In the face of unspeakable cruelty and crushing conditions in Nazi concentration camps, Viktor Frankl learned that it is still possible to live a life with dignity and purpose. In Man’s Search for Meaning, Frankl reflects upon his experience and how he found hope in the most unlikely places.

Even though it was verboten for prisoners assigned to one hut to visit residents of another, one of Frankl’s medical colleagues snuck into Frankl’s hut to impart pearls of wisdom to the new arrivals at Auschwitz. One of his main pieces of advice was to stand up straight and shave—shave even if all you have is a shard of glass. A clean-shaven face conveyed health, which often meant the difference between life and death when SS guards were looking for an excuse to pull a sickly man from the ranks and send him to the gas chambers. Those who looked frail, walked with a limp, looked depressed, and unable to handle the physical labor were prime pickings. 

Russian novelist Dostoevsky once wrote that, “Man is a creature who can get used to anything.” He was right. It is difficult to say how that happens, but prisoners at Auschwitz were able to adjust to an oppressive set of circumstances.

For example, the textbooks would have us believe that we can’t function without x amount of sleep. False. People convince themselves that they can sleep only under particular conditions. Wrong. Beds in the huts were stacked in tiers, with nine men assigned to a six by eight foot board and given two blankets. Inmates would all lie on their sides so that all nine could fit on the plank. People would use their arm or a shoe as a pillow. Even under these conditions, even with a fellow sardine snoring inches from your face, you would sleep soundly, and were even thankful for the collective warmth during the frigid winter season.

Despite a lack of proper dental care, many prisoners’ gums were never stronger. People got used to wearing the same clothes for six months. Bathing was an infrequent event, but, somehow, cuts usually did not become infected.

Over time, people’s drives became increasingly primal. Sexual appetites all but evaporated under camp conditions.  Dreams were no longer about sexual encounters, but about a hot bath or freshly baked bread. The extreme undernourishment that prisoners faced brought food to the fore of consciousness. It became the primary mental occupation. In moments when guards weren’t monitoring prisoners too closely, they would cluster as they worked. Food would invariably come up. They would talk about favorite foods and recipes they had enjoyed before imprisonment, and imagine future reunion feasts to be had after liberation. The informal planning committee would suddenly disband when code word passed through the ranks reached them, indicating that the guard was returning. Such talk was more harmful than helpful from a psychological perspective. The imaginations were a reprieve, but ultimately did not serve a person who had managed to acclimate to tiny portions of thin gruel and bread. Even with a meager “extra allowance”—as it was called—of jam, low-grade sausage, a wedge of cheese, or bit of margarine, the diet was far from adequate, especially given the heavy labor to which prisoners were daily subjected.

Whatever reserves of fat and muscle inmates had disappeared as the body consumed itself. People began to die in a succession that fellow prisoners became apt at accurately predicting. 

But the truth was that even the living were already corpses themselves—skeletons draped with skin, corralled into huts, hemmed in by barbed wire. Everyone longed for a time when they would eat quality food once again, less because of the food itself and their need of nourishment, and more because it would symbolize a return to dignity, that this animal existence would be over.

Political discussions usually revolved around rumors about the war, who was gaining ground and who was losing it. The reports were usually contradictory. Predictions that the war would be over soon were often dashed, making hope difficult to sustain and the eternally optimistic prisoners intolerable.

The religious conversations, however, were some of the most meaningful and rewarding. People were only genuine in their inquiries. Many newcomers to the prison were often surprised by the robust spiritual climate of some of the prison huts. Even at the end of the day, when men were exhausted and freezing in their rags, there would still be prayers uttered, songs sung, and services held in the dark of a cattle truck transport or the corner of a hut.

Under crushing physical and mental conditions, the spiritual life could still be cultivated. Oftentimes, the more intellectual sorts did not fare well in manual labor because of their fragile frames, yet the internal reservoirs, which were often more developed, were not depleted as quickly. They tended to have a more vibrant inner life, and this spiritual liberty proved to be both an anchor and a buoy for the soul amidst the violent storminess of camp life. The spiritual robustness is the only adequate explanation for why the outwardly frail outlasted men of sturdier build and greater strength.

Many prisoners found relief from their dismal circumstances in contemplation of the past. Oftentimes, the events that sprang to mind were not major life events but trivial routines—or at least would have seemed trivial to them before getting sent to the camps. Locking the front door, a stroll down the street in their hometown, their phone ringing—these were the routines on which the mind would settle, which would bring tears to a man’s eyes to recall. These simple memories became treasures.

Nature and art were also balms for prisoners’ hearts and minds. To watch Salzburg’s snow-capped mountains turn pink and orange in the sunset, or see the sun rise over the Bavarian woods elevated the soul. One evening a prisoner ran into the hut to draw everyone’s attention to the sunset they were missing. Everyone walked outside and gazed at the vibrant sky, together enjoying a moment of silent, holy reverie. “How beautiful the world could be,” one prisoner remarked. 

On another occasion, an especially hopeless, gray morning, the author questioned whether there was any meaning behind the immense suffering he was experiencing. Somehow, mysteriously, he sensed his soul for a moment transcending the grim gray shroud that encompassed the camp. He heard the response from somewhere, “Yes!” resound within him. At that same moment, he saw a light flicker on, illuminating a farmhouse a ways off, as if to reinforce the response to his despair.

Art also existed—at least in a primitive form. Occasionally, space was cleared in a hut and a few benches were put together to create a temporary makeshift stage. There was poetry and song and even jokes—usually veiled satire targeting camp conditions. In a concentration camp, one couldn’t expect anything spectacular, but it made men forget their present circumstances—even if only briefly—and that was what mattered. Many were willing to miss their midday ration for the informal cabaret, where they could laugh, shed a tear, and forget where they were.

It might surprise some to hear of humor in a concentration camp, but this was the best defense against despair. Perhaps better than anything, humor provided a buffer and distance from the situation, even if for a moment. Cultivating a sense of humor is an important part of a life well-lived, and life did not stop for those living in the camps. The ability to find humor, even in dismal conditions, preserved life. 

While being transported from Auschwitz to a new camp, there was gnawing fear that they were being taken to Mauthausen, which was known to be a death sentence. If they crossed the bridge over the Danube River, they were certainly Mauthausen-bound. To the immense relief of the travelers, the train did not cross the river. The prisoners laughed at the absurdity that they were “only” heading to Dachau—another concentration camp, rather than a death camp.

There is always a certain level of autonomy that can never be extinguished. Many cases have been made on biological, psychological, and sociological grounds that, ultimately, people are products of their environment. Life in a concentration camp could be viewed as an intensification of conditioning factors, where every aspect of life is regulated and everyone is expected to conform to a rigid set of policies. The concentration camp experience, however, is not a strong argument for the illusion of free will, but for its reality. People can achieve victory over apathy and anger. There were notable instances of prisoners who comforted hopeless comrades, and of men willing to give their last bit of bread to someone who looked like they needed it more.

Even if opportunity for positive action in a situation is stifled, there was always a choice regarding one’s attitude toward circumstances. There were endless opportunities everyday to make decisions that would either preserve one’s humanity and sense of self, or erode it to conform to the image of the common prisoner that sickness, starvation, and exhaustion encouraged. The prisoners’ mental reactions were more than mere extensions of upbringing or background or chemical make-up. The decision as to what kind of person to become was not first and foremost based on external circumstances, but an internal choice—even in a prison camp. One can maintain his dignity through the choices he makes. This inner liberty—which is the means by which we experience meaning and find purpose—cannot be confiscated like coats and watches were.

Suffering creates opportunities that will enrich us if we accept it, and will ruin us if we avoid or reject it. We achieve something through bearing up against suffering with courage. This is, of course, not easy, but the fact that even one person (there were many) who exemplified this is evidence enough that the human spirit is capable of triumph, even under crushing circumstances.

In the days leading up to liberation, prisoners heard planes overhead and could see gunfire in the woods. The war waged outside created an internal war on the inmates’ nerves. Eventually, the fighting ceased, and they saw a white flag rise from within the camp. The prisoners walked toward the gate—for the first time ever without fear of a beating. The guards had quickly switched into civilian attire and were smiling ingratiatingly and doling out cigarettes to the emaciated group walking out the now open gate.

To their surprise, the realization that they were free was not a moment of immense joy and celebration. They had dreamed of what liberation would be like for years, but in the very moment that the dream had come true, they felt nothing. Somehow they couldn’t accept it. They walked through the woods surrounding the camp, and were at moments awakened to beauty, but the men were far more subdued in reality than they had been in their imaginings.

As it turned out, the capacity for feeling happiness had been so blunted that it needed to be rediscovered. It wasn’t until several days after his release that Frankl was struck by his changed circumstances. As he took a walk in the countryside, he came upon a grassy meadow alive with the sound of songbirds and colors of flowers and an expansive blue sky. As he looked around, the weight of his drastically altered circumstances was enough to bring him to his knees. For some time, a single line from one of David’s psalms ran through his mind over and over— “I called to the Lord from my narrow prison, and He answered me in the freedom of space.”