THIS IS THE 1981 VERSION OF THE FILM
WITH CENSORED FRAGMENTS RESTORED
BLIND CHANCE
Written and Directed by
Write.
17 - 9 = 8.
Good.
Your mother wrote her eights like that.
Daniel!
I'm not going as far as I said.
Just to Denmark. I'll write to you.
I suggest we go through the names.
- Kubin. - He's no problem.
What was he?
Prime minister.
He kissed a girl in the cloakroom last year. He can be transferred.
Kaminski has three F's. That's easy too.
Then there's Dlugosz. He was minister of health.
- He lost his mother. - But he's got straight A's.
Including for behavior.
He has leadership qualities. He's popular.
Screw her good!
What's wrong?
She was my grade school teacher.
I really hated her.
This is the first time you've noticed me, isn't it?
I bought you skates and a bike...
but I didn't like you getting such good grades.
You noticed, right?
Know what I really liked?
When you slugged your sixth-grade teacher.
You always got bad grades after that.
I've never liked the star achievers in life...
and that carried over to your schooling.
Are you two still in here?
Kasia, come meet my son.
Witek.
- I only have the room for an hour. - I have to call.
Why do you keep calling but never saying anything?
Hello? Witek?
Yes, Dad.
They're taking me to the hospital.
I want you to know you don't have to -
- Have to do what? - Anything.
Dad!
My father.
Are you pissing or puking?
You're lucky this time.
You lost the vocation?
That's right.
Why?
My father died a few days ago. He wanted me to be a doctor.
But he changed his mind on his deathbed.
I'd like some time to think.
Of course.
Too bad.
You have a milk mustache, sir.
Can't you see, you idiot?
Sorry!
Knocked the money right out of my hand!
A beer, please.
A student ticket for Warsaw.
You were lucky!
You almost missed it. - Yeah, it was close.
Keep your damned feet down!
- Can I go to the restroom? - Go on.
But no funny stuff.
Run for it.
Now's your chance.
Take my sneakers.
He wouldn't run for it?
No.
Sometimes people won't run. They don't want to.
If they hit you hard
on this bone,
you walk like this the rest of your life.
This stuff's worse every day.
I confessed at the trial.
Not immediately.
But...
I understood
that I'd have to confess
to something I hadn't done or even thought of doing.
And Krystyna...
was waiting...
on the outside.
Did I tell you what she was like? - Yes.
The palest white.
The odd thing about her was
the fair downy hair
on her upper lip
and around her ears,
and her fat, ugly hands.
Maybe that's why I dared approach her,
because of those flaws.
Those fat, ugly hands.
She couldn't get her wedding ring off...
when Adam
was arrested in '49.
Since he was arrested,
I figured he must have been a spy - though he really wasn't -
and I spent a year
trying to explain that to her.
Then I moved in with her.
Did we try that call?
Yes. No answer.
And today?
I still believe.
I don't know about him.
Then, when I too was arrested,
she began to doubt
that she really was the wife of a spy,
but she took my word for it.
But she couldn't believe
that I too was against the Party and Communism,
and she stopped believing in the Party.
She trusted only herself.
He and I were in the same prison.
She'd come visit us.
He and I would cross paths.
She was paler than ever.
She still had that down
on her upper lip.
45-21-95.
Ask for Krystyna.
I'm calling from a pay phone.
May I speak to Krystyna?
Say you're from the Institute.
I'm from the Institute.
It's me. Krystyna?
I got back today, just a few hours ago...
but you weren't in.
Have you been able to sleep the last few nights?
What's that?
The fridge is empty 'cause I've been away,
and since I'm leaving again soon, I haven't bought anything.
No, I can't eat sausage this late at night.
Well?
Did I show you her picture?
No, you'll probably meet her someday anyway,
and this is an old picture from 30 years ago.
But you mustn't think of those days
in real terms.
What year did you get out?
Too late. They started releasing spies in '54.
And us deviationists...
a bit later.
By the time I got out...
they'd already been back together for a year.
And what happened to you?
They gave me this apartment.
I've lived here ever since,
and I'll probably never leave.
And here you went on believing in all that?
Here...
like everywhere else.
Perhaps it's precisely because I'm here
that it's easier for me to believe.
Here I'm more equal to others.
After being in prison...
I never wanted to be "less equal" than others,
even though I was offered the chance.
I left prison with people...
who could have done things for me.
But you must see what's happening.
It's quite simple.
Where we didn't succeed...
perhaps all of you will.
You, for example.
- You want a blanket? - Yes.
Go on to bed.
I'm going to sit up a while.
There's a blanket
on the bed.
I have several.
My father died 10 days ago.
I didn't get to see him in time,
but he told the doctor...
to tell me I didn't have to do anything.
Witek, come here.
This is Mr. Dlugosz.
What does he do?
He's taking time off from medical school.
Lost the vocation?
Yeah.
So now we know.
See if we can start.
- Did you read it? - Yes.
Well?
I agree with what you wrote.
You write well.
In fact, that's all you do well.
We can start.
- Would you like to listen? - Yes.
Werner's leaving in three weeks.
Yes, perhaps for some time.
If you... need anything,
come see me.
I'll be speaking to you without notes,
since I know what I have to say.
I intend...
to give you
my current thoughts on an idea
I've been committed to for 40 years.
Every generation
yearns for light.
It needs reassurance and faith
that the world can be a better and a fairer place.
This yearning...
which is older than Marx and younger than Marx,
is like a drug.
Early in life it brings joy,
because the light seems so near and within reach.
At life's end it brings bitterness...
because the light has grown distant once again.
In these 40 years I've lived through many things,
and the light seems further away than ever before,
and thus I shouldn't encourage you,
but you can be sure of one thing:
Without this bitterness and this hope...
life would be pitiful indeed.
Don't worry.
She doesn't see well, and she doesn't wear glasses.
Wait here.
Czuszka!
You recognize me?
Hi.
May I kiss your hand?
- Are you still talking to me? - Yes.
Will you wait a minute?
Who's he?
My first love. I'll be right back.
Well, good-bye.
Don't forget to turn off the gas.
Just a second.
That man Adam gave me his card...
and said to come see him after you left.
And?
I don't know what to do.
Do whatever you like.
A passport application?
No, an application to join the Party.
Too bad we didn't sleep together when we were 17.
A farmer? Stanislawski.
An athlete. Jacek Wszola.
What? Zimmermann.
I don't know if he's an engineer. It says "mechanic."
Buzek.
Okay, boss, I'll check.
May I?
Excuse me. There's a problem with the list of Polish Youth.
They're asking who - - Close the door.
Witek, my friend, sit down a minute.
Now then...
we have this problem.
There's been a revolt at Miodowa Góra.
I don't understand.
- Junkies, drugheads - - Drug addicts.
We even put young people in charge,
changed the entire staff - doctors, nurses.
Got rid of the old, but they don't want the young.
They're threatening to set fire to the place.
It would be easy to send in the police.
Someone has to go.
Know what I'm thinking?
Do you?
He could go.
How about it?
He was the guy in the green jacket!
Listen, we can't go.
They know us. We'd only make things worse.
But you could try.
Comrade Adam speaks highly of him, right?
And he said we should try. What about it?
But what would I do there?
What do you mean?
Do whatever it takes to calm them down.
We'll take turns here by the phone day and night.
Is a car available? - What about this list?
- What is this? - Who are Buzek and Idziak?
Check on those names.
Idziak's a film director. Buzek's an airplane mechanic.
Wear your jacket.
It's just 40 miles from here.
He's going.
Our men are stationed all around.
Who is it?
I'm from headquarters in Warsaw.
Your card.
We've met somewhere.
Dlugosz...
from the Central Committee.
We've got 10 more just like this.
We can burn the place down in five minutes.
- What's the prefix for Warsaw? - Eight.
Just like in America, huh?
This is Dlugosz. I'm here.
Yes, the doctors are in a cage.
No, I just got here.
I don't know. The director's office.
Bye.
This is the "education" room.
The director's office...
is much nicer.
Right?
With potted palms!
Listen, buddy. Since your guys took charge,
a girl and two guys here tossed it all in.
- Meaning? - The girl poisoned herself.
The guys hanged themselves.
One of them sat in that cage for four days.
And before?
- They didn't lock us in cages. - What do you want?
Can't you read?
We have three demands: Withdraw your people,
and reinstate the former staff and hospital status.
- You're the director? - Yes, and this is...
our therapist. - And the rest?
They got out in time.
- Can't I talk to them? - Let him go.
- I'm not sure what to do. - Think of a way to get us out of here.
- Who was here before you? - Some old fools.
They let them smuggle in drugs. Believed in "persuading" them.
- But no one hanged himself. - We saved one.
The state prosecutor declared the other deaths -
- Visit over! - Would they burn the place down?
Yes! They're all crazy!
We're not afraid.
Just like in America, huh?
- Can you get everyone together? - Yeah.
There was an early roll call. They'd read us the news.
We couldn't go out.
They'd read our mail, inspect our packages,
strip us of visiting rights -
The Gestapo!
They made me a group leader.
Do I look like a leader?
The former director liked us a lot.
He liked Staszek too.
They caged him because he made love to me.
The hanged guy's girlfriend.
We wander the world
In search of a new life
We never stop waiting
For new love to arrive
Telephone.
Yes, there's a general assembly.
Hold on.
Jump.
Hurry.
They've escaped!
Get the gas cans!
The gasoline!
Everyone out in the hallway!
I'm staying.
Stop!
Stop pouring! I'll stay. - Grab him!
Bring buckets and basins.
The cans are too slow.
Pour some in the basins.
Lock him up.
Did you hear all that?
What?
I stayed or they'd have burned the place down.
Yes, the three demands.
And they're right -
We'll wait till 8:00. Then we light the match.
Relax, it was only water. Just a test run.
You're off to a good start.
You were right to weaken for a moment.
- I got scared. - I know.
But a moment of weakness can work in your favor.
You start to seem like one of them...
so they start getting careless,
and you regain the upper hand.
But never say they're in the right. - But they were.
But why say so in front of them?
You have to know when to use that
to gain authority or extract concessions.
I wanted to be fair.
You were acting as a public figure.
It would be different if you'd gone in private, alone.
But I was alone.
No, there was a phone there.
You knew that the authorities were behind you.
Otherwise you'd have been afraid.
Krystyna, this is Dlugosz.
Hello.
Wasn't it you who called us last year, before Werner left?
We were friends a long time ago.
I know. He told me about lots of things.
- Like prison? - That too.
If he'd gotten out before me,
he'd be in my shoes and I in his.
You think it was chance?
He took the fall
because they beat him.
They beat me too.
Only afterwards...
for 15 years...
I got good at knee bends.
He had no reason to.
How can a man go on believing
in an ideal that destroyed so much of his life?
Every idea has its period of error.
The Inquisition was worse...
yet people died at the stake still believing in God.
Then along came John XXIII and the church revived.
You're sure this "period of error" won't return?
- Here? - Yes.
Who can ever be sure?
We're going through one of those times
when you can see
that everything's falling apart.
The people running things are helpless.
These structures are bound to crack.
It's just a matter of time. - You really think so?
And you speak about it?
- Loud and clear. - Why to me?
Because those at the top won't listen.
I need some support. Maybe that's you.
So what's to be done?
The scissors.
- Where were we? - What's to be done?
You have to be on the inside.
Nothing can be set right from the outside.
When it all comes crashing down, someone has to pick up the pieces.
Who?
You... me. Someone has to do it.
We can't just leave the country.
Would you leave it to them?
What terrifies me
is that one must forfeit one's freedom
and be so completely dependent.
That's how organizations are.
In my position, I know they're aware of every step I take...
and I accept that.
I'm in no position at all,
yet you know exactly what went on with the drug addicts.
Yes.
Because you were taking your first steps.
Okay...
let's take it from the beginning.
But Why?
I have to know everything about you
if we're to be together... or be at all.
You understand? - Yeah.
So let's hear it.
The first was a boy at a scout camp.
My panties were too tight.
To make things worse, his buddy next to us
pretended to be asleep but kept panting the whole time.
My panties kept pulling on me.
Afterward...
my skin was all chafed.
Did it hurt?
- My skin? - No.
Yeah, it hurt.
I've had three abortions.
Once when I was in love. Two were accidents.
The first was in a hospital.
It was awful. They shaved me.
They don't do that in private clinics.
How many other guys have there been?
- Exactly? - Yes.
Six.
No, seven.
Only once with the seventh. He bit me.
- Where? - Right here.
I slept with him
at the Europejski Hotel.
And the others?
A bed, a bathroom...
in a car once, a toilet -
I love you.
I love you too.
I wanted so badly to find you during that year and a half.
I went to your dorm a few times.
I did the same thing.
I was afraid to call.
What's wrong?
They're bringing huge amounts, two boats full.
God forbid someone should get caught.
Why?
Forget it. It'll be okay for now.
He's complaining about all the pamphlets.
Jacek will be taking them to Gniezno.
- You have a lot? - Yeah.
Who's that guy?
It's okay.
Hi.
Hello.
- Isn't this too out in the open? - Nah.
Brandys.
Have you read Konwicki?
The Polish Complex?
It's 200 zlotys. You can pay this guy.
"What will our homeland be like?
Different, more fair, more noble, more just.
An example for all Europe,
founded with the blood of her best sons."
They distribute them themselves?
No, we take them to Gdansk, Kraków, and Szczecin,
where locals hand them out.
Some setup!
- What are you doing here? - I'm with my girlfriend.
See what I just bought?
Here?
- Right next to your boat. Funny, eh? - Why?
Illegal goings-on just 300 feet away.
- Nice guys? Are there many? - A lot.
Like I imagined boy scouts in the underground during the occupation.
They're well organized. We could use them!
The guys with the black neckerchiefs?
Is your girlfriend involved too?
I won't ask for names.
We need to know what's going on...
through our own sources, not relying on others.
Give it some thought.
Meaning?
Think about it.
Are you going to the meeting in France in July?
- I hope so. - When's Werner due back?
Soon.
Well...
see you later.
It'll sail the seas!
- What are you drinking? - Vodka. I'm getting drunk.
Still alive?
Yes, but -
What's your banner?
The white eagle.
When were you born?
June of '56, in Poznan.
Me too, but in Lódz.
But there were tanks in Poznan.
My father worked at the Ciegelski factory
and didn't come home that night.
My mother went into labor,
went to the hospital alone...
gave birth to us... and died.
- Us? - I had a brother.
I was born first. That's why I'm alive.
I feel like I remember that moment.
It's like an image beneath my eyelids.
Intelligent.
And such a good public speaker!
You helped me understand a lot of things.
That was my goal.
Very courageous!
May I have a word?
I think you'll be elected.
I don't know.
A lot depends on whom you huddle with in private.
To explain their system would take a whole lecture,
but just look at what they make.
In this position
it's a calculator.
Here it's a clock.
Here it tells the date.
And in this mode...
it's a stopwatch to a hundredth of a second.
Press those keys.
Hear that?
Every number has a musical note.
Now try setting the alarm clock.
Hear that?
It has ten preprogrammed melodies.
It's tiny, but it does everything.
I gather things are going well for you.
Yes.
I've been elected to the Central Committee.
What's this?
Give it a tap and see.
It's like it died.
I didn't want to meet at your place.
Yeah, Werner's back.
We'll have to meet somewhere else.
Why?
They found our books in Lódz,
arrested two of our guys, closed down the printer.
Miss Olkowska?
Your papers, please.
You too.
Ah, it's you.
Come with me.
Comrade Adam is busy.
Are you all fucking asleep?
Don't you have arms?
Calmed down now?
Should we call the police?
No, throw the little shit out!
And not a word!
I'm moving out!
You persuaded me it's possible to believe in something,
and like a fool I believed you!
When my aunt saw my Party card,
she broke down and cried.
She said her life wasn't wasted after all.
Well, screw your Party loyalty!
It only serves to keep you in power.
- I've had no power in years. - Even worse.
People are being arrested all over, including girls!
Your buddy made a fucking snitch of me.
So I just punched his face in
with this very hand.
I know. He called.
Wait a minute.
You forgot...
your ticket to Paris.
Excuse me, Dean.
Your newspaper's falling out.
Czuszka!
My answer to every question was, "I don't know."
Did they beat you?
Nah.
It was a cute guy in jeans, with blond hair and blue eyes like...
like him.
Back in a minute.
Here for your reward for getting me out?
Should I drop my panties?
I didn't get you out.
Czuszka, I'm all mixed up.
You're supposed to go to France.
I don't want to go.
Go.
Then come back and marry the daughter of some Politburo hack.
When you're made a minister, call me up
so I can spit in your face.
Right now I feel too sorry for you.
Hi. Bringing your globe?
I moved and had nowhere to leave it.
Hi.
Got any room in your bag?
Take this for me, will you?
Careful. It's crystal.
- We've met. - Right, with the drug addicts.
I owe you one for getting me out of there.
- What are we waiting for? - Passports.
Here they are.
I got them, but there's a problem.
Strikes have broken out:
Swidnik, Lublin, Lódz.
You have to go help our people there.
- Can't you see, you idiot? - Sorry!
Knocked the money right out of my hand!
A beer, please.
A student ticket for Warsaw.
Wladek, stop him!
Call the police!
THIS IS THE ONLY CENSORED FRAGMENT
THAT COULD NOT BE RESTORED
- Name? - Witold Dlugosz.
Date of birth?
June 26, 1956, in Poznan.
Poznan?
Student?
Yes, taking time off from my studies.
First he scuffled with me,
then he hit a policeman and tussled with my comrade.
Just the week before,
I'd caught him relieving himself in the station.
I didn't report that incident, but it was him.
Is that true?
No.
The court finds the defendant guilty
and sentences him to 30 days' loss of liberty
and unpaid community service.
Kiss my ass.
- Excuse me? - Nothing.
I hope this will serve as a lesson.
"It's 1957.
We're in fourth year. In 20 years, we'll be..."
Is that wine?
No, pops.
"Wlodek will be vice prime minister, Staszek, a minister,
and Karol, an editor-in-chief,
and Janek will be making $100,000 a year abroad in business.
In April 1977 we'll dig up this bottle."
The sons of bitches didn't do it. It's already May.
Too bad there are no last names.
Why are you here?
A skirmish with a station guard.
You? - The TKN.
- What? - The underground university.
I lent my apartment out for lectures,
and a neighbor denounced me for creating a nuisance.
What'll we do with this?
Let's put it back.
Maybe they'll dig it up one day.
Is there a vice prime minister named Wlodek?
I don't know.
Hold on. There's something on the back.
"I dug this up in 1975,
and every single day I thank God this never came to pass. Janek."
Marek.
Witek Dlugosz.
- No last names. - Why?
Who told you all this?
My father.
Mine died two weeks ago.
I wasn't with him.
On the phone, he told me I "didn't have to."
He had the doctor repeat it to me.
Didn't have to what?
He wanted me to be a decent man...
a doctor.
I don't know what he meant.
The doctor said he didn't want to die...
though he'd seemed resigned to it for some time.
- Hi. Introduce yourselves. - Stefan.
- Witold Dlu- Witek. - A new recruit?
New and pure.
Here.
The Worker and other newspapers.
Here are 4,000 zlotys for books.
If you could get me Burek on literature,
Gornicki on the church, and The Social System by Kowalik.
That makes 7,000. For the free unions.
The phone number's inside.
Maybe he could take it?
Why not?
- Sure. I call and - - Arrange to meet.
- Mention Father Stefan? - Call me Stefan.
That's kinda hard.
If I hadn't missed a train here a month ago,
I wouldn't be here with you now.
It's not just chance.
Sometimes I think it is.
Did you gentlemen forget something?
No... it's me.
I called yesterday.
What happened?
- Stefan sent you? - Yes, the priest.
What happened?
Nothing happened.
I have 7,000 zlotys for you.
Thank you.
I saw the bastards.
It's not entirely their fault.
Anyway, it's nothing much. I'll tidy up.
Have you worked for us long?
No, not long.
- You didn't know this happens, right? - No.
No need to feel ashamed.
We're all scared.
I'll help you.
Did you drop this?
How did it happen?
They showed up with some flowers.
"On behalf of the workers," they said.
They thanked me
for taking care of them when they're sacked
or harassed.
They thanked me for the underground papers.
It was all quite pleasant.
I was about to fix them some coffee
when the tall one suddenly grabbed the table...
and flipped it upside down.
In five minutes it was all over.
Weren't you scared?
No.
My life at this point is a gift.
The doctors gave me three years to live after the operation,
and that was 12 years ago.
If God's given me the gift of life,
I have nothing to fear.
I was scared for a minute.
I didn't know it could be this bad.
But why should I be scared? - That's better.
I have no one to worry about me.
Just like me.
My parents are gone. My husband too.
So I have no one to worry about, right?
You really believe
it was God who gave you this gift of life?
Who else?
Don't worry.
He may come to you too,
if you do what he expects of you.
He can come to you if you help others.
Or you could try asking him yourself.
He'll understand.
You know what Mother Teresa used to say when asked
what we can offer a human being at the hour of death?
“The faith "hat one's not entirely alone."
I was alone a few minutes ago.
Then you appeared, and I no longer am.
It's good you came along.
Looking for someone?
Witek, you're being followed.
By whom, Auntie?
Impossible.
What are you mixed up in?
I hate it when they call me by my first name
And every other word is “pal” or “chum”
I hate it when they slap me on the back
And grin and shout “Long time no see! How come?”
I loathe it when they peer over my shoulder
And read my letters All that's written there
I hate them when they think no answer's better
Than a blow to a neck bowed and bared
I can't stand the helpless, trembling sensation
Like gazing down the barrel of a gun
Can't stand the foul and murky situations
By which it seems their goals are always won
I hate the reasons with no explanation
The losses that will never be made whole
The fruitless hopes abandoned in frustration
Till the kindly executioner plays his role
I hate it when my phone calls are disrupted
By the dry, metallic clatter of mistrust
Bullets to the back of people's heads
And salvos in the air just cause disgust
I loathe myself for losing all my nerve
And making lame excuses for my part
For smiling all the while at those I serve
Though I hate them with all my heart!
For smiling all the while at those I serve
Though I hate them with all my heart!
Leave on the right. You go to the left.
Wait a minute. Right out to the gate.
- I'll be back in two weeks. - Okay.
Are there cassettes of your songs I could buy?
Yes, right there.
Two, please.
Leave to the left.
On the right, please.
Daniel?
Don't you recognize me?
Witek.
Summer camp, 1968. You left for Denmark.
Witek!
Hi!
My sister Wera. - Call me Werka.
- You back for good? - No, just a few days.
Our mother died, and...
I'll see who that is.
Shall we stay?
This is my apartment.
Any more of this carrying on
and I'll inform the authorities.
Cigarette?
My aunt is threatening to call the police.
Why?
She's a prewar Communist. Her husband was an important official.
When we moved here from Poznan,
they walled up that door.
That's why it's such an odd space, with stairs leading to the kitchen.
- Would she do it? - No, she's a good woman.
She just thinks I'm doing it to annoy her.
What are you smoking? - "Sports."
The first thing I bought here.
Our mother divorced our father and lived alone.
No one knew she'd died
until the neighbors noticed milk bottles collecting outside her door.
What about your father? I only saw him for a moment.
He builds highways in Denmark.
We have a house and everything.
He's gotten used to it there, but not me.
I keep feeling like I'm somewhere far away.
What's that mean?
It's Danish.
“I'm happy in this happy little land."
Why didn't you go with them?
I didn't want to.
- She was in love. - In love?
Yes.
In '68...
a guy shouted at her, "Jews, go back to Israel!"
Another guy punched him in the face, and she fell in love with that guy.
He was thrown out of the university.
She married him.
He's an airplane mechanic now.
Back then I didn't realize why you had to leave.
How old were you?
Eighteen.
How old were we?
Twelve.
I remember very clearly saying good-bye.
You climbed up the slope toward the car.
Your father was calling you.
There was no car.
- Will you come back to Lódz? - Yes. Soon.
Keep an eye out for me.
What brings you here?
- I want to be baptized. - What?
I want to be baptized.
Are you crazy? What for?
To know why I'm alive.
So many others derive peace and comfort from it.
You, for one.
Yes...
but that takes faith.
I think I have faith,
since I know I want to speak out, reject all this, not be passive.
Join the Party.
They don't have the answer.
Do you ever pray?
No.
Try it sometime.
Dear God...
it's done now.
I've been baptized.
Here I am.
I've gone through all the formalities.
So now I'm asking you...
to be.
I'm ready.
I only ask that you be.
I can't go back on this,
and I'll never ask you
for anything again.
But just... be.
My God...
998...
999...
1,000.
Time for eggs!
How many you want? - Two.
Hey, kid.
Wake up. Your shift.
How many eggs you want? - Three.
No, two.
Hi.
- Anything to pick up? - Yeah, 2,000 copies.
Go on in.
Hi.
You haven't met? Introduce yourself, kid.
- Staszek is my dean's son. - Marek.
I brought you guys something to read.
- Bring any decent grub? - Twenty eggs.
What's this?
"The Polish Independence Accord."
Your passport is ready. You have a visa?
Yes, and a ticket reservation.
What's the aim of your trip?
A Catholic Youth Association world gathering outside Paris.
Your passport's ready, but it's not that simple.
You know certain people.
You were arrested for involvement with illegal publications.
You organized meetings.
I lent out my apartment.
It doesn't matter.
We don't want information on your friends.
We have plenty of that.
But in France
you'll make new acquaintances.
We just want to know who they are,
what's going on.
We'll give you a phone number. Just call and give their names.
We can even make a deal and say...
it's only the French we're interested in.
And if I agree?
You'll get your passport.
Be careful. You almost got run over.
You see that? I pulled her back just in time.
- I didn't see a thing. - Let's go.
Strange day.
I never had a day like this before.
Like what?
I went to visit my mother's grave.
And?
Nothing.
I have a grave to visit now too. - I know.
Everyone does.
I didn't until now.
I came from nowhere.
You can't understand what that means, can you?
You're imagining things.
No.
You had a grandfather, a grandmother.
We all have.
Someone who came before you.
I know nothing about them.
Mother never talked to me about them.
I never had a chance to ask her.
I don't who they were, where they are.
Nothing.
Both my great-grandfathers took part in the 1863 uprising.
My grandfather fought the Soviets with Pilsudski on the Vistula.
My father served under Kutrzeba in 1939,
and he was involved in Poznan in 1956.
He died in his bed three years ago.
They're all so close at hand for you.
I never thought about that.
What did your father tell you before he died?
How did you know about that?
He wanted to tell me something,
but he waited till the last minute.
I'd call whenever I went out to see if he was still there.
It took him months to die.
When he'd answer, I'd put the phone down.
I couldn't keep asking how he was.
But he always knew it was me and why I was calling.
The tea's good.
In fourth year, during an autopsy,
one girl had a very strange look on her face.
They were cutting open her former teacher,
whom she had hated.
She told me afterwards
she'd imagined that she herself was cutting the woman open.
Why am I telling you this?
Because I told you about the movie Manhattan.
We've been talking for ages.
We must have said all there is to say.
I doubt it.
There are so many things you can't tell another person.
You have things like that?
Yes.
That you wouldn't tell even me?
Even you.
- About fear? - Yes.
What else?
Various things about my father...
about God.
God?
And my crooked toe.
And something I don't know how to tell you.
But you'd like to?
I don't know how to.
It's about you, and maybe me too.
Feeling sleepy?
No.
I want to show you something.
I'm cold.
Almost there.
It's here.
That's what you wanted to show me?
There was a note inside...
about the past and the future...
and how it all turned out, but it's gone now.
You were supposed to go to France.
They wouldn't give me a passport.
It would have been my first flight abroad.
You know, my husband works on planes, and -
You told me.
Didn't you want to sleep with me earlier?
Yes.
You believe in God?
Yes.
Really?
Yes, really.
Were you baptized?
Just recently.
What's it like?
The priest asks if you want to accept the Catholic faith.
- And you say? - That you do.
They found out?
Where were you?
Where are the guys?
In jail.
You were supposed to be here too.
Where were you?
You suspect me?
Give me the keys.
And never come back. - Damn it, I -
Get the fuck out!
- It wasn't me! Don't you see? - Then wait till the truth comes out.
- And until then? - Pray...
not to hate those who've accused you.
Never forget that in the underground...
responsibility cuts both ways.
It's difficult to quell suspicion.
You'll come with us to France.
We'll have plenty of time there.
You'll calm down. - I'm not going.
Is this the stop for Praga?
On the other side.
Yes?
- Is Wera in? - No.
- Do you know when she'll be back? - No.
I'm a friend of her brother's.
She's gone to Lódz.
"I came by, but you were out.
I waited four hours.
Werka ."
- Hear that? - What?
Listen.
Was that girl who stayed with you a few days Jewish?
Yes.
Many of them were wonderful Communists.
I know.
What are you listening to?
Radio Free Europe.
Strikes have broken out in several Polish cities.
Three departments at the Ursus tractor factory...
It's good you didn't go abroad right now.
- Can't you see, you idiot? - Sorry!
Knocked the money right out of my hand!
A beer, please.
A student ticket for Warsaw.
What are you doing here?
I called your place. Your aunt said you were leaving.
I wanted to see you off.
If I'd been just five seconds earlier -
I looked for you after the funeral.
Remember the first time, on the floor?
Leave it in the office.
I don't have time right now.
Are you here to see me?
Yes, but I don't know where to start.
I'm listening.
You gave me a leave from my studies.
Yes, I remember.
Shouldn't I have?
I want to come back. I'll catch up on what I missed.
I've thought about it.
You said you'd lost your vocation.
Well... it's come back.
One wouldn't think so.
On the other hand...
Witek, wait.
I have something to tell you.
I'm three months' pregnant.
You sure you want to marry me?
Yes.
Aware of the rights and duties...
that having a family implies...
I solemnly declare...
that I hereby enter into marital union...
with Olga Matwijszyn.
I'd like a few words with you.
We'd like you
to stay on here at the medical school.
I was thinking of a hospital, perhaps an emergency department.
You can do that, of course.
It would just be a few hours here,
working with me on your PhD.
I'm getting too lucky!
- Does that bother you? - No.
Here's the prescription.
Can't you take her somewhere?
I'll bring you the medicine myself. Come with me.
I'll come back and see her.
Don't put her in a nursing home.
It will only be a month or two now.
What are they doing?
They've been practicing for ten years now.
Why?
No reason.
Seems no one in the world
can juggle that many at once.
- Who spoke to you? - The first secretary
and another man I didn't know.
They said I could be an assistant professor
and finish my doctorate faster.
I see.
Well?
I don't want to do it, but I don't how to tell them.
You believe in God?
No.
Tell them you're a believer anyway, and that you couldn't
reconcile the two.
Sure, they have no way of checking.
I put them off by saying I didn't believe in the Party,
but I wouldn't advise that.
It made them quite angry.
And why don't you want to?
They're right.
Join the Party and life will be easier.
What they do is despicable.
I'm not interested.
You have a milk mustache.
- Seems they made you an offer. - How did you know?
Word at the hospital is that you turned them down.
Want me to sing “The international” every night?
We've continued treatment for a week.
Any improvement?
Here's the latest EKG.
Excuse me, sir.
His heart rate has stabilized.
Yes?
May we speak to you for a moment?
Excuse me.
- Hello. - I'm listening.
We're collecting signatures.
For what?
They're harassing students for distributing underground literature.
You know, the underground university.
Who's this one?
They're trying to expel him for printing leaflets.
- Who is he? - The dean's son.
That's why the dean wouldn't sign.
We heard that you refused to join the Party.
- True, but I won't sign either. - Why?
I don't want to be involved either way.
- Everyone's entitled to be afraid. - I'm not afraid.
I became a doctor so I could answer
only to myself.
Bastard.
Good evening, dean.
It's no problem.
Of course.
The train station?
I'll be right there.
Thank you for coming this late at night.
Don't mention it, sir.
It's a personal matter.
You know that my son's been arrested.
I'm on my way to Warsaw,
but that's not why I called you.
The thing is...
I was supposed to go to Libya in a month.
Now I won't be allowed to leave.
- Was he distributing illegal literature? - Yes.
I refused to sign a petition about it.
At the time, I thought you were right.
Now I'm not so sure.
You know I don't want to take sides -
You're an honest man.
The rest is of no importance.
I wanted to ask you
to go to Libya in my place.
You know my methods,
and it's just a few lectures.
They're already written.
You don't have to answer now. - Of course I'll go.
Hear me out before you agree.
I have no one to turn to.
I doubt anyone would help me now.
I'm sure to be dismissed as dean,
perhaps run out of the medical school.
I think they'll let you out of the country,
but it might be
your last trip abroad for many years.
I'd like you to think it over.
If you decide to go, give me a call.
And if not...
this meeting never happened.
Sir...
I'll go.
It's for July 10, but my wife's birthday is the 9th,
so I'd like to go a day or two later.
- I see. I'll check. - I love my wife very much.
There's a flight on the 11th, but it's via Paris.
It's a foreign carrier, so I'll have to check.
Nice lighter.
It's fine. The ticket was paid for in hard currency.
Leave your ticket with me.
I'll check on available seating.
When should I come back?
- In a few days. - Great!
Shall we tidy up?
You go on to bed.
I'll just empty ashtrays and clean up a bit.
Are you coming with me to the airport?
You know I'm on duty.
- Don't go. - You mean it?
- No. - Because I've made up my mind.
I want to go.
I watched you one night as you slept.
And?
No, nothing.
Write me what you think about this.
- What? - We're going to have a little girl.
A little girl?
- You got a light? - Sure.
Thanks.
Passengers for flight 277 to Paris,
please report to gates 3 and 4.
We wish you a pleasant flight.
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