48 Man's Search
for Meaning
There were shouted commands: "Detachment, forward
marchl Left-2-3-4! Left-2-3-4! Left-2-3-4! Left-2-3-4! First
man about, left and left and left and left! Caps off!" These
words sound in my ears even now. At the order "Caps off!"
we passed the gate of the camp, and searchlights were
trained upon us. Whoever did not march smartly got a kick.
And worse off was the man who, because of the cold, had
pulled his cap back over his ears before permission was
given.
We stumbled on in the darkness, over big stones and
through large puddles, along the one road leading from the
camp. The accompanying guards kept shouting at us and
driving us with the butts of their rifles. Anyone with very
sore feet supported himself on his neighbor's arm. Hardly a
word was spoken; the icy wind did not encourage talk.
Hiding his mouth behind his upturned collar, the man
marching next to me whispered suddenly: "If our wives
could see us now! I do hope they are better off in their
camps and don't know what is happening to us."
That brought thoughts of my own wife to mind. And
as we stumbled on for miles, slipping on icy spots, support
ing each other time and again, dragging one another up
and onward, nothing was said, but we both knew: each of
us was thinking of his wife. Occasionally I looked at the sky,
where the stars were fading and the pink light of the morn
ing was beginning to spread behind a dark bank of clouds.
But my mind clung to my wife's image, imagining it with
an uncanny acuteness. I heard her answering me, saw her
smile, her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her
look was then more luminous than the sun which was be
ginning to rise.
A thought transfixed me: for the first time in my life I
saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, pro
claimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 49
—that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which
man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest
secret that human poetry and human thought and belief
have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and
in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in
this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief mo
ment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of
utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in posi
tive action, when his only achievement may consist in en
during his sufferings in the right way—an honorable way—
in such a position man can, through loving contemplation
of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment.
For the first time in my life I was able to understand the
meaning of the words, "The angels are lost in perpetual
contemplation of an infinite glory."
In front of me a man stumbled and those following him
fell on top of him. The guard rushed over and used his
whip on them all. Thus my thoughts were interrupted for a
few minutes. But soon my soul found its way back from the
prisoner's existence to another world, and I resumed talk
with my loved one: I asked her questions, and she an
swered; she questioned me in return, and I answered.
"Stop!" We had arrived at our work site. Everybody
rushed into the dark hut in the hope of getting a fairly
decent tool. Each prisoner got a spade or a pickaxe.
"Can't you hurry up, you pigs?" Soon we had resumed
the previous day's positions in the ditch. The frozen ground
cracked under the point of the pickaxes, and sparks flew.
The men were silent, their brains numb.
My mind still clung to the image of my wife. A thought
crossed my mind: I didn't even know if she were still alive.
I knew only one thing—which I have learned well by now:
Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the be
loved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his
50 Man's Search for Meaning
inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or
not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of im
portance.
I did not know whether my wife was alive, and I had
no means of finding out (during all my prison life there
was no outgoing or incoming mail); but at that moment it
ceased to matter. There was no need for me to know; noth
ing could touch the strength of my love, my thoughts, and
the image of my beloved. Had I known then that my wife
was dead, I think that I would still have given myself,
undisturbed by that knowledge, to the contemplation of
her image, and that my mental conversation with her
would have been just as vivid and just as satisfying. "Set me
like a seal upon thy heart, love is as strong as death."
This intensification of inner life helped the prisoner find
a refuge from the emptiness, desolation and spiritual pov
erty of his existence, by letting him escape into the past.
When given free rein, his imagination played with past
events, often not important ones, but minor happenings
and trifling things. His nostalgic memory glorified them
and they assumed a strange character. Their world and
their existence seemed very distant and the spirit reached
out for them longingly: In my mind I took bus rides, un
locked the front door of my apartment, answered my tele
phone, switched on the electric lights. Our thoughts often
centered on such details, and these memories could move
one to tears.
As the inner life of the prisoner tended to become more
intense, he also experienced the beauty of art and nature as
never before. Under their influence he sometimes even for
got his own frightful circumstances. If someone had seen
our faces on the journey from Auschwitz to a Bavarian
camp as we beheld the mountains of Salzburg with their
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 51
summits glowing in the sunset, through the little barred
windows of the prison carriage, he would never have be
lieved that those were the faces of men who had given up
all hope of life and liberty. Despite that factor—or maybe
because of it—we were carried away by nature's beauty,
which we had missed for so long.
In camp, too, a man might draw the attention of a com
rade working next to him to a nice view of the setting sun
shining through the tall trees of the Bavarian woods (as in
the famous water color by Diirer), the same woods in which
we had built an enormous, hidden munitions plant. One
evening, when we were already resting on the floor of our
hut, dead tired, soup bowls in hand, a fellow prisoner
rushed in and asked us to run out to the assembly grounds
and see the wonderful sunset. Standing outside we saw sin
ister clouds glowing in the west and the whole sky alive
with clouds of ever-changing shapes and colors, from steel
blue to blood red. The desolate grey mud huts provided a
sharp contrast, while the puddles on the muddy ground
reflected the glowing sky. Then, after minutes of moving
silence, one prisoner said to another, "How beautiful the
world could be!"
Another time we were at work in a trench. The dawn was
grey around us; grey was the sky above; grey the snow in
the pale light of dawn; grey the rags in which my fellow
prisoners were clad, and grey their faces. I was again con
versing silently with my wife, or perhaps I was struggling to
find the reason for my sufferings, my slow dying. In a last
violent protest against the hopelessness of imminent death,
I sensed my spirit piercing through the enveloping gloom. I
felt it transcend that hopeless, meaningless world, and from
somewhere I heard a victorious "Yes" in answer to my ques
tion of the existence of an ultimate purpose. At that mo
ment a light was lit in a distant farmhouse, which stood on
the horizon as if painted there, in the midst of the miser-