Who can throw a stone at a man who favors his friends under circumstances when, sooner or later, it is a question of life or death?
No man should judge unless he asks himself in absolute honesty whether in a similar situation he might not have done the same.
Long after I had resumed normal life again (that means a long time after my release from camp),
somebody showed me an illustrated weekly with photographs of prisoners lying crowded on their bunks, staring dully at a visitor.
“Isn’t this terrible, the dreadful staring faces —everything about it.”
“Why?” I asked, for I genuinely did not understand.
For at that moment I saw it all again: at 5:00 A.M. it was still pitch dark outside.
I was lying on the hard boards in an earthen hut where about seventy of us were “taken care of.”
We were sick and did not have to leave camp for work; we did not have to go on parade.
We could lie all day in our little corner in the hut and doze and wait for the daily distribution of bread
(which, of course, was reduced for the sick) and for the daily helping of soup (watered down and also decreased in quantity).
But how content we were; happy in spite of everything. While we cowered against each other to avoid any unnecessary loss of warmth,
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