22 Man's Search for Meaning
in his strength to carry on, and, once lost, the will to live
seldom returned.
When one examines the vast amount of material which
has been amassed as the result of many prisoners' observa
tions and experiences, three phases of the inmate's mental
reactions to camp life become apparent: the period follow
ing his admission; the period when he is well entrenched in
camp routine; and the period following his release and
liberation.
The symptom that characterizes the first phase is shock.
Under certain conditions shock may even precede the pris
oner's formal admission to the camp. I shall give as an ex
ample the circumstances of my own admission.
Fifteen hundred persons had been traveling by train for
several days and nights: there were eighty people in each
coach. All had to lie on top of their luggage, the few rem
nants of their personal possessions. The carriages were so
full that only the top parts of the windows were free to let
in the grey of dawn. Everyone expected the train to head
for some munitions factory, in which we would be em
ployed as forced labor. We did not know whether we were
still in Silesia or already in Poland. The engine's whistle
had an uncanny sound, like a cry for help sent out in com
miseration for the unhappy load which it was destined to
lead into perdition. Then the train shunted, obviously
nearing a main station. Suddenly a cry broke from the
ranks of the anxious passengers, "There is a sign,
Auschwitz!" Everyone's heart missed a beat at that moment.
Auschwitz—the very name stood for all that was horrible:
gas chambers, crematoriums, massacres. Slowly, almost hesi
tatingly, the train moved on as if it wanted to spare its
passengers the dreadful realization as long as possible:
Auschwitz!
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 23
With the progressive dawn, the outlines of an immense
camp became visible: long stretches of several rows of
barbed wire fences; watch towers; search lights; and long
columns of ragged human figures, grey in the greyness of
dawn, trekking along the straight desolate roads, to what
destination we did not know. There were isolated shouts
and whistles of command. We did not know their meaning.
My imagination led me to see gallows with people dangling
on them. I was horrified, but this was just as well, because
step by step we had to become accustomed to a terrible and
immense horror.
Eventually we moved into the station. The initial silence
was interrupted by shouted commands. We were to hear
those rough, shrill tones from then on, over and over again
in all the camps. Their sound was almost like the last cry of
a victim, and yet there was a difference. It had a rasping
hoarseness, as if it came from the throat of a man who had
to keep shouting like that, a man who was being murdered
again and again. The carriage doors were flung open and a
small detachment of prisoners stormed inside. They wore
striped uniforms, their heads were shaved, but they looked
well fed. They spoke in every possible European tongue,
and all with a certain amount of humor, which sounded
grotesque under the circumstances. Like a drowning man
clutching a straw, my inborn optimism (which has often
controlled my feelings even in the most desperate situa
tions) clung to this thought: These prisoners look quite
well, they seem to be in good spirits and even laugh. Who
knows? I might manage to share their favorable position.
In psychiatry there is a certain condition known as "delu
sion of reprieve." The condemned man, immediately before
his execution, gets the illusion that he might be reprieved
at the very last minute. We, too, clung to shreds of hope
and believed to the last moment that it would not be so
bad. Just the sight of the red cheeks and round faces of
24 Man's Search for Meaning
those prisoners was a great encouragement. Little did we
know then that they formed a specially chosen elite, who
for years had been the receiving squad for new transports as
they rolled into the station day after day. They took charge
of the new arrivals and their luggage, including scarce items
and smuggled jewelry. Auschwitz must have been a strange
spot in this Europe of the last years of the war. There must
have been unique treasures of gold and silver, platinum
and diamonds, not only in the huge storehouses but also in
the hands of the SS.
Fifteen hundred captives were cooped up in a shed built
to accommodate probably two hundred at the most. We
were cold and hungry and there was not enough room for
everyone to squat on the bare ground, let alone to lie down.
One five-ounce piece of bread was our only food in four
days. Yet I heard the senior prisoners in charge of the shed
bargain with one member of the receiving party about a
tie-pin made of platinum and diamonds. Most of the profits
would eventually be traded for liquor—schnapps. I do not
remember any more just how many thousands of marks
were needed to purchase the quantity of schnapps required
for a "gay evening," but I do know that those long-term
prisoners needed schnapps. Under such conditions, who
could blame them for trying to dope themselves? There was
another group of prisoners who got liquor supplied in al
most unlimited quantities by the SS: these were the men
who were employed in the gas chambers and crematoriums,
and who knew very well that one day they would be re
lieved by a new shift of men, and that they would have to
leave their enforced role of executioner and become victims
themselves.
Nearly everyone in our transport lived under the illusion
that he would be reprieved, that everything would yet be
well. We did not realize the meaning behind the scene that
was to follow presently. We were told to leave our luggage
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 25
in the train and to fall into two lines—women on one side,
men on the other—in order to file past a senior SS officer.
Surprisingly enough, I had the courage to hide my haver
sack under my coat. My line filed past the officer, man by
man. I realized that it would be dangerous if the officer
spotted my bag. He would at least knock me down; I knew
that from previous experience. Instinctively, I straightened
on approaching the officer, so that he would not notice
my heavy load. Then I was face to face with him. He was a
tall man who looked slim and fit in his spotless uniform.
What a contrast to us, who were untidy and grimy after our
long journey! He had assumed an attitude of careless ease,
supporting his right elbow with his left hand. His right
hand was lifted, and with the forefinger of that hand he
pointed very leisurely to the right or to the left. None of us
had the slightest idea of the sinister meaning behind that
little movement of a man's finger, pointing now to the right
and now to the left, but far more frequently to the left.
It was my turn. Somebody whispered to me that to be
sent to the right side would mean work, the way to the left
being for the sick and those incapable of work, who would
be sent to a special camp. I just waited for things to take
their course, the first of many such times to come. My haver
sack weighed me down a bit to the left, but I made an effort
to walk upright. The SS man looked me over, appeared to
hesitate, then put both his hands on my shoulders. I tried
very hard to look smart, and he turned my shoulders very
slowly until I faced right, and I moved over to that side.
The significance of the finger game was explained to us
in the evening. It was the first selection, the first verdict
made on our existence or non-existence. For the great ma
jority of our transport, about 90 per cent, it meant death.
Their sentence was carried out within the next few hours.
Those who were sent to the left were marched from the
station straight to the crematorium. This building, as I was