Cervená (2017) - full transcript

Soňa my dear...

How old were you back then?

When the sculptor made this
faithful image of you?

Twenty? Twenty-five?

That's how old we were.

So many years ago.
But, you know...

Every year in a human’s life

is a gift from God.

My dear Soňa!

A DOCUMENTARY FILM
BY OLGA SOMMEROVÁ

The title "Lady of Czech Culture"
was awarded



today to actress
and singer Soňa Červená,

by minister of culture Daniel Herman
on the occasion of her 90th birthday.

There are red gloves in there.

I can’t see it.

This is my collection of instruments

that were invented and created by my
great-grandfather Václav Červený.

And last week...

I found another beauty like this
in Hamburg.

This is my father,
Dr. Jiří Červený,

founder of the Červená Sedma
literary cabaret.

And this is my kitty, Homeless,
just like me.

'Home' is a word that's always
made me a bit uneasy.

because I was never really familiar
with that concept.

I don't regret that.
I don't complain or lament,



but I think the fact that the word
'home' never took root inside me,

that it actually helped me go
in my own direction.

My father was a musician, a Bohemian,
always sitting at his piano,

and my mother
was more drawn to society,

which I never understood at all.

I grew up with a governess.
Her name was Schwester Bříza.

She was bilingual.

I admired my mother, because she was
so beautiful and very witty,

but I never knew that kind of classic
mother-daughter relationship.

I'd say I got my musical upbringing
from my father,

and his respect for words,
he was a lyricist as well,

he wrote beautiful lyrics to songs.

"I’ve lit my little pipe
to think about my little Soňa."

'Ballad in A', which they used to recite
in the Červená Sedma cabaret,

and to which Aleš Březina has now
written music and named it 'A-ha'.

My father founded the Červená Sedma
in Hradec when he was still a student.

When he came to Prague to study law,
his cabaret enjoyed a lot of success.

A raven took haven behind a stone,
and from the side snuck up a duck.

The duck clucked at the craven raven.

The raven raved while
the duck ran amok as she bathed.

I'm sick to bits of that raven.

A cripple! Castrato!

And away she swam.

Aha! Aha!

Aha.

- Careful.
- I will be.

- Good, thank you.
- Here you are.

- I've got it.
- Okay.

Hradec Králové.

THE SAXOPHONE:
A CZECH INSTRUMENT

Did you know the saxophone,
the instrument

of American orchestras,
is a Czech invention?

This is how a Czech saxophone is made
for an American negro.

- I've got it.
- Got it? OK.

So much dust again.

A tuba... or helicon...

No, this is a tuba.
The other one is a helicon.

This is a baritone tuba.

What's sadly missing is
the so-called saxophone,

which my great-grandfather
invented,

and after an expo in Paris,

Sax... I won't say that he stole it...

Sax appropriated it,
and had it patented.

Because my great-grandfather never had
the money for the patent.

Getting one was really
expensive back then.

And he was a bit miserly.

And when he opened his factory,
Franz Josef commissioned him

to manufacture all of
the brass instruments

for the Austro-Hungarian army.

Look at these horns he came up with!

It's just like holding a child.
Isn't it beautiful?

So come on!

Our mothers were sisters,
so we're cousins.

And we've known each other
all our lives.

We were together as émigrés.

Have you seen our Mr. Havel?
Lovely, isn't it?

I was saving it, but those French matches
won't light, so I had to start using it.

- Have you followed Soňa's career?
- Absolutely.

She came for every premiere.

Jesus... that was really
the high point for me.

When I was a bit older,

we had a housekeeper,

and she had one great love,

and that was opera.

And since we lived around the corner
from the National Theatre,

she would take me to the opera with her.

And it was there that
I saw Carmen once.

It was so beautiful and it left me
so fascinated

that I said, 'that's what I want to be!'

Precious Ema, you are eternal.

I bow to you.

Hers was a brilliant voice.

From those old recordings,
which are not so perfect as today's,

we can hear her voice was phenomenal.

People knew that a catastrophe
was approaching.

My parents were already divorced,
my father wasn't living with us.

My mother put me into conservatoire,
but I had so many dates in Prague

that she punished me by putting me in
a finishing school in Pardubice.

NO ENTRY!

Being an intellectual, my dad was sent
to the Terezín camp during the war.

Worse still, his file said he was
a composer - 'komponista'

but they misread it and wrote that he was
a 'komunista' - a communist.

THE RESEARCH ROOM

Here we are in the archive
of the security services.

Part of this building belonged to
our family back in the First Republic.

This was the drawing room.

Here we have a beautiful fireplace.

And this was another
drawing room,

for people to meet and chat,

and the dining room is over there.

It's interesting that this flat,
in which I grew up,

now holds state police documents

against my whole family.

This is my all too beautiful mother,

standing by our fireplace.

Here we have two photos of your mother,
Ms. Žofie Veselíková.

One of them is from before
the Nazi persecution,

and the other is from when
she came back

from the Ravensbrück
concentration camp.

My mother was born in the Sudetenland,
and when the Nazis came,

they offered her,
as a very wealthy widow,

German citizenship.

The Germans smelled plunder,
so they started paying her visits.

And they eyed her beautiful residence,
Veselíkov, and wanted it.

And that's why they sent her
to the concentration camp.

- So they could take her property.
- Yes.

I had been meaning to go to
Ravensbrück for years,

but I never found the courage.

70 years ago, on April 30, 1945,

when the Russian army occupied
this place of horror,

my mother set off from here
to Prague on foot.

And she arrived in a horrible state.

I feel distressed.

That it could have even happened,
and that it could happen again, dear God.

This was my mother.

A real lady of fashion.

Can you tell me when
she was transported?

Here's a list, and we'll look
for your mother's name.

Here, Veselík, Žofie.
Born...

Here she is, exactly...

Political grounds.

Thank you very much.

This is the foundation of the
so-called Czech house.

It housed 184 women from Lidice.

And that's the house my mother was
sent into.

She made friends with the women there,
helped them keep their courage up.

Moscow speaking!

Troops of the 1st Ukrainian Front

have liberated the city of Prague
from the Nazis!

Towards the end of the war
I met my future husband,

František Slabý.

He was really a kind lad.

He was involved in the underground,
so we sheltered some Jews in our flat

who had come back from
the camp illegally -

there was chaos and people
were running away.

That was how František and I got close.

We wanted to get married,
and we were waiting

for my mother to come back
from the concentration camp.

Our loved ones held in Nazi camps
are now returning to their homeland.

When the war was over, I kept waiting to
see if my mum would come back or not.

And in May, three women from Lidice
came to see me,

or rather they had come to see
my mother,

and I told them she hadn't
come back yet.

They said, 'The Lord will send her to you,
because she truly protected us'.

She arrived about four weeks
after being released,

she rang the bell at our flat here,

and that's the condition
she came back in.

So I was married in June of 1945.

Hello, how are you doing?

Well, let me introduce myself first.
I am Soňa Červená.

That's my maiden name, my married
name doesn't matter, does it?

First of all, I'm not going to use it,
and secondly,

I came of age over six months ago.

I play almost every sport there is.
I'm best at horseback riding and driving.

But above all else in the world,
I love singing.

Let me sing you a chanson by
my father, Dr. Jiří Červený,

'I, Poor Sinner'.

I always was a sinful girl,
when I was little and full of cheek.

I used to be vain and proud,
whenever I had new clothes on.

I'd barely learned
to read a book

and already I had a
troubling streak:

My favourite kind of reading was

Pitigrilli or the Decameron.

How often has Prague dreamt of
Voskovec and Werich coming back.

The dream has come true.
We welcome Jan Werich,

the first of the Liberated Theatre duo
who refused to live in tyranny.

Little lark, in heaven above,

go even higher, you may see the sea.

And tell me

how things are back home,

when the mist goes to sleep
on the heather,

when the accordion reaches us
all the way from the village,

and echoing over wild waters

into the forest...

I feel like it was just yesterday,
although that's ridiculous.

But that's me.

The world belongs to us,
there's room for everyone,

just get going,
with a bit of elbow grease.

The world belongs to us...

I also took acting classes
from professor Wegenerová,

and she found out that
Voskovec and Werich

were looking for a
young singer-actress

for the lead role in Finian's Rainbow.

Excellent! Fantastic!

And I'd never been on a stage in my life,
I didn't know what stage fright was.

And that was the day I found out.

I went there and...

I had taken my golden cocker spaniel
with me, for good luck,

which was utterly ridiculous, taking
a cocker spaniel to the theatre!

Not just a cocker spaniel, but any dog.

It was cheeky of me.

And I tied the dog up behind the stage
and went to sing.

Werich, Voskovec and Vlach
were sitting there.

And I started singing,

and at that moment my golden
cocker spaniel got away

and ran to me on stage.

And Werich called out to me, 'Listen,

'did you dye your hair to match the
dog, or the dog to match your hair?'

I was inconsolable.

And Voskovec said,
'What a Káča!'

And they left.
They just walked out.

So I took the dog and left the theatre
utterly devastated, depressed,

and the receptionist stopped me,
and said, 'Ma'am...

'the young lady with the dog is supposed
to stop by the office'.

So the dog did bring me good luck,
I got the lead role

as Káča Maršálková
in Finian's Rainbow.

Ask the water what the water knows,
ask the heather what the heather knows.

You'll be answered by a cloud of white...

...and the black forest!

How are things at home today,

how things are today.

The very first Káča has come
to see our Finian's Rainbow today,

Soňa Červená...

Since the time Soňa Červená played her,

there have been a lot of
Káčas on Czech stages,

and now the last one will give
a bouquet to the first.

The theatre really became my home.

In that underground dressing room
with Voskovec and Werich,

I felt at home, safe and happy.

I didn't get to know Voskovec
for very long,

because he only directed the show
and then he emigrated.

But every day I sat there on that well
with Werich as Og the Leprechaun.

- Come up here!
- What can I do for you?

- Og the Leprechaun?
- Here.

Dear Soňa, you have no idea how happy
you've made us by coming to see us.

I used to go to watch you.

I remember going to listen to you.

And it made me happy.

If someone had told me that in X years...

Don't count them though...

No, that's why I said 'X', because
I'm in the same boat...

If someone had told me that in X years
we'd be sitting here on a well

like the one in Karlín Theatre
back then,

I would have called him crazy.
But it really happened.

But you have all my respect
and admiration.

- The whole theatre does.
- You have our respect.

So now we're going to argue
about respect and admiration.

We're going to end up parting in anger!

'We belong to each other!'

Saturday, February 21, 1948,
became a memorable day

in the history of our
people's democratic republic.

The working people of Prague’s
factories gathered in Old Town Square

to firmly respond to
the attempt to subvert

our country's political development.

František had wealthy parents,
he was a factory owner,

and in 1948 the factory owner
became an enemy of mankind.

We have work to do.

But it's peaceful, joyous work
without strife and persecution.

Work that you can sing while doing.

Work we do with gusto.

František was one of the first
who they came to arrest.

But luckily, he'd been informed,
so he went and hid somewhere.

As a land of freedom
and progress,

as a happy home for
all its citizens.

We met one more time

and František begged
me to come with him,

as he was leaving illegally for the West
the following day.

But my mother was still here

and I was in the Voskovec
and Werich Theatre,

so we decided I wouldn't go with him,

because we both believed it was

just a short, bad dream.

So he left, and we never
saw each other again.

And that's how our great love ended.

I can say it with
my conscious clear

for I know much better nowadays:

To dear God I am grateful

that sins come in three ways.

By thoughts, words and deeds.

Thoughts, words and deeds.

We have other documents
about your mother here.

She was absolved of the accusation of

collaboration with
the Nazis during the war,

but right after the
February Coup,

- the police started taking an interest.
- That's true.

From the moment she came back
from the concentration camp,

she fought for her property,
for Veselíkov,

for everything the Germans
had taken from her.

So now they were afraid that

they might have to give it all
back to her,

because now it was the new
people in power who wanted it.

So first the Nazis wanted it,
and now the communists wanted it.

- That's how it was.
- So...

Your mother was arrested
on November 6, 1948.

We assume Soňa Žofie Veselíková
was interrogated all night,

and transferred to Ruzyně Prison
the same day.

In the evening hours of November 8,

Veselíková consumed
an unknown number

of Luminal pills and slipped
into unconsciousness.

But where did she get the Luminal
if she was in prison?

- Tell me that.
- It doesn't say here.

- Prisoners were always searched...
- Of course, they confiscated everything.

- So you think the jailers gave her
the Luminal? - Definitely.

Žofie Veselíková was transferred
first to Borůvka Sanatorium...

- Borůvka Sanatorium?
- Borůvka Sanatorium.

- Where Toufar died?
- Yes.

And do you know what else?

I was actually born
in Borůvka Sanatorium.

Of the same mother.

That's unbelievable. So the place
where you came into the world

was where they later brought
your mother to die...

But I knew nothing about it,
I had no idea where she was.

But now I'm finding out.

That morning a doctor friend of ours
called and said, 'Mrs. Červená,

'I'm sorry to tell you we had your mother
in the morgue today'.

I came that evening and there was
an orderly in a white coat there

and I explained it all to him,
I said, 'Please...

'Could you please
show me Mrs. Veselíková,

'so I can see if it's my mother?'

So he took me among the caskets

and pulled the sheet and...

There she was.

I asked, 'What will do you with her?'

And he said she'd go to a common grave
in Ďáblice the next day.

I grabbed him by the hand and said,

'could you release her to me?'

And he said, 'Why not'?

'Come for her tonight'.

And after a few days, I buried her
in complete secrecy at Vyšehrad.

God give you good night.

I gave two guest performances at the
Smetana Theatre in the role of Carmen,

and I was supposed to start
an engagement

with the National Theatre.

And then the Party and union
organisation opposed me

and forbade me to be employed there.

And I was very, very hurt by that.

It had been my biggest dream,
to stand here on this stage.

That was unfortunate for me.
I was very unhappy.

After the death of my mother
and my husband running off,

my life was on the line too.

I feared for my life,

and I was even more afraid that
I would be banned from singing.

It was the only thing I ever wanted,

the only thing I could do,
and what I had to do.

This is a report from June 3,
1948, which says

that Soňa Veselíková, maiden name
Červená, married name Slabá,

has also been performing recently
in Czech Radio cabarets.

In her performance she makes jokes
about our contemporary situation.

We have an article here,

'Czech Film's New Find, Soňa Červená'.

'We can see newly discovered acting
talent and chanson singer Soňa Červená'

- 'in Slavínský's film
The Last of the Mohicans'. - Yes.

But Daddy got it wrong this time.

In September I start work
as a substitute professor,

and then I'll move out,
maybe to a sublet.

I know it will mean a struggle,
but also freedom.

And once our living conditions improve,
Marek and I will get married.

What did daddy care about my love?

Nothing at all. He's only able
to stomp on everything.

I was a star then.

And only later did I find out who all
in Prague was following me.

They would even pick me up at home,

take me to the station at Bartolomějská
and interrogate me.

That happened several times.

And that's why I wrote to Brno

and got an engagement
there as third alto.

But I had yearned for the opera,

so while I got to Brno by running away
from fame in Prague,

I at least managed to join the opera.

In Brno, we were rehearsing
Der Rosenkavalier by Richard Strauss

and there I was discovered by
two columnists from East Berlin

who recommended me for
the State Opera.

And the State Opera wrote to me
and asked if I would perform as a guest.

I agreed immediately, of course.

So many times I was at the station
with all my bags,

and they sent me back.
It was desperate.

And then once, either by some miracle
or by accident,

they gave me a passport.

In 1958, East Berlin was still
completely in ruins,

they hadn't managed to build
it back up much.

This hotel was bombed out,
flattened to the ground.

Only one back wing
remained standing,

and there they hired out rooms.

The State Opera put me up here.

That was a truly international opera,
the Staatsoper Unter den Linden,

every evening someone from the West
had a guest performance there.

There were no politics involved,
there were no meetings.

It was East Germany,
but it was out in the world.

I hoped they would choose
Carmen again,

but it wasn't in their repertoire then.

They chose Prince Igor.
Konchakovna.

So in a few days I relearnt it in German.

The first time I stood
there singing Prince Igor,

it was an exquisite feeling, and it was
an exquisite feeling again today

to be able to stand there again.

After my big aria in that
beautiful State Opera

there was such applause
after that single scene

the likes of which I'd never heard
before, it was magnificent.

And they offered me an engagement
straight away.

Once I was contacted by an assistant
of Herbert von Karajan,

Mr. Mattoni,

who said the maestro would like
to hear me sing.

I came to West Berlin with
my répétiteur to see him,

and first I sang him Verdi's Azucena.

And he said, 'What else would
you like to sing?'

I said 'I have no notes, but
I could sing you Cherubino

'from The Marriage of Figaro'.

So the great von Karajan got up
and went to the piano,

pushing aside my répétiteur,
and began accompanying me.

It was amazing to have von Karajan
himself be my accompanist.

Then he got up from the piano
and said rather quietly,

'See you in Salzburg,'
and walked out.

In the State Opera
I sang the lead role in Gluck's Orfeo.

It was a beautiful show,

and for the main role I was given
the title of Kammersängerin.

I wanted to invite my dad in Prague
for the ceremony,

so he asked for an exit permit,
but he didn't get it.

It was almost three octaves,
from this C here,

and this high C I used to be able
to reach too.

Sporadically, but I could hit it.

But I'm an alto or a mezzosoprano, so
this part was the most important for me.

The most important thing in a voice is
the timbre. No one can give you that.

But everything else, the lightness,
the looseness of the voice, of the throat,

that's what training does.

'So listen here, sires,
I've just one wee desire,'

'at Kampa there's a street
so narrow and discreet'

'the doors have no numbers on display
nor are there streetlamps on the way'

'an alley too tiny to get much mention,
about as tiny as my pension.'

'Could it be named J. Červený Alley
in my honour?'

'There my soul would be most wanted,
and after death, I'll even haunt it.'

My father wrote that poem
right before his death in 1962.

This is the place where I met my dad
for the last time in my life.

We sat here over a glass of wine,
and I said:

'What would you do if I told you
I won't be coming back again?'

He understood and said: 'Soňa,'

'Little Soňa', he said,

'I've lived my life, and you have
to live yours on your own,'

'think of no one, and ask no one.'

And I said, 'Let's stay here a while, Dad,
will we have another glass of wine?'

He said, 'No, everything
in moderation, my dear'.

'The warmest family
fireplace can't replace'

'the magic of a theatre dressing room
or a sleeper compartment.'

'Moments of stage fright before a show
and a feeling of happiness afterwards.'

'I could keep on writing
to you forever, Dad,'

'but I have to go.'

'Please understand it, and forgive me.'

'Your Soňa'.

'Soňa, you just silently watch what

'happens in the world and to it,
don't you?'

'Well, everything is changing.
Look at yourself and at me.'

That was the end.
That wall closed everything off,

all my plans, and hopes,

and dreams.

So I decided to go through the wall.

The wall was built in the summer of 1961,

but there was still one crossing
to West Berlin,

so-called Checkpoint Charlie,
for foreigners.

And since I was a Czech,
and thus a foreigner in Berlin,

I was still allowed to go through.

So I said I'd go on January 9.
Nine is my lucky number.

And on January 4 a colleague
called me and she said, 'Well...

'the cage is complete,
Checkpoint Charlie is closed'.

And I... I think I was at the hob
cooking something...

So I grabbed the dog,

and my handbag,
got in the car and went.

And we got to Checkpoint Charlie

and there was awful confusion,

and this young East German policeman
said,

'You can't go through now,'

'you have to get permission
from your embassy'.

I knew that would be
the end of it, so I said,

using the word for the first and last time
in my life, 'Comrade', I said,

'I'm singing in Leipzig tonight,

'and I have to get the clutch on this
Mercedes fixed, it's acting up again.

'I'll be back in two hours
to go to Leipzig,

and if you don't let me through

'then you're going to sort it out with
Leipzig Radio. You'll be in big trouble.'

And that boy had really beautiful
brown eyes, like a deer, and he said,

'Go on then. But this is the last time!'

And it was the last time.

Once I'd passed Checkpoint Charlie
and disappeared around the corner,

I just stood there, and my
knees started shaking.

I thought to myself,

well, now my life starts all over again.

I left the dog with friends

and went to the refugee camp.

And I lived there for a few days and
was questioned by the Americans.

In those last days, when I was having
lunch in the canteen,

during a break in the questioning,

I got a phone call from
the West German opera.

'Mrs. Červená, we would like
to offer you a contract.'

And so I took it, I got an excellent
two-year contract

with the Western Deutsche Oper house.

Then I took an offer from
the opera in Frankfurt.

In Berlin I'd been a little afraid, because
I could only leave West Berlin by air,

because I couldn't go through
the eastern zone.

I only remember that the car
I had in West Berlin,

the US Army flew it
out for me by plane,

because it would have been
confiscated in the eastern zone.

And then the West found out about me,

and the director of
the San Francisco Opera invited me over,

I got an engagement,

and imagine,
the very first show was Carmen.

And my partner was Mario Del Monaco,
the world famous tenor,

who was then ending his career
as I was starting mine,

so thanks to him we got
a standing ovation after every show.

I sang Carmen 156 times
on three continents

in the biggest opera
houses of the world.

156 times I died as Carmen,

and I really enjoyed dying.

No, I wasn't allowed to get homesick.
I forbade it.

I met several emigrants whose lives
were ruined by homesickness.

'A fascinating phenomenon,
a portrayal felt vigorously,'

'a rich, grand alto that often
trembled with excitement'

'and that she manages to control
like a musical instrument.'

'Soňa Červená fills the stage
with both a wild temperament'

'and a beautiful, otherworldly alto'

'that, even in its deeper pitches,
has unbelievable resonance.'

'That's the kind of Carmen
that conductors and directors dream of.'

It must have been
the art, the stage,

that gave me a lot of strength
for everything else.

And that's why I cast
everything else aside.

And that's why I never started a family,
never started a household,

I remained single, and I restored
my strength from the solitude.

I had a lot of friends and
that was enough for me

until I finally really did
fall into an eternal love

and then the going got tough.

My love and I decided we would
not leave our careers,

but whenever we saw each other,
that eternity was there.

- And how long did it last?
- Thirty years.

- What? Really?
- Yeah.

And in between, when you
couldn't see each other...

We wrote.
Hundreds and hundreds of letters.

We spoke by phone every day
for thirty years.

- From whatever city we were in.
- Really?

- And what was he like?
- He was wonderful.

There was just one thing he shouldn't
have done to me, to die.

That was really...

My world came crumbling down.

Well, the horrible thing is that it
didn't actually come crumbling down,

but that life kept on going.

I took such a steep path upward in life
that I was never betrayed by anything.

You cannot be betrayed by something

to which you give
your all, yourself,

your diligence and your work.

You can't swindle anything in life,
not love, not art, nothing.

They used to do Janáček in the language
of the given country.

So in San Francisco, we initially sang
Jenůfa in English.

After several years I convinced the heads
of the San Francisco opera

to try doing Janáček in Czech.

So we actually rehearsed Jenůfa again,
and this time in Czech.

And in addition to singing
the old woman,

I took up the task of teaching
my colleagues Czech pronunciation.

I started by writing their
lines down phonetically,

and then I translated them
into their languages -

into German, English and French.

I have nice memories of it,
because they tried so hard,

and with Janáček,
the speech is so musical

that it can't be sung in other languages.

That music is inimitable,
one-of-a-kind.

A work of genius.

That's from Carmen, but I
don't know which theatre,

because I sang it
on a lot of stages.

That José is the famous tenor,
James King.

And that's Wieland Wagner pushing me,
he was a wonderful man.

Here we're celebrating my birthday
after a show in San Francisco

in the year 1980.

Which birthday? I don't know.
Who would bother to count?

Back in 1968, I had a concert
with Rafael Kubelík in Munich,

and so I dared ask him, because
he was quite reserved,

'Maestro, will you
be going back home,'

'now that things are getting
a bit brighter?'

And he looked at me and said,
'I don't believe a word they say.'

'Take that as a warning.'

And that warning may have saved
my life, I didn't go back.

Sometimes Voskovec and I would write,

and we always promised to meet up
someday.

It worked out one time, we met
somewhere on Broadway,

sitting at the table right next
to us was Frank Sinatra,

and we spoke for hours
and we felt really close.

He was great, and still good-looking,
so genteel and full of art.

He kept calling me 'Káča',
like in Finian's Rainbow,

and when we parted he switched
to English and said:

'So, Kača, see you!'

And I asked him, 'Jiří,
are you happy'?

And I looked at him and he said,

'Happy I am, but not
in the Czech sense.'

I've sung about 4,000 shows in my life.

I think that was enough for a 65 year old.

40 years of a career in opera
had been enough

and I wanted to do something else,

read a lot, go to the theatre,
listen to music.

All my life I'd only gone from
one place to another, and...

I'd never really lived.

I didn't go to restaurants,
because they were smoky,

I didn't go to parties.

My life was a nunnery, but a lovely one.

I was performing as
a guest in Austria,

and I got a call from
a colleague that day,

so I sat down and watched it all
happening on TV, of course.

Soon after that I went to Berlin

and walked all the way
to the State Opera,

where I had started out.
It was like a dream.

And a few weeks after that,
I went to Prague as well.

Here I stopped by the Vltava,

breathed in the scent of the river,

and thought to myself,
'so this is home'.

But for 30 years I had been completely
erased from this country.

I thought to myself, I'm more of
a stranger in my own hometown

than in any city
I ever lived in.

And that nobody knows me here,
no one knows who I am,

and I'd be best off
leaving again.

At that moment I got a call
from the Thalia in Hamburg,

a theatre of great renown,
asking if I would be a guest there.

And there I met Robert Wilson,
the American director,

who was looking to cast his
first musical, Black Rider,

and he took me on.

The music for Black Rider was
composed by Tom Waits.

The next musical, Alice,
was also by Tom Waits,

and the third musical, Time Rocker,
that was Lou Reed,

and Poetry, the fourth,
was also Lou Reed.

I had an engagement there
for ten years,

and then I could come back to Prague.

When I came to Prague,
I got a call from the National Theatre

saying that Robert Wilson
would like me to play

the allegorical role of Fate
in Janáček's Fortune.

I didn't say a word
the whole time,

all three acts I stood there on
the stage of the National Theatre

like I had yearned to do all my life.

And it was him, an American director,
who made it come true.

I guess it's an obsession. I wouldn't be
happy if I were only partly prepared.

I always have to
be 130% prepared.

That's my life, that's me,
it's not my fault.

I would be lying
to the state court

if I said I've
changed completely,

and that I've changed
my convictions

and am altogether different.

I would be lying to the state court
if I said I've changed completely,

and that I've changed my convictions
and am altogether different.

It would not be true or honest.

When Aleš Březina, Jiří Nekvasil
and I were thinking

about what great Czech woman
to put to music

for an opera for the National Theatre,

for me, the greatest heroine
of the 20th century

was Milada Horáková.

Learning this role for
the chamber opera Zítra se bude...

was a tremendous experience for me
because I saw in her

our whole generation, and
particularly my own life.

And I hope I was able to give her
what she deserved.

My actions were deliberate

and I want to take full
responsibility for them,

and I am resigned to accepting
the punishment handed down to me.

You are in my heart as the daughter
of Milada Horáková,

because when I was learning the role,
I knew she had a daughter,

but you were like...

a phantom to me.

And then I saw you in the front row,
my dear girl, what did you do to me?

- Sitting in the front row.
- You sat me there.

I did not. I know who sat you there.

It was after I had come
to terms with the fact

that there was going
to be an opera,

which initially I didn't have a lot
of trust in because I thought,

dear God, that's not normal.

And at once I realised that of everything
that's been made about my mother,

this was the most beautiful,
the most spiritual

and most reverent thing,

and it could speak to people
for a long time to come.

All rise and hear the verdict!

But when I saw Jana Kánská here,

I thought, 'This is her daughter,
she lived through it all,'

'and suffered through it all'.

In the name of the Republic,
the state court has found...

Following the proceedings
of May 31 to June 8, 1950,

the court has ruled thusly:

Together and in league with others

they attempted to destroy and subvert
the independence of the country,

and its people's democratic
establishment...

...and are all condemned pursuant to
paragraph 1, section 3...

...in view of paragraph 34
of the criminal code.

- Dr. Milada Horáková...
- Condemned to death!

- Jan Buchal...
- Condemned to death!

- Dr. Oldřich Pecl...
- Condemned to death!

- Záviš Kalandra...
- Condemned to death!

They killed my mother too.
I know what it is.

But that's something
completely different to...

I'm sorry, your mother being hanged,
it's horrific.

Right, it wasn't easy.

And it was very difficult
for my whole family,

my aunt, my grandfather, who took it
very hard, very bravely,

but he never spoke about it, and wore
a black band until his death.

'My only daughter, Jana, you were the
greatest gift that fortune ever gave me.'

'But Providence made my life such'

'that I could not give
you anything like'

'what my heart and mind
intended for you.'

'You must not be afraid or sad at the
thought of me not coming back.'

'One day, when you grow up,'

'you will often think about why
your mum, though she loved you,'

'and you were her greatest gift,'

'led her life in such an odd way.'

Jana Kánská
got this letter after 40 years.

It was very moving for me,
very moving.

Do not cry,

do not grieve much,

it is better like this

than to die bit by bit.

The birds will wake soon,

the sun will come up...

Director Robert Wilson:

They're pictures!

This is from Oslo.

And I must have 400 of these letters,
I can't count them anymore.

'Soňa, you are an angel.
Forever yours, Bob.'

So I'm an angel. You see,
I'm not a friend, I'm an angel.

I wrote to him of course that
I was rehearsing Milada Horáková

and that the premiere was coming up.
And he, Robert Wilson,

actually came to see the next show,
which was amazing.

- Okay? Lips, lashes?
- Super!

Thanks.

He absolutely understood what it was.

And that was the evening that
we met with

the management of the National Theatre,

and someone proposed that he
could do The Makropulos Affair.

Defendant! What is your name?

Elina Makropulos.

Born where?

In Crete.

When?

1585!

One of the few just
things in life

is that we are born
into the grave.

Everything makes sense to you.
You believe in everything.

You believe in yourself, in virtue,
in humanity, in love.

But a person cannot love for 300 years.

They tire of everything.

They tire of being good, of being bad.

Life has stopped inside in me

and cannot go on.

Why then have you come
for the Makropulos secret?

Why do you want to live
for another 300 years?

Because I so fear death.

I think
it's the fairest thing in the world:

To grow old and die.

However sad.

But I don't want to leave the world yet.

I know I'll have to,
but - there's no rush.

That's beautiful!

But Soňa, what about the people who
come here and see this gravestone

and will think you're already
with the Lord?

With that I'll live all the longer.

Falling victim to your own
sense of perfection is stupid,

one mustn't do that.

I always doubted myself at least.

And the doubts took me higher.

The most important thing is what
you give, not what you get.

What I give to the audience
and to the role, how I prepare for it.

Humility and discipline,

that plays a big role
in a life of stardom.

THE ARTISTIC CAREER
OF WORLD-FAMOUS

OPERA SINGER SOŇA ČERVENÁ

INCLUDES 100 ROLES
IN 4000 PERFORMANCES

ON THE STAGES OF FIVE CONTINENTS