In the sanatorium, too, I had continued to read whatever I could get my hands on – books by authors whose names I had never heard of or whose works I couldn't afford to buy. Giraudoux, John Steinbeck, Saul Bellow, and, and, and. I read absolutely everything and didn't worry about whether it was great literature, light reading or trash – the key thing was to have something to read. The sanatorium library was wellstocked. And I was also able to have conversations with others who had suffered the same fate. We all had plenty of time to reflect and talk things over together.

In spring 1958 I was finally released from the sanatorium and returned to my family, where absolute destitution reigned, although Friedel did her best to hide it from the outside world. We were considered almost asocials in any case. We made great efforts not to live up to that cliché, but we often had to listen to people telling us that with our four children we were to blame for our own miserable situation. The social climate at the time was anything but childfriendly. And our children, all but one of whom were already at school, could compare their situation with that of their schoolmates and neighborhood children. They didn't understand why we were always scrimping and saving while their schoolmates were doing so much better. With four children and a sick husband who was obviously unable to feed the family, Friedel felt more and more overburdened – in spite of her talent for budgeting and organizing things. She saw that I couldn't fulfill the traditional paternal role of a breadwinner. And so mother and children stood on one side of our shared problem while I stood on the other.

It was clear that I couldn't go on with casual engagements. I tried to find a permanent position in a theater or a broadcasting station, but in vain. I was still getting offers for radio voicing and dubbing jobs, but they rarely lasted for more than one day. That didn't promise security for a family of six.