Then there was disgust; disgust with all the ugliness which surrounded him, even in its mere external forms.
Most of the prisoners were given a uniform of rags which would have made a scarecrow elegant by comparison.
Between the huts in the camp lay pure filth, and the more one worked to clear it away, the more one had to come in contact with it.
It was a favorite practice to detail a new arrival to a work group whose job was to clean the latrines and remove the sewage.
If, as usually happened, some of the excrement splashed into his face during its transport over bumpy fields,
any sign of disgust by the prisoner or any attempt to wipe off the filth would only be punished with a blow from a Capo.
And thus the mortification of normal reactions was hastened.
At first the prisoner looked away if he saw the punishment parades of another group;
he could not bear to see fellow prisoners march up and down for hours in the mire, their movements directed by blows.
Days or weeks later things changed. Early in the morning, when it was still dark,
the prisoner stood in front of the gate with his detachment, ready to march.
He heard a scream and saw how a comrade was knocked down, pulled to his feet again, and knocked down once more—and why?
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