Red Trees (2017) - full transcript

There is a painting by Paul Klee.

It is called "Angelus Novus."

It's an angel who seems
about to move away

from something he stares at.

His eyes are wide,
his mouth is open,

his wings are spread.

This is how the angel of
history must look.

His face is turned
to the past,

where a chain
of events appears.

He sees a catastrophe,

which keeps piling
wreckage at his feet.



The angel would like to stay
and awaken the dead,

but the storm
is blowing from paradise

which drives him into the
future

to which his back
is turned,

while the pile
of debris before him,

grows towards the sky.

What we call progress
is this storm.

Walter Benjamin.

My father
was born in Vienna.

His father
was a German-speaking Jew,

born in
the Austria-Hungarian empire

on what was then,
the border with Poland.

His mother was Hungarian.

My mother was born in Germany,



daughter of a German father
from Alsace,

which today lies in France,

and a German mother
from Pomerania,

which now belongs to Poland.

For so many years

I've wanted to tell the story
of my father and his father.

How both of them
were forced out of Europe

for their Jewish origins,

and ended up on
the other side of the world.

How they became migrants.

As I retraced
the journey of my father

and his parents,

I am humbled by what
they had to go through

just to stay alive.

Just to keep going
day after day.

František Josef Factory
Czech Republic

I was born
on the 5th of April 1930,

in Pilsen,
today in the Czech Republic,

in a city known for its beer
and its cola factory.

At home, I spoke German.

At school, I spoke Czech.

My father is a child.

Other children
in the neighborhood

throw stones at him
and call him "Jew".

In the face of stones,
he walks to school.

He studies. He grows.

At the age of 20,
to finance his studies,

and to help
my grandmother, Theresa,

my father becomes
private tutor to Victor,

son of Jewish entrepreneur,
Otto Petschek.

At the Petschek
family mansion,

my father meets my mother,
Charlotte,

the governess of the children
of another Jewish family, the Epsteins.

The Petschek family
own a bank

in the center of Prague

and the Johann David Starck
chemical factory

in the town of Kaznějov,
near the border with Germany,

where my father
secures his first job.

In Kaznějov, we speak German
in our own circle

and Czech, when dealing
with merchants,

public servants or workers.

A relic of old class divisions
in which the Germans

regarded themselves
as superior to the Czechs.

My father
is one of the inventors of

the scientific formula for
citric acid.

A harmless additive

used in the manufacture
of drinks

to create the scent
and flavor of lemons,

also the most efficient
food preservative at the time.

I remember the workshop
with its lathes

spinning
countless machine parts,

the thunder of electric motors

as they drive leather
transmission belts

across a blackened ceiling.

I remember,
in all this activity,

an oasis of tranquility,

natural light,
white walls, order.

Back then, Czechoslovakia
was this incredible flowering

of modernity and optimism.

Prague had a booming economy
and vibrant cultural life.

Concert halls were filled
to capacity.

This was a beautiful,
young model of democracy

for the whole of Europe,

born out of the First World War

and about to be strangled
by the Second.

Poldi Steel Factory
Czech Republic

I grew up in Brazil,
in a military dictatorship.

I guess when you grow up
under a military regime,

you learn early on in life
to take a point of view.

If you reject injustice,
you must oppose the regime.

And so, like so many others
of my generation, I did that.

And that sentiment
stays with you

for the rest of your life.

Years later, I moved
to study in London

and I myself became a migrant.

For my father's 75th birthday,

me and my brother, Marcelo,
brought him back

to the little town of Kaznějov
in Czech Republic.

It was his first visit there
for so many years.

We wanted to understand
where he had come from.

Here is what
was left over

from the building where
we used to live.

This is the window
of our kitchen

which led to
the back of a factory

of glue made of bones.

Over there was my room

and after that, the dining room.

Here was Opa's studio

which was also the living room

in this window here.

It was the nicest place
in the apartment.

It had really nice furniture
made of natural wood

with a bookcase...

It was a very pleasant
place to be.

This was the home
where he once lived

and the factory
where his father worked.

Everything still stood,

but was barely operational.

We were received by the factory's
directors like royalty.

The family of the inventor
of the citric acid formula.

Today, all of it is gone.

We travel on to Pilsen
and to Prague.

Everywhere we go,
my father tells us,

"This person was taken to
a concentration camp,

this person was shot,

this person was murdered,

this one committed suicide."

All of those, close friends.

All this, my father witnessed
while still a child.

All of this,
he never mentioned before.

Suddenly it hits me,

this is a side of my father
I had never seen before.

I always thought
that my father

was a bit disconnected

from the brutalities
of the world.

Those who lived
through the horror

of The Second World War,

those who survived

have had to live
with a great sadness.

Perhaps the only way
to do that,

is to shut the sadness
deep inside you.

I learned from my dad
and my mum

the habit of making things,
creating things.

It comes from his way
of seeing the world.

Creativity is a way of living
and looking at everything.

He brought all
those habits with him

from his homeland
in his suitcase.

The knowledge
of other cultures,

other talents, other lands.

My father likes to say that
for him, work is not a job.

Work and life are one.

It's a joy.

Pentagram Design

When I was little,
I used to ask my dad,

"How ugly is this?"

"How beautiful is that?"

My dad instigated in us,

a love for design,
art, history,

and almost an obsession
with architecture.

Drawing is an idiom
we all share.

My brother became an architect
and I became a designer.

I remember in Kaznějov,

I gazed from my window
on a view of wheat fields

framed by a forest of pines.

A fire blazes in the forest.

Later, I draw the scene
in colored pencil.

I select the color red
for my trees

and reveal,
for the first time,

that I'm color-blind.

I remember a street,
lined with chestnut trees.

In spring, the trees are heavy
with beautiful flowers

in the shape of candelabra.

In the summer,
we make ice cream

with wild strawberries
or raspberries

picked from nearby woods.

In autumn, the spiky fruit
of the chestnut tree

contains a shiny brown nut.

In winter, we visit relatives
in Berlin.

At the zoo, I pose for
a photograph with a lion cub.

It scratches my knee
and tears a hole in my sock.

There are machines which,
in exchange for a coin,

will dispense candies
or a chocolate bar.

A Mr. Hitler is in power,

but it's the vending machines
I recall.

Our family friends,
the Bienenfelds,

have a daughter my own age.

Lisa is sweet and kind,

and before long we are
walking arm in arm.

We don't hide this romance
from our parents,

who think it adorable.

Annoyed at this reaction,

Lisa and I, soon part.

In the Early '40s,

we moved from Kaznějov to Prague

because my father
lost his job in Kaznějov.

We lived in an apartment with
the Epstein family

in the Vinohrady district.

It's this yellow building
on the corner.

We lived on the first floor,
facing the square.

What happened
to the Epsteins after that?

The Epsteins lived there
until '42

and then were deported
to Auschwitz

where they all died.

September 1939,
and Germany invades.

My father is dismissed
from the Starck factory

and we're evicted
from our company apartment.

The new regime introduces
a bilingual system

of visual communication,

first name German,
second name Czech.

Drivers must drive
on the right, not the left.

Jews may not drive at all,

so we must sell our car.

Belongings, including
a treasured Leica camera,

are placed in storage.

We move to Prague,

leaving behind my beautiful
chrome scooter,

a treasured gift
from my uncle, Ricardo.

Soon, my father
will be required to wear

the infamous yellow star.

My father's expertise
in citric acid

is seen as useful
to the economy.

So, for now,
he remains employed,

despite being a Jew.

This, and perhaps his marriage
to a gentile woman

of good breeding,

is enough to protect him
from Nazi race laws... for now.

At this time, the industrial
process for citric acid

is a closely guarded secret,

one that may prove
my father's salvation.

It may also cost him his life.

"If the dismissal
of Jewish scientists

means the annihilation of
contemporary German science,

then we shall do without science
for a few years."

Adolf Hitler

Mayrau Factory Cloakroom
Czech Republic

As I traveled through
the Czech Republic,

trying to understand my father
and grandfather's life,

I discovered this factory
and its cloakroom.

Everything has been left completely
untouched for decades.

Just like this.

We're now under
a puppet government

run by a protector
of the Reich.

The tragic irony
is that The Gestapo

established their headquarters

and torture chambers
in a bank building

formerly owned
by my father's employers

and close Jewish friends,
the Petscheks.

I remember the cruelty
of Reich protector

Reinhard Heydrich,
the butcher of Prague.

It's beyond imagining.

Heydrich had designed
a master plan

for the extermination
of all Jews in Europe.

With the support
of the British Secret Service,

Heydrich is ambushed
by the Czech resistance

and fatally wounded.

The Nazi's revenge
is swift and savage.

In a fury at the loss
of his best man,

Hitler orders all those who
cannot prove their innocence,

to be executed.

In the weeks
after Heydrich's death,

some 13,000 people
are rounded up.

Just five days
after the ambush,

the Nazis descend
on the village of Lidice,

Journey through
Licice's grounds

assumed to have sheltered
the resistance.

The men are shot

and woman
and children dispatched

to concentration camps.

The village itself
is razed to the ground.

Hitler orders that salt
should be thrown on the grounds

so that nothing
can grow there again.

Everyone and everything,
utterly destroyed.

Village of Lidice
Original site after destruction

Today, we'll find towns
named Lidice in Canada,

in the United States
and in South America

in memory of this massacre.

Children all over the world
are named Lidice.

All this brutality
happens

a few kilometers
from my home.

I am 12 years old.

As a child,
I would be witnessing

several people dying
in front of my eyes.

My reaction was to look away
because it was too shocking.

Vovô, what's your
favorite or strangest thing

you've ever seen
as color

I think it was when I...

saw from the window
of my flat, of our flat,

I saw a forest in flames.

And so the trees were red

because of the color
of the flames,

but at the same time they were
green for other people,

because there were still
all the green leaves on them.

So for you the trees
were red and the fire was green

instead of the fire
being red...

Yeah, you could say that. Yes.

-Yes.

I imagine
that would be weird.

If you had the camp fire
then you'd see the fire...

Sounds interesting.

-And I was about your age when I saw that.

Alfie and Dylan
Alfred's grandchildren

So what color
would you see the grass?

The grass
I know is green.

But I just happen
to know about it,

I don't see it green.

So what color
do you see it?

For me, it...
it is a light brown.

Oh.

If your eye color is different
to someone else's,

will you see
the world differently?

Do you think if everyone
was color-blind,

we would not judge people
about their skin color?

This book is about
Czech history

and it started being written

in the 19th century about...

I do feel very lucky

to have such beautiful
grandchildren,

and especially the interest
they have developed

in laws of science, astronomy,

life on earth
and the universe,

and things which always
interested me

and also interest them.

If you got to see
a black hole,

would you be able to see
the white hole?

I am not sure
about that, you know, yeah.

Where are white holes?

Also in the center of galaxies.

Black hole is facing one side

and the white hole
is facing the other side,

like a snout of a dog
and the tail of the dog.

Black hole and the
white hole are like friends.

Oh, yes, probably
they are like...

How's a white hole?
-...relatives.

Sputnik
Prague

The Epsteins
rent an apartment

in a middle-class
neighborhood in Prague.

Modest, compared
to their mansion,

but preserving a certain level
of comfort and sophistication.

Here, we are offered a home.

In 1941, we're joined
by my grandmother Theresa.

The flat is small,

but we're allowed a few pieces
of furniture from storage.

My parents' bedroom is a living room,
office and library.

I'm in the kitchen,
where, along with sink,

worktop, stove
and dining table,

I must fit my desk,
my wardrobe and my bed.

Essential items
require a ration card,

allotted according
to ethnic group.

First in line are Germans,
then Czechs

and, lastly, the Jews.

Inspired by popular textbooks,

I conduct my own
chemical experiments,

storing my ingredients on shelves
above the kitchen counter.

I learn to make soap
and shaving cream,

both of which are rationed.

My first girlfriend, Lisa,

is sent to England in one
of the Kindertransporten.

Years later, my own research
of the Kindertransporten

finds no reference
to a Lisa Bienenfeld,

and so she's lost to me...

forever.

1942 and the deportation
of the Jews.

Despite all that has happened,

despite the many signs
that something like this

might, in fact, happen,
we are in shock.

A year before, I'd attended
a Jewish summer camp.

Now, all the friends
I made there have gone,

sent to concentration camps.

Never to return.

I'm the only one left.

After my friends,
come members of my own family.

My grandmother Theresa,
a humble woman,

is taken and transported to the
concentration camp at Terezin.

Here, she will die of typhoid.

Terezin.

A concentration camp
with a difference.

A model camp,

used by the Nazis
as propaganda,

with theaters, schools,
orchestras

all used to fool the cameras
and the world's press.

No opera house in the world
could ever have afforded

the musical talent that was
gathered there at the time.

At the beginning
of the war,

there were around
350,000 Jews in Czechoslovakia.

By the end, 20,000.

Most of those who died,
died in Terezin.

It was not an ordinary
concentration camp, but a stop on the way
to Auschwitz and Birkenau.

Inmates rarely
went any further.

It was rife
with hunger and disease.

The camp included
hundreds of artists, musicians,

scientists, teachers
and writers.

What would the world be like,
if this had not happened,

if all those people
had not been murdered?

All they could have created,
invented, made,

written, composed, loved.

"I am a survivor of Terezin.
Four of my friends survived.

A world leading nuclear physicist,
Prague's most respected neurologist,

an extraordinary engineer and a very
inspiring professor in Prague. And I became a biochemist

1.5 million children were
murdered during the holocaust

What could they have brought
to the world?"

Michaela Vidláková

Between 1940 and 1943,

my father was tolerated
by the regime

as technical consultant to two
chemical factories in Prague.

One for shoe polish,
the other for paint.

Each morning,
he takes the tram to work,

but is restricted to traveling
in the last carriage.

Jews are forbidden to sit,

so even when surrounded
by empty seats, he must stand.

One of the measures
of discrimination against the Jews

established by Heydrich

was that the Jews could only go
by tram in certain places.

And the Jews could only be in
the back carriage

and be on the middle platform.

On the standing platform,
they could not sit.

If it
was raining would they get wet?

No, the deck
was covered but

they could not go to the
sitting part.

They had to stand in the middle.

Urged on by the example
of friends and relatives

who have already emigrated,

my father applies for a visa
from the American consulate.

Meanwhile, he requests permission
from his former employers at Starck to consult for a rival
manufacturer of citric acid.

Suspecting an attempt at industrial
espionage by this Jew,

Starck informed The Gestapo.

I remember our doorbell rings.

Here, my father has recorded,

in 3H pencil over several pages
of microscopic handwriting,

a secret that may cost us
our lives.

The process for the manufacture
of citric acid.

My father answers the doorbell

and two gentlemen in leather
jackets fill the doorway.

He greets them politely.

The leather jackets enter.

The little one asks,
"Herr Willer?"

My father nods.

He smiles.

He ushers them
towards the kitchen,

but they turn instead
to my father's study.

The desk is piled high
with books and papers,

among them, open at a page
of tiny handwriting,

is my mother's recipe book.

The small one drags
a delicate finger

along the spotless surface
of a bureau as if to say,

"Filthy, in here,
wouldn't you say?"

Helpfully, my father pulls open
a drawer of assorted papers

and empties them over
my mother's recipe book

burying, in the process,
the incriminating recipe.

The Gestapo flick
through the pile,

but they never find
the book of secrets.

Instead, they find our family's
passports, which they confiscate.

The leather jackets leave.

With them, go our hopes
of immigration.

With each day that passes now,
our chances of survival diminish.

By the end of the war,

we will be one of only 12 Jewish
families remaining in Prague.

Pinkas Synagogue
Prague

All these names,
they are real people.

They lived.

My great grandmother's name
is on the wall.

Only now, when I see this
in front of me,

it becomes real.

My grandfather told us,

if the war had lasted
another two weeks,

they would have been next.

He was so close.

I live in Hackney,
one of the most mixed areas of London.

Alfie and Dylan
go to the local school

with children
of so many origins, colors,

faiths, religions,
and many of them are refugees.

I have come up
with the theory of gravity.

I think the inner core
is gravity,

because the inner core
is a magnet,

and we're the little things
that connect to the magnet

because we've got iron
in our blood.

And I think we can fly,

because sometimes, if you get
the back iron bit of the magnet,

they connect, but if you get
two magnets together

you can't connect them,

so I think that's why
us humans can fly.

There was one fellow...

Pharaoh.
Pharaoh...

That actually believed
in one God.

The sun God, Ra.
Yeah.

I think it
is the sun God, Ra. Yes.

Do you remember
the name of the Pharaoh?

Tutankhamun,
his father Ahkmenrah?

Akhenaten.
Then he married his sister.

Why would you marry your sister?
They worshiped--

That's dumb.

All my life
I've had a recurring dream.

I dream of a beautiful,
idyllic valley, a Shangri La.

My country as it was,
when I was a boy.

It's a place
I long to return to.

In 1944,

my father is summoned
to a forced labor brigade

building wooden sheds for factories
displaced by Allied bombs.

In July 1944,
at the age of 14,

in accordance with Nazi law

my education ends
and I must be put to work.

Through an Austrian friend
of my father,

I find a position
as an apprentice carpenter.

In January 1945,

swinging a hatchet,
I cut my left forefinger.

The wound is not serious,
but becomes infected.

Without antibiotics
and with a diet low in vitamins,

the wound takes longer to heal
than the war does to end...

And so I never return to work.

Instead, with my hand
in a sling,

I explore medieval Prague.

Prague, is the perfect
city for a young dreamer

with eyes wide open,
drunk on architecture.

In no other city could I find so many
styles and periods side by side.

The purity of the Romanesque,

the stupendous austerity
of the medieval,

the ornate Gothic arches,

The more than
over-the-top Baroque,

spitting decoration
in all directions.

And the,
oh, so idiosyncratic cubist.

And who would imagine
that one day

I would fall in love
with modernist architecture

and how function
can orchestrate beauty?

Why was I doing
a sketch of this church?

Because I was becoming interested
in historical architecture.

I had read about this church
that was located in the suburbs

out past an industrial
area of Prague.

So, I went on a Sunday because

it was easier to arrive.

When I came back
from the village,

the bombing started.

I couldn't take the tram

that would take me home

It's a sunny day
in early spring, 1945.

I'm 15 years old.

I'm in a village on the edge of the city,
drawing a 12th century chapel.

The streets are quiet
and deserted.

I fill my notebook
with details and exterior views

and turn for home.

It's almost midday,

near a hilltop
above the factory district,

when I hear the air-raid siren.

I see a squadron of American
flying fortresses high above the city.

In strict formation,
they move in my direction.

They lay their bombs some 500
meters from where I stand.

On impact, they suck the air
from my lungs.

I hug the earth.

I race to join locals
in an improvised shelter...

and wait for hell to pass.

Ten minutes later,

the world is upside down.

Factories, workshops, roads, roofs and
chimneys are reduced to burning rubble.

Dense smoke turns day to night.

My enthusiasm
for architecture

makes me one
of the few witnesses

to the only large-scale air-attack
on Prague during The Second World War.

The one exception, a stray allied pilot
who mistakes Prague for Dresden...

Emmaus Monastery
Prague

...and unloads his bombs on the
medieval monastery of Emmaus.

1945.

In addition to cameras
and automobiles,

Jews are forbidden radios,

so I attempt to build
one of my own.

But it's no match for a secret
shortwave radio receiver

owned by a German friend
of my father.

The opening chords of Beethoven's fifth
symphony announce news from the BBC

and the defeats
of the German armies.

Not even a censored press
can conceal the Allied advance.

Following Hitler's death,

the streets hum with rumors.

A crowd has gathered
in the street.

I watch from a window as an SS officer
draws his pistol to disperse the crowd.

The SS man is alone
and the crowd are many.

They encircle the SS man.

His target has engulfed him

and now, with nowhere to aim
his weapon, he is lost.

He is shoved from behind

and disappears from sight.

I see people murdered
in the street...

on both sides.

You learn not to look...

but you never forget.

When the war ended
in '45, in the last few days,

a popular revolt broke out
against the Nazis and we spent
the last five days hiding

listening to the tanks
passing over

and from time to time,
a cannon being shot.

When it was all over,
we went out

to watch the parade
of Russian troops

and the German prisoners of war

being taken to prison passed
here on the street.

Some prisoners were very tired
and sick and passed out.

One of them fell and passed out
and was dragged

to the doorway to rest.

One of the members of the
popular Czech army arrived

and...

...and shot him on the spot.

At the door of my house.

Friends, teachers,
friends of our teachers,

the mothers and fathers
of school friends,

a friend who dared post a parcel of food
to a relative in the camps

and was arrested
and murdered.

Workmates, colleagues,

factory workers, shopkeepers,

neighbors... all gone.

Dead.

It was a great trauma.

So great that after the war,

most bilingual Czechs,

could no longer bear to speak
a word of the German language.

Slowly, survivors of the
concentration camps begin to return.

PLATFORM

EXIT

Many survivors want to emigrate
to Palestine or to the West.

My uncle has insisted
we join him in Brazil.

My father agrees!

And so it is decided,
we will become Brazilians.

However, to obtain passports to replace
those taken from us by the Nazis

we must first acquire
Czechoslovak citizenship.

Before the war
we were Austrian,

during the war we were German,

now we must prove we are
neither Nazis nor sympathizers.

In January 1947,
our documents are ready.

We must travel light
to reduce shipping costs.

Still, we take a large part of my father's
precious library,

around 2,000 volumes.

Boxes must be ticked.

Bureaucrats must be appeased.

Border guards
must be greeted with smiles.

Doubts and suspicions
must be quashed.

Holding our breath,
we journey to Zurich,

and from there to Marseilles.

From here we embark for Brazil.

Off the coast of Morocco,
we encounter rough weather.

Seasick, I'm confined to bed.

The ship's ballroom is flooded and
the piano is thrown into the sea, a wreck.

Left behind is my chemistry
lab.

Also, a large china-headed doll
with Victorian clothes,

inherited by my mother
from her mother

and, too heavy to transport,

a clay bust
of a young Alfred Willer...

A willow flute,

chestnuts, ice cream,

wild strawberries,

our car,

our Leica camera
and my chrome scooter,

wheat fields and pine forests,

candies and chocolate bars,

Prague and Kaznějov

and Pilsen beer...

The Johann David Starck
factory...

the thermoelectric power plant,

ration cards
and identity papers...

homemade soap
and shaving cream...

The doorbell to our flat,

leather jackets,

a recipe book...

and the desk piled high
with papers.

A hatchet, razor sharp.

Secondhand books
and postage stamps...

American bombers...

ruins and shortwave radios...

a pistol...

a tank...

friends...

teachers...

a dead man hanging
in a public square...

and a little girl named Lisa.

After 15 days at sea,

one warm late afternoon,
in January 1947,

I stand on the deck of The Campana,
beside my father.

On the horizon,

I can see a faint line
of light.

At 16,
I came to live in Brazil.

At 23, I acquired
Brazilian nationality

and married a Brazilian woman
of German origin.

With her I had two
Brazilian children.

At 50, I met my second wife
who is English.

Our son has dual nationality,
Brazilian and English.

My father cannot imagine
what waits for him in Brazil.

A nation of color where trees
never lose their leaves

and leaves are always green.

The most racially mixed
nation on earth.

In the years after
World War II,

Brazil will embrace millions
of survivors from every village,

ghetto and bombed-out city
in the old world.

Jews, Czechs, Germans, Poles,
Italians, Russians,

Japanese, Hungarians,
Austrians, and even Nazis.

This is a land
where native peoples,

Portuguese settlers, and former
African slaves co-exist.

All survivors of epic journeys who
have never forgotten how to smile.

In the words
of Jean Baudrillard,

"If humanity ever runs out of hope,

they should look to Brazil
for inspiration."

Marcelo Willer
Alfred's son

My father
always says that every time

he learns a new language he discovers
a new side of his personality.

Moving through cultures
and countries

has made him more complete.

It is like he was also
discovering himself.

Daniel Willer
Alfred's son

I feel like it's difficult
to watch my dad as he gets older,

but then, at the same time, you see
a lot of wisdom through age.

I feel there's a very relaxed
attitude to things which

I think I've incorporated
into my life.

Clara Willer
Alfred's granddaughter

My grandfather
taught me the habit of pressing flowers.

It's a beautiful tradition
he brought from his land.

He sees the world
in a different way.

Sometimes it feels like
he came from the moon.

Both my father
and my grandfather were part of that generation

of engineers and architects
of the 20th century

who believed that science and
art could dominate nature

and build a better
and fairer world.

This utopia which was
interrupted in Europe

by the First
and Second World Wars

was still possible
in the Brazil they found

when they arrived in São Paulo.

In Brazil, sensuality
and beauty are not luxuries,

but they are
the fabric of life.

Violence, pain, catastrophe,
abundance, color and sound

are all happening at once
and at full volume.

A country where the most
advanced biotechnology

is juxtaposed with the
brutal reality of child-labor.

Here, modernism
is an explosion.

Copan Building, São Paulo
Oscar Niemeyer

It abandons grids
and lines and rules.

Louveira Building, São Paulo
Vilanova Artigas

It embraces intuition.

In Brazil, my father
will become an architect.

He will design our first home.

Eiffel Building, São Paulo
Oscar Niemeyer

Here, our family will grow
together and grow apart.

Ibirapuera Park, São Paulo
Oscar Niemeyer

My father will follow his own journey
towards a modernist Utopia.

In Brazil, my father
will learn a new word...

One almost impossible
to translate from Portuguese.

That word is saudade.

Saudade is a feeling of longing,
of melancholy, of nostalgia.

Alfred has always
felt a deep saudade

for the Europe of his youth,

so brutally interrupted.

As I get close
to the end of this journey,

I realize that for so long
I hadn't fully known my father.

This film has helped me
understand him better.

I also feel so much closer

to all those who once were
part of a distant history.

Czechs, Jews,

the Czech resistance,

the people of Lidice,

who all had their lives
wrought by the Nazis.

I feel a sense
of solidarity with them.

Vovô, are you a Jew?

I am Jewish,
I am Protestant, Catholic,

Czech, German, Brazilian
and English. I'm everything.

What a salad!

Vovô, what was the first thing
you did when you got to Brazil?

The first thing
was to look for a banana.

Why a banana?

Well, because during the war

it was impossible
to find a banana,

so it was seven years
without eating a banana.

Would you see
that banana in yellow

or do you see it
in another color?

I tend to see
the difference

between a green banana
and a yellow banana.

I have never understood
an attachment to one nation,

one culture, one origin.

Our origins are many,

our journeys
utterly unpredictable.

We are a mixture,
and in this, there is beauty.

To see Alfie
and Dylan growing up,

to see them with my father...

what a gift.

And the monkeys
have gone for lunch.

Yes, the monkeys
in Rio stop for lunch.