The engine's whistle had an uncanny sound, like a cry for help sent out in commiseration for the low load destined to lead into perdition. With the progressive dawn, the outliers of an immense camp became visible: long stretches of several rows of barbed wire fences; watch towers; searchlights; and long columns of ragged human figures, grey in the greyness of dawn, trekking along the straight desolate roads, to what destination we did not know.
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To live is to suffer; to survive is to find meaning in suffering. If there is a purpose in life, there must be a purpose in suffering and dying. But no man can tell another what this purpose is. Each must find out for himself and accept his answer's responsibility.
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