Stefan Zweig: Farewell to Europe Page #4

Please, don't you worry.

It doesn't matter where I am.

Brazil is the most beautiful experience

I can imagine.

We have already seen and experienced

such wonderful things here.

We attended the washing of the church,

the Lavagem do Bon Fim.

Europe may be rich in history,

but Brazil is the land of the future.

A whole town washing their church,

dancing and celebrating.

It was very beautiful.

Yes, the washing of the church, Bernardo.

- Very beautiful...

Very beautiful.

Senhor Dos Santos, a photograph, please.

May I?

Of course, Pedro. Claudia?

Ready.

Go ahead!

That's it.

- One more.

Perfect. Just one more.

Done. Thank you.

And now, please allow me

to address a few words to you.

Please do.

Have a seat, please.

Please.

- Please...

Vitor!

The telegram.

- Yes.

There are two.

The addresses are here.

- All right.

Maria will take the first car to Cachoeira

and send them.

Come.

Dr. Zweig's telegrams. They're urgent.

Thank you.

Claudia!

"Brazil,

it is the land of the future."

These words I just heard from the mouth

of the greatest writer of our time,

who wrote so impressively

about Erasmus,

Maria Stuart, and Fouch.

We have the great honor of welcoming

Stefan Zeig and his honorable wife.

Please come over here.

Welcome, Senhora Zeig.

Thank you.

Thank you very much.

You are welcome.

We all know:

In Europe, war is being waged.

And that is terrible.

But despite all the horror

that every single war causes,

I have succeeded today

in finding some positive in it:

This January 18th, 1941,

will go down in the annals of Cachoeira.

Because our sugar cane, our homeland,

will be immortalized

in a book about Brazil by Stefan Zeig.

How wonderful! Wonderful!

That is why...

we would also like to give you a present,

a present from your homeland,

a musical memory, if you will.

Until peace returns to your country

and enables you and your honorable wife

to return safely

to Austria.

Because, as an old Brazilian saying goes:

"He who has no country

shall have no future."

Music!

Vitor, the flowers are heavy.

Thank you.

New York City, USA

January 1941

I don't believe it.

What did you say?

Stefan?

It really is Landsberg.

Emil Landsberg, would you believe that?

A man who detests my work,

who harmed me every way he could.

Now, don't exaggerate.

I invite him to a preview of "Jeremias",

because I'm stupid enough

to ask his opinion,

and he shares it with all of Vienna

before the opening night.

That's half a lifetime ago.

- So what?

Did he ever apologize?

Or even mention it in this letter?

And he wants me, of all people,

to get him a US visa?

Emil Landsberg?

He never knew "all of Vienna".

Unlike you.

And I doubt that has changed.

Or he wouldn't have to humble himself

to ask you, of all people, for help.

Every visa requires an affidavit.

And that is no longer something

you ask a distant acquaintance for.

I can't believe

I'm having to justify myself.

And I can't believe

that you actually reproach

someone in Landsberg's situation

for a 25 year old insult.

Someone in Landsberg's situation?

Everyone left in Europe

is in Landsberg's situation.

What in God's name do you ask from me?

- Nothing.

Lucka, Masereel, the Ullmanns, Berta,

they all need help.

That's just the letters you gave me.

Ben's coming now. How big is the pile

of letters sent to my publisher?

I've been in New York for four days.

What can I do?

People are asking you for help,

because you can afford it.

Because you're a man of influence.

Know how hard it was to get

Landauer and Landshoff Argentine visas?

At every stop in South America, I sat up

all night writing letters, begging.

I pestered the Cuban ambassador's daughter,

at her father's funeral for Eisemann!

All those ambassadors:

Chermont, Mello Franco...

they pull strings for me.

And I have to ask myself, is there a single

invitation I can turn down? - Nonsense!

No, I only have transit papers myself.

I'm only "tolerated".

You aren't begging for them.

You ask what's necessary,

like everyone else. Erika Mann,

Hermann Kesten...

- Can I stamp a special visa myself?

Every ambassador

is doing me a personal favor.

Then they parade me

from reception to reception.

Because they still think I'm a world-famous

writer. But I was buried long ago.

Just two legs sticking out of the ground.

- Fine.

I don't know Chermont and Mello Franco,

but it clearly seems they want to help.

Without you,

they wouldn't know who to help.

What makes you think you're pestering them?

What makes me think that?

I don't think that. I know it.

Because it's all too much,

it's out of proportion.

Half a continent would flee

to a different one if they could.

I know that. I don't live on the moon.

But you're not alone here.

Perhaps you were in South America,

but here...

Take Maggie Shapiro.

She stayed with us once

during the Salzburg Festival

and for the last six weeks, she has

insisted we stay here in her apartment.

I have no idea where she's staying herself!

Here in New York there's a growing number

of people who want to help...

I need to get out of the city,

I want to live in seclusion in the country.

Your birthday, right?

Not quite.

No?

That was our summer celebration

after you married me.

Just for two people like the Ullmanns,

you need 7,000 dollars as guarantee.

Who would grant that kind of money?

You can ask a friend once,

just like I asked Sholem Asch for you.

But acquaintances? Who?

I was in South America for four months.

Who can I turn to?

I'm counting every cent myself.

Yes, not every cent, but every quarter.

Things are lost, in England as well.

90 percent of everything I owned

has been destroyed.

It'd work with Masereel and Friedenthal.

They'd be able to look after themselves.

But Lucka? He's in his mid-sixties

and is yet to publish a single book.

The Ullmanns are coming

with just the shirts on their backs.

Then the affidavit will take effect,

and we'll have to pay for years.

From Rieger and Victor...

I haven't heard a thing.

I send money to Victor,

not knowing if he's still alive.

I can't go on like this.

I need a break from visas and affidavits.

Why can't you accept that?

I have to work.

I wrote to you from Rio, pleading.

What are you trying to tell me?

I accept it.

I accept all of your needs.

I don't tell anybody which hotel you're in,

or that you're here at all, and since when.

I haven't even told Zuckmayer.

I accept that even I

have to wait a week to meet you.

After not seeing each other

for nine months.

After crossing the Pyrenees on foot.

Nine months, Stefan.

The longest we've been apart

since we've known each other.

The longest months in my life.

So full of fear and anguish

that I became a different person.

You don't know how often I thought

that I'd never see my children again.

How often we struggled separately

to pull through,

that one of them might not make it.

You don't know how often I asked myself

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes