I said that someone looks down on each of us in difficult hours—
a friend, a wife, somebody alive or dead, or a God—and he would not expect us to disappoint him.
He would hope to find us suffering proudly—not miserably—knowing how to die.
And finally I spoke of our sacrifice, which had meaning in every case.
It was in the nature of this sacrifice that it should appear to be pointless in the normal world, the world of material success.
But in reality our sacrifice did have a meaning. Those of us who had any religious faith, I said frankly, could understand without difficulty.
I told them of a comrade who on his arrival in camp had tried to make a pact with Heaven
that his suffering and death should save the human being he loved from a painful end.
For this man, suffering and death were meaningful; his was a sacrifice of the deepest significance.
He did not want to die for nothing. None of us wanted that.
The purpose of my words was to find a full meaning in our life, then and there, in that hut and in that practically hopeless situation.
I saw that my efforts had been successful. When the electric bulb flared up again,
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