Original subtitles

I don't know

So, Gromov, open up, please.

Gromov, it's me, Leonakov, the janitor.

Mr. Bravo, open up, please.

Oh!

You are under arrest by the order of the People's Commissariat of Internal

Affairs. Come with us. What have I done? Article 58, counter-revolutionary

activity. Please, may I get dressed? Come with us! Take him!

May I get dressed?

Let me out!

What have I done?

What have I done?

Prisoner! Letter A.

What?

State your name.

Alexei Abramov.

Abramov! Step out.

Professor, it's good to see you.

Vladimir Stepanovich, I... It has been too long.

Too long, Professor.

I've thought of you so often.

It's unfortunate I need to see you here this way.

I would much rather be seeing you under better circumstances.

I agree, I agree, of course.

In fact, I...

I do not know why I am here.

Valoria, they take me out of my bed, and they brought me here, and they tell me

nothing.

It's unfortunate, but you can't expect anything else.

They have to deal with so many enemies of the state, all of whom claim their

innocence, who protest, who cry.

Of course. Of course.

Do you remember the old days, Professor?

At the university?

Of course. You were... You were one of my best students.

Ah.

Tolstoy, Dostoevsky.

You were partial to the master, I believe.

What was the name of that character from Crime and Punishment?

Raskolnikov.

Raskolnikov. I never understood him.

He got away with murdering the old woman, and then he spends hundreds of

pages agonizing and then confesses.

What was the purpose of his confession, Professor?

It cleansed his soul.

The immortal soul, the immaterial soul.

I always wondered of what the soul is made.

It always seemed like lazy thinking to me.

I lectured on the book.

I never said I agreed with it.

Are you all right, Griffith?

Yes, it is, of course. I'm fine.

I'm sorry.

Can anyone offer you a drink?

No.

Well, let me help you with that.

You would like a drink, wouldn't you?

Yes.

I could use one.

My colleague will help you with something.

Will vodka suffice? Yes, more than suffice.

Bring our guest a bottle of vodka and a glass, of course.

Yes, comrade lieutenant.

You'll be here shortly.

Now.

As good as it has been to...

Catch up with you.

I'm afraid we must get down to business.

Yes, yes.

Yes, I would like to know why I'm here.

Of course.

But you already know, don't you?

No.

I was brought in like this.

That is all I know.

Now I don't think that's quite true, Professor.

Do you recognize this man?

He's an old colleague of yours.

Father Nikolai Mikulski.

Eastern Orthodox.

Oh, come on now, Professor.

You know him.

I know him.

From our days at the university.

Yes, I remember him now.

Have you seen him lately?

No, I haven't seen him in years.

I never went to his services.

You two were quite friendly at the university, I recall.

Let me check on that drink.

No. No.

I'm sure I saw you walking to visit him on a Sunday.

We were playing chess.

The good old days.

Do you remember staying up late to talk over Pushkin?

Yes, Pushkin.

When did you last see Father Mikulski?

Please,

Claudia.

I have not seen Father Mikulski in years. Please.

You know me.

Tell them that they must let me go.

It's not how it works, Professor.

You're here for a reason.

Of course.

I never said that you weren't.

But you're here for a reason.

Unless you think the state has made a mistake.

No, no.

Of course not.

A mix-up, perhaps.

There are no mix-ups.

But maybe you think I've erred in some way.

Then you tell.

Me. Why are you here?

I don't know.

I think that you do.

You've seen Father Mikulski, haven't you?

No.

I would have no occasion to, you see.

I haven't been at the university in many years. I know. I've read your file.

It's the Ministry of Transport.

Aren't you a little overqualified for that position?

We must all serve the people.

Professor.

Lies endanger the soul.

Or so I remember you saying from your class.

There is much that endangers the soul.

Such as?

Could I have that drink?

The soul.

Such a strange concept, the soul.

Is that what you were talking about with Father Mikulski?

I told you I haven't seen him.

Are you sure?

Yes.

Why are you lying to me, Professor?

You know that we know the answers to our questions. Then why ask the question?

Because what matters is who says what.

The words coming out of my mouth mean nothing. From yours, they mean something

else.

But I know nothing.

Old friends, there is no reason to be so standoffish on these matters.

We know that you know.

All we need is your confirmation.

And what would happen to Father Mikulski?

A few years in a labor camp serving the people.

He could even minister to them.

We have camps specializing in those who traffic in the opiate of the masses.

I do not know anything of what you are talking about.

To be honest, you know, it is shocking to me that you are so reticent to help

the state now. You have helped us before, many times.

The first time, 1922.

Professor Kolchak.

He taught mathematics, didn't he?

And then...

1927. Professor Strum.

Literature department.

As I recall, you had quite the rivalry with Strum.

Wasn't he nominated for the Order of the Red Star of Labor?

He was highly celebrated for his poem about Lenin.

To be honest, I found it tedious.

Who needs... 3,000 lines of epic poetry about a workers' revolution.

I heard even Lenin found it exhausting.

Whatever happened to Ström?

He killed himself. Yes, that's right.

How did he do it?

Hanging.

I remember there was talk about an unpublished suicide letter.

Well, at least his poetry will outlive him.

Did you like him?

I didn't know him well. I only told the Cheka the answers to their questions.

And yet you won't do the same now.

Because I don't know anything this time.

Professor, you knew Korlchuk and Stroom better than you let on.

In fact, I'm sure you told yourself many things to justify

the betrayal of Stroom and the others.

And in the end...

It was jealousy, wasn't it?

There's no need to be ashamed, Professor. It's the way of the world.

Oh, the flames that burn in men who attempt to beat down those flames with

their reason.

To no avail, of course.

You've kept up on your pushkin, I see.

drinking vodka, reading Pushkin.

Just give us what we need.

You want me to lie?

I've told you I know nothing.

Better the illusions that exalt us than ten thousand truths.

Do not lie to yourself.

The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lies

comes to a point where he doesn't discern any truth,

either in himself or anywhere around him.

And thus, he falls into disrespect towards himself.

and others, and not respecting anyone he ceases

to love.

And having no love, he gives himself up

to passions and coarse pleasures in

order to occupy and amuse himself and in his vices.

reaches complete bestiality.

And it all comes from continually lying to

others.

And himself.

Or Dostoevsky.

Yes, Dostoevsky.

You know, I once attended a dinner party with Lenin.

It's quite the honor.

And the topic of Dostoevsky came up.

Trotsky was there.

And the bastard says to Lenin that with his version of dialectical

materialism, all will be permitted, just as Raskolnikov from Crime and

Punishment had theorized.

Lenin was so angry, he could have spit.

Says the seething old man.

We have come down to the sentiments and petty words of a soppy

intellectual.

Theodora. Who wishes to drown revolutionary

questions in moralizing vomit.

Or perhaps his emotional instability.

appeals to types like you.

And what did Trotsky say?

Trotsky... started laughing.

Then we all started laughing.

Lion was quite the character.

How did you know he was joking?

You know, Vladimir, you were one of my finest students.

What did you think of Lennon's analysis?

What does it matter what I think?

Because, in spite of it all, you still have a soul.

You're a human being.

So are we all.

And yet you'd be surprised how... How easily the human being is reduced to a

stinking, festering corpse.

Don't speak to me of the soul.

I've seen too many pieces of rotting meat in the mud for that child's talk.

What happened to you?

You didn't know me, Professor.

I did.

No, Professor.

I thought you did.

You spoke about the soul, this vague thing.

But you know who truly knew me, knew me down

to the marrow of my bones?

Death knew me wonderfully well.

He walked with me in the trenches.

He watched me and laughed as I tried to stuff the guts back into my friends.

But you know what?

Death was an excellent teacher.

He taught me that in the end, we are fat and bones and gristle and stink.

You are angry with me.

No, Professor.

You and your kind are soft.

Soft in the belly, in the hands, in the heart, in the head.

I was soft too.

But no longer.

Which is why I think you will tell me.

What I need.

What is it you need?

We need you to tell us that Father Mikulski was collaborating with the

capitalists, an enemy of the state.

But he isn't.

He is.

We shut down his church, to be sure.

But he's still distributing his pamphlets,

quoting the Bible, the words of a simpleton,

quoting a madman.

Stand up.

Read out loud, professor, like you used to in class.

You always had such a wonderfully melodious voice.

Christ is beyond the party.

He came to this world to redeem us from sin.

Not to cast us down before faceless.

Machine.

Counter-revolutionary words.

But are they true?

What is truth?

Pilate asked the same question.

And the people demanded Barabbas.

They always demand Barabbas.

Professor, are you ill?

Would you like that drink?

No, I'm all right.

Are you sure?

Yes, I'm fine.

You look like you could use a drink.

All right.

You won't mind if I oblige.

I don't drink.

Professor, you may be under the impression that you have a

choice. And you may be under the impression I do not.

Your choice is limited.

We live in a material system. That system defines us.

Our will is not our own. The system defines that, too.

And to answer your question, I agree with Lenin.

Raskolnikov, in crime and punishment, was a fool.

Why feel guilt over the death of an old woman?

Raskolnikov could have been the father of a completely new system of thought.

But he went weepy over a whore and ended up in prison.

But he retained his soul.

There's no such thing.

We'll say goodbye for now.

We'll speak more soon.

I'm Dimitri.

That, down there, is Alexander.

And, uh, well, over there, the one trying to sleep through

this is Bogdan.

How long have you been here?

Me? Three days.

Alexander's been here a month, and Bogdan was brought here two weeks ago.

That's why he's so depressed, huh, Bogdan?

Shut up, fool.

Yeah. He's not a happy character, Bogdan.

But what's your name?

Uh, Alexei Abramov.

Alexei.

Pleased to meet you.

I'm sorry it wasn't under better circumstances.

What do you do?

Ministry of Transportation.

You?

I'm a concert pianist. You know, Stalin attended my concert last year at the

Bolshoi. You are not Dmitri Sharapov.

At your service.

But why?

Why are you here?

That is a long story.

And a sad story.

A predictable story.

He's a cynic.

A realist. A stupid.

A smarter stupid.

They are the same now.

The smarter at the mercy of the stupid.

You talk too much, Zid. Oh, a real, true, patriot,

Soviet. Shut up.

Oh,

you cossack idiot.

You think your stupid name-calling makes any difference?

You're in here with us.

You know, that's what... Hey, hey! Calm, gentlemen. Calm.

If we can't trust one another, who can we trust?

Not the ones in the hallway.

That's for certain.

Is there any indicator of when we will be let go?

Optimist. There are no answers here.

other than the ones they put in your mouth.

Gentlemen, I am sorry, but I feel I must lie down.

Your first night with the blood-sucking capitalists.

Sleep well, Abramov.

The Lubyanka bedbugs will be pleased to meet you.

It's not the Ritz, eh, Professor?

How did you know my profession?

Oh, I saw you lecture years ago at the university.

What happened to having sent to the Minister of Transport?

I suppose I...

Wanted to learn the ins and outs of metropolitan population movement.

Drinking, eh?

What about you? What brings you to this hotel?

Counter-revolutionary activity.

It's hard to avoid, you know.

They can accuse almost anyone of it.

So I've noticed.

I was a member of the Politburo.

I used to say it was cheek and jowl with the top dogs.

It's not like one day you're on the light and the

next in the darkness.

It's more twilight all around.

Have you ever seen a child starve to death, Professor?

No.

No, I can't say that I have.

I have.

In Ukraine.

In Ukraine?

In Ukraine in 1933 during the famine.

Those children...

And first you believe it changes you.

First time you think your whole world has ended.

And then you realize that the world goes on.

You see, they sent us there to make sure that the grain productions

went to the cities.

But to do that,

get rid of the Kulaks.

Kulaks were counter-revolutionary.

They insisted in their small way on

the farms and their lands, but it was

all the people's land.

The Kulaks at the beginning

They fought us, and they begged for their lives sometimes, and that was more

difficult. But eventually we found an easier way of

doing away with them.

One bullet, no questions, no begging, no waste to the back

of the skull.

We searched for the grain, but we never found any.

we found nothing.

We simply emptied the larders and pantries and

kitchen and the barns. We took everything.

And anyone found with a grain of wheat,

they were exiled or executed.

But that didn't make more grain.

In the end, we took the seed grain and we sent it to the cities.

The mothers and the children begged to go to the city. We refused.

The more they begged, the more we cut their rations.

Mothers would load their babies onto the trains and hoping that someone would

take mercy.

There was one family with two

children, a boy, not more than five, and a girl,

perhaps eight.

The mother was beautiful.

Her husband had been taken in the first wave.

as she withered away.

One day pretty and the next one gaunt

and then a skeleton with a pair

of burning eyes.

One day I passed the house and there were a pair of feet

hanging in the doorway.

She was dead, of course.

Her corpse was desiccated and her eyes

empty.

I entered the home and

the children the boy he was

clawed her flesh on her legs

and eating the meat and he

ground like a feral animal at me when he saw me

he was

was sucking at the wounds, trying to drink the blood.

And so you left the Chukka?

No, of course not.

A man can get used to anything.

And now you are here.

Yes, and for the most ridiculous of reasons.

My father would have found it hilarious, a rabbi in the

shtetl. When I told my father I was a Marxist, that

Marxism was the promised new world for all mankind,

he laughed at me.

He said, you know something,

The Torah teaches us to fear heaven, and that's the

beginning of wisdom.

You were always adult.

Then they quoted Perkei Avon, The Ethics of the Fathers,

one of the holy books. It says,

Mine is yours, and yours is mine, is Enigma Ramos.

And so what happened?

One day they came for me and accused me of counter-revolutionary

activity.

And what was their evidence?

My Jewish last name.

It sounded too much like...

Trotsky or Zenovius or Kamenet. I

don't believe it.

Do you believe in a machine that grinds the bones of children to make bread for

the iron workers that draws a line from hatred of the Jews?

Something happened.

Have you heard in America they have automobiles for the common man?

Lies.

What if it weren't?

Impossible. It's true, and somebody has to take the blame for it.

Not Lenin, the old saint.

Not Stalin, but maybe God.

But they killed God long ago.

What about the chosen people?

You know, those clever Jews with their money lending and their

strange customs and their insular solidarity.

But why you? Why you personally? You were a Marxist.

Marxism taught me that a man doesn't get what he deserves.

He gets only what the system provides for him.

My father taught me another story from Pirkei Avon about

a rabbi near a river.

He saw a skull floating in it, and he said,

because you drowned others, they drowned you.

And in the end, they that drown you will be drowned.

We all get to what we deserve.

But what about the children in Ukraine?

I can't speak for them.

Only for the men who took their seed grain.

Don't they ever turn off the light?

No. In the Soviet Union the lights always shine brightly.

Abramov! Good luck.

Don't worry about us. We'll still be here when you return.

I trust you got some rest.

The lights were very bright.

Yeah.

Yes, we like to keep an eye on those in our cells.

I see.

I'm sure you'd like to go home, Professor, despite our hospitality.

Have you thought more about our conversation?

Yes. But I am afraid I still cannot tell you something I do not know.

You know, Professor, your life has not been easy.

This file says you've been at the Ministry of Transport for 11 years.

But what is also true is that our state is generous.

It rewards those who are loyal.

I have been authorized to make you an offer.

You are still respected in some circles.

Some still read your work. Did you know that?

How would you like your old job back at the university?

And more than that, chairmanship of the literature department.

You certainly kept up with your scholarship, Professor.

We established that.

in the last conversation.

Imagine your old office back.

A new apartment.

All we need is information.

You've done it before.

Speak, and the state will restore you.

And all it requires is words.

Just words.

And destroy Father Mikulski?

He is already destroyed.

You need not be.

Professor.

There's more.

Your family.

What of my family?

We know about all that.

As I've told you, we make a habit of knowing everything.

You were labeled counter-revolutionary.

But we know that was a false accusation. You are nothing of the sort.

And now you can prove it.

So why not have your old life back?

Anya and Sasha.

Anya has remarried.

That, that's nothing.

She still loves you.

We know.

We keep tabs on such things.

And as for Sasha, you haven't spoken to him in, what, ten years?

You know he's made good.

He has risen quickly through the ranks of the Komsomol.

He will be a respected member of the party apparatus someday soon.

I've met him.

He's a fine young man.

You can be...

make those sorts of guarantees.

Did they bring you here?

Because you were once my husband.

But you were free of all that.

Well, as I say, you were once my husband.

What do they want from you now?

They want me to inform on Father Makovsky.

From the university?

Why don't you do it? I simply cannot.

You can't or you won't.

You can't or you won't.

It is so good to see you again.

Even after all these years, you are still so beautiful.

Alexei.

I am here to talk to you.

You want me to inform?

It's not about you, Alexei.

It's about more than that.

It's about you, you mean.

Your status.

Your station.

What did they threaten you with?

Did they threaten you with a smaller apartment?

Did they threaten your husband with loss of position?

Because we both know what you would do if they did.

That is unfair, Alexei.

Is it? They took our apartment.

They took your job.

I stayed with you.

Not for long. For far too long.

Your arrogance.

Your refusal to compromise.

Anya, you forget.

I compromised.

Over and over I compromised.

And in the end, it didn't help. I prostituted myself.

My greatest sin is I destroyed and betrayed myself for nothing.

Damn you and your literary references.

Your moral pretensions.

They don't serve you one bit.

Nor me.

Nor anyone.

Do you understand?

What would you have me do? Anything.

Anything. For what?

For me.

You should have stayed.

I tried.

You forget your drunken stupors.

And your blind rages.

That's the childhood Sasha remembers.

That's the childhood you gave him.

And now you want to take away his future. What future?

There's an apparatchik of the party looking for the kind of people that

brought me here.

This isn't about me. This is about our Sasha.

I'm begging you. He's making his own life now.

Begging you let him live it.

Perhaps I hate myself for not being there for him.

For leaving him defenseless in a wild forest filled with wolves.

Don't take it out on him.

He is in line for a job with the party, a good one.

He's loyal to Stalin.

Stalin knows this. Stalin even knows his name. He is a child. He's 20 now.

He's making his own way. He can have a better life than we did.

As a pawn?

Look around you.

We are all pawns.

We are all pawns to the party.

You were not so different once.

Not that long ago.

I remember Kolchuk.

He had a wife, too.

And children.

You had no problem denouncing him when they asked you.

You wanted me to.

Of course I did.

You do what the party asks and you are rewarded.

You withhold and you are punished.

The party is the mother and we are just children.

We are human beings.

You are no human being.

You are a drunk and a derelict and you stink of failure.

And you were once beautiful.

If ever you loved me, if ever you loved Sasha, you must do

what they ask.

No.

Please, Alexei.

Things can change.

Things can be good again. We can go back to the way things were. No, it is too

late for that. It's too late for us. It's not too late for Sasha.

His future is the same as mine.

A cell.

That is your future, too.

So you believe you are a martyr.

You are not a martyr.

You've made your bed, and now you lie in it, and now you want to make Sasha lie

in it, too. I have no choice.

You do have a choice!

Destroy what is left of me. There's nothing left of you. There's nothing

left of you but the bottom of a bottle.

What man sacrifices his own son for his misguided honor?

The kind of man, perhaps, who believes one day his son will understand.

Well, I will never understand.

You think you've changed?

Are you doing something heroic?

This isn't heroism. It's meaningless.

It's barbaric.

The self-centered man of decency against the entire state.

Just you.

Against your whole family.

A lover's quarrel, I see.

For old time's sake?

Let her out, Vladimir.

She does nothing.

Of course she doesn't.

I know that.

Did he refuse you?

Please leave my Sasha alone.

I'm afraid that's a question for my superior.

He's the son.

of a counter-revolutionary.

Please.

It's up to the Professor.

What comes next could have been prevented.

Sit.

Take Miss Lebedev.

Find her some accommodations.

Why would you do

that? She has done nothing.

She's consorting with the counter-revolution.

She'll be questioned, of course, about her own history and associations.

And eventually, we'll get to Sasha.

But she knows nothing.

You know, she still loves you.

No.

No, she came to try to convince me to help you for Sasha.

She can say that she came for Sasha.

But, but I know what a woman's love looks like.

And she loves you.

It would have been better for her to stay away.

Minimize your connection to her.

She could have hoped the distance would protect her.

But she came straight away.

That's love.

Let her go.

You could free her.

And yourself.

Just sign that.

No need to read it. It doesn't implicate you in anything.

It simply states that you were shocked to stumble upon Father Mikulski printing

his pamphlets, and you rushed to the authorities to report his traitorous

behavior.

Just sign it, and it will all be over for your wife and child.

Please.

Vladimir, you are not an evil man.

Make this stop.

Evil and good are luxuries the revolution can no longer afford.

Evil does not cease to exist because you would pretend it away in the name of

revolution. There are many kinds of evil. The evil of exploitation, of

inequality, of starvation and aristocracy.

Often, to abolish one evil requires another.

The argument of every monster.

Monsters change history.

Sign it.

At least your wife and son will know who to blame when they work the rest of

their lives in the Gulag.

Why don't you just give them what they want?

Why don't you?

I don't know.

I guess perhaps the artist in me still believes there'll be some duax machina,

some third act surprise.

I think the curtain falls on us all the same way.

Proper Russian literature.

But you know, not all art is Russian.

The French...

They prefer comedy.

Have you ever been to Paris?

No.

No, I've never left Russia.

Pity. The city is magnificent.

Lights everywhere.

Not the pitiless lights of Moscow. Warm lights.

And warm women.

You know, I've heard you play on the radio.

Very beautifully.

Why are you here?

Warm women.

Do you know the ballerina Katerina Sidorova?

I've seen her posters on the Metro.

You and she?

And for a while, the party allowed it.

A magnificent Soviet couple.

Artists united in love for the people.

But when I asked her to marry me, I found out there was another man.

She didn't love you?

She did.

But what does love have to do with politics?

Her patron is a high-ranking member of the commissariat.

I never found out who.

All I know is that she pledged to break it off with him on our last night

together.

I had just finished.

private concert of Chopin when I was informed that I was required for

questioning.

What did they charge you with?

Nothing.

So far. My guess is that all of this is a warning.

Or at least that is my hope.

In here, one has time to think.

A lot of time.

To practice, at least.

How do you practice without your instrument?

My instrument is here.

And here.

You hear the music?

Of course.

If Beethoven could hear it, I can.

I find myself...

Thinking about something odd in this place.

Beauty.

Your music?

Not mine.

Beethoven's, Bach's, even Ravel.

They say Stalin prefers Mozart.

That's true, but I wonder whether he truly understands it.

What is to understand?

Whether he feels the music then.

I find it hard to believe that a man that runs all this could truly feel the

second movement of Mozart's 23rd piano concerto.

The tragic nature of it, the wistfulness.

They say Nero played the lyre while he roasted Christians.

Do you not believe art and beauty ennoble the soul?

Are you not Russian?

Art and beauty are wonderful.

but I have realized they are not always the best predictors of decency.

In fact, I am not sure it changes the heart.

Have you ever read Chekhov's letters? There's one that always stands

in my mind. He writes, What a fine weather today I...

Cannot choose whether to drink tea or hang myself.

No.

No, beauty does not change things. It can

hide things sometimes, deeper things.

Like what?

The problem of evil.

You and I are cultured.

cultivated men and all that culture.

Does it change what goes on in here?

And yet, I must believe that art changes the world, changes men.

Men like Stalin?

So, in your opinion, Stalin either doesn't understand music or doesn't

understand evil?

Or, in the end...

None of what we do matters, and all that is left is beauty.

A romantic notion.

Beethoven is gone.

So is Bach.

And beauty remains.

You know, there are other kinds of beauty.

Maybe a kind of beauty that doesn't actually die.

Art?

There is a beauty beyond this world.

You mean heaven? A small-minded dream of simpletons?

The opiate of the masses.

But is it?

Are we all wiser than those who came before us?

You know, Dimitri, Bach believed in heaven.

He said the purpose of music was the glorification of God. It fueled his

music.

You ask me if art ennobles. I don't have the answer

to that. Why should a Tchaikovsky tune that moves us to weep move

us to sacrifice?

Men sacrifice for something more because they know there

is something more.

Nonsense.

Men sacrifice for things here on this earth.

There's no heaven.

The only thing that matters is the power of the human will.

So says Stalin.

And you disagree?

You useless sod.

You sit there and shake because you're dependent on drink. Your sick is all

over you. And you comfort yourself with thoughts of heaven.

It is a comfort, to be sure.

But it doesn't mean it's not true.

There's only one truth.

This is the only truth.

It's always been the only truth. Power.

That's why you're here.

That's why Dimitri's here. And the Jew.

What of love?

What of it? Whose love?

The Commissar's love for Dimitri's whore ballerina? Your love for your books?

Your dead thinkers who think it matters whether others read their words while

their bodies are eaten by the maggots, huh?

only one love that matters the love of the state for its future the state the

state is people just people no the state is the soul of a people

you think of the individual as though he matters the individual doesn't matter at

all the soul of the people is what matters That soul is expressed across

the pages of history.

Oh, a propagandist for his jailers even now.

Yes.

This is the state for which I work.

The state I built.

You see, Jew, I was in Ukraine too.

But unlike you, I don't weep about it.

I don't sit and whine over it.

It had to be done.

Those kulaks had to be destroyed, their children with them.

The iron wheels of history grind over the pebbles.

And you're one of the pebbles. Yes, I am one of the pebbles.

And I honor the wheels.

Have you no family?

No one to mourn you. Who cares for the mourners and bodies in the casket? A

harsh philosophy.

The only philosophy.

Reality.

Then what is it all for?

Dimitri believes in art.

Alexander believes in justice. What do you believe in?

Professor, you don't look well.

Is Anya all right?

As you know, Professor, the answer to that question lies entirely with you.

But for now, she's resting comfortably in our ample accommodations.

I've brought you another guest.

Sergeant.

Remember your father?

Damn you.

My boy.

Damn you!

It's no way to talk to your father. You ruined mother's life and now you're

ruining it again.

No, Sasha, that is not true.

I can see what you are now.

A drunk and still a drunk.

You think I don't remember how they fired you for it?

How you wouldn't give up that damn bottle for anything?

You're a selfish... Old man.

And you could free my mother with some words, and you won't.

No, Sasha, that is not the whole story.

The story is your stubbornness.

It always was.

You think I don't remember how you always insist on standing against us. I

am standing for you.

For something that should be important to you.

They told me. They told me that you're standing with Father Mikulski with

superstition and cultic stupidity. And truth and decency.

No, no.

You are an indecent man.

And you preach decency? You're a hypocrite.

What would you like me to do?

Confess. To what?

To whatever it is that they want.

Oh, Sasha.

I'm so sorry for what has happened to you.

You should be.

Free my mother.

Do your duty as a man.

As a man?

What happens to Father Mikulski?

A fetishist. A relic. Do you and he perform rites in a secret church where

you mumble stupid words of a mongoloid people?

I'm your son.

My mother is a real human being and you can free her. Just say the words.

I'm sorry I failed you, Sasha.

You fail me now!

I should never have let your mother walk out.

I should have never allowed her to take you.

I should have insisted that we stay together. Yes, in that horrible

apartment. Yes, in my dead-end job.

I should have put down the booze and picked up my life's task.

I should have taught you.

I was a teacher.

Taught me what, precisely?

That to be a man, you must believe in something greater

than the party.

Greater than steel, and power, and machines, and iron

foundries. Yes, and greater even than bread.

You must believe in what it means to be a man.

if you know what it is to be a man.

I didn't.

What changed?

I can't say.

You... You... You won't say.

You mean...

Then damn you to hell.

If there is one.

Comrade.

Lieutenant, I have nothing further to say to my father.

Are you sure?

It may be the last time you ever see him.

You have a stubborn boy.

I know where that comes from.

But I'm not worried.

You will remember your duty.

Where are the others?

People come and go around here.

Where are they?

Alexander's been taken.

Where?

It was just a few moments ago.

If you listen closely, you might be able to hear him.

He's with his rabbi father now.

You monster, what did you do?

Me?

I did nothing.

I don't believe you. You've been sitting there listening.

You told them about him, about the writing. You told them everything.

What a fool you are, Bramov.

Like all intellectuals blinded by those clean-shaven men with well-manicured

fingernails. They talk art, wax poetic about a nocturne and fools like you turn

them into saints.

It wasn't I, it was the informer, Professor.

Dimitri. Of course.

You knew.

From the first moment.

His hands were soft.

He loves his beauty too much to ever let himself be trapped in ugliness.

What will happen to him?

Nothing, I'd suppose.

He'll let go of his ballerina.

She'll stay in the bed of the commissar until he tires of her.

And if he's lucky, they'll let him go back to playing that infernal piano.

And he'll get idiots like you to pay homage to him as an artist.

And you.

must live with himself.

They have my wife and son.

Sounds surprising.

I can free them if I confess.

So why not do it?

Because Father Mikulski saved me.

That some father saved you.

How?

You're here.

He introduced me to Christ.

To something higher.

I always studied Dostoevsky, but I never really understood what

he was saying.

Mikulski for the first time.

introduced me to the truth.

To that old book of myths.

The true myth is that man has all the answers.

That five-year plans and endless blood can cure the world of all its sin.

Well, we'll never know unless we try now, will we?

You'll break eventually.

They all break.

Maybe.

There's no maybe.

You'll break.

They have no choice but to break you.

That lieutenant who was interrogating you.

It's not a matter of choice for him either. If he fails to break you,

they'll send him to Siberia.

Or shoot him.

The mills of the state grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine.

You're not unlettered.

Why does it matter?

There's words and more words.

And in the beginning was the Word.

All right, pretty star. All right.

You and your words, darling.

I want to sleep.

Abramov!

I'm sorry to come to this, Professor, but you really are

a stubborn, stubborn man.

This will be our last session together, for good or for ill.

So, for the last time, tell me

that Mikulski

wrote those pamphlets.

You will sooner or later.

So why not just save us both the trouble?

My goodness.

I never thought you had it in you.

I really never did.

I warned you.

But our time together grows short.

You know, Professor, we've spoken much about your life.

But since I was your student, much has happened to me as well.

You know, the last time we saw each other, I was leaving

the university.

I'd been drafted, and they sent me directly to the front.

And I had plenty of time to read in the trenches.

And I found your recommendations from the university were impeccable.

You were right about Chernyshevsky. He's so trite, facile.

But although I found your critique of Bakunin accurate, I don't think

you gave him enough credit for predicting the nature of the Marxist

state.

Many times in the mud, I found myself thinking on you.

wishing we were together so we could discuss such things.

But now that we have this moment, I think we'd best be served

by discussing the old monk.

You know, I learned a lot about interrogation from old

Fyodor.

Do you remember in the... Brothers Karamazov, the story Ivan tells Alyosha.

In the old book, there are two brothers, Ivan and

Alyosha.

Ivan is the materialist.

Alyosha is the spiritualist.

Ivan tells Alyosha of fate, about Christ.

Christ has returned to Earth, but he is immediately

jailed by the Grand Inquisitor, a high-ranking member of the Roman Church

during the Spanish Inquisition.

Now, Professor,

Do you remember the Grand Inquisitor's argument to Christ

that Christ has offered freedom and the people

reject it? In fact, they hand it over to the

powerful, to people like the Grand Inquisitor.

That they never wanted freedom in the first place. That happiness lies in

submitting to the greater good.

The Inquisitor chides Christ.

He says Christ was wrong when he said, man does not live

by bread alone.

No, says the Inquisitor. The devil was right.

Man... does live by bread alone.

And I ask you, Professor, isn't it true?

The Inquisitor says that his system is built on miracle, mystery,

authority.

And is he not right?

So is ours.

Ours is the miracle.

Steal from blood. Ours is the mystery.

inscrutable commands from darkened rooms filled with enigmatic power.

And is there a greater mystery than that our prisoners ask here

in the Lubyanka, why am I here?

It is what we ask.

Except that here we know the answer.

It's because the future demands it.

Our God is the future. And there is no way

to refute him. No way to disobey him.

Your freedom is in our power.

You live.

At our command!

You say only that

which we allow you to say.

And you hear only that which we allow you to hear.

You are children.

Pathetic children.

the sweetest.

You have no secrets from us.

We participate in the great project that is the state.

Do you know what I found out in the trenches?

I found out the Inquisitor was right.

Every night when the gas would waft over the mud and the stench

of my friend's bloated bodies would fill my nostrils, I would wait for

Christ's freedom. For a sign that good and evil mattered.

And do you know what I found?

I found the only miracle was breathing air. The only mystery, death.

the only authority, power.

Tell me, Professor, what were Christ's three temptations?

Professor?

Turning stone to bread?

Yes.

Leaping from the peak of the temple to prove?

And Christ rejected all of them.

But in the trenches, even Christ himself would take them.

All of them!

The bread!

The immortality!

The power!

Do you have something to say to me, Professor?

Christ was offered them.

Then he died on the cross.

He knew he would be resurrected.

All he risked was pain.

Temporary pain we risk oblivion that is why you

are here because you like everyone you want us to provide bread and health and

protection and all we ask is power

I'm not sorry for my silence.

I am sorry for what I did to you.

For what you did to me.

I could have spared you all of this.

At the university, they came to me.

They wanted a list of students for deferment.

Yeah, I know. I wasn't on it.

No, you were.

You were on it.

And I removed you.

Why?

Because I was a different man in those days. A worse man.

You were my best student.

My most brilliant student.

You sent me to hell.

Because I was vain.

Because I was threatened by you.

Maybe your whole entire generation.

asking for your forgiveness.

We're absorbed.

What are you doing here?

Did you tell them?

No.

I knew you wouldn't.

Father, I used to feel Christ.

I cannot feel anything here.

Anya is gone.

And Sasha.

And Vladimir.

My whole life lived with nothing to show for it.

There was a time when I wanted to be

remembered. And it took me to the darkest part of myself.

And I was lost.

And you found me.

And you saved me.

You introduced me to Christ.

And I was saved.

But now I'm here and I'm alone.

And I cannot feel Christ's presence.

I was afraid you might not wake up.

How long have I been here?

A day.

What happened?

I don't know.

Doctor came and examined you briefly, but he left.

No one's been back here since.

Congratulations. You might be interested in this.

I've heard the guards talking in the hallway.

The lieutenant who was interrogating you, he's been removed from your case.

Oh, oh, sorry.

You didn't give them one.

You outlasted him.

What will happen to him?

Exiled shot.

Who knows?

Who cares?

The man nearly killed you.

Brahma?

Have a seat.

I'm pleased to tell you that you are free to go.

With our apologies, of course.

Even we make mistakes sometimes.

What of my wife and child?

I already released them this morning.

Last night, Father Mikulski admitted to everything.

He admitted that he was the one who had written those disgusting pamphlets.

Oh, and don't worry. He's still alive.

He'll spend a few years at the Gulag, but you're free to go.

Again, with our apologies.

Did you hear me, Professor?

What of the lieutenant?

It is he who recommended you as a possible informer.

It is he who mistreated you, although he suspected it

was to hide his own counter-revolutionary

sympathies. The mistake

is his.

He is being punished.

I wish to confess.

Surely you must be joking, Professor.

This case has been closed.

No.

No, you see, Commissar, the case is not closed.

I wrote those pamphlets.

That'll do no good, Professor.

Father Mikulski has already been placed on that train.

It's too late to change that.

Even if you were telling the truth, which I don't suspect you are,

he is destined for a labor camp.

And the lieutenant?

What happens to him if I confess?

He would likely be freed.

With less rank, of course, for his failures.

I wish to confess.

But why?

I was a terrible man in my youth.

I flattered myself that I cared about culture and literature, that I was a

cultivated and elegant man, but all of it I now see was cover for my egotism.

I betrayed everyone and everything.

I lost my wife, my son.

And then two years ago, Father Mikulski stumbled upon me. Literally, I was

passed out in the street near my apartment.

And he picked me up and we began to speak.

And then, in secret, we began to read the Bible.

He introduced me to Christ.

I will not say that everything changed. It did not.

I drank.

I read my books in my darkened apartment.

But a glimmer appeared in the back of my mind.

And one day I was out after a night of drinking, walking along the

riverbank, and I saw my reflection.

Saw what I'd become.

And I went back to my apartment.

And I began to write.

It's a noble thought for sure, but I don't believe you.

Do you have the pamphlet?

Christ is above the party.

He was sent to this world to redeem us from our sins, not to cast us down

before a faceless machine.

He suffered upon the cross as his servants today suffer upon it, banished

to camps, to toil and die in the north, disappearing in the night.

The family is told that they've been sentenced to an indeterminate term.

They will rise again, and the Lord comes again.

But he must weep when he looks down at his creations and see what we do to one

another in the name of justice.

And we must weep with him.

And then one day, we must cease our weeping, feel him in our heart,

and steel ourselves for the battles to come. Stop it!

You have not saved Mikulski.

He's as guilty as you are.

I know.

I'm not doing this for Father Mikulski.

This is Commissar Rademir.

Release Lieutenant Ivanov.

Yes, now.

We'll discuss his situation at our leisure.

Alexei Abramov, you're under arrest for treason.

Your sentence will be delivered by a people's court.

Guards!

He has seen that the prisoner has listened to him all this time with quiet

emotion, gazing straight into his eyes and evidently not wishing to raise any

objection.

The old man would like the other to say something to him, even if it is bitter,

terrible.

But he suddenly draws near to the old man without saying anything and quietly

kisses him on his bloodless 90-year-old lips.

That is his only response.

The old man shudders.

Something has stirred at the corners of his mouth.

He goes to the door, opens it, and says to him, Go and do not come back.

Do not come back at all. Ever.

Ever.

God loves you all.