Tense Fear Stalks Vienna

A CRIMSON editor travelling through Austria this summer, Mr. Edelman was obliged to mall this dispatch from Salzburg, since, in four-power occupied Vienna, as he points out, "censors strike out all anti-Soviet remarks in letters."

Vienna tries to act like her old self. But despite attempts at gaiety in her outdoor cabarets, an apparent tension fills the air. It is easy to understand why. Like Berlin, Vienna still has a four-power occupation, and hence a microcosm of the cold war.

Tension is contagious. A visitor catches it immediately upon landing at the U.S. Air Force's Tullin Field. He gets his passport checked and then a mimeographed sheet from the commanding officer warning him not to go out of the city districts, not to speak with Russian soldiers, and not to photograph Russian installations. A previous memorandum advises that censors strike out anti-Soviet remarks in letters.

Zoo on Wheels

Since Vienna is 100 miles inside Russian occupied Austria, a bus ride from the outlying airfield to the city goes through Soviet territory. The bus ride along the only road open to the Western powers seems like a zoo on wheels. People on the road stare in with worried faces, and the children run beside the bus for a better glimpse.

Vienna itself is a city of contrasts. Twenty-six bezirks (districts) divide the city, five of them Russian and one international bezirk in the center. Each month one of the four powers patrols the international zone. As a vestige of former East-West unity, there are also several four-power military police cars to insure the order of the military personnel. These cars are much larger than Hollywood's "Four-in Jeep" conception. But the American always does drive, while the Russian sits silently in the back.

The Western powers are mostly content to let the Viennese policemen take care of their own zones. The Russians, though, march around their bezirks with grim-looking submachine guns slung over their shoulders.

The Soviet soldier cuts an ominous figure in his red-starred uniform and high black boots. Often columns of them, with the iron tops of their boots clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk, pass by. They keep their gaze straight ahead, and their faces deadpanned. Occasionally, some 19 year-old in the platoon sneaks a glance at the customers in a sidewalk cafe to catch their reaction. Most of the patrons feign unconcern.

(Part II of this article appears next week.)