In 1956 our fourth child and second son, René, was born. This year was an important turning point in my life. I was completely derailed by the return of my illness and its consequences. I had to make decisions that could no longer be postponed. On the one hand it was clear that we couldn't go on living from hand to mouth like that. Our children had the right to a father who was in a position to look after them properly. And on top of that came the recurrence of a life-threatening disease. With active TB I was a danger to my family, my friends and anybody who came near me. And that struck at a time when I was suddenly beginning to receive lucrative offers and enquiries from theaters and television again. Signs of professional success. But I couldn't take advantage of them. Like it or not, I had to seek treatment.

The thought that my family would be left destitute while I was being treated almost drove me mad. There was nothing for it but to go to the “welfare”. I knew the responsible official in the town hall from other occasions; we were on friendly terms. He understood my concerns. “OK, the first thing we need to do is apply for a disability pension with the Federal Insurance Agency in Berlin, because the Health Insurance Fund will stop payments after six months,” he said. I was horrified. I hadn't reckoned on being in the hospital that long. I thought I would be back with my family much sooner. “You'll be away for at least a year! They won't do it for less than that.” He meant the doctors. “And after that you'll be unfit to work for a long time.” A disability pension at the age of thirty-one! But he spelled it out for me: If I didn't go for it, my family would be destitute and the welfare wouldn't cover them as long I had a claim to a pension. It would take at least half a year for a pension claim to be processed, and the Health Insurance Fund would go on paying out until then.