All language subtitles for Reminiscences.Of.A.Journey.To.Lithuania.1972.1080p.BluRay.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX].eng

That early fall,

in 1257 or '58,

one Sunday morning,

we went into the Catskills,

into the woods.

We walked through the leaves,

beating the leaves with a stick.

We walked up

and up, and deeper and deeper.

It was good to walk like that

and not to think,

not to think anything
about the last ten years.

And I was wondering myself

that I could walk like this

and not to think
about the years of war,

of hunger,

of Brooklyn.

And

almost, and maybe,

it was for the first time,

as we were walking

through the woods, that

early fall day,

for the first time I did not feel

alone in America.

Like I felt

there was the ground,
there was earth,

and leaves, and trees,

and people,

and like I was

slowly becoming

a part of it.

It was a moment when I forgot

my...

home.

This was the beginning

of my new home.

"Hey, I escaped the ropes
of time, once more,"

I said.

I walked the streets of Brooklyn,

but the memories,

the smells,

the sounds that I was remembering

were not from Brooklyn.

Somewhere at the end
of Atlantic Avenue,

somewhere there they
used to have their picnics.

I use to watch them,

the old immigrants,

and the new ones.

And they looked to me like some

sad, dying animals

in a place they didn't exactly

belong to,

in a place

they didn't recognize.

They were there,

on the Atlantic Avenue,

but they were completely
somewhere else.

Some footage

I took with my first Bolex.

I wanted to make a film against war.

I wanted to shout, to shout
that there was a war,

because I walked the city

and I thought nobody knew

that there was a war,

I thought nobody knew

that there were homes in the world

where people cannot sleep,

where their door has
been kicked in at night,

with the boots of
soldiers and the police,

somewhere

where I came from.

But in this city nobody knew it.

I remember you, my friends,

from displaced person camp,

from the miserable post-war years.

Yes,

we are,

we still are displaced persons,

even,

even today,

and the world is full of us,

every continent

is full of displaced persons.

The minute we left,

we started going home,

and we are still going home.

I am still on my journey home.

We loved you,

world,

but you did lousy

things to us.

Have you...

have you ever stood in Times Square

and suddenly felt,

very close to you and very strong,

the smell of a fresh

bark of a birch tree?

My brother said

he was a pacifist

and that he hated war.

So they drafted him into the army,

and they took him back to Europe,

back to all the war memories.

So he started

eating leaves from the trees

and they thought he was crazy,

so they shipped him
back to the States.

And there was Mamma,

and she was waiting.

She was waiting for

25 years.

And there was our uncle,

who told us to go west:

"Go, children, west,
and see the world."

And so we went.

And we're still going.

The berries, always berries.

Uogos, berries.

Our uncle, the protestant,

reformed protestant,
pastor, and a very wise man.

He was a friend of Spengler,
and he had all his books there,

maybe that's why
he told us to go west.

The house, the attic in which
I lived during my studies.

And I had a rope dangling
to slide down in case

the Germans bang at the door.

And as we were approaching,

closer and closer

to the places

we knew so well,

suddenly, in front of us

we saw

a forest.

I didn't recognize the places.

There were no trees when we left.

We planted small
seedlings all around,

yes, and now the little
seedlings had grown up,

into big, large trees.

Our home,

our house was still there,

and the cat met us.

So what does one do when
one comes home after 25 years?

Of course,

we went to the well
to drink some water.

The water

that tastes like no other water.

Oh,

cool water of Semeniskiail

No wine ever tasted better anywhere.

OK very good. Today is August 7th,

it's our first morning in Semeniskiai.

And we're having breakfast.

Mamma complains that
her memory is failing.

She can't find a spoon.

She has ten and she can't find
a single one this morning.

"The only thing to know
about the old age," she said,

"is that you can't find your
spoons when you get old."

Brother Petras arrives.

We talk about the trees,
how tall they have become,

how much they have grown.

We decide to go to the fields,

to see how the work
is done these days.

So we go, and Petras leads us,

and he's very excited, he
wants to show everything.

And there, high on the combine,

sits Jonas Ruplenas, with whom
I went to school together,

who used to take care of
cows and sheep in the fields.

And there he sits now,

and he's so big,

and the machine is so big,

and the fields are so wide.

Brother Kostas sings a song
about the collective farm work,

we all join in.

Oh, these personal ramblings...

Of course you'd like
to know something

about the social realities.

How is the life going there,

in the Soviet Lithuania?

But what do I know about it?

I'm a displaced person

on my way home,

in search for my home,

retracing bits of past,

looking for some recognizable
traces of my past.

The time in Semeniskiai

remains suspended for me...

...remains suspended

until my return.

Now,

slowly,

it's beginning to move again.

Later we all go to Petras' place

and so it goes,

late into the night.

When we had enough,

when we had enough of it,

brother Petras brought some hay

from the barn,

and there we slept.

In the morning, brother Petras
took the hay back to the barn,

he was sort of hiding.

He said, "Don't tell them in
America that we sleep in hay."

He thought it was very funny.

That evening, the collective farm
Vienybe, which means togetherness,

gave us a reception.

The collective farm
embraces six or seven...

a dozen former villages.

Our mother is telling about
the terrible post-war years

and how the police was waiting
for a year for me to come home,

they thought I was...
joined the partisans

Every night, the police was
waiting behind the house

in the bushes, for me to come home.

And the dog used to bark and bark.

But I was young, and
na , and patriotic,

and I was editing this
underground newspaper,

directed against Nazis,
Nazi Germany,

and I had this typewriter
that I was hiding

in a stack of wood
outside, by the house.

And a thief, one night,
snooping for something,

found it and stole it.

And it was only a question
of days, or hours,

when Germans would catch him.

I had very little time to disappear

and it's at this point that
our wise uncle told us:

"Go, children, west, see the world

and come back."

False papers were made for us
to go to the University of Vienna

and study there,

and there we went.

The only thing was that
we never got there.

Germans directed our
train towards Hamburg

and we ended in the slave camps

of the Nazi Germany.

We goofed around,

and Kostas came home
early today from his granary.

We walked around the houses,

we touched some of the things
we used to work with.

Of course,

they're not used
anymore in the fields,

but

it had memories for us,

as we were mowing the grass
around the houses.

It was real enough,

as a memory.

By the fence,

in the junkyard,

we found an old plough.

It's not used now

and brother Kostas said to me,

"OK, now you pull it!"

And he was beating me.

He said, "Now you film this

and take it to show the Americans

how miserably we live."

Of course he thought
it was very funny.

We decide to go to see
the old school house.

We all went to the same school.

Long, deep, cold winters,

through the fields,

through the frozen rivers,

through the forests,

we walked to the school,
with our noses frozen,

our faces burning
in cold wind and snow.

But ah, those were beautiful days!

Those were winters
I'll never forget.

Where are you now,

my old childhood friends?

How many of you are alive?

Where are you scattered?

Through the graveyards,

through the torture rooms,

through the prisons,

through the labor camps
of the western civilization.

But I see your faces,

just like they used to be.

They never changed in my memory.

They remain young,

it's me who is getting older.

!
It's a new song,

it's about somebody who's far away

and he says, "Oh, mother,

how I long to see you again.

I hope the long grey road

will lead me home,

will lead me soon home again."

This morning, the fire
was slow to start.

Our mother cooks outside, she
doesn't like to cook indoors.

It's too hot and too smoky.

She likes outdoors.

And the fire just didn't
want to come this morning.

So she gathered some dry branches

and some leaves and some newspapers.

I kept blowing at it,

and I blew at it,

and

it took a very, very long time.

But finally we got it going.

Yes, they were waiting
for you every night,

for more than a year,
behind the bathhouse.

The dogs used to bark every night,

she said.

All the women of my village

that I remember from my childhood,

they always reminded
me of the birds,

sad autumn birds,

as they fly over the fields,

crying sadly.

You led hard and sad lives

the women of my childhood.

The day I was leaving,

it was raining.

The airport was wet.

It was sad.

It was funny.

I was looking at the legs.

I remembered my old
friend Narbutas who said,

"as long as a man is
watching women's legs,

he shouldn't marry."

So I guess I won't marry soon.

In Elmshorm, Adolf as is lying

exactly in the spot
where our beds

used to be, in the labor camp.

When we asked some people around,

nobody remembered that
there was a labor camp there.

Only the grass remembers.

One of the factories,
the Gebrr Neunert,

where they used to take us
to work, together

with French, Russian, Italian
war prisoners, is still there.

It's the bench I used to work,

where I was beaten up for working
too slow and talking back.

The foreman recognized Adolf as.

We spoke about this and that.

He was a young, a good foreman.

In March '45,

we escaped and ran to Denmark

and we were caught near
the border of Denmark,

and while they were
shipping us back,

we escaped once more,

and for the last
three months of war,

we hid ourselves in
Schleswig-Holstein, on a farm.

Outside,
while my brother was looking

and remembering and thinking back,

there were children around.

They thought it was very funny,

these strange people
coming to see here,

standing, looking.

They thought it was really funny.

Ausl er.

Oh, yes, run, children, run.

I was also running once from here,

but I was running for my life.

I hope you'll never
have to run for your life.

Run, children, run.

I was watching Peter and
I caught myself envying him.

Envying his peace,

his serenity,

his being just in himself
with things around him,

with things that he has
always been with,

at home, in place, in time,

in mind,

in culture.

Annette.

She walks through
New York and Vienna

with the same optimism and courage.

I admire her,

I admire Annette for making
culture into her roots,

into her life.

And there is Hermann Nitsch,

pursuing his vision,
without giving in an inch.

And heroically.

And Ken Jacobs,

who has the courage

to remain a child

in the purity of his seeing

and his ecstasies.

No, I never got to Vienna that time,

but some strange circumstances

pulled me back,

much later.

And there I am,

now.

Slowly, I begin when I walk
through Vienna with Peter,

as we talk, as we
go to the galleries,

monasteries and Demel,

through the wine cellars,

and through the wine groves,

I begin to believe again

in the indestructibility
of the human spirit,

in certain qualities,
in certain standards.

They have been established

by man,

through many thousands of years,

and they'll be here
when we are gone.

We stood there,

that August evening in Kremsm ter.

A few friends on the roof of
a 1200 year-old monastery,

and the evening was coming,

the sun was setting.

A blue light was falling
over the landscape.

It was very, very peaceful,

our hearts and our minds elated.

On our way back home

to Vienna,

from far away,

we saw a fire.

Vienna was burning.

The fruit market was on fire.

Peter said it was a pity.

It was his market.

He said it was the most
beautiful market in Vienna.

He said the city
probably set it on fire,

just to get rid of it.

They want a modern market now.