All language subtitles for Walpurgis Night 2015 720p WEB H264-FLAME_eng

Is something wrong?

Is that all?

Anything else? I've got an appointment.

She agreed.

Yes.

No.

No.

Yes.

Yes.

In her dressing room.

I don't know.

That I am.

That I'm a journalist.

Yes, I've got it.

Well, I can't…

Mother, she'll be coming
offstage any second.

Thank you.

Yes, thank you very much. Now I'm happy.

I'm not. I'm in a hurry, that's all.

All right!

And… one, two, three, au revoir!

Mother, you didn't hang up.

SWITZERLAND
APRIL 30, 1969

Excuse me, sir, but could I have
the briefcase I left with you?

Yes.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I'm really sorry…

I have an appointment
with Madame Sedler, an interview.

But I don't know
where her dressing room is.

Yes.

Could you show me the way?

Yes…

Madam, I made an appointment
with you for today. I phoned your agent.

You agreed. I know.
Rehearsals, concentration…

Fuck off.

Have a good evening, sir.

Fuck off? How come?

Will you help me undress, young man?

No, Madame, you can't do this.

Well, what'll it be, my young gallant?
I believe we have an interview arranged…

There are rights and obligations too.
You have to respect them, Madame.

-I don't agree and that's that.
-Getting cold feet, little fellow?

Madame, I beg you to listen to me.

You can't do this to me.
What have I ever done?

Get out!

I've never behaved
like this to you, Madame.

Please, tell me if I'm wrong.

You've no right to treat me like this.

Why are you standing there
like a pillar of salt?

I'll kill Francesco!

Szymon?

That Fritz can't sing! Do something!

Cut.

Thank you. A standing ovation.

He can't bloody sing!
His vibrato wobbles like jelly!

It's agony to the ears. Understand?

Go on then, take him.

Young, gorgeous, but I don't like him,
he's not my type…

Do they no longer have
that discipline of theirs in Germany?

Discipline! I'll say what I like!

She's gone.

Out on her ear.

She said, "In those Polish
extermination camps, they…" Understand?

In the Polish camps.

She didn't even finish.

I don't care about that.

No, Szymon, no!

I will not sing with a no-talent.

Where should I put this?

I can give you three names
for the role here and now.

Leo's singing in Vienna.
He'll come if I ask.

So what if it's stepping into the role?
It's well-paid.

You want me to contribute?
Szymon, what a Jew you are.

No, it's not that I don't like Germans.

They're musical moguls.

And just you wait. In 40 years or so,

the European state with the fastest
developing economy will be Germany!

That French director. Vision.
Chasing his vision.

Turandot perched in a lifeguard's chair
and got up like a seal.

Figaro as a hotel pageboy
and Norma in a marine's uniform.

Ah, wait… I'll tell you something.

Hang on. I'll read it to you.

"Yesterday evening, we witnessed
a thrilling performance by Nora Sedler."

"Confined to a floating recliner,
her role serves as a metaphor

for the fragility and uncertainty
of human existence."

"The swimming pool, the water,
aquætic symbols."

Aquatic, not aquætic!

"Aquætic symbols sublimating
the problem of existence…" Such shit.

But I sang superbly.

No, Szymon, I'm not smoking,
but if I wanted to, nothing would stop me.

The phone's ringing.
Do something about that German.

Bye, my darling.

Hello.

Hello.

Oh, Szymon, what do you want?

I've got a headache, you old coot.

You see? And did it hurt?

No.

That Fritz will thank me for it one day.

All right. I'll take a yellow pill.

I've got a pink one as well.
For climaxing…

You sense everything, you old fox.

Young. Handsome. Slim.

He's bound to have a slender one,
but that doesn't bother me.

What matters is that it's long.

Oh, I'm not in the least vulgar.
I just know what I want,

not like most of the directors that
have been my misfortune to work with.

I'm sure you'd rather it was the lips
of the whelp gazing at me with baby blues

that were
"resting on my arteria femoralis…"

A frog. Very Nordic-looking.

I'll give him the interview.
And then I'll give him the rest.

Whisky?

Whisky and cola.

Me? I prefer it neat, without ice.

Because you're a real man, my boy.

I don't drink anything alone.

Whisky with cola, wine with orange juice,
beer with ginger syrup,

coffee with milk, tea with lemon,
I need company…

You simply have your whims, Madame.

Like every diva.

I am not "every" diva.

May I sit down?

Please forgive me, Madame.

You're absolutely right.
It's a very stupid expression.

You learn fast. Impressive.
You're accomplished.

Mixing drinks is my weakest strength,
I can assure you, Madame…

Slow down, my boy,
I'm already disintegrating.

In that case, Madame, I'd like to have
something from you as a memento…

My pancreas, for instance?
Or would you prefer my spleen?

I'd prefer it if my lips were to touch
devoutly upon your "arteria femoralis…"

You speak Polish. How?

May I pour myself a drink too?

You'll find the glasses on the left,
in the drawer.

I've got one. Thank you.

Regarding the matter, where you show
more decisiveness than other directors,

I assure you, you are wholly mistaken
when it comes to width, Madame.

And when it comes to length,
I don't think you'll be disappointed.

I hope it won't hurt.

"Lithuania… my country!"

"O, like health art thou,

only he who hath lost thee will ever know

how greatly to prize thee…"

You're a Pole…

Soon after the war,
we moved to Switzerland.

But you don't have an accent.

My father saw to that.

My mother's Polish is lousy. She's Swiss.

My father's French is lousy.

I had to manage to communicate
with both of them somehow…

No. You didn't have to…

No.

I wanted to. I love them.

My, but you are so frank.

Have I offended you in some way, Madame?

Pour me another.
I'm on holiday from tomorrow.

All right.

Apropos touching anecdotes, I've got one.

I'll show you, Madame.
I'll tell you everything.

I hope it'll move you to tears.

No, I'll show you later. First I'll tell.
There'll be more suspense…

You simply don't understand, Madame.

First I have to wrap it around my head…

A costume fitting in Milan. La Scala.

The day before an opening.

I couldn't get there any earlier,
because I was playing at Covent Garden.

Covent Garden.

The first, last, and only fitting
and what do I see?

My Donna Elvira costume.

The director changed the design,
but nobody bothered to inform me.

The assistants kept mum.

-And Szymon had overlooked it.
-Overlooked it.

That young, American director,
the director's protégé,

that fresh blood, that young wolf…

-had cut off the sleeves of my gown.
-Cut off…

"Because Donna Elvira
should be more seductive."

"An operatic Marilyn Monroe."

Well then, you shall have Marilyn Monroe.

I put on the dress.

Silently, Paliccio, the costume master,
does it up at the back.

And keeps on glancing at my tattoo.

I take a black pencil…

An eyebrow pencil?

And, very carefully, I touch up
the outline of the faded tattoo.

No.

You're ferociously malicious, Madame.

Spare me the compliments, please.

The young American director,
John, or James,

irrelevant, because more often than not,
Americans are either John or James,

interrupts my aria
"Ah, chi mi dice Mai" and says,

"Clean up that dirty arm
of Madame Sedler's please!"

-He said "dirty arm"?
-"Madame Sedler's."

The assistant hurries over
to me with a hanky.

My Don Giovanni's frozen on the spot.

The assistant says to John or James,
"But it's a number!"

"What number?"
says the irritated John or James.

So I yell from the stage, "A camp number."

At that, he asks, absolutely candidly,

"What camp?"

A fucking Girl Guide camp!

Girl Guide…

Girl Guide…

Oh, Jesus!

Who are you really, you little snot?

You slithered into my dressing room
like a serpent.

You laugh at my memories,

but it's not funny to have no respect
for my past and my experiences.

Why are you here?

I wanted to interview you, Madame.

So why aren't you taking notes?

-Because I've got a tape recorder.
-Where?

-Over there. In my briefcase.
-You've been recording everything?

Who sent you?

Are you some kind of Neo-Fascist?
An anti-Semite?

You arrived like a spy with your pure,
anti-Semitic, Polish accent

and think that you can lift my skirt
and rut because I adore boys like you,

Nordic Germans with long phalli,

that you'll give me a beating,
ejaculate on my face,

and show me just what
a pure-blooded bullock like you can do.

Are you part of a group? An Aryan gang?

Oh, don't carry on like a pouting pussy.
Get the tape recorder out and get rolling.

One, two, three, testing.

In 1950, 19 years ago, you said
in an interview that you loathe music.

So why do you sing all the time?

Because it's an excellent way
of earning money.

But you can also earn money
making hats in a milliner's.

I'm better at singing.

-Nobody will believe that you hate music.
-Oh, I'm not bothered about that.

You're not bothered about your audiences?

They're not bothered about me, either.

They love music and singers, not me.

But you owe your living to music lovers.

In general, people are parasites.

You made hats in the ghetto.
You could have gone on doing that.

I did quite a number of things
in the ghetto.

Forgive me for being so personal.

And thus you escaped the Holocaust?

I don't know that
I did escape the Holocaust.

Well, you didn't die in the gas chamber.

Because I was saved by a bottle of perfume
and not in the least by hats.

It was my love of luxury
and my vanity that saved me.

-Which perfume was it?
-I only advertise myself.

So why did the perfume save you?

Now that's a question for you to
confess to a Roman Catholic priest.

I'm Jewish.

How old are you? 26? 27?
And you're not a Jew.

I wanted to talk about
the Holocaust, Madame.

-You haven't answered me.
-I'm the one asking the questions, Madame.

-You're a Jew.
-No, I am not a goddamn Jew!

-But I am a goddamn Jewess.
-Not to mention that I'm blond.

-Where did you get the idea…
-I'm blonde too.

-I dye my hair, I'm not ashamed of it.
-I have to get this interview.

And I don't have to do anything!

Yes. I'm a Jew.

-You're saying that to get this interview.
-I'm saying it to get this interview.

You are a Jew!

You're an anti-Semitic, Aryan Jew.

And a queer.

Turn the radio on when you leave.

What's wrong?

Turn it off.

The camp in Płaszów.

That day, they herded
all the adults to a roll call.

Rounded them up on the Appelplatz.
That's where the people were taken.

They kept them standing
to attention there for hours.

Only the children were
left in the barracks.

Suddenly, some lorries arrived

and the Germans started leading
the children out of the barracks

and putting them onto the lorries.

The crowd stirred, of course.

People began weeping, tearing their hair,
shouting, slamming on the ground.

While the children
were hopping onto the lorries,

the Germans were always broadcasting
something through those loudspeakers.

It was that very song,

"O mein Papa."

And people were writhing
on the ground like adders.

And what did you do, Madame?

I wasn't there.

There were no Jews from Łódź in Płaszów.

Sara was there.

-Did they take her children?
-No.

Sara didn't have any children.
She simply stood there.

It suddenly reminded me. "O mein Papa…"

I'm bald. I'm completely bald.

I beg your pardon?

After the war, I'm completely bald.

Because of Auschwitz?

And it's only in darling Milan
that they remember me.

Did you know
that I went to see the Maestro

in a borrowed suit and a navy-blue scarf
with gold dragons on it?

I had the scarf wound round my head.

I sing Gluck in the Maestro's office.

The Maestro sobs.

The director of La Scala? When was that?

I avert my head and carry on singing.

I look out of the window.

People going hither and thither,
hurrying about their own important things.

Women are putting on stockings and hats

and painting their lips and nails red.

And really, there's nothing
to distinguish between us.

I'm alive too, and I'm singing Gluck.
And the Maestro's weeping.

Do you feel…

Do you feel guilty because you survived?

My father said, "You'll see."

"One day, you'll sing
'O Del mio dolce ardor'

and bring everyone to their knees."

The Maestro sobs.

"Don't cry, Signore, and try to arrange
a wig for me, because I don't have hair."

You returned to the stage. La Scala. 1946.

1961.

"Don't cry, Signora, and try to arrange
a wig for me, because I don't have hair."

Fifteen years later,
the Maestro has cancer.

I go to Milan every chance I get.

Lying there in his apartment
on the Piazza Castello.

In an enormous bed
with a canopy of crimson velvet.

Tiny, stick-thin,
lost amongst the pillows and quilts.

I weep, contrary to my own self.
Understand?

And he says to me…

"Do you still have that navy-blue scarf
with the gold dragons on it, Signora?"

"It would come in handy for me now."

And he chuckles.

Say it to me.

Do you still have that navy-blue scarf
with the gold dragons on it, Signora?

No, Maestro, I'm afraid I don't.

I burnt it just as soon
as my hair grew back.

You burnt it?

-Do tell me what happened, Madame.
-No.

Because the Maestro says
that I've slipped into pathos.

Tell me, my child.
Don't be afraid. Tell me.

All right.

Yes, you really did slip into pathos.

Szymon loves telling that story.

"I've seen you naked,
now I'll have to marry you."

In general, I adore Szymon.

I never would've managed
without him after the war.

After I left the ghetto,
I wouldn't have managed at all.

Here we are! I've found it!

It's stopped raining.

Close the window, please.

Why aren't there
any flowers in here, Madame?

Because flowers bring me out in a rash.

I wanted…

how should I put this?

I wanted to force you to confess.
It was uncalled for.

In other words,
I've been behaving like a swine.

But you're a Harcerz.

A Scout.

I wasn't brought up in Poland.

My father was a Harcerz.
He was in the resistance. The Home Army.

So you absorbed integrity and honesty
with your mother's milk?

My real mother's dead.

Do you remember her?

My earliest memories are
from when I was seven. Maybe six.

I was singing by the time I was six.
Well, beginning to, that is.

My mother died when I was a child too.
My father was a doctor.

He took me to Vienna, because he knew that
only there would my voice be appreciated.

In other words, you speak German
like I speak French, Madame?

I'm a Polish speaker. By choice.

But you sing in German, Madame.

When I do, I always add
a slight Jewish accent.

Do you know what my Vienna was like?

My father gave me my first white fox fur.

But the diamond earrings,
now they came from Archduke Von Habsburg.

I was so foolish that, when I went
to Radegast, I took my best suitcase.

I packed two fur coats.

Four concert gowns and even so,
I was afraid that was too scant by far.

I had perfumes by Guerlain
that I never, ever parted with.

Straight from Paris.
Red nail varnish by Helena Rubenstein.

The youngest and most talented

Madame Butterfly in the Łodź ghetto!

Do you want to know the truth about me?

Then I have a task for you.

Do you want to?

As long as you do, Madame.

You can play the piano, isn't that right?

Why do you ask
a question like that, Madame?

Robert, don't play games with me.
You're a music journalist, are you not?

That doesn't oblige me
to be able to read music, does it?

Oh, but Robert,

the piano concerto in C-sharp minor,
Opus 27, Number 2, by Ludwik van…

-No!
-Yes. The third movement.

-You're joking, Madame! It's not a song.
-And who said anything about singing?

I only sing on the stage.

To the keyboard, please.

No. Though you could sing it, Madame.

Don't fool around. Play.

Thank you. That will do.

And now, take off one of your shoes.

I beg your pardon?

Take off one of your shoes.

Done.

And open up
the lower section of the piano case.

Done.

Pick up the shoe.

And thwack the strings with it.

No.

-Thwack them.
-No.

It won't hurt the piano. Thwack them.

What was that?

Thwack them again. Soundly.

Good.

You thwacked them once.
Thwack them ten times.

Yes. Yes, indeed.

That's right, you Aryan bullock.

Bravo.

When the camp was liberated,
we grabbed Oberkapo Herta.

She had an extraordinary gift
for denouncing.

She succeeded in leading
her own family to the gas chamber.

We dragged her into our barrack.

And trampled her to the floor
with our wooden clogs.

The entire Auschwitz camp went around
in wooden clogs from the Łodź ghetto.

And it was with those wooden clogs…

as if we were playing an instrument…

Herta Grasse, that was her name.

A few years ago, a young, British composer

blindly hammered at the strings of
a concert grand with a shoe

and the audience in Carnegie Hall
gave him an ovation.

A question from a journalist,
a Spanish hulk,

a bit older than you… "Madam Sedler,

Madame, the great operatic diva,
you know music."

"What do you think of

the British composer's
modern composition?"

Did you slap his face, Madame?

"I am a Jew from the ghetto and
Auschwitz."

"I shall never forget that composition."

Later on, I received a letter
from that young British composer.

"Thank you so much, Madame."

"My composition is now greatly
esteemed by the critics,

who have followed your interpretive trope

and take the piece as a lament
for the victims of the Holocaust."

"I do apologize for writing about this,

but I had no thought of that
when I composed the piece."

You see.

He didn't think, but he composed.

If you play the piano so brilliantly,

why do you hammer at me
with a wooden clog, Scout?

Is that it?

Tell me that I should leave.
All this is really diverging the purpose.

Well, that depends on
what purpose you're talking about.

I don't think we've understood
each other at all.

It's not like that. I…

Will you answer that?

Hallo? Madame Sedler's suite.

Ah, good evening, Monsieur Szymon.

Yes, thank you.

Yes, indeed, I managed it somehow.

Well, there are some technical problems
from time to time,

but I'm trying as far as possible…

Yes, indeed. Exactly.

Madame is a charming person,
unusually candid.

It's a great challenge for a journalist,
an interview with an artist of her ilk,

no matter how much one loves
Madame Sedler's music and work.

I beg your pardon?

Where is she now?

Well, she's here somewhere.

Perhaps she's left the room.

Well, maybe,
because I was facing the other way.

Why did I answer the phone?

Her dresser has left.

Ah, she mentioned it…

We're heading behind the Iron Curtain.
This kid understands Polish.

A little Pole.

No, I shouldn't be sleeping.
I should be making love.

Well, resistant. Very.

What do you want
at this hour, my old coot?

That young Japanese fellow?

Over my dead body.

He made costumes for us out of metal.
Airplane metal!

The voice echoed for kilometers.

The seats shook like rocket engines.

I lost my voice after the first aria.

No, that Japanese fellow can shit
all over the stage without me.

Well, there's an appropriate name.
The French'll buy it.

Tell the porter I'll be sleeping
at the theater tonight.

What you're proposing is very tempting,

but I'm asking about the purpose
of your visit, not about the means.

So get dressed, Siegfried.

Appealing?

Well, I prefer Bach.

Dolt.

Why have you changed, Madame?

I've had enough of the press conference.

Is this another game?

Yes!

Any rules?

You have to get what you came for,
don't you?

Hold me!

Bravo!
The lion has put on his dancing shoes!

Oh dear, what's the matter?
You're not like that?

Oh, come on.

Amuse yourself with me a bit differently
from how you do it with others.

All right.

Bravo.

Your mane's even perking up.

You're good. You must be good at it.

Take it easy.
You'll get what you came for.

But under my rules.

Yes? And how does Madame know
what I really want?

You mean you're not here for an interview
for "Paris Match," Monsieur Robert?

Put the record on again,
Richard the Lionheart.

I can't stand the silence of the night.

No! I'm not putting anything on.

I thought you had balls in those trousers.

What do you want, Madame?

What am I supposed to do? How much longer?

I don't have so much as
a single sensible sentence for my article.

You're playing with me
like a cat plays with a dead mouse.

I feel like I'm bleeding to death.

Oh dear, I'll be blubbering in a minute.

If Puccini were still alive,
you could write librettos for his operas.

No, I couldn't.

I want…

Oh well,
I don't care one way or the other.

You're not a journalist.

I don't know what I am.

But you'd like to make
a career for yourself.

Let's enter into an agreement.
A binding transaction…

No. It's fine.

No, backwards now.

No. I'm sorry. I mean forwards.

It's obvious to you, of course, Madame.

My name's Nora.

Robert.

Richard the Lionheart.

Siegfried, Harcerz.

What else was there?

-Scout.
-Enchanté, Madame.

You dance very well.

Do you always pretend a little?

No.

I really don't know how to dance.

I met Thomas Henkel
soon after my debut in Vienna.

Who was Thomas Henkel?

Are you listening
or asking stupid questions?

You met Thomas Henkel
soon after your debut in Vienna.

In 1933.

He sneaked into my dressing room
during the interval of "Madame Butterfly."

He was shy, he had a boyish air,
but that didn't appeal to me back then.

Henkel adored Puccini like Jesus.

"Puccini's for sentimental
boarding-school girls," I giggled.

"I'd like you to sing Puccini
for me one day."

"Tickets are available
at the box office downstairs every day."

That's what I was like.

A few years later, I met him again.

He was standing at Radegast station

in the uniform of an SS Hauptsturmführer.

I was the only one who was allocated
my own accommodation.

He came to see me that same day,

but with none of that
previous shyness of his.

But he was taking quite a risk too.
Disgraceful race.

I cleaned, I cooked,
I looked after him and his home.

The company Thomas kept
required luxury women.

Beautiful, educated, polished companions.

There was no official brothel
in the ghetto.

I selected the most beautiful Jewish women
from the transports.

I organized true ladies for them.
The best.

Dancers,

journalists,

actresses, violinists,

and me, the operatic diva.

You don't have to talk about this
and explain yourself.

No. On the contrary.

I want to talk about it.
My plan provides for it.

What plan?

You're going to hunt me now.

I'm going to do what?

"The Hunt."

You're going to replicate everything
that Thomas did to me.

You're going to be my Thomas.

What's "The Hunt"?

Music turned up full.

I hide. You look for me.

You fire a pistol at me.
It's in the drawer under the mirror.

Then you carve out
a symbol on my inner thigh.

Then you force
the barrel of the pistol inside me.

I sing Puccini
and when I finally start to bleed,

you enter me, but you pull out to climax.

The tapes are yours, Madame.

Don't go, Robert.

Kindly permit me to leave.

No. Don't go, please.
If you go now, I'll shoot myself.

Please don't hinder me, Madame.

Robert, we had an agreement.
I'm Nora. Remember?

You're sick.

You need a doctor.

You have to get this interview, don't you?

I don't have to do anything any longer!

I'm not a journalist.
That's not why I came.

It was a mistake.

Let me leave. I'm not going to
start struggling with you.

I arranged for a friend to let me have
his interview with you.

I actually wanted to write
an opera for you.

Only I didn't have any idea
that you're so…

That's a wonderful idea.

I'll be delighted to sing in your opera,
but don't leave.

Are you joking?

You loathe that kind of music.

It's a 12-tone opera.
"Exodus to Auschwitz."

That's the title.

It's only now that
I can see how stupid it was

to come to you with an opera like that.

But that's a wonderful title.

I love the 12-tone technique.

I'll arrange the premiere for you. Stay.

You don't have to do it with me for real.

It'll be enough if you pretend.

Kitty, kitty, kitty!

Where are you, you Jewish whore?

Hallo!

Thomas hasn't had his fill yet!

All the Jews will come out!

All of you!

Hands up!

Nora! Show yourself.

I'm going to throw up.

No, I'm not.

Don't pester me. Enough!

Nora! Come here!

Don't bellow like that.
You're an idiot. Or…

I'll question you.

Easy, now…
I've got you, Nora, my little angora.

Show me your burrow.

We don't only have to pretend, do we?

Let go.

Let go. You Kraut pig. I'm not afraid.

Who do you think you are?

You're a bit of Jewish scum.

Say it.

Say it!

I'm a bit of Jewish scum.

Who tore the children from their mothers
during the General Curfew?

The Germans.

The Jewish police.

Who said, "Give me your children"?

-Robert, I beg you…
-Pardon?

Hauptsturmführer, I beg you.

Was it I who asked for the children
to be handed over?

Let's return to the question. Who?

-Chaim Rumkowski.
-Bravo.

Was he a German?

Or a Pole, perhaps?

I know, it was a Chinaman who asked
the Jews to hand over all their children,

from infants to ten-year-olds,
to the death wagons.

Chaim was a Jew.
He was the head of the Judenrat.

-They listened to him.
-They listened?

So, while mothers and fathers
were killed defending their children,

some of them, a minority, everyone handed
their children over to the gas chambers,

you stood,

and calmly watched,

as the rest writhed on the ground
like snakes, like worms,

isn't that you put it?

-No!
-Oh? No?

So what did you do?

I sang.

Pardon?

What did you sing?

"Have mercy, my God" from Bach's
"St, Matthew's Passion."

That's not true.

Robert, leave it. I'm tired.
I've had enough.

How do you know it isn't loaded?

Robert?

Is everything all right?

Where are you, Robert?

Say something.

This isn't the least bit funny.

Are you hurt?

You didn't sing there.

I know.

I know.

"Have mercy, my God" is written for alto.

And you're a soprano.

I don't need a lecture from you.
I was there.

Maybe everyone wouldn't have been killed

if there'd been a contralto there.

My lighter was around here somewhere.
Ah, here it is.

Numbers.

Facts.

They can't always be dug up
and revealed at once.

It could have been any of us.

It could have been me.

Ten years earlier, it could have been you.

Eighteen.

You're unsinkable.

There's something about you that makes
everyone bow their head to you, you know?

Tonight is Walpurgis Night.

What nonsense are you talking about?

It's the night of witches,
spirits, the dead.

How I wish that a few of them
were here with me today.

Nora, you're avoiding the question.

On this, the night of the 30th of April,
anything is possible.

The high unites with the low.
The mountain with the valley.

In truth, it's a night of carnival,
it renders states equal,

children and adults,

kings and vassals.

And I am the vassal?

You're so amusing.

No. I'm not amusing.

So what are you?

And you?

I asked first.

Tell me now.

Now.

What's all this about?

About nothing.

There's no answer.

You're a lucky fool.

You can put on your opera
"Exodus to Auschwitz." I'll sing in it.

You can build barracks on the stage,
bring in mud from Oświęcim…

but you'll still never understand it.

You won't get inside it.

You lack the sense of taking part.

Thomas.

You were together for several years.
Am I right?

And you, you were…

My apologies.

I'm mistaken.

Such glorious, organic beauty,
which neither the bullets of war,

nor the gas chamber
of Auschwitz could destroy.

"Look at the marvelous symmetry
of the human frame,

the shoulders,

the hips,

the breasts,
each blossoming with a nipple,

the ribs, arranged in pairs…

look at the navel,

set at the center of the belly…"

"I see the shoulder blades shifting
beneath the silken skin of your back."

"Here, you have…

the spine,

and hidden here are the great networks
of vessels and nerves,

which…

branch out from the trunk
and run through the armpits."

"Oh, the bewitching
inner area of the bent elbow,

abounding in organic delicacies."

"Let me breathe the scent of skin
beneath your knees,

where the masterly capsule
of the joints secretes its slippery oils."

"Let my lips touch devoutly upon…

your arteria femoralis,
which divides further down

into the two arteries of the tibia."

"Let me become intoxicated with your pores
and touch your down,

human image made of protein and water…

…destined for the contours of the grave."

You know The Magic Mountain by heart.

"And let me survive,
my lips against yours."

It's "perish."

We're alive.

-Is there anything that brings you luck?
-Perfumes by Guerlain.

-I told you. I never part from them.
-Yes, you did.

Shall I show you something?

In fact, earlier on, I was going to…

I'll never part with it.

Where did you get that?

I was given it when I was born.

You're lying.

You're lying. Understand?

Understand? You're lying.

I was the one who carved
the "R" onto that charm, for my baby.

Subtitle translation by: Caryl Swift