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The Most Precious of Cargoes

Once upon a time, in a great forest, there lived

a poor woodcutter and a poor woodcutter's wife.

No, no, rest assured, this is not "Hop o’ My Thumb".

Nothing to do with that.

Besides, I, like you, detest that ridiculous story.

When and where have we ever seen parents abandon their children for lack of food?

Come on, come on...

The poor woodcutter and his wife had never left their forest.

Yet cold, hunger, and misery made their lives very difficult.

Especially in these times of the world war.

Yes, yes, the... the world war, yes, yes.

Fortunately, every cloud has a silver lining.

The poor woodcutter and his wife

hadn't any children to feed for some years now.

Having no more hearts to cherish,

the poor woodcutter's wife lamented every day.

But the poor woodcutter, on the other hand, had adjusted quite well.

No more children to cherish, true, but also no more mouths to feed.

Little by little, as she aged,

the poor woodcutter's wife came to understand that earthly,

heavenly, and fairy powers had all conspired with

her woodcutter husband to deprive her of children.

And she accepted her fate, growing accustomed to the cold,

to hunger, to misery, and to solitude.

And then, one day...

God of the train, I thank you now and always

for coming into my life and for not abandoning me.

I bless you for coming from the city, bringing me the noise and life.

I bless you for being kind to me.

You have changed my life.

Deliver me from hunger and misery.

Give me something, something to eat,

something to speak ill of.

Any little cargo you have in excess,

not much, just a tiny bit of cargo.

I implore your kindness, god of the train,

you are my light and my only hope.

Please, hear me.

What is this?

What is this?

- The gods of the train gave it to me. - The gods of the train?

Yes, so that it may become the child we lost.

And do you not know what this child is?

If it comes from the train, do you not know what race it belongs to?

It's one of the heartless!

No, no, no, it's just a small piece of cargo.

The gods of the train gave it to me.

And damn the cargo!

Damn it!

Damn it!

Offspring of a cursed race.

- Stop, stop! - No, no, it's an angel.

It's my angel.

An angel, an angel. Listen to its cries.

You're raving, old woman. Once she grows up, she'll be like them.

No, not if we are the ones who raise him.

They killed God.

They are thieves. Look at her clothes.

Do you know how long one would have to work to afford clothes like that?

They are thieves, I tell you.

Thank God we have nothing to steal here.

And soon, if you agree, she will help me bundle wood.

If they find him with us, they'll have us executed.

But... but who would know?

The other woodcutters.

The other woodcutters will report us.

No, I will say that this child is ours,

that I have finally become pregnant again by your doing.

He cannot be ours. He is marked.

- What do you mean? - Marked, marked.

Their kind is not like ours.

Look, look at the mark.

But what mark?

I see no mark.

He's not made like me, don't you see?

No.

But she is made like me.

Look how beautiful she is.

What are you doing?

Where are you going?

I am going to leave her back near the railway tracks.

If the gods placed her there, they can take her back.

Do that, woodcutter, and you will have to

throw me under the wheels of the freight train with her.

And the gods, all the gods - those of the heavens,

of nature, of the sun, and of the train

-will hunt you down wherever you are, whatever you do.

You will be cursed forever and ever.

So be it, then. Let all the misfortune that follows be your misfortune.

She will bring me happiness, and you as well.

Keep all the happiness for yourself, for all I care, go.

But know that I never want to hear her or see her again, ever.

Shut her up...

...and consider yourself warned.

She needs milk, poor thing.

She has no chance.

If the gods of the train entrusted me with this little cargo,

it's not to let her die.

She will live, do you hear me?

She will live.

Who goes there?

A poor woodcutter's wife.

What do you want, poor woodcutter's wife?

Milk, for my child.

Oh yeah? Why don't you give her yours?

I have none, alas.

And if this child you see doesn't have milk today, she will die.

She will die? Well, that's that.

You'll have another.

I'm too old.

And besides, this child was entrusted to me by the...

the god of the freight train that passes on the railway.

The god of the train entrusted you with such little cargo?

Why didn't he give you milk along with it?

He forgot.

The gods can't think of everything.

They have so much to do down here.

And they do it so poorly.

Tell me, woodcutter's wife, where do you think I get my milk?

From your goat's udder.

My goat?

Why do you think I have a goat?

I heard it bleating while I was gathering wood at the edge of your land.

And what will you give in exchange for my milk?

- Everything I have. - And what do you have?

- Nothing. - That's not much.

Every day the gods provide,

I will bring you a bundle of wood for two gulps of milk.

You want to pay me for my milk with my own wood?

It's not your wood.

Nor do I have yours.

Just as your milk is not your milk, it is your goat's milk.

But this goat is mine.

Nothing in life is given without something in return.

Without milk, my daughter will die.

Without exchange.

Help me.

If you help me feed her, she will live.

The gods will be grateful to you.

They will protect you.

They have already protected me enough, Ava.

See.

See how your gods have protected me.

Do I scare you?

No.

Then do you pity me?

Neither.

The gods kept you alive.

And your goat too.

Alive, yes.

Here. Take this shawl.

Look how beautiful it is.

It was woven by the gods themselves, with golden threads.

I see you know how to do business.

Let me see your little cargo.

Your divine creature is hungry, like any ordinary human child.

I'll give you a small measure of my goat's milk.

Thank you. Thank you.

Get up.

Get up, I said.

You are kind!

No, no. We made a deal.

Come.

I will give you what you are owed.

Who broke your head, good man?

- The war. - This one?

No.

Another, long since lost.

Never kneel before me again, nor before anyone else.

Never say again that I am kind,

and don't you dare spread the word that I have a goat,

and that I give you milk.

Or I will kill you.

Don't move.

Make that brat shut up!

I can't sleep!

Be quiet, Woodcutter. You're the one scaring her.

Me, scaring her? You've been fooled, poor woman.

That devil's spawn fears nothing and no one.

She has no heart.

Do you understand? No heart!

Woodcutter, even heartless ones have a heart, just like you and me.

Shut up, you know nothing.

The heartless are stray dogs who throw their children from train windows.

And we, poor fools, are the ones who have to feed them.

Do you hear that?

Do you hear nothing?

Heartless, I tell you.

The heartless have a heart.

No, the heartless have no heart.

It's impossible.

And tomorrow, she must leave.

You must choose, woman.

Between this misbegotten abortion,

and your honest woodcutter of a husband.

Tomorrow, she leaves.

With or without you.

If you want to come back into the house, you can.

And the little one?

Wife?

Wife, come here!

Come on, to the end of this cursed war.

And may it come soon.

To the end of the cursed heartless.

May that come soon too.

They killed God and they wanted this war.

They don't deserve to live.

And their cursed war will only end when the earth is rid of them forever.

To their disappearance, poisoners of the land.

Death to the heartless!

Ah, I saw some coming out of a camp the other day.

Swine, they're all swine.

I can't say it any better.

Come on, death to the swine!

What's wrong, you're not drinking?

I am.

The heartless have a heart.

- What? - What did he just say?

Are you sick?

The heartless have a heart.

He's rambling, he's completely drunk.

Come on, go, you'll be fine tomorrow.

Get some fresh air.

What an idiot, he can't hold his liquor.

The heartless have a heart.

The heartless have a heart.

The heartless have a heart.

The heartless have a heart.

The heartless have a heart!

Good day to you.

Good day to you.

That child... Is she yours?

Yes, she's our daughter.

- How old? - About a year.

About.

That's funny.

Your husband didn't tell us anything, that's funny too.

He's not very talkative.

Well, yeah, that explains it.

I'm going, I have work to do.

Goodbye.

Good day to you.

So, what brings you here so early?

But if she's your daughter, comrade,

you should have registered her at the town hall.

He doesn't know how to write.

Well, yeah.

The only thing I understand is wood.

Paperwork, you know...

But how come no one knew?

Why didn't you tell us anything?

Well, you never asked me.

Listen, we're all good lumberjacks here and good patriots.

You know that sheltering or helping a heartless one, is punishable by death.

So you do what you want, but we, we follow the law.

And now that we know, we have to hand over the girl.

The law is the law, comrade.

And we're not going to risk our lives or betray our country

for some wretched child from a fig tree trunk.

Was I clear enough?

Come on, don't make a scene.

Give us the girl, so we can get rid of her.

Get the little one ready.

I'll get her bassinet.

The comrade is right.

It was a mistake.

A terrible mistake.

May God make those cursed ones perish,

soulless and faithless.

Run away...

and live...

our...

little cargo.

Who goes there?

It's me, a poor woodcutter's wife.

What do you want, poor woodcutter's wife?

Asylum.

Asylum for me and my little cargo.

I heard gunshots.

Were they meant for you?

They wanted to take her from me.

Then my husband, poor woodcutter, with his axe,

he...

Say no more.

I know the darkness in men's hearts.

Your woodcutter and his axe did the right thing.

And if necessary, I too will do the same.

Entrust me with your little cargo.

Follow me.

Come on, come.

Daughter of the gods, here is your foster mother,

the one who gave you her milk, your third mother.

Why are you crying, poor woodcutter's wife?

From now on, you will have milk in abundance for your child,

and you won't even have to come fetch it.

Indeed, I have made a bundle, but I gain a playmate for my lonely goat.

Thus, we all win, the four of us.

No one can gain anything in this world without agreeing to lose something,

be it the life of a loved one or their own.

Days always followed days, seasons followed seasons,

war followed war.

Heroes succeeded heroes, sorrow succeeded sorrow,

and trains followed trains.

In their sealed wagons, humanity was dying.

No one heard the cries of the transported,

the sobs of the ageing mothers,

blending with the prayers of the credulous, with the moans

and weeping of children separated from their parents,

already departed to the limbo of paradise reserved for the innocent.

And then… and then the trains stopped running.

Come on, let's go.

He escaped.

Who goes there?

Who goes there, I said?!

I beg you, whoever you are, take great care of this good man.

Ensure that he finds the happiness and peace he did not have on this earth.

And welcome him, wherever you are.

What's the use?

I have prayed to you so many times to do so many things.

But if this child is here today, it is not thanks to you.

It is thanks to the hand that threw her from the train,

thanks to my husband, a poor woodcutter,

and thanks to this kind man, and to his goat.

No, it is not thanks to you.

Please, bless them.

Many years later, almost a lifetime.

While peace had more or less returned to the world,

the man had become a paediatrician of international renown.

After the war, he resumed his medical studies and dedicated

his survival to caring for other people's children.

Author of highly regarded works, he was regularly invited to lecture worldwide.

He explained his approach to childhood at various conferences around the world.

Thus, we find him en route to a European capital,

in a country that had particularly endured its share of tragedies.

Can I help you?

Can you translate for me what's written here?

It state's who is in the photo.

It is Maria Tchekolowska.

She is 20 years old

and is recognised as the most deserving of the young pioneers,

because she is the daughter of a poor illiterate family,

a simple woodcutter and his wife, who became a cheese merchant.

I'll take a copy.

They say this story is a fable,

and that none of it ever happened.

Neither did the trains, nor the camps, nor the families turned into smoke,

nor the fire, nor the ashes, nor the tears,

nor the war, nor the survivors,

nor the pain of fathers and mothers searching for their missing children.

Yes, they say none of this happened,

that none of it is true, but people say so many things.

The only thing true, truly true, is that a little girl who never

existed was one day thrown from an imaginary freight train,

and that a poor woodcutter's wife, who also did not exist, picked her up,

fed her, cherished her, loved her more than anything, more than her own life.

Yes, that is the only thing that deserves

to exist in stories, as in real life.

Love.

Love given to children, to one's own and to those of others.

Love that ensures, despite everything

that exists and everything that does not,

that life goes on.

The rest is silence.