Austria: “Nobody knew how to deal with the virus”

Simmering, where Gruber is incarcerated, is known as a kind of “elite university” in the Austrian penitentiary system. Many former Austrian politicians have done their time in Simmering. The “prestige” of this facility is not due its shining white walls, or its building – a former hunting lodge and residency of Austrian emperors. Many prisoners want to be placed in Simmering because of the number of privileges granted by the institution. A little more than 10% of the prison population are on day release, which is one of the most open forms of incarceration in Austria. The chances of obtaining it depend on each prison’s capacity (number of staff, rooms and/or educational programs) which is why spots for day release are left empty in some Austrian prisons. Day release does not only mean being able to leave prison for work during weekdays and to spend weekends at home. It also means no bars in front of the windows, no closed cells, access to showers whenever one wants to, one- or two—bedroom cells and a shared kitchen. “Our ward feels like a shared living space”, says Gruber. During the first COVID-19 lockdown, everything changed. Visitation rights and postal service were forbidden, wards closed down, day release-prisoners were only allowed to leave prison for the sake of work.

Gruber answers most of my questions quickly and precisely, sometimes with a hint of irony in his voice. But when he talks about his weekends off, he becomes emotional. After a nearly two-year pandemic, Gruber has lost almost 144 days of freedom. Those free weekends are important to him.

In 2018, his wife died. After that, he still visited their former shared apartment a couple of times. But he sold it afterwards. “It was too hurtful, too many shared memories”, he says. In a couple of months, he will be released. Hence, he has made arrangements for a new apartment, but the flat is in bad shape. He planned to use his weekends off to renovate the space. But now, he will leave prison and start his new life outside without proper electricity or water. 

The day releases he lost will not get deducted from his time, which is what frustrates Gruber the most. In more than 100 other countries, including states like Iran, Turkey or the USA, legal authorities and politicians had a more radical reaction to the pandemic: 600 000 inmates, especially those in critical health condition, elderly persons and those with short prison time left, were released around the world between July 2020 and February 2021. Age, time, health: all these categories match with Gruber. Aged well over 50, he has suffered from bronchial asthma and has been treated with cortisone.

In the end, the restrictions adopted have not managed to save Simmering prison from the virus. In the spring of 2021, a cluster spread in the facility. Departments got sealed off, people were sent off to closed wards and guards handed out puzzles as entertainment for those locked up in their cells.

In an Austrian district more central than Simmering, another prisoner shares about being locked up in a cell. Josef Pichler¹, a man with a short haircut and in a white t-shirt, is locked up in Wien Josefstadt. Austria’s biggest and most overcrowded penitentiary facility is located in the middle of Vienna’s bourgeois artists’ district. The facility, sometimes called the “grey house”, was built in the 19th century. Its façade was meant to be “horrifying as well as proud, to spread terror to those who have become unworthy of human company”, as the official website of the Austrian penitentiary system describes the origins of the building. Today, up to 75% of its population are prisoners on remand, the rest of the population are prisoners facing charges up to 18 months.

In March 2020, Pichler got admitted to the Josefstadt prison for the second time in his life. Around 80 people are admitted to this facility every week. In the beginning, everything went as usual: he got an informative speech on the prison’s rules and completed a survey to assess his risk of attempting suicide. This is most important in remand, where the suicide rate is the highest. Instead of then being brought to a standard cell, however, Pichler was guided into quarantine. Josefstadt prison had transformed some of its wards into isolation units. It was one of the first measures in place. This way, Josefstadt managed to keep the virus almost completely out of its walls – in contrast to many other Austrian facilities. Those protection measures, however, made even harder the first two weeks of incarceration for those entering prison. “The days spent in quarantine feel very long“, says prison pastor Herbert Trimmel. Normally, he visits new arrivals during their first days of incarceration, but he is not allowed to do it anymore.

Pichler has asthma and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). He spent his first two and a half months in a solitary cell. He says with a hoarse voice: “Nobody knew how to deal with the virus“.

When he got released from solitary, he worked every two weeks in the prison’s laundry, where informational posters by an Austrian specialist on viral infections hung on the walls. This struck him as ironic since prisoners of over 70 different nationalities are held in Josefstadt prison and communication has been an ongoing challenge. Cells became scarce for the sake of solitary confinement, rooms that were usually used for leisure time got transformed into cells. Table tennis was cancelled, courtyard and gym got closed. 

“Josefstadt is generally not known for having open cells”, Trimmel says. Before COVID-19, cells could stay locked for many other reasons. For example, in an overcrowded and relatively small women’s unit, guards didn’t know which cells held accomplices that weren’t supposed to meet before their trial. All doors would then stay closed for the sake of prevention. “That is just the way it is”, Trimmel says.

According to the Austrian penitentiary law, prisoners are allowed at least one hour per day in the courtyard. The law also limits the number of people per cell to a maximum of six.

Cells in Josefstadt prison hold up to ten prisoners. All the cells have one sink and one toilet. Prisoners can shower twice a week in a shower room.

“We are often criticised, but what are we supposed to do? When the police arrest, we must house the new arrivals somewhere”, deputy warden Hofkirchner says.

When COVID-19 cases were suspected, prisoners got locked in. When possible, the staff tried to split the ten-people-cells into two separate cells, because “being in quarantine with ten other inmates for ten days is not beneficial for communication [amongst them]”, as head-guard of the prison’s Coronavirus panel, Herbert Trimmel, puts it. Sometimes, up to 300 people were locked-in at the same time.

After strict restrictions during the first months, the judicial system implemented measures to make everyday life in Austrian prisons and jails easier. Video conferencing had been in discussion for years but hadn’t ever been implemented. It finally was introduced to compensate for suspended visits. Longer and more phone calls were allowed. Exceptional phone calls were granted on the basis of urgency, just as furlough has been permitted before COVID-19. The death of a mother, for example, was a valid reason for permission. Hofkirchner however nuanced the reasons for eligibility of this measure: “If a prisoner has not been in touch with his or her mother for the past 20 years, than they can as well wait for their release to visit the cemetery”.

Phone calls behind bars are expensive and a class issue. Prisoners were allowed more calls during COVID-19 times, but they still had to pay for the calls themselves.

Those who did not have financial resources could sometimes make calls through official channels. In Simmering, prisoners were allowed to use their financial reserves for their phone calls. Those reserves, generated through prison work, are usually saved for life outside after release. Pichler does not care much about phone calls – his mother is dead; his father is ill from cancer and cannot talk on the phone. But he says that he did notice how his fellow inmates suffered under the strict prison conditions. They were “psychologically down and at times depressed”, he observes. “At work, they would hang their head and stare into a void”, he described the atmosphere in the spring of 2021. In Josefstadt, one psychiatrist supervises two to three wards.

In the summer of 2020, a protest was held in front of Simmering prison. The white walls of the facility sparkled in the sun, the sky was blue and the solidarity group for a prisoner’s union was angry. Despite restrictions, information about a COVID-19 cluster had been leaked. Activists accused the prison staff of inefficiently shielding the prisoners from infection and prohibiting phone calls only to cover up the issues behind the walls. A chorus sang, activists held speeches. At some point, a young man took over the speaker and collected music suggestions from prisoners sitting at their windows, watching the scene. Then, the organisational team blasted their wishes over their speakers. Only a few people attended. Prison issues are not widely discussed in Austria, as one participant, social scientist and activist at the solidarity group for a prisoner’s union, describes. 

Nikolaus Tsekas, chief of Neustart Wien, an NGO focused on resocialisation and prevention, is an exeption. He has dealt with the topic for years. and expressed bewilderment at the missed opportunities during the pandemic: “There has been no initiative to free vulnerable people from prison as fast as possible. This disillusioned me.” Alternatives do exist, especially regarding offences charged with one year behind bars, which represent 70% of Austrian prison sentences. 

Resocialisation is one the official goals of the penitentiary system. The protection of society is another one. “Beneath experts, there is a consent: prison does not make people better or the world safer”, Tsekas says.

Instead, one could ask the question: how many people in Austria should be imprisoned for the sake of public safety? Not even ten to twenty per cent of the current prison population, Tsekas says. The strict situation during COVID-19 pandemic might have long-term negative consequences. Every bit of normality is sacred behind bars – and important for the following time outside. 

Back in Simmering prison, Gruber is writing a couple of requests and complaints to the Ministry of Justice. Nothing happens. He does not know how he will cope back in freedom, after two years of strict restraint and ten years of imprisonment. “You need to understand, I have spent so many years behind bars, I do not have anything anymore. Apartment, bank account, social ties. My day releases and privileges were supposed to reintroduce me into society. Now, I have nothing”, he concludes. As I thank him for his time, a tiny smirk appears on his face: “Do not worry, I certainly have plenty of time“, he says. Then he leaves to call for the guards.