64 Man's Search for Meaning
of fate—and this made them even less human than the
circumstances warranted.
In Auschwitz I had laid down a rule for myself which
proved to be a good one and which most of my comrades
later followed. I generally answered all kinds of questions
truthfully. But I was silent about anything that was not
expressly asked for. If I were asked my age, I gave it. If
asked about my profession, I said "doctor," but did not
elaborate. The first morning in Auschwitz an SS officer came
to the parade ground. We had to fall into separate groups
of prisoners: over forty years, under forty years, metal work
ers, mechanics, and so forth. Then we were examined for
ruptures and some prisoners had to form a new group. The
group that I was in was driven to another hut, where we
lined up again. After being sorted out once more and hav
ing answered questions as to my age and profession, I was
sent to another small group. Once more we were driven to
another hut and grouped differently. This continued for
some time, and I became quite unhappy, finding myself
among strangers who spoke unintelligible foreign lan
guages. Then came the last selection, and I found myself
back in the group that had been with me in the first hut!
They had barely noticed that I had been sent from hut to
hut in the meantime. But I was aware that in those few
minutes fate had passed me in many different forms.
When the transport of sick patients for the "rest camp"
was organized, my name (that is, my number) was put on
the list, since a few doctors were needed. But no one was
convinced that the destination was really a rest camp. A few
weeks previously the same transport had been prepared.
Then, too, everyone had thought that it was destined for
the gas ovens. When it was announced that anyone who
volunteered for the dreaded night shift would be taken off
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 65
the transport list, eighty-two prisoners volunteered immedi
ately. A quarter of an hour later the transport was canceled,
but the eighty-two stayed on the list for the night shift. For
the majority of them, this meant death within the next
fortnight.
Now the transport for the rest camp was arranged for the
second time. Again no one knew whether this was a ruse to
obtain the last bit of work from the sick—if only for four
teen days—or whether it would go to the gas ovens or to a
genuine rest camp. The chief doctor, who had taken a lik
ing to me, told me furtively one evening at a quarter to ten,
"I have made it known in the orderly room that you can
still have your name crossed off the list; you may do so up
till ten o'clock."
I told him that this was not my way; that I had learned
to let fate take its course. "I might as well stay with my
friends," I said. There was a look of pity in his eyes, as if he
knew. . . . He shook my hand silently, as though it were a
farewell, not for life, but from life. Slowly I walked back
to my hut. There I found a good friend waiting for me.
"You really want to go with them?" he asked sadly.
"Yes, I am going."
Tears came to his eyes and I tried to comfort him. Then
there was something else to do—to make my will:
"Listen, Otto, if I don't get back home to my wife, and if
you should see her again, then tell her that I talked of her
daily, hourly. You remember. Secondly, I have loved her
more than anyone. Thirdly, the short time I have been
married to her outweighs everything, even all we have gone
through here."
Otto, where are you now? Are you alive? What has hap
pened to you since our last hour together? Did you find
your wife again? And do you remember how I made you
learn my will by heart—word for word—in spite of your
childlike tears?
66 Man's Search for Meaning
The next morning I departed with the transport. This
time it was not a ruse. We were not heading for the gas
chambers, and we actually did go to a rest camp. Those who
had pitied me remained in a camp where famine was to
rage even more fiercely than in our new camp. They tried
to save themselves, but they only sealed their own fates.
Months later, after liberation, I met a friend from the old
camp. He related to me how he, as camp policeman, had
searched for a piece of human flesh that was missing from a
pile of corpses. He confiscated it from a pot in which he
found it cooking. Cannibalism had broken out. I had left
just in time.
Does this not bring to mind the story of Death in Teheran?
A rich and mighty Persian once walked in his garden with
one of his servants. The servant cried that he had just en
countered Death, who had threatened him. He begged his
master to give him his fastest horse so that he could make
haste and flee to Teheran, which he could reach that same
evening. The master consented and the servant galloped off
on the horse. On returning to his house the master himself
met Death, and questioned him, "Why did you terrify and
threaten my servant?" "I did not threaten him; I only
showed surprise in still finding him here when I planned
to meet him tonight in Teheran," said Death.
The camp inmate was frightened of making decisions
and of taking any sort of initiative whatsoever. This was the
result of a strong feeling that fate was one's master, and
that one must not try to influence it in any way, but instead
let it take its own course. In addition, there was a great
apathy, which contributed in no small part to the feelings
of the prisoner. At times, lightning decisions had to be
made, decisions which spelled life or death. The prisoner
would have preferred to let fate make the choice for him.
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 67
This escape from commitment was most apparent when a
prisoner had to make the decision for or against an escape
attempt. In those minutes in which he had to make up
his mind—and it was always a question of minutes—he
suffered the tortures of Hell. Should he make the attempt to
flee? Should he take the risk?
I, too, experienced this torment. As the battle-front drew
nearer, I had the opportunity to escape. A colleague of
mine who had to visit huts outside the camp in the course
of his medical duties wanted to escape and take me with
him. Under the pretense of holding a consultation about a
patient whose illness required a specialist's advice, he
smuggled me out. Outside the camp, a member of a foreign
resistance movement was to supply us with uniforms and
documents. At the last moment there were some technical
difficulties and we had to return to camp once more. We
used this opportunity to provide ourselves with provisions
—a few rotten potatoes—and to look for a rucksack.
We broke into an empty hut of the women's camp, which
was vacant, as the women had been sent to another camp.
The hut was in great disorder; it was obvious that many
women had acquired supplies and fled. There were rags,
straw, rotting food, and broken crockery. Some bowls were
still in good condition and would have been very valuable
to us, but we decided not to take them. We knew that
lately, as conditions had become desperate, they had been
used not only for food, but also as washbasins and chamber
pots. (There was a strictly enforced rule against having any
kind of utensil in the hut. However, some people were
forced to break this rule, especially the typhus patients, who
were much too weak to go outside even with help.) While
I acted as a screen, my friend broke into the hut and re
turned shortly with a rucksack which he hid under his coat.
He had seen another one inside which I was to take. So we
changed places and I went in. As I searched in the rubbish,