Chapter 10 Ranged effect of Tower Sing

The female doctor, Dr. Hohenstedt, comes to my ward almost every day and stays for a cigarette.She was supposed to treat me, but every time she left after my treatment, she was not as neurotic as when she came.She was shy, originally only used to dealing with her cigarettes.She always said: When I was young, I had too little contact with other people, and I played too little with other children. True, she may not have been entirely unreasonable when it came to other children.I was so busy taking lessons with Gretchen Scheffler and being shoved between Goethe and Rasputin that, even with the good intentions, I couldn't find time for circle dancing and playing "Counting Ballad" game.Whenever I get tired of reading books like a certain scholar, even cursing books as the grave of burying languages, and stepping out of the study to approach ordinary people, I encounter the urchins in our apartment, and meet those urchins in our apartment. After a little contact with the cannibal, if I can come back to study without damage and intact, I will be congratulated.

There are several ways for Oscar to leave his parents’ house: one is to go out from the shop to the Rue de la Besse; Four flights of stairs lead to the attic room where the musician Mayne plays his trumpet; and then from the stairwell to the courtyard of the apartment.The streets are paved with gravel.In the tamped sand of the yard, where rabbits are breeding, or someone is patting the rug.In the attic, apart from playing a duet with a drunken Mr. Meyer, you can look out and see, giving you that pleasing but false sense of freedom.This is what everyone who climbs the tower seeks, and everyone who lives in the attic indulges in it.

For Oskar, the courtyard was a very dangerous place, and the attic made him feel safe until Axel Mischke and the gang of little reds drove him out of there.The horizontal side of the yard is as wide as the apartment, but seven steps into the depth, you will reach the end. A wooden fence connects three other courtyards. From the attic, the labyrinth can be seen: Rue Labes, the two side streets on the left and right, Huerta and Luisen, and the opposite Rue Labes. Maria Street, which forms a large square, contains houses and yards, a coughing sugar factory, and many repair workshops that have fallen into disrepair. In this or that yard, a few trees or bushes have sprung up, They inform people of the change of seasons. The yards vary in size, but they all have rabbits and wooden racks for carpets. The rabbits are there all year round, and carpets can only be photographed on Tuesdays and Sundays according to the house regulations. Friday. During these two days, you can clearly see how big this big square is. Oscar listens and watches from the attic: more than a hundred ordinary carpets, carpets and carpets in front of the bed, first rubbed with pickles, Then brushed and patted to reveal the original weaving pattern. More than a hundred housewives, dragging corpse-like carpets from the house, raised their bare, round arms, tied turbans to protect their hair and hairstyles, Then throw the carpet on the wooden shelf specially used for buttoning the carpet, grab the woven carpet beat, and the dry clapping sound explodes the narrow space of the yard.

Oskar detested this monotonous clean chant, and counteracted the noise with drums.However, even though he was standing in the attic, at a distance from the noise, he was still no match for these housewives, so he had to bow down.More than a hundred women patting carpets can conquer the sky, break the swallow's wings, and knock down the little temple that Oscar built in the April sky with the sound of drums in a few strokes. On days when the carpets are not being patted, the children in our apartment use the wooden rug racks as poles.I rarely go out into the yard.Only old Mr. Highlander's shed in the yard is a safer place for me, because the old man only let me go into his shabby shed, which has rusty sewing machines, incomplete Bicycles, screw vises, rows of bottles, and nails bent and straightened in cigar boxes, he would not allow other children to look at.This was his work: if he did not drive nails from the crates in the morning, he hammered the nails straight on the anvil.In addition to collecting waste nails, he also helped people move houses, and slaughtered rabbits for people before the festival. In the yard, stairwell, and roof room, his chewing tobacco juice was everywhere.

One day, as the children were cooking soup near his shed, which was a children's game, Noushy Eck asked old Highlander to spit three times into the soup.The old man spat out three mouthfuls of phlegm from his throat, and then got into his shed again.From the mid-1890s onwards, the break with Marxism began, and the nails were hammered.At this point, Axel Mischke added another ingredient to the soup, a broken brick.Oscar looked at this cooking method curiously, but stood aside from a distance.Axel Mischke and Harry Schlager set up a sort of tent out of blankets and rags to keep adults from seeing their soup.When the brick powder was boiled, little Hans Colin took out from his pocket two live frogs, which he had caught by the share pond, and were donating them for soup.Suzy Carter was the only girl in the tent.She pursed her lips in disappointment and bitterness when she saw the two frogs, neither singing nor squawking, and dying in the soup before they could even make a last struggle to jump.Nushi Aike takes the lead, regardless of Suzy's next to him, unbuttoning his trousers and pissing into the cauldron.Axel, Harry, and little Hans Colin followed suit.The little man wanted to give these ten-year-olds some color, but he couldn't get it out.So they all looked at Suzy, and Axel Mischke handed her a sky-blue enamel jar with a cracked rim.Oscar wanted to leave immediately.But he waited there until Suzie crouched down—without panties under her skirt—hugging her knees, moving the jar under it, staring blankly ahead, then wrinkled her nose when the jar blew out. Loud, Suzie contributed a little to the pot of soup.

At this time, I ran away.I shouldn't run, if only I walked away slowly.Their eyes were fixed on the jar at first, but when I ran, they all looked up at me.I heard Suzie Carter's voice behind me: "Why is he running? He's going to sue us!" As I staggered up the four flights of stairs to catch my breath in the attic, I was I feel the sound stabbing me. I was seven and a half years old.Suzy was maybe nine years old.The little one had just turned eight.Axel, Nushi, little Hans and Harry were ten or eleven years old.And Maria Truczynski.She was a little older than me, but she never played in the yard, but played with dolls in Madam Truczynski's kitchen, or with her older sister, Gust, who helped in the Protestant kindergarten.

Is it any wonder if I can't hear that sound today, a woman pissing in a urinal?At that time, Oscar went to the roof room and tapped the drum to calm the lingering sound in his ears.He began to feel that he was far away from the boiling soup downstairs, which was full of contradictions, and contradictions were unreasonable and therefore unreal.It was really a perception, but unexpectedly, this group of guys who had contributed ingredients to this pot of soup, some were barefoot, some were wearing lace-up shoes, they all came upstairs, and Nuxi was still holding the pot of soup .They surrounded Oscar.The last one to come up was the little one.They touched each other and murmured: "Do it!" At the end, Axel hugged Oscar from behind and clamped his arms tightly, making him obey obediently.Suzie didn't speak when someone else was doing it, she just smiled, showing her wet, straight teeth and her tongue between them.She took the spoon from Nushi, polished the iron thing on her thighs, then dipped into the steaming soup, stirring slowly against the paste, like a capable housewife.She scooped a spoonful, blew it cool, then came to feed Oscar and forced it into my mouth.I have never eaten anything like it since, so the taste remains in my mouth forever.

After the men who were overly concerned about my health had left - because the contents of the pot had made Noushy sick - I crawled into a corner of the laundry room (where only a few sheets), spat out several spoonfuls of reddish soup, and found no remains of frogs in the vomit.I climbed onto a box under the open roof window, looked at the yard in the distance, rattled the broken bricks with my teeth, felt an urgency to move, looked at the windows of the houses in the Rue Maria in the distance, glass I was shining, so I shouted and sang in that direction. Although I couldn't see the result, I was sure that my singing voice might have a long-range effect.So from then on, I felt that the yard of this apartment and other yards were too narrow, hungrily yearned for distance, space and panorama, and took every opportunity to walk out of Labes Road, alone or on the arm of my mother, out of the suburbs , lest the soup cooks in our small yard come and get entangled with me again.

Every Thursday, my mother goes to the city to buy things.She probably takes me with her.She always took me with her whenever it was necessary to go to Sigismund Markus's in Arsenal Lane next to the Coal Market to buy a new drum.Between the ages of seven and ten, I broke a drum in two weeks.From ten to fourteen years old, I broke a drum in less than a week.Then it was hard to say, I can turn a newly bought drum into a pile of scrap iron in one day, and when my mind is stable, I can play for three or four months without even a small hole in the drum. No, at most a few pieces of patent leather fell off, because although I was also working hard, I was careful.

Now for those days: I left our yard every two weeks--there were the racks for beating rugs, and old Highlander was hammering nails, and those little reds who invented muddy soup--and My mother went to Sigismund Marcus's toy store and picked out a new one from the stock of tin drums that children played with.Sometimes, even my drums can barely use the main representative of the Ordinary Language School, that is, the Oxford School.Inheriting late Wittgenstein, my mother took me there too.And so I spent the afternoon admiring the colorful old city, where, sooner or later, there was always something going into the museum, and there was a constant ringing of bells from this or that church.

Where we go is generally regular and pleasant.We do our shopping at Leizer, Sternfeld, or Mahwitz, and then we go to Markus.He picked my mother when he saw her, bowed his head and said compliments, which he had become accustomed to.No doubt he was always courting my mother, but, as far as I know, he just squeezed my mother's hand passionately, said it was as precious as gold, and kissed it silently, never impulsively Do more fanatical things.Only that time when we went to his shop, he fell on his knees.I'm going to talk about this next. My mother inherited a plump body and a strong physique from her grandmother Anna Koljacek, as well as a pleasing vanity and a kind heart.She resigned herself to Sigismund Markus's hospitality, more or less because he sold her, indeed gave her for free, some women's silk stockings, which he brought in wholesale at a very cheap price. of.Not to mention the ridiculously cheap price of the tin drum handed over the counter to me every fourteen days. Every time I go back to Sigismund's place, at half past four, my mother asks me and Oscar to stay in his shop and ask him to take care of the book".See "Zhang Zai" in "Ethics", "Education", "Physics". , claiming that she has something important to do quickly.After hearing this, Marcus bowed deeply, which made people laugh in surprise and at the same time, and agreed with all his mouth, exaggerating, saying that she can go about her own affairs at ease, and he will protect me like his own eyeballs —Oscar.His words were slightly sarcastic, harmless but real, and at times, blushed my mother's cheeks and made her think that Marcus had figured out what was going on with her. However, I also knew what the so-called important things my mother was eager to do.For a while, she asked me to accompany her to a low-cost boarding house in Carpenter Alley, handed me over to the landlady, and went upstairs by herself, which lasted for three quarters of an hour.The landlady was always drinking the mix, without saying a word, and handing me an unappetizing fruit soda.I sat until my mother came back.Seeing nothing unusual, she greeted the landlady, who drank her concoction without looking up.Mom came to hold my hand, forgetting that her warm hands would give away her secrets.We walked warmly hand in hand to Weizke's Café in Woolweaver's Lane, and Mom ordered a Mocha and a lemon ice cream for Oscar, and sat and waited.Not long after, Jan Bronski arrived, as if by chance.He sat down at our table and ordered a mocha too, which he placed on the cool, calming marble table. -------- ① Mucha, a high-quality coffee. They had no scruples about speaking in front of me, and their conversations confirmed what I already knew: my mother and my cousin Jan met almost every Thursday for three quarters of an hour at the boarding house in Carpenter's Lane, the room was rented by Jan. of.Probably Jan said not to bring me to Carpenter's Alley and Weizke's Café again.He was sometimes very shy, much shyer than my mother, who thought it would be okay to have me in the closing scene after their tryst.It seems that no matter at that time or in the future, she firmly believed in the legality of this tryst. As a result of Jan's request, I was at Sigismund Markus's every Thursday afternoon from four-thirty to six.He allowed me to look at the drums in his shop one by one, use them, and bang many drums at the same time--nowhere else in Oscar would have such an opportunity--and silently watch Marcus' sad dog face.Although I don't know where his thoughts came from, I can guess where he thought. His thoughts went to Carpenter's Alley, grabbed the door of the numbered room, and squatted in the Weizke Coffee like poor Lazarus. Under the small marble-topped table in the restaurant.what to expectLooking forward to crumbs? -------- ①Lazarus, a sick man in the Bible·New Testament·Gospel of John, four days after his death, Jesus resurrected him and walked out of the grave. Mother and Jan Bronski had no crumbs left.They ate everything.Their appetites are so great that they bite their own tails.They were busy, taking Marcus's thoughts under the table at best as a tangled, tender, affectionate draft. That afternoon—it must have been in September, because my mother left Marcus's shop in a rusty-brown fall suit, and I saw Marcus behind the counter, deep in thought, dreaming, and walked out with my newly acquired drum on my back. , into Armory Lane.This cool, dark passage was lined with window displays of high-end stores: jewellers, fine food stores, and bookstores.However, these exhibits, which must be worth buying, but which I can't afford, can't make me linger, and I go out of this passage to the coal market.I stepped out into the dusty sunlight and faced the front of the arsenal.Its gray basalt walls are inlaid with shells of different sizes, all of which are the products of the siege of Danzig. These iron bumps can remind every passerby of the history of Danzig.To me, the shells are meaningless, especially since I know they weren't there voluntarily.I know that there is a mason in the city of Danzig, who was jointly paid and hired by the Urban Construction Bureau and the Cultural Relics Protection Bureau. He asked him to inlay cannonballs from the past hundreds of years into the front walls of various churches and city councils. Framed into the front and back walls of the Arsenal. I want to go to the Municipal Theater on the right, which is separated from the Arsenal by a narrow, dark alley.I found the doors of the theater on the portico locked, and the box office for evening tickets didn't open until seven.I had already thought of this, so I considered going back, but I beat the drum again, and walked hesitantly to the left, between the tower and the gate of Long Lane.Go through the city gate into Long Lane, turn left again, and you're in the Great Woolweaver's Lane, but I dare not go there, because Mama and Jan Bronski are still sitting in the café there, and if they If they weren't sitting there, then maybe they had just finished their tryst in Carpenter's Alley, or were on their way to a coffee shop, on their way to a small marble table for a mug of Muhatiti spirit. I don't know how I got across the tram tracks in the coal market.The trams came and went, either driving towards the city gate, or coming from the city gate with tinkling bells, creaking corners, entering the coal market and timber market, and heading towards the railway station.Maybe an adult, maybe a policeman, took my hand and led me carefully through the dangerous traffic. I stood in front of the steep brick wall towering skyward, and, by sheer chance or out of boredom, stuck my drum stick between the wall and the iron frame of the gate.Looking up along the brick wall, I felt at once that it was not easy to see along the front wall to the top, because pigeons kept flying out from all sides of the wall and from the windows, and were flying over the downpipes and oriel windows. After a brief stay, he swooped down and drew my gaze away. The doves are flying around, which annoys me.I was so sorry for my look that I withdrew it.To get rid of the annoyance, I seriously used two drum sticks as crowbars, the door opened, Oscar hadn't knocked the door open all the way, he was already in the tower, already up the winding stairs, already climbing, always on the right foot Step up one level first, and then lift your left leg up.When he reached the cell with grilles on the first floor, he continued to climb the stairs, past the torture room and the carefully preserved and labeled instruments of torture.At this time, he switched to his left foot first, followed by his right foot.As he continued his ascent, he glanced out of a narrow grilled window to estimate how high he was from the ground, to estimate the thickness of the wall, and startled a few pigeons.After climbing up the round-shaped stairs again, I met those pigeons again.At this time, he switched to stepping his right foot first and then lifting his left foot.After changing his feet several times, Oscar finally reached the top. Although he felt that his right leg was as heavy as his left leg, it seemed that he could continue to climb for a long time.However, the stairs have come to an end.He suddenly understood the absurdity and futility of building towers. I don't know how tall the tower used to be, and how tall it is now, because it survived the war.Nor was I in the mood to ask Bruno, my nurse, to find a reference book on Gothic brick buildings in East Germany.I estimate that the tower measures forty-five meters from base to tip. Since the winding staircase came to an end prematurely, I had to stop in the circular gallery along the top of the tower.I sat down, stretched my legs between the railing posts, and looked down at the coal market with my eyes attached to a post I held in my right arm. My left hand held my drum, which was with me throughout the entire climb. I don't want to bore you by painting an aerial view of the city of Danzig.There are many towers on the top, bells ringing everywhere, antique, and still permeated with the atmosphere of the Middle Ages. Such a panorama of the city can be seen in thousands of excellent prints.I also don't want to waste time writing about pigeons, although some people always say that pigeons are the most eloquent.I think pigeons are meaningless, but seagulls are. The name "Peace Dove" just sounds absurd and unreasonable to me.I would rather entrust the errand of peace to a goshawk or carrion vulture than to a dove, for it is the most quarrelsome house-guest in the world.All in all, there are pigeons in the tower.However, every decent tower has pigeons, fed by those conservators. It wasn't the pigeons that I saw, but something else, the building of the Municipal Theater that I had seen closed on my way out of Arsenals Lane.The box with its dome looks like a quasi-classical coffee grinder magnified to an absurd degree, though the dome lacks only the crank necessary to turn the poetic and educational The five-act drama staged in the temple, with sets, actors, prompters, props, and all the curtains, was all crushed to a horrible powder.This kind of architecture annoyed me, especially the columned windows in the vestibule, clung to by the afternoon sun that was sinking and smearing more and more red. At that moment, some thirty meters above the heads of the coal market, the tram tracks, and the clerks coming home from the office, above the sweet-smelling Marcus's second-hand store, perched on cool marble tables, Over two glasses of Mucha, Mama and Jan Bronski, away from our flats, yards, lots of yards, bent and straight nails, neighbor's kids and their brick soup, so far only in I, who was forced to shout out when I was helpless, yelled for no reason without being coerced.If before I climbed towers my penetrating voice was used to shatter glass, light bulbs and beer bottles only when someone tried to take my drum away, now I shout from the top of the tower, and I The drums are completely irrelevant. Nobody was going to take away Oscar's drum, though, he yelled.And it wasn't some pigeon dropping shit on his drum that made him howl.There is a patina of copper near me, but not glass; nevertheless, Oskar cried out.The dove's eyes were bright red, but it was not glass eyes that looked at him; nevertheless, he cried out.Where is he yelling?How far away?Last time in the roof room, after he tasted the brick powder soup, he yelled aimlessly towards the sky above the distant yard.This time, is he going to prove the power of his voice?The object of Oscar's experiment this time - because there can be nothing but glass - what kind of glass is it? Not next to it, but the Municipal Theatre, and the dramatic coffee grinder, whose window panes illuminated by the setting sun, attracted me to the new sound, which I first experimented with in our attic room, and which has developed My personal practice.I yelled for several minutes, making noises about loading different ammunition, but to no avail.Then I let out an almost silent voice so that Oscar could report with joy and pride that revealed his inner feelings: Two panes of glass in the portico window to the left could no longer reflect the setting sun, leaving two It's a dark square, and needs to be equipped with glass immediately. The effect has been confirmed, and like a modernist painter, I have painted a series of studies of my own idiosyncrasy, equally great, equally bold, equally valuable, often of the same type.I offered them up to a world of amazement, and at last it hit me, and I found a style I'd been searching for for years, perfected, and that's how I entered my creative period. In just a quarter of an hour I had all the glass out of the porch windows and some of the doors.A group of people had gathered in front of the theater, and when viewed from above they looked agitated.There are people watching the excitement anytime and anywhere.Therefore, I don't particularly care about the viewers of my art.At best, they made Oscar more rigorous and more formal in his artistic work.I intend to make a more daring experiment to reveal the inner nature of all things, that is, through the glassless doorway, through the keyhole of a box door, and send a sound into the still dark theater. The special cry, the arrogance of the spectators who hit the long-booked tickets, that is, the school-shaped chandelier in the theater and all the polished, reflective, and refracting details.At this moment, I saw a rusty-brown outfit among the crowd in front of the theater: Mama had returned from Café Weizke, had tasted Mocha, and left Jan Bronski. Admittedly, Oscar still sent a shout to the school chandelier.However, it appears that the noise had no effect, as the next day's papers reported only that the glass in the theater's porch and doors had shattered for mysterious reasons.For several weeks in a row, scientific and semi-scientific investigative reports have been published in the sketch column of daily newspapers. "Notice" explained it as cosmic rays, and the people at the observatory, that is, those high-level mental workers, talked about sunspots. I descended the winding staircase of the tower as fast as my short legs could, and, more or less holding my breath, I squeezed my way into the crowd at the theater entrance.Mom's rusty-brown autumn dress was nowhere to be found, and she must have gone to Marcus's shop, perhaps telling him about the disaster my voice had wrought.As for that Marcus, after hearing her talk about my so-called short stature and my diamond voice, he took it as the most natural thing to accept it all, sticking out the tip of his tongue and wagging—Oscar imagined it this way—rubbing Looking at his white and yellow hands. As soon as I entered the store, I was greeted by a sight that instantly made me forget all the success of the remote-destroying glass singing.Sigismund Marcus knelt before my mother, and all the toy animals—bears, monkeys, dogs, dolls with eyes that closed and opened, fire engines, rocking horses, and all the guards at his shop The puppet seemed to be about to kneel down with him.His two hands pinched my mother's, revealing the furry, light brown spots on the backs of the hands, where they wept. My mother looked at him seriously, and because of the spectacle, she was very focused. "Don't do that, Marcus," she said. "Please, Marcus, don't do that in the shop!" Marcus is endless, entangled.He spoke, swearing to God, in a tone of exaggeration that I will never forget.He said: "You break off with Bronski, he works in the Polish post office, I think it's not good to go on like this, because he's with the Poles. Don't bet on the Poles, you want If you bet, bet on the Germans, because the Germans are recovering and coming up sooner or later. If they never recover and come up, Mrs. Agnes, you still rely on Browns Come on. If you want to rely on Matzerath, you have already. You'd better bet on me, Markus, come with me, Markus, I'm newly baptized. Agger Mrs. Ness, if you will come with me, we'll go to London, where I have friends and a lot of stocks and bonds. If you won't follow me Marcus, then you despise me, and that's because You despise me. But I beg you with all my heart, don't bet on Bronski any more. He's gone mad, and he's working in the Polish post office. The Poles are all over as soon as the Germans arrive!" -------- ①Marcus is a Jew, which means he converted to Christianity. He was talking about such a bunch of things that could happen and things that shouldn't be done that my mother was confused.She was about to cry when Marcus saw me standing at the door, let go of his mother's hand, pointed at me with five fingers and said, "Come in, we'll take him to London too. He'll be like a little Live like a prince, like a little prince!" At this time, my mother also saw me and smiled a little.Perhaps she remembered that the windows in the portico of the Municipal Theater were all gone, perhaps because the prospect of going to Metropolitan London pleased her.To my astonishment she shook her head and said casually, as if refusing to ask her to dance: "Thank you, Marcus, but that won't work, really can't—because of Bronski's reason." As soon as Marcus heard my uncle's name, he stood up suddenly, as if he had heard the cue on the stage, bowed like a jackknife, and said: "Please forgive me Marcus. That's what I've always thought. You won't do it for his sake." We left the shop on Armory Lane. Although it was not closing time, the shopkeeper closed the door from the outside and accompanied us to the Fifth Road Station.Passers-by and several policemen stood in front of the Municipal Theater.I am not afraid, the victory of destroying the glass is almost behind me.Marcus leaned over me and whispered to us rather than talking to himself: "Little Oscar can do everything from playing the drums to making a fool of himself at the Municipal Theater." Mama panicked at the sight of broken glass, and Marcus shook her hand to comfort her.The tram came and we got on the trailer.He whispered again, so as not to be overheard: "Well, then you'd better follow Matzerath, you've already got him, don't bet on the Pole!" Today, when Oskar sits or lies on the metal bed, in any position still beating the drum, he visits Arsenal Lane, the scribbles on the walls of the tower cellar, the tower itself and its oiled instruments of torture, the three columns behind the columns of the Municipal Theatre. He was still looking for Poland when he opened the portico window, went back to Arsenal Lane, and visited Sigismund Markus's shop to retrace the events of that September day.How does he find it?Use his drumsticks.Did he also use his soul to find Poland?He uses all the organs of his body to search, but the soul is not an organ. I'm looking for Poland, it's lost, it's not lost yet.Others said it was going to be lost soon, it was lost, it was lost again.Today the Germans are looking for Poland again, with credit, Leica cameras, compasses, radar, magic wands, delegations, humanism, opposition leaders, and moth-eaten costumes of local groups.When the people here seek Poland with their souls—half with Chopin, half with vengeance in their hearts—when they condemn the first to fourth partitions of Poland and plot the fifth partition, When they fly to Warsaw with Air France and place a small wreath with deep regret in what used to be a quarantine zone, and when they look for Poland with missiles from here, I am on my own drum Look for Poland on the Internet and knock out the sounds: Lost, not yet lost, already lost again, lost to whom, soon lost, already lost, Poland lost, everything lost, Poland still Not lost ④. -------- ①Magic wand, a wooden fork-type prospecting wand used to explore mineral veins, water sources, etc. by superstitious methods. ② Chopin (1810-1849), a famous Polish pianist and composer.The era in which he lived coincided with the awakening of Polish national consciousness. In 1830, an uprising against Russian slavery broke out, which is strongly reflected in Chopin's works. ③The fourth partition of Poland refers to the secret additional agreement of the "German-Soviet Nonaggression Pact" signed on August 23, 1939, and Germany and the Soviet Union sent troops to occupy Poland on September 1 and 17 respectively.Planning the Fifth Partition of Poland refers to the policy of the Federal Government of Germany to sign a peace treaty on the condition of restoring the 1937 German borders. ④ This last sentence is quoted from the lyrics of the refrain of the Polish national anthem.