Rudolf Hoess - Commandant of Auschwitz

I had indeed found, in the periods between my Freikorps activities, a profession that I enjoyed and loved and in which I could do well. I had developed a passion for farming and had done well as a farmer; witnesses who gave evidence at my trial confirmed this.

But the real essence of life, that which makes living a true fulfillment, was still unknown to me at the time. I began to seek for it, absurd as this may sound, behind my prison walls, and found it, later!

I had been taught since childhood to be absolutely obedient and meticulously tidy and clean; so in these matters I did not find it difficult to conform to the strict discipline of prison.

I conscientiously carried out my well-defined duties. I completed the work allotted me, and usually more, to the satisfaction of the foreman. My cell was a model of neatness and cleanliness, and even the most malicious eyes could see nothing there with which to find fault.

I even became accustomed to the perpetual monotony of my daily existence, which was rarely broken by any unusual event, although this acceptance was quite contrary to my restless nature. My former life had been extremely hectic and lively.

An outstanding event during the first two years was the arrival of the letter which we were allowed to receive every three months. I would think about it for days before it came, imagining and envisaging everything it might possibly contain. The letter was from my fiancée. At least she was my fiancée as far as the prison administration was concerned. She was the sister of a friend of mine and I had never seen her or heard of her before. Since I was only allowed to correspond with relatives, my friends, when I was in Leipzig jail, had produced a “fiancée” for me. This girl wrote to me faithfully throughout all the long years of my imprisonment. She did everything I asked of her, kept me informed of all that went on in my circle of friends outside, and passed on all my own news.

Yet I never became accustomed to the petty chicanery of the junior officials. This always had an extremely disturbing effect on me, especially when it was deliberate and malicious. The senior officials, up to the prison warden himself, always treated me correctly. So too did the majority of the junior officials with whom I came in contact during the course of the years. But there were three of these who, for political reasons, being Social Democrats, bullied me whenever they could. This bullying usually consisted of mere pinpricks, but they nevertheless managed to wound me severely. In fact they hurt me much more in this way than if I had been physically beaten.

Every prisoner who lives a sensitive inner life suffers far more from unjustified, malicious, and deliberate acts of spite, in a word, from acts of mental cruelty, than ever he does from the physical equivalent. Such acts produce a far more ignominious and oppressive effect than does corporal maltreatment.

I often tried to make myself indifferent to this, but I never succeeded.

I grew accustomed to the crude language of the junior guards, whose delight in the power they wielded increased in proportion to the lowness of their mentality. I also got used to the senseless orders which these same narrow-minded officials would give, and I would carry them out without demur, and even with an inward chuckle.

I became accustomed, too, to the disgusting language used by the prisoners when they met.

But though it happened every day, I could never accustom myself to the common, cynical, and filthy way in which the prisoners treated everything good and beautiful, everything which many men regard as sacred. They became especially vicious when they noticed that a fellow prisoner could be hurt by such talk. This kind of behavior has always affected me strongly.

I have ever regarded a good book as a good friend. Up to then my restless life had given me little time or leisure for reading. But in the loneliness of my cell books became my all, and this was especially so during the first two years of my sentence. They were my one relaxation, and they enabled me entirely to forget my situation.

Toward the end of the first two years, which had passed monotonously and without any special incident, I was overcome by a most peculiar state of mind. I became very irritable, nervous, and excited. I felt a disinclination to work, although I was in the tailoring shop at the time and had hitherto thoroughly enjoyed this work. I could no longer eat and I brought up every mouthful that I forced myself to swallow. I could not read any more and became completely unable to concentrate. I paced up and down my cell like a wild animal. I lay awake all night, although I had up to then always fallen at once into a deep and almost dreamless sleep. I had to get out of bed and walk round and round my cell, and was unable to lie still. Then I would sink exhausted on to the bed and fall asleep, only to wake again after a short time bathed in sweat from my nightmares. In these confused dreams I was always being pursued and killed, or falling over a precipice. The hours of darkness became a torment. Night after night I heard the clocks strike the hour. As morning approached, my dread increased. I feared the light of day and the people I should have to see once more. I felt incapable of seeing them again. I tried with all my strength to pull myself together, but without success. I wanted to pray, but my prayers dissolved into a distressed stammering. I had forgotten how to pray, and had lost the way to God. In my misery I believed that God had no wish to help me, since I had forsaken Him. I was tormented by the memory of my definite secession from the Church in 1922. Yet this had been the ratification of a state of affairs that had existed since the end of the war. In my heart I was already leaving the Church during the last years of the war. I reproached myself bitterly for not having followed the wishes of my parents, for my lack of piety. It was strange how all this worried me while I was in this plight.

My nervous agitation increased day to day, even from hour to hour. I nearly went raving mad. My health gave way. My foreman noticed my unaccustomed absent-mindedness and the mess I made of even the simplest tasks, and although I worked furiously I could not finish my daily task.

For several days I had fasted, thinking that after this I would be able to eat once more. The guard in charge of my section caught me in the act of throwing my dinner into the garbage pail. Although he usually did his job in a weary and indifferent manner, and hardly bothered about the prisoners, yet even he had noticed my behavior and appearance, and on this account had been keeping a sharp watch over me, as he later told me. I was taken immediately to the doctor. He was an elderly man who had been attached to the prison staff for a great many years. He listened patiently to my story, thumbed through the pages of my file and then said with the greatest nonchalance: “Prison psychosis. You’ll get over it. It’s not serious!”

I was taken to the infirmary and placed in an observation cell. Then I was given an injection, wrapped in cold sheets, and immediately I fell into a deep sleep. During the following days I was given sedatives and put on an invalid diet. My general nervous condition subsided and I began to pick up. At my own wish I was returned to my cell. It was first intended that I be put in a cell with other prisoners, but I had requested to be left on my own.

At this time I was informed by the prison warden that on account of my good behavior and industriousness I was to be promoted to the second degree and as a result would receive various alleviations of my prison existence. I might now write letters once a month, and could receive as much mail as I liked. I might also have books and instructional literature sent in to me. I might grow flowers in my window, and keep my light on until ten o’clock at night. If I wished, I could spend an hour or two with the other prisoners on Sundays and holidays.