86 Man's Search
for Meaning
Every situation is distinguished by its uniqueness, and there
is always only one right answer to the problem posed by the
situation at hand.
When a man finds that it is his destiny to suffer, he will
have to accept his suffering as his task; his single and
unique task. He will have to acknowledge the fact that even
in suffering he is unique and alone in the universe. No one
can relieve him of his suffering or suffer in his place. His
unique opportunity lies in the way in which he bears his
burden.
For us, as prisoners, these thoughts were not speculations
far removed from reality. They were the only thoughts that
could be of help to us. They kept us from despair, even
when there seemed to be no chance of coming out of it
alive. Long ago we had passed the stage of asking what was
the meaning of life, a naive query which understands life as
the attaining of some aim through the active creation of
something of value. For us, the meaning of life embraced
the wider cycles of life and death, of suffering and of dying.
Once the meaning of suffering had been revealed to us,
we refused to minimize or alleviate the camp's tortures by
ignoring them or harboring false illusions and entertaining
artificial optimism. Suffering had become a task on which
we did not want to turn out backs. We had realized its
hidden opportunities for achievement, the opportunities
which caused the poet Rilke to write, "Wie viel ist
aufzuleiden!"(How much suffering there is to get through!)
Rilke spoke of "getting through suffering" as others would
talk of "getting through work." There was plenty of suffer
ing for us to get through. Therefore, it was necessary to face
up to the full amount of suffering, trying to keep moments
of weakness and furtive tears to a minimum. But there was
no need to be ashamed of tears, for tears bore witness that a
man had the greatest of courage, the courage to suffer. Only
very few realized that. Shamefacedly some confessed occa-
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 87
sionally that they had wept, like the comrade who answered
my question of how he had gotten over his edema, by con
fessing, "I have wept it out of my system."
The tender beginnings of a psychotherapy or psycho-
hygiene were, when they were possible at all in the camp,
either individual or collective in nature. The individual
psychotherapeutic attempts were often a kind of "life-
saving procedure." These efforts were usually concerned
with the prevention of suicides. A very strict camp ruling
forbade any efforts to save a man who attempted suicide. It
was forbidden, for example, to cut down a man who was
trying to hang himself. Therefore, it was all important to
prevent these attempts from occurring.
I remember two cases of would-be suicide, which bore a
striking similarity to each other. Both men had talked of
their intentions to commit suicide. Both used the typical
argument—they had nothing more to expect from life. In
both cases it was a question of getting them to realize that
life was still expecting something from them; something in
the future was expected of them. We found, in fact, that for
the one it was his child whom he adored and who was
waiting for him in a foreign country. For the other it was a
thing, not a person. This man was a scientist and had writ
ten a series of books which still needed to be finished. His
work could not be done by anyone else, any more than
another person could ever take the place of the father in his
child's affections.
This uniqueness and singleness which distinguishes each
individual and gives a meaning to his existence has a bear
ing on creative work as much as it does on human love.
When the impossibility of replacing a person is realized, it
allows the responsibility which a man has for his existence
and its continuance to appear in all its magnitude. A man
Man's Search for Meaning
who becomes conscious of the responsibility he bears toward
a human being who affectionately waits for him, or to an
unfinished work, will never be able to throw away his life.
He knows the "why" for his existence, and will be able to
bear almost any "how."
The opportunities for collective psychotherapy were nat
urally limited in camp. The right example was more effec
tive than words could ever be. A senior block warden who
did not side with the authorities had, by his just and en
couraging behavior, a thousand opportunities to exert a far-
reaching moral influence on those under his jurisdiction.
The immediate influence of behavior is always more effec
tive than that of words. But at times a word was effective
too, when mental receptiveness had been intensified by
some outer circumstances. I remember an incident when
there was occasion for psychotherapeutic work on the in
mates of a whole hut, due to an intensification of their
receptiveness because of a certain external situation.
It had been a bad day. On parade, an announcement had
been made about the many actions that would, from then
on, be regarded as sabotage and therefore punishable by
immediate death by hanging. Among these were crimes
such as cutting small strips from our old blankets (in order
to improvise ankle supports) and very minor "thefts." A few
days previously a semi-starved prisoner had broken into the
potato store to steal a few pounds of potatoes. The theft
had been discovered and some prisoners had recognized the
"burglar." When the camp authorities heard about it they
ordered that the guilty man be given up to them or the
whole camp would starve for a day. Naturally the 2,500
men preferred to fast.
On the evening of this day of fasting we lay in our
earthen huts—in a very low mood. Very little was said and
Experiences in a Concentration Camp 89
every word sounded irritable. Then, to make matters even
worse, the light went out. Tempers reached their lowest
ebb. But our senior block warden was a wise man. He im
provised a little talk about all that was on our minds at
that moment. He talked about the many comrades who had
died in the last few days, either of sickness or of suicide. But
he also mentioned what may have been the real reason for
their deaths: giving up hope. He maintained that there
should be some way of preventing possible future victims
from reaching this extreme state. And it was to me that the
warden pointed to give this advice.
God knows, I was not in the mood to give psychological
explanations or to preach any sermons—to offer my com
rades a kind of medical care of their souls. I was cold and
hungry, irritable and tired, but I had to make the effort
and use this unique opportunity. Encouragement was now
more necessary than ever.
So I began by mentioning the most trivial of comforts
first. I said that even in this Europe in the sixth winter of
the Second World War, our situation was not the most
terrible we could think of. I said that each of us had to ask
himself what irreplaceable losses he had suffered up to then.
I speculated that for most of them these losses had really
been few. Whoever was still alive had reason for hope.
Health, family, happiness, professional abilities, fortune,
position in society—all these were things that could be
achieved again or restored. After all, we still had all our
bones intact. Whatever we had gone through could still be
an asset to us in the future. And I quoted from Nietzsche:
"Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich starker." (That
which does not kill me, makes me stronger.)
Then I spoke about the future. I said that to the impar
tial the future must seem hopeless. I agreed that each of
us could guess for himself how small were his chances of
survival. I told them that although there was still no typhus