All language subtitles for Haganenet [The Kindergarten Teacher] 2014 720p BRRip x264 titler

THE KINDERGARTEN TEACHER

Good evening.
It's great to have you with us.

Guri, how would you
sum up this week?

A photo of Hitler
in hot pants was released.

This photo made me
laugh like crazy.

I told myself:
"If it had been released on time,

"World War II
would've never happened. "

People would've told him:
"Hitler, come on...

Nira.

- "Let's invade Russia. "
- "No way, too cold. "

And you, Orna?

You were talking about this.

A senator takes part
in Dancing with the Stars.

Another one
is shooting a commercial.

When will they vote on
the Prostitution Law?

Cute.

A former Prime Minister
is leaving his luxury apartment.

So what? The guy also left Lebanon,
they're about the same size.

I hope your friend pays taxes,

with all the money he earned.

You should know about money!

Am I disturbing you?

No.

"Children all around.

"Toys all around.

- "Sand... "
- No, this time it's not my poem.

There's a boy in the kindergarten
named Yoav.

His father raises him,
but I've never met him.

His nanny brings him in the morning
and comes back to pick him up.

I never really noticed him.
Just a kid...

Hi.

Do you have a pen?
I'm Yoav's nanny.

I have a poem.

I have a poem.

"Hagar is beautiful enough.

"Enough for me.

"Enough for me.

"Rain of gold falls upon her house.

"It is truly the sun of God. "

Let's go.

Can you hear
the strength of the words?

The intensity of love?

Do the words confuse you?

And me?

Am I beautiful enough?

Enough for you?

It's sad that a five-year-old
writes like that.

Maybe he needs help.

It's just a poem.

Good morning.

Good morning.

Good morning.

We're thirsty.

Einav will help you.

We're thirsty.

Let's go, Yoav.

Come on.

Faster.

Come on!

Again.

Come on.

Thanks.

This is both the easiest
and the most exhausting work.

I told you about
the French poet André Breton.

Every night before going to sleep,

he put a note on his door:

"Do not disturb, poet at work. "

I'll read a poem I wrote.

"Hagar is beautiful enough.

"Enough for me.

"Enough for me.

"Rain of gold falls upon her house.
It is truly the sun of God. "

Let's hear you.

It overwhelmed me with warmth.
"Rain of gold. "

What's your name?

- Nira.
- Thank you.

I disagree.
It's scientific, cold, conceptual.

If there's a limit, there's no beauty.
Is there "enough" beauty?

But the "enough for me" defies

the rain, the sun and God,

which are never-ending.

You have to look at it all.

Unless "enough for me"
is irony or a provocation.

It's not a provocation.

- Perhaps "provocation" is too much...
- It's the ultimate provocation.

Nira,

this poem was written by someone
who's seen tons of beauty.

Too much beauty,
too much passion.

Now very little is enough.
He is sparing.

"Enough for me!"

For next time please write about sights
you encounter in your everyday life.

"Even an old sight had its moment
of genesis," Nathan Alterman wrote.

Maccabi Football Club are Nazis!

Fucking whores!

I hope you die!

Burn alive!

Gate 5 demands

that the yellows go up in flames!

I hate you, Maccabi!

I hate you with all my heart!

Gate 11 is a ghetto!

A gate of pigs!

Our firebomb will demolish you

in the last match of the league!

Yoav!

You are behaving terribly!

Asi!

Asi, go play.

Get up.

Yoav, come on.

Hagar.

Who is Hagar?

What's your father's name?

Amnon.

What does he do?

He is a restaurateur.

He loves me very much.

And your mother's name is Hagar?

Do you love her?

My mother is already dead.

I'm sorry, I didn't know.

Then who is Hagar?

Yoav, I'm sorry for punishing you.

Forgive me.

Come.

Let's look at our kindergarten,

where we play every day,
whether we like it or not.

Ant.

Sand, ball game.

The game, the shoe, the ball.

Sun.

Look at it.

Do you feel anything?

No.

Ant.

Evil.

Violence.

Pain.

Yoav is acting strange.

He's always been strange.

And his poem?

"Hagar"?

He writes a poem like that
once, even twice a week.

How does it happen?

He starts pacing from left to right
like he's stoned,

then I know he's about to say:
"I have a poem. "

As quiet as he is,
he goes crazy if we're interrupted.

He's nuts.

What does he write about?

If it's not too personal...

Personal?

He writes a lot about unrequited love.

You'd think
he's a 40-year-old spinster.

And where are all his poems?

When I have time,
I file them in a folder.

His dad has two restaurants
and a bar. Upscale.

Dinner there is your paycheck
and mine combined.

His mom ran off to Boston
with her hot lover.

Yoav told me she's dead.

She gave up custody.
A filthy divorce.

He's a whoremonger,
she's a lesbian, he's on coke...

Google it,
"Amnon Pollack - divorce. "

After the mother took off,
the dad's brother, Aaron,

read poems of solace to Yoav.

He had a poetry book
published awhile back.

He'd talk to me about theater,
'cause I'm an actress.

- Did you know that?
- No.

Anyway,

Yoav's uncle would sit there all shy.

- "Miri, did you see... "
- Let's smoke outside.

"Did you see how that critic
slammed that play?"

Telling me about intrigues
among journalists.

Once I pretended
to be calling my lover,

he stopped coming over.

Do you like acting?

At the moment I mostly do auditions.

I have one in a moment.
Stressful, huh?

One cigarette and we're outta here!

You can leave him here

during your audition.

I'll take him with me.

He's my lucky charm.

Pumpkin, get your bag.

How did it go yesterday?

Good.

Don't tell anyone,
but I read one of Yoav's poems.

At the audition?

"Hagar"?

No, a ballad he wrote last month.

Did they like it?

It was just a meeting
with the director, but...

it took them by surprise.

If they ask for a monologue,

most people bring Zach,
Wallach, Levin, Brecht...

I tell them it's my poem.
It gives me an advantage.

Pumpkin, you bored?

Not an easy kid.

Sweet, but a nuisance.

Do you have the text of that poem?

I'll read you a new one.

"As the matador raises his red cape,

"the balcony seems to freeze.

"As the bull rushes out of his gate,

"the crowd freezes.

"I too was in the crowd

"and just as the bull was ready to gore

"and the matador was ready to thrust

"his sword...

"I came back to my homeland.

"I thought:

"Why do thoughts drift so far away?"

- It isn't childish, is it?
- Not at all.

Did you like that, sweetie?

No.

- Thanks.
- My pleasure.

Could I copy the poem before you go?

Take it, I have it on the computer.

I looked around
and here's what I came up with.

"As the matador raises his red cape,

"the balcony seems to freeze.

"As the bull rushes out of his gate,

"the crowd freezes.

"I too was in the crowd

"and just as the bull was ready to gore

"and the Matador was ready
to raise his red cape,

"I came back to my homeland
and thought:

"Why do thoughts drift so far away?"

I hate this indifference
towards slaughtering animals

just to amuse a beastly crowd.

Great poetry has a moral point of view.

And where is yours?
Besides...

I loved the beginning,
but when the bull gored,

you created an anticipation,
which obliged a statement.

- And you evaded.
- Besides, the assignment

was everyday life, not bullfights.

There are no bullfights anymore.

They were outlawed.
They're only in your head.

Nonsense. I was at a bullfight
in Madrid last year.

Five dead bulls in two hours.

Besides, I liked the poem.

- Me too.
- It's beautiful.

"Bullfight.

"As the matador raises his red cape,

"the balcony seems to freeze.

"As the bull rushes out of his gate,
the crowd freezes. "

- You're an accomplice to murder.
- Murder?!

Nira.

I'm proud of you.

You despised my assignment.

Like the poet, the bull never obeys.

He keeps fighting to his death.

Who can tell the heroics of Israel,
who can count them?

In every age a hero arose

Savior of the people

Hear!

In those days at this time

Maccabee, redeemer and liberator

And in our days
the people of Israel

Arise united and will be saved

Who can tell the heroics of Israel,

who can count them?

In every age a hero arose,
savior of the people

Where does the poet
look at the world from?

Is the man in the poem always you?

Yoav,

do you understand what I'm saying?

Children, who wants to be

Judah Maccabee?

Me!

Who should we choose?

Yoav Pollack,
you'll be Judah Maccabee.

This is Judah Maccabee.

Brave, daring and zealous.

Talia, you're his wife.

- Are you happy with Talia?
- Yes.

Aviram, you'll be Mattathias

who cried out:
"Under the flag of God!"

Yael,

you're his wife,
mother of all the Maccabees.

Caress your son Yoav's head.

Ron, Sean, Loraine, Doron, Nadav,

you're Judah's brothers.

Gili, Efrat and Melissa,

you are the people of Israel.

Asi,

you're Eleazar
who was crushed by the elephant.

And me,

I'll be Antiochus.

The evil Antiochus,

who tried to make his culture bloom
in the obscure desert of Israel.

Can Asi be Judah Maccabee with me?

I want him to be happy.

His dad missed a penalty kick
and got clobbered in the papers.

Okay.

Who can tell the heroics of Israel,
who can count them?

In every age a hero arose,
savior of the people

Yoav.

The yard through the eyes of an adult.

The yard
from the height of a cat.

You'll think about it?

Can I go back for my nap now?

"Quick is the lion,

"and orange.

"I will have time to describe him.

"In the morning
when I returned to find him,

"the defeated warrior,
I couldn't see him.

"Is he still...

"Is he still wandering there?

"Impatient,

"looking for revenge.

"An eye for an eye.

"Death for death. "

What was that poem?

What was it about?

Sorry I'm late.

- Miri, we've got a problem.
- Where's Yoav?

We're losing poems.

It just happened.
I ran to him, but only heard the end.

"Impatient, looking for revenge.

"An eye for an eye.
Death for death. "

I'm sure this happens
late at night, too.

A young woman like you must know
those moments before falling asleep,

so dark and full of desires.

So many great poems
have been written then.

Nira, I love you.

Imagine what else
is hiding in his head.

You have a huge heart.

Bunny rabbit,
what is hiding in your head?

If I ever have kids,
I hope they have a teacher like you.

I hope I'll be as good an actress
as you are a teacher.

How was your day?
You wrote a poem?

Do you have kids?

Two.

Little? Big?

Grown up.

Head Tilted to the Left

By Aaron Pollack

- Excuse me.
- Yes?

- Is Aaron Pollack here?
- Aaron!

Hi, I'm Nira.
We spoke on the phone.

I teach Yoav Pollack, your nephew.

One second.

Tell me about yourself.
I don't know any kindergarten teachers.

Not much to tell.

A teacher's aide for five years.
Head teacher for 15 years.

Two kids. A son in the army,
a daughter in high school.

Married?

Yes.

To a kindergarten teacher?

No. An engineer
for a government agency.

He'll have a good pension.

They're stingy here
because newspapers are going extinct.

Not that I care.

Are you married?

Divorced. For 20 years.

Looking.

I'll get to the point.

I'm here on behalf
of your nephew Yoav.

Though he doesn't know I'm here.

His nanny Miri, the actress,

told me that you opened Yoav up
to the world of words.

Guilty as charged.

When I look around me,

at my five-year-old pupils, I realize how
hard it is to be a poet in this world.

Being a poet in our world

is opposing the nature of the world.

Finding Yoav is not only a great joy.

It's a calling.

Just as his poems pop up,
"I have a poem,"

they can easily fall silent.

What'll happen when he grows up?
Facial hair, acne...

If it were up to me,
I'd try to interest a publisher now.

I wanted to ask his father
to let me oversee his career,

but I realize that the father is busy,
and that he's a man of food, not words.

I'm not the type to pry.

It's Miri the nanny
who told me all this.

But Miri is a very problematic figure
for Yoav.

Not only does this actress
not grasp his talent...

I must tell you
that Miri uses Yoav's poems

for her auditions,
pretending she is the author.

A thief!

"Tonight we read poems,

"but the world does not
read poems tonight,

"neither on other nights.

"Not even the most beautiful.

"Never again will the world read
even the most beautiful poem,

"even if we plead with it,
it will not agree. "

Meir Wieseltier.

My break is over.

I could get in trouble.

I'll speak to my brother tonight.

Thank you for coming.

I can't sleep.

Me neither.

Quick is the lion,

and orange

I will have time

I will have time to describe him

And in the morning

In the morning

when I returned to find him,

the defeated warrior,

I couldn't see him

Is he still...

"Is he still wandering there?"

Is he still wandering there?

Impatient, looking for revenge

An eye

For an eye

For an eye, for an eye,
for an eye

For death, for death

For an eye, for death

For an eye, for death

Death

Omer called.

He's going to become an officer.

He says he wants to have a party here
for his platoon.

His commander will come.
We mustn't cramp his style.

- "Cramp his style"?
- Yes, cramp his style.

Signing on for another year
is a waste. I told him that.

Why get stuck there with his abilities?
Don't you think?

I find it completely pointless.

Nowadays an army career
is for morons or poor people.

You done?

When Noga goes to the army,
we won't have to lock up anymore.

Hello?

Hold on.

One second.

I have a poem.

I'm with you.

"Thus spoke to me
the wise man Ching Chang:

"There are those who say
love is gained by gold.

"There are those who say
love is gained by hand.

"There are those who say
love is gained by force.

"But he knows
that love is nothing but the wind.

"For amongst all the winds
that blow through man

"it is tossed into the heart,
without thought.

"Without thought, all is lost.

"Without thought, the sea is purple.

"Without thought, the sky is black.

"Without thought,
one cannot cross mountains.

"That same gust of wind that is love

"blows right through you,
without a thought.

"So you could love
your mother's killer.

"Thus spoke to me the wise man
Ching Chang when he talked of love. "

Come, you're all sandy.

Get in.

I loved your poem
from last night so much.

Can I read you something?

A little poem I wrote.

"Look at her. Fully dressed,
naked in front of the frozen screen.

"Not ashamed.

"Facing eyes that do not stare,
it is easy.

"She wants to write with a pen
that is a knife, that is a torch.

"She didn't like the love song
she dreamt, she says.

"And them?

"They remain silent. "

I'll be brief.

The soldiers know
I'm not a man of words.

Good luck to Omer.

An excellent fighter
who'll surely be a super officer.

I must say that the applause

should go to Mom and Dad

for making him into a soldier,

a human being and a man.

- Hello.
- I'm your son's commander.

- You should be proud.
- Thank you.

Outstanding.

- Nice meeting you.
- You, too.

Good luck.

Thanks.

Okay, you've got an hour.

Have fun, don't get too wild.

Let's drink a toast to Omer
and wish him luck.

Cheers!

Omer?

Hello?

It's Nira, how are you?

Fine.

You know, a teacher
is allowed to call a pupil.

Yes.

Take the stairs to the VIP room.

Thank you.

Can I offer you a drink?

Thank you.

Cognac, brandy, whiskey?

- Whiskey.
- Ballantine's?

Johnnie Walker red,
black, green or gold?

Glenfiddich? Jim Beam?
I'll have a Jim Beam.

Me too, thanks.

Two ice cubes?

Neat, thanks.

My time is short.
I'm sorry I didn't answer your calls.

Thank you for coming.

Talk.

Aaron must've told you already.

Which Aaron?

Your brother, the poet.

How is he?

Haven't heard from him in months.

He promised he'd call.

I'm listening.

I came to tell you
about your son, Yoav.

The child poet.

I wanted to talk about Yoav.

Almost as talented as Mozart,
who at four, according to his biography,

would suck candies and hum scores
for an entire orchestra.

But Mozart was nurtured by kings
who stuffed him with candies,

and Yoav has no one.

He's a poet
in an era that hates poets.

Who will protect Yoav?

Even his nanny, Miri, looks at him
as if he were a dwarf on TV

and uses his poems,
pretending she is the author.

You, sir, are a busy man.
His mother lives far away...

I'll be brief. In 30 minutes
this place will be mayhem.

Basically, my son's poetry
is of no interest to me.

I don't mind him amusing himself,

but I won't encourage this tendency.

I'm a good father.
I love my son.

And I want him to have a normal life.

You saw his uncle,

a 50-year-old correcting the spelling
of 25-year-old illiterate kids

promoted as journalists because
no one wants to write for a paper,

and who get
300 shekels an article at best.

I can't stand bitter people,
losers, leeches, whiners,

blind people who can't see
where the world is headed.

Or can see it and shut their eyes.

But I don't like
people stealing from me.

Hello.

Good evening, Miri,
it's Amnon Pollack.

I wanted to let you know

that you're fired for stealing.

Right now I'm furious.

We'll talk about severance pay
tomorrow once I've calmed down.

Could you help out
with the boy for a few days?

Gladly.

This book is by
the poet Eytan Nachmias Glass:

I am Simon Nachmias,

which he wrote when he was 17.

My maiden name was also Nachmias.

Read it out loud.

"The Ashkenazis'

"national poet,

"Chaim Nachman Bialik,

"hated us, the blacks,

"the Sephardic,

"the easterners.

"And with reverence and glory,

"this sensitive man was lowered

"to his grave.

"What can I do

"for I love his poems?

"My heart burns with his words,

"but does not forgive.

"Take me under your wing,

"you son of a whore. "

You know the poet
Chaim Nachman Bialik?

"For God called up

"the slaughter and the spring together.

"The sun rose.

"The blossom burst.

"And the slayer slew. "

Exactly, that's Bialik.

The word "whore"

means prostitute.

A slut.

Like in Asi's song.

"Maccabi football club are Nazis,
fucking whores,

"I hope you die, burn alive. "

And the white Ashkenazis
vs. The black-Sephardic-easterners,

from Nachmias' poem,
do you understand that?

No.

You're Ashkenazi.

So is your father.

Asi and his father, Yossi,
are Sephardic.

Einav, my assistant, is Sephardic,
I think.

My husband is Ashkenazi,
but I'm Sephardic.

My parents were poor.

The only books we had
were prayer books.

I discovered poetry later on.

Only five years ago.

When my mother died.

Like my mother.

When did your mother die?

In the evening.

I was looking for a poem
for my mother's headstone

but couldn't find one

because I didn't know her
well enough, you see?

Yes.

I ended up choosing
a sad poem, like her.

My mother was sad too.

Once she cried in front of me
before she died.

And the woman who's swimming,

is she Ashkenazi or black?

- What do you think?
- Ashkenazi.

And that guy sunbathing?

Ashkenazi?

And his baby, Sephardic?

And the man approaching here?

Excuse me!

Two fudge pops.

Well, have you satisfied
your curiosity?

Thanks for letting me
into this secret place.

There's no secret.

Poetry is created in the head,

only if it's in here.

I like the window the best.

My wife inherited this studio.

Some water?
I've nothing but water.

If I had the money,
I'd go on a long trip.

For now,
I'll try the quiet of the apartment.

Is your husband rich?

No.

But we do okay.

My wife is rich.

I told myself:
I'll write poems and she'll support me.

And I stayed with her.

You're a poet, Nira.

Next week
there's a reading for young poets.

The same self-centered editors
and poets will all be there.

I know one of the organizers.

I suggested
you read some of your poems.

That's very generous of you.

Afterwards we'll go to "Albert. "
Ever heard of it?

The poets and editors sit there,

drinking, talking,
if the music's not too loud.

You'll be envied.

Nira.

"When it gets dark,
I sit in the big living room

"which despite its size
contains no one but me.

"The family walks on tiptoes
in the adjacent rooms.

"When anyone can read my thoughts,
my thoughts are also read in my mind

"and a spark of happiness appears.
A new poem. "

In our first sessions,
I didn't notice you.

It took you time
to shed your banality.

Then you read
your love poem to Hagar.

When you were finished,
I thought:

"Both a poet and a lesbian. "

The desire for the other woman.

"Rain of gold falls upon her house. "

"Enough for me. "

If you'd like,
we can bring Hagar here.

We can fantasize about her together.

It's possible.

We'll make room for her.

Eat it here,

so the kids don't see.

In three days

we'll go to a place where people
stand on a stage and read poems.

Most are mediocre at best.

Recite "Hagar" from memory.

"Hagar is beautiful enough.

"Enough for me. "

"Rain of gold falls upon her house.

"It is truly the sun of God. "

But say it with more feeling.

They need a trembling voice
to believe it comes from the heart.

By Tuesday we'll recite "Hagar,"

"Bullfight"

and "The Wise Man Ching Chang".

"Poetry.

"Poetry must stand and speak.

"Stand on
a broken washing machine

"and speak the language
of the sock that broke it.

"Poetry must dance

"and squeak the language of the mouse

"who lives under the stage...

"and fears the wild tenderness
of dance. "

That's not mine, of course.
The person who wrote it is dead.

After the reading,

you might get questions
from the audience.

Think of how you'll answer
silly questions like...

Who is Hagar?

What do you know about love?

I'll make an effort.

"Hagar is beautiful enough.

"Enough for me.

"Rain of gold falls upon her house.

"It is truly the sun of God. "

I hope you recite it
like that tonight.

Esteemed poet, I'm deeply moved.

I'd like to ask, straight to the point,

who is Hagar?

You think about Hagar
before the words start.

Any other questions?
Yes, ma'am.

I wanted to ask,

what exactly do you know about love?

I don't know.

Excellent answer.

That's great, sweetie.

"Early twilight.

"A new naked man in my bed.

"Outside is Tel Aviv, raging,

"bustling, quivering.

"Tearing the city apart.

"Through vast glass windows,

"a gold-white weight

"is swirling

"at a monstrous speed,

"slicing the sky
into geometrical shreds,

"spraying slivers of bright light.

"The area is gleaming,
un-demilitarized, bombarded

"by forces of construction dawning:

"To destroy! To shatter! To smash!

"In my room

"from the highest floor,

"me and my guy parade our love.

"He rows toward me like a wind
between the sail-white sheets.

"The red seagulls reply,

"flying over the bedding,

"taking off with a flap of their wings.

"Us with them:

"Tearing the city apart.

"Tearing the city apart.

"Tearing

"the city... apart!"

One of our friends, a writer,

said today:
"If no one's buying poetry books

"and if the government doesn't care,
they hate culture,

"then you, poets, have no choice.

"Surrender, adapt, disappear.

"Without tears, nor whimpers,

"bring on the end of the world. "

The fascism that has risen here,

like any fascism,
despises poets that think.

They didn't shoot Lorca
for nothing.

In these obscure times,

every poem is a miracle.

Here she is...

My Yoav.

Nira Blum.

Yoav Pollack, the poet.

I'm Nira, his kindergarten teacher.

"Hagar. "

"Hagar is beautiful enough.

"Enough for me.

"Rain of gold falls upon her house.

"It is truly the sun of God. "

Who is Hagar?

This kid is a romantic.

Aren't you ashamed
to exploit such a sensitive child?

"Bullfight. "

"As the matador raises his red cape... "

Yoav, tell me the poem
and I'll yell it out.

"As the matador raises his red cape... "

"As the matador raises his red cape... "

"The balcony seems to freeze. "

"The balcony seems to freeze. "

"As the bull rushes out of his gate... "

"As the bull rushes out of his gate... "

It's for my bar mitzvah!

What's the code?

Two, five, eight, zero

and pound.

"Tearing

"the city apart!

"Tearing

"the city apart!"

That was the most beautiful love poem
I've heard.

You really think so?

Yes.
That kid knows what beauty is.

You owe her an apology.

Shall we dance?

This is Amnon, Yoav's father.

Oded, your poetry teacher,
told me everything.

You're a sick woman.
I considered involving the police.

You'll never see Yoav again.
If you do, I'll crush you!

Good morning.

- Did you eat out?
- Yes, we had a double celebration.

Aloni, the department head,

is leaving to run
a big project in Jerusalem.

I'm setting you a plate.

And Meir had
his first granddaughter.

So who's replacing Aloni?

Meir.
Meir is replacing Aloni.

I know what you're thinking.

Why Meir and not me?

I'm a better engineer than him

and at least 10 other people
are better than him.

How are the kids?

Our kids?

I don't understand.

How are Omer and Noga?

I haven't spoken to them
much lately.

Omer in officer training?

Noga in school with her new boyfriend?

Isn't the boy who slept over
her boyfriend?

Yes.

Whether things are good for us or not,

we're together.

Do you mean that?

Yes.

I love you.

Yoav!

Come here.

Come quickly, Yoav.

Open it from the inside.

Yoav, push the handle this way.

Yoav, push it this way.

I missed you.

You've reached
the Ministry of the Interior in Eilat.

For visas, press 1.

For ID cards and passports, press 2.

For permits...

How can I help you?

My nephew and I
are on our way to Sinai.

Everything is booked,
but he lost his passport.

Could you issue a new passport?

How old is your nephew?

Five.

The presence of a parent is required.

His parents are overseas.
I'm his aunt.

We need the parents' approval.
They can fax it.

Thank you.

Hello.

I booked a room for me and my son.

- Name?
- Miri Ratok.

Look.

I have a poem.

"Between two lives,

"throughout life,

"during life,

"an odd moment arrives

"when you learn to part
from what you've seen before.

"Because it no longer exists for you.

"Because you need to forget.

"The moment of parting
is a moment of death.

"Parting comes like a winter night
in a scorching summer.

"It undoubtedly

"towers over

"the gray banality

"like a dead distant cousin,

"or something like that.

"Parting is unusual.

"It has a certain charm

"and it has

"a touch of pride.

"Parting. "

Go take a shower, you're all sandy.

Yoav?

Yoav.

Yes.

Did you lock the door?

Yes.

On purpose?

Yes.

Open it up, please.

Open up, Yoav.

Open it for me,
everything I do is for you.

We'll fly away from here...

I'll take care of you.
You won't worry about anything.

This world will erase you, Yoav.

There's no place in this world
for people like you.

In two years
there'll be nothing left of you.

You'll become a shadow.

Excuse me.

My kindergarten teacher,

she kidnapped me.

Save me from her.

Yoav.

If you want to be saved,

my phone is in my bag.

Dial 100.

100, that's 1-0-0.

1-0-0.

Police. I'm Oren, how can I help you?

Hello, my name is Yoav Pollack.

My kindergarten teacher, Nira,

she kidnapped me.

Is she armed?

No, she's in the shower.

Where are you?

Yoav, do you hear me?

I can't hear you.
Can you speak louder?

Hello?

He's not answering.

It's the Pollack kid,
but he's not answering.

Yoav, I'm here to help you.

Yoav, tell me that you're okay!

It's Officer Oren Aloni.

I want to help you,
tell me where you are.

I see two trees

and a bird.

Tell them

you're at the Edom Hotel in Eilat,

and I'm unarmed.

I'm at the Edom Hotel in Eilat.

Room 455.

In room 455.

And she's unarmed.

Hang in there, kid. We're coming.

They told me to hang in there,

and they're coming to save me.

Please let me out.

I want to get dressed
before the police get here.

Come, Yoav honey,
Mommy's on her way.

Yoav, tell them
I didn't do anything to you.

- Please, Yoav!
- Get him out of here.

Yoav?!

Yoav?!

In five minutes we're all gonna dance!

Everybody in the swimming pool!