dr. viktor e. frankl - ipk indonesia...dr. viktor e. frankl is europe's leading psy- chiatrist. his...

DR. VIKTOR E. FRANKL is Europe's leading psy-chiatrist. His new theory, logotherapy, has rocketedhim to fame as the leader of the Third Viennese Schoolof Psychotherapy and the most significant modernthinker in the field. Since 1961, when he was visitingprofessor at Harvard University's summer school, Dr.Frankl has been a frequent lecturer in this country.

"The story of a man who became a number whobecame a person. Today Frankl is one of the mostgifted of all psychiatrists. Frankl developed his ideas,now generally known as the Third School of ViennesePsychiatry—the school of logotherapy. The incredibleattempts to dehumanize man at the concentrationcamps of Auschwitz and Dachau led Frankl to com-mence the humanization of psychiatry through lo-gotherapy. Frankl is a professional who possesses therare ability to write in a layman's language."

—Gerald F. Kreyche, DePaul University

MAN'S SEARCH FOR MEANINGis a revised and enlarged version of From Death-Campto Existentialism, which was selected as "Book of theYear" by Colby College, Baker University, EarlhamCollege, Olivet Nazarene College, and St. Mary'sDominican College.

"IF YOU READ BUT ONE BOOK THISYEAR, DR. FRANKL'S BOOK SHOULDBE THAT ONE." —Los Angeles Times

Books by Viktor E. Frankl

Man's Search for MeaningPsychotherapy and ExistentialismThe Unconscious GodThe Unheard Cry for Meaning

Published by WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS

Most Washington Square Press Books are available at special quantitydiscounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums or fundraising. Special books or book excerpts can also be created to fitspecific needs.

For details write the office of the Vice President of Special Markets,Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York10020.

VIKTOR E.

FRANKLMAN'S SEARCHFOR MEANING

Revised and Updated

WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESSPUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS

New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

First published in Austria in 1946, under the title Ein Psycholog erlebt dasKonzentrationslager. This translation first published by Beacon Press in1959. Beacon Press books are published under the auspices of the UnitarianUniversalist Association.

A Washington Square Press Publication ofPOCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright © 1959, 1962, 1984 by Victor E. FranklCover photo copyright © 1984 János Kalmár

All rights reserved, including the right to reproducethis book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.For information address Beacon Press,25 Beacon Street, Boston, MA 02108

ISBN: 0-671-66736-X

First Washington Square Press printing February 1985

14 13 12 11 10 9

WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS and WSP colophon areregistered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

To the memory of my mother

Contents

Preface by Gordon W. Allport

Preface to the 1984 Edition

PART ONEExperiences in a Concentration Camp

PART TWOLogotherapy in a Nutshell

POSTSCRIPT 1984The Case for a Tragic Optimism

Bibliography

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159

181

Preface

DR. FRANKL, AUTHOR-PSYCHIATRIST, SOMETIMESasks his patients who suffer from a multitude of tor-ments great and small, "Why do you not commitsuicide?" From their answers he can often find theguide-line for his psychotherapy: in one life there islove for one's children to tie to; in another life, a talentto be used; in a third, perhaps only lingering memoriesworth preserving. To weave these slender threads of abroken life into a firm pattern of meaning and respon-sibility is the object and challenge of logotherapy,which is Dr. Frankl's own version of modern existen-tial analysis.

In this book, Dr. Frankl explains the experiencewhich led to his discovery of logotherapy. As a long-time prisoner in bestial concentration camps he foundhimself stripped to naked existence. His father,mother, brother, and his wife died in camps or weresent to the gas ovens, so that, excepting for his sister,his entire family perished in these camps. How couldhe - every possession lost, every value destroyed,suffering from hunger, cold and brutality, hourly ex-

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PREFACE

pecting extermination - how could he find life worthpreserving? A psychiatrist who personally has facedsuch extremity is a psychiatrist worth listening to. He,if anyone, should be able to view our human conditionwisely and with compassion. Dr. Frankl's words havea profoundly honest ring, for they rest on experiencestoo deep for deception. What he has to say gains inprestige because of his present position on the MedicalFaculty of the University in Vienna and because of therenown of the logotherapy clinics that today arespringing up in many lands, patterned on his ownfamous Neurological Policlinic in Vienna.

One cannot help but compare Viktor Frankl's ap-proach to theory and therapy with the work of hispredecessor, Sigmund Freud. Both physicians con-cern themselves primarily with the nature and cure ofneuroses. Freud finds the root of these distressingdisorders in the anxiety caused by conflicting andunconscious motives. Frankl distinguishes severalforms of neurosis, and traces some of them (thenoögenic neuroses) to the failure of the sufferer to findmeaning and a sense of responsibility in his existence.Freud stresses frustration in the sexual life; Frankl,frustration in the "will-to-meaning." In Europe todaythere is a marked turning away from Freud and awidespread embracing of existential analysis, whichtakes several related forms - the school of logotherapybeing one. It is characteristic of Frankl's tolerantoutlook that he does not repudiate Freud, but buildsgladly on his contributions; nor does he quarrel withother forms of existential therapy, but welcomes kin-ship with them.

The present narrative, brief though it is, is artfully

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PREFACE

constructed and gripping. On two occasions I haveread it through at a single sitting, unable to break awayfrom its spell. Somewhere beyond the midpoint of thestory Dr. Frankl introduces his own philosophy oflogotherapy. He introduces it so gently into the contin-uing narrative that only after finishing the book doesthe reader realize that here is an essay of profounddepth, and not just one more brutal tale of concentra-tion camps.

From this autobiographical fragment the readerlearns much. He learns what a human being doeswhen he suddenly realizes he has "nothing to loseexcept his so ridiculously naked life." Frankl'sdescription of the mixed flow of emotion and apathy isarresting. First to the rescue comes a cold detachedcuriosity concerning one's fate. Swiftly, too, comestrategies to preserve the remnants of one's life,though the chances of surviving are slight. Hunger,humiliation, fear and deep anger at injustice are ren-dered tolerable by closely guarded images of belovedpersons, by religion, by a grim sense of humor, andeven by glimpses of the healing beauties of nature - atree or a sunset.

But these moments of comfort do not establish thewill to live unless they help the prisoner make largersense out of his apparently senseless suffering. It ishere that we encounter the central theme of existen-tialism: to live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaningin the suffering. If there is a purpose in life at all, theremust be a purpose in suffering and in dying. But noman can tell another what this purpose is. Each mustfind out for himself, and must accept the responsibilitythat his answer prescribes. If he succeeds he will

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PREFACE

continue to grow in spite of all indignities. Frankl isfond of quoting Nietzsche, "He who has a why to livecan bear with almost any how."

In the concentration camp every circumstance con-spires to make the prisoner lose his hold. All thefamiliar goals in life are snatched away. What aloneremains is "the last of human freedoms" - the abilityto "choose one's attitude in a given set of circum-stances." This ultimate freedom, recognized by theancient Stoics as well as by modern existentialists,takes on vivid significance in Frankl's story. The pris-oners were only average men, but some, at least, bychoosing to be "worthy of their suffering" provedman's capacity to rise above his outward fate.

As a psychotherapist, the author, of course, wantsto know how men can be helped to achieve thisdistinctively human capacity. How can one awaken ina patient the feeling that he is responsible to life forsomething, however grim his circumstances may be?Frankl gives us a moving account of one collectivetherapeutic session he held with his fellow prisoners.

At the publisher's request Dr. Frankl has added astatement of the basic tenets of logotherapy as well asa bibliography. Up to now most of the publications ofthis "Third Viennese School of Psychotherapy" (thepredecessors being the Freudian and AdlerianSchools) have been chiefly in German. The reader willtherefore welcome Dr. Frankl's supplement to hispersonal narrative.

Unlike many European existentialists, Frankl is nei-ther pessimistic nor antireligious. On the contrary, fora writer who faces fully the ubiquity of suffering andthe forces of evil, he takes a surprisingly hopeful view

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PREFACE

of man's capacity to transcend his predicament anddiscover an adequate guiding truth.

I recommend this little book heartily, for it is a gemof dramatic narrative, focused upon the deepest ofhuman problems. It has literary and philosophicalmerit and provides a compelling introduction to themost significant psychological movement of our day.

GORDON W. ALLPORT

Gordon W. Allport, formerly a professor of psychology at Har-vard University, was one of the foremost writers and teachers in thefield in this hemisphere. He was author of a large number of originalworks on psychology and was the editor of the Journal of Abnormaland Social Psychology. It is chiefly through the pioneering work ofProfessor Allport that Dr. Frankl's momentous theory was intro-duced to this country; moreover, it is to his credit that the interestshown here in logotherapy is growing by leaps and bounds.

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Preface to the1984 Edition

THIS BOOK HAS NOW LIVED TO SEE ITS SEVENTY-third printing in English - in addition to having beenpublished in nineteen other languages. And the En-glish editions alone have sold almost two and a halfmillion copies.

These are the dry facts, and they may well be thereason why reporters of American newspapers andparticularly of American TV stations more often thannot start their interviews, after listing these facts, byexclaiming: "Dr. Frankl, your book has become a truebestseller - how do you feel about such a success?"Whereupon I react by reporting that in the first place Ido not at all see in the bestseller status of my book somuch an achievement and accomplishment on my partas an expression of the misery of our time: if hundredsof thousands of people reach out for a book whosevery title promises to deal with the question of ameaning to life, it must be a question that burns undertheir fingernails.

To be sure, something else may have contributed tothe impact of the book: its second, theoretical part

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PREFACE TO THE 1984 EDITION

("Logotherapy in a Nutshell") boils down, as it were,to the lesson one may distill from the first part, theautobiographical account ("Experiences in a Concen-tration Camp"), whereas Part One serves as the exis-tential validation of my theories. Thus, both partsmutually support their credibility.

I had none of this in mind when I wrote the book in1945. And I did so within nine successive days andwith the firm determination that the book would bepublished anonymously. In fact, the first printing ofthe original German version does not show my nameon the cover, though at the last moment, just beforethe book's initial publication, I did finally give in to myfriends who had urged me to let it be published withmy name at least on the title page. At first, however, ithad been written with the absolute conviction that, asan anonymous opus, it could never earn its authorliterary fame. I had wanted simply to convey to thereader by way of a concrete example that life holds apotential meaning under any conditions, even the mostmiserable ones. And I thought that if the point weredemonstrated in a situation as extreme as that in aconcentration camp, my book might gain a hearing. Itherefore felt responsible for writing down what I hadgone through, for I thought it might be helpful topeople who are prone to despair.

And so it is both strange and remarkable to methat - among some dozens of books I have authored -precisely this one, which I had intended to be pub-lished anonymously so that it could never build up anyreputation on the part of the author, did become asuccess. Again and again I therefore admonish mystudents both in Europe and in America: "Don't aim

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PREFACE TO THE 1984 EDITION

at success - the more you aim at it and make it atarget, the more you are going to miss it. For success,like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, andit only does so as the unintended side-effect of one'spersonal dedication to a cause greater than oneself oras the by-product of one's surrender to a person otherthan oneself. Happiness must happen, and the sameholds for success: you have to let it happen by notcaring about it. I want you to listen to what yourconscience commands you to do and go on to carry itout to the best of your knowledge. Then you will liveto see that in the long run - in the long run, I say! -success will follow you precisely because you hadforgotten to think of it."

Should the following text of this book, dear reader,give you a lesson to learn from Auschwitz, the forego-ing text of its preface can give you a lesson to learnfrom an unintentional bestseller.

As to this new edition, a chapter has been added inorder to update the theoretical conclusions of thebook. Drawn from a lecture I gave as the honorarypresident of the Third World Congress of Logotherapyin the Auditorium Maximum of Regensburg Universityin West Germany (June 1983), it now forms the "Post-script 1984" to this book and is entitled "The Case fora Tragic Optimism." The chapter addresses present-day concerns and how it is possible to "say yes to life"in spite of all the tragic aspects of human existence. Tohark back to its title, it is hoped that an "optimism"for our future may flow from the lesson learned fromour "tragic" past.

V.E.F.Vienna, 1983

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PART ONE

Experiences in aConcentration Camp

THIS BOOK DOES NOT CLAIM TO BE AN ACCOUNT OFfacts and events but of personal experiences, experi-ences which millions of prisoners have suffered timeand again. It is the inside story of a concentrationcamp, told by one of its survivors. This tale is notconcerned with the great horrors, which have alreadybeen described often enough (though less often be-lieved), but with the multitude of small torments. Inother words, it will try to answer this question: Howwas everyday life in a concentration camp reflected inthe mind of the average prisoner?

Most of the events described here did not take placein the large and famous camps, but in the small oneswhere most of the real extermination took place. Thisstory is not about the suffering and death of greatheroes and martyrs, nor is it about the prominentCapos - prisoners who acted as trustees, having spe-cial privileges - or well-known prisoners. Thus it is notso much concerned with the sufferings of the mighty,but with the sacrifices, the crucifixion and the deathsof the great army of unknown and unrecorded victims.

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MAN'S SEARCH FOR MEANING

It was these common prisoners, who bore no distin-guishing marks on their sleeves, whom the Caposreally despised. While these ordinary prisoners hadlittle or nothing to eat, the Capos were never hungry;in fact many of the Capos fared better in the camp thanthey had in their entire lives. Often they were harderon the prisoners than were the guards, and beat themmore cruelly than the SS men did. These Capos, ofcourse, were chosen only from those prisoners whosecharacters promised to make them suitable for suchprocedures, and if they did not comply with what wasexpected of them, they were immediately demoted.They soon became much like the SS men and the campwardens and may be judged on a similar psychologicalbasis.

It is easy for the outsider to get the wrong concep-tion of camp life, a conception mingled with sentimentand pity. Little does he know of the hard fight forexistence which raged among the prisoners. This wasan unrelenting struggle for daily bread and for lifeitself, for one's own sake or for that of a good friend.

Let us take the case of a transport which wasofficially announced to transfer a certain number ofprisoners to another camp; but it was a fairly safeguess that its final destination would be the gas cham-bers. A selection of sick or feeble prisoners incapableof work would be sent to one of the big central campswhich were fitted with gas chambers and crematori-ums. The selection process was the signal for a freefight among all the prisoners, or of group againstgroup. All that mattered was that one's own name andthat of one's friend were crossed off the list of victims,

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EXPERIENCES IN A CONCENTRATION CAMP

though everyone knew that for each man saved an-other victim had to be found.

A definite number of prisoners had to go with eachtransport. It did not really matter which, since each ofthem was nothing but a number. On their admission tothe camp (at least this was the method in Auschwitz)all their documents had been taken from them, to-gether with their other possessions. Each prisoner,therefore, had had an opportunity to claim a fictitiousname or profession; and for various reasons many didthis. The authorities were interested only in the cap-tives' numbers. These numbers were often tattooed ontheir skin, and also had to be sewn to a certain spot onthe trousers, jacket, or coat. Any guard who wanted tomake a charge against a prisoner just glanced at hisnumber (and how we dreaded such glances!); he neverasked for his name.

To return to the convoy about to depart. There wasneither time nor desire to consider moral or ethicalissues. Every man was controlled by one thoughtonly: to keep himself alive for the family waiting forhim at home, and to save his friends. With no hesita-tion, therefore, he would arrange for another prisoner,another "number," to take his place in the transport.

As I have already mentioned, the process of select-ing Capos was a negative one; only the most brutal ofthe prisoners were chosen for this job (although therewere some happy exceptions). But apart from theselection of Capos which was undertaken by the SS,there was a sort of self-selecting process going on thewhole time among all of the prisoners. On the average,only those prisoners could keep alive who, after yearsof trekking from camp to camp, had lost all scruples in

23


their fight for existence; they were prepared to useevery means, honest and otherwise, even brutal force,theft, and betrayal of their friends, in order to savethemselves. We who have come back, by the aid ofmany lucky chances or miracles - whatever one maychoose to call them - we know: the best of us did notreturn.

Many factual accounts about concentration campsare already on record. Here, facts will be significantonly as far as they are part of a man's experiences. It isthe exact nature of these experiences that the follow-ing essay will attempt to describe. For those who havebeen inmates in a camp, it will attempt to explain theirexperiences in the light of present-day knowledge.And for those who have never been inside, it may helpthem to comprehend, and above all to understand, theexperiences of that only too small percentage of pris-oners who survived and who now find life very diffi-cult. These former prisoners often say, "We disliketalking about our experiences. No explanations areneeded for those who have been inside, and the otherswill understand neither how we felt then nor how wefeel now."

To attempt a methodical presentation of the subjectis very difficult, as psychology requires a certain sci-entific detachment. But does a man who makes hisobservations while he himself is a prisoner possess thenecessary detachment? Such detachment is granted tothe outsider, but he is too far removed to make anystatements of real value. Only the man inside knows.His judgments may not be objective; his evaluationsmay be out of proportion. This is inevitable. An at-

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tempt must be made to avoid any personal bias, andthat is the real difficulty of a book of this kind. At timesit will be necessary to have the courage to tell of veryintimate experiences. I had intended to write this bookanonymously, using my prison number only. But whenthe manuscript was completed, I saw that as an anony-mous publication it would lose half its value, and that Imust have the courage to state my convictions openly.I therefore refrained from deleting any of the passages,in spite of an intense dislike of exhibitionism.

I shall leave it to others to distill the contents of thisbook into dry theories. These might become a contri-bution to the psychology of prison life, which wasinvestigated after the First World War, and whichacquainted us with the syndrome of "barbed wiresickness." We are indebted to the Second World Warfor enriching our knowledge of the "psychopathologyof the masses," (if I may quote a variation of the well-known phrase and title of a book by LeBon), for thewar gave us the war of nerves and it gave us theconcentration camp.

As this story is about my experiences as an ordinaryprisoner, it is important that I mention, not withoutpride, that I was not employed as a psychiatrist incamp, or even as a doctor, except for the last fewweeks. A few of my colleagues were lucky enough tobe employed in poorly heated first-aid posts applyingbandages made of scraps of waste paper. But I wasNumber 119,104, and most of the time I was diggingand laying tracks for railway lines. At one time, my jobwas to dig a tunnel, without help, for a water mainunder a road. This feat did not go unrewarded; justbefore Christmas 1944, I was presented with a gift of

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so-called "premium coupons." These were issued bythe construction firm to which we were practicallysold as slaves: the firm paid the camp authorities afixed price per day, per prisoner. The coupons cost thefirm fifty pfennigs each and could be exchanged for sixcigarettes, often weeks later, although they sometimeslost their validity. I became the proud owner of a tokenworth twelve cigarettes. But more important, the ciga-rettes could be exchanged for twelve soups, andtwelve soups were often a very real respite fromstarvation.

The privilege of actually smoking cigarettes wasreserved for the Capo, who had his assured quota ofweekly coupons; or possibly for a prisoner whoworked as a foreman in a warehouse or workshop andreceived a few cigarettes in exchange for doing danger-ous jobs. The only exceptions to this were those whohad lost the will to live and wanted to "enjoy" theirlast days. Thus, when we saw a comrade smoking hisown cigarettes, we knew he had given up faith in hisstrength to carry on, and, once lost, the will to liveseldom returned.

When one examines the vast amount of materialwhich has been amassed as the result of many pris-oners' observations and experiences, three phases ofthe inmate's mental reactions to camp life becomeapparent: the period following his admission; the pe-riod when he is well entrenched in camp routine; andthe period following his release and liberation.

The symptom that characterizes the first phase isshock. Under certain conditions shock may even pre-cede the prisoner's formal admission to the camp. I

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shall give as an example the circumstances of my ownadmission.

Fifteen hundred persons had been traveling by trainfor several days and nights: there were eighty peoplein each coach. All had to lie on top of their luggage, thefew remnants of their personal possessions. The car-riages were so full that only the top parts of thewindows were free to let in the grey of dawn. Every-one expected the train to head for some munitionsfactory, in which we would be employed as forcedlabor. We did not know whether we were still in Silesiaor already in Poland. The engine's whistle had anuncanny sound, like a cry for help sent out in commis-eration for the unhappy load which it was destined tolead into perdition. Then the train shunted, obviouslynearing a main station. Suddenly a cry broke from theranks of the anxious passengers, "There is a sign,Auschwitz!" Everyone's heart missed a beat at thatmoment. Auschwitz - the very name stood for all thatwas horrible: gas chambers, crematoriums, massa-cres. Slowly, almost hesitatingly, the train moved onas if it wanted to spare its passengers the dreadfulrealization as long as possible: Auschwitz!

With the progressive dawn, the outlines of an im-mense camp became visible: long stretches of severalrows of barbed-wire fences; watch towers; searchlights; and long columns of ragged human figures, greyin the greyness of dawn, trekking along the straightdesolate roads, to what destination we did not know.There were isolated shouts and whistles of command.We did not know their meaning. My imagination ledme to see gallows with people dangling on them. I washorrified, but this was just as well, because step by

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step we had to become accustomed to a terrible andimmense horror.

Eventually we moved into the station. The initialsilence was interrupted by shouted commands. Wewere to hear those rough, shrill tones from then on,over and over again in all the camps. Their sound wasalmost like the last cry of a victim, and yet there was adifference. It had a rasping hoarseness, as if it camefrom the throat of a man who had to keep shouting likethat, a man who was being murdered again and again.The carriage doors were flung open and a small detach-ment of prisoners stormed inside. They wore stripeduniforms, their heads were shaved, but they lookedwell fed. They spoke in every possible Europeantongue, and all with a certain amount of humor, whichsounded grotesque under the circumstances. Like adrowning man clutching a straw, my inborn optimism(which has often controlled my feelings even in themost desperate situations) clung to this thought: Theseprisoners look quite well, they seem to be in goodspirits and even laugh. Who knows? I might manage toshare their favorable position.

In psychiatry there is a certain condition known as"delusion of reprieve." The condemned man, immedi-ately before his execution, gets the illusion that hemight be reprieved at the very last minute. We, too,clung to shreds of hope and believed to the last mo-ment that it would not be so bad. Just the sight of thered cheeks and round faces of those prisoners was agreat encouragement. Little did we know then thatthey formed a specially chosen elite, who for yearshad been the receiving squad for new transports asthey rolled into the station day after day. They took

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charge of the new arrivals and their luggage, includingscarce items and smuggled jewelry. Auschwitz musthave been a strange spot in this Europe of the lastyears of the war. There must have been unique trea-sures of gold and silver, platinum and diamonds, notonly in the huge storehouses but also in the hands ofthe SS.

Fifteen hundred captives were cooped up in a shedbuilt to accommodate probably two hundred at themost. We were cold and hungry and there was notenough room for everyone to squat on the bareground, let alone to lie down. One five-ounce piece ofbread was our only food in four days. Yet 1 heard thesenior prisoners in charge of the shed bargain with onemember of the receiving party about a tie-pin made ofplatinum and diamonds. Most of the profits wouldeventually be traded for liquor - schnapps. I do notremember any more just how many thousands ofmarks were needed to purchase the quantity ofschnapps required for a "gay evening," but I do knowthat those long-term prisoners needed schnapps. Un-der such conditions, who could blame them for tryingto dope themselves? There was another group of pris-oners who got liquor supplied in almost unlimitedquantities by the SS: these were the men who wereemployed in the gas chambers and crematoriums, andwho knew very well that one day they would berelieved by a new shift of men, and that they wouldhave to leave their enforced role of executioner andbecome victims themselves.

Nearly everyone in our transport lived under theillusion that he would be reprieved, that everythingwould yet be well. We did not realize the meaning

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behind the scene that was to follow presently. We weretold to leave our luggage in the train and to fall into twolines - women on one side, men on the other - in orderto file past a senior SS officer. Surprisingly enough, Ihad the courage to hide my haversack under my coat.My line filed past the officer, man by man. I realizedthat it would be dangerous if the officer spotted mybag. He would at least knock me down; I knew thatfrom previous experience. Instinctively, I straightenedon approaching the officer, so that he would not noticemy heavy load. Then I was face to face with him. Hewas a tall man who looked slim and fit in his spotlessuniform. What a contrast to us, who were untidy andgrimy after our long journey! He had assumed anattitude of careless ease, supporting his right elbowwith his left hand. His right hand was lifted, and withthe forefinger of that hand he pointed very leisurely tothe right or to the left. None of us had the slightest ideaof the sinister meaning behind that little movement of aman's finger, pointing now to the right and now to theleft, but far more frequently to the left.

It was my turn. Somebody whispered to me that tobe sent to the right side would mean work, the way tothe left being for the sick and those incapable of work,who would be sent to a special camp. I just waited forthings to take their course, the first of many such timesto come. My haversack weighed me down a bit to theleft, but I made an effort to walk upright. The SS manlooked me over, appeared to hesitate, then put bothhis hands on my shoulders. I tried very hard to looksmart, and he turned my shoulders very slowly until Ifaced right, and I moved over to that side.

The significance of the finger game was explained to

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us in the evening. It was the first selection, the firstverdict made on our existence or non-existence. Forthe great majority of our transport, about 90 per cent,it meant death. Their sentence was carried out withinthe next few hours. Those who were sent to the leftwere marched from the station straight to the cre-matorium. This building, as I was told by someonewho worked there, had the word "bath" written overits doors in several European languages. On enter-ing, each prisoner was handed a piece of soap, andthen....... but mercifully I do not need to describe theevents which followed. Many accounts have beenwritten about this horror.

We who were saved, the minority of our transport,found out the truth in the evening. I inquired fromprisoners who had been there for some time where mycolleague and friend P---- had been sent.

"Was he sent to the left side?""Yes," I replied."Then you can see him there," I was told."Where?" A hand pointed to the chimney a few

hundred yards off, which was sending a column offlame up into the grey sky of Poland. It dissolved into asinister cloud of smoke.

"That's where your friend is, floating up toHeaven," was the answer. But I still did not under-stand until the truth was explained to me in plainwords.

But I am telling things out of their turn. From apsychological point of view, we had a long, long wayin front of us from the break of that dawn at the stationuntil our first night's rest at the camp.

Escorted by SS guards with loaded guns, we were

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made to run from the station, past electrically chargedbarbed wire, through the camp, to the cleansing sta-tion; for those of us who had passed the first selection,this was a real bath. Again our illusion of reprievefound confirmation. The SS men seemed almostcharming. Soon we found out their reason. They werenice to us as long as they saw watches on our wristsand could persuade us in well-meaning tones to handthem over. Would we not have to hand over all ourpossessions anyway, and why should not that rela-tively nice person have the watch? Maybe one day hewould do one a good turn.

We waited in a shed which seemed to be the ante-room to the disinfecting chamber. SS men appearedand spread out blankets into which we had to throw allour possessions, all our watches and jewelry. Therewere still naïve prisoners among us who asked, to theamusement of the more seasoned ones who were thereas helpers, if they could not keep a wedding ring, amedal or a good-luck piece. No one could yet grasp thefact that everything would be taken away.

I tried to take one of the old prisoners into myconfidence. Approaching him furtively, I pointed tothe roll of paper in the inner pocket of my coat andsaid, "Look, this is the manuscript of a scientificbook. I know what you will say; that I should begrateful to escape with my life, that that should be all Ican expect of fate. But I cannot help myself. I mustkeep this manuscript at all costs; it contains my life'swork. Do you understand that?"

Yes, he was beginning to understand. A grin spreadslowly over his face, first piteous, then more amused,mocking, insulting, until he bellowed one word at me

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in answer to my question, a word that was everpresent in the vocabulary of the camp inmates:"Shit!" At that moment I saw the plain truth and didwhat marked the culminating point of the first phase ofmy psychological reaction: I struck out my wholeformer life.

Suddenly there was a stir among my fellow travel-ers, who had been standing about with pale, frightenedfaces, helplessly debating. Again we heard thehoarsely shouted commands. We were driven withblows into the immediate anteroom of the bath. Therewe assembled around an SS man who waited until wehad all arrived. Then he said, "I will give you twominutes, and I shall time you by my watch. In thesetwo minutes you will get fully undressed and dropeverything on the floor where you are standing. Youwill take nothing with you except your shoes, your beltor suspenders, and possibly a truss. I am starting tocount - now!"

With unthinkable haste, people tore off theirclothes. As the time grew shorter, they became in-creasingly nervous and pulled clumsily at their under-wear, belts and shoelaces. Then we heard the firstsounds of whipping; leather straps beating down onnaked bodies.

Next we were herded into another room to beshaved: not only our heads were shorn, but not a hairwas left on our entire bodies. Then on to the showers,where we lined up again. We hardly recognized eachother; but with great relief some people noted that realwater dripped from the sprays.

While we were waiting for the shower, our naked-ness was brought home to us: we really had nothing

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now except our bare bodies - even minus hair; all wepossessed, literally, was our naked existence. Whatelse remained for us as a material link with our formerlives? For me there were my glasses and my belt; thelatter I had to exchange later on for a piece of bread.There was an extra bit of excitement in store for theowners of trusses. In the evening the senior prisoner incharge of our hut welcomed us with a speech in whichhe gave us his word of honor that he would hang,personally, "from that beam" - he pointed to it - anyperson who had sewn money or precious stones intohis truss. Proudly he explained that as a senior inhabit-ant the camp laws entitled him to do so.

Where our shoes were concerned, matters were notso simple. Although we were supposed to keep them,those who had fairly decent pairs had to give them upafter all and were given in exchange shoes that did notfit. In for real trouble were those prisoners who hadfollowed the apparently well-meant advice (given inthe anteroom) of the senior prisoners and had short-ened their jackboots by cutting the tops off, thensmearing soap on the cut edges to hide the sabotage.The SS men seemed to have waited for just that. Allsuspected of this crime had to go into a small adjoiningroom. After a time we again heard the lashings of thestrap, and the screams of tortured men. This time itlasted for quite a while.

Thus the illusions some of us still held were de-stroyed one by one, and then, quite unexpectedly,most of us were overcome by a grim sense of humor.We knew that we had nothing to lose except our soridiculously naked lives. When the showers started torun, we all tried very hard to make fun, both about

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ourselves and about each other. After all, real waterdid flow from the sprays!

Apart from that strange kind of humor, anothersensation seized us: curiosity. I have experienced thiskind of curiosity before, as a fundamental reactiontoward certain strange circumstances. When my lifewas once endangered by a climbing accident, I feltonly one sensation at the critical moment: curiosity,curiosity as to whether I should come out of it alive orwith a fractured skull or some other injuries.

Cold curiosity predominated even in Auschwitz,somehow detaching the mind from its surroundings,which came to be regarded with a kind of objectivity.At that time one cultivated this state of mind as ameans of protection. We were anxious to know whatwould happen next; and what would be the conse-quence, for example, of our standing in the open air, inthe chill of late autumn, stark naked, and still wet fromthe showers. In the next few days our curiosityevolved into surprise; surprise that we did not catchcold.

There were many similar surprises in store for newarrivals. The medical men among us learned first of all:"Textbooks tell lies!" Somewhere it is said that mancannot exist without sleep for more than a statednumber of hours. Quite wrong! I had been convincedthat there were certain things I just could not do: Icould not sleep without this or I could not live withthat or the other. The first night in Auschwitz we sleptin beds which were constructed in tiers. On each tier(measuring about six-and-a-half to eight feet) sleptnine men, directly on the boards. Two blankets wereshared by each nine men. We could, of course, lie only

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on our sides, crowded and huddled against each other,which had some advantages because of the bitter cold.Though it was forbidden to take shoes up to the bunks,some people did use them secretly as pillows in spiteof the fact that they were caked with mud. Otherwiseone's head had to rest on the crook of an almostdislocated arm. And yet sleep came and brought obliv-ion and relief from pain for a few hours.

I would like to mention a few similar surprises onhow much we could endure: we were unable to cleanour teeth, and yet, in spite of that and a severe vitamindeficiency, we had healthier gums than ever before.We had to wear the same shirts for half a year, untilthey had lost all appearance of being shirts. For dayswe were unable to wash, even partially, because offrozen water-pipes, and yet the sores and abrasions onhands which were dirty from work in the soil did notsuppurate (that is, unless there was frostbite). Or forinstance, a light sleeper, who used to be disturbed bythe slightest noise in the next room, now found himselflying pressed against a comrade who snored loudly afew inches from his ear and yet slept quite soundlythrough the noise.

If someone now asked of us the truth of Dos-toevski's statement that flatly defines man as a beingwho can get used to anything, we would reply, "Yes, aman can get used to anything, but do not ask us how."But our psychological investigations have not taken usthat far yet; neither had we prisoners reached thatpoint. We were still in the first phase of our psycholog-ical reactions.

The thought of suicide was entertained by nearlyeveryone, if only for a brief time. It was born of the

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hopelessness of the situation, the constant danger ofdeath looming over us daily and hourly, and the close-ness of the deaths suffered by many of the others.From personal convictions which will be mentionedlater, I made myself a firm promise, on my first eve-ning in camp, that I would not "run into the wire."This was a phrase used in camp to describe the mostpopular method of suicide - touching the electricallycharged barbed-wire fence. It was not entirely difficultfor me to make this decision. There was little point incommitting suicide, since, for the average inmate, lifeexpectation, calculating objectively and counting alllikely chances, was very poor. He could not with anyassurance expect to be among the small percentage ofmen who survived all the selections. The prisoner ofAuschwitz, in the first phase of shock, did not feardeath. Even the gas chambers lost their horrors forhim after the first few days - after all, they spared himthe act of committing suicide.

Friends whom I have met later have told me that Iwas not one of those whom the shock of admissiongreatly depressed. I only smiled, and quite sincerely,when the following episode occurred the morning afterour first night in Auschwitz. In spite of strict ordersnot to leave our "blocks," a colleague of mine, whohad arrived in Auschwitz several weeks previously,smuggled himself into our hut. He wanted to calm andcomfort us and tell us a few things. He had become sothin that at first we did not recognize him. With a showof good humor and a Devil-may-care attitude he gaveus a few hurried tips: "Don't be afraid! Don't fear theselections! Dr. M---- (the SS medical chief) has a softspot for doctors." (This was wrong; my friend's kindly

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words were misleading. One prisoner, the doctor of ablock of huts and a man of some sixty years, told mehow he had entreated Dr. M---- to let off his son, whowas destined for gas. Dr. M---- coldly refused.)

"But one thing I beg of you"; he continued, "shavedaily, if at all possible, even if you have to use a pieceof glass to do it . . . even if you have to give your lastpiece of bread for it. You will look younger and thescraping will make your cheeks look ruddier. If youwant to stay alive, there is only one way: look fit forwork. If you even limp, because, let us say, you have asmall blister on your heel, and an SS man spots this, hewill wave you aside and the next day you are sure to begassed. Do you know what we mean by a 'Moslem'? Aman who looks miserable, down and out, sick andemaciated, and who cannot manage hard physicallabor any longer . . . that is a 'Moslem.' Sooner orlater, usually sooner, every 'Moslem' goes to the gaschambers. Therefore, remember: shave, stand andwalk smartly; then you need not be afraid of gas. All ofyou standing here, even if you have only been heretwenty-four hours, you need not fear gas, exceptperhaps you." And then he pointed to me and said, "Ihope you don't mind my telling you frankly." To theothers he repeated, "Of all of you he is the only onewho must fear the next selection. So, don't worry!"

And I smiled. I am now convinced that anyone inmy place on that day would have done the same.

I think it was Lessing who once said, "There arethings which must cause you to lose your reason oryou have none to lose." An abnormal reaction to anabnormal situation is normal behavior. Even we psy-

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chiatrists expect the reactions of a man to an abnormalsituation, such as being committed to an asylum, to beabnormal in proportion to the degree of his normality.The reaction of a man to his admission to a concentra-tion camp also represents an abnormal state of mind,but judged objectively it is a normal and, as will beshown later, typical reaction to the given circum-stances. These reactions, as I have described them,began to change in a few days. The prisoner passedfrom the first to the second phase; the phase of relativeapathy in which he achieved a kind of emotional death.

Apart from the already described reactions, thenewly arrived prisoner experienced the tortures ofother most painful emotions, all of which he tried todeaden. First of all, there was his boundless longingfor his home and his family. This often could becomeso acute that he felt himself consumed by longing.Then there was disgust; disgust with all the uglinesswhich surrounded him, even in its mere externalforms.

Most of the prisoners were given a uniform of ragswhich would have made a scarecrow elegant by com-parison. Between the huts in the camp lay pure filth,and the more one worked to clear it away, the moreone had to come in contact with it. It was a favoritepractice to detail a new arrival to a work group whosejob was to clean the latrines and remove the sewage.If, as usually happened, some of the excrementsplashed into his face during its transport over bumpyfields, any sign of disgust by the prisoner or anyattempt to wipe off the filth would only be punishedwith a blow from a Capo. And thus the mortification ofnormal reactions was hastened.

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At first the prisoner looked away if he saw thepunishment parades of another group; he could notbear to see fellow prisoners march up and down forhours in the mire, their movements directed by blows.Days or weeks later things changed. Early in themorning, when it was still dark, the prisoner stood infront of the gate with his detachment, ready to march.He heard a scream and saw how a comrade wasknocked down, pulled to his feet again, and knockeddown once more - and why? He was feverish but hadreported to sick-bay at an improper time. He wasbeing punished for this irregular attempt to be relievedof his duties.

But the prisoner who had passed into the secondstage of his psychological reactions did not avert hiseyes any more. By then his feelings were blunted, andhe watched unmoved. Another example: he foundhimself waiting at sick-bay, hoping to be granted twodays of light work inside the camp because of injuriesor perhaps edema or fever. He stood unmoved while atwelve-year-old boy was carried in who had beenforced to stand at attention for hours in the snow or towork outside with bare feet because there were noshoes for him in the camp. His toes had becomefrostbitten, and the doctor on duty picked off the blackgangrenous stumps with tweezers, one by one. Dis-gust, horror and pity are emotions that our spectatorcould not really feel any more. The sufferers, the dyingand the dead, became such commonplace sights to himafter a few weeks of camp life that they could notmove him any more.

I spent some time in a hut for typhus patients whoran very high temperatures and were often delirious,

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many of them moribund. After one of them had justdied, I watched without any emotional upset the scenethat followed, which was repeated over and over againwith each death. One by one the prisoners approachedthe still warm body. One grabbed the remains of amessy meal of potatoes; another decided that thecorpse's wooden shoes were an improvement on hisown, and exchanged them. A third man did thesame with the dead man's coat, and another was gladto be able to secure some - just imagine! - genuinestring.

All this I watched with unconcern. Eventually Iasked the "nurse" to remove the body. When hedecided to do so, he took the corpse by its legs,allowing it to drop into the small corridor between thetwo rows of boards which were the beds for the fiftytyphus patients, and dragged it across the bumpyearthen floor toward the door. The two steps which ledup into the open air always constituted a problem forus, since we were exhausted from a chronic lack offood. After a few months' stay in the camp we couldnot walk up those steps, which were each about sixinches high, without putting our hands on the doorjambs to pull ourselves up.

The man with the corpse approached the steps.Wearily he dragged himself up. Then the body: first thefeet, then the trunk, and finally - with an uncannyrattling noise - the head of the corpse bumped up thetwo steps.

My place was on the opposite side of the hut, next tothe small, sole window, which was built near the floor.While my cold hands clasped a bowl of hot soup fromwhich I sipped greedily, I happened to look out thewindow. The corpse which had just been removed

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stared in at me with glazed eyes. Two hours before Ihad spoken to that man. Now I continued sipping mysoup.

If my lack of emotion had not surprised me from thestandpoint of professional interest, I would not re-member this incident now, because there was so littlefeeling involved in it.

Apathy, the blunting of the emotions and the feelingthat one could not care any more, were the symptomsarising during the second stage of the prisoner's psy-chological reactions, and which eventually made himinsensitive to daily and hourly beatings. By means ofthis insensibility the prisoner soon surrounded himselfwith a very necessary protective shell.

Beatings occurred on the slightest provocation,sometimes for no reason at all. For example, breadwas rationed out at our work site and we had to line upfor it. Once, the man behind me stood off a little to oneside and that lack of symmetry displeased the SSguard. I did not know what was going on in the linebehind me, nor in the mind of the SS guard, butsuddenly I received two sharp blows on my head. Onlythen did I spot the guard at my side who was using hisstick. At such a moment it is not the physical painwhich hurts the most (and this applies to adults asmuch as to punished children); it is the mental agonycaused by the injustice, the unreasonableness of it all.

Strangely enough, a blow which does not even find itsmark can, under certain circumstances, hurt morethan one that finds its mark. Once I was standing on arailway track in a snowstorm. In spite of the weather

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our party had to keep on working. I worked quite hardat mending the track with gravel, since that was theonly way to keep warm. For only one moment Ipaused to get my breath and to lean on my shovel.Unfortunately the guard turned around just then andthought I was loafing. The pain he caused me was notfrom any insults or any blows. That guard did not thinkit worth his while to say anything, not even a swearword, to the ragged, emaciated figure standing beforehim, which probably reminded him only vaguely of ahuman form. Instead, he playfully picked up a stoneand threw it at me. That, to me, seemed the way toattract the attention of a beast, to call a domesticanimal back to its job, a creature with which you haveso little in common that you do not even punish it.

The most painful part of beatings is the insult whichthey imply. At one time we had to carry some long,heavy girders over icy tracks. If one man slipped, heendangered not only himself but all the others whocarried the same girder. An old friend of mine had acongenitally dislocated hip. He was glad to be capableof working in spite of it, since the physically disabledwere almost certainly sent to death when a selectiontook place. He limped over the track with an espe-cially heavy girder, and seemed about to fall and dragthe others with him. As yet, I was not carrying a girderso I jumped to his assistance without stopping to think.I was immediately hit on the back, rudely reprimandedand ordered to return to my place. A few minutespreviously the same guard who struck me had told usdeprecatingly that we "pigs" lacked the spirit of com-radeship.

Another time, in a forest, with the temperature at 2°

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F, we began to dig up the topsoil, which was frozenhard, in order to lay water pipes. By then I had grownrather weak physically. Along came a foreman withchubby rosy cheeks. His face definitely reminded meof a pig's head. I noticed that he wore lovely warmgloves in that bitter cold. For a time he watched mesilently. I felt that trouble was brewing, for in front ofme lay the mound of earth which showed exactly howmuch I had dug.

Then he began: "You pig, I have been watching youthe whole time! I'll teach you to work, yet! Wait tillyou dig dirt with your teeth - you'll die like an animal!In two days I'll finish you off! You've never done astroke of work in your life. What were you, swine? Abusinessman?"

I was past caring. But I had to take his threat ofkilling me seriously, so I straightened up and lookedhim directly in the eye. "I was a doctor - a specialist."

"What? A doctor? I bet you got a lot of money outof people."

"As it happens, I did most of my work for no moneyat all, in clinics for the poor." But, now, I had said toomuch. He threw himself on me and knocked me down,shouting like a madman. I can no longer rememberwhat he shouted.

I want to show with this apparently trivial story thatthere are moments when indignation can rouse even aseemingly hardened prisoner - indignation not aboutcruelty or pain, but about the insult connected with it.That time blood rushed to my head because I had tolisten to a man judge my life who had so little idea of it,a man (I must confess: the following remark, which Imade to my fellow-prisoners after the scene, afforded

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me childish relief) "who looked so vulgar and brutalthat the nurse in the out-patient ward in my hospitalwould not even have admitted him to the waitingroom."

Fortunately the Capo in my working party wasobligated to me; he had taken a liking to me because Ilistened to his love stories and matrimonial troubles,which he poured out during the long marches to ourwork site. I had made an impression on him with mydiagnosis of his character and with my psychothera-peutic advice. After that he was grateful, and this hadalready been of value to me. On several previousoccasions he had reserved a place for me next to himin one of the first five rows of our detachment, whichusually consisted of two hundred and eighty men. Thatfavor was important. We had to line up early in themorning while it was still dark. Everybody was afraidof being late and of having to stand in the back rows. Ifmen were required for an unpleasant and disliked job,the senior Capo appeared and usually collected themen he needed from the back rows. These men had tomarch away to another, especially dreaded kind ofwork under the command of strange guards. Occasion-ally the senior Capo chose men from the first fiverows, just to catch those who tried to be clever. Allprotests and entreaties were silenced by a few well-aimed kicks, and the chosen victims were chased tothe meeting place with shouts and blows.

However, as long as my Capo felt the need ofpouring out his heart, this could not happen to me. Ihad a guaranteed place of honor next to him. But therewas another advantage, too. Like nearly all the campinmates I was suffering from edema. My legs were so

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swollen and the skin on them so tightly stretched that Icould scarcely bend my knees. I had to leave my shoesunlaced in order to make them fit my swollen feet.There would not have been space for socks even if Ihad had any. So my partly bare feet were always wetand my shoes always full of snow. This, of course,caused frostbite and chilblains. Every single step be-came real torture. Clumps of ice formed on our shoesduring our marches over snow-covered fields. Overand again men slipped and those following behindstumbled on top of them. Then the column would stopfor a moment, but not for long. One of the guards soontook action and worked over the men with the butt ofhis rifle to make them get up quickly. The more to thefront of the column you were, the less often you weredisturbed by having to stop and then to make up forlost time by running on your painful feet. I was veryhappy to be the personally appointed physician to HisHonor the Capo, and to march in the first row at aneven pace.

As an additional payment for my services, I could besure that as long as soup was being dealt out atlunchtime at our work site, he would, when my turncame, dip the ladle right to the bottom of the vat andfish out a few peas. This Capo, a former army officer,even had the courage to whisper to the foreman, whomI had quarreled with, that he knew me to be anunusually good worker. That didn't help matters, buthe nevertheless managed to save my life (one of themany times it was to be saved). The day after theepisode with the foreman he smuggled me into anotherwork party.

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There were foremen who felt sorry for us and whodid their best to ease our situation, at least at thebuilding site. But even they kept on reminding us thatan ordinary laborer did several times as much work aswe did, and in a shorter time. But they did see reasonif they were told that a normal workman did not live on10½ ounces of bread (theoretically - actually we oftenhad less) and 1¾ pints of thin soup per day; that anormal laborer did not live under the mental stress wehad to submit to, not having news of our families, whohad either been sent to another camp or gassed rightaway; that a normal workman was not threatened bydeath continuously, daily and hourly. I even allowedmyself to say once to a kindly foreman, "If you couldlearn from me how to do a brain operation in as short atime as I am learning this road work from you, I wouldhave great respect for you." And he grinned.

Apathy, the main symptom of the second phase,was a necessary mechanism of self-defense. Realitydimmed, and all efforts and all emotions were centeredon one task: preserving one's own life and that of theother fellow. It was typical to hear the prisoners, whilethey were being herded back to camp from their worksites in the evening, sigh with relief and say, "Well,another day is over."

It can be readily understood that such a state ofstrain, coupled with the constant necessity of concen-trating on the task of staying alive, forced the pris-oner's inner life down to a primitive level. Several ofmy colleagues in camp who were trained in psycho-analysis often spoke of a "regression" in the campinmate - a retreat to a more primitive form of mental

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life. His wishes and desires became obvious in hisdreams.

What did the prisoner dream about most frequently?Of bread, cake, cigarettes, and nice warm baths. Thelack of having these simple desires satisfied led him toseek wish-fulfillment in dreams. Whether these dreamsdid any good is another matter; the dreamer had towake from them to the reality of camp life, and to theterrible contrast between that and his dream illusions.

I shall never forget how I was roused one night bythe groans of a fellow prisoner, who threw himselfabout in his sleep, obviously having a horrible night-mare. Since I had always been especially sorry forpeople who suffered from fearful dreams or deliria, Iwanted to wake the poor man. Suddenly I drew backthe hand which was ready to shake him, frightened atthe thing I was about to do. At that moment I becameintensely conscious of the fact that no dream, nomatter how horrible, could be as bad as the reality ofthe camp which surrounded us, and to which I wasabout to recall him.

Because of the high degree of undernourishmentwhich the prisoners suffered, it was natural that thedesire for food was the major primitive instinct aroundwhich mental life centered. Let us observe the major-ity of prisoners when they happened to work near eachother and were, for once, not closely watched. Theywould immediately start discussing food. One fellowwould ask another working next to him in the ditchwhat his favorite dishes were. Then they would ex-change recipes and plan the menu for the day whenthey would have a reunion - the day in a distant future

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when they would be liberated and returned home.They would go on and on, picturing it all in detail, untilsuddenly a warning was passed down the trench,usually in the form of a special password or number:"The guard is coming."

I always regarded the discussions about food asdangerous. Is it not wrong to provoke the organismwith such detailed and affective pictures of delicacieswhen it has somehow managed to adapt itself to ex-tremely small rations and low calories? Though it mayafford momentary psychological relief, it is an illusionwhich physiologically, surely, must not be withoutdanger.

During the later part of our imprisonment, the dailyration consisted of very watery soup given out oncedaily, and the usual small bread ration. In addition tothat, there was the so-called "extra allowance," con-sisting of three-fourths of an ounce of margarine, or ofa slice of poor quality sausage, or of a little piece ofcheese, or a bit of synthetic honey, or a spoonful ofwatery jam, varying daily. In calories, this diet wasabsolutely inadequate, especially taking into consider-ation our heavy manual work and our constant expo-sure to the cold in inadequate clothing. The sick whowere "under special care" - that is, those who wereallowed to lie in the huts instead of leaving the campfor work - were even worse off.

When the last layers of subcutaneous fat had van-ished, and we looked like skeletons disguised with skinand rags, we could watch our bodies beginning todevour themselves. The organism digested its ownprotein, and the muscles disappeared. Then the bodyhad no powers of resistance left. One after another the

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members of the little community in our hut died. Eachof us could calculate with fair accuracy whose turnwould be next, and when his own would come. Aftermany observations we knew the symptoms well,which made the correctness of our prognoses quitecertain. "He won't last long," or, "This is the nextone," we whispered to each other, and when, duringour daily search for lice, we saw our own naked bodiesin the evening, we thought alike: This body here, mybody, is really a corpse already. What has become ofme? I am but a small portion of a great mass of humanflesh . . . of a mass behind barbed wire, crowded into afew earthen huts; a mass of which daily a certainportion begins to rot because it has become lifeless.

I mentioned above how unavoidable were thethoughts about food and favorite dishes which forcedthemselves into the consciousness of the prisoner,whenever he had a moment to spare. Perhaps it can beunderstood, then, that even the strongest of us waslonging for the time when he would have fairly goodfood again, not for the sake of good food itself, but forthe sake of knowing that the sub-human existence,which had made us unable to think of anything otherthan food, would at last cease.

Those who have not gone through a similar experi-ence can hardly conceive of the soul-destroying men-tal conflict and clashes of will power which a famishedman experiences. They can hardly grasp what it meansto stand digging in a trench, listening only for the sirento announce 9:30 or 10:00 A.M. - the half-hour lunchinterval - when bread would be rationed out (as longas it was still available); repeatedly asking the fore-

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man - if he wasn't a disagreeable fellow - what thetime was; and tenderly touching a piece of bread inone's coat pocket, first stroking it with frozen glove-less fingers, then breaking off a crumb and putting it inone's mouth and finally, with the last bit of will power,pocketing it again, having promised oneself that morn-ing to hold out till afternoon.

We could hold endless debates on the sense ornonsense of certain methods of dealing with the smallbread ration, which was given out only once dailyduring the latter part of our confinement. There weretwo schools of thought. One was in favor of eating upthe ration immediately. This had the twofold advan-tage of satisfying the worst hunger pangs for a veryshort time at least once a day and of safeguardingagainst possible theft or loss of the ration. The secondgroup, which held with dividing the ration up, useddifferent arguments. I finally joined their ranks.

The most ghastly moment of the twenty-four hoursof camp life was the awakening, when, at a stillnocturnal hour, the three shrill blows of a whistle toreus pitilessly from our exhausted sleep and from thelongings in our dreams. We then began the tussle withour wet shoes, into which we could scarcely force ourfeet, which were sore and swollen with edema. Andthere were the usual moans and groans about pettytroubles, such as the snapping of wires which replacedshoelaces. One morning I heard someone, whom Iknew to be brave and dignified, cry like a child be-cause he finally had to go to the snowy marchinggrounds in his bare feet, as his shoes were tooshrunken for him to wear. In those ghastly minutes, 1

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found a little bit of comfort; a small piece of breadwhich I drew out of my pocket and munched withabsorbed delight.

Undernourishment, besides being the cause of thegeneral preoccupation with food, probably also ex-plains the fact that the sexual urge was generallyabsent. Apart from the initial effects of shock, thisappears to be the only explanation of a phenomenonwhich a psychologist was bound to observe in thoseall-male camps: that, as opposed to all other strictlymale establishments - such as army barracks - therewas little sexual perversion. Even in his dreams theprisoner did not seem to concern himself with sex,although his frustrated emotions and his finer, higherfeelings did find definite expression in them.

With the majority of the prisoners, the primitive lifeand the effort of having to concentrate on just savingone's skin led to a total disregard of anything notserving that purpose, and explained the prisoners'complete lack of sentiment. This was brought home tome on my transfer from Auschwitz to a camp affiliatedwith Dachau. The train which carried us - about 2,000prisoners - passed through Vienna. At about midnightwe passed one of the Viennese railway stations. Thetrack was going to lead us past the street where I wasborn, past the house where I had lived many years ofmy life, in fact, until I was taken prisoner.

There were fifty of us in the prison car, which hadtwo small, barred peepholes. There was only enoughroom for one group to squat on the floor, while theothers, who had to stand up for hours, crowded roundthe peepholes. Standing on tiptoe and looking past the

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others' heads through the bars of the window, I caughtan eerie glimpse of my native town. We all felt moredead than alive, since we thought that our transportwas heading for the camp at Mauthausen and that wehad only one or two weeks to live. I had a distinctfeeling that I saw the streets, the squares and thehouses of my childhood with the eyes of a dead manwho had come back from another world and waslooking down on a ghostly city.

After hours of delay the train left the station. Andthere was the street - my street! The young lads whohad a number of years of camp life behind them and forwhom such a journey was a great event stared atten-tively through the peephole. I began to beg them, toentreat them, to let me stand in front for one momentonly. I tried to explain how much a look through thatwindow meant to me just then. My request wasrefused with rudeness and cynicism: "You lived hereall those years? Well, then you have seen quite enoughalready!"

In general there was also a "cultural hibernation" inthe camp. There were two exceptions to this: politicsand religion. Politics were talked about everywhere incamp, almost continuously; the discussions werebased chiefly on rumors, which were snapped up andpassed around avidly. The rumors about the militarysituation were usually contradictory. They followedone another rapidly and succeeded only in making acontribution to the war of nerves that was waged in theminds of all the prisoners. Many times, hopes for aspeedy end to the war, which had been fanned byoptimistic rumors, were disappointed. Some men lost

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all hope, but it was the incorrigible optimists who werethe most irritating companions.

The religious interest of the prisoners, as far and assoon as it developed, was the most sincere imaginable.The depth and vigor of religious belief often surprisedand moved a new arrival. Most impressive in thisconnection were improvised prayers or services in thecorner of a hut, or in the darkness of the locked cattletruck in which we were brought back from a distantwork site, tired, hungry and frozen in our raggedclothing.

In the winter and spring of 1945 there was an out-break of typhus which infected nearly all the pris-oners. The mortality was great among the weak, whohad to keep on with their hard work as long as theypossibly could. The quarters for the sick were mostinadequate, there were practically no medicines orattendants. Some of the symptoms of the disease wereextremely disagreeable: an irrepressible aversion toeven a scrap of food (which was an additional dangerto life) and terrible attacks of delirium. The worst caseof delirium was suffered by a friend of mine whothought that he was dying and wanted to pray. In hisdelirium he could not find the words to do so. To avoidthese attacks of delirium, I tried, as did many of theothers, to keep awake for most of the night. For hoursI composed speeches in my mind. Eventually I beganto reconstruct the manuscript which I had lost in thedisinfection chamber of Auschwitz, and scribbled thekey words in shorthand on tiny scraps of paper.

Occasionally a scientific debate developed in camp.Once I witnessed something I had never seen, even inmy normal life, although it lay somewhat near my own

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professional interests: a spiritualistic seance. I hadbeen invited to attend by the camp's chief doctor (alsoa prisoner), who knew that I was a specialist in psychi-atry. The meeting took place in his small, private roomin the sick quarters. A small circle had gathered,among them, quite illegally, the warrant officer fromthe sanitation squad.

One man began to invoke the spirits with a kind ofprayer. The camp's clerk sat in front of a blank sheetof paper, without any conscious intention of writing.During the next ten minutes (after which time theseance was terminated because of the medium's fail-ure to conjure the spirits to appear) his pencil slowlydrew lines across the paper, forming quite legibly"VAE V." It was asserted that the clerk had neverlearned Latin and that he had never before heard thewords "vae victis" - woe to the vanquished. In myopinion he must have heard them once in his life,without recollecting them, and they must have beenavailable to the "spirit" (the spirit of his subconsciousmind) at that time, a few months before our liberationand the end of the war.

In spite of all the enforced physical and mentalprimitiveness of the life in a concentration camp, itwas possible for spiritual life to deepen. Sensitivepeople who were used to a rich intellectual life mayhave suffered much pain (they were often of a delicateconstitution), but the damage to their inner selves wasless. They were able to retreat from their terriblesurroundings to a life of inner riches and spiritualfreedom. Only in this way can one explain the appar-ent paradox that some prisoners of a less hardy

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make-up often seemed to survive camp life better thandid those of a robust nature. In order to make myselfclear, I am forced to fall back on personal experience.Let me tell what happened on those early morningswhen we had to march to our work site.

There were shouted commands: "Detachment, for-ward march! 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 thecamp, and searchlights were trained upon us. Who-ever did not march smartly got a kick. And worse offwas the man who, because of the cold, had pulled hiscap back over his ears before permission was given.

We stumbled on in the darkness, over big stones andthrough large puddles, along the one road leading fromthe camp. The accompanying guards kept shouting atus and driving us with the butts of their rifles. Anyonewith very sore feet supported himself on his neigh-bor's arm. Hardly a word was spoken; the icy wind didnot encourage talk. Hiding his mouth behind his up-turned collar, the man marching next to me whisperedsuddenly: "If our wives could see us now! I do hopethey are better off in their camps and don't know whatis happening to us."

That brought thoughts of my own wife to mind. Andas we stumbled on for miles, slipping on icy spots,supporting each other time and again, dragging oneanother up and onward, nothing was said, but we bothknew: each of us was thinking of his wife. Occasion-ally I looked at the sky, where the stars were fadingand the pink light of the morning was beginning tospread behind a dark bank of clouds. But my mind

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clung to my wife's image, imagining it with an uncannyacuteness. I heard her answering me, saw her smile,her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her lookwas then more luminous than the sun which wasbeginning to rise.

A thought transfixed me: for the first time in my life Isaw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets,proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers.The truth - that love is the ultimate and the highestgoal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped themeaning of the greatest secret that human poetry andhuman thought and belief have to impart: The salva-tion of man is through love and in love. I understoodhow a man who has nothing left in this world still mayknow bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in thecontemplation of his beloved. In a position of utterdesolation, when man cannot express himself in posi-tive action, when his only achievement may consist inenduring his sufferings in the right way - an honorableway - in such a position man can, through lovingcontemplation of the image he carries of his beloved,achieve fulfillment. For the first time in my life I wasable to understand the meaning of the words, "Theangels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infiniteglory."

In front of me a man stumbled and those followinghim fell on top of him. The guard rushed over and usedhis whip on them all. Thus my thoughts were inter-rupted for a few minutes. But soon my soul found itsway back from the prisoner's existence to anotherworld, and I resumed talk with my loved one: I askedher questions, and she answered; she questioned me inreturn, and I answered.

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"Stop!" We had arrived at our work site. Every-body rushed into the dark hut in the hope of getting afairly decent tool. Each prisoner got a spade or apickaxe.

"Can't you hurry up, you pigs?" Soon we hadresumed the previous day's positions in the ditch. Thefrozen ground cracked under the point of the pickaxes,and sparks flew. The men were silent, their brainsnumb.

My mind still clung to the image of my wife. Athought crossed my mind: I didn't even know if shewere still alive. I knew only one thing - which I havelearned well by now: Love goes very far beyond thephysical person of the beloved. It finds its deepestmeaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whetheror not he is actually present, whether or not he is stillalive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance.

I did not know whether my wife was alive, and I hadno means of finding out (during all my prison life therewas no outgoing or incoming mail); but at that momentit ceased to matter. There was no need for me to know;nothing could touch the strength of my love, mythoughts, and the image of my beloved. Had I knownthen that my wife was dead, I think that I would stillhave given myself, undisturbed by that knowledge, tothe contemplation of her image, and that my mentalconversation with her would have been just as vividand just as satisfying. "Set me like a seal upon thyheart, love is as strong as death."

This intensification of inner life helped the prisonerfind a refuge from the emptiness, desolation and spirit-

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ual poverty of his existence, by letting him escape intothe past. When given free rein, his imagination playedwith past events, often not important ones, but minorhappenings and trifling things. His nostalgic memoryglorified them and they assumed a strange character.Their world and their existence seemed very distantand the spirit reached out for them longingly: In mymind I took bus rides, unlocked the front door of myapartment, answered my telephone, switched on theelectric lights. Our thoughts often centered on suchdetails, and these memories could move one to tears.

As the inner life of the prisoner tended to becomemore intense, he also experienced the beauty of artand nature as never before. Under their influence hesometimes even forgot his own frightful circum-stances. If someone had seen our faces on the journeyfrom Auschwitz to a Bavarian camp as we beheld themountains of Salzburg with their summits glowing inthe sunset, through the little barred windows of theprison carriage, he would never have believed thatthose were the faces of men who had given up all hopeof life and liberty. Despite that factor - or maybebecause of it - we were carried away by nature'sbeauty, which we had missed for so long.

In camp, too, a man might draw the attention of acomrade working next to him to a nice view of thesetting sun shining through the tall trees of the Bavar-ian woods (as in the famous water color by Dürer), thesame woods in which we had built an enormous,hidden munitions plant. One evening, when we werealready resting on the floor of our hut, dead tired, soupbowls in hand, a fellow prisoner rushed in and asked

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us to run out to the assembly grounds and see thewonderful sunset. Standing outside we saw sinisterclouds glowing in the west and the whole sky alivewith clouds of ever-changing shapes and colors, fromsteel blue to blood red. The desolate grey mud hutsprovided a sharp contrast, while the puddles on themuddy ground reflected the glowing sky. Then, afterminutes of moving silence, one prisoner said to an-other, "How beautiful the world could be!"

Another time we were at work in a trench. The dawnwas grey around us; grey was the sky above; grey thesnow in the pale light of dawn; grey the rags in whichmy fellow prisoners were clad, and grey their faces. Iwas again conversing silently with my wife, or perhapsI was struggling to find the reason for my sufferings,my slow dying. In a last violent protest against thehopelessness of imminent death, I sensed my spiritpiercing through the enveloping gloom. I felt it tran-scend that hopeless, meaningless world, and fromsomewhere I heard a victorious "Yes" in answer tomy question of the existence of an ultimate purpose.At that moment a light was lit in a distant farmhouse,which stood on the horizon as if painted there, in themidst of the miserable grey of a dawning morning inBavaria. "Et lux in tenebris lucet" - and the lightshineth in the darkness. For hours I stood hacking atthe icy ground. The guard passed by, insulting me, andonce again I communed with my beloved. More andmore I felt that she was present, that she was with me;I had the feeling that I was able to touch her, able tostretch out my hand and grasp hers. The feeling wasvery strong: she was there. Then, at that very mo-ment, a bird flew down silently and perched just in

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front of me, on the heap of soil which I had dug upfrom the ditch, and looked steadily at me.

Earlier, I mentioned art. Is there such a thing in aconcentration camp? It rather depends on what onechooses to call art. A kind of cabaret was improvisedfrom time to time. A hut was cleared temporarily, afew wooden benches were pushed or nailed togetherand a program was drawn up. In the evening thosewho had fairly good positions in camp - the Capos andthe workers who did not have to leave camp on distantmarches - assembled there. They came to have a fewlaughs or perhaps to cry a little; anyway, to forget.There were songs, poems, jokes, some with underly-ing satire regarding the camp. All were meant to helpus forget, and they did help. The gatherings were soeffective that a few ordinary prisoners went to see thecabaret in spite of their fatigue even though theymissed their daily portion of food by going.

During the half-hour lunch interval when soup(which the contractors paid for and for which they didnot spend much) was ladled out at our work site, wewere allowed to assemble in an unfinished engineroom. On entering, everyone got a ladleful of thewatery soup. While we sipped it greedily, a prisonerclimbed onto a tub and sang Italian arias. We enjoyedthe songs, and he was guaranteed a double helping ofsoup, straight "from the bottom" - that meant withpeas!

Rewards were given in camp not only for entertain-ment, but also for applause. I, for example, could havefound protection (how lucky I was never in need of it!)from the camp's most dreaded Capo, who for more

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than one good reason was known as "The MurderousCapo." This is how it happened. One evening I had thegreat honor of being invited again to the room wherethe spiritualistic seance had taken place. There weregathered the same intimate friends of the chief doctorand, most illegally, the warrant officer from the sanita-tion squad was again present. The Murderous Capoentered the room by chance, and he was asked torecite one of his poems, which had become famous (orinfamous) in camp. He did not need to be asked twiceand quickly produced a kind of diary from which hebegan to read samples of his art. I bit my lips till theyhurt in order to keep from laughing at one of his lovepoems, and very likely that saved my life. Since I wasalso generous with my applause, my life might havebeen saved even had I been detailed to his workingparty to which I had previously been assigned for oneday - a day that was quite enough for me. It wasuseful, anyway, to be known to The Murderous Capofrom a favorable angle. So I applauded as hard as Icould.

Generally speaking, of course, any pursuit of art incamp was somewhat grotesque. I would say that thereal impression made by anything connected with artarose only from the ghostlike contrast between theperformance and the background of desolate camplife. I shall never forget how I awoke from the deepsleep of exhaustion on my second night in Ausch-witz - roused by music. The senior warden of the huthad some kind of celebration in his room, which wasnear the entrance of the hut. Tipsy voices bawledsome hackneyed tunes. Suddenly there was a silenceand into the night a violin sang a desperately sad

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tango, an unusual tune not spoiled by frequent playing.The violin wept and a part of me wept with it, for onthat same day someone had a twenty-fourth birthday.That someone lay in another part of the Auschwitzcamp, possibly only a few hundred or a thousandyards away, and yet completely out of reach. Thatsomeone was my wife.

To discover that there was any semblance of art in aconcentration camp must be surprise enough for anoutsider, but he may be even more astonished to hearthat one could find a sense of humor there as well; ofcourse, only the faint trace of one, and then only for afew seconds or minutes. Humor was another of thesoul's weapons in the fight for self-preservation. It iswell known that humor, more than anything else in thehuman make-up, can afford an aloofness and an abilityto rise above any situation, even if only for a fewseconds. I practically trained a friend of mine whoworked next to me on the building site to develop asense of humor. I suggested to him that we wouldpromise each other to invent at least one amusingstory daily, about some incident that could happen oneday after our liberation. He was a surgeon and hadbeen an assistant on the staff of a large hospital. So Ionce tried to get him to smile by describing to him howhe would be unable to lose the habits of camp life whenhe returned to his former work. On the building site(especially when the supervisor made his tour of in-spection) the foreman encouraged us to work faster byshouting: "Action! Action!" I told my friend, "Oneday you will be back in the operating room, perform-ing a big abdominal operation. Suddenly an orderly

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will rush in announcing the arrival of the senior sur-geon by shouting, 'Action! Action!' "

Sometimes the other men invented amusing dreamsabout the future, such as forecasting that during afuture dinner engagement they might forget them-selves when the soup was served and beg the hostessto ladle it "from the bottom."

The attempt to develop a sense of humor and to seethings in a humorous light is some kind of a tricklearned while mastering the art of living. Yet it ispossible to practice the art of living even in a concen-tration camp, although suffering is omnipresent. Todraw an analogy: a man's suffering is similar to thebehavior of gas. If a certain quantity of gas is pumpedinto an empty chamber, it will fill the chamber com-pletely and evenly, no matter how big the chamber.Thus suffering completely fills the human soul andconscious mind, no matter whether the suffering isgreat or little. Therefore the "size" of human sufferingis absolutely relative.

It also follows that a very trifling thing can cause thegreatest of joys. Take as an example something thathappened on our journey from Auschwitz to the campaffiliated with Dachau. We had all been afraid that ourtransport was heading for the Mauthausen camp. Webecame more and more tense as we approached acertain bridge over the Danube which the train wouldhave to cross to reach Mauthausen, according to thestatement of experienced traveling companions. Thosewho have never seen anything similar cannot possiblyimagine the dance of joy performed in the carriage by

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the prisoners when they saw that our transport wasnot crossing the bridge and was instead heading"only" for Dachau.

And again, what happened on our arrival in thatcamp, after a journey lasting two days and threenights? There had not been enough room for every-body to crouch on the floor of the carriage at the sametime. The majority of us had to stand all the way, whilea few took turns at squatting on the scanty strawwhich was soaked with human urine. When we arrivedthe first important news that we heard from olderprisoners was t

dr. viktor e. frankl - ipk indonesia...dr. viktor e. frankl is europe's leading psy- chiatrist. his...

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