This film was restored by PATHÉ in 2015 Michel Simon won the Silver Bear, Best Actor, at the 1967 Berlin Film Festival This is a true story, but it is filtered through the imagination of a child who was acutely sensitive to the tragic events around him in German-occupied France.
The warm-hearted family who took him in nevertheless left him with a certain poetic nostalgia for this period and deep gratitude toward them.
THE TWO OF US
In November 1943, I was eight years old... and already a Jew.
I refused to accept the war.
I wanted to be like other children.
Not with the brush!
Do you realize what you've done?
Do you realize?
You want to get us arrested?
Is that what you want?
You think we're too safe?
Isn't it enough being scared of the postman, of being denounced for no good reason?
Do we have to attract even more attention by stealing tanks?
Don't you think our hump isn't big enough?
You think we have it too easy?
Why did you do it?
You want us dead?
Don't we give you enough?
I get you a fire truck, Indians, tutoring in arithmetic and spelling.
Don't we make enough sacrifices for you?
But you need a tank, too.
How old will you have to be before you understand the situation?
I understood the situation but I couldn't help it.
My fate was to give them a hard time.
I was born to give them a hard time.
It wouldn't be the last time.
How long are you going to spoon-feed him?
What makes him tick?
After moving several times from town to town...
Anyone in there?
Someone's in there.
Answer me if you're in there!
Is that you, Mr. Langsmann?
You've been in there for half an hour.
It's you, René. Open up!
What were you doing in the outhouse?
Leave him alone.
What a curse, having a son like this!
I want to see what makes him tick!
Look at yourself if you want to know.
She still defends him!
With a landlady like ours.
Wasn't finding this attic hard enough?
You want to get us thrown out again?
You think we enjoy moving all the time?
I didn't have a son...
What was he doing in the outhouse?
How long will this go on? What will become of us?
What were you playing?
At nothing he has to play.
So we'll end up in the street, in our graves.
Will you be quiet?
Side with him! Go play nothing with him!
Tell Mommy what you were doing.
He smokes now.
The landlady saw the incident as proof of our doubtful origins.
Langmann was no longer an Alsatian name.
In Dijon, one evening after school...
Catch! Your glasses!
Who is this friend?
He's not a friend.
When I ask you to come home right after school, why don't you listen?
Why do you stay outside?
I want to play.
Do I go out and play?
Eat your supper.
Your son's already given me a bellyful.
Are you aware of the situation?
When will you behave?
When will you understand the situation?
Can't you understand the less we're seen, the better?
That we might be rounded up at any moment?
Don't you love Mommy? Don't you love Daddy?
Aren't we good to you?
Why do you have to play outside?
Isn't it better to do your homework? To be top of the class?
So I can't play like the others?
After the war, you can play as much as you like.
I've had enough sunchokes.
That's all we have to eat.
I'll make him eat.
Tell me a Mickey Mouse story.
I don't feel like telling stories tonight.
Oh, please, Daddy.
Mickey is a tailor.
He has a son like you, who won't eat his rutabaga on his own.
He won't listen to Mommy and Daddy.
A son who gives them a hard time.
Mickey doesn't know how to make his son understand, so that he'll behave.
How can he make him understand?
Is Mickey Jewish?
And his son?
His son, too.
But there's a war on.
They're in hiding.
In the Free Zone?
There's no more Free Zone.
And Mickey's son won't understand the situation, that he has to come home right after school, and not go out and play.
That he must learn to feed himself, wash himself, make his own bed, help his mommy out.
Mickey Mouse the tailor doesn't know what to do to make his son understand.
When he's nice to his son, his son is mean.
And when he's mean to his son, his son is still mean.
Tell me more about Mickey.
Wait. I'm trying to remember what comes next.
American bombers attacked synthetic gasoline plants in northern, central, western and eastern Germany.
On the Eastern Front, Russian troops have built up their positions in the eastern sector.
Mommy and Daddy can stay as long as they like.
But you're better off in the country.
My parents are nice.
You'll eat better and there are no air raids.
But you mustn't tell the truth.
You'll live like a little Catholic for a while.
The war will be over soon.
If my father says something shocking, don't pay attention.
He listens to the radio too much. But he's a good man. He's not mean.
We listen to the radio, too.
Not the same one.
Why doesn't he like Jews if he's nice?
I already told you why.
You know your name?
No, Longuet. Longuet, you understand?
Do you understand?
How do you spell Longuet?
Like a "longuet."
What's a "longuet"? This is a disaster!
Be very careful, honey.
We wrote "Longuet" on your ration card.
You're old enough to know your name.
But it's not my name.
So long as the war is on, it's your name.
After the war, can I be Langmann again?
Yes, darling. Forever.
You remember the prayer Raymonde taught you?
"Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.
"Thy Kingdom come...
"Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."
"Give us..." What?
Don't worry. It will go by quickly. Very quickly.
Always wash by yourself.
You understand, darling? He understands.
So you're Claude, are you?
Yes, sir. Claude Longet. L-O-N-G-U-E-T.
Spelled "Longuet" and pronounced Longet?
Call me Grampa.
What, child? I'm just calling you Grampa, sir.
His name's Kinou. He's no youngster anymore.
Since last month. February 17.
We sure celebrated. Didn't we, Kinou?
Imagine that! 15 years old. That makes 15 x 7.
It's as if you were 105.
Takes some doing!
Why 15 x 7?
Each year you get older, he ages seven. Understand?
At your age, he'd climb the stairs four at a time.
We lived on the 7th floor in Paris. He'd run up all the way up!
15 years old!
He has to wear this bandage on his chest.
He's been through the mill.
It's a miracle he's still here.
The money I spent on you!
But when you're gone...
He loves food cooked in butter.
Time for dessert.
I hope you like rabbit, my pet.
I expected as much.
Papa, don't start.
I eat vegetables. Nothing but vegetables.
I don't have a church bell for a heart, but I respect life.
Why cling to the priest's robes if you don't respect life?
Your father never changes.
Always carping! I'm just an animal.
If only you were.
Without our rabbits, what would we eat?
You really like rabbit that much?
Then you're a cannibal, too.
Cut it out, Papa.
Leave the child alone. For once he has something to eat.
There were no vegetables in town?
Sunchokes, rutabaga. Pig food.
Am I to blame for the war?
Well, he's certainly not. So let him eat in peace.
You never see the ones to blame.
They're holed up in London or somewhere.
They don't have to worry about rationing.
It's always the little guy who gets shafted.
Go on, son, eat. Wolf that rabbit down!
Anyway, it's already dead.
The ones to blame don't get bombed on. They do the bombing.
And see how they do it!
They aim for a station and hit a church.
They aim for a church and hit a station.
But they don't aim for you.
That'd take the cake.
Who says they aim for churches?
Well, they don't aim for synagogues, that's for sure.
That's right. I forgot.
You like 'em.
The Popular Front. Léon Blum.
You didn't learn your lesson.
How many Jews were there in France, out of 40 million Frenchmen, in 1939?
And how many were there in the government? Want to know?
And you wonder who's responsible?
But they're not under your roof. That's all I need.
...who consider Germany as an irreconcilable enemy...
We missed the beginning.
...we find among the supposed patriots opposed to the policies of the Marshal all those who led us into chaos and helplessness.
Because the Jews, freemasons, democrats and communists are all in the Gaullist camp!
Not very reassuring for the rest of us.
Time to get up, my pet.
Won't get out of bed? See the medic instead If he won't report you sick It's eight days in the brig Are you getting up?
Let's report to the medic.
Staying in bed?
I'll bring you coffee in bed.
You're a lucky dog.
You're spoiled rotten.
I'm telling you.
Here's the grub.
The coffee's too black. It needs to be lighter.
Well now, little fella.
First, the bib.
A neck without a bib, and a man loses his dignity.
And a dog?
Dandruff doesn't count.
Thank your father for the eggs.
Let's see if the Parisian has any cooties.
Town cooties and country cooties.
It looks all right today.
Don't want your head shaved, do you?
It grows back.
Paris brat, face like a rat!
Paris punk, smells like a skunk!
I knew it! When it itches, it's a good sign.
You see, son, in four years of war, what bothered me most wasn't the hunger or thirst, or even the Huns.
It was the cooties. Damn 'em all!
Rats, too. Filthy things!
Let's go, Kinou.
On the Chemin des Dames, even Pétain killed 'em.
In his woollies.
Same goes for their De Gaulle.
In 1916, in the 33rd Infantry, he'd scratch his noggin, too.
The good thing about lice is that they've got no respect for rank.
We look no farther than our nose We comment on events very fast As if discussing a weather forecast
Our opinion is comprehensive We know the next offensive We know all about the Second Front We know what they'll do or won't
We complain we don't act We should keep our mouth shut But as we have no facts We try to act smart Holding forth on the military art We repeat the latest rumors Which no one really humors The only truth that stands is that England The Soviets, and America, that Judaic land Of this you can be sure Are going to lose this war This is the one fact That cannot be attacked The only truth that stands Is that England, the Soviets, And America, that Judaic land Of this you can be sure Are going to lose this war This is the one fact That cannot be attacked
The goose is cooked.
The goose is cooked.
"...hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, "Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
"Give us this day..."
You little Jesus.
"...our daily bread."
"Forgive us our trespasses..."
You can get in now.
Still too hot for you?
Then what are you waiting for? Take off your pants.
Victor's coming. We'll be late.
A little bib to wear to mass.
Stand up. I'll wash you to save time.
I already washed.
Your little birdie?
When? Just now.
So fast? It can't be clean. Let me wash you.
Afraid to show it? I've seen them before.
Victor was a child like you.
So, we going to mass or not?
Ready so fast?
Give me the washcloth.
He won't show his birdie.
I don't blame him.
He knows what you do to animals.
Show the cannibals no mercy!
But that only concerns the stomach.
What accumulates in the heart is worse.
We live in an age of lies and false prophets, a cruel time, in which there is little love in the air, but much hatred and contempt.
There is plunder and killing.
Men are sorted out from men, as if God was unable to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Leave that to Him.
His scales are not ours.
And when He sent us His son, He made him the shepherd of all sheep, including those who wear a star on their foreheads.
Beware the short-lived words.
The Christian's choice is an easy one.
He must be on the side of the oppressed, whoever the oppressor may be.
To take an example, if Christ chose to be a Jew rather than a Roman, at a time when the Roman legions occupied Judea, he must have had good reasons, on which I ask you to meditate.
That's the last time your mother drags me to mass.
You say that every week.
This time I mean it.
Her priest is a Red.
He's not there to talk politics from the pulpit but to conduct mass.
Let him take off his cassock and join the Resistance.
There are lots of starving priests who'd be glad to take his place.
We know Christ was a Jew.
Why shout it from the rooftops?
Anyway, what proof is there?
Those who say he was weren't around to see him.
Go on, laugh.
What do you think?
You know I don't think.
But you must have an opinion.
Sure. Stop thinking, Papa. It tires you.
It'll get you in trouble some day.
Your opinions are getting around.
Tone it down before the Liberation.
Tone it down?
What did I do wrong? Am I not a good Frenchman?
Didn't I serve in the last war?
Didn't I donate two liters of wine? I mean two pints of blood.
Opinions? France for the French! That's my opinion.
You feel them?
The air raids make him sick.
Don't mind them. Do what you have to, fella.
If you take the horrors of war to heart, you'll never rest.
You'll never get over it.
Go on, do what you have to.
If he can't, he can't.
You'll do it at home.
I'll give you a suppository.
When they bombed the train yards in Grenoble, he was the first to feel it coming.
He didn't sleep a wink. The poor thing was sick.
They'll be the death of him.
What'd I tell you?
No need for sirens with him!
Get in quick, fella.
Where are they going to drop their damn bombs now?
Don't you cry, fella. Grandma will take care of it.
A blackout! That's all we need. This takes the cake!
If only you could talk.
You mustn't have regrets.
Don't worry. The boss will take care of you.
This war isn't good for him.
Paris brat, face like a rat!
Attaboy! That's being a man!
Sure, encourage him to fight.
When I was your age, I flattened a few.
Right, give him ideas. At the age of nine.
When I traveled the country as an apprentice plumber, I remember my boss catching me with his wife, in his bed.
I didn't think twice. I gave him one right in the kisser.
On the chin.
He was out for the count.
I was quite a terror in my day. Wasn't I, Grandma?
You admired my strength.
I wasn't good looking, but I was strong.
You can go out and play.
Keep the bandage clean.
You, go cut wood.
Your wish is my command.
Let's go cut wood, soldier.
Let him play.
He'll have more fun with me.
Let's play a game for a change.
Who can pee the farthest.
Don't want to play?
Why not? Because.
You know you'll lose.
I don't care about losing.
So what do you say?
I don't feel like it.
At your age, you always feel like it.
You can stand a yard ahead of me. If you can't win that way...
I'm sick of this war!
So, enjoy the peace pipe, big chief?
Quick. Grandma... My medicine.
It's Grampa. Quick, his medicine. Quick, Grandma.
Not feeling good, Grampa?
No, I'm not.
It's good for you.
You have to be stupid to play jokes like that on a child!
So, little fella... That wasn't "vodkaka."
None of your Bolshevik dishwater.
Here, little Alfred, some hay for you.
And for fat René...
Don't get fat too fast, kids. The boss has it in for you.
Tell me, child.
Would you do me a favor?
Would you really do me a favor?
Then stop eating my rabbits.
Give me your plate, my pet.
Would you like the leg?
I don't want anything.
You don't? Aren't you hungry?
Sure, I am. Then give me your plate.
You heard him. Don't force him. He doesn't want your rabbit.
A nice rabbit in mustard sauce?
Pass me your plate.
With or without mustard sauce, no more rabbit. That's it.
I didn't ask him. He came and told me so.
He's no cannibal.
He's come to love rabbits, so he won't eat them now.
I have the ration board on my back.
You don't understand. I wouldn't say no.
If it's not them, it's the Resistance.
I'm no profiteer. That's what you say.
I don't have any. I wouldn't refuse you.
They take everything.
You should see Antoine to fix that.
That fool? I'd rather limp.
Wanna use mine? It's bigger.
I give you milk, as it is.
That's all I need, now that I have two vegetarians.
Just a dozen.
I don't have any.
That's what you say.
But you've got hens. They won't lay.
And I promised my son a cake on Sunday.
You shouldn't have. The board controls everything.
Forget about Roussette and fetch a dozen eggs.
A good thing you're around, child.
Otherwise, who else could I talk to?
We won't mention my wife. We've been bickering for 40 years.
It's too late now to change. Even if she stopped eating my rabbits.
She was some beauty when I met her.
I was lucky to get her.
She's had her revenge ever since.
Women are fine in the beginning, but later...
I have a daughter who's a Red and loves Jews.
A son who's neither Left nor Right, not even in the center.
Who could I talk to without you? Who could I confide in?
Life's no piece of cake. You'll see...
The Paris fire department is here, battling the last flames.
The Civil Defense teams are clearing away the dead.
I'm here at the Château Rouge Metro station, where several bombs have fallen, some of which haven't exploded.
A mortuary has been set up...
When will it all end?
1100 bodies were identified and taken there.
I don't know if you realize what this means, but 12 hours after the bombings, no one can provide an estimate...
Can't you change channels? Enough air raids!
Two nights in the cellar this week!
Not interested in the situation? Sure I am. My own.
...the tragic illusion of the final struggle.
In the tragic light of the fire, a wave of panic, an indescribable commotion of women and young people, running in the streets, under the flames...
Damn! How can I play?
The matches, the radio!
I'm going to hide the game.
There's something in there.
I give up.
Like in '40.
I would have waited for him on my knees, if I could.
But there were such crowds on the Champs-Elysées, you couldn't stand, let alone kneel.
People came from all over the country.
When he appeared leading his troops on his white horse...
You should've seen Grampa.
"A sacred flame
"Rises from the native soil
"And France, drunk with your fame, "Greets you, O Marshal.
"Your children who love you all
"And venerate your years
"At your supreme call
"Have answered, Here we are!
"O Marshal, "Here we stand!
"You have restored hope to our breast
"The Motherland shall rise again
"Marshal, O Marshal, here we stand!
Friday, May 12, 19... what year?
You'll always be in the Stone Age.
1944. Thank you, Auguste.
Today our lesson is... what, Auguste?
Why did I put this map up?
For our geography lesson. Thank you, Auguste.
Let's see if airing your head improved your thinking.
What is all this I'm pointing to?
A map, ma'am.
Thank you, Mathieu.
What is all this here?
The coast, ma'am.
And why are we studying the coastlines of France today?
Because of the invasions, ma'am.
This is a souvenir of Verdun.
A bayonet wound.
You were running away?
Why do you say that? You got stabbed in your back.
In my back...
I was surrounded. You should've been in my shoes.
That's Grandma at the Paris fair, when I was very young.
And this one? Is this one in my back?
That's your appendicitis.
My father has one, too.
But not on the same side.
This side is the liver.
I won't let a kid your age teach me where my appendix is.
Young people have no respect.
I know I was wounded in the liver.
It's my wound, after all.
Tell me more, Grampa.
Why bother? You don't believe me.
Yes, I do, Grampa. Tell me.
I told you everything.
Grampa, tell me more about Jews.
It's an endless subject. A rich topic.
How do you recognize them?
I told you already. They smell bad.
All of them?
Even ones who wash?
That's got nothing to do with it.
Wash a goat from head to foot for three hours, and 15 minutes later, it stinks again.
Even if you meet one who doesn't smell, or you have a cold that day, you still can't go wrong. They have big hooked noses like fish hooks.
What for? To smell out money.
They know a thing or two about smelling out money.
They run faster to the bank than to the front.
What? Enough potatoes.
They run with their flat feet?
I already explained that to you.
You don't remember a thing I say.
Their flat feet are for avoiding the draft.
That doesn't stop them from running to do business.
They have flat feet for real or for make-believe?
They have flat feet, but not when it comes to business.
Why do they cut off a boy's weenie when he's little?
I told you. They don't cut off the whole weenie.
Just a little piece.
That must hurt.
What else do they do? Tell me.
Every Friday night and Saturday is their Sabbath.
The Sabbath is a sort of holiday.
They turn off the electricity and use candles.
They eat with their hats on.
As if I ate with my hat on!
But you keep your beret on!
My beret isn't a hat.
And listen to this, son...
On Saturdays, they close their stores. No work allowed.
But believe me, they catch up on Mondays. They make you pay for their Sabbath.
Jesus was a Jew?
So they say.
Then God is a Jew, too?
Granny says Jesus is the son of God. So if he's a Jew, so is his father.
If you listen to everything she says, there's no end to it.
What did the Jews do to you?
To me, nothing. That's all I need.
This is London.
The French speak to the French.
Today is the 1,417th day of the struggle...
What kind of hogwash are we going to hear tonight?
No English tonight!
You'll make excuses for not getting up in the morning.
Tomorrow is gym.
Gym or no gym, off to bed. Kiss Grampa goodnight.
Let him listen a little.
You'll drive the boy nuts. Kiss Grampa and off to bed.
You and your English. First, it's the Germans...
The goose is cooked.
The goose is cooked.
Of what, my pet? Of being one.
Look what you've done!
That's where all your stories get you.
No, child. You're not a Jew.
Don't listen to Grampa.
I didn't say he was one.
Come back to bed. Don't be scared.
I want to sleep with you.
You'll sleep badly. Grampa snores.
I don't care.
Let him sleep here. He's scared.
Whose fault is that? Maybe mine?
Want to know who's to blame?
Come to bed. You won't be able to get up.
I want to sleep with you.
Let him sleep with us. Oh, you!
That's the war for you.
Tell him what you want during the day. But not at night.
I've seen worse during the war.
Don't worry. No need to be afraid.
If you were a Jew, you wouldn't be in my bed.
Look at your nose.
It's straight. You don't have a hook nose.
You don't have flat feet.
They have curly hair and big ears. Just like sheep.
But I've got big ears.
No, you don't. You have nice ears. Don't worry.
You'll get the girls.
Look at your nose.
What's wrong with it?
Don't you see? It's like you said.
What did I say?
Look at your hair. It's curly.
Look at your ears. You're one of them!
I'm one of them?
You're one of them!
Not at all.
My father was born in Dieppe, my mother in Nemours. My name is Dupont.
You said they change their names.
Don't! You Jew!
He's a Jew, Grandma!
He's a Jew!
Now what? What did you say to him now?
Still not dressed? You know what time it is?
Stop telling him stories, for Heaven's sake!
How stupid can you get!
Such a stupid man!
If only I were.
Sure, it's not always so obvious.
Lots of French are like you and me, with big noses and ears, even flat feet.
Negroes are no problem. They're all black.
Orientals, too. And Arabs.
But not them!
So how can you recognize them, if they have noses like mine?
I can smell 'em.
You're always smarter than anyone else.
You invented the wheel.
That's right, I can smell 'em. Even Kinou can.
Right, Kinou? You can smell 'em.
Want a whack?
A refill, Mr. Victor?
Drink it. It beats cough syrup!
True enough! Just a drop, then.
We had a bottle today.
This won't hurt you. It's mother's milk.
How are the shoes?
And how was the ham?
Not bad. We finished it all.
They pinch my feet.
Had I known they were size 8, the ham would still be in my attic.
And my eggs.
I wear size 9.
Wanna use mine? It's bigger.
Don't just sit there!
Go feed the pigs!
The whey is in the shed.
So when are you gonna kill that calf?
To feed the Resistance? Or the others?
He'll get over it soon enough!
Admit it, you little rascal. You like her.
When I was his age... What were you?
You're old enough. There's no shame in it.
You little rascal!
What's got into you today?
One more the Huns won't get.
Knife on the right, fork on the left!
So, you little rascal, will you talk?
We're stocked up on ammunition.
How about a quick one before we get down to business?
Go to it. It's party time.
One more the Huns won't get.
Me, too? You, too. Between men!
To your love life!
Two hours later, we had celebrated my love life, and the anniversary of Grampa's war citation.
I'm going to sing you "Three Cheers for Wine!"
A military song.
Along the roads To the four corners of France The soldier sings As he makes his advance It's a real song The strangest of chants Its refrain, "Three cheers for wine!" One, two...
Wine is what nothing surpasses It provides warmth Wherever it passes So come on, soldier Fill our glasses Three cheers for wine!
Here it comes!
Love your sister Your aunt, your pen-friend Love your flag As you march in line Love your brother Love your captain But you can still love your wine One, two!
The morale was never lower but my pants never higher.
And so many people are miserable.
That's for sure.
Let's drink to misery!
Oh, dear! My coffee!
Coffee boiled, coffee spoiled!
I'll break out the "vodkaka."
Today I recognize you. You're my son.
Let's go play doctor.
No Bolshevik dishwater for us.
Where'd they go?
They went to play doctor.
If only they would make a kid like you.
To kill lice we use insecticide Coal tar handles fleas just fine With rats we use acid But to kill the blues We have wine. One, two!
...for every German soldier killed, 50 men will be executed...
C'mon, Papa, that's not for you.
Go ahead and pick one.
Go on, soldier, choose your postcard.
"I smell the aroma of happiness."
It brings tears to my eyes.
Don't eat my pen.
So I write "I love you"? Sure. Because you do.
Do I write it?
Since you love her, write "I love you."
Add, "My darling Dinou."
Write, "Love and kisses."
"My darling Dinou..."
She's a woman, after all.
"Love and kisses."
There's a double "s" in kisses. It doesn't matter.
It's more charming this way. Don't sign it.
Put a question mark. Keep her guessing.
How do you write a question mark?
Like a cherry stem.
I'll draw a cherry. It's nicer.
Maxime will love it.
Wanna use mine? It's bigger.
Don't count on me to buy you more drops.
Drink your milk.
Good news from the missus?
Who is the author of this charming little card?
Who made these charming little spelling mistakes?
Which brave fellow signed with a frying pan?
It's a cherry.
Not a frying pan, a cherry.
Excuse me. So you're the artist?
Don't worry. I'll school you.
Do you need a hand?
You can't go wrong, I told you.
France doesn't have hundreds of enemies. There are four.
Not counting the Huns, who are straightforward.
They declared war on us.
So we know where we stand.
So as for the true hereditary enemies, there are four.
First you have the English. They're Number One.
Then come the Jews. Not bad either.
After that, you have the Freemasons and the Bolsheviks.
The Bolsheviks who eat children? And how!
Open up, little Frenchie.
I won't eat you.
Yes, you will. I swear I won't.
Cross your heart? I swear it!
I'm gonna eat you raw.
You swore, you dirty Bolshevik!
Nothing like soup in the summertime.
You later say, I didn't believe him.
You think, maybe. Here's proof.
Three years ago, the English said, "Be ready, we're coming."
And for three years, you hear the same confident declaration and you say, if not today, then tomorrow.
Pray for your invasion.
You'll get your liberation, in a France full of ruins and corpses.
You'll get your invasion, your liberation, if you're still around to see it.
So consider your situation in May '44.
You turned your back on the Marshal.
Not all of you, of course...
It's been a while.
During the editorial! They do it on purpose.
Can't they have their blackouts while we're sleeping?
Anything to annoy me!
They do it every day now.
So we're eating like Jews do? What?
What's wrong with you?
What's the matter?
What's going on?
An air raid nearby?
What did he feel?
The battle of France has begun.
Throughout the nation, throughout the Empire, throughout the armies, there is but one single resolve, one single hope...
They killed him.
They killed him.
Prime Minister Laval will address you.
You have tuned in, as every day at this hour, to hear the voice of Philippe Henriot.
You will hear it no more.
Philippe Henriot was assassinated today at the Ministry of Information.
He was shot down with a revolver as his wife looked on.
I have just left this grieving, dignified woman...
He'll never parade again!
And I say he will.
He'll parade again on his white horse.
If he can get on.
Until proof of the contrary, this is still my house.
Here, I decide who rules France.
And here, France is Pétain!
Come down! We're leaving.
Take his picture down. It's him or me!
You may be my son, but he's my father.
I'm behind the times.
Don't cry, Grandma. You'll bring it out again.
My poor Kinou.
Lucky you can't see what's going on.
It would break your heart.
It makes me sick.
Frenchmen at each other's throats.
The Marshal on the run.
Women having their heads shaven.
The world's gone crazy.
The things I've lived through.
The Great War. The Popular Front.
The debacle. The Occupation. Their liberation.
What a disaster.
I can't wait to die and be with you again.
But I'm here, Grampa.
Of course you are, child.
You're here. But for how much longer?
The war's almost over.
The world's gone crazy.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Yesterday, it was the Huns.
Today it's American Negroes.
Then it will be the Orientals.
They'll turn France into a colony.
Soon they'll want to go to the moon.
The world's gone crazy.
The Jews will be back.
The Jews, my little man...
Oh, you know...
Don't worry about the Jews.
They can't be worse than the others.
Subtitles: Lenny Borger Subtitling: Eclair Group A 4K restoration carried out by Eclair Group on the image and by L.E. Diapason on the sound with the support of the CNC