Original subtitles

After a thorough examination of our conscience,

we've decided to eat you because of your disobedience.

Wife, you and I are allies.

You, mother-father.

I, father-mother.

Tenderness and harshness surround our son from all sides.

The Germany of Bonn, goodness, is nothing like Hitler's Germany.

It produces wool, cheese, beer and buttons.

The cannon industry is only for exportation.

It's true, we know Hitler was a little female,

but, as we know, he was a female killer.

Our tradition has decidedly improved.

So, she, the killer-mother,

had obedient, blue-eyed children full of a great desperate love.

Whereas I —

I, an affectionate mother —

have this child who is neither obedient

nor disobedient.

You and I, Julian, are two wealthy bourgeois.

The destiny that brought us together is not two-faced.

It has smiled upon us with great naturalness.

Indeed, we're here to analyze ourselves because it is our privilege.

No comment. Talking about myself causes me pain.

- What sort of pain? - A pain you can't even imagine!

Today is the first day of spring.

It's your birthday, and the day we have some explaining to do.

What a bore!

I feel like making a kite and going to the beautiful fields of Godesberg.

You make me laugh!

You always spin on your heels and get out of things.

Lucky Julian.

He always has an overpoweringly childish desire for fulfillment.

His reserves of happiness and freedom are always at hand.

He's always ready to leave for a secret destination.

But my 17 years are 47, the age your mother won't admit to,

and I know exactly what these brilliant ideas are for.

But today I won't be confused and tremulous

by admiring the inconceivable and prohibited prospect

of you running towards Cologne with a kite.

I'm going to keep you here to talk about us.

Were you to die, I wouldn't even ask where you were buried.

But you kissed me once, didn't you?

I'm scratching my head.

Just as your gender is male and your name is Julian,

you don't know who you are.

Don't you want to know yourself?

- I'd prefer not to. - Why?

I like the way I am now. It's the prerogative of my gender.

In this Italianized temple of your grandfather's,

as big as a mir of a thousand souls,

where, instead, an emperor lived all alone

amid monochrome frescoes the color of snow and Chinese yellow,

you once were a child.

- What happened to you? - What happened to you?

What happened to keep you here, stunned and unable to leave?

In this immense Italianized villa,

why, the little things, of course.

A lost leaf, a creaking door...

a distant grunt.

Why are you always joking when you're never funny?

Because if you could see me for just one instant as I really am,

you'd flee in terror to call a doctor, if not an ambulance!

Hooray!

Leave them be, Father.

- We have no secrets. - Well, are you engaged or not?

- Not on your life! - Oh, that's a good one.

Really, Ida? Not yet?

We've decided to take a trip instead. To Sicily.

Taormina — an enchanting village.

- Have you been there, Mr. Klotz? - Yes, little Ida, during the war.

It's a pity you haven't made up your minds yet.

Julian needs a kind, sweet woman who truly loves him.

- Who says I'm in love? - It would still make for a good marriage.

If we combined our wealth, I'd own half of West Germany.

Wool, cheese, beer and buttons, not to mention cannons.

- Hooray! - I see you two get along, anyway.

A wonderful complicity.

Coward!

Well, my best quality is remaining inalienable.

Since you're so inalienable, why don't you come with us to Berlin

to join in the first and perhaps only German peace march?

Because on this day of August 1967, I haven't got opinions.

I tried to have them. And as a consequence, I did my duty.

But I discovered that I was a conformist, even as a revolutionary.

But conformity leads to other worries.

For example, taking care of your father's business.

Yes, but in return, it protects me from being afraid.

- You know exactly what you want. - So do you.

The time has come.

For the first time, the youth of Berlin are doing something.

To protest, 10,000 of them are going to piss against the Wall.

And from the other side, the communists will watch.

- That thing that you're missing. - I'm a girl-boy, and I'll piss as well.

I've got something else to do.

- What? - I'm not telling you.

- Please, tell me. - No.

- Tell me. - No!

- I want to know. - You'll never know.

- I'm begging you. - It's pointless.

- What are you going to do? - I don't want to tell you.

- Why not? - Have you stopped joking around?

- I never joke around. - Do you really want to know?

- Yes, I want to know. - Are you seriously going to cry?

Yes, I'm going to cry.

You're a fool.

I never know what you do, what you think, who you are.

Never, never, never!

All I know is that regarding our march on Berlin,

you're a disgusting individualist.

Yes, partly. I grunt like my father.

- But I don't give you the right to say it. - I'll say whatever I want.

You're on your father's side.

People like you who want nothing, want power.

Your father has power too.

I'd love you even if you were Black.

I'm scratching my head. None of this interests me.

The 50 conformist parts of me are bored,

and my 50 revolutionary parts are suspended.

All they want to do is stay here... to enjoy...

What?

The infinite repetition of just one thing.

- What? - What I said before.

What I'll be doing while you and your friends are at the Berlin Wall,

standing under stupid puritanical placards.

If you tell me what you're going to do,

while the rest of your generation, the best of our nation,

are out marching for the first time,

I'll be more heroic than my heroism, Julian.

I'll betray them and stay here with you.

Even if you were to betray not only your friends,

but yourself and the truth,

you'll never know what I'm going to do.

What right do you have not to tell me?

It's my right, that's all.

What good will it do you?

If nothing else, it'll make you cry and suffer. Tra-la-la.

And without fail, I'll cry and suffer. Tra-la-la.

The little things.

A lost leaf, a creaking door...

a grunt.

What do you mean, Julian? What do you mean?

Don't cry. Don't be a bore.

Okay. I'll go with you to piss against the Berlin Wall.

I heard that our son had planned to go to Berlin.

With those communist students.

He didn't go in the end.

- Where did he get such an idea? - Ida.

- But Ida's only 17. - That's right.

And he's 25.

She's waiting for him.

- Is he with me or against me? - Who knows?

The time of Grosz and Brecht isn't over yet.

I could easily have been drawn by Grosz as a sad pig,

and you, a sad sow.

At the table, naturally.

A secretary's bum on my knees,

and you with your hands between the chauffeur's legs.

And Brecht, God rest his soul, could easily have had us as villains

in a play where poor people are the heroes.

So what's Julian waiting for to grow fat like a pig?

Or to give gifts to the poor and dance a Tyrolean dance with them?

Or to call me a pig?

And me a sow.

Did you do that thing while I was in Berlin?

Ida, I have a proposal for you.

What a strange tone of voice you have. It's almost like mine.

A proposal? What is it, Julian?

I want to kiss you.

A kiss?

Oh, Julian, you've no idea how happy that makes me.

I could dance and sing.

I could jump like a puppy and clap my hands.

My joy is more beautiful than the sun or the stars.

Whom can I tell? To whom can I open my heart?

Whom should I thank while I'm crying and laughing?

Nevertheless, Julian, I won't let you kiss me.

Fine. How was Berlin?

Berlin was great.

What was written on your placard?

Nothing special. "Down with God."

What do you care?

You care a lot, don't you?

I don't know.

What about our kiss?

Ida, why don't you want me to kiss you?

My dignity, Julian!

What dignity? Tra-la-la.

Not that of a woman or a girl, but of my freedom. Tra-la-la.

But if you love me, you're free.

I'm free to not be kissed.

And suffer horribly. Tra-la-la.

- Ida, take pity! - No!

Not on any condition?

Well? Not on any condition?

I'll let you kiss me, if you tell me...

The truth about what I did while you...

Yes, while I was there.

What I always do when I'm alone.

And you think I fly kites over the villas of Godesberg.

What do you do?

I'm 25 years and five months old.

And do you know...

I've never kissed a woman!

That's big!

With all my pacifism and polemics against the opulence of Germany,

with all my anti-clericalism, and with all my devotion to free love,

with all that unites me to hundreds of thousands

of the most progressive youth in the world,

Julian, you shock me and even make me laugh.

Laugh — That's exactly what you ought to do.

That's why I want to be an SS officer

and massacre you with my secret!

Come on, kiss me.

I can't anymore.

Why not?

I give up, you see. Tra-la-lera.

The desire to kiss you, as you just saw, made me want to kill you. Tra-la-la!

Do you think I wouldn't be open to that too?

You're asking me?

I'm sure of it now.

I won't kiss you,

I won't kill you, because I love...

- Who? - There is no "who," there is only my love.

Dear guinea pig, you're free.

The last hideous experiment is over.

There he is, like Christ on the cross.

Doesn't he recognize us?

Who knows?

No one knows.

Doesn't he look?

He just stares blankly, upwards.

- Doesn't he move? - No.

He never moves an inch.

He's been lying there rigidly since August.

I left Godesberg in August

because he told me he was in love, but not with me.

We know, my poor Ida.

How was your trip to Italy?

Wonderful.

We love Italy.

If we had won the war, we would've bought a villa in Syracuse.

So, Ida...

who is Julian in love with?

- I don't know. He wouldn't tell me. - Why not?

I don't know.

If he had told me, he wouldn't be like this now.

Everything would've been fine. If he had just said the name...

of that which he loves,

everything would've been resolved, happily or unhappily.

Why do you say "that" and not "woman"?

All I know about that being is that it exists.

Whom does my poor son love?

Above all, why won't he say their name? Is he ashamed? Can't he?

Ida, I can tell you now.

His father hired a detective because this is a mystery.

He went to Heidelberg and wherever else Julian had been.

- And? - Nothing.

He never had a relationship with any girl.

By that, I mean a real and lasting relationship.

- Did he make love to those girls? - I think so, naturally.

Come, now. Don't start crying.

Don't cry, don't cry— Why not?

He was proud.

Proud? On the contrary! He was quick to debase himself.

Julian had no pride.

What are you saying? As a child, he never said sorry to anyone.

I heard him say sorry a thousand times.

You're crazy. He never went back on his decisions.

He never made any!

He wasn't very smart, but he clung strongly to his beliefs.

On the contrary, he was very smart. I've never met a smarter boy.

He only did well in school because he studied a lot.

He never studied.

He spent his time on sporting grounds and in dance halls.

What are you talking about? He was always a serious boy.

Almost austere, like a saint.

Serious and austere — My God! He was always so lighthearted.

Julian had absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever.

He was enamored by the army.

He would've liked to become a soldier. Like his grandfather, my father,

who defeated Kerensky on the Vistula.

He was indifferent to the army.

He didn't know it existed,

even if he never joined our anti-war protests.

He knew the flags of every nation in the world.

- Perhaps. So did I, as a child. - Unfortunately, he didn't like to travel.

That's not true! His heart was always with distant peoples.

- The Maya, the Dinka, the Irish... - He must've seen them in films.

The only film he ever saw, and that by chance, was a Murnau.

He was crazy for spy films and Westerns.

He didn't like the cinema. But he reminded me of the Tramp.

The Tramp?

Don't you see him?

He's a mannerist Saint Sebastian.

Anyway, there he is now. Catatonic, comatose.

If he could hear us and understand us,

who knows what he'd say about us poor women,

because his prestige is unaltered.

In running away, he was always present.

He gave himself authority by playing a bitter game,

and his mysterious pain hangs over him like a silent monument.

Oh, Mr. Herdhitze,

oh, Mr. Herdhitze,

my mysterious rival.

How troublesome great fathers are.

They have filled our Cologne

with industrial complexes that are majestic like churches.

Smokestacks, smokestacks, smokestacks...

A concrete Athens.

That's what it means to find oneself at such an advantage,

thanks to the big...

of old fathers.

As for your factories, there's no sign of them, Mr. Herdhitze.

Are they perhaps invisible? Can they levitate?

Oh, Mr. Herdhitze,

oh, Mr. Herdhitze...

my mysterious rival who rose from nothing.

- May I? - Come in, my dear fellow.

- Good morning, Mr. Klotz. - Good morning, dear Hans Günther.

How is your son?

You see, my dear Hans Günther, my son wasn't an obedient son,

but all in all, he wasn't a disobedient son either.

My dear Bertha and I have democratically discussed this at length.

If he had obeyed me, I would have taken him under my wing,

and together we would have flown over the glorious smokestacks of our Cologne,

furnace of buttons and cannons.

If, however, he had disobeyed me,

I would have crushed him.

But with a son who is neither consenting nor dissenting,

there was nothing I could do.

God took care of it.

What did God do with Julian?

Since he didn't want to do anything, he let him die.

And since he wanted to do something, he also let him live.

Idleness, strikes and exile, I don't know.

Julian is there, in his room,

like an embalmed saint, neither dead nor alive.

But what about us?

Good news, Mr. Klotz.

My congratulations, dear Hans Günther.

Thank you, Mr. Klotz.

- Good news, then? - Yes!

Mr. Herdhitze is none other than Mr. Hirt.

Hirt... Old Hirt.

My old school pal, first in Essen, then in Heidelberg.

- Did he have plastic surgery? - Of course, Mr. Klotz.

Plastic surgery in Italy is very advanced.

In Italy?

Let's start at the beginning, Mr. Klotz.

Yes, let's start at the beginning, dear Hans Günther.

Well, Mr. Herdhitze,

your political rival,

the scrouge of your industries, the new face of West Germany,

is none other than Mr. Hirt, post-facial plastic surgery.

I imagine he first became a professor of something.

Exactly! Anatomy in Strasbourg.

Very good. What then?

Well, that takes us to Strasbourg, precisely to February 9, 1942.

Ah, my rheumatism!

It's the date of a secret report

sent to — guess who? — Mr. Himmler.

Crimes against humanity, hooray!

My congratulations, dear Hans Günther.

Do you know what the aforementioned report was on?

Here it is.

The collecting of skulls belonging to Jewish Bolshevik commissioners

for scientific research at the University of Strasbourg.

Skulls from whom? Jewish Bolshevik commissioners!

Forgive me for laughing...

but those three words strung together...

are irresistibly funny!

"Commissioners" "Bolsheviks" and "Jews" too!

You could keep on going!

Hilarious!

It seems that Mr. Hirt, now Mr. Herdhitze,

complained that,

while they possessed a great number of skulls belonging to almost every race,

science only had a small number of Jewish skulls available to it.

Therefore, the war in the east offered the opportunity

to make up for this serious dearth

with, to be precise, Jewish Bolshevik commissioners.

Let's get to the point.

Completely naked, the prisoners were forced in lots into the gas chambers.

The salts were put in the pipe.

The end of the pipe was blocked with a plug.

This plug had a metal tube, which forced the salt to spray out.

The prisoners could survive for another half-minute,

then fell to the ground covered in excrement.

The corpses were still warm when they arrived at the Institute of Anatomy,

their eyes wide open and shining.

They cut the left testicles off the men to send to the anatomy laboratory.

Professor Hirt's, now Herdhitze, refrain to his collaborators was:

"If you don't keep your mouths shut, the same will happen to you."

Let's get to the point. The real point.

The war was ending, and the Allies were nearing Strasbourg.

What should Professor Hirt do with the 80 pieces

in his one-of-a-kind collection?

- Well? - They all scientifically disappeared

by way of meticulous cremation,

and their gold teeth were given to Professor Hirt,

who subsequently disappeared with them.

Then there's no proof! No proof!

No.

At this point, an important character in our story enters the picture.

- Who? - A certain Mr. Ding.

- Ding? - Yes.

Ding, Mr. Klotz. Ding.

So he was a Confucian!

No, he was the purist of Aryans.

What role does he play in our story?

He was no less than the assistant to Professor Hirt,

now Herdhitze.

He too disappeared under the rubble, like his teacher.

There's no doubt. Along with an exceptional abundance,

it must also be noted that Germany in those years

had an unusual shortage of corpses.

The ambiguity of evil.

Today, Ding calls himself Klauberg.

Well, as you are aware, Mr. Klotz,

thanks to my short legs and my large, dark head,

among southern Europeans, especially in Italy,

I don't look like a tourist.

And?

I can't even begin to describe my excitement

when, obviously throwing caution to the wind,

I heard, in the center of Milan,

the clink of the monosyllable "Ding" in my ears.

- Ding? - Ding! Ding!

Like in a Chinese concert, or rain on roof tiles: Ding!

And Mr. Ding, now Klauberg, let the cat out of the bag!

And Mr. Hirt, now Herdhitze, is done for!

A man wishes to see you.

- Who is it, dear man? - His name is Herdhitze.

- Mr. Herdhitze! - Yes, sir. Herdhitze.

Mr. Herdhitze is here?

Show him in! Show him in!

Mr. Herdhitze!

Mr. Herdhitze!

Marvelous, Mr. Herdhitze. What a surprise!

I was in the area, my dear Mr. Klotz.

On my way from Cologne to Bonn, I said to myself,

"Why not stop in to see my dear old school pal?"

To tell the truth, I never would have recognized you.

Plastic surgery?

Yes. Plastic surgery, Italian-style.

What's more, we haven't met for a long time.

It must have been '38.

Yes. Well done.

The spring of '38. Such a wonderful spring.

Another 29 have passed since,

but the old hearth never goes out.

Always such a jolly fellow, our Herdhitze.

Isn't it true, Hans Günther, that "Herdhitze" in our mother tongue

means "blazing hearth"?

And what fire is emanating, may I ask, from this hearth?

The fire of the great Germany, of course, Mr. Klotz,

which rises from the ashes to produce wool, cheese, beer and buttons.

You make me sigh, my dear Herdhitze.

Why, Mr. Klotz?

Because you are new, brand new.

- While I... - What are you saying?

You are a jet plane zooming towards the future, Mr. Klotz.

These exaggerated metaphors always remind me of Grosz.

Are you alluding to your humanistic schooling, Mr. Klotz?

Yes, I envy your scientific schooling, Mr. Herdhitze.

You mean technical.

Indeed, there is no contradiction between them anymore.

If not in my head.

I'm so old. I could be my son's grandfather.

Of course.

The good...

the silent Julian.

You and I are the same age.

However, while I'm an old-fashioned hearth...

you're a state-of-the-art radiator.

- A glass of beer, Mr. Herdhitze? - Or two, Mr. Klotz.

To our youth, Mr. Herdhitze.

To our renewed youth, Mr. Klotz.

I apologize if I've stirred up feelings

of self-accusation and discouragement in you.

Those are but objective considerations, Mr. Herdhitze.

Someone like you who rose from nothing has only to reckon with the present.

- How is your dear Bertha? - Well.

I know you have remained unmarried, Mr. Herdhitze.

No. I have no heirs, Mr. Klotz.

I'll leave my industries to the technicians.

The future doesn't lie in the hands of individuals.

No trace of humanistic culture will exist in the future.

And man will no longer have problems of conscience.

Why. Have you had any?

I'm sorry, but it all seems very contradictory.

My past constructive experience tells me...

that contradictions are absolutely necessary.

Indeed... Indeed, indeed.

There comes a time when my abjection of pigs,

whose bellies can hold an entire social class,

is purified by a regret for the past.

That's where I'm wrong.

Instead...

Instead, instead.

There comes a time when your abjection of pigs,

in looking towards the future, becomes even more cynical.

That's where you're right.

The ambiguity of goodness.

Regarding the Jews...

I knew this is where we were headed.

Another glass of beer, Mr. Klotz?

Of course, Mr. Herdhitze.

To the health of Jews, Mr. Klotz.

To the health of pigs, Mr. Herdhitze.

Regarding pigs...

Jews or pigs?

Pigs, pigs.

Do you have an amusing story to tell me?

Thanks to Brecht and Grosz, I know all the amusing stories about pigs.

No. Pigs came to mind a short while ago,

when we were talking about heirs and inheritances.

Your technicians.

No.

Like the farmers in the past,

now the technicians are innocent.

- You know that. - Thanks to their productivity

and loyalty as consumers?

Precisely.

Going back to pigs...

Do you remember, Mr. Klotz, an episode from a few years ago?

Let me think... In '59.

When you went from Lambrettas to household appliances?

Exactly. Your son was 16 at the time.

My son?

I understand your concern, but as a friend —

a friend from 30 years ago but nevertheless a friend —

I asked myself:

"What's wrong with the son of the great Klotz?"

My son is simply sleepy.

Very sleepy.

Your son wasn't asleep in '59.

I'm referring to that small, forgotten episode I just mentioned.

Tell it to me.

His great love of the countryside,

of German-style gardens,

full of untamed memories of Greece —

hazy,

sun-drenched,

dear to Diotima —

that great love could not be anything but fatal,

because the fault lies with those who think they're above their history.

Let's not argue between ourselves.

This isn't about us, if I'm not mistaken.

The true protagonist, your son,

spent his life in the countryside

surrounded by gardens.

A Hellenic paradise.

And just beyond that, a farmers' house with stables,

manure heaps,

pigsties.

Germans consume an enormous quantity of sausage.

The episode I was referring to played out as follows:

In '59, Julian stole a pig.

Is that all?

Yes, that's all.

We laughed about it so much around the hearth.

A laughter that has now frozen in your throat.

Everyone has a cross to bear.

You also laughed at the protests of the farmers

who fattened those pigs for Christmas, that first time,

a little less the second time.

Yes, Julian amused himself by stealing pigs.

- What did he do with them? - Is that a rhetorical question?

No. It's a question dictated by common sense.

One that's annoying to answer with the same degree of common sense.

What did Julian do with the pigs?

He probably played with them, my dear sir.

He probably put a leash on them, like with his Great Danes.

The thrill of spontaneity!

What else would he have done with them?

I repeat: Even if 30 years have passed,

I'm still your good friend.

I simply had this strange desire to understand something...

you didn't want to understand.

By understanding for you, I wanted to demonstrate my love,

seeing as you had so much love for me.

Then tell me what you understood.

Understood? Alas, nothing.

I was only told about it.

- About what? - After stealing two pigs, your son Julian

retreated into a protracted state of adolescent hermetism.

When he rebelled, a hint of conformity showed through.

When he obeyed, the fire of dissent.

It went on like that for years.

A true enigma.

He went to Heidelberg to study. He fell in love.

However, I have good reason to think that his heart...

was here in the countryside.

Well, one's passion is one's passion.

Poor Mr. Klotz.

Another glass of beer?

Later, Mr. Herdhitze. Let's continue.

You have such a thirst to know, Mr. Klotz.

All of a sudden, you seem very interesting in...

your son's unhappiness.

Have you never asked yourself

how much that poor boy must have suffered

to end up in that state?

Finally, the moment has arrived

when no court could ever tell

whether you're speaking out of viciousness or pity

and whether or not you feel real pain...

in wanting to inflict pain on me.

Yes. I couldn't answer that myself.

I'm here as your rival. I'm here to destroy you, as I must,

to stop you from destroying me.

And so we have discussed pigs instead of Jews.

But there's something else. Something more.

Perhaps it is a taste of the truth.

Who knows?

In truth, it brings tears to my eyes, thinking of that poor, crucified boy.

Although if I were to recount it, it would sound ridiculous.

What, exactly?

You see, Mr. Klotz,

those solitary walks of Julian's,

his interest in nature,

ended on a daily basis...

in the pigsty.

And?

The time has come.

Upon arriving at the pigsty,

the measures taken by Julian so as not to be seen by the farmers

were of no use against my very own Hans Günther.

Namely, a certain Klauberg, formerly Ding,

who is omnipresent, like God and His truth.

And so we have reached the point where it truly seems...

impossible for you to say it...

and for me to listen.

Feeling better, Julian?

Yes, thanks to a little help from my father.

Your ambiguous friend and enemy.

Yes. His ambiguous conscience has merged with my pure existence.

It's a fine moment for your father.

I'm completely indifferent to that.

All Germany is talking about it. It's the main topic in all the newspapers.

And all our clean-shaven bearded friends have a new reason to feel they're right.

Herdhitze & Klotz or Klotz & Herdhitze?

The topic of heated argument. It appears alphabetical order prevailed.

And in your friends' indignation?

Herdhitze tops the list, naturally, being a killer of Jews and a new man.

- A minor failure for my father. - There must've been some negotiations.

Oh, yes.

Without doubt.

A story about pigs for a story about Jews.

Fine, Julian. It's hard to talk to you.

I came to say farewell, as they say.

Fine, Ida.

Sooner or later...

How does it go? "It had to happen."

- I'm getting married. - To a clean-shaven bearded fellow?

Don't laugh, Julian. How can you have the courage?

Perhaps my courage comes from your happiness.

- My love for a certain Pubi Jannings? - Why not? If you truly love him.

No, it doesn't come from the happiness Pubi gives me,

but from your indifference to my love and to my estrangement.

Ida the judge. What's this Pubi like?

He's a handsome boy. Two years younger than you.

He recently graduated.

His reformism is as clear as his eyes, his morality as strong as his muscles.

He's on a sports team.

He's not anti-communist.

He's tall and blond. But not German-blond, more Russian-blond.

His respect for others is never servile. I've never seen him lose his dignity.

Does he grunt?

Oh, Julian.

I didn't tell you about him to get back at you.

I'm completely indifferent to it all.

No, you feel hate.

- Love, if anything. - Then why won't you be a part of it?

Why don't you ask that of one of your Jews or Blacks?

You're hopeless. Perhaps because you don't exist.

You're only an apparition.

The German you speak is a joke.

And yet the language of being present is always questioning.

You already said that, and I understood you.

- Let's leave each other with love, Julian. - Leave each other? When were we together?

- Never. - That's obvious.

But now that I love another, unfortunately, the risk is to pity you.

Don't worry. I'll make you laugh, even if I have no sense of humor.

Well, goodbye, Julian.

Goodbye, Ida.

Goodbye, Julian.

How immense and strange my love is.

I can't say I love you, but that's of little importance.

The object of my amorous passion has never been so worthless,

to say the least.

What counts are the sensations it elicits.

The profound change it has caused in me.

However, let me be clear, it's not a degeneration.

If it were, you'd have understood and rightly felt disgust or pity.

Nothing has been extinguished from my life.

I say that without pride but with wonder,

or let's say a scholarly objectivity.

Now these sensations are so wonderful, so exciting.

They're unique.

I can't rid myself of them for an instant, not even from my thoughts.

It's not something that happens by being born or living, no.

There's nothing natural about it.

What can I do? I think about it all the time.

The sensations this love produces in me can be summarized as one:

a grace, which I was struck by as one is struck by the plague.

Therefore, don't be shocked

if along with the anguish comes an infinite happiness.

It's no wonder...

if I have horrible nightmares at night.

But they're the most genuine things in my life.

It's my only way of facing reality.

I dreamed the other night that I was on a dark road, full of puddles.

I was searching along the footpath in puddles filled with a light...

like the northern lights or a long Siberian sunset

for something I don't remember, perhaps a toy.

At the edge of the last puddle, I saw a pig, a piglet.

I moved closer, as if to catch him, to touch him,

and he gleefully bit me.

He bit four fingers off my right hand, but they remained attached.

They didn't bleed, like they were made of rubber.

I turn around with my fingers dangling, shocked at having been bitten...

A calling to martyrdom.

Who knows where the truth lies in dreams,

other than making us anxious about the truth.

To our merger, my dear Herdhitze.

To our merger.

To our merger, my dear Klotz.

You'll think I'm obsessed, but I'll keep saying it:

Grosz is not dead.

The festivities for the Klotz-Herdhitze merger

are as natural as spring returning.

Lightheartedness, my dear Herdhitze. Lightheartedness.

Who says religion is dead?

Look at that wonderful rite.

My wife opening her painted mouth and slipping a profiterole inside.

God bless the appetite of our spouses.

Germany.

It has the ability to digest so much.

Shit.

And the ability to defecate so much.

No one defecates more than us Germans

over the hearts of our puritan children.

Did you hear? Minister Ribbentrop grunted.

Good morning, young master!

Hello, Maracchione!

- Good morning, master. - Good morning. Hello, Gustava.

I —

I — I killed my father.

I ate human flesh, and I quiver with joy.

I killed my father.

I ate human flesh.

I am quivering with joy.

I killed my father.

I ate human flesh.

I quiver with joy.

I killed my father.

I ate human flesh.

I quiver with joy.

Mr. Klotz! Mr. Klotz!

I'm here with my new colleague Klauberg, formerly Ding,

because of something very strange that is happening.

Speak, my dear sir, speak.

A delegation of farmers is here.

I bet they're led by Italian farmhands, their empty heads filled by Togliatti.

Togliatti is dead.

Are they carrying placards? Are they waving flags?

Not really, Mr. Hirt —

Mr. Herdhitze.

Then it's not a protest.

They haven't raised their red flags,

they aren't shaking their hoes and their shovels.

What are they doing here? They weren't invited to the festivities.

Why don't you let them in?

They don't want to talk to you

but only with the toughest man in the company.

It's not very sensitive to make such a distinction on the day of the merger.

But if that's how it is, farewell.

I feel a strong urge for a profiterole.

What are you waiting for? Show them in.

Don't be afraid. Come in. Step forward.

Well, haven't you got anything to say? What's the matter with you?

They're shy, Mr. Herdhitze.

- What a bore! - Come on, open your mouths!

- You, old Wolfram! - It's not ignorance

that keeps me from talking.

Is it about Julian?

Come now. Don't whine, old Wolfgang or Wolfram.

- Whatever the hell your name is! - I haven't got the strength, sir.

I'll speak, if I may, sir.

Are you one of the Italian immigrants?

Yes, sir.

My German isn't good, but I'm able to say what needs to be said.

Go on.

- You know the pigsty? - The pigsty?

Every day, Mr. Julian had the habit

of taking a walk down that way, all alone.

Filthy boy.

He went there today too, taking his usual route,

even though there was a party here at the villa.

Indeed, taking advantage of your innocence and our conscience.

How can any of us condemn him

if he suffered and became withdrawn into himself?

By closing his eyes, he saw us.

Julian wasn't one of those victims who talk to their executioner,

and he didn't ask for a confessor.

He wasn't at all confused.

His vileness was a grace.

He betrayed all of us without ever promising to be faithful.

Am I mistaken,

or are you giving a funeral eulogy?

Yes, Mr. Herdhitze. Listening to old Wolfram now,

even if I don't understand a word of what he's saying,

I feel like crying too.

Julian is dead?

He went down towards the pigsty.

I understood that. Go on.

This little girl, Gustava, was always the last to leave him.

Today she followed him for longer than usual, and...

Talk, you boor!

She came back after a while, sobbing her head off!

Screaming her head off! Oh, God!

We thought she was dying.

She screamed, "The pigs are eating Mr. Julian!"

- What did you do? - We said to ourselves,

"Let's go to see what's happening down at the pigsty."

We left our work and went down the valley.

What did you see?

The pigs were all crowded together. They were shrieking, shrieking!

We could hear them from the top of the hill.

As we were running down the hill, we realized...

You realized?

That the little girl, Mr. Herdhitze, was right.

Literally?

The pigs were eating a man, and...

And what?

It really was Mr. Julian. But by then...

"By then"?

By then, the pigs were chewing the last shreds of Mr. Julian.

One had a hand in its mouth,

and the others were trying to take it, to eat it themselves.

Those disgusting beasts had eaten all of him.

"All of him"?

Couldn't you even save a finger? A tuft of hair?

No, nothing. Nothing.

Those pigs, they really made mincemeat of him?

Yes, sir.

If you hadn't seen them eating a man with your own eyes,

you'd never have know anything had happened there.

No sign of him was left?

A piece of cloth, perhaps? A sole of a shoe?

No, nothing.

A button?

No, nothing at all.

Then...

not a word to a soul.

THE END

Translation: Eoghan Price