Couple in a Café

 

The setup is as follows: Stierlitz, the man at the beginning of the above clip, is a Soviet spy deep undercover in Germany from the late 1920s to the spring of 1945. He dedicates nearly two decades to working his way up the ranks of the Nazi machine as a counterintelligence officer, all the while relaying secret operations to his counterparts in the USSR and sabotaging fascist plots on the ground. 

In this scene, Stierlitz is at a café that he frequents, going through the motions of his clandestine life to keep up appearances, when a woman that he recognizes comes through the door. She doesn't see him, and it's hard to say whether he wants her to. His eyes follow her as she is led to a table across the room. She's waiting for something, nervously, a bit excitedly. Stierlitz looks on with longing, pain, with an attempt at comprehension, with reserved hope. 

Suddenly, the woman's companion whispers something, calling attention to the man who's been watching her since she entered the building. The surprise on her face evaporates into a warm, quelled excitement, and she looks up to meet the eyes of Stierlitz. It is this look, this concentrated, immediate look, that makes it clear that he is her lover. (In the novel, it is stated that this woman is Stierlitz's wife. In the series, you don't need to know this-- you can see it, instantly, intuitively. They can be nothing but.) 

His face is similarly awestruck, maybe a bit self-conscious, like this is the first time someone has looked at him in the eye for years. In actuality this is the first time in years that anyone has seen him as Maxim Isaev instead of his cover Max von Stierlitz. It's the first time in years he's being recognized as himself. She, too, has a moment of this overwhelm, looking down for just a second before meeting his eyes once again with a blazing, almost playful confidence: in him, in her, in this reality they're sharing. Her companion, sensing his obtrusive role in this reunion, excuses himself to the bar to give the couple some "privacy." 

The next minute is one of the most beautiful, most romantic minutes in all of cinema, consisting of alternating shots that present a conversation without words, as follows: 

The woman initiates the exchange with the question of "why." Why are we here in this moment? Why are these the circumstances of our lives? Why can't I go to you? Why can't you come to me? Why must it be this way? A look of uncertainty, of a yearning for something to grasp onto. Her jaw clenches, and all of the words she's unable to say are swallowed down. 

His answer to her questions is a pleading, a deference, an imploring. Again the self-consciousness creeps up: he is in a position of constraint, and she's caught him in the midst of living his artificial life. He cannot go to her, he cannot express all that is welling up inside of him, lest he risk the ruin of his entire operation. He knows that she knows this, and he's wondering if she remembers: how much he loves her, how in love they are, all of the reasons why he must do what he's doing. He's wondering if she remembers that it is not the lack of love but rather the overflowing of it that causes him to stay where he is.

There is a challenge. She locks him in to a challenge: prove it. Though his path is noble and, yes, she remembers it all, she's allowed to be angry. She's allowed to wallow, to think selfishly for a moment. Enough time has passed, enough has changed in both of their lives. She can see the little swastika pin he wears to keep up appearances and is disgusted by it, disgusted to see the man she loves wearing it. She feels pity for what he must be reduced to for the sake of his mission. There is a challenge of his personhood, of who they really are in that moment. 

He meets the challenge with a steady gaze. If it is reassurance she seeks, that is what he gives her. If she is looking for acknowledgement of his love, of their mutual sacrifice, of her sacrifice in particular, that is what his eyes say. He gives it all to her. He's sorry for her pain, but then shows her a world that they created between the two of them long ago: one of freedom, of love, of beauty, of dignity. 

She remembers this world, this shared vision of the future. Of the days they spent dreaming of something better, of a liberated society. She thinks of the late-night discussions they had about what this world would look like, and all of the ways that their sacrifice would contribute to its manifestation. She remembers how it was this vision that made her fall in love with him, how much respect she had for his choosing the love of humanity and his commitment to its emancipation from the chains of fascism. She acknowledges her role in this shared vision, too: they're doing this together. He's not alone in it. 

He's feeling nostalgic: for her touch, for perhaps the last conversation he was able to have freely, as himself, with her. Maybe he's remembering her laugh, of the way that she said she'd wait for him, how she would love him always, and loved him especially for who he was, and what he was giving up. He's remembering a time when he felt stronger, when he didn't feel so limited, so imprisoned. Now it's his turn to be emotional, to question, to ask: Why? Will we survive this? He looks for the answer in her. 

She replies: I understand. This is all for a greater purpose: I understand. She tells him that she doesn't believe in the tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice, that the lover's choice isn't always to turn around, to take a risk for love. She reminds him of the responsibility of love, of duty, of something bigger than the two of them. A whirlwind romance wasn't in the cards for them, at least in this moment, but it is their sacrifice in love, of a giving themselves over to a larger love of humanity, that will provide an endless stream of life for future generations. A seed is being planted: they are laying the groundwork for an entire forest, of which they will never live to sit under the shade of its canopy. This is not just about them. She replies: I love you, because you understand this, too, and you won't give it up for me.

This is the woman he loves. He tells her that she is his strength, that his sense of duty and integrity is watered by her, that he wants to help create a world that is worthy of her. He wants her to know that this is not all for her, that their love no longer exists just between the two of them. Their love has expanded beyond the bounds of two people, their relationship is the fertile soil of a new world. He wants her to know that this is only the beginning of the fight for the world of their dreams, that they have such a long way to go, but that he has hope.

For her, that doesn't make it any less painful. This is it, for now: this shared fantasy, this world that exists within the space between their pairs of eyes across the café. She will return to her life in Russia, without him, and he will contract once again into his undercover life in Berlin. Their separation holds the world in its balance, and their commitment to one another is not just a symbol but a real materialization of a principled solidarity. This second departing is even more agonizing than the first: the initial steps at the base of a mountain are easier to take than those strode after a few hours of hiking. 

And just like that, he is alone again, coming to terms with the meaning of the word sacrifice, of what it means to give oneself over to something greater than oneself. He must remember that it is in struggle that the soul continues on; that optimism is a virtue, not a naive shortcoming; that in the offering up of his own life he creates the conditions for the free, dignified lives of future generations; that this is not for nothing, it is for everything.