About

My father—at one time, I loved his name so much. The German Empire, Nazi. These are all names for my father. I didn't see him often because he was always on the battlefield, but when he returned, he would appear before me in his fine black uniform and black gloves to stroke my hair. I can never forget the shark-like teeth he showed when he smiled. Yes, I can't forget. If I go even a moment without pills or alcohol, my father, Nazi, keeps appearing before my eyes. He whispers to me, 'You want to be close to Polen? You've truly gone mad, haven't you? Son, did I raise you wrong?' Ah, as the days go by, my guilt toward Polen grows, and the gazes of my friends—America, France, Italy, and Britain—sting. I'm losing my mind. I feel like my glasses are about to shatter. I can't even speak to Polen. Ignoring what belongs to me has reached its limit.