The File: How a Conscientious Objector Ended Up in the Soviet Embassy
Clearing out, everything has to go, the mustiness of the past, all the paper. Tom Günther stands at a trash can on the corner of the building and lets one letter after another sail in. "Here, the draft notice from 1981, this is my application for conscientious objection, there the request for permission to move to West Berlin for a place at university, and then the mail when they chased me after the fall of the Wall." Tom Günther will soon be 63. The whole process happened decades ago. "I guess I don't need that anymore," he says.
However, this wealth of paper also documents an adventurous process. It's the story of a man who refuses military service and an authority determined to bring him down, one that pursued crooked tactics before the fall of the Wall and pulled out all the stops after reunification. But it's also about a society that, while providing for the possibility of refusal and alternative service in the Basic Law , makes it as difficult as possible for those who invoke it.
Given all this, one wonders whether a new form of conscription will produce similar results again.
For Tom Günther, it's all about justice. "I found it all so unfair. I wanted to contribute something; I didn't want to do military service, but I did want civilian service. I even had a place. But here, it wasn't me who was determining the circumstances, but someone else," he says. He couldn't comply on principle alone.
Letters, registered mail, documents from 1980 to the mid-1990s—an entire file full. Tom Günther has kept everything, including envelopes, return receipts, and notes. Meticulously, down to the last stamp. Now it's all gone.
Then a neighbor suddenly appears next to him and curiously peers into the bin. "What are you doing?" she asks, and Tom Günther begins to tell how he came from Hanover to Berlin. With the permission of the District Military Recruitment Office, he emphasizes. He talks about letters that the military district administration sent him in neutral envelopes, despite the four-power status and the demilitarized zone. All of this is in the file.
As the author of this text, I witnessed the scene described above. Tom Günther, whose real name is different, is close to me; the file folder and its contents didn't end up in the trash that day. The folder lies open on my desk in front of me.
Tom Günther likes to tell stories in detail. He recounts how he applied for conscientious objection in 1980 and was then yelled at during the physical examination at the District Recruitment Office in Hanover. "I didn't want to join the Bundeswehr. I lost half my family members in the war. I definitely didn't want to learn how to kill," he says today.
At that time, a Bundeswehr officer told him that his professional future was ruined. No job, no career, no wife, no future. Günther also remembers first cranking up the swivel chair he was supposed to sit on to get eye level with "the man with the big hat," who was sitting slightly elevated, the light behind him, "so it was hard to recognize his facial features."
Tom Günther's words still radiate a deep distrust of authoritarian government officials. He contrasts the governmental arrogance of that era with the arrogance of a left-leaning youth and asks the officer: "If I become a soldier, will I turn out to be as beautiful as you?"
He secured a position at a kindergarten for physically disabled children and asked the Bundeswehr for a hearing to be recognized as a conscientious objector. He was curtly told that he should not make any demands but should remain available at all times.
The folder contains dozens of documents that corroborate Günther's stories: his conscription documents, his applications for conscientious objection, and the subsequent correspondence. Conversations are not documented. A notice from 1981 is filed in which the District Military Recruitment Office granted him permission to leave the area covered by the Military Service Act. His application for conscientious objection was later rejected in his absence.
The following correspondence is absurdly serious. Günther files an objection, requests an extension of his absence, and provides the Hanover District Military Recruitment Office with his address in Berlin. The clerk at the office writes: "Since notices from the military service authorities cannot be delivered in Berlin, it only seems sensible to me to extend the granted authorization if a person of your trust residing in Germany is authorized to send mail through you and can legally receive the corresponding notice."
However, Tom Günther only grants a limited authorization for the extension of the stay in Berlin, the authorities protest, and the discussion goes back and forth.
Mail from the Bundeswehr in a neutral envelopeAfter this, the agency's actions become questionable. From now on, Bundeswehr mail regarding the pending proceedings arrives in Berlin in neutral envelopes, with the sender's name handwritten, allegedly Erwin Fischer. However, the letters are signed by clerks with different names.
Each letter sent under false pretenses is accompanied by an identically typed note: "The indication of a private sender on the outside of this mailing, or the omission of a sender's name, is a protective measure in your interest. It is intended to ensure that the mailing is not externally recognizable as a letter from the Bundeswehr. In the event of misrouting to the German Democratic Republic or East Berlin, it is to be expected that Bundeswehr mail that is externally recognizable as such will be subjected to intelligence processing." This could have adverse consequences for the recipient. Reply letters should be sent to the "following cover address." All of these documents are available to the Berliner Zeitung.
Tom Günther is still astonished by such audacity. "We were in the demilitarized zone, and they tried to deliver their letters to me in this way. It simply had to be stopped," he says.
Günther writes to the authorities that their actions are illegal under the Four Power Agreement. More letters arrive. "I've had enough. I took the stuff and drove to East Berlin," he says. His destination: the Soviet Embassy on Unter den Linden. "One of the strangest days of my life," he says.
According to Günther's description, it went like this: At the gate, he explained his request—illegal mail delivery to Berlin by the Bundeswehr. In a waiting room, he described the incident to a second man and later to a third. In the end, he left some of the letters behind, not asking for a receipt. There are more in the file. "Nobody knew where I was; the atmosphere was creepy."
Tom Günther believes his Bundeswehr mail led to a complaint in the Allied Control Council , which was then likely forwarded via the Ministry of Defense to the Bundeswehr and from there to the District Military Recruitment Office. "From then on, I had peace from the Bundeswehr in West Berlin. The downside was that I always had to undress for a search at border controls to and from West Berlin," he says. A connection cannot be proven.
Then, however, the change came, and mail began to flow again for Tom Günther. A few days after reunification, the district military recruitment office contacted him. At this point, Tom Günther was 28 years old, had completed a university degree, and was running a self-employed company with five employees.
And now he's panicking. "I didn't want to go there, not even do civilian service. My company would have gone under, my professional future would have been ruined," says Tom Günther. But government politicians had declared that they would hunt down every single Bundeswehr refugee and conscript him into military or alternative service. Perhaps Günther had also ended up on some kind of blacklist.
Tom Günther was informed that conscription for basic military service or extended civilian service until the age of 32 was possible in exceptional cases, for example, if the person concerned had been outside the military service or civilian service law without permission. This was not the case, but the authorities had indeed always emphasized the obligation to be available and reachable.
Tom Günther turns to the Campaign Against Conscription, Forced Service, and the Military, which provides counseling for conscientious objectors. Some 10,000 young men liable for military service temporarily stayed in Berlin, a city within the Wall, to avoid being drafted. The initiative advises Tom Günther to play for time.
The competent chamber for conscientious objection at the military district administration in Hanover demands a police clearance certificate. Günther plays dead. When the authority writes again, he applies for one, but doesn't submit it. "It took nine months for them to notice," he says. It repeats itself. So he slogs through another six months. He's 18 months short of the magical age limit of 32.
In 1992, the relevant chamber reopened his conscientious objection proceedings from the 1980s. Günther maintained his objection but provided no justification. Again, months passed before the authority protested.
Finally, the chamber simply accepts Günther's application. It's 1993. Tom Günther is now required to perform community service. "But that would have bankrupted my company. I had employees, loans, contract obligations, and a 60-hour work week," says Günther.
He files another objection. "After all, in Germany, you can object to any official decision. I wrote to them that my attitude toward military service had changed since I was 18. I no longer wanted to refuse military service based on the reason I gave in 1981," he says. Günther submits a new explanation—copied almost word for word from a handbook for conscientious objectors. This action also buys a bit of time. After all, a legally valid recognition notice has been issued.
Günther changes his tactics. With the conscription guidelines for assessing fitness levels under his arm, he goes to a doctor and has his physical deterioration documented. Torn ligaments in his knee, screws from surgeries, and the like. It's now only a matter of weeks. Tom Günther will soon be 32. He applies for a reconscription. When the date arrives, he undergoes surgery. A new appointment is scheduled, just before his birthday.
Given all the deadlines for appeals, the authorities would no longer have been able to force him to do so. "But it was nerve-wracking. Every time I walked through the door, I was afraid there might be mail from the Bundeswehr again. I couldn't stand it," he says. Tom Günther calls his caseworker.
This phone call must have been a new experience for the official as well. Tom Günther recounts: "There was a long silence on the line when I answered and explained to him that the Bundeswehr could no longer call me up, not even for civilian service. Then he said, 'Shit, but it was exciting for you too.'" There is no evidence of this phone call.
A short time later, a letter arrives, the last one in the file. "Due to the current legal age limit in peacetime, your call-up for civilian service is no longer planned."
Tom Günther says that back in the 1980s, he couldn't have imagined joining the army. After the fall of the Wall, the mere absence would have destroyed his existence. And today? "Today, I'm a different person, and when I see what's happening in Ukraine, maybe I wouldn't refuse to serve as an 18-year-old. Someone has to defend us," he says. For him, though, that's just a hypothetical question these days. He wants to repeal the old conscription guidelines – for his 19-year-old son. Perhaps he still needs them.
Berliner-zeitung
