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Very elegant.

Nobody would think you're working here.

You look like a madame.

Finished?

Finished.

Then off you go, my lovelies.

STEFAN ZWEIG - FAREWELL TO EUROPE

Let's see where he's sitting.

Here he is.
- Good afternoon.

Could we get a table for the books?

Bring a table, please.

Who is she again?
- She's that...

That writer...

Oh, I know.

Her husband is the founder of Sul America.

Lagorotti.
- Lagorotti, that's it.

He's sitting here.

...still too dependent
on the global market price for coffee.

When it rises, Brazil flourishes.

But when it falls...
- I see.

Incredible.
- Is it to your liking?

You know what Vespucci said

when he arrived in the Bay of Rio in 1502?

No.

"If paradise exists on Earth,

it cannot be very far from here."

Very good.

Dr. Zweig. Please...

A photograph with Minister Scares
and our president's daughters.

With pleasure.

Thank you.

Monsieur Zweig, could you sign the book?
- Of course.

By the way, tomorrow I will have
the pleasure of meeting your father.

Oh yes.

You are meeting our president?

I hope he behaves himself.

Mr. Zweig, perhaps the two Miss Vargases

would also like a book.
- Of course.

Let's find you a book.
- Lovely.

Very kind of you.
- My pleasure.

How are you?

May I introduce you to the Chairman
of the Academia Brasileira de Letras?

Monsieur de Souza,
I had the pleasure yesterday.

The pleasure is all mine.

And we will see each other in Buenos Aires.

My wife.
- Nice to meet you.

My pleasure.

Claudio, how are you?

See you later.
- Thank you.

Would you sign mine too?
- Of course.

Thank you.
- My pleasure.

Your attention please.

On behalf
of the Brazilian Foreign Ministry,

and in honor of our guest,
Dr. Stefan Zweig,

a warm welcome to you all.

Your works arrived here long before you.

They can be found
on display in our bookshops,

on the shelves of our living rooms

and especially in our hearts.

That is the only explanation
for the more than 2,000 people

who attended your reading yesterday.

Our thanks go to your publisher,
Mr. Abrahão Koogan,

who persuaded you to stop by

on your way to the writer's congress
in Buenos Aires.

But I won't keep you any longer,
we're all hungry,

and the horse race
is not going to wait for us.

Esteemed Foreign Minister Soares,
ladies and gentlemen.

As some of you may know,
I no longer live in my homeland.

I am no longer able
to publish my books in Germany,

and it seems to me
that during these last days in Brazil,

I have encountered more friendship
than normally in years.

Please.

Thank you very much.

But...

But apart from the personal joys
your country has given me,

apart from its beauty,

its daring architecture...

there is an even more powerful impression

that I would like to share with you.

Every nation, in every generation,

and therefore ours too,

must find an answer to
the most simple and vital question of all:

How do we achieve a peaceful coexistence
in today's world

despite all our differences

in race,

class

and religion?

And it seems to me
that Brazil has found an answer,

even though not only its vegetation
but also its population

are more diverse in color than in Europe.

Since my arrival in the Bay of Rio,

it has seemed to me

like a vision of the future.

Thank you.

Buenos Aires, Argentina
September 1936

Excuse me.

Make way, please.

Señor Zweig?

Excuse me, gentlemen.

Señor, would you sign my book?

Señor Zweig, a photograph, please.

A Photograph.

Señor Zweig, please look this way,
at the camera.

A photograph, please.

Once more, please.

Monsieur Zweig, this way, please.

Mr. Brainin!
- I was afraid you'd forgotten me.

My colleagues are upstairs.

I'll have your coat checked.
- Thank you.

How is your father?
- Fine.

He's writing and translating.
His work means more than his grandchildren.

Excellent. How old is he?

Mid-80s?
- Yes.

All I can say is: Belarus.
He will outlive us all.

This way, please.

Dr. Zweig...

Ah, Mr. Leivick.

Good morning.
- How do you do?

Señor Oppenheimer.

Señor Sadler, yes?
- I'm impressed.

Adolfo Hirsch,
also a founder of the Refugee Aid.

I am honored.

I am honored to help.

Your work
is far more important than ours, right?

Like the interview
Mr. Brainin needs to whisk me away to.

Off you go.
See you at your reading tomorrow evening.

Looking forward to it.

Promote it well so we can really cash in!
- You jest. We sold out long ago.

Did you know that,
aside from Palestine and the USA,

Buenos Aires is taking in
the most emigrants?

Because you can still enter
without going through transit countries.

So, here we are.

Finally!

Please, take a seat here.

My pleasure.
- Señor Zweig.

The pleasure is all mine.

Martinez, La Prensa.
- Nice to meet you.

Water, Dr. Zweig?

Coffee, please.

Impressive.

A single-lens reflex camera.
And where does it come from?

Germany.

You've also been to Germany?
- No.

Just to a good school. May I?

So we can speak German?
- My German ends with the menu.

Then let's get started, gentlemen.

Dr. Zweig, what political significance
can a writers' congress have?

In these ten days 80 writers
from 50 nations will come together.

An enormous intellectual potential.

Even if the PEN Club is a small
organization in the material sense.

Compare us to a tiny passenger ship

weaving between battleships,
destroyers and aircraft carriers

across the Seven Seas.

But the flag that we raise
is of immense significance.

It stands for freedom of thought,
freedom of expression,

and international understanding.

It is the white flag.

And today, more than ever,
I am its loyal bearer.

On August 26th...
- Excuse me.

Señor Zweig,
you and your colleague Emil Ludwig

are the only representatives
of German literature at this congress.

What do you think
about the latest events in Germany?

I haven't been to Germany for four years.

But you follow the events,

you're in contact
with people who left Germany?

People who have left Germany
or only go to visit

cannot really know what's happening there.

Whether new alliances are forming
that may turn everything upside down.

I just spent ten days in Brazil.

I couldn't say if the people
are satisfied with President Vargas,

even if that was my impression.

You can't compare Hitler's Germany
with a moderate government...

Gentlemen!

Calm down. One at a time.

Mr. Brainin, please.

The 8th Nuremberg Rally begins today.

I know that, Mr. Brainin.

What is your question?

Ten days ago, on August 26th,
it was announced

that military service in Germany
will be increased to two years.

They waited until the end of the Olympics
to make the announcement.

Certain conclusions can be drawn from this.

That is correct.

What conclusions do you draw, Dr. Zweig?

Predictions about Germany are impossible.

Every prediction
has turned out to be false.

I will not make any predictions.

Dr. Zweig.

I love your works,

and I love the German language.

Would you agree when I say

that Germany is preparing for war

and is on the path to barbarism?

I read the papers as you do,
and I'm tormented.

But we who cannot be radical

should not let ourselves descend to the
intellectual level of our adversaries.

I will not speak out against Germany.

I would never speak out
against any country.

And I'll make no exceptions.

So politics will have to get by
without your voice?

And, by consequence,
also the victims of politics?

The congress will discuss
the function of the writer in society.

What, in your opinion, is his function?

The intellectual
should devote himself to his works.

That is his most powerful tool.

I'm starting to hate politics, because
it's becoming the opposite of justice,

because it betrays the word
with the slogan.

To be an intellectual means to be just,

to summon up an understanding
for one's counterpart and adversaries.

An artist can create works
with political dimensions,

but cannot supply the masses
with political slogans.

My personal artistic strength
derives from the positive.

I can only write for something.

I cannot attack.
I cannot write out of hatred.

And if...

If my silence is a sign of weakness,
I'm afraid I must live with that stigma.

Werfel wrote about
the Armenian Revolt of 1915.

And our current political situation
gives the book an explosiveness

that is frankly
a godsend for its publisher.

I allow myself to say so,

after seeing Werfel's shock
at the fate of the Armenian orphans.

They were the catalyst for that novel.

His book would never have
unfolded such power

if he had used the children
only to write about Adolf Hitler.

Can that book be compared
to your Erasmus of Rotterdam?

I would be pleased if it were.

Today Europe is caught
between fascism and democracy.

Back then, it was divided
by Catholicism and Protestantism.

Erasmus put himself between the two fronts
and tried to unite the world.

And we who believe in a future Europe

should remember that first European,

that ardent advocate of peace.

Even though he failed.

So you believe
that a peaceful Europe is possible?

Yes.

I believe in a free Europe.

I believe that borders and passports
will one day be history.

But I doubt we'll live to experience it.

My pessimism regarding the immediate future
was unfortunately always justified.

I can only invest my hope in
the larger movements that span centuries.

But for me,
and thus unfortunately for you, too,

they will come too late.

I apologize, but Monsieur Zweig is required
at the assembly that is about to begin.

Gentlemen, thank you for listening.
- Thank you.

I'll see you out.

Monsieur Aita, where is...

On the left, the second door.
- Thank you.

Señor Aita, where is he?
- On his way. He's almost here.

Signore Marinetti, good morning.
- Good morning, Signore Duhamel.

Signore Ungaretti.
- Good morning.

Mr. Brainin.

Dr. Zweig.

I see it as my duty to pressure you.

I am determined not to let you go

before I get a printable condemnation
of the Hitler regime.

Mr. Brainin, we're an ocean away.

And that compels me to remain silent?

I know what is going on in Germany.

You misunderstand me.

You and I are not only far away,

for the moment, we are among the few
who have nothing to fear.

Excuse me. Good morning.

That's why we should avoid polemics.

I will not pass judgment
on the other side of the world

in a room full of like-minded people.

It would be obscene

and meaninglessly fade away.

Every gesture of resistance
which is void of either risk or impact

is nothing but a cry for recognition.

I really have to go now.

I'm still considering that magazine
I told you about in New York.

The best works by contemporary Jews,

scientists, writers...

No polemics, just intellectual quality.

That could be an answer
to the alleged "Aryan superiority".

You think you could fight
a dictatorship like that?

We are really late now.

Heard the latest? The congress won't even
agree to a statement condemning Franco.

Instead it will express its sympathy
to "all the people of Spain".

Isn't that scandalous?

You don't let up, do you?

I came from New York
just for this interview.

I'm Jewish.

So is he.

But it's his voice that counts, not mine.

Next to Thomas Mann,
he is the most read German writer,

yet he refuses to take a stand.

He defends his independence.

His island as an artist.

No, he's a coward.

Self-centered and timid.

Mr. Brainin, you are going too far.

The opposite is true, Mr. Martinez:

You don't go far enough.

There are no islands left.
Do you see what I mean?

There is no independence left.

Hurry up!
- I can't run than quickly.

His island flooded long ago.

And one day soon he'll have to swim
in one direction or the other.

...but perhaps
there are great Nazi writers.

Who are they?

The man who has reached
the top of the new literary hierarchy,

a man named Blunck,
president of the Reich Chamber of Culture,

has just published a book
claiming that the Americas

were not discovered
by a Spaniard or a Genoese,

as you may have assumed until now,

but by a particular Dietrich Penning,

a Dane of Germanic descent.

I'm afraid, you'll have to replace
your lovely Columbus monument

with a monument for Penning now.

But even more exciting is the Jesus issue.

How to avoid the fact that he was a Jew?

Oh, that's easy:

Another German professor,
Franz von Wendrin,

has proven that Jesus was "in fact" Aryan,
and born in Mecklenburg.

You see how degenerate
Kant's descendants have become.

Nearly all of Goethe's books
have been banned from schools.

Can an international writers' congress
remain indifferent to such matters?

The "spoken notion"

is the reason we have all gathered here:

the freedom to think it,

the freedom to express it,

in equality and fraternity for all mankind.

A maxim as simple and as great

as the word "human dignity".

A maxim that every dictatorship denies,

as it would otherwise cease
to be a dictatorship.

Germany, as we all know,

left the PEN's international community

already in November 1933.

I was warned not to mention
that evil word "war".

Again and again,
we writers are being invited

to stay within
this intellectual Garden of Eden.

And yes, I would also prefer to linger

in the blessed discussion
between America and Asia,

as represented here yesterday
by two beautiful ladies.

My compliments, Señora Ocampo,

chairwoman of the Argentine PEN Club.

And Madame Sophia Wadia,

delegate from faraway India.

But I must,

to my deep regret,

address you with
more substantial and bitter words:

From one congress to the next,

we witness how
the number of censored countries

is increasing.

Should we be able to
meet again before the war,

this number will have increased again.

Where is the line
between literature and politics?

Is it possible that not all of us
in this convention hall

are of the same opinion about war?

I speak up, because I feel
it is my duty to warn you.

The fate of German-language writers
could be your fate tomorrow.

When in a hundred years an historian

mentions a congress of thinkers and artists

that took place in 1936,

he will no longer be able to claim

that this congress remained silent
in the face of those dangers

that threatened the intellect
and the servants of the intellect.

Thank you for your attention.

Ladies and gentlemen...

I don't believe we're mixing
with the dangerous world of politics

when I propose to honor

all those German-language writers
who have been forced into exile,

forced to live in a foreign country
or have been imprisoned

in a concentration camp.

We think of...

Let us reaffirm our brotherly,
profoundly heart-felt sympathy,

and send them courage

and hope.

Before the discussion is continued
with Mr. Figueiredo's speech

we will hear the translation
of Mr. Ludwig's speech.

Firstly in Spanish, then in French.

Esteemed delegates, I have the honor of
speaking to you on behalf of the exiled...

Would you like to attend
Madame Ocampo's private banquet?

I have to confirm by noon.

One afternoon in May in 1933,

I had the honor of sharing the fate
of my most esteemed contemporaries

on a certain pyre.

I took up my place
between Heinrich Heine and Spinoza.

Bahia Province, Brazil
January 1941

...quite different

depending on the region.

They can live for 20 years,

but here they usually last five.

The sugar cane here
can live for five years.

We cut it off just above the ground,

the stalk. The stump will sprout again.

And then it takes 12 months
for them to look like this.

They cut the stalk and it takes...

12?
- 12.

12 months until it's fully grown.

And how...
- Yes?

How do you plant them?

That's the easiest part.

We use shoots from the lower section.

They should have two to four knots.

The stalk should have four knots.

You put the shoots in the ground,
so they are lightly covered by soil.

You put the stalks in the ground.

Do you know how many shoots
we plant per hectare?

He asks if you know how many shoots
they plant per hectare.

No. No idea.

About 20,000, I'd say.

Remarkable!

Here. Try it.

It's edible.

You have to chew it. It's sweet.

Very sweet.

Delicious. Very sweet.

What did I tell you?

Do you know how many pounds of sugar cane
a good worker can harvest a day?

He certainly wouldn't work here for long.

Give it another try.

Well, perhaps...

I have no idea.

Stefan,

help me, I'm making a fool of myself.

Vitor, are you all right?
- Everything's fine. Don't worry.

Go ahead, I'll get Señor Zweig.

Señor Zweig!

Begone!

Does the Senhora also have children?

No. I don't have children.

I have seven.

The oldest is 17 years old.

The youngest is two and a half.

We... travel a lot.

It's... difficult with children.

Where do you live?

For five months... we've been traveling.

Three months Rio, Argentina,
Uruguay, Venezuela.

My husband holds speeches... does readings.

We have a house in England, but...

the war...

That's why we have to...

leave.

Is the Senhora English?
- No, no. German.

But for six years...

no longer in Germany.

Why?

The war.

We are Jews.

Difficult...

Many people...

Many people are...

There is no war here.

You're young.
Perhaps you'll have children here.

What's wrong with him?

Sorry, Señora Zweig.

We're very late.

Where were you?

I wrote the telegram to Cata's daughter
on behalf of Eisemann.

It's the most inappropriate moment,
but I don't know who else to turn to.

We'll call Hanna and Manfred to say
we'll be in New York to look after Eva.

We really mustn't miss that plane.

Oh no, Vitor!
- I'm fine.

You're fine?
- Yes, thank you.

Go straight ahead!

Everything there?

Passports, Brazilian residence permits,

plane tickets,

visas,

fingerprints, photographs,

speech invitations.

Tomorrow we'll get the luggage tickets,
the luggage insurance,

and the customs certificate.

Where are we going to get changed?
In New York it's minus 15.

Vitor,

can't we drive directly to Recife?

No, that's impossible.

It's a five-hour drive, plus the flights.

Please, don't do that to me.

You know that the mayor wanted
to welcome you at the town hall.

He agreed to move it all to the fazenda.

He'll kill me if we don't come.

Not a day goes by without a reception.

So many people every time, it's too much.

But Dos Santos knows my father...
- Can we send a telegram from the fazenda?

I don't know.

It's about a visa for a friend from London.
It's important!

Cuba's ambassador had promised it,

but he suddenly died.

Now we must ask his daughter.

Perhaps I could talk to de Souza
about a Brazilian visa.

Brazil stopped issuing visas to Jews.

Is that true?

We will find someone to send
the telegram from Cachoeira.

I'll see to it.

Good.
It's off to the mayor's reception we go.

Seriously, I have no idea
how we should do it.

Tomorrow, Belem-Trinidad,
six and a half hours,

Trinidad-Miami, nine and a half hours.

Then Miami-New York, another nine hours.

But we can't access our luggage.

It's either our winter coats now,
or we freeze in New York.

A lovely sight: me in my tropical suit
in the New York snow.

I was planning my clown show in New York.

Minus 15 in a thin tropical suit.

Dr. Zweig goes to New York
in his tropical suit! At minus 15!

What? Who?
- They're here already.

Put your jacket on, Bernardo.

Oh my God.

Are we too early?
- No idea.

Stay there for a moment,
I'll be right back.

Wait a minute!

No, no, no!
Don't give me that "wait a minute!"

None of that "Bernardo!" Not now.

Vitor, come! Vitor!

I said: at the town hall...

Poor man.

I hope he doesn't have a heart attack.

Far too late. Half the guests...
Look at this mess.

If we don't move,
they might forget about us.

Senhor. How do you do?

We thought you might like
a pick-me-up in this heat.

It's almost unbearable.

Does he understand us at all?

Thank you so much,
that is very kind of you.

He says "thank you"!

This is a specialty from Bahia, homemade.

Will we cause even more trouble
if we get out?

If we want to get to Recife today,
we have no other choice.

Claudia!

Look how beautiful she is! How do you do?

Senhor!

Bernardo, you are the mayor.

You can do this.

Don't eat it all at once...
- It isn't that bad.

Someone has to tell you, right?

Because it's the truth.

No, not there.

Oh, please! This can't be...

Calm down, Bernardo.
Take a deep breath.

Would you sign your book?

Nobody understands women like you do.

Get out of the way.

My dear Senhora Zweig.

Dr. Zweig.

You find me grief-stricken. I am
terribly sorry to welcome you like this.

Oh no, I beg you.

We are extremely grateful to you
for welcoming us.

We would gladly have visited you
at your town hall, but...

At the town hall.

We have to catch our plane in Recife

and it's wonderful that you...

The bus broke down.

It had a flat tire.

The guests won't make it.

The bus had a flat tire.
The other guests won't make it.

Please, don't you worry.
It doesn't matter where I am.

Brazil is the most beautiful experience
I can imagine.

We have already seen and experienced
such wonderful things here.

We attended the washing of the church,
the Lavagem do Bon Fim.

Europe may be rich in history,
but Brazil is the land of the future.

A whole town washing their church,
dancing and celebrating.

It was very beautiful.

Yes, the washing of the church, Bernardo.
- Very beautiful...

Very beautiful.

Senhor Dos Santos, a photograph, please.
May I?

Of course, Pedro. Claudia?

Ready.

Go ahead!

That's it.
- One more.

Perfect. Just one more.

Done. Thank you.

And now, please allow me
to address a few words to you.

Please do.

Have a seat, please.

Please.
- Please...

Vitor!

The telegram.
- Yes.

There are two.

The addresses are here.
- All right.

Maria will take the first car to Cachoeira
and send them.

Come.

Dr. Zweig's telegrams. They're urgent.

Thank you.

Claudia!

"Brazil,

it is the land of the future."

These words I just heard from the mouth

of the greatest writer of our time,

who wrote so impressively

about Erasmus,

Maria Stuart, and Fouché.

We have the great honor of welcoming

Stefan Zweig and his honorable wife.

Please come over here.

Welcome, Senhora Zweig.

Thank you.

Thank you very much.

You are welcome.

We all know:

In Europe, war is being waged.
And that is terrible.

But despite all the horror

that every single war causes,

I have succeeded today
in finding some positive in it:

This January 18th, 1941,

will go down in the annals of Cachoeira.

Because our sugar cane, our homeland,

will be immortalized
in a book about Brazil by Stefan Zweig.

How wonderful! Wonderful!

That is why...

we would also like to give you a present,

a present from your homeland,

a musical memory, if you will.

Until peace returns to your country

and enables you and your honorable wife
to return safely

to Austria.

Because, as an old Brazilian saying goes:

"He who has no country
shall have no future."

Music!

Vitor, the flowers are heavy.

Thank you.

New York City, USA
January 1941

I don't believe it.

What did you say?

Stefan?

It really is Landsberg.

Emil Landsberg, would you believe that?

A man who detests my work,
who harmed me every way he could.

Now, don't exaggerate.

I invite him to a preview of "Jeremias",

because I'm stupid enough
to ask his opinion,

and he shares it with all of Vienna
before the opening night.

That's half a lifetime ago.
- So what?

Did he ever apologize?
Or even mention it in this letter?

And he wants me, of all people,
to get him a US visa?

Emil Landsberg?

He never knew "all of Vienna".

Unlike you.

And I doubt that has changed.

Or he wouldn't have to humble himself
to ask you, of all people, for help.

Every visa requires an affidavit.

And that is no longer something
you ask a distant acquaintance for.

I can't believe
I'm having to justify myself.

And I can't believe
that you actually reproach

someone in Landsberg's situation
for a 25 year old insult.

Someone in Landsberg's situation?

Everyone left in Europe
is in Landsberg's situation.

What in God's name do you ask from me?
- Nothing.

Lucka, Masereel, the Ullmanns, Berta,
they all need help.

That's just the letters you gave me.

Ben's coming now. How big is the pile
of letters sent to my publisher?

I've been in New York for four days.
What can I do?

People are asking you for help,
because you can afford it.

Because you're a man of influence.

Know how hard it was to get
Landauer and Landshoff Argentine visas?

At every stop in South America, I sat up
all night writing letters, begging.

I pestered the Cuban ambassador's daughter,

at her father's funeral for Eisemann!

All those ambassadors:
Chermont, Mello Franco...

they pull strings for me.

And I have to ask myself, is there a single
invitation I can turn down? - Nonsense!

No, I only have transit papers myself.
I'm only "tolerated".

You aren't begging for them.

You ask what's necessary,
like everyone else. Erika Mann,

Hermann Kesten...
- Can I stamp a special visa myself?

Every ambassador
is doing me a personal favor.

Then they parade me
from reception to reception.

Because they still think I'm a world-famous
writer. But I was buried long ago.

Just two legs sticking out of the ground.
- Fine.

I don't know Chermont and Mello Franco,
but it clearly seems they want to help.

Without you,
they wouldn't know who to help.

What makes you think you're pestering them?

What makes me think that?

I don't think that. I know it.

Because it's all too much,
it's out of proportion.

Half a continent would flee
to a different one if they could.

I know that. I don't live on the moon.

But you're not alone here.

Perhaps you were in South America,
but here...

Take Maggie Shapiro.

She stayed with us once
during the Salzburg Festival

and for the last six weeks, she has
insisted we stay here in her apartment.

I have no idea where she's staying herself!

Here in New York there's a growing number
of people who want to help...

I need to get out of the city,
I want to live in seclusion in the country.

Your birthday, right?

Not quite.

No?

That was our summer celebration
after you married me.

Just for two people like the Ullmanns,
you need 7,000 dollars as guarantee.

Who would grant that kind of money?

You can ask a friend once,
just like I asked Sholem Asch for you.

But acquaintances? Who?

I was in South America for four months.
Who can I turn to?

I'm counting every cent myself.

Yes, not every cent, but every quarter.

Things are lost, in England as well.

90 percent of everything I owned
has been destroyed.

It'd work with Masereel and Friedenthal.
They'd be able to look after themselves.

But Lucka? He's in his mid-sixties
and is yet to publish a single book.

The Ullmanns are coming
with just the shirts on their backs.

Then the affidavit will take effect,

and we'll have to pay for years.

From Rieger and Victor...

I haven't heard a thing.

I send money to Victor,
not knowing if he's still alive.

I can't go on like this.

I need a break from visas and affidavits.

Why can't you accept that?

I have to work.
I wrote to you from Rio, pleading.

What are you trying to tell me?

I accept it.

I accept all of your needs.

I don't tell anybody which hotel you're in,

or that you're here at all, and since when.

I haven't even told Zuckmayer.

I accept that even I
have to wait a week to meet you.

After not seeing each other
for nine months.

After crossing the Pyrenees on foot.

Nine months, Stefan.

The longest we've been apart
since we've known each other.

The longest months in my life.

So full of fear and anguish

that I became a different person.

You don't know how often I thought
that I'd never see my children again.

How often we struggled separately
to pull through,

that one of them might not make it.

You don't know how often I asked myself

if I'd ever see you again.
- Yes, I do know that.

No, you don't know, Stefan.

You don't know what it's like to be
on the quay in Marseille with 2000 people

and to be on Eleanor Roosevelt's list,
thanks to you. Among the chosen few.

Julien and Lucienne waved from afar.

God only knows where they are now.

I couldn't even say goodbye.
It was too crowded.

Please, calm down.

The train station in Paris was so crowded,

you couldn't even
put your bag on the ground.

Alix wanted to return to Rue de Grenelle.

We were a hair's breadth from going back.

And that very evening, the Gestapo came by.

Not in Croissy, on Rue de Grenelle.

We saved our skin, time and again.

And then this elevator at the embassy opens
and there you are.

By coincidence,

in the middle of New York,
one of seven million people...

You, of all people.

And you tell me...

I shouldn't see you for a week,

so you can recover from South America.

And I accept it.

I wait until yesterday to call you.

But these letters
from people asking for your help,

I can't spare you those.

They were sent to me
because nobody has your address.

If you want to rid yourself of them,

you'll have to do it yourself.

Fritzi...

That'll be Lotte.

Oh yes, of course.
Then open it yourself.

You have to press the buzzer.

Schuschu!

He made it all the way to New York.

Alix.
- The keys are in my pocket, but...

We'll catch our death out here.

Come, Schuschu.

So good to see you again,
safe and sound.

Yes.

Alix!

Coming!

I couldn't find Marillenschnaps, Mom.
I even went to the Essex Street Market.

You're crazy.

Want some coffee?

It's so slippery out there, Mom.

Come, Schuschu.

My God, there's still more.

Give them to me...
Alix, you're like my father.

Someone asks for a pound of apples
and you bring a crate.

Want to give him this?
- What is it?

What's this? Schuschu, what's this?

Sausage.

And where is Madame?

She's looking after her little niece.

She'll be here shortly.
If the trains are still running.

Well?

What do I have here?

I'm going to pick up Herbert.

You're going to Columbia in this weather?

You shouldn't be running after him.

I'm picking up my husband from work.
See you around.

Oh, yes.

You're married ladies now.

Yes, just before Herbert and Karl
went to military camp.

I hope I'll get to meet him.

Certainly.

Without you he wouldn't even be here.
None of us would.

Who can be sure?

Besides, you know Herbert
from when he was this big.

I know Alix's husband
from when he was this big?

Yes, of course. Herbert.

Schuschu!
- Get away!

I wrote to you about him.

The son of the Stoercks
who died in that avalanche.

He lived with us for half a year,
don't you remember?

That wild boy who kept hurting himself?
- Exactly.

All right...

Go in there.

Down.

I'll take a piece for Herbert.

Wrap it up. There's paper in the kitchen.

Still like when she was 15.

You underestimate her, Stefan.

You've always underestimated my daughters.

You did it before we married,
and still do after our divorce.

When it was clear that Suse and I
couldn't return from France,

Alix cleared out the Salzburg house
in no time.

She packed everything up
and stored it away.

The first editions you dedicated to me,
your letters, photographs.

Without Alix,
absolutely nothing would have been saved.

And then she packed
my favorite things in her backpack.

Nobody was allowed to help her carry it.
Quite the opposite.

For the wailing Alma Werfel
she lugged a suitcase of Mahler's music.

Are you even listening?

Are you worried?

Worried about what?

Lotte.

No.

Then what's wrong?

I keep thinking about Julien and Lucienne.

The nightmare you described.
All those people...

Why weren't they on the list?

We don't know for certain.

I see them in their summer house.

Our last outing to Picpus.

To the evil nuns.

They weren't evil.
We disturbed them on a Sunday.

They treated us like a pack of thieves.

Those two...

Then I see them
in that crush of people in Marseille,

like two lost children.

I'm sorry, Stefan,

I just blurted it out...
- No, no.

On the contrary.

It's just...

this magnitude...

this horrific magnitude.

I think of Roth often now.

So do I.

Scheyer is probably on the other side, too.

Rieger, Victor...

Maybe they're all dead.

Sometimes I envy them.

Can I do anything for you?

It is so good to see you.

Would you like some coffee?

My liver is black enough for today.

Cake?

I'd love a little chamber.

A table for writing.

I won't come out,
and you won't let anyone in.

Let me in, Schuschu.

There, there.

Hi there, mother-in-law.
- Hello, Karl.

Look, Mom. We met at the front door.

Hello, Mrs. Zweig.

Hello...

Mrs. Zweig.

Hello, Lotte. Nice to meet you.
- Nice to meet you, too. - Come in.

These are for you.

Dr. Zweig, Karl Hoeller.

It is an honor.
- Not so formal. Nice to meet you.

In this cold weather...

...a bit of color always helps.

How's your little niece?

The home is run with loving care.
- Nice to hear that.

The Schaeffers' home is a godsend.
They're educated, upstanding people.

Yes, they...
- Schuschu, it's your own fault.

Off you go.

The Schaeffers are doing their best.
- But?

And they're Lutherans!
- That's a godsend?

They left Germany out of protest,
not necessity.

Coffee, everyone?
- Yes. Add some hot water.

Eva is homesick.

She's only 11 and hardly eats a thing.

Or tea, perhaps?
- Make her a fennel tea.

Tea with rum, that would be perfect now.

Karl!

You can't just...

Excuse me, the place looks terrible.
- Don't be silly.

It's how a "honeymoon suite" should look.
- Yes.

Our honeymoon suite...

We didn't think we would find
anything suitable in New York.

But when we saw this place...
- To heck with the Waldorf Astoria.

"On one of the coldest nights of the year.

Our European air is not just turning cold,

but also suffocating,

and I'd like nothing better
than to up sticks tomorrow.

But, may the miller's joy be wandering,

what if there's no place for him to go?"

I didn't want to interrupt.
- You didn't.

"Pure necessity seizes us by the collar.

And now that it's tugging
at that notorious last shirt on my back,

I catch myself thinking

that there might be a reason
for all that has happened to us.

Then we could call it fate
and surrender to it,

we could place our hands on our laps
or above our heads,

and accept what comes,

and the whole struggle
would come to an end.

Even if I try..."

I'll get it.

"I am unable to recognize
the slightest reason for any of this

on the political horizon.

So I must continue the unequal battle
against our persecutors,

against poverty, neglect

and, most difficult of all,
against my pride and my self-esteem.

Thus, I stand before you as a beggar,
asking for help.

Ehrenstein."

You're right, Fritzi.

What is my work,

what is anything compared to this reality?

Who is Ehrenstein?

An old friend.

Give that to me.

I didn't congratulate you on your marriage.

Doesn't matter.
I didn't congratulate you either.

No, I... I wouldn't expect that.

I'm happy for you.

And for Stefan.

Really.

Everything all right?
- Everything's all right, thank you.

That's the man who helped us.

Won't you take a seat?

Ben could write an invitation to Julien.

Then they'd get on the list.
- Tell him then.

Glass of water?

Go get a damp towel.

Thanks, but it won't help.

This radiator air is poison for asthma.

New York is poison, like London.

And also coming from the tropics
to minus 20 degrees.

I have...

a mission here...
what I must give...

bread... and salt.

"For well-being,

for settle...

settle...

ness?

Settledness.
- Settledness!

For commune... communality."

Anybody mind if I put it on?
- Of course not.

That's why people like to come to you.

Interesting.

Sorry?

You have to help me

dig up my lost memories
for my self-portrayal.

You're writing an autobiography?

I just had it repaired.

I think it will be a decent book.

The German and French versions
could be printed in Brazil.

And the English version?
Is Cassel doing it?

The bookbinder's was bombed.

What? And your house in Bath?

The Balzac's still there,
2,000 pages of notes.

But Stefan...
- You don't get the problem.

How can I get 40 books
and all my notes past the censors?

Try!
- There's always a way.

Hanna could send it, Eva's mother.
- Exactly.

Petropolis, Brazil
November 1941

Mr. Zweig?

Dr. Zweig!

Dr. Zweig!

I thought it was you.

Excuse me...

Please help me.

Is everything all right?

Wait, I'll come down to you.

Mr. Feder!

What are you doing here?

I wanted to catch the bus to Rio.
Erna and I are moving here in three days.

Really?
- Yes.

Forgot my glasses, fool that I am.
I have to go back.

We'll be neighbors. Wonderful!

How nice to see you. How are you?

Nice to see you too.

So you live here in this neighborhood?

Not exactly. A bit further on.
I was just...

Remember what Simon said
when you moved to Paris?

"The entire Kurfürstendamm
is pouring over Paris."

Now they're all
pouring over Petropolis.

You're a start at least.

Are you going up too?

Why not?

I don't know
when the next bus leaves for Rio.

I have to meet de Souza at three.

The next no. 4 bus leaves at 10:30.
So you have time.

Where was your apartment in Berlin
by the way?

Leipziger Straße 3,
between Wilhelmstraße and Potsdamer Platz.

Yes, of course.

I vaguely remember.
- And now...

we are moving here,
at the end of that lane.

It wasn't easy
to find something affordable.

The rent for emigrants is going up,
even in Petropolis.

Why didn't you say? We could have helped.
- I beg you.

Sorry, but I have to...
- I'll accompany you.

Really?
- Sure.

We're moving into a two-room
with the Levys' from Osnabrück.

She's originally from Karlsruhe.

Makes fabulous coffee,
but she talks incessantly.

Always squabbling with her husband.

After five minutes, I knew all her worries:

her daughter,
a grown-up art historian no less,

has married a musician twice her age,

and her mother doesn't like it one bit.

Oh dear, there she is.

Mr. Feder! You're still here?

May I introduce you?
Dr. Zweig, Mr. and Mrs. Levy.

Oh God. Yes, of course.

It is truly an honor.
- The pleasure is all mine.

It's Stefan Zweig!

I heard you make
the best coffee in Petropolis.

I have to go back...
- To our place? With pleasure.

I'll make you some coffee.

We wanted to go shopping,
but my husband only brought one bag.

Heaven knows how we'd fit
a week's groceries into one bag.

I'm afraid I'm expected at home...

It's no problem at all.
- He has no time.

I'm sure there will be another time.
- Yes...

Goodbye.

Hello.
- Hello.

Yes, well...

on December 1st we'll be moving...

Oh, isn't today...

Today is...

I don't believe it.
Stands here and doesn't say a word.

Happy birthday.
- Thanks. That's very kind of you.

I know, because
it's Erna's birthday in two days.

I'm dragging you around. You must...
- No, no. I've banned all celebrations.

One can't be celebrated
in times like these. Come on.

Tolstoy said:

"Every 60-year-old man should hide
in the thicket like aging animals."

Tolstoy, of all people?

He lived to be ancient. Over 80.

Perhaps he liked the thicket.

And your wife is at home?

Yes, Lotte's at home.

Voilà.

It isn't Leipziger Straße, but...

You'll see. It's a good life here.

To tell the truth, I hope so.

But...

If you say so, I want to believe it.

On every walk here
you see the loveliest things.

You can live a cheap and modest life.

Please, get yourself something to drink.
- Thank you.

And, above all, you live in peace.

Ah, there it is.

Have you read the paper yet?

You mean the British aircraft carrier?

Take them for the bus.

You get the New York Times here?
- Twice a week.

Not bad. Thanks a lot.

This is the Levys' dining room.

We can use it as our study, too.

Work is most important.

I've rarely been so pleasantly detached
as these last three months.

Nothing but working, walking, reading.

Now take a look at this view.

Isn't it incredible?

What does it remind you of?

Of Tolstoy's thicket?
- Semmering.

A tropical Semmering.

Now you mention it...

At the other end of the world.

Look at that nature.

I am always so overwhelmed by its beauty.

Behind our hill is de Souza's summer house.
I'll show you later.

There's even a little library.

A little meager, but...

It isn't as hot as in Rio.

You can survive the summers quite well.

There's a parrot.

Look.

Val Paraiso...

Yes.

We have no reason to complain.

No.

Not us.

How can one bear this?

And I can't join in when someone says,

"Berlin took a jolly good beating."

I can't stand the way people talk about it.

Or write about it.
Those big-mouth optimists...

The war at sea is lost.

We're at the start of the war,
middle at best, but nobody says it aloud.

And the worst part of it is:

There's no opposition to the war as such,

not in one single country.

You have to catch your bus.

Please, excuse me.
I have my black liver again.

I didn't have a chance in Rio
to congratulate you on your Brazil book.

Did you like it?
- I thought it was fabulous.

Everyone I talked to thinks the same.

I'm pleased.

You should also be congratulated
on your success.

Yes? Oh well...

"Oh well?" I read the sales figures.

Then you've also read the reviews here.

I didn't get that at all.
What's Costa Rego's problem?

Look, that's de Souza's house up there.

And next door to him is Gabriela Mistral,

the famous Chilean poet and diplomat.

A very intelligent woman.

I'll introduce you to her.
- Gladly.

But really,
you declared your love for this country.

It's published the world over, and Brazil,
of all places, attacks it like that.

You know what?

Perhaps I was too uncritical
about certain things.

But how can they accuse you
of being commissioned by the government?

De Souza was also outraged.

I don't care about the Nationalists,
but that the Leftists also...

If you ask me, they're all just envious.

We tend to grow a thick skin.

Anyway I'm happy
I don't live in Rio anymore.

Have you seen the donkeys carrying baskets?
- Yes.

I love them.

Your article in the Jornal do Brasil
about Einstein was fantastic.

I read it aloud to Lotte.

May I perhaps ask you a favor?

Whatever you want. It's your birthday.

You play chess, don't you?
- Tolerably.

I've started a new story -
my favorite unpopular format.

Too long for a newspaper,
too short for a book.

Probably too abstract for most people.

Here, I'll show you a Catholic shortcut.

And the topic is remote:
a little chess story.

You wouldn't enjoy playing against me.
I'm a miserable player.

But I make an effort.

I bought Tartakower's
"The Hypermodern Chess Game".

Lotte laughs at me when I make her play
the same moves as Alexander Alekhine.

But would you play me?
- I'd love to.

Thank you.

But now it's time for me to head on home.
Otherwise I'll ruin my big day for Lotte.

You've gone out of your way
to accompany me.

The bus stop is right over there.

And I have to go up that way.
Rua Gonçalves Dias 34.

Make a note of it.
- I have. Have a nice birthday.

See you very soon.
- See you soon.

You're back, Senhor Zweig.

I was hoping
that we'd have the same birthday.

The day isn't over yet.

I don't want to pressure you.

Thank you, my dear friends.
- Happy birthday!

I wish you the very best:
health, happiness, satisfaction,

and, this is admittedly
a somewhat selfish wish,

many more successful publications.

Where have you been?

Sorry.

I ran into Ernst Feder. He is moving here.
- Really?

Thank you for the nice words.

May I offer you a sip?

Feder was editor
at the Berliner Tageblatt, and later...

Thank you.

What's wrong?

My dear,
we have been thinking for a long time

about a present for you.

Something that could really make you happy.

We conferred with your wife

and after extensive consultations,
we thought of something.

We hope we got the right thing.

I'd now like you to close your eyes.

What?
- Yes. Close your eyes.

Come on, close your eyes.

No peaking.

You don't miss a thing.

You can open your eyes now.

Kids!

You are...

For me?

Who are you then?

Who are you then?

His name is Plucky.

Plucky! Hello, Plucky.

Do you understand me?

Do you understand German?
He understands me.

He is a wirehaired fox terrier.

From the Baron of Rio Branco's
dog-breeding family.

You are a baron.
With the best pedigree.

Are you a baron?

Are you a baron?

A baron?

A noble baron? A very noble baron?

Let's take him on our outing!
- Of course.

Let's go.

Just a moment.
One more picture with Lotte.

Paulina, you too.

Now don't move.

Very good.

Paulina, will you take one of us?

We won't be going to Nuova Friburgo
because of the rain.

Look this way.

Great.
- Thank you.

But we can drive to Teresépolis.
- Yes.

You are familiar with Teresépolis?

Yes, it's beautiful.

This is part of the present.
- Thank you.

Shall we go?

Let's go.

My mother made liver pate for us.
She sends her greetings.

God bless your mother!

I had to come to Brazil
to learn to appreciate Jewish cuisine.

Let's take a photograph.
- No.

Come on, I know how much you love donkeys.

Hello, may I take a photograph?

Are you the famous writer?

Well, I...
- Yes. He's famous all over the world.

Thank you.
- Thank you.

Two old asses in one photo.

After you.
- Plucky, come.

Watch out.

Ready to go?
- Let's go.

You've really made me very happy.

We're so happy to hear that.

And you too, of course.

Epilogue
Petropolis, Brazil - February 1942

No, that is the subjunctive.

It should be "would need to have",
not "needs".

"Would need to have."
- It's the subjunctive.

"One would need to have unique strength..."

And this is plural:
"strengths", not "strength".

"One would need to have unique strengths."

And is it really "birthday"?
Let me see that again.

"But after the sixtieth year..."

It's "age", not "birthday".

It should be: "But at the age of sixty..."

"But at the age of sixty..."

Monteiro!

Yes, Senhor Comissário?

Return to your patio post, please.
- Yes.

We are expecting a large crowd.

What's keeping Koogan?

It would be much easier for him
with his German.

Senhor de Souza...
- I beg you! Please, be patient.

It takes at least two hours from Rio,
even if he takes the corniche.

Inspector? We have to examine
the room for further substances.

At your service.

"Head up high..."
"Head up high", that sounds too...

"Upright", perhaps?

God, time is running out.

Under the mattress, negative.

Drawer of bedside table...

Papers... negative.

Senhora, you can't go in there.

Photographs, torn up, papers...

Papers... typed, handwritten... negative.

The wardrobe?

May I trouble you?

I can't believe it.

So unexpected.

Thank you.

May I see them?

Inspector, would it be possible to allow
consul Mistral a moment of privacy?

Of course.
- There's nothing.

Doctor?
- Thank you.

We just finished anyway.

Plucky!

I'm sorry, Senhora,

forgive me.

You took good care of them.

My condolences.

They don't know what happened yet.
They assume it was poison.

The bodies were found
by the gardener and the housekeeper.

Thank you for coming.

We don't know much.
You know each other.

May I introduce Gabriela Mistral?

It seems they've taken poison.

They were found in the afternoon

by the gardener and the housekeeper.

I came here as soon as I could.

We have no medical details as yet.

Stern, please answer the phone.

Police and doctors arrived immediately.

We have to wait for the results.

They only know that it was from poison.

Nothing points to a criminal act.
That can be ruled out.

Ernst?

Zweig left a letter, but it's in German.

Senhora Mistral asked for it
to be read to everyone present.

Of course.
- Thank you.

Yes, of course.

"Petropolis, 22 February, 1942.

Before leaving life on my own accord
and with a clear mind,

I feel the need to complete a final task:

to send my profound thanks to Brazil,
this wonderful country

that gave me and my work
such a hospitable rest.

Day after day, I learned to love it more.

Nowhere else would I have preferred
to build a new life

now that the world of my own language
has disappeared for me,

and that my spiritual land, Europe,
is destroying itself.

But, at the age of sixty,
one would need to have unique strengths

to start again from scratch.

And mine have been exhausted
by the many years of wandering.

So I think it is better to bring my life
to a close at the right time,

with my head held high,

a life in which intellectual work
has always been the purest joy

and personal freedom,
the greatest commodity in this world.

I give my regards to all my friends.

May they live to see the dawn
after the long night.

I am too impatient, I go before them.
Stefan Zweig."

Thank you.

I'll wait outside.

Thank you.

Claudio...

Hello?

Yes.

Yes, something did happen
but I cannot confirm anything.

No, we have no details yet.

No, please,
I can't give you any information.

As I say, I can't give you any information.