Then I went back to my lonely place on the wood cover of the water shaft. This shaft, incidentally, once saved the lives of three fellow prisoners.
Shortly before liberation, mass transports were organized to go to Dachau, and these three prisoners wisely tried to avoid the trip.
They climbed down the shaft and hid there from the guards.
I calmly sat on the lid, looking innocent and playing a childish game of throwing pebbles at the barbed wire.
On spotting me, the guard hesitated for a moment, but then passed on. Soon I could tell the three men below that the worst danger was over.
It is very difficult for an outsider to grasp how very little value was placed on human life in camp.
The camp inmate was hardened, but possibly became more conscious of this complete disregard of human existence
when a convoy of sick men was arranged. The emaciated bodies of the sick were thrown on two-wheeled carts
which were drawn by prisoners for many miles, often through snowstorms, to the next camp.
If one of the sick men had died before the cart left, he was thrown on anyway—the list had to be correct!
The list was the only thing that mattered. A man counted only because he had a prison number.
One literally became a number: dead or alive—that was unimportant; the life of a “number” was completely irrelevant.
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