Ye have slept on the ground before, And started to your feet At the cannon’s sudden roar, Or the drum’s redoubling beat. But in this camp of Death No sound your slumber breaks; Here is no fevered breath, No wound that bleeds and aches.

Sunday last a soldier of Co. "A" died and was buried with military honors. ... Everything went on as usual in camp as if nothing had happened, for death is so common that little sentiment is wasted. It is not like death at home.

La plupart de ceux qui sont morts en héros dans les camps sont des croyants : des

Liberation was announced through loudspeakers. They spoke of freedom. No one believed, or disbelieved. No one danced for joy. Even a smile seemed more like the grimace of thirsty lips. On the 8th of May 1945, the day the War was officially over, I was taken to the hospital, located in what had once been the dwellings of the SS guards. There I fought with the fever for my life, and won. However, the person who won that fight, the person who survived the camps was someone else. I had died in the concentration camp.

The organization of the camps in the east revealed a contempt for life, the life of Slavs and Asians and Jews anyway, that made such mass starvation thinkable. In German prisoner-of-war camps for Red Army soldiers, the death rate over the course of the war was 57.5 percent. In the first eight months after Operation Barbarossa, it must have been far higher. In German prisoner-of-war camps for soldiers of the western Allies, the death rate was less than five percent. As many Soviet prisoners of war died on a single given day in autumn 1941 as did British and American prisoners of war over the course of the entire Second World War.

pp. 181-182

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat </br> The soldier's last tattoo; </br> No more on life's parade shall meet </br> That brave and fallen few. </br> On fame's eternal camping ground </br> Their silent tents are spread, </br> And glory guards, with solemn round, </br> The bivouac of the dead.

La certitude qu’en dernier ressort on est maître de sa vie représente la dernière liberté » (40). Evguénia Guinzbourg, contemplant à Kolyma le corps d’une amie suicidée, trouve aussi un réconfort à penser que cette liberté-là est toujours accessible : « Si je veux, je mettrai moi-même un terme à ma vie » (II, 123). Les gardiens des camps le savent bien : choisir le moment et le moyen de sa propre mort, c’est affirmer sa liberté ; or c’est précisément la négation de cette liberté, et donc de cette dignité, qui est le but du camp. C’est pourquoi, alors même qu’ils donnent la mort avec autant de facilité, ces gardiens empêchent par tous les moyens les suicides. Filip Müller s’est introduit volontairement dans la chambre à gaz pour y trouver la mort ; mais les gardiens le découvrent et l’en retirent brutalement : « Espèce de cul, satané scélérat, apprends que c’est nous, et non toi, qui décidons si tu dois vivre ou mourir ! » (155). Plus importante que la mort est l’aliénation de la volonté : c’est elle qui permet de jouir pleinement du pouvoir sur autrui. Bettelheim explique ainsi l’irritation des surveillants devant les suicides, qui, pourtant, leur épargnent une « sale besogne » : tout acte d’autodétermination doit être sévèrement puni.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty — they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars — they are at peace. In the midst of battles, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death.

Oh, tell me not that they are dead — that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives, and more heroic patriotism?
Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. It was your son, but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. Before, he was yours: he is ours. He has died from the family, that he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected: and it shall by and by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life.

Great also are the souls of the defenders—men who know that, as long as the path to death lies open, the blockade is not complete, men who breathe their last in the arms of liberty.

The concentration camps, by making death itself anonymous (making it impossible to find out whether a prisoner is dead or alive), robbed death of its meaning as the end of a fulfilled life. In a sense they took away the individual’s own death, proving that henceforth nothing belonged to him and he belonged to no one. His death merely set a seal on the fact that he had never existed.

It appeared that most of the men and boys had died of starvation; they had not been executed. But the manner of death seemed unimportant. Murder had been done at Buchenwald. God alone knows how many men and boys have died there during the last twelve years.

What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp? Why, I would die of course. Literally shit myself lifeless.

On a battlefield men die quickly, they fight back, they are sustained by fellowship and a sense of duty. Here I saw people dying in solitude by slow degrees, dying hideously, without the excuse of sacrifice for a cause. They had been trapped and left to starve, each in his home, by a political decision made in a far-off capital around conference and banquet tables.