100-jähriger Zeitzeuge erzählt vom 2. Weltkrieg

Ältester Pfarrer Österreichs erzählt vom 2. Weltkrieg. Dieser 100-Jährige ist nicht nur der älteste Pfarrer Österreichs, sondern gleichzeitig einer der allerletzten Zeitzeugen als 1925 Geborener des 2. Weltkrieges.

Herr Leopold Städtler ist mit seinen 100 Jahren der älteste Pfarrer Österreichs. Als 1925 geborener Zeitzeuge erzählt uns dieser 100-Jährige heute folgendes:

– Wie er 100 Jahre wurde
– Wie er den 2. Weltkrieg als 1925er Jahrgang erleben musste
– Wie er die Eismeerfront im 2. Weltkrieg überlebte
– Wie er die Kriegsgefangenschaft im 2. Weltkrieg überlebte
– Wie er es als ältester Pfarrer & 100-Jähriger schafft weiterhin täglich eine Heilige Messe zu feiern.

Dieses Interview mit diesem 100-Jährigen und ältesten Pfarrer Österreichs ist gerade in der heutigen Zeit ein wichtiger Beitrag für den Frieden.
Diese Geschichte des Hundertjährigen Zeitzeugen ist ein Mahnmal für die Zukunft.
———————–
Lebensweisheiten von 100-Jährigen

Ich – Daniel Pleunik, diplomierter Gesundheits- und Krankenpfleger – hatte bereits die Ehre 42 Hundertjährige Menschen zu interviewen und ihre wertvolle Lebensgeschichte & Lebensweisheiten festzuhalten. (Stand 26.10.2025)

Diese Interviews mit 100-jährigen Zeitzeugen mache ich neben meiner Anstellung als Krankenpfleger aus 3 Gründen:
1) Um meinen Beitrag für den Frieden auf der Welt beizusteuern
2) Um dafür zu sorgen, dass sich die Geschichte von damals nicht wiederholt
3) Um jungen Menschen anhand der Erzählungen von Zeitzeugen zu ermutigen, menschlich, respektvoll & wachsam zu sein.

„Wenn du den Weg vor dir wissen möchtest, frag jene, die zurückkommen.“ – chinesisches Sprichwort.

Wenn du mein Friedensprojekt “Lebensgeschichten & Lebensweisheiten von 100-jährigen Menschen” wertvoll findest, abonniere gerne meinen Kanal. Ich verspreche dir mit deiner Zeit und deinem Vertrauen wertschätzend umzugehen.

00:00:00 Vorschau
00:03:08 Kindheit & Beginn des Nationalsozialismus
00:23:27 Einberufung & Eismeerfront Murmansk
00:37:58: Rückzug & Kriegsgefangenschaft
00:57:49 Entlassung & Heimkehr
01:10:51 Wirken als Pfarrer & Generalvikar
01:42:12 Reflexion Krieg/Frieden & Lebensweisheiten

I turned 100 on April 23rd. And then came January 7th, 1943: Yes… The headmaster came and explained to us: ” You have to take your final exams by January 31st . And then you have to report for duty.” So, the kind of war enthusiasm we were constantly shown at the Gymnasium (high school) back then simply didn’t exist. Two things were always present: I’m hungry and I want to live. That’s how we young people thought: I need something to eat. I’m hungry. And I want to live. Look, I was on the handball team at the Academic Gymnasium because I could run fast. I was always on the right wing in the forward line. One of them went blind. And three were killed. I’m the only one from the forward line who came back from the war and from captivity unscathed. I simply tried to live as a human being, as a human being should live. Not always focusing on myself : There’s also a “you.” And there’s also a “we.” And that’s incredibly important. God has given each of us gifts, opportunities, and abilities that we can use ourselves , but which we should use to foster a better coexistence and mutual support. I learned in the war how pointless such things are. There can never be a future if people approach each other with words and even more so with weapons . One thing I want to do: stay grounded. Have you ever wondered what the very last living witnesses from the time of World War II can tell us? Today I have the great honor of interviewing the 100-year-old eyewitness , Prelate Leopold Städtler . He was the former Vicar General of the Diocese of Graz-Seckau and is the oldest priest in Austria. He still celebrates Holy Mass every day at 6:30 a.m. And this 100-year-old eyewitness tells us today: how he turned 100. How he had to experience World War II. How he witnessed how a person is reduced to nothing and human dignity is trampled. Yes… how he returned after the war and dedicated his life to the parish. And what we can do to ensure that those times don’t repeat themselves! I’m Daniel Pleunik. I’m the founder of the peace project “Wisdom from Centenarians” and a registered nurse. And you’ll hear this valuable firsthand account today. May I ask how old you are? Yes: I turned 100 on April 23rd. April 23, 1925, at 11:00 a.m.: Yes, exactly. Back then, they still wrote the exact time of birth on the birth and baptismal certificate . And how does it feel to be 100 years old? Well, first I’d like to say: We didn’t want to get old so quickly. It goes by incredibly fast. And then: You can’t even imagine it when you look ahead: 100 years: An impossible amount of time. I’ll certainly never experience it. That’s just how you think. And then when you look back, you realize how quickly everything actually goes. And when you think about Psalm 90: It says, “One lives to be 70 or 80 at most. Time flies.” That’s in a psalm that’s over 4000 years old. That’s just how it goes. But I’m still grateful for every day I’m given. You just mentioned: Time flies. You were born in 1925: Would you like to tell us how you experienced that time, the interwar period, into which you were born ? What was it like back then? Yes, well: My parents were very simple people. My father was a severely disabled veteran of the First World War, with a gunshot wound to the upper and lower jaw from the Russian front. But my parents were devout. My mother said, “You have to become an altar boy very early on so that you learn something worthwhile.” She simply treated me like any other boy back then. You were an altar boy from the age of five : Yes, yes. I had to learn Latin. I didn’t understand anything. But I knew it. There was no need to think about it. It was simply a duty. The hardest part was actually carrying the heavy missal with the lectern from the Epistle page to the Gospel page . There were stairs, too. Sometimes there was a fall. I, thank God, always got through it all right. But other altar servers often didn’t fare so well. And so I came into close contact with the chaplains of my home parish in Ligist. I really enjoyed being an altar server. My parents were also quite good. I never had any problems. But sometimes the chaplain was more important to me. My mother often said, “What are you always doing with the chaplain?” He was, after all, a grown-up , and I think young people need such role models . I was very grateful that an adult even bothered to talk to me. We had two chaplains. One was rather quiet but highly spiritually gifted. Unfortunately, he was killed in the war as a medic. The second chaplain was a brisk man. He preached quite sternly to us and taught us how we were supposed to live in this situation. I had no idea what political life was like in my hometown of Ligist. The farmers were cottagers. They only owned smallholdings. Many men went up to Voitsberg Oberdorf Köflach to work in the coal mines. They earned a secure living there. And the women back home worked the small farms. Everyone had one or two cows and a few pigs. And they were self-sufficient. We all knew each other. Even young people knew many of the older folks in my hometown. And then suddenly came 1938. Everything changed overnight . For example, our mayor: He was a doctor. Highly respected. Because he was always there for the people day and night . He was suddenly imprisoned. “He hadn’t done anything wrong.” “Why was he imprisoned?” And the second thing: The parish had a building. We called it the Young Men’s Club . That’s where the young men, in particular, used to gather. They sang. Played fun games, and so on. We young altar boys were allowed to go in too. But we weren’t allowed to join the older and more senior members. That was suddenly taken away. “It doesn’t belong to us anymore.” “We’re not allowed to go there anymore.” And then suddenly this comes from the authorities: “You all have to join the Hitler Youth.” “Catholic youth groups are banned. They’re not allowed to do anything outdoors anymore. Youth meetings are permitted inside the church itself .” This was completely unimaginable and entirely new to us because we went with the chaplain every Sunday when he celebrated Mass at a chapel for the people who lived in the surrounding area. All forbidden. And then you went on a trip with several altar servers . What was that like? What happened after the trip? Yes, a bike trip from Ligist to the Packer Reservoir. The gendarmerie stopped us in Edelschrott . We had seen a black Volkswagen drive past our house 15 minutes earlier. It was parked in front of the gendarmerie post. It was the Gestapo. And someone in Ligist, probably the local Nazi party leader, reported it. “There’s a trip organized by the altar servers. Someone must have arranged it. Probably the chaplain.” Around 8:30-8:45 a.m., we were at the gendarmerie post in Edelschrott. They interrogated us incessantly: “Who organized this?” “How did it go?” “Who spoke to you?” And today I say: The Holy Spirit is present in every conceivable and inconceivable way. We never discussed beforehand who had done it. But every one of us said: “We did it ourselves.” Every single one of us. We were 14-16 years old. Everyone said: “We organized it ourselves.” We were slapped. We weren’t allowed to take any snacks from the backpacks that were outside on our bicycles in front of the gendarmerie post command . And this went on until 4:30 p.m. Today, I often say in these interviews with eyewitnesses , which I frequently conducted: “They slapped the faith into our heads.” “Now more than ever, we’ll stay with the church youth group.” The church was no longer recognized by the Nazis in 1938 . So for you, that was a protest action , a form of resistance against it . Exactly . Yes. Yes. “If they forbid it: We haven’t done anything wrong. Our mayor hasn’t done anything wrong. Why does it exist?” And when something is forbidden: That’s when you become critical. That’s when you start to think: “Who is doing this?” “Why is it being done?” “Why is it being done?” You were then at the Academic Gymnasium: And there your chaplain gave you a mission , an assignment , for what you should do as an act of resistance: Yes. Every year in early summer, there were these sports competitions of the Hitler Youth in the individual villages and towns. The chaplain said: “You absolutely have to participate! Because you have five hours of physical education. That was already preparation for military service, all those physical education hours. “You run faster than anyone from Ligist and you jump higher than anyone from Ligist too. ” And it’s so wonderful when the local party leader in his brown uniform has to pin the victory pin on you, the head altar boy .” When the chaplain says so: Let’s do it. End of story . And that’s how it was for four years. She: Before we get to the story of how you lied your way through four years: Perhaps another anecdote about the resistance back then: You once said that the chaplains often encouraged you to do some advertising in the village because they had something important to say in their Sunday sermons: Yes, yes. That was interesting. We were a small group. In total, there were 20 of us young people, boys and girls. We said, “We’ll keep watch over this whole undertaking. Whatever the chaplain says, we’ll do. And we’ll see if we can get others involved.” From the village itself, that was almost impossible , or even impossible. But from the surrounding area, from the young farmers who lived a bit further away, who had an hour’s walk to church, we naturally gained quite a few. We made sure we got some strong and tall ones because if things came to blows, they’d definitely stir things up. That’s how it was back then. And that’s how this community has grown stronger and deeper. Because we knew: Something could happen , that we could be attacked , that we could be beaten. I was actually attacked once myself— attacked is a harsh word— but I had a two-kilometer walk to the train station in Krottendorf. Very early in the morning, I was once ambushed by a Hitler Youth group right by the Teufelstein (Devil’s Stone). There was this huge rock there: It was called Teufelstein. They attacked me there and beat me up badly. So, we knew: Something like that could happen. But we were actually proud when we survived something like that. Did you know who you could talk to during that time ? Because you said: If you listen to just one wrong radio station, then you have to fear the death penalty. Yes. We heard from one of the chaplains that there were “severe prisons” where people were locked up for listening to foreign broadcasts. We only had a small radio: a Volksempfänger (People’s Receiver), that’s what it was called. Everything came through on it. You didn’t hear anything else. So, later in the war, we never really knew what things were like on the front lines. It was always presented positively on that little radio : what had been conquered, which positions had been held. But the existence of concentration camps— I never heard the word “concentration camp” as a young person. But they existed. They were called prisons. We had an old woman who was mentally disabled, but she was cared for by a widow. The widow took this woman in. She fed her . She couldn’t work. Suddenly, the woman was gone. We knew her. Suddenly, the woman was gone. Then the question was: “What happened to her?” The chaplain could only say: “She was put in a separate home or institution. And they’ll probably be killed eventually anyway.” And it wasn’t until last year that I was allowed to look in the chronicle in our parish archives . It had been sealed. I never knew why. But last year I found out. Because the old priest wrote down exactly when the woman was arrested by the gendarmerie and when an official death notice arrived from Hartheim in Upper Austria. It only contained her name, the date of death, and “heart failure”… But we boys had no idea about such difficult matters . And you also have to mention the concentration camps . The family of the future Chancellor , Dr. Gorbach: You played a role there too: Yes, yes. Our doctor had been friends with Alfons Gorbach since our youth . And the doctor said to me: “You, you’re a preschooler. This woman lives with her daughter in Graz on Brunngasse. She doesn’t even get a food ration card. We have to bring her something somehow.” And so I often got all sorts of things: bacon, meat, etc. And being a preschooler was very lucky: Three train cars full of preschoolers from Köflach to Graz: We were always to blame if something happened anywhere. Nobody liked us. The conductors didn’t like us. The railway staff made sure they got us on our way again right away. The railway police at Graz Central Station: They just shouted: “Get out of here!” “Make sure you get to school!” I was never checked. That was my luck. And so I kept bringing things there. And then you would have had to join the Hitler Youth: And how did you manage to get through that time , having already mentioned lying your way through four years? What was it like back then? Well, in my hometown of Ligist, we were the stronger group in church life in the village . The local Nazi Party leader knew: If I start with one person, they’ll say no. If I go to the next, they’ll say no too. Nobody’s going to go along with it anyway. They watched closely what we did. They wanted to know: That’s my opinion. They were always looking for something they could use to get hold of the chaplain . He was reported to the authorities several times. The Gestapo even came to my parents’ house. Suddenly, two men appeared, identified themselves as Gestapo, and simply searched the house for any writings… We never had any. We did n’t find anything either. And: So I believe these people who were in favor of National Socialism sensed precisely: “They’re all going along with the Church. We might be able to pick one out. Maybe we can bring them together. But that won’t really do us any good.” Then the chaplain said something very impressive: “Jesus Christ is our leader. And not Adolf Hitler.” Yes, yes. “Jesus Christ is our leader. Our king…” That was a dangerous statement back then. I only realized that later, as a chaplain and parish priest in Judenburg and Fohnsdorf , because two priests in our deanery were in concentration camps. One because he preached too loudly, in that kind of way. And the other because he listened to the BBC. Both were in concentration camps. Thank God, both of them escaped during the death march from Mauthausen in 1945 , which lasted several days and nights. I knew them. I had to help one of them a lot with his work with children and young people in a small parish in the Judenburg deanery. He told me a lot of things. But as a young person, I had no idea what was really going on. And then you were supposed to take your final exams: But you needed proof that you’d been in the Hitler Youth: But you weren’t in the Hitler Youth: How did it come about that you got this proof, after lying for four years? Suddenly everyone had to provide confirmation from the Hitler Youth. That was, of course, a bitter pill to swallow for me. “What do I do now?” I went to my headmaster in Ligist. I went to Director Salkowitsch and asked for the certificate I need now. He said, “You were never in the Hitler Youth?” “Yes, that’s true. But I always participated in the spring competitions .” “Yes, that’s true too.” And then he wrote me a few lines. What they did with it at the high school: I don’t know. But it was enough. Because you always said: In Ligist you said, “I’m in the Hitler Youth in Graz.” And in Graz you said, “I’m in the Hitler Youth in Ligist.” I always said that in my presentations as a contemporary witness so that the young people would pay attention. I always started with: “For four years I lied.” That’s how I began. Then everyone suddenly went completely silent and looked at me. “What’s he going to say now?” And then came January 7, 1943: Yes… The director came and explained to us: ” You have to take your final exams by January 31st . And then you have to enlist.” We took our final exams during those three weeks. And that’s exactly how it was. We knew we’d have to enlist . But we didn’t expect it to happen so quickly . You mentioned earlier that officers often came during that time : from the Navy, from the Air Force, to recruit. From the SS, too. And not a single one of my graduating class— there were 25 to 27 of us by the end— got involved. We had to watch newsreels in high school so we knew how the Wehrmacht could fight effectively. The relentlessly fierce defensive battles on the Eastern Front were marked by the onset of winter. Numerous Bolshevik attacks had already been repulsed at this trench . Our grenadiers were performing incredible feats here; a group was working its way forward in the mud under the thunder of the artillery and the wailing of the mortars . In the foxholes and trenches right next to the enemy, the tough fighting spirit of our soldiers defied the ever-encroaching enemy. The will to resist of the individual soldier, the squad leader, or the platoon leader often determines the fate of an entire sector. Here, a company commander rewards the exceptional performance of a squad leader with the Iron Cross 1st Class . The German soldier’s face hardened. We all said: We’ll report for the heavy artillery at the conscription examination. Because it’s a bit further back. We’ll probably be a bit safer there. But not a single one of us ended up in the heavy artillery. Everyone became a mountain infantryman. Styrians, Carinthians, Tyroleans: those were the mountain troops. Yes, it was a very peculiar thing: at the deployment, we were examined very thoroughly. Before that, we had already had a three-week summer training course in the sixth grade at the Gymnasium ( high school). There, we had to disassemble rifles. Learn to navigate with a compass… And in the seventh grade, winter training on the Schmelz near Judenburg. That was two weeks. That was already pre-military training. Then, in the eighth grade, we were vaccinated. Nobody knew why. Suddenly, the word was: “Everyone has to be vaccinated!” Preparations were already underway. I was trained on a heavy machine gun, the 42. It was a completely new weapon the Germans had brought together, with incredible accuracy. And then, suddenly, there we were. We were called out overnight to a mission where we were told: “Tito and his staff are somewhere down in Istria.” So we were taken down there. Just like that. It all happened so fast. To Prestranek. I had no idea where that even was. Because I’d never been to Istria before. There was a small barracks camp there. And we could sleep and live there. With a small kitchen. And that’s where we were deployed in those wooded hills. We never knew: We never saw a real partisan. But what we did hear: Bells suddenly rang in broad daylight. We were told: “The population is on the side of the partisans.” Because the Germans were so radical in their political work. The German language was mandatory. They wanted to ban the mother tongue, Slovenian. And when the bells rang, it was a sign: There are partisans somewhere, being warned. But we never saw any. We heard later that— I don’t know how many kilometers from our camp— English planes were dropping weapons, ammunition , and supplies in the middle of a wooded area at night . We only heard the sound of planes, but never saw one in the middle of the night. And then I met a classmate from the Academic Gymnasium down there, who had graduated two years before me. I also knew his brother because he was at the Franciscan seminary. And he said to me, “Sign up for an officer training course. You’ll be safe at home for four months.” And I had no idea what all that really meant. But four months at home: that was something, of course. I can only say “yes” to that. I had no idea then that the German Wehrmacht suffered the greatest losses among its young lieutenants. Because as soon as they finished their training, they were immediately sent to the front, and they were the first to go. I only learned all that later. What utter nonsense that would have been in reality. So, those four months were over , and then there was the deployment to Finland anyway. It was a time like the training: there was a deployment in between. Then it would have continued again. So you arrived in Finland on October 24, 1944. Yes, yes. In the far north of the Eastern Front: the Bolsheviks’ staging areas , which were gathering under the cover of a village, had to be disrupted. That was the journey: Klagenfurt to Berlin by train, for a bunch of mountain troops. In Berlin, we were arrested immediately. We had no idea: we were a small group of 3-5 people, just to see Berlin because we had to spend the night there before we could continue on to Denmark. Suddenly, the military police arrested us. We had no idea why. In Berlin, only two soldiers are allowed to walk together. They were kind of afraid that if a few of them walked together , there might be an uprising. In the barracks, they interrogated us. “Where are you from, anyway?” “From the Ostmark. We’re mountain troops and we have to go to Finland.” “Ah, those are people from the East.” Then they saw the edelweiss on the uniform. “You’re free again!” The edelweiss made them realize: Those are the idiots from the East. They don’t understand anything anyway. But they are good mountain troops. They knew that. So the next day we went to Denmark . We were quite surprised because all the shops in Denmark were full. Cheese, milk, sausage , and everything else they had: we couldn’t get any of that back home. Everyone had 20 Danish kroner. We put it to good use right away. In Denmark, we boarded a ship and then headed north: north of Narvik to Tromsø. That was a large naval base. And from Tromsø, we went to the Arctic front. The first 30-40 kilometers were on a dirt road where cars could still drive. Then it was already icy and partly snow-covered. And there was no road anymore. We continued on skis until we reached the front. And then we were assigned to units about 20 kilometers from the front line. There was a small wooden hut there: that was the field hospital. There was a doctor and a commander. And he assigned us exactly which unit we were assigned to and where we had to go. That’s how it all went down. How cold was it up there? Freezing cold. Beautiful at night while we were on guard duty. Because the Northern Lights were there. But we were actually quite happy to do without them. In the earth bunker, there was only a small tunnel with a small stove. We heated it with birch wood. It was always freezing cold in the bunker, too. That’s where we learned what true neighborliness and community really are. Because you were constantly bumping into someone else. There was no other way. We’re in this situation together now. And together we’re trying to live in it as best we can . So, from us young people: Well, the kind of war enthusiasm we were constantly shown at the grammar school back then simply didn’t exist. Two things were always there: I’m hungry and I want to live. That’s how we young people thought: I need something to eat. I’m hungry. And I want to live. Yes, and: The six of us in that earth bunker actually got along quite well. Because we simply tried to live in this situation together. The commander of this earth bunker was from Tyrol. When I arrived, he asked me, “Where are you from? Who are you…? I’ll tell you right now: In here, we all belong together. Remember that!” He didn’t need to say anything more. And that’s where we did our duty. The direct fighting was already over. But the Russian snipers were there. They noticed immediately if there was any smoke. Either a chimney was coming up from a bunker, or someone was smoking a cigarette in the trench system . That was strictly forbidden: smoking. And there were quite a few deaths. I also had a dead man from Carinthia next to me. He was a lively fellow. We always asked, “What do you do for a living?” “Poacher,” he always said, reading from his notes. “I’m a poacher.” He was our sniper. That was still a very dangerous situation. Until the retreat came: And the retreat was also somewhat surprising. Our boss said: “You all know your way around the sky. You need to go southwest. Then you’ll reach Norway. And Norway is still German war territory. Everything’s still alright there. That’s where you need to go!” Throw everything away except your weapons. You’ll need them. Otherwise, throw everything away and just try to survive. You can only sleep for a maximum of two hours in the snow. Two people need to stand guard to make sure no one oversleeps. “Because then he’s dead.” That’s how he sent us away. And so we went after the stars. We ate birch bark. We had nothing to eat. What we did manage to remember was a rock-hard bread. You chewed on it. Then that was over too. There was no meat at all. A strange jam: It was like pumpkin jam. We couldn’t take that with us: That mushy stuff… But, weapons and whatever bread was left. That’s how we got back. In between, you said: The Russian fighter planes came. Yes, on the way back. That was a difficult situation. There was no more German air force up there. But the Russians completely swooped us down with their fighter planes . They flew over us and shot us down… We were so stupid: The first time, we tried to shoot back with submachine guns. I mean, utter nonsense. But in desperation, you do things that you later realize were incredibly stupid. The smartest thing to do was: throw yourself down immediately. So that you already look like you’re dead. There were quite a few deaths. Unfortunately… You often said: how to deal with it. Because you often thought: it could have happened to you too. Yes, of course. It was a bitter thing when we experienced the first deaths. Then we tried to stay where there was a birch forest, we were always inside the woods. That was a good thing. Because the birches were covered in two meters of snow. We were at the top of the birches: they were still two or three meters above us. You could easily get through everywhere there. We could also tear off the bark more easily. It would have been much more difficult down below. We were always incredibly relieved. But the white patches: which were also there from time to time: there was one thing we didn’t do that was Hitler’s order: the dead earth. Every Lapp hut was to be burned down. Every reindeer was to be killed. We didn’t do that. In our unit, we saw reindeer in Lapp huts with some grass inside. Moss and grass, that was it. We didn’t do anything there. And that was Interesting: Upon our discharge later in Oslo, we were interrogated several times. In a completely dark room, illuminated by a spotlight. They knew exactly where our unit was and how we had marched back. How they knew that is still a mystery to me. The questions were: How many Lappish huts did you burn down? “None.” “How many reindeer did you kill on the march back?” “None.” “Yes, that’s right,” he said afterward. He knew exactly where our unit had returned. That was our good fortune. When we reached Norwegian territory, we finally entered a hay barn. It was warm inside for once. Or so it seemed. We wanted something quickly: There was soup there. Soup-spooning. There were two women serving in the Wehrmacht. That was a thing. Either as radio operators if they were particularly skilled or simply able to do it. And then also in the supply service. They immediately said, “Wait a minute! We’ll make sure you ‘re all in reasonably good shape after a week .” They gave us a tiny bowl of soup. We would have liked much more right away. But we probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it. They knew that perfectly well. Because they were already so malnourished that their own bodies wouldn’t have been able to digest it. Probably, yes. They knew that perfectly well. We were truly very grateful. And then we stayed there for a week. We were all in the same boat. Everyone had the same aches and pains. Everyone was constantly getting hungrier and hungrier until it slowly subsided. And above all, we could drink. The thirst was terrible. Yes, the snow gave us water. But drinking is something else entirely. And then we got some brown watery coffee. But we didn’t care at all. The stuff was wet. That was the most important thing. How many days were you on the road in total? From the time you marched back until you reached that hall: all together it took almost two months. That was already February 1945: Yes, in February 1945 we were transferred from… Between February 22nd and 24th, 1945, we were told: “We have to move on!” We were loaded onto a coal ship from there . I think that’s the right way to put it. I’d never been on a coal ship before. We were immediately filthy. Because there was coal dust everywhere. And dirt. To Narvik. In Narvik, we had to report to the front command post. There, the major, the boss, explained to us: “We are being deployed to Berlin.” That was pretty much all we needed. Deployment to Berlin… In Narvik, we heard for the first time that the Russians were already at Berlin. We had no news. We had no idea what things were really like in Germany. And we didn’t really want to go to Berlin anyway… Then there was a large catapult ship in the harbor of Narvik. It had a large hole in the bow, hit by a torpedo from an English submarine . The catapult ships had a plane on top. They went out to sea: Then the plane was launched to check if there were any enemy naval forces anywhere. Because the Americans were supplying Murmansk with a lot of goods: Gulf Stream. That was easily done by ship. And the Germans wanted to conquer it. But they never managed it. Neither did we. We were also off Murmansk. And there was a naval post: “Are you staying here? Or what are you doing with the ship?” “We have to go to Trondheim. There’s a workshop down there. It needs to be repaired.” “Can we go with you?” “You’ll have to ask the captain. I can’t decide that.” “May we go up to the captain?” “Yes. Climb up the steep ladder.” We went up. There I saw the captain just as I had imagined a captain as a boy : A white beard. A white cap. He looked kind. Friendly. That’s exactly how I had imagined a captain. And we said to him: “We’ve been reassigned to Berlin. May we go with you on the ship?” “You need permission from the boss. From the major. I can’t take you like this.” “Aha, thank you. How do we get that permission? ” From the local commander of Narvik? There were ten of us in total who were deployed to Berlin. Then a colleague said, “I’ll do that. I’ll see to it that we get an appointment with this commander. Then we’ll line up. We wo n’t look left or right. Always standing ramrod straight. We’ll look deadly serious. And then I’ll speak.” That was Mr. Pflegerl from Spittal an der Drau. His father was the commander of the gendarmerie post in Spittal an der Drau. We got an appointment. We went in. Suddenly, the major was standing there. I ‘d never seen this major before either . He was a rather short man. We stood there: Attention! And Pflegerl began to speak: “Major! We have orders to Berlin! We are young German men! We want to risk our lives for Führer, Volk & Fatherland ! We want to defend Berlin!” That’s how he talked. We stood there. The major silently looked at each of us from head to toe. We stood there. “Yes, if you really want it: I won’t stop you.” That’s how we got the signature. That’s how we got onto the damaged catapult ship. And it did exactly what we had silently suspected: Firstly, it goes slowly , and secondly, it doesn’t go all day anyway. It simply can’t manage that anymore. And it sailed between the Lofoten Islands . For an hour in the morning. And then for an hour in the late afternoon. So we made slow progress. “Nothing can happen to us now: We’re on the ship . It’s just going slowly. It’s trying to get away with its life: With all its gear. And it’s still quite a way to Trondheim. From there we have to take the train to Oslo. Then it will become dangerous for us.” And that’s how it was. In Trondheim, we had to get off the ship immediately . Get on the train to Oslo. We arrived in Oslo at 11:45 a.m. The military police were already there: “Where are you from?” “Where do you have to go?” “We’re coming from Narvik. Now from Trondheim. We’re here for deployment to Berlin.” “Yes, come along.” We arrived at the Oslo Naval Fortress. He put us in “barracks.” “Get some sleep. And report back tomorrow morning!” At 9:00 a.m., we had to report to the Naval Fortress command. They explained: “So, you’re supposed to be deployed to Berlin: That’s no longer possible because the last ship to Germany left the night before last . The British already have the entire sea . You’ll be assigned here to defend the Naval Fortress .” End of April 1945. Yes. That’s how it was. They sent us to a cannon. Nobody had anything to do with a cannon in the war. I was a machine gunner. We said, “We’ll make sure we get a shot off. We know how from the newsreels. You can turn the wheel to make it shoot higher. Then the shot goes further. Then you put in a cartridge. Then you pull the trigger. And then it goes off.” We fired one shot. That was the defense of our sea fortress of Oslo. Next to us were two airmen. They also had a cannon. They knew even less than we did. “You’ll manage one shot, surely.” “We have no idea. We were inside a plane the whole time.” It was utter chaos. And there we waited until the war was over. There was no more fighting at the sea fortress. Then suddenly, it was announced: “Norway is not surrendering. The fighting will continue in Norway. Because there are 500,000 German soldiers throughout Norway . Enough provisions , enough ammunition, enough weapons for six months.” We couldn’t believe it. But: There was already a resistance movement in Oslo. The political leader: That was Gauleiter Terbhoven. A Dutchman: He was Gauleiter there. The top political figure. He just declared that the fighting would continue. And the resistance movement in Oslo was incredibly cunning. These top party officials: They’d been drinking non-stop for the last few days . And then there was a bomb attack. Terbhoven was killed in the accident. The resistance movement managed to blow it up. And the general in charge immediately declared that Norway would not be defended. Then American paratroopers told us that we were prisoners of war. And that we Austrians were actually internees because the country was occupied by Hitler. The Austrian troops were all supposed to put a red-white-red stripe on their caps. We had plenty of red fabric from the Hitler flags. There was no white fabric, though. We were filthy anyway. But somehow we sewed something together. A red-white-red stripe. That was the beginning of our captivity. Then we had to: After 10-12 days: It all happened quite quickly. North of Oslo: A large power plant. The British bombed it in the last days of the war. The entire minefield plan around the power plant was lost. And then the Norwegian government, which was based in London: The Norwegians were smarter than the Austrians. They didn’t abandon the government. And so they were among the victors in 1945. They lived in London as the Free Norwegian Government , even though they had no country. The Norwegian government demanded mine clearance. And there was a death. We had to work around there with spades and shovels . And suddenly a mine went off. A dead Styrian. And: We had to do that for several days. Three to five days. I don’t remember exactly. But what was interesting was that an international commission from the Red Cross suddenly arrived. And they explained: Prisoners of war are not allowed to do life-threatening work. That’s regulated by international law. And: “Austrians out immediately!” We came back to Oslo. And there, a few days later, the next job came : logging for the Norwegian State Railways. They were still working with wood gas. And I had ten men under me with my terrible English from my school days in Graz. I was the commander of the ten because I knew how to cut down a tree and where it should fall. They asked, “Who knows about woodworking?” I raised my hand. Because I’d seen my father do it. We had a very small patch of woodland, about 1,000 square meters. Cutting wood: that always interested me. How is it possible to cut down such a beautiful tree? They immediately assigned me a task: “And he even speaks English! That’s wonderful.” My English was terrible. But I knew what I had to do. What the other 10 people had to do. How to cut up the fallen tree and haul it down a gully towards the water. There it was tied together to make a raft and transported further. That was a wonderful job. They gave us plenty to eat. “You’re working for us.” That was the best food we lumberjacks got in captivity . That lasted almost two months. Then suddenly they said: The Austrians are being transported home now. We have to go north of Oslo. There’s a camp there for the Austrians who are being gathered for transport home. That was the place where the great ski jumpers came from. I’ve forgotten the name… Lillehammer? No, no. A tiny place where there were 3-4 ski jumps. Or maybe they trained the youth there. Vikersund: Yes! Vikersund. Yes, that was it. That’s where we were taken up. And the interrogations in Oslo started there. Several times. Always the same. Dark room. Spotlights. And they asked various questions. And then we had to wait in Vikersund. We thought we were the first ones being taken home. But we were the last. Because they thought, “We have to take those up there home first. Because the Russians will come at the end. Then they’ll be in danger up there again.” The German soldiers from northern Norway were released first. Yes, then they took us from Oslo to Germany on a former French refrigerated ship . To Bremerhaven. It was pouring rain. At the sports field in Bremerhaven, they put us in tents. Without anything. We slept on the wet ground. “We had to wait until there were enough people for 900 Austrians. Because that’s how many the train could hold. We survived that, too. And then it was interesting: The train went from Bremerhaven to Frankfurt am Main almost without stopping. It was very well organized. We got a little something to eat. Mostly biscuits, they were from American soldiers. And in Frankfurt, we saw a city that had been shelled for the first time. We had never seen a city that had been shelled before. The houses: black. At the station, the tracks go up. Two platforms were only usable in November 1945. We stood there for a few hours. And then it was on to Salzburg. That went just as quickly. We were in Salzburg incredibly fast . And in Salzburg, we were transferred to a cattle car train. The doors on the outside were locked. We weren’t allowed to go anywhere. Then the train moved on. And then we were already in the Enns Valley. We couldn’t stand it any longer. We banged furiously until soldiers finally came: “Yes, what ” What’s going on?” “We have to…” He understood. The commander ordered the train to stop. “Everyone off!” First, the soldiers who were standing there with the submachine gun. And we just took care of the trees and the meadows properly. And then we continued on to Selzthal. The train stopped in Selzthal. There I was able to talk to a railway worker for the first time. I asked him if he knew what western Styria was like. In Ligist, that’s my hometown. “Yes, that’s where the Russians are.” Good heavens! I had no idea the Russians were in my hometown. Anyway, they took us from Selzthal to Kapfenberg pretty quickly. In Kapfenberg was the large British detention camp. They were very friendly there. It was a lot of paperwork, though. Take everything off so you’re not smuggling anything. Put it back on. And then we got a piece of paper. In English and German. And 20 schillings. The Americans brought these with them. You could buy something with the money, but really only for the soldiers. It was service pay. They took us out to Bruck an der Mur. “And now make sure you get to Graz.” And off we went again. Now we’re standing at the train station in Bruck an der Mur. We asked the stationmaster: “Is a train coming today?” “He has no idea. We never know if a train is coming. Sometimes one comes. Then other times none does. Then suddenly one comes that we knew nothing about.” “Aha. Can we wait here?” “You actually have to wait. You can’t go anywhere here anyway.” We waited at the station in Bruck an der Mur: After two hours , or had it taken even longer , a train actually arrived: Packed to the brim with people. People looked out: “Those are people returning home! They have to get on!” That’s how I got into a compartment too. I just saw them putting a small child on the luggage rack. So there would be some room for us downstairs. That’s how we got from Bruck an der Mur to Graz by train . And in Frohnleiten, a conductor came: “Ticket, please!” “We don’t have a ticket.” “Then you’ll have to pay a fine!” “Please, we have money.” The first thing we did as liberated prisoners of war in Austria was pay our fines. We paid them with our 20 marks . And that’s how we came to Graz. To freedom. That’s how it was. Then you returned to Ligist on November 14, 1945, and then you rang the doorbell twice loudly… Yes, that was agreed upon with our parents: when we were out and came home late at night, we would bang twice on the large doorknob: “That’s our son, who’s home again.” And that’s what we did. Our parents had n’t heard from us since January 1945. There was no more field post. Nobody knew what had happened to us. Yes, our parents didn’t know anything. And I didn’t know anything from my parents. And my brother: he was wounded five times. He was already in Maria Lankowitz, with the Franciscans. He died last: the fifth wound was in Albania. He arrived in Klagenfurt on a wounded soldiers’ train . He was supposed to go to a military hospital there. It was full. Nothing was possible. Then he went to Innsbruck. There was a space there. It was full. Then he went to Vorarlberg. There was a space there. And in Vorarlberg, interestingly enough , he was seen by a French army chaplain: the chaplain was visiting the people there, the German soldiers. And many of them spoke with him. Where they actually belong. Yes, my brother: “I actually belong in Styria.” “Then we’ll see: I’ll get you through French territory , through Tyrol. Whether the Americans will take you in Salzburg, I don’t know. But I’ll see if I can get a document.” That’s how it went. He actually brings a document: He drives through all of Vorarlberg and Tyrol in a flash. The Americans look at the document. “Into the British zone! Let’s see if we can get him further.” He retreats quickly. And only up there does he hear where the Russians really are. He’d never heard before exactly where they are. Everyone said: “In western Styria.” “Yes, where in western Styria?” And then it was explained to him: Voitsberg is Russian. But Köflach is British. “Aha, Köflach fits well. Because Maria Lankowitz is nearby.” Let’s see if we can get to Lankowitz. They drove a little further up in the British zone and then walked over the Stubalpe to Lankowitz. And he got home earlier than I did. Because he was already a theology student back then, the French army chaplain looked at him and said , “Ah, there’s a theology student: Let’s see if we can help him progress.” So, you came home and said, ” If I can contribute something to prevent this from happening again, then I want to do something. More togetherness. For mutual support.” Yes, in the war I learned that when there is violence and power, a person is worthless. They have absolutely no chance. If their human rights aren’t recognized, if they can no longer speak openly about how they feel and what they like or don’t like, that can’t be a future. As a young person, I have human rights. We learned in school that they exist. We didn’t know exactly what they were , but we knew that human rights exist. And the right to speak, to say how I am , or how bad I am , or what I don’t like: I should still be allowed to do that, right? There’s nothing behind it. Nothing really happens if I’m allowed to say that. “Well, I want to do something about this. Things can’t go on like this.” But how something like that could happen was completely unclear. “What chance do I have?” I only have very small chances: in my family and in the neighborhood. I know the people there well. The young and the old. I know them. Maybe I can do something there so that this community— this togetherness and this mutual support— is simply a daily reality, what we in faith call love of neighbor. That it’s practiced. Then the strong chaplain came to mind. He was recognized by everyone because he spoke out publicly. That’s when some people started to think. Some said, “What he’s saying is right.” That’s how we want to try to understand and live our faith. That’s how it came about. With the assurance: “Let’s start studying theology. You can always leave again if you want.” That’s how it began. Until 1950. These 5 years of theology until ordination took place. We were all lumped together at the seminary: the war generation. Number 33: all of us in the war, some even prisoners of war. We said, “We don’t care where the diocese sends us. We’ll go anywhere. Because if it suits us, we’re happy anyway. If it doesn’t, at least we can properly complain to the diocese about what they’re doing to us.” That was our attitude.” The administration didn’t have an easy time with us. They wanted to treat us the same: “Now they’re back from the war again.” “Just like it was before.” We wanted nothing to do with him. In 1950 you were ordained a priest: Then you got several positions: You did a lot: Tell us briefly what you accomplished as a priest, as a parish priest: Yes, the funny thing was: Chancellor Steiner was the strongman in our diocese. Not the Vicar General. But the Chancellor. And he suddenly came to the seminary during lunch and said: “I want to talk to each and every one of you.” We liked that immensely. For the first time, a high-ranking official from the diocese was talking to us young men. He wanted to talk to us. At least we could say what we thought or what we wanted. When I got my turn: “City dweller, where do you want to go anyway?” was his first question. “Somewhere with some mountains.” “That suits me well.” And my first post was in Mureck, where there are no mountains. The only mountain was over in Slovenia. And you couldn’t get there because the Mur bridge was half broken. But then, after two years, I came to Murau. That was a perfect fit. And up in Murau, 25% of the people had left the church. Murau was a very nationalistic town. There was only one youth group. The Scouts. Otherwise: religious, zero. Political, zero. There was a small Scout group. And an old Scout led it with great difficulty. The few young people there were glad that there was any kind of community at all. But they were actually dissatisfied. “There’s really nothing special about it.” That’s where I could start: with the Junior Scouts. With the Youth Group. They were only small groups. But they were very active. And those three years were wonderful. We spent a lot of time in the mountains. I’d been a member of the Alpine Club since 1939. I climbed the Großvenediger when I was 14. Yes, exactly. And up in Murau, there was a separate section of the Alpine Club. Suddenly, four people came up to me: “We’re so glad you’re here! Because we’re starting a high-altitude mountaineering group.” We have permission from the boss: there have to be five. There are four of us. And you’re the fifth.” Even though I was never the kind of high-altitude hiker they wanted. But I got the key to all the huts. And so I could go to the closed huts anytime with the youth group kids, the altar servers, and the other young people. Back then, they were all closed because there weren’t any hut wardens yet. That was our good fortune. The difficult thing was always when I was out with a group of girls: “We’ll cook, of course.” They did cook, sure. But you couldn’t really eat what they’d cooked up. But at least they were better at cleaning. as the lads. That we could leave the hut in good order. From Murau I came to Fohnsdorf. Fohnsdorf was a penal post in the diocese back then. I didn’t even know that. Anyway, the Vicar General (…) called me: “He has an urgent meeting with me.” “What does the Vicar General want to talk to me about? I don’t need an urgent meeting with him.” I tried to talk him out of it. Because I didn’t need an urgent meeting: “I don’t know, Vicar General, what I’m supposed to talk about.” “Yes, it is urgent. I have to come.” So I went to Graz. And then he explained to me: “The problem is this: In Murau I’m the town chaplain and the district deanery chaplain. And I’m supposed to come to Fohnsdorf. And Fohnsdorf isn’t even a market town. It’s just a village. That’s a demotion from our perspective.” “That’s the first I’ve heard that it’s a demotion. I don’t care at all. There will be people there I can be there for.” His face simply lit up and opened up, realizing that everything had gone smoothly. It wasn’t until later that I realized how it all happened: I was in Murau for three years. In the second year, the chaplain from Wundschuh came to Fohnsdorf. He took the train to Judenburg. He went up into town to see the dean. He showed him his transfer order. That was the rule back then. You had to show your transfer order to the dean/district dean immediately . He went upstairs. The district dean of Judenburg surrounded him like this: “Chaplain, what have you done?” He looked at him blankly: “I haven’t done anything at all.” “You must have done something , otherwise you wouldn’t have become chaplain in Fohnsdorf. ” “Excuse me?” The district dean said: “That’s a disciplinary post. You’re probably aware of that.” “That’s the first time I’ve heard of it. ” “I’m going straight back to Graz.” He goes down to the train. Waits until the next train to Graz arrives. In the late afternoon, he goes to the diocesan office to see the Vicar General, who is still there. The Vicar General gives him a blank stare, wondering what he’s even doing there. Luckily for him , Chancellor Reinisch comes to see the Vicar General. He immediately recognizes what’s going on: “Father, come with me.” Chancellor Reinisch then tells him: “It’s true. We always sent the weakest chaplains to Fohnsdorf . The ones who didn’t do any work. The ones who did poor work. The ones who were drunk… We said: We have to start somewhere. It’s always: Nobody goes to church in Fohnsdorf anymore anyway. We might as well give up. And I’ve been thinking,” Chancellor Reinisch says to the chaplain, ” you could perhaps make a start. Because you’ve always had good ideas in your parish.” And next year you’ll get a second chaplain, and I’m sure you’ll get along well with him.” And I was the second chaplain the following year. That’s how we evangelized Fohnsdorf. You could really say it was practically a mission. Hardly anyone went to church. But this chaplain from Wundschuh had a great idea. He said, “I have to start with the boys. Because the girls will come anyway: If we have a good group of boys, the girls will come on their own. What do I need for the boys? A football pitch. ” He succeeded in Fohnsdorf . To get a football pitch from the farmers. He negotiated with them. He built a football pitch. He immediately had lads. Even though there was a strong football club in Fohnsdorf . But there they would have had to pay dues or be members of the club. And there was practically no money. And here it costs nothing. “Here we can play football!” And in a short time there were two football teams. That’s how it started. So, after four years, in 1959, I was transferred to Judenburg. I only realized that in the spring of 1960: Suddenly Bishop Schoiswohl was there, and the dean of the district (…). I was still in school. When I came home from school in the afternoon, the bishop said: “Get in!” What did he want from me? To get into his car. And the dean of the district too. We drove to the working-class district of Judenburg. The bishop got out of the car and said, “You’ll start there on September 1st. I’m starting my own parish in the working-class district of Judenburg.” The dean said, “Now we’ll go straight into the workers’ pub.” It was next to the old church from the 14th century. The dean said, “Let’s go in there.” It was a typical workers’ pub: a smoky place. You couldn’t see a thing. And it smelled of beer. Then the dean said to me, “Starting September 1st, you’ll be the church innkeeper.” I didn’t understand. “You: Starting September 1st, you’ll be the church innkeeper.” “What? Why?” He pointed at Bishop Schoiswohl: “Do you know that gentleman?” “No.” “He’s our bishop.” “Oh, I see.” He pointed at me: “Do you know that gentleman?” “No.” “He’ll be your priest on September 1st.” “No.” So he was being dismissive in a peculiar way. That can’t be right. Yes, and that’s how I ended up there. My experiences in Fohnsdorf made it clear: I had to make sure I got involved with the company. So that people would feel and realize: I take you seriously. I’m living with you now. Among you. For you. And: I decided my introductions had to be on the same day. The boss; the director; the workers’ council chairman; and the salaried employees’ council chairman; so that no one could say, “We were late.” This worked wonderfully by phone. I had three appointments on the same day. All two hours apart. The only problem was: the doorman wouldn’t let me in. I said, “I’ve been summoned to meet the boss . I’m the new pastor here , and I asked for permission to introduce myself and got this appointment.” The doorman wouldn’t talk to me. Back then, I still smoked cigarettes: I offered him one; he smoked too, but didn’t take it. Then I tried talking about sports. About the children. You could always talk to the workers about that. Children and sports: they were always open to it. He didn’t say a word to me. I stood there in despair: What should I do now? He left me standing there for half an hour. Then he said: “Now go upstairs.” “Where do I go, please? I don’t know my way around here.” “Then just ask someone.” That’s how I ended up at the director’s office. With the secretary, I apologized immediately. “No problem, it’s taken care of. The doorman is a bit eccentric sometimes.” That’s how it was with the director. Next was the head of the workers’ council: “You’re going to be our priest now?” “Yes, the bishop assigned me.” “If you need anything, you can always talk to me. We’ll be on a first-name basis.” That’s how it started with the workers’ council. The salaried employees’ council said, “We’re very grateful that the bishop has such a wise vision. To establish our own parish here in our working-class area .” We didn’t have a school in our district. No decent inn. Just a workers’ pub. And two consumer cooperative stores. That was all there was for the community. And so we began… for two years, just making house calls and family visits. The people didn’t know me. And I didn’t know them. I was often rushed through the visits. Sometimes they’d say, “Come in and have a seat.” That happened too. But actually, it was very rare. But then something very interesting happened: In the factory and in the local community in Judenburg, there was a strong communist party. A woman was the chairwoman. And this woman, as a girl during the Nazi era, had worked for a communist resistance movement, where four of them were shot in Karlau prison in Graz in 1945. During the first Epiphany carolling in 1961: That was on the famous workers’ street. Sixteen workers lived there. And also the communist women’s leader. We were only allowed into one family’s house. Everything else was locked. “We don’t need any of that.” Then in the second year, in 1962: I always went with the altar boy group. The head altar boy said, “Father, today we’re going into the communist woman’s house.” “Do you really think so?” “Yes, because there’s a big German car parked there.” It was a big Mercedes: “And Germans like to take pictures.” The logic was mind-boggling to me. That’s why we’re going in. And that’s exactly how it was. All I heard was: The most important man among our carolers was the star bearer. If the door is even slightly open: Immediately put the star in so it can’t be closed. Then we’ll see what happens next. We go in: And the first thing I heard: Was actually a camera. A German man and his wife were inside. Of course, he wanted to take pictures right away. We prayed and sang what we had prepared. And I thought to myself: “My God: If only I could talk to the woman a little longer. ” She asks me: “Do you really mean this peace thing?” “You know how we feel. We mean it. We try. We want it . But it depends on us humans, on who we are. We do it, or rather, we’re supposed to.” Suddenly, one of the kings says: “Please, I must!” “I need to go to the toilet!” Nothing better could happen. Until he’s undressed and dressed again, so much time passes. And then we could talk. In the third year, the door is already open. There’s a small bowl of cookies on the table . We’re praying and singing. Then this communist woman says, “I have to tell you something: You are weak and few. We are weak and few. We need to stick together much more against the strong ones among us. And I have an offer: We have two roofers in our party. And I see that you always look very closely at the church roof to see what’s broken. They could do it if you want.” “Great, we’ll do it.” That costs a quick snack. But the atmosphere changes completely. Then, about two years later , she comes to me: “Now I need your help.” “What’s happened?” “We have a cabin by Lake Keutschach for our children’s camp in the summer. We need to fix it up. Because of the dampness, the humidity, a lot has been damaged. You have to help us. We need money.” “I’ll have to think about how we can do that.” I had no idea what to do. Then I told my parish council: it was the first in Styria to be directly elected by the people. “I’m not picking anyone. People should say who knows what they’re doing or who wants to: they should go to the priest and talk to him about how we should do everything.” I gathered them together: “Now I’m really in a dilemma.” And I told them what this communist wanted from me. One of them , who had been in the SS during the war and was severely wounded there, said, “I had to convert him to Catholicism right away. Because he was a very meticulous boss from the place where you got every nail and every pair of pliers. He’s perfect for the priest to handle oversight: he’s so precise. He said to me: “Priest, it’s quite simple. Next Sunday you give a decent sermon. The children are baptized. They belong to us through baptism. And they need money. And we have to help them.” That’s how it went. And that’s what I did. We raised the money. We doubled it down a bit. We handed it over to the communist woman. She thanked us profusely. And in return, she said: “For your altar server outing: You don’t need to do anything yourselves. I’ll take care of that with my wives. We’ll provide the snacks for the altar servers.” That’s how it went. And the secret, I think, was this sense of community. And taking people seriously. They felt it: “Here’s someone who takes us seriously, just as we are.” I never explained to them what they had to believe. I only ever pointed out: “You already do a lot that’s part of our faith.” “Yes, like what?” “When your wife is sick: Your neighbor helps you without hesitation. You know each other well. She takes your children to kindergarten and makes you a meal when you get home from work.” “Oh? What’s that?” Charity. They couldn’t grasp “charity. ” As theologians, we never learned to use simple language. A professor from Vienna was visiting Fohnsdorf. He had been commissioned by the university to study the language of the miners. And he once asked me: ” How many words do you think he knows?” I had no idea: “1,000, for sure.” “Do you have any idea? 300-400 at most. He doesn’t know any more than that. And your theological language: nobody understands it at all.” That’s when I started to think. The theological language: we have expressions that no one understands. “We have to change that.” And the great opportunity for me up there was: there were four of us young priests in the Judenburg deanery. The one up in the town: me down here with the workers: the priest from Weißkirchen: the priest from Fohnsdorf: and the priest from Pöls. Within three years, all the older priests had retired. Then there were us young priests. And we really started to change the whole system . We didn’t care about the diocese at all. We said, “We need people: We priests: the few chaplains we had— Fohnsdorf, Judenburg, and Weißkirchen each had one chaplain. The full-time staff— back then they were still called parish sisters. We had three of them in our area. We have to assign them all to the different pastoral areas. It’s impossible for one person to constantly be up-to-date on all pastoral issues. We have to look around. We need someone who knows a lot about children. We need someone who knows a lot about finances. We need someone who knows a lot about young families— what they need. We need someone who can give us honest criticism when a sermon is completely off the mark.” So we assigned each other tasks. Suddenly, everyone in the entire deanery had a specialized role. This way, not everyone had to be a specialist everywhere anymore . The hardest part was with the parish sisters. They said, “We can’t just be priests like you.” We said, “We’ll decide that for now.” “Follow me.” And it worked out perfectly. When we got together at a pastoral conference, we didn’t care about what the Graz people had prescribed for us: how the organ should play the hymn. We were completely indifferent to that. We were looking for ways to win over more and more people to the Christian understanding, to how the Holy Scriptures can be lived in practice. It came to me while caroling: there wasn’t a cross anywhere. There wasn’t a single Christian image anywhere. Nothing at all. What were we supposed to do about that? But we were the parish of St. Mary Magdalene. That’s a wonderful example. We had a magnificent Baroque statue of St. Mary Magdalene. I said to that group, “I have to do something about this.” The priest from the city parish upstairs said, “We have lots of crosses and holy images. You’re a working-class neighborhood. That’s something completely different.” “See that you bring the story of Mary Magdalene to the people.” Then I tried to explain to them: St. Mary Magdalene: Much is written about her in Holy Scripture. A great saint. She was a decent sinner, but she became a great saint. We are in the first phase of St. Mary Magdalene’s life. We are still decent sinners. But we all want to become saints. And we will if we live decent lives. That’s how St. Mary Magdalene came into the family. And at every baptism, every wedding, every anniversary, I handed out pictures of St. Mary Magdalene. Beautifully framed: all you had to do was hang them up. And they hung them up. They did that. And then they slowly realized that what they did in everyday life— this togetherness that exists in small circles: when someone had something to do around their house and the neighbor helped without asking for money— that was neighborly help, that it was all right. Sunday services were always small at my house. Everyone had their own Sunday when they came. That had to be connected to life , to where the wedding was on that day. Weddings were always on Saturdays. And on the Sunday that was nearby, they came. Besides, there were three-shift systems: they couldn’t come to church twice a week . If it was the day shift, it started at 6:00 a.m. And if it was the night shift, they came home very tired. They took a shower first and then went to sleep. I had to learn all of that there. Then we put it into practice. But: Whenever I needed anything, I never experienced “no . ” Everyone said, “I’d be happy to help.” “I can’t do that. But I know someone who can. I’ll talk to them.” I never had to do anything alone. Whenever I needed help, they always said “yes.” We had to renovate the church. An old church. Built between 1360 and 1380. Stained-glass windows from 1380 to 1410 inside. Almost 100 original stained-glass windows. Huge frescoes depicting the death of Christ and the death of Mary. We had to excavate half a meter of the church floor because there was a water vein running through it. We managed to do that in three weeks with the workers. They worked day and night. The women cooked and brought drinks. The rectory was open day and night. The workers’ council chairman came to check if his colleagues were working properly. “Priest, you only have to say something to me, and I’ll bang my fist on the table.” That’s how we lived up there. But the sense of community grew stronger and stronger. We simply belonged together. And: It was a wonderful time for me. And I thought to myself: After 10 years, Bishop Weber comes along: I have to go to Graz. What will people say? People said: “Well, congratulations! Because we knew you were a good man. You showed us that. That ‘s why you’re coming to Graz now , to this position.” I was overwhelmed that they said the exact opposite. I thought: They’ll complain and grumble. That’s just how being a priest was. Being a priest is the best thing we can do. You meet all kinds of people: Young and old. Smart, stupid, and foolish. Critics. People who show off. Who are ill. Who don’t know what to do with life anymore. You have it all. And then, in 1976, you were elected Vicar General by Bishop Weber. From the bishop, yes. Until 1997. You were Vicar General for 21 years. I was Vicar General for 21 years. You were also Provost of the Cathedral. Yes. If you don’t steal anything. You’ll achieve something. It’s quite simple. As Vicar General: I tried to apply to my experience as a parish priest what I had learned as Vicar General. Bishop Weber said: “We are not a command center. We are a support center.” We have to help the people who work for us out there: priests, chaplains , pastoral assistants , parish sisters, as they were called back then . If they need something, we have to make sure we can provide it for them. And I’ll tell you one thing: If a priest or anyone from out there wants something , or an appointment, you have to give it to them immediately! I was adamant about that. Because it was the same in the diocesan office: “If they want something, they should come when we have time.” To make it clear to them: If they have time, we have to have time. We have to have time. Because they’re coming all the way here. And they want something from us. They need our help. There’s no meeting that’s more important. Everyone knew exactly when the weekly meeting between the bishop and the vicar general was. Tuesday from 8:00 to 10:00 a.m. Absolutely nothing can be done then. And once a month, the consistory. Everyone knew the dates. We have to be there together. Please don’t come. That worked perfectly. As a final piece about your time as a pastor, would you like to tell us: How you became Vicar General back then: What you said in that speech: What the greatest praise for a pastor is: What it is: Yes, the greatest praise a pastor can receive is: “You can talk to him.” You can’t get greater praise than that. “You can talk to him.” And if you can talk and want to talk to each other: Then nothing can go wrong. Then there’s some kind of human connection that simply holds: I know him. I like him. I’ve talked to him before. I know how he treats me and how I can treat him. There’s nothing better. We’ve already had the great honor of speaking with you at length: May we ask a few questions to conclude ? As a reflection: You’ve described your life story so vividly, especially at the beginning, how you had to experience the war firsthand. Now it’s starting again: Now in Iran: Ukraine: How do you feel when you see that it’s somehow starting up again? When the war in Ukraine began: I suddenly couldn’t sleep for three nights. I’d never been interested in war before. I’d never experienced inner turmoil again. And suddenly I can’t sleep. All sorts of thoughts about the war are coming back to me. I knew immediately: This isn’t going to end badly for me, but for countless other people who want to live together in peace. Many civilians. Many who have to go to war as soldiers… A war is simply the exercise of power. Although I believe that every country, when attacked, can and must defend itself. Because a country generally has the obligation to ensure the safety of its members. A country must defend itself. But I must never start a war. I must never start anything with violence. I must never start anything with the power I possess. That’s how it was for me. I thought to myself about the chaplain transfers: they always caused problems. “How do I handle this?” I considered which chaplains should be transferred this year . I thought about where they would be a good fit. I called everyone to a meeting. I explained why I wanted them to go there. I also mentioned the problems there, with the parish priest or the parish itself. And please, you can now talk to me about how you envision it. Only once did two chaplains say, “Could we swap? I’d prefer to go there.” Otherwise, everyone said, “No, it’s fine as it is. Now we know exactly what we have to do.” I never had any problems with chaplain transfers. They openly communicated their perspective, and they gave the others the opportunity to express theirs. I explained why I thought that way, why I saw the decision that way. And I believe that’s important. You have to accept people as they are. They should have a say, too. They have ideas as well. How did you say that when you came home, you believed something like that would never happen again? Yes. I was firmly convinced that we would never have war in Europe again. Because so much devastation happened. And because so many people in so many countries, in so many different cultures, speaking so many different languages, all experienced the same thing. We’ve become so wise now: “Never again war.” And that was a bitter disappointment for me. I have to be quite honest about that. And I always said openly: I don’t believe there can be another war. But, unfortunately… In what way do you think people have learned from the past? Well, I understand far too little about open politics. I can only speak from my own experience. I don’t even have to be a Christian. How Putin or Trump behaves : I simply don’t understand it. And I can’t grasp what positive things could possibly come from it. I don’t understand it. And I don’t comprehend it. And I don’t believe that can be positive either. Because what will happen? If we stick with Ukraine, Putin will go so far as to actually get a large piece of it. But the Ukrainians will never forget it. They’ll still be thinking about it 30-50 years later . They’re still thinking about how Stalin killed the peasants. And back then in my parish by the Mur bridge: the British occupying forces handed over the Ukrainian units fighting on the German side to the Russians. Many Ukrainians jumped into the Mur. Committed suicide… “For me, that’s still a better solution than going back to the Russians.” No one can come to peace through war. You yourself said in the other interview: you personally didn’t know how to deal with the question for a long time because you yourself didn’t know: you were often a kilometer behind the line with the machine gun. You yourself didn’t know: “Did I hit anyone?” “Did I have to kill someone?” Yes, we were asked that before our ordination as priests, too. I can’t say what happened 1,000 meters away. I just can’t. And I also spoke with priests beforehand: “How sensible is it to even become a priest in a situation like this ?” And it was quite interesting what a Jesuit told me. “There are some things in human life that you do that you couldn’t become a priest for, if you look at it one hundred percent clearly. We are all sinners, after all. And we are all weak human beings. And there are things in our lives that aren’t right. But you don’t even know why you did them.” So, directly, I can say this out loud: I didn’t kill a single person. Whether anyone was fatally wounded by my machine gun : I don’t know. I can’t say. What can we do to prevent this time from ever happening again? What can we actively do to prevent it? I still consider the democratic system to be the wisest and the best. Because there are different parties. I only see people from the front. Another party sees them from behind. What’s crucial is dialogue. Conversation. They need to be able to talk to each other. And there always has to be a compromise. Sometimes the person in front has to give in. Sometimes the person behind has to give in. And it takes smart people. It takes people who understand that. And if they understand that, then I believe everything would always turn out well. I do believe that it’s possible to work together. Even at the level of nations. At the level of different countries. But you have to know: Every problem has a downside. With all these digital companies: In 20 years, we’ll figure out what the downside was. Right now, we don’t know. With cell phones, we were so happy that they existed. But the downside of cell phones: What they can also be used for: No idea. Apparently, something always has to happen for us to start thinking. But it doesn’t have to be that way, please. And my experience is this: If you take someone seriously, you can talk to them. And they can talk to you too. If I don’t take someone seriously, they say: “What’s the point of talking to them anyway? I’m not interested in them.” But: In politics, some things are incomprehensible. What’s important in life? Gratitude that I can live at all. That I can live with so many talents, with so many wonderful opportunities I’ve been given in my life. I must be grateful for the community I experience . I can’t live alone. I always have a community. The small community of my family. The neighborhood where I live. Also in my daily work. There I meet wonderful people with whom I even share a true friendship. I live within a larger framework. Within the framework of a state. It does so much for me: what it does for my health. I depend on that. What it does for me in my social life. In my educational life. These are truly wonderful things. I also have a responsibility to contribute to them. That they can do all this for me in the first place. So gratitude is something one should have very strongly . For the many things that characterize a human life. No one is as exceptionally gifted as a human being. And ultimately, like every human being. Every single person. Even the smallest. The least gifted. Everyone has something positive about them. I’ve always been concerned that I should try to discover something good in every person I meet, especially as a pastor , in all these encounters . And when I know that, I have to thank them for it during our conversation, if the opportunity arises . So that they feel and notice it. Then others see that I’m making a contribution to others in my life . The communist mayor of Graz spent over an hour with me at my 100th birthday celebration. She then asked me what I thought about why there are so many problems now. “Madam Mayor: I’ll tell you in a single sentence: Because the ‘I’ is so much in the foreground , and the ‘we’ has been completely forgotten. The ‘I’ and ‘we’ have to work together. Togetherness: Together, yes. And as an older person, I need patience. The danger, at least for me, is: I am also an older person. People want to do things quickly. But it’s not possible. Getting annoyed about it is the biggest nonsense. It’s connected to old age. But I can show through my life in old age what is still possible. What still brings me joy. Perhaps some people will look at that: That’s how I could still help them. You still hold Holy Mass every day at 6:00 a.m. 6:30 a.m.: Every day: Today too. Yes, yes. Tomorrow again: Tomorrow again, yes. Yes. Do you actually have anything special to add? Of course, when you’re 100 years old, it’s a standard question: Did you do anything in particular to make it to 100? Yes, everyone asks that. Yes, I know. I know. My answer It’s always the same: I ate and drank what I was given. And a person consists of body and soul: That was good for both body and soul. I tried to simply accept each day as it is. If it isn’t: Of course, I have thoughts about what I want to do and how it should be. I often succeed. Sometimes I don’t. But I try to accept it. I can’t change this day as it comes. And getting angry is the biggest nonsense. It doesn’t achieve anything. It doesn’t change anything. And I believe that’s a great help: Simply accepting the day as it comes. Even when I’m old. When I’m weary. When some things no longer go the way I’d like. And having a hobby is also important: A hobby is very important, yes. Because a hobby helps you connect with other people who have the same hobby. If you have a hobby, you also know other people who have the same hobby. And you naturally meet them. For me, those are the philatelists. The stamp collectors. Paper collectors, as they’re really called. He knows something. I learn something new there. And then there are the mountaineers. There’s always a positive conversation with them. They help each other out. They ask: “What’s the next step?” “How did you do that?” That goes without saying. It could be like that everywhere. What advice would you give the viewers? I would say: Live a normal life. You have a responsibility for your health. There’s the fifth commandment: I never said, “Thou shalt not kill” as it’s written. Because we don’t kill anyone anyway. But the fifth commandment is: Do not harm yourself or another person, no matter how severe the harm. That’s in the fifth commandment. Do not harm yourself or another . So, take care of your own life by considering your food. Some people live foolishly with their food. Some need everything day and night that doesn’t even grow here, which they have to import at exorbitant prices. That’s one thing. And the second thing: You also have to do something for your spiritual life. Just as you do something for your physical life, you also have to do something for your spiritual life. That can take many different forms. Reading things that interest me. Reading about what contemporary history has brought us. I live in a time. I have a past that has shaped me in some way . I have a future ahead of me. What should it be like? What can it be like? What could I do to make it happen , or what have others done? So, reading about these kinds of things is important, I think. Then there’s something I can never quite grasp , or find difficult to grasp: I mustn’t give up. I just have to try a second or third time. I feel exactly the same way here. Some days I feel so uncertain because I’m so dizzy. I just can’t go for a walk in the park. But that doesn’t mean I stay in bed the next day . Instead, I try to do my walk the next day . I think you need that. Things like that. And I think that’s often overlooked. Many older people complain because they’re old. Because they can’t do this or that anymore. Or they try to do great things. I’d like to climb a mountain again, too. But I’m grateful that I’ve been to the top of many mountains. Because I know perfectly well: That’s just not possible anymore. End of story. There comes a time when things just don’t work anymore. And there will also come a time when the two floors no longer work , when I can no longer use them. Because it’s simply not possible. I believe that as an older person, one can be grateful and content with how much wonderful , good, and beautiful life one has experienced. Together with others. With other people with whom one has been connected. Professionally , in marriage, in family. I believe we look back far too little on the beauty of our lives. We need to be much more grateful. To what extent is faith important in life? Well, faith simply tells me that. If I want to follow the life that the Lord Jesus exemplified for me: He got along with everyone. He helped everyone he could. He never judged anyone. He never wrote anyone off. Those are truly remarkable things. Sometimes quite difficult. It’s not that simple at all. Not judging anyone. There’s always something to criticize: “What kind of nonsense is he up to now?” I believe those are truly remarkable things . That anyone could do. Up to a certain point, a lot really works out. And: I think these are things that reflect how we experience everyday life. Every day is a gift. I never know how long I’ll live. I could be hit by a car tomorrow. A brick could fall on my head , and suddenly some things wouldn’t work anymore. I’m exposed to death every day. I never know when it will happen. But the time I’ve been given: It’s simply a gift. And I should accept it gratefully. And I should use it with my resources, my gifts , my talents , my abilities, as best I can. What is the meaning of life? That’s a good question. My meaning in life is that I say a full YES to it . This is how my life is. I’m grateful that it’s this way. That it’s been this way so far. And that it can hopefully continue for some time to come. And what do you wish for in the future? Personally, I don’t wish for anything at all. But I still enjoy meeting people every day , even though long conversations can be difficult for me. Sitting for extended periods, for example, isn’t easy anymore. But I’m still happy. The meaning of life for me lies in this: I’m grateful that my parents said “yes” to me. That God practically confirmed it through baptism. You now belong to my family. And make sure you do well in the business. I’ve given you many opportunities so you can achieve something. That’s how I see it from a faith perspective. Today, I can only say thank you. What the bishop said in his sermon, what Heinz just said: That’s almost like a canonization. I’ve simply tried to live as a human being the way a human being should live. Not always focusing on myself : There’s also a “you.” And there’s also a “we.” And that’s incredibly important. God has given each of us gifts, opportunities, and abilities that we ourselves can use , but which we should use so that there’s a better sense of community and mutual support. I learned in the war how pointless such things are. There can never be a future if people approach each other with words , and even more so with weapons . So , within my limited means, I tried to speak about this in the environment I live in and, above all, to bear witness to it through my life. The Second Vatican Council particularly touched me with various expressions I heard for the first time: For example, ” People of God.” This expression didn’t exist before. Dialogue. That, too, was new. That you are a priest for this People of God , within this People of God, with a very special task. I understood and grasped that. Furthermore, I was deeply moved by all the statements in this Council concerning the community of all Christian believers, regardless of which direction they take on the path to Jesus Christ. The whole question of ecumenism. We had never heard anything about that in our training . These were aspects of my life that I tried to live by. However I managed to put it all together. I would like to sincerely thank everyone I have met through the many encounters and conversations . I have lived here in Graz since 1972: The many acquaintances I have made here , in the cathedral parish , and especially throughout the country : This has always strengthened me , and above all, I have been able to learn so much for my own life. A month ago, I was asked a question by some young people— high school graduates— that made me think a lot. One of them asked: “What was your personal story with your ordination to the priesthood? What moved you most about it?” And I had to think about that for a long time. And then I realized what had moved me immensely: When we were lying on the floor in the cathedral and the Litany of the Saints was being recited. I thought of men, women, and young people who lived their faith personally. Each in their own way. But they stood faithfully. They stood by the “yes” they had said at their ordination. They were sincere and honest people who were also willing to give their lives. That made me think, “How will I cope with this? There’s one thing I want to do in life: stay grounded. God, with his mercy, will help me with that.” A heartfelt thank you to all of you who have accompanied me through life with your prayers , your lives , and your community. Thank you so much. Hallelujah!