52 Man's Search for Meaning
able grey of a dawning morning in Bavaria. "Et lux in
tenebris lucet"—and the light shineth in the darkness. For
hours I stood hacking at the icy ground. The guard passed
by, insulting me, and once again 1 communed with my
beloved. More and more I felt that she was present, that she
was with me; I had the feeling that I was able to touch her,
able to stretch out my hand and grasp hers. The feeling was
very strong: she was there. Then, at that very moment, a
bird flew down silently and perched just in front of me, on
the heap of soil which I had dug up from the ditch, and
looked steadily at me.
Earlier, I mentioned art. Is there such a thing in a con
centration camp? It rather depends on what one chooses to
call art. A kind of cabaret was improvised from time to
time. A hut was cleared temporarily, a few wooden benches
were pushed or nailed together and a program was drawn
up. In the evening those who had fairly good positions in
camp—the Capos and the workers who did not have to
leave camp on distant marches—assembled there. They
came to have a few laughs or perhaps to cry a little; any
way, to forget. There were songs, poems, jokes, some with
underlying satire regarding the camp. All were meant to
help us forget, and they did help. The gatherings were so
effective that a few ordinary prisoners went to see the
cabaret in spite of their fatigue even though they missed
their daily portion of food by going.
During the half-hour lunch interval when soup (which
the contractors paid for and for which they did not spend
much) was ladled out at our work site, we were allowed to
assemble in an unfinished engine room. On entering, every
one got a ladleful of the watery soup. While we sipped it
greedily, a prisoner climbed onto a tub and sang Italian
arias. We enjoyed the songs, and he was guaranteed a dou-
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 53
ble helping of soup, straight "from the bottom"—that
meant with peas!
Rewards were given in camp not only for entertainment,
but also for applause. I, for example, could have found
protection (how lucky I was never in need of it!) from the
camp's most dreaded Capo, who for more than one good
reason was known as "The Murderous Capo." This is how
it happened. One evening I had the great honor of being
invited again to the room where the spiritualistic seance
had taken place. There were gathered the same intimate
friends of the chief doctor and, most illegally, the warrant
officer from the sanitation squad was again present. The
Murderous Capo entered the room by chance, and he was
asked to recite one of his poems, which had become famous
(or infamous) in camp. He did not need to be asked twice
and quickly produced a kind of diary from which he began
to read samples of his art. I bit my lips till they hurt in
order to keep from laughing at one of his love poems, and
very likely that saved my life. Since I was also generous with
my applause, my life might have been saved even had I
been detailed to his working party to which I had pre
viously been assigned for one day—a day that was quite
enough for me. It was useful, anyway, to be known to The
Murderous Capo from a favorable angle. So I applauded as
hard as I could.
Generally speaking, of course, any pursuit of art in camp
was somewhat grotesque. I would say that the real impres
sion made by anything connected with art arose only from
the ghostlike contrast between the performance and the
background of desolate camp life. I shall never forget how I
awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion on my second
night in Auschwitz—roused by music. The senior warden of
the hut had some kind of celebration in his room, which
was near the entrance of the hut. Tipsy voices bawled some
hackneyed tunes. Suddenly there was a silence and into the
54 Man's Search for Meaning
night a violin sang a desperately sad tango, an unusual
tune not spoiled by frequent playing. The violin wept and
a part of me wept with it, for on that same day someone
had a twenty-fourth birthday. That someone lay in another
part of the Auschwitz camp, possibly only a few hundred
or a thousand yards away, and yet completely out of
reach. That someone was my wife.
To discover that there was any semblance of art in a
concentration camp must be surprise enough for an out
sider, but he may be even more astonished to hear that one
could find a sense of humor there as well; of course, only
the faint trace of one, and then only for a few seconds or
minutes. Humor was another of the soul's weapons in the
fight for self-preservation. It is well known that humor,
more than anything else in the human make-up, can afford
an aloofness and an ability to rise above any situation, even
if only for a few seconds. I practically trained a friend of
mine who worked next to me on the building site to de
velop a sense of humor. I suggested to him that we would
promise each other to invent at least one amusing story
daily, about some incident that could happen one day after
our liberation. He was a surgeon and had been an assistant
on the staff of a large hospital. So I once tried to get him to
smile by describing to him how he would be unable to lose
the habits of camp life when he returned to his former
work. On the building site (especially when the supervisor
made his tour of inspection) the foreman encouraged us to
work faster by shouting: "Action! Action!" I told my
friend, "One day you will be back in the operating room,
performing a big abdominal operation. Suddenly an or
derly will rush in announcing the arrival of the senior
surgeon by shouting, 'Action! Action!' "
Sometimes the other men invented amusing dreams
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 55
about the future, such as forecasting that during a future
dinner engagement they might forget themselves when the
soup was served and beg the hostess to ladle it "from the
bottom."
The attempt to develop a sense of humor and to see
things in a humorous light is some kind of a trick learned
while mastering the art of living. Yet it is possible to prac
tice the art of living even in a concentration camp, al
though suffering is omnipresent. To draw an analogy: a
man's suffering is similar to the behavior of gas. If a certain
quantity of gas is pumped into an empty chamber, it will
fill the chamber completely and evenly, no matter how big
the chamber. Thus suffering completely fills the human
soul and conscious mind, no matter whether the suffering
is great or little. Therefore the "size" of human suffering is
absolutely relative.
It also follows that a very trifling thing can cause the
greatest of joys. Take as an example something that hap
pened on our journey from Auschwitz to the camp affiliated
with Dachau. We had all been afraid that our transport was
heading for the Mauthausen camp. We became more and
more tense as we approached a certain bridge over the
Danube which the train would have to cross to reach
Mauthausen, according to the statement of experienced
traveling companions. Those who have never seen anything
similar cannot possibly imagine the dance of joy performed
in the carriage by the prisoners when they saw that our
transport was not crossing the bridge and was instead head
ing "only" for Dachau.
And again, what happened on our arrival in that camp,
after a journey lasting two days and three nights? There
had not been enough room for everybody to crouch on the
floor of the carriage at the same time. The majority of us