Language, lays the foundation for the tenderest memorial to the victims. "You say nameless just because you don't know their names, but they are no different from you." Kiel expressed the nature of war madness in the snow. They glanced at the monument that stretched for hundreds of meters - it was usually made of gray or white granite, and it was densely packed like an ant colony. The print is ruthless, and the seasons are cold. The deceased, printed in type, seems to be in a cold sarcophagus, with nowhere to go. Codifying names into words and combining them into a beautiful language is such a tender remembrance. "What a beautiful language," exclaimed Claus, muttering the syllables of his name. The syllables don't have any meaning, it's just Kiel, with his big soft, hazy eyes, like a cat, from the outside to the inside, giving the dead a meaning based on them, "crazy", "patience", "hungry". ","life". When the weight of life is poured into words, there is a sense of solemnity. This hymn of life takes place in a gloomy and terrifying place, never known until the last moment of its death. Kiel had tried to make Klaus understand that, too. This Nazi officer, an amateur cook, was dazed by the wealth and wealth. He selectively ignored the evil deeds he had committed in his comfort, and made killing and anger routine, becoming a servant of fame, fortune and wealth. It's interesting that such a grim conflict takes place in the kitchen, on this shrewd, arrogant, soft little Persian cat, where his hidden humanity is first revealed. "I'm going to open a restaurant in Tehran," Klaus explained to Kiel, his unspoken ordinary dream. For a moment, I really thought that he would walk into that forest with him, repent for his mistakes, and become a sober and kind person from now on. However, the madness and neuroticism he displayed, intentionally or not, forced me to look directly at the horrors of war—indiscriminate violence, hysteria, in which everyone ran for a fanatical desire at any cost. There were times when Claude was tempted, such as giving him a promise of life, a pair of hands that were about to fall under the dim light. But that promise was selfish, it was a blood-stained hand for self-gratification. Selfish love in crazy times is not worthy of pity. They all ran towards each other's freedom and reaped the karma they deserved. Those 2,480 names are immortal memorials and indelible scars.
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