So I applauded as hard as I could. Generally speaking, of course, any pursuit of art in camp was somewhat grotesque.
I would say that the real impression made by anything connected with art arose only from the ghostlike contrast
between the performance and the background of desolate camp life.
I shall never forget how I awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion on my second night in Auschwitz—roused by music.
The senior warden of the hut had some kind of celebration in his room, which was near the entrance of the hut.
Tipsy voices bawled some hackneyed tunes. Suddenly there was a silence and into the night a violin sang a desperately sad tango,
an unusual tune not spoiled by frequent playing. The violin wept and a part of me wept with it,
for on that same day someone had a twenty-fourth birthday.
That someone lay in another part of the Auschwitz camp, possibly only a few hundred or a thousand yards away, and yet completely out of reach.
That someone was my wife. To discover that there was any semblance of art in a concentration camp must be surprise enough for an outsider,
but he may be even more astonished to hear that one could find a sense of humor there as well;
of course, only the faint trace of one, and then only for a few seconds or minutes.
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