Step 3:
Life in Camps
** Disclaimer ** There will be excerpts on this page that are explicit and will describe some extremely sensitive detail. Please be advised.
Sleep
Food
Medical check
Selection Check
Sleep in Barracks
Viktor Frankl
The first night in Auschwitz we slept in beds which were constructed in tiers. One each tier slept nine men, directly on the boards. Two blankets were shared by each nine men. We could, of course, lie only 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 used them secretly as pillows in spite of the fact that they were caked with mud. Despite this, sleep came and brought relief from pain for a few hours.
I shall never forget how I was roused one night by the groans of a fellow prisoner, who threw himself about in his sleep, obviously having a horrible nightmare. Since I had always been especially sorry for people who suffered from fearful dreams, I wanted to wake the poor man. Suddenly, I drew back my hand which was ready to shake him, frightened at the thing I was about to do.
At that moment I became intensely aware of the fact that no dream, no matter how horrible, could be as bad as the reality of the camp which surrounded us.
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Continued
The most ghastly moment of the twenty-four hours of camp life was the awakening, when, at a still hour (4:00 am), the three shrill blows of a whistle tore us ruthlessly from our exhausted sleep and from the longings in our dreams. We then began the tussle with our wet shoes, into which we could barely force our feet, which were sore and swollen.
There were the usual moans and groans about petty troubles, such as the snapping of wires which replaced shoelaces. One morning I heard someone, whom I knew to be brave and dignified, cry like a child because he finally had to go to the snowy marching grounds in his bare feet, as his shoes were too shrunken for him to wear.
Let me tell you what happened in those early mornings when we had to march to our work site. There were shouted commands: “Detachment, forward march! Left 2-3-4! Left 2-3-4! Left 2-3-4! The 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 the camp, and searchlights were trained upon us.
Whoever did not march smartly got a kick. And worse off was the man who, because of the cold, had pulled his cap back over his ears before permission was given. We stumbled on in the darkness, over big stones, and through large puddles, along the one road leading from the camp.
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Food
"During the latter part of our imprisonment, the daily ration consisted of very watery soup given out once daily, and the usual small bread ration. In addition to that, there was the so-called “extra allowance,” consisting of three-fourths of an ounce of margarine, or of a slice of poor quality sausage, or of a little piece of cheese, or a bit of synthetic honey, or a spoonful of watery jam, varying daily."
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Viktor Frankl
Magda Herzberger
"We were very hungry because we hadn’t had any food for several days, since before our deportation in the cattle railway cars to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Then the so-called soup came. It was carried again in large kettles with two handles. Each of us got a small bowl of the most disgusting and nauseating concoction that you can imagine. The soup had hardly anything in it. It had an awful smell and dirty appearance. A few rutabagas were floating in it along with some kind of strange impurities.
It tasted awful, but it was the only food after days of hunger and thirst. We had to drink it from our containers. The only way to drink it without vomiting was to close our eyes and squeeze our nostrils, so we couldn’t smell its nauseating odor. Shutting our eyes and not looking at it helped us to swallow it. The rutabagas in it were not washed prior to the cooking and we could feel the sand between our teeth.
The so-called coffee, our only nourishment for the morning, consisted of a brown-colored, disgusting-looking liquid which also had an offensive smell. It was brought in from the kitchen of the camp in very large kettles with two handles.
On our third day, things got worse. The miserable coffee arrived as always, but this day one of the coffee kettles was overturned by some of our inmates who rushed wildly and forcefully towards it. The whole contents of the kettle spilled on the ground and it was pathetic to watch some of the women lose all their pride and dignity and lick like dogs the spilled coffee from the ground."
Additional Aspects of Camp Life
Viktor Frankl
Death Process
After one of them (prisoner) had just died, I watched without any emotional upset the scene that followed, which was repeated over and over again with each death. One by one the prisoners approached the still-warm body. One grabbed the remains of a messy meal of potatoes; another decided that the corpse’s wooden shoes were an improvement on his own, and exchanged them. A third man did the same with the dead man’s coat, and another was glad to be able to secure some genuine string. All of this I watched with unconcern.
Revelation about Death in Camp
My place was on the opposite side of the hut, next to the small window which was near the floor. While my cold hands clasped a bowl of hot soup from which I sipped greedily, I happened to look out the window. There was a deceased (dead) man staring in at me with glazed eyes. Two hours before I had spoken to that man. Now I continued sipping my soup.
If my lack of emotion had not surprised me from the standpoint of professional interest, I would not remember this incident now, because there was so little feeling involved in it.
Elie Wiesel
Medical Check
The medical checkup took place outside, early in the morning, before three doctors seating on a bench. The first hardly examined me. He just asked:
“Are you in good health?”
Who would have dared to admit the opposite?
On the other hand, the dentist seemed more conscientious: he asked me to open my mouth wide. In fact, he was not looking for decay but for gold teeth. Those who had gold in their mouths were listed by their number. I did have a gold crown.
After a few days, we had just returned to the warehouse. I was summoned by the block secretary:
“A-7713?”
“That’s me.”
“After your meal, you’ll go to see the dentist.”
“But… I don’t have a toothache…”
“After your meal. Without fail.”
I went.
“What are you going to do, sir?”
“I shall remove your gold crown, that’s all,” he said, clearly indifferent.
That evening, in the latrines, the dentist pulled my crown with the help of a rusty spoon.
Selection Checks
Advice to Survive
A fellow prisoner that had been in Auschwitz for longer than we came to give us some insight on surviving the selection process:
“One thing I beg of you”; he continued, “shave daily, if at all possible, even if you have to use a piece of glass to do it… even if you have to give your last piece of bread for it. You will look younger and the scraping will make your cheeks look ruddier. If you want to stay alive, there is only one way: look fit for work. If you are even limp because let us say, you have a small blister on your heel, and a German soldier spots this, he will wave you aside and the next day you are sure to be gassed.”
Magda Herzberger
On each day in the camp, we experienced unexpected painful and shocking surprises at roll calls. On our seventh day in Auschwitz the dreaded “special selections” took place. The feared selections were conducted by Dr. Mengele, the chief German physician. We had to completely undress before them so they could assess whether we looked well enough to be considered useful for work or would be declared inept or useless.
Dr. Mengele looked at each of us and made quick decisions on our destiny, selecting the weaker and sick ones among us while he softly hummed some songs from his favorite operas.
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He pointed his finger at the ones he considered not useful and they were pulled out of their lines and taken away by the German guards.
They were hauled into the trucks and taken to the gas chambers. The inmates who were selected in this way met the same fate as all the people who were pointed to the left by Dr. Mengele at the selection platform upon our arrival at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Once we learned this, we were terrified.
We didn't know who would be selected next
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The rest of this page (and the next) will have a significant amount of dialogue between Elie Wiesel and his father as they continue to survive. Going forward, Elie's words will be Green, Elie's father will be blue, and anyone else will be yellow.
Elie Wiesel
German guards had orders to kill a certain number of prisoners every day. Every week entailed a selection. Our block was next.
“Achtung!”
There was instant silence.
“Listen carefully to what I am about to tell you.” For the first time, his voice quivered. “In a few moments, the selection will take place. You will have to undress completely. Then you will go, one by one, before the German doctors. I hope you will all pass. But you must try to increase your chances. Before you go into the next room, try to move your limbs, give yourself some color. Don’t walk slowly, run!"
Run as if you had the devil at your heels! Don’t look at the guards. Run, straight in front of you!”
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He paused and then added:
“And most important, don’t be afraid.”
That was a piece of advice we would have loved to be able to follow.
I undressed, leaving my clothes on my cot. Tonight, there was no danger that they would be stolen.
“They are coming!”
Three German guards surrounded the notorious Dr. Mengele, the very same who had received us in Birkenau.
He asked us:
“Ready?”
Yes, we were ready. So were the German doctors. Dr. Mengele was holding a list: our numbers. We can begin! As if this were a game.
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The first to go were the “notables” of the block. These were the people who were in perfect physical condition. Then came the ordinary prisoners. Dr. Mengele looked them over from head to toe. From time to time, he noted a number. I had but one thought: not to have my number taken down and not to show my left arm.
In a short amount of time, someone pushed me. It was my turn.
I ran without looking back. My head was spinning; you are too skinny… you are too weak… you are too skinny, you are good for the ovens…
The race seemed endless; I felt as though I had been running for years… You are too skinny, you are too weak… At last, I arrived. Exhausted. When I had caught my breath, I asked other prisoners:
“Did they write me down?”
“No.” Smiling, he added, “Anyway, they couldn’t have. You were running too fast…”
I began to laugh. I was happy.
Those whose numbers had been noted were standing apart, abandoned by the whole world. Some were silently weeping.
The bell rang, signaling that the selection had ended in the entire camp.
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With all my strength I began to race toward Block 36; midway, I met my father. He came toward me:
“So?” Did you pass?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Also.”
We were able to breathe again.
A few days passed. We were no longer thinking about the selection. We went to work as usual and loaded the heavy stones onto the freight cars. The rations had grown smaller; that was the only change. We had risen at dawn, as we did every day. We had received our black coffee, our ration of bread. We were about to head to the work yard as always. A German guard came running:
“Let’s have a moment of quiet. I have here a list of numbers. I shall read them to you. All those called will not go to work this morning; they will stay in camp.”
Softly he read some ten numbers. The ten prisoners surrounded him, clinging to his clothes:
“Save us! We are good workers. We can… we want…”
I saw my father running in my direction. Suddenly, I was afraid.
“What is happening?”
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He was out of breath, hardly able to open his mouth.
“Me too, me too… They told me too to stay in the camp.” They had recorded his number without his noticing.
“What are we doing to do?” I said anxiously.
But it was he who tried to reassure me:
“It’s not certain yet. There’s still a chance. Today, they will do another selection… a decisive one…”
I said nothing.
He felt time was running out. He was speaking rapidly, he wanted to tell me so many things. His speech became confused, his voice was choked. He knew that I had to leave in a few moments. He was going to remain alone, so alone…
“Here, take this knife,” he said. “I won’t need it anymore. You may find it useful."
(5)
"Also, take this spoon. Don’t sell it. Quickly! Go ahead, take what I’m giving you!”
My father was quickly giving me my inheritance. “Don’t talk like that, Father.” I was on the verge of breaking into sobs. “I don’t want you to say such things. Keep the spoon and knife. You will need them as much as I. We’ll see each other tonight, after work.” He looked at me with his tired eyes, veiled by despair. He insisted:
“I am asking you… Take it, do as I ask you, my son. Time is running out. Do as your father asks you…”
We were ordered to march. My father had remained near the block, leaning against the wall. Then he began to run, to try to catch up with us. Perhaps he had forgotten to tell me something…But we were marching too fast… Left, right! We were at the gate. We were being counted. Around us, the din of military music. Then we were outside.
Thankfully, my father survived the second check.
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