I was usually very tired, since we had to stoke our stove—which we were allowed to keep in our hut for the typhus patients—throughout the nights.
However, some of the most idyllic hours I have ever spent were in the middle of the night when all the others were delirious or sleeping.
I could lie stretched out in front of the stove and roast a few pilfered potatoes in a fire made from stolen charcoal.
But the following day I always felt even more tired, insensitive and irritable.
While I was working as a doctor in the typhus block, I also had to take the place of the senior block warden who was ill.
Therefore, I was responsible to the camp authority for keeping the hut clean—if “clean” can be used to describe such a condition.
The pretense at inspection to which the hut was frequently submitted was more for the purpose of torture than of hygiene.
More food and a few drugs would have helped, but the only concern of the inspectors was whether a piece of straw was left in the center corridor,
or whether the dirty, ragged and verminous blankets of the patients were tucked in neatly at their feet.
As to the fate of the inmates, they were quite unconcerned.
If I reported smartly, whipping my prison cap from my shorn head and clicking my heels,
“Hut number VI/9: 52 patients, two nursing orderlies, and one doctor,” they were satisfied.
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