Psychiatrist Viktor Frankl often wrote about the meaninglessness of his patients’ lives. He was able to sympathize with them in a powerful way, since he spent part of World War II in a concentration camp. He remembered the dark weeks of 1944 vividly. The numbness of the gray days, the cold sameness of every dreary morning.
And then, suddenly, like a bolt of bright colors, came the stunning whisper that the Allies had landed at Normandy. The push was on. The Germans were running. The tide of the war had turned. “By Christmas we’ll be released!” they told each other.
