It Was In May 1970

In the immediate aftermath of May 1945, a small detachment of Soviet reconnaissance troops takes up temporary residence on the farm of Rashke, a well-off German pig farmer who lives there with his much younger wife and teenage son. The man appears outwardly cordial, even deferential toward their group and their leader, Lieutenant Nikolaev, yet Rashke and his family quietly slip away each night to sleep somewhere else, creating a lingering sense of unease around the farm’s quiet regularity.

One day, a mishap on the road leads Nikolaev to crash his motorcycle near a nearby town. He is helped by fellow soldiers who are stationed in an abandoned mansion nearby. As the men spend the day together, they share memories from the war, debate what life might look like after victory, and consider the strange efficiency of the German farms surrounding them. The mood blends camaraderie with a growing edge of weariness, as if the war’s shadows have seeped into their conversations as thoroughly as into the soil.

That night, a walk through a deserted landscape brings the group to a long-forgotten concentration camp. They enter a space characterized by silent barracks and dark corridors, filled with the remnants and echoes of people long gone. In a room with unusually thick walls, enormous furnaces, and ceiling vents, they imagine the room once used as a boiler, a memory that unsettles them and makes the night feel heavier with history.

The next day, back at Rashke’s farm, a tense moment erupts when Rashke’s son accuses one of the soldiers of killing a pig. The other soldiers react with anger, revealing that the accused man is a survivor from a village that Rashke’s family had burned in the past. Nikolaev intervenes, trying to restore calm and control the situation, underscoring the fragile lines between past crimes, present loyalties, and the chain of command.

As evening settles, Rashke and his family depart again, and three emaciated former camp prisoners appear before the house. The first is Stefan, a Polish man, who recounts how his wife Katarzyna was forced to work for Rashke until exhaustion and hunger drove her to madness, after which Rashke sent her to the camp where she was executed. Stefan’s vivid memories include the gas chambers and the crematorium where countless women and children perished, their ashes scattered over the nearby fields as if they were fertilizer.

The second former prisoner is a German engineer who speaks Russian and speaks bitterly about the betrayal of ordinary Germans by their own country. He recounts how his wife received a bill for the state’s expenses tied to the execution of her brother, a communist, adding a cold, bureaucratic sting to the human tragedy. The third prisoner, also German, haunted by memories of guard dogs, mutters in his native tongue, a grim reminder of the fear and control that marked the era.

The encounter leaves the soldiers shaken. They attempt to seize Rashke, but he vanishes into the night, leaving them to face the war’s lingering horrors on their own terms. The film frames this confrontation with a stark tonal arc: it opens with wartime newsreel footage and closes on peaceful postwar city scenes, underscored by Sonny Bono’s song “Mama” arranged by Paul Mauriat. The musical contrast heightens the sorrow and restraint of the story, emphasizing the gulf between the era’s brutal memories and the fragile calm that follows.

Throughout, the narrative probes memory, guilt, and the long echoes of violence that persist even after the fighting ends. The setting—a German farm that hosts a fragile semblance of hospitality, a distant camp that once housed terror, and a postwar world that struggles to reconcile with it all—forms a quiet meditation on how ordinary life resumes amid the shadows of past crimes. The result is a somber, meditative look at the cost of war and the uneasy process of moving forward.