in a new world. Whenever someone heard he had been accepted for America, he usually came and thanked his teachers. In a few months we really did need a different kind of class.
A young English woman, who had volunteered as a nurse, was ending her class everyday with a poem. The poem, usually by Shakespeare or William Blake, was not often understood, but it sounded like music and was unmistakably classical English literature. Her syllables danced like the waves of the English Channel. She asked if she could offer a class on poetry. I was sure there were those who could and would want to learn more English this way. A small group did. She taught from a book of collected poems she always carried in her pocket. For each class she wrote a poem on the wall; the students copied it. She explained the words and the meaning. Together they recited and memorised the poem. This was one of our most successful experiments. I now heard in class some answers to my questions in curious archaic formulations.
Learning gave a new vitality to the camp: children went to school; adults went to school. The camp had become an ideal pedagogical province. Goethe, Rousseau and Pestalozzi were smiling down on us. Class distinctions disappeared; everyone learned together, everyone helped as he could, whomever he could. It was not surprising that more and more people were leaving the camp after successful interviews.
I have always asked myself if anyone else remembers Traiskirchen as a positive experience, as a modest successful socialist experiment, a time when people who had more than others did not have too much more, and those with less did not have too little, a time when each received according to his needs and each gave according to his ability. For me the refugee camp was a transforming event. Because of it I became a teacher. I learned in the refugee camp that the human spirit thrives on learning, and learning can bring one through hard times. I learned also that justice is based more on little being fairly distributed that much being unfairly divided. I learned from many refugees while I was in the camp, but most of all I learned from the shepherd and his dog. I know they did not get to America. Neither received enough points on the US scale of value. But I know now that they were more important in my life than I ever was in theirs. And fifty years later, I hope, is not too late to express my gratitude.
(2006)
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