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. Jst
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. Jst 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. Jst 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. Jst 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 Jst to Schlegel,
his mother's maiden name.
Request refused.
The first confidential file
covered Mathias Jst'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. Jst.
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. Jst 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. Jst 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. Jst 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. Jst 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. Jst.
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?
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. Jst 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 Alos' 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 Jst
and the typed copy
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 Jst'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.
Jst'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. Jst?
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. Jst 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 Jst 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 Thodor.
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 Thodor Jst.
He came and spoke to him.
Thodor 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?"
Thodor Jst 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.
Jst 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,
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-Obersturmbannfhrer Rauff.
It had been signed:
"By order of Jst. "
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 Jst 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 Jst,
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:
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.
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 Jst'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.
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 Obersturmbannfrher
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 Unterfhrer,
a foreman, a scientist,
a technical director,
an Obersturmbannfhrer.
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.
Mose.
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.