Original subtitles

HEARTBEAT DETECTOR

I worked for seven years in a multinational company.

I'll call SC Farb.

It was a German company with a large Parisian subsidiary.

I was the company psychologist in the Human Resources Department.

I had two responsibilities:

staff selection

and running seminars for executives.

My seminars were based on the new belief

that motivation lay at the heart of productivity.

We used a combination of role play,

group dynamics,

and old oriental methods

which encouraged people to push themselves to the limit.

I've seen grown men cry like little boys.

I've seen people breaking down, going into violent rages.

I had to guide them towards my only goal:

making them soldiers, knights of the business world,

highly competitive subalterns.

Hey, how are you doing?

How are you?

- You weren't at the coffee machine? - I was afraid I'd be late.

Is there a meeting?

No. Don't worry.

Betrand sent us a postcard.

- Where is he? - In Tokyo.

It's rained every day.

He doesn't care. He's only there for the girls.

All they do is smile. It gets annoying after a while.

He found a bar with transparent floors

where he can check out the waitresses' butts.

Then what does he do?

Nothing. You know him.

Have a nice day!

The company was pulling itself out of a difficult period.

A restructuring plan had forced the closure of a production line.

Staff had been cut from 2500 to 1200.

The management brought me in

to establish evaluation criteria other than age and seniority.

But I'll come to my part in this later.

It's too difficult to explain chronologically.

Mr. Rose is sorry. Do you mind waiting?

This way, please.

Come and sit down.

What I'm about to tell you is completely confidential.

The head office has asked me to sort out a worrying situation.

It's rather delicate.

How do you get on with the CEO?

I don't know him personally.

We see each other in meetings, but apart from that,

all we do is say hello and make small-talk.

We have a strictly professional relationship.

I said this was confidential.

As a psychologist, I'm sure you know what that word implies.

You're the only person I wish to speak with about this.

Concerns have been voiced

about what you might call the "mental state" of our CEO.

They were brought to us by one of his secretaries

and confirmed by some worrying behavior at work.

I've known Mr. J�st for nearly 10 years.

We worked together at our German HQ.

He hasn't seemed himself for a while.

It's just a feeling,

but for those who know him, the difference is striking.

I say "difference". I hesitate to say "illness".

It's up to you to tell me. You're the specialist here.

Mr. J�st is a cornerstone

of our operation and recovery in France.

The Germans want a detailed report on him.

Like everyone else, I fervently hope it's favorable.

You're free to proceed as you see fit,

but this takes priority.

You'll obviously have to get to know Mr. J�st better.

I'll tell his secretary.

Be discreet. She's still very fond of her boss.

I know, Mr. Rose told me.

Tomorrow, around 9:00 PM.

- Do you know the Caf� Beaubourg? - Yes.

- Until tomorrow, then. - See you tomorrow.

- Hello. - Hi, Ali.

Put that poison out or I'm off.

You're right, it's gone.

If we went to your place would you sing for me?

If you want.

What would you like to hear?

- Your voice. - You're hearing it now.

I want to see you sing.

Do you do it at the piano?

Sometimes.

I do it standing up, too.

I can sing sitting or lying down.

Why?

And naked?

Why not.

Like most people do, in the shower or bath.

Being naked must make it...

It depends who it is.

If I'm naked with Schubert, Faur�, or Mahler,

it's never the same.

You have to choose.

Have you chosen?

Yes.

Why are you laughing?

No reason.

- Let's go. - I'll think about it.

Louisa!

Sorry?

Don't trust what people see you in you.

You seem nice.

You should...

"April 12th,

April 17th, May 21st.

Late three times. No excuse given.

June 3rd.

Taken ill in a board meeting.

Unable to read notes. Says he has a migraine.

June...

...7th.

Shut himself in office all morning. Doesn't answer phone.

Sound of water."

"September 2nd.

Signature changed to initials only. Example included.

November 23rd.

Mr. J�st complains to cleaning company

that documents have been stolen.

Internal inquiry reveals no evidence.

Withdraws complaint.

February 6th.

Arrives an hour early for work.

Sits motionless in parking lot."

Shit!

"February 14th. 11:00 AM.

In an intoxicated state, not confirmed.

June 5th. Has trouble composing a letter.

November 2nd. Replaces two private phones.

Suspects they have been tapped.

December 12th.

Has requested to change his name

from J�st to Schlegel, his mother's maiden name.

Request refused.

The first confidential file covered Mathias J�st's career.

I learned he entered the company at 25 as an engineer.

He climbed the ranks becoming deputy production manager

and finally CEO.

His CV was accompanied by several photocopied files,

showing proof of a denunciation policy within the company.

Thanks, Walter. Call me at 6:00 PM.

Yes, Mr. J�st.

Since restructuring, we store all our data on computer:

staff changes, recruitment, reports, lay-offs.

It'll be two years until everything is computerized.

How far back can you go?

To the opening of our branch in 1929.

They kept records back then?

Of course.

I found the files you asked for on the Farb Quartet.

They last played together eight years ago.

Have you been asked to look into it?

No. Why?

I had to get permission to access the archives.

Really?

No, it's my own idea.

What would you think of an orchestra in the factory?

Management is obviously interested.

Karl Rose gave his consent immediately.

I hope it won't be old fogey music. We want to get down!

You're good at that.

Why don't you come to our parties?

I did. Remember?

No. That's the point.

You came to two, then played dead!

I get down but play dead!

You're annoying, Simon.

I don't mean to be.

Was it you who called me?

- Jacques Paolini? - Yes.

We can talk in a caf� if you like?

I have very little time, and even less to say to you.

Who told you about the quartet?

Some of the old guys who miss it.

Really?

The Farb Quartet brings back bad memories.

What do you mean?

Take four cards:

a king, a queen, a jack, and a six.

Or a king of spades, a ten of clubs,

a six of diamonds, and a three of hearts.

You can't win.

You have to throw in your hand.

I'm sure you can guess the cards:

a CEO, a secretary, a sales rep, and a chemist.

Music doesn't tolerate hierarchy.

The Franck quartet was a disaster.

Was Mr. J�st the violinist?

How did he play?

He was extremely tense, obsessively exact.

He was so meticulous he stifled the music.

Perfectionism belies an appalling fear of emptiness.

Why are you interested in the Quartet?

Management has asked me to come up with some ideas

for the events committee.

I thought it would be fun to start an orchestra.

Forget it! Factory workers don't like classical music.

Other stuff is better:

techno, house, heart-pounding beats.

You must know about raves?

My son's at Polytechnique That's all he listens to.

You can't be serious? Techno at SC Farb?

Why not?

What does management listen to?

Violence is a thriving market,

a way to let off steam,

a kind of necessary ritual.

Remember getting ragged when we were students?

I'm going. I'm late already.

Mr. J�st would be mad if he knew I was worried about him.

He's a very thoughtful man.

He has difficult moments like everybody else,

personal problems.

Don't worry, I'm here to help, not judge.

Everything you say will remain between us.

Mr. J�st sometimes gets very sad.

A terrible loss he's never gotten over.

The sadness can last for months.

It's very painful, but it's only human, isn't it?

Of course.

Sadness frightens people.

People avoid you like the plague.

Got a cigarette?

You close your eyes like a friend I haven't seen in years.

Really?

A pianist.

A melancholic woman.

But I'm not sad!

Mr. J�st isn't sad by nature.

Just now and then.

It's no big deal.

Mr. Tessier?

- Hello. - Hello, come in.

- Hello, Mr. Tavera. - Hello.

Please, come in.

All right.

We can talk for an hour or longer if you wish.

I think an hour and a half would be good.

All right.

Today's meeting has a dual purpose:

to get to know each other.

We'll focus less on your work experience

and more on you as a person.

Your likings, aspirations, and desires.

When we've finished,

if you've any questions about our company,

feel free to ask them.

I certainly will.

How would you like me to begin?

It's very simple.

If you had some close friends here, who'd studied with you,

how would they describe you?

That's a surprising question.

My mother would say I was studious.

She made me join a class for gifted children.

My girlfriend would say it didn't prepare me for the real world.

What do you mean by that?

I can't cook.

Touching food makes me nauseous.

Have you tried to overcome it for her?

What does she do?

We're not married. We don't even live together.

For now, I'm concentrating on my career.

Excuse me.

Yes?

It's me.

Hello, Mr. J�st.

Yes, I'm researching the Farb Quartet.

I have a few questions to ask. I won't take up much of your time.

Fine.

Thank you.

You were talking about your career.

Can you tell me why you've applied for a job with us?

What do you expect from the company?

There are more opportunities for career advancement here.

You want to move up quickly?

Yes.

To be honest, if I accept the job at Total,

I'd have a good profile after a few years.

But I think that people move up the ladder quicker here.

What makes you think that?

I asked around and read the trades.

This company is a hi-tech industry leader,

so people get promoted quickly.

So your research has convinced you that this is your best bet.

Yes, that's exactly how I'd describe it.

How can I help you?

Since the restructuring, I feel the staff need to bond,

to get together, have parties,

something that could even involve families.

So, I'm looking into forming one or more company orchestras

inspired by the quartet you formed.

Meaning?

26 employees on my list play an instrument.

Most play piano, but there are violinists,

percussionists, and guitarists.

I'd like to contact them

and ask if they'd like to give some concerts.

Maybe you have some suggestions for the repertoire?

How is your name spelled?

K- E-S-S-L-E-R,

Kessler.

You arrived here after the Quartet broke up.

Who told you about it?

The senior executives and Mr. Paolini, your cellist.

I've heard a lot about your seminars.

It seems you get our executives doing group therapy stuff, right?

Yes, amongst other things.

The company can't be an abstract entity.

Its economic health

depends on its staff's physical and mental health.

My goal is simple:

to push our executives to their limits

and use this motivation within the production unit.

Our executives have to become competitive again

so that we can return to our '92-'97 production levels.

It's hard for some of them.

I'll have a look.

I may have a recording in my own archives.

Fine.

Aimless wandering

In search of what you'll never find

A tramway from beginning to end

Meaningless journeys

And the bitterness of not knowing

Where to go or what to lean on

All you see are people

Who come and go

Unconnected

Almost crippled

By misery

By misery

Sometimes life

Is like a fantasy

When you expect it least

It gives you what you wanted most

Even if it takes it away again Afterwards

If what I'm saying is a lie

If it's not the truth

May God punish me

May He punish me if he wants to

People who believe Their way is right

Are easily lead astray

In the vile comedy of love

What good is a soul to us?

You're better off Going your own way

Than lying to those you meet

What good is a soul to us?

You're better off Going your own way

Yes?

Good evening.

I like to know you're alive

Now?

Why not?

I don't pursue my desires

He who clings to a dream Because of one kiss

Only sees the flip-side of life

What exactly is your job?

You work for a big company, but what do you do?

Why do you ask?

You're on call 24/7.

No I'm not.

Look what time they call you!

Don't those guys ever sleep?

Which guys?

Your boss.

My boss shouldn't have my number.

You don't have to go then.

Well, no...

...but I guess I will.

If it gets nasty, call me.

Maybe you don't know that love

Despite its own laws

Bewilders people's hearts

I didn't know you smoked.

I never smoke at work.

So...?

You visited the archive room.

What did you think?

Fascinating.

In what way?

Archiving is fascinating by nature.

That's right.

Archive.

"Arkh�".

It's from where all things begin and men command.

Where power is exercised.

Lucy, my wife.

This is Mr. Kessler.

- Hello. - Good evening.

Some champagne? Whisky?

I'd love some champagne.

We're currently investing a lot of money

in computerizing our archives.

What do we do with this mass of information?

Who is it meant for?

Our successors, without doubt.

To history!

When we had the Quartet,

I never thought someone would end up investigating it.

What kind of investigation are you doing?

I'm not investigating.

Please, sit down.

Where were you born, Mr. Kessler?

In Strasbourg.

Do you like Paris?

I've lived here a long time.

You like music. You must be a musician?

Unfortunately not.

Your wife perhaps?

I'm single.

Music is a virus.

I caught it when I was six.

I was taught by Zoltan Nemeth,

the greatest violin teacher in Berlin.

He got up at 5:00 AM.

and did two hours of scales before school.

At noon I studied for an hour,

and another hour and a half before going to bed.

My mother kept things rolling.

The Quartet rehearsed Tuesdays and Sundays.

My secretary was in it.

Paolini must have told you.

We tackled Dvorjak, Franck, and even Schubert.

I didn't expect to find this recording of us.

I haven't heard it for a long time.

The softest...

Music of the angels.

They all ganged up against me...

five, ten of them...

...it tears my body apart!

Stop!

Do you have much contact with my deputy manager?

Is Karl Rose interested in your work?

He comes to my seminars occasionally.

Where does his sudden interest in music come from?

I don't know.

What do you mean?

Come and sit down.

I'm very concerned about your department.

I'd like to talk to you about a problem

that's tormenting me.

I'm sorry, I have family commitments. I'll have to go.

Already?

Yes.

You would leave me here in torment?

I'm sorry, don't mind me.

Go on.

Walter will take you home.

- Good night, sir. - Good night.

Go on ahead, Tavera.

Make sure we don't have to wait in line!

You won't go far with that backpack.

You think you're in the AIps!

He wants a day off already!

Wait in line like everyone else!

Take off your sunglasses. What are you playing at?

We're playing and not playing.

Philippe and I are shit.

Call us whatever you want.

He's the boss, our elder.

We owe him respect and obedience.

What's this bullshit?

There were rituals like this in medieval European universities.

The Middle Ages are over. Take off your fucking glasses.

- Back off! - You're a pain in the ass!

One should never see the boss's eyes.

Shut up!

Jump, Tavera!

Jump, asshole!

Stop, Simon! It's dangerous.

I've had it, scumbag boss!

He's gonna jump.

Let him do it.

Hey, shithead! What the hell are you doing?

Sit the fuck down!

Simon, you want to go out?

What are you on? Are you crazy? Come on let's go.

Who the hell are you?

What's wrong? It's Isabelle.

Shut up! I don't know you, bitch!

Come on, we're leaving!

I don't want anyone to hear!

- What? - Her voice.

I'm crazy about her voice.

So, what's the problem?

I don't want anyone to hear Louisa's voice!

All those assholes watching her!

I'm watching her, too.

But you're blind.

- Have you watched her sing? - Yes, so?

She's completely naked. It drives me crazy.

All those assholes ogling her.

Stop, asshole!

Mrs. J�st called on the flimsy pretext that I'd forgotten my lighter.

I couldn't refuse her invitation.

I was completely wrapped up in the story.

The anger that had surged through me that night

was soothed by the blue eyes of the woman talking to me.

As you must have seen, my husband is not well.

Music is an insurmountable ordeal for him.

He says he feels pain.

Knives slicing through his body.

That's what he says.

But...

what terrifies me are his eyes.

It's like he's lost control.

I want to show you something.

As I followed her,

the sight of her neck gave me incredible pleasure.

I resisted.

I could have either kissed her or bitten her.

He shuts himself in his study at night.

I hear him pacing around and talking to himself.

I wanted to take his handgun away because he says dreadful things

but it's no longer in the drawer.

What a good dog.

What a dear dog.

Saphi.

The other day I caught him here.

He was sleeping on the floor by our little Alo�s' crib.

Imagine his big body.

I took his hand. He let me lead him away.

Mrs. Rose and I were great friends

but he stopped me from seeing her.

I think he's mad at Mr. Rose.

We were very close.

He doesn't think he's sick.

He says it's a plot.

In your profession, you call it paranoia, don't you?

Unless it really is a plot, then why won't he talk about it?

Can you help me to understand my husband?

What could I say?

I promised to stay in contact,

and see her husband before reaching a conclusion.

She seemed relieved

and watched from the front door

until my car disappeared around the corner.

I thought we might move the guy in product supply.

Yeah, that's it, Daragon.

And maybe put him in product improvement

until Wednesday, or something.

Until he comes back.

I don't know. I'll call you back.

Isabelle, do you want some coffee?

Shut up! I don't know you, asshole!

What's wrong?

Let go of me!

- You were at the rave on Saturday? - Yes.

You were fighting with a girl, right?

What girl?

"Shut up! I don't know you, bitch!"

Remember?

No.

No, nothing.

I didn't say that to you!

Wait! Tell me...

Yes?

I was just leaving.

Fine.

The business world is unforgiving.

How do you reconcile "the human factor"

with the company's need to make money?

How did you cope with the restructuring process?

I was only indirectly involved.

Don't be so modest.

You played a major role in the decision-making process.

Yes, I was there.

But you made the project a success.

You were the one behind it.

Thanks to your dynamic collaboration.

I asked you to refine the employee evaluation criteria.

You really gave us your all.

We went from 2,500 units to 1,200.

We recovered our shareholders.

It was a huge success!

The quality of the files you presented was most impressive.

You know exactly how to define selection criteria

according to the company's needs.

That's your strength, Mr. Kessler.

I've never hesitated to hire a candidate you put forward.

And I've never had cause to regret it.

Unfortunately, others have made mistakes

which have caused us serious financial damage.

It's their loss, too. Recruitment costs money.

One has to accept one's responsibilities.

I pay them to choose the right people.

Today, there's not one alcoholic left in the factory.

Before restructuring we created special jobs for them

to be "charitable".

You had no qualms about laying people off.

They gave us real safety problems in some areas.

Of course.

You didn't give an inch when the unions tried to intervene.

You stood your ground.

They didn't know the risk we were running.

Keeping on sick workers.

AIcoholism is a sickness.

They'd be incapable of responding to an emergency.

Imagine a vital pump breaking.

You have to react immediately.

There's no room for error. The workshops are dangerous.

There's gas, hydrogen. Disaster is always looming.

Safety regulations were ignored.

I've seen "specialists" handling toxic products

without gloves or masks.

We've got hydrogen sulphide, nitrogen oxide, phenol.

Take your pick!

And they blame it on staff shortages.

Crap!

I just couldn't let it go, for their safety and for ours.

And you were right!

I never noticed you worked outside office hours.

I'm well aware that Karl Rose told you to keep an eye on me.

He gave you this task.

He's turning my own people against me.

Karl Rose has decided to undermine me.

If he wants to get rid of me

it's because he knows I've got some extremely serious,

confidential, and compromising information.

Karl Rose used to be known as Karl Kraus.

In 1936, Heinrich Himmler founded the Lebensborn movement,

literally, "source of life",

gathering from shelters and maternity wards Aryan children,

many of whom were orphans.

By the end of the war,

these children had been adopted by German families,

which was the case of Karl Rose.

He is a "Lebensborn child".

It obviously isn't his fault.

He grew up in a family nostalgic for the Schwarzen Orden,

and maintained dubious links

with people sharing the same ideology.

I have concrete proof of this.

He sent donations to a bogus company,

which passed them on to an extreme right-wing group,

which had its own paramilitary cell.

I have all this information at my disposal.

Do you understand now?

Now you can do as you like.

I've said everything I have to say.

How's your little orchestra going?

- Did I scare you? - No.

Where are you going?

What's wrong?

What's going on?

What's happening?

- Stop it! - What?

My lover is a madman.

Look.

You're cold. Dark as a prison.

Yes, now I'm scared.

The letter Rose sent me filled me with unhealthy curiosity.

It looked like an ordinary technical report,

full of production figures and staff data.

Rose wanted to draw my attention to the differences

between the version written in German by J�st

and the typed copy obviously corrected by his secretary,

Lynn Sanderson.

Concern.

Selection.

Reintegration.

Restructuring plan.

Relocation.

Concern.

Selection.

Reintegration.

Restructuring plan.

Relocation.

Reading the handwritten letter again,

I noticed that it was full of missing words,

as if J�st's mind contained a censoring device

like a computer virus,

deleting certain words and leaving blanks,

as if they belonged to a forbidden, secret language.

One morning I was struggling to complete a routine selection file.

It was the first time I'd felt distaste,

even disgust for my job.

I called in sick with the flu.

J�st's report is due at the end of the week,

but I can't write a word.

I'm going to make a hole.

I need your cigarette.

What?

Don't move.

I let it burn.

I push it well in.

Do it again.

Annoying, isn't it?

Usually I only do it once.

Is it lit?

You're trying it on the cashmere?

Cashmere burns well.

It works the same way.

Don't move.

Oh, what's going on?

I'll give you another one.

Good evening, gentlemen. Police!

Hands on the table! Stop playing, please.

What did we do?

Mathias!

This accident has really shaken me up.

Have you spoken to the doctors?

Yes, of course.

But they were very discreet.

I didn't find out much.

And Mrs. J�st?

She says her husband is very sensitive.

Since their child's death, he's had bouts of severe sadness.

Of course.

You could have tried harder to find out what really happened.

Mrs. J�st was very distressed. I didn't want to press her further.

Before this incident, what was your clinical opinion of him?

He's difficult to read.

He's highly principled with a strong sense of duty.

A workaholic with a one track mind.

He's suffering from exhaustion.

Despite his hard exterior,

he seems very sensitive to what he calls the "human question".

Where did you meet?

Here, in his office.

- How many times? - Twice.

You mentioned a third meeting just now.

The first time was over the phone.

As I said, I tried to find out more, to ask more personal questions,

but without success.

He is very wary.

You mean, he's paranoid?

No, I meant his irascible nature

makes it hard for him to confide in people.

He's just going through a hard time.

He's got worries that might lead to a personal crisis.

The kind we've all been through.

What do you mean, "the kind we've all been through"?

It's a phase more than a crisis.

It's not depression.

An ordeal. That's a better way of putting it.

Wait a minute.

Is it a crisis or not?

Depression or not?

You mentioned exhaustion. What kind?

That's the impression I got.

Maybe he just needs a vacation.

There's a difference between clinical exhaustion and needing a break.

And his secretary?

She doesn't think there's a problem.

You must be joking!

She's the one who first alerted me.

She spoke of a breakdown, depression,

discrepancies in his work.

If I brought you in, it was to report on his mental decay.

To be honest,

this assignment is causing me great distress.

What's making you pull back?

What are you keeping from me? I want to know everything.

Everything is in the file.

You're contradicting yourself, playing dumb and avoiding questions.

I think the man's just tired.

You're lying.

You lied about seeing him.

- When? - I know you saw him at his house.

- I needed a clearer picture of him. - What happened?

Nothing. I just gave him a file.

I don't understand your distress.

You're not making yourself clear.

By calling a "personal crisis" a "phase",

you're either trying to create a smoke screen

or deliberately misleading me with unrelated facts.

I think I was wrong in coming to you.

I overestimated your professional abilities.

You're a dutiful subaltern but you lack imagination.

For a moment, I saw him as J�st had:

Karl Kraus, child of the Schwarzen Orden,

nobody's child,

one of another breed of children,

all perfect and alike.

A child with no childhood, no heart, no soul, no descendants.

A child from the new, pure, technical generation.

For over a year, Karl Rose has been blackmailing me.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I betrayed Mathias.

I was afraid of reprisals and his state of health scared me.

It's kind of you to have come so quickly.

You sounded worried on the phone.

I was Mathias' girlfriend at the time of the Quartet.

We grew apart

because of his unpredictable and violent behavior.

He drove me home after rehearsals.

I found poetic letters he had left me.

Mathias was an anxious, possessive lover,

obsessed with the idea that we'd be caught.

I loved Mathias.

He's been nursing his sorrow for so long.

I've often seen him cry.

I still love the inconsolable child in him.

His wife was at the hospital.

Did she tell you what happened?

Not really.

I think he passed out.

You're not telling me the truth.

Mathias' father was called Th�odor.

During the war he was in a police battalion.

He collaborated with the SS

during the occupation in Poland and Belarus.

He did more than just administrative tasks.

There were many Jews there.

He was involved in relocating them,

if you see what I mean.

Got a cigarette?

Mathias never knew exactly what his father did.

But he did witness one particular event.

One day in the early '50s, he was eating out with his father.

A man recognized Th�odor J�st.

He came and spoke to him.

Th�odor pretended not to hear him,

but the boy remembered what the man said.

"I saw you in Miedzyrzec in October '42.

There were women and children lying by the cemetery wall.

Remember?"

Th�odor J�st got up, grabbed his son and left.

Next day, the man was waiting outside the school.

He gave Mathias a note addressed to his father.

The boy couldn't resist reading it.

"Miedzyrzec, 88- 13".

A place and some figures.

He asked his father, "Where's Miedzyrzec?

What is 88- 13?"

His father beat him, shut him in the cellar,

yelled death threats through the door.

One day in the bathroom, he tried to drown him.

The child wondered what the bodies were doing face down on the ground.

"Daddy, there were women and children

lying by the cemetery.

What were the bodies doing there?

What were the 13 children doing?

Daddy, what were the bodies doing?

The 88 women on the ground?

The 88 bodies, the 88 children?

Were the children dead?"

I can feel it.

It's going to fall.

I can feel it's going to snow.

It will be beautiful.

Hello, sir.

Do you have a cigarette?

Come with me, please.

Come with me.

I'm happy you came.

I couldn't ask Lucy.

Here.

Apart from you, I don't know who...

It's pure lies.

You'll see how spiteful men can be.

- Should I read them? - Do what you like.

It's worthless.

A disgusting, repugnant past.

Lies.

My father wasn't in Berlin at the time.

He wasn't a technician.

He was just a shopkeeper in Hamburg.

He was forced to enlist in a Polish battalion

in the east of the country.

I have nothing to do with this.

The envelope contained three letters.

J�st had kept them on him.

They were anonymous, posted in Le Mans.

The first, sent a year ago, well-known to Shoah historians.

Enclosed was a facsimile of a memo written by an engineer,

dated June 5th, 1942,

stamped, "Secret: Affairs of State".

"Since December 1941,

97,000 have been processed in exemplary fashion

using three vans, without any sign of defect.

The explosion in Kulmhof should be seen as an isolated case

caused by an operational error.

Special instructions have been addressed

to the services concerned to avoid such incidents.

One:

To facilitate rapid distribution of carbon monoxide,

without pressure build-up,

two 10-centimeter vents will be made at the top of the rear wall.

These vents will be fitted with adjustable metal valves.

Two:

The normal load capacity

is from 9 to 10 pieces per meter squared.

But the large Saurer vans cannot be used for that many.

The problem is not one of overloading,

but the effect of maximum loading on the vehicle's maneuverability.

It therefore seems necessary

to reduce the cargo area by one meter.

Reducing the number of pieces as we've been doing

is not the answer

because the empty space must also be filled with carbon monoxide.

The manufacturer pointed out

that making the van shorter at the rear

would cause the cargo to shift towards the front,

and might overload the axle.

In fact,

there is a natural compensation in the distribution of the load.

There is a natural compensation in the distribution of the load

caused by the fact that during the operation,

the load tends to force its way towards the rear doors

and ends up lying in this area.

Consequently, the front axle is not overloaded.

Three:

The pipe that connects the exhaust to the van

tends to rust because it is eaten away from the inside

by liquids that flow into it.

Pointing the nozzle downward prevents this from happening.

Four:

To facilitate cleaning,

a watertight drain will be installed in the floor.

The cover of the 20 to 30 centimeter opening

will be fitted with an elbow siphon

to allow for the drainage of thin liquids during the operation.

Thicker dirt will be disposed of

through the large drainage hole during cleaning.

To enable this, the floor can be tipped slightly.

Five:

The observation windows can be eliminated as they're rarely used.

This will save a great deal of money.

Six:

Grills should cover the lamps high enough

to make it impossible to break the bulbs.

Experience shows they can be done away with.

However, when the back door is closed and it gets dark inside,

the load pushes hard against the door.

This is because the merchandise rushes

towards what little light remains as it gets dark.

This hampers the locking of the door.

It has been noticed that the fear aroused by the darkness,

provokes screaming when the doors are locked.

It seems expedient to keep the lights on

before and during the start of the operation.

Lighting is also useful for night work

and for cleaning the van."

You can't sleep here.

I'm not asleep.

You must have fainted then.

- Really? - Come on.

Thank you.

Come and drink something.

No, I'm fine.

- I should call a doctor. - No, thank you.

- Where do you live? - Nearby.

The memo had been submitted for examination and decision

to SS-Obersturmbannf�hrer Rauff.

It had been signed: "By order of J�st. "

Feeling better?

What did you mean by "black as a prison."

Why did you say that?

You frightened me. I thought you were going mad.

We kissed. We wanted each other.

We were going upstairs...

And then you remembered your mail.

You went to get it.

When you came back, you had changed.

You were a different man. Cold.

You really hurt my wrists.

It was the other guy that did it.

He must have been hiding in the hallway.

He appeared out of nowhere.

Louisa, I...

Let's go back to before the mail.

I touched your breast.

With my other hand, remember, I was stroking your back.

I felt you against me, pressing against my stomach.

I took you in my hand.

When I was a child,

I'd close my eyes and see the sun through my eyelids.

It was red, frightening, like an explosion.

I could no longer feel Louisa's body.

I clung onto her flesh.

I could no longer see her eyes.

A face without a mouth. A sort of body without arms or legs.

The second letter J�st had given me

was composed of pieces from the 1942 report,

pulled apart, broken up, deconstructed.

The words were scattered over a sheet of music.

I didn't know it but I held the proof of the sender's identity.

What's the good news, Mr. Corporate Shrink?

Hello, Mr. Paolini.

Whisky, wine, pastis.

Whisky.

It's not my office, but it's better than in that busy cafeteria.

Have you ever played this piece?

It's short.

It must be the Franck, the second movement.

We had a go at it.

May the composer forgive us.

Why are you so obsessed by the Farb Quartet?

As I told you, I'm forming a little orchestra.

If I organized a concert this summer, would you take part?

What an appalling idea! Here? No!

I've always hated company parties.

They make me think of mass burials.

I thought the young executives could meet the old boys.

They were all really fond of the quartet.

Which old boys?

The few that are left have forgotten it

or have gone deaf by now.

The quartet was total crap.

You're lying.

No one would have talked about us.

Yes, Lynn Sanderson did.

She was madly in love! She couldn't hear a thing.

We only had one real musician, Arie Neumann.

He was great.

He came from marketing.

He was laid off during the restructuring program.

He was an amazing guy.

- Lynn never mentioned him? - No.

The quartet broke up when he stopped coming to rehearsals.

Did you stay in touch?

No, I don't know what happened to him.

Why aren't you answering?

You have clients. Have you seen the time?

You're right. It's stupid.

Shall we go?

Mr. Paolini, let's go somewhere else. It's hell here.

I don't have the time, I'm sorry.

I just got this letter.

It was addressed to me personally.

At least look at it.

Why don't you sign the letters you send?

Do you find this revolting game funny?

I didn't write it.

Please stop bothering me.

I've received a second anonymous letter,

this time at my home.

I'm angry and frightened.

Like the letters sent to Mathias J�st, it was posted in Le Mans.

It mostly consists of ordinary phrases

taken from a corporate psychology manual that I know well,

but invaded and devoured by another text.

I can see a clear allusion to my job

and my contribution to the eradication of all those

whom I judged affected by alcoholism, absenteeism

and unable to meet the company's criteria.

"Any element unfit for work will be dealt with accordingly

in line with the objective criteria as one deals with a sick limb.

We'll bear in mind items such as:

1. Age.

2. Absenteeism.

3. Adaptability according to ability/convertibility

not forgetting the regularly updated evaluation codes.

It must be remembered that faulty individuals

may have a negative influence on their successors.

Security checks will employ modern electronic technology

to detect stowaways and other undesirable elements in the vans

by picking up carbon gas emissions in the breath.

We've recently installed heart-beat detectors,

which are more efficient,

and enable us to detect signs of life.

The device will examine each vehicle.

No one can escape it.

7,000 have been picked up since the beginning of the year.

The engineers are pleased with their results.

We used to arrest 230 per day.

This figure has now dropped to 160 a month,

thanks to increased Franco-British collaboration in this field.

Our operation will progressively spread

to all French and English ports affected by the same problems."

I found this article in a daily paper from February 2006.

Here you are. Enjoy your meal.

Thank you.

A beer, please.

- News from Patrice? - He got attacked.

- And? - He's going to report it.

He's right.

Good-bye.

What's wrong with him?

Bladder stones. It's something cats get.

Couldn't you have prevented it?

No, you can't do much about it.

Almost all cats get them.

I know, but...

After a certain age, it's bound to happen.

Give him a little kiss from me, okay?

I always get "Kimsala" and "Kimsal" mixed up.

It's Timsal.

I always get it wrong.

I say it every morning.

It's crazy!

Did he say it was serious?

It happens to cats when they're nine.

I know. Just give him a little kiss for me.

Another coffee, please.

- It's been ages. - I'll give him a hug.

Even if it's a cat, we don't care.

I promise I'll give him a cuddle.

- He'll be happy. - I'm going over there.

Don't forget your knife.

Thank you.

- Hello. - Hi, Philippe. How are you?

Arie Neumann?

Yes, that's me.

You wrote to me.

Sit down.

It's cowardly to send letters without signing them.

Why did you come to see me?

Your last letter was particularly insulting.

You could have ignored it.

You could have just burned it.

Maybe.

But I wanted to see your face.

Each one of these texts is signed,

with a name or by the system that produced them.

It's perverse to hide like this.

It's not human.

You're right.

Those are the exact words: "not human."

A gratuitous play on J�st's name.

A play on a name, one word for another.

A resemblance.

It's so common these days.

Language is a powerful means of propaganda.

It's the most public and the most secret

at the same time.

The effect of this propaganda

isn't produced by speeches, articles, and flyers.

It seeps into the masses' flesh and blood.

Did you know we don't have poor people anymore?

Only people on modest incomes.

We no longer talk of "issues" such as "social issues",

but "problems" that our specialists

split up into a series of technical details.

For each one, they'll find the optimum solution.

Efficient methods.

But...

But words emptied of all meaning.

It's a break down of the language.

A dead language.

Neutral.

Invaded by technical words.

A language which gradually absorbs its humanity.

Understand?

I see a gray truck crossing the city.

It's an ordinary steel panel truck

heading towards the mines,

two or three kilometers from the last houses.

Neither the driver nor the escorting officer

look back through the observation window into the truck.

They're tired.

They've still got 10 transports before night falls.

10 journeys across town in difficult conditions.

All the more difficult

because in the first few minutes of the transport,

they have to run the engine at full throttle

to drown out the screams and the strange lurches and jolts

that almost make the truck topple over.

Fortunately, things soon go quiet again,

and the transport is always completed on time,

in keeping with the schedule.

"Where do the trucks go?",

asks the child standing at the window.

At nightfall,

the child sees the vehicles lined up in the schoolyard.

He sees the drivers handing around a bottle of Schnapps.

The men are exhausted, happy to end a day

which began, like the others, much too early.

The escorts finish off writing up their figures

and hand in their daily reports.

The child sees his father,

the officer-foreman,

slap each man on the back,

and joke with each in turn.

The officer thinks that if the weather's fine

and there's no rain to bog down the trucks,

he might be able to finish his mission

by the end of the week.

And his superior, the Obersturmbannf�rher

who issued the order from a place 100 kilometers away,

will congratulate him

on the smooth-running of the operation.

If you were to ask each man what he was doing,

he would reply,

"Everything's going as planned,

although it's possible we're a little behind schedule."

He'd answer using that same dead, neutral,

technical language,

which makes him a truck driver,

an escorting officer, an Unterf�hrer,

a foreman, a scientist, a technical director,

an Obersturmbannf�hrer.

Were you the child at the window?

The child at the window was Officer-Foreman Neumann's son.

He didn't want to tell me his first name,

but I know "Arie" wasn't the one his father gave him.

The musicians took their places

and I saw the scene from my dream.

Arie Neumann came in last, holding his violin.

He remained standing, looking directly at me.

I saw a man go towards the door but I didn't shout for him to stop.

I saw the black mass of tangled bodies.

Merchandise.

Cargo.

I saw a world of nakedness

under the yellowish, caged-in light,

which slid down a lightly sloping floor,

exposing a hand, a leg,

a crushed face,

a twisted mouth,

bleeding.

Fingers clutching a dirty undergarment

stained with urine, vomit, blood, sweat, drool.

Liquid.

Here was part of a back,

the head and arms buried under other bodies.

There, a body entwined around another.

And all these bodies...

Pieces.

Rolling over one another,

shifting the weight of the mass towards the pit.

All these corpses, tangled up, still muddled together,

but slowly separating from the mass with the shifting weight.

Shifting weight.

Each one gradually pulling out of the suffocating human embrace.

A grimacing face, turned blue, stuporous.

And beneath...

The shit.

Little children cradled in women's legs.

Scrawny old men, little girls with sunken eyes,

naked boys covered in bruises.

All these creatures...

Pieces,

who had names.

Pieces.

Mo�se.

Moshe.

My brother.

Robert.

My father.

Armand.

Miguel.

Amos.

Hannah.

Samuel.

Pieces.

My mother.

My love.

Pieces.

My sister.

Simone.

Magdalena.

Each of these bodies gradually emerging from this vast naked sea

to fall one after the other, in pairs, in bundles,

into the dark hole of the mine.

Darkness.

A sea of bodies, buried, swallowed up.