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📁 lz77算法("A Universal Algorithm for Sequential Data Compression")的一种简洁直观的实现。
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                                    "SCHINDLER'S LIST"

                                            BY

                                     Steven Zaillian

                                       Final Draft

                

               IN BLACK AND WHITE:

               TRAIN WHEELS grinding against track, slowing. FOLDING TABLE 
               LEGS scissoring open. The LEVER of a train door being pulled. 
               NAMES on lists on clipboards held by clerks moving alongside 
               the tracks.

                                     CLERKS (V.O.)
                         ...Rossen... Lieberman... Wachsberg...

               BEWILDERED RURAL FACES coming down off the passenger train.

               FORMS being set out on the folding tables. HANDS straightening 
               pens and pencils and ink pads and stamps.

                                     CLERKS (V.O.)
                         ...When your name is called go over 
                         there... take this over to that 
                         table...

               TYPEWRITER KEYS rapping a name onto a list. A FACE. KEYS 
               typing another name. Another FACE.

                                     CLERKS (V.O.)
                         ...you抮e in the wrong line, wait 
                         over there... you, come over here...

               A MAN is taken from one long line and led to the back of 
               another. A HAND hammers a rubber stamp at a form. Tight on a 
               FACE. KEYS type another NAME. Another FACE. Another NAME.

                                     CLERKS (V.O.)
                         ...Biberman... Steinberg... 
                         Chilowitz...

               As a hand comes down stamping a GRAY STRIPE across a 
               registration card, there is absolute silence... then MUSIC, 
               the Hungarian love song, "Gloomy Sunday," distant... and the 
               stripe bleeds into COLOR, into BRIGHT YELLOW INK.

               INT. HOTEL ROOM - CRACOW, POLAND - NIGHT

               The song plays from a radio on a rust-stained sink.

               The light in the room is dismal, the furniture cheap. The 
               curtains are faded, the wallpaper peeling... but the clothes 
               laid out across the single bed are beautiful.

               The hands of a man button the shirt, belt the slacks. He 
               slips into the double-breasted jacket, knots the silk tie, 
               folds a handkerchief and tucks it into the jacket pocket, 
               all with great deliberation.

               A bureau. Some currency, cigarettes, liquor, passport. And 
               an elaborate gold-on-black enamel Hakenkreuz (or swastika) 
               which the gentleman pins to the lapel of his elegant dinner 
               jacket.

               He steps back to consider his reflection in the mirror. He 
               likes what he sees: Oskar Schindler -- salesman from Zwittau -- 
               looking almost reputable in his one nice suit.

               Even in this awful room.

               INT. NIGHTCLUB - CRACOW, POLAND - NIGHT

               A spotlight slicing across a crowded smoke-choked club to a 
               small stage where a cabaret performer sings.

               It抯 September, 1939. General Sigmund List's armored 
               divisions, driving north from the Sudetenland, have taken 
               Cracow, and now, in this club, drinking, socializing, 
               conducting business, is a strange clientele: SS officers and 
               Polish cops, gangsters and girls and entrepreneurs, thrown 
               together by the circumstance of war.

               Oskar Schindler, drinking alone, slowly scans the room, the 
               faces, stripping away all that抯 unimportant to him, settling 
               only on details that are: the rank of this man, the higher 
               rank of that one, money being slipped into a hand.

               WAITER SETS DOWN DRINKS

               in front of the SS officer who took the money. A lieutenant, 
               he抯 at a table with his girlfriend and a lower-ranking 
               officer.

                                     WAITER
                         From the gentleman.

               The waiter is gesturing to a table across the room where 
               Schindler, seemingly unaware of the SS men, drinks with the 
               best-looking woman in the place.

                                     LIEUTENANT
                         Do I know him?

               His sergeant doesn抰. His girlfriend doesn't.

                                     LIEUTENANT
                         Find out who he is.

               The sergeant makes his way over to Schindler's table.

               There's a handshake and introductions before -- and the 
               lieutenant, watching, can't believe it -- his guy accepts 
               the chair Schindler's dragging over.

               The lieutenant waits, but his man doesn't come back; he's 
               forgotten already he went there for a reason. Finally, and 
               it irritates the SS man, he has to get up and go over there.

                                     LIEUTENANT
                         Stay here.

               His girlfriend watches him cross toward Schindler's table.

               Before he even arrives, Schindler is up and berating him for 
               leaving his date way over there across the room, waving at 
               the girl to come join them, motioning to waiter to slide 
               some tables together.

               WAITERS ARRIVE WITH PLATES OF CAVIAR

               and another round of drinks. The lieutenant makes a 
               halfhearted move for his wallet.

                                     LIEUTENANT
                         Let me get this one.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         No, put it away, put it away.

               Schindler's already got his money out. Even as he's paying, 
               his eyes are working the room, settling on a table where a 
               girl is declining the advances of two more high-ranking SS 
               men.

               A TABLECLOTH BILLOWS

               as a waiter lays it down on another table that's been added 
               to the others. Schindler seats the SS officers on either 
               side of his own "date" --

                                     SCHINDLER
                         What are you drinking, gin?

               He motions to a waiter to refill the men's drinks, and, 
               returning to the head of the table(s), sweeps the room again 
               with his eyes.

               ROAR OF LAUGHTER

               erupts from Schindler's party in the corner. Nobody's having 
               a better time than those people over there. His guests have 
               swelled to ten or twelve -- SS men, Polish cops, girls -- 
               and he moves among them like the great entertainer he is, 
               making sure everybody's got enough to eat and drink.

               Here, closer, at this table across the room, an SS officer 
               gestures to one of the SS men who an hour ago couldn't get 
               the girl to sit at his table. The guy comes over.

                                     SS OFFICER 1
                         Who is that?

                                     SS OFFICER 2
                              (like everyone knows)
                         That's Oskar Schindler. He's an old 
                         friend of... I don't know, somebody's.

               GIRL WITH A BIG CAMERA

               screws in a flashbulb. She lifts the unwieldy thing to her 
               face and focuses.

               As the bulb flashes, the noise of the club suddenly drops 
               out, and the moment is caught in BLACK and WHITE: Oskar 
               Schindler, surrounded by his many new friends, smiling 
               urbanely.

               EXT. SQUARE - CRACOW - DAY

               A photograph of a face on a work card, BLACK and WHITE. A 
               typed name, black and white. A hand affixes a sticker to the 
               card and it saturates with COLOR, DEEP BLUE.

               People in long lines, waiting. Others near idling trucks, 
               waiting. Others against sides of buildings, waiting. Clerks 
               with clipboards move through the crowds, calling out names.

                                     CLERKS
                         Groder... Gemeinerowa... Libeskind...

               INT. APARTMENT BUILDING - CRACOW - DAY

               The party pin in his lapel catches the light in the hallway.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         Stern?

               Behind Schindler, the door to another apartment closes softly. 
               A radio, somewhere, is suddenly silenced.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         Are you Itzhak Stern?

               At the door of this apartment, a man with the face and manner 
               of a Talmudic scholar, finally nods in resignation, like his 
               number has just come up.

                                     STERN
                         I am.

               Schindler offers a hand. Confused, Stern tentatively reaches 
               for it, and finds his own grasped firmly.

               INT. STERN'S APARTMENT - DAY

               Settled into an overstuffed chair in a simple apartment, 
               Schindler pours a shot of cognac from a flask.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         There's a company you did the books 
                         for on Lipowa Street, made what, 
                         pots and pans?

               Stern stares at the cognac Schindler's offering him. He 
               doesn't know who this man is, or what he wants.

                                     STERN
                              (pause)
                         By law, I have to tell you, sir, I'm 
                         a Jew.

               Schindler looks puzzled, then shrugs, dismissing it.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         All right, you've done it -- good 
                         company, you think?

               He keeps holding out the drink. Stern declines it with a 
               slow shake of his head.

                                     STERN
                         It did all right.

               Schindler nods, takes out a cigarette case.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         I don't know anything about 
                         enamelware, do you?

               He offers Stern a cigarette. Stern declines again.

                                     STERN
                         I was just the accountant.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         Simple engineering, though, wouldn't 
                         you think? Change the machines around, 
                         whatever you do, you could make other 
                         things, couldn't you?

               Schindler lowers his voice as if there could possibly be 
               someone else listening in somewhere.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         Field kits, mess kits...

               He waits for a reaction, and misinterprets Stern's silence 
               for a lack of understanding.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         Army contracts.

               But Stern does understand. He understands too well.

               Schindler grins good-naturedly.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         Once the war ends, forget it, but 
                         for now it's great, you could make a 
                         fortune. Don't you think?

                                     STERN
                              (with an edge)
                         I think most people right now have 
                         other priorities.

               Schindler tries for a moment to imagine what they could 
               possibly be. He can't.

                                     SCHINDLER
                         Like what?

               Stern smiles despite himself. The man's manner is so simple, 
               so in contrast to his own and the complexities of being a 
               Jew in occupied Cracow in 1939. He really doesn't know. Stern 
               decides to end the conversation.

                                     STERN
                         Get the contracts and I'm sure you'll 

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