76 Man's Search for Meaning
which cannot be taken away—that makes life meaningful
and purposeful.
An active life serves the purpose of giving man the op
portunity to realize values in creative work, while a passive
life of enjoyment affords him the opportunity to obtain
fulfillment in experiencing beauty, art, or nature. But there
is also purpose in that life which is almost barren of both
creation and enjoyment and which admits of but one pos
sibility of high moral behavior: namely, in man's attitude
to his existence, an existence restricted by external forces. A
creative life and a life of enjoyment are banned to him. But
not only creativeness and enjoyment are meaningful. If
there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a
meaning in suffering. Suffering is an ineradicable part of
life, even as fate and death. Without suffering and death
human life cannot be complete.
The way in which a man accepts his fate and all the
suffering it entails, the way in which he takes up his cross,
gives him ample opportunity—even under the most difficult
circumstances—to add a deeper meaning to his life. It may
remain brave, dignified and unselfish. Or in the bitter fight
for self-preservation he may forget his human dignity and
become no more than an animal. Here lies the chance for a
man either to make use of or to forgo the opportunities of
attaining the moral values that a difficult situation may
afford him. And this decides whether he is worthy of his
sufferings or not.
Do not think that these considerations are unworldly and
too far removed from real life. It is true that only a few
people are capable of reaching such high moral standards.
Of the prisoners only a few kept their full inner liberty and
obtained those values which their suffering afforded, but
even one such example is sufficient proof that man's inner
strength may raise him above his outward fate. Such men
are not only in concentration camps. Everywhere man is
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 77
confronted with fate, with the chance of achieving some
thing through his own suffering.
Take the fate of the sick—especially those who are in
curable. I once read a letter written by a young invalid, in
which he told a friend that he had just found out he would
not live for long, that even an operation would be of no
help. He wrote further that he remembered a film he had
seen in which a man was portrayed who waited for death in
a courageous and dignified way. The boy had thought it a
great accomplishment to meet death so well. Now—he
wrote—fate was offering him a similar chance.
Those of us who saw the film called Resurrection—taken
from a book by Tolstoy—years ago, may have had similar
thoughts. Here were great destinies and great men. For us,
at that time, there was no great fate; there was no chance to
achieve such greatness. After the picture we went to the
nearest cafe, and over a cup of coffee and a sandwich we
forgot the strange metaphysical thoughts which for one
moment had crossed our minds. But when we ourselves
were confronted with a great destiny and faced with the
decision of meeting it with equal spiritual greatness, by
then we had forgotten our youthful resolutions of long ago,
and we failed.
Perhaps there came a day for some of us when we saw the
same film again, or a similar one. But by then other pic
tures may have simultaneously unrolled before one's inner
eye; pictures of people who attained much more in their
lives than a sentimental film could show. Some details of a
particular man's inner greatness may have come to one's
mind, like the story of the young woman whose death I
witnessed in a concentration camp. It is a simple story.
There is little to tell and it may sound as if I had invented
it; but to me it seems like a poem.
This young woman knew that she would die in the next
few days. But when I talked to her she was cheerful in spite
78 Man's Search for Meaning
of this knowledge. "I am grateful that fate has hit me so
hard," she told me. "In my former life I was spoiled and
did not take spiritual accomplishments seriously." Pointing
through the window of the hut, she said, "This tree here is
the only friend I have in my loneliness." Through that
window she could see just one branch of a chestnut tree,
and on the branch were two blossoms. "I often talk to this
tree," she said to me. I was startled and didn't quite know
how to take her words. Was she delirious? Did she have
occasional hallucinations? Anxiously I asked her if the tree
replied. "Yes." What did it say to her? She answered, "It
said to me, 'I am here—I am here—I am life, eternal life.' "
We have stated that that which was ultimately responsi
ble for the state of the prisoner's inner self was not so much
the enumerated psychophysical causes as it was the result
of a free decision. Psychological observations of the
prisoners have shown that only the men who allowed their
inner hold on their moral and spiritual selves to subside
eventually fell victim to the camp's degenerating influences.
The question now arises, what could, or should, have
constituted this "inner hold"?
Former prisoners, when writing or relating their experi
ences, agree that the most depressing influence of all was
that a prisoner could not know how long his term of im
prisonment would be. He had been given no date for his
release. (In our camp it was pointless even to talk about it.)
Actually a prison term was not only uncertain but unlim
ited. A well-known research psychologist has pointed out
that life in a concentration camp could be called a "provi
sional existence." We can add to this by defining it as a
"provisional existence of unknown limit."
New arrivals usually knew nothing about the conditions
at a camp. Those who had come back from other camps
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 79
were obliged to keep silent, and from some camps no one
had returned. On entering camp a change took place in the
minds of the men. With the end of uncertainty there came
the uncertainty of the end. It was impossible to foresee
whether or when, if at all, this form of existence would
end.
The latin word finis has two meanings: the end or the
finish, and a goal to reach. A man who could not see the
end of his "provisional existence" was not able to aim at an
ultimate goal in life. He ceased living for the future, in
contrast to a man in normal life. Therefore the whole struc
ture of his inner life changed; signs of decay set in which we
know from other areas of life. The unemployed worker, for
example, is in a similar position. His existence has become
provisional and in a certain sense he cannot live for the
future or aim at a goal. Research work done on unem
ployed miners has shown that they suffer from a peculiar
sort of deformed time—inner time—which is a result of
their unemployed state. Prisoners, too, suffered from this
strange "time-experience." In camp, a small time unit, a
day, for example, filled with hourly tortures and fatigue,
appeared endless. A larger time unit, perhaps a week,
seemed to pass very quickly. My comrades agreed when I
said that in camp a day lasted longer than a week. How
paradoxical was our time-experience! In this connection we
are reminded of Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain,
which contains some very pointed psychological remarks.
Mann studies the spiritual development of people who are
in an analogous psychological position, i.e., tuberculosis
patients in a sanatorium who also know no date for their
release. They experience a similar existence—without a fu
ture and without a goal.
One of the prisoners, who on his arrival marched with a
long column of new inmates from the station to the camp,
told me later that he had felt as though he were marching