Left Luggage

In the wake of World War II, Mr. Kalman buries two suitcases full of things dear to his heart, a silent, stubborn ritual that keeps him turning the moist soil of Antwerp in a tireless search for the life he lost. The war has shredded his family, and his obsession becomes a way to almost physically hold onto memory, even as the present around him presses forward with quiet, unspoken pressure.

His daughter, Chaya Silberschmidt, a strikingly modern young woman, arrives in Antwerp hoping to work as a nanny. She steps into a strictly observant Hasidic family with many children, and her secular habits clash with the family’s devout routines. The Hasidic mother is overwhelmed by the household’s demands, so Chaya stays despite the resistance of the father, Mr. Silberschmidt, who normally asserts the family’s strict authority. The arrangement sketches a delicate balance between tradition and contemporary life that will test loyalties and beliefs on both sides.

Chaya forms a tender bond with the youngest boy, Simcha Kalman, a four-year-old who seems unable to speak at first. While strolling in the park, she encourages him to find his voice, and with a bit of patient coaching—a mutual learning process for both of them—he appears to be on the verge of speaking during the upcoming Passover Seder. The scene pivots on the moment when Simcha will be able to chant the Four Questions, a rite usually reserved for the child who speaks first, and the family gathers as the moment approaches.

At first, Simcha’s nerves keep him from speaking, and his brothers fill the moment with their louder voices. Yet, when Simcha finally lifts his voice, the entire family, including Chaya, bursts into applause. The father’s reaction is cooler, focusing on a perceived mistake rather than the achievement, a response that becomes a fault line in the family’s dynamic. Chaya confronts [Mr. Silberschmidt], and through their tense exchange, she sees the hidden ache of a Holocaust survivor—a window onto the grief that shadows the parental generations and a path toward understanding her own parents’ losses.

A relentless anti-Semitic superintendent in the building adds external pressure to an already fragile balance. Chaya refuses to yield to humiliation or to be a passive target, standing up to prejudice and earning the admiration of the children, even as it stirs the father’s anger and resolves.

Tragedy reshapes the entire story when Chaya and Simcha venture to the park secretly. Simcha drowns in a pond while chasing the ducks he loves, a loss that shocks the community and shocks Chaya with its emotional gravity. Some blame Chaya for the accident, but during the family’s mourning service, the mother, [Mrs. Silberschmidt], offers a reluctant, compassionate gesture that reveals a profound connection between Chaya and Simcha: she tears Chaya’s shirt—a traditional sign of mourning that marks Chaya as someone deeply linked to the deceased.

The graveside service becomes a decisive moment. [Mr. Silberschmidt] remains mostly silent, yet his presence and the solemnity of the ritual gradually acknowledge the bond between Chaya and Simcha, signaling a soft, unspoken acceptance of Chaya’s place in their story.

Chaya’s experiences gradually illuminate the past she carries and the life she chooses to embrace. By witnessing the family’s grief and the community’s reactions, she gains a deeper sense of what it means to belong, even within a framework of restraint and ritual. Her journey leads her to a kinder comprehension of her own parents’ histories and a more intimate connection to her Jewish identity.

Ultimately, the film offers a quiet meditation not just on outward anti-Semitism but also on the inner struggles of assimilated Jews—their longing to fit in, the pull of tradition, and the memory that binds generations. It’s a thoughtful, unhurried portrait of memory, faith, and belonging, told with restraint, empathy, and a steady moral curiosity.

Last Updated: October 09, 2025 at 11:13