Read Online Schreiber's Secret by Roger Radford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roger Radford
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dully.
“This is off the record, you understand. Officially, to paraphrase Ivan Karamazov, it’s not that I don’t accept God, it’s the world created by Him that I don’t and cannot accept.” The pain in Sonntag’s voice was tangible.
Danielle breathed deeply. “I’m sorry, Henry, maybe I’m being too personal. It’s not really germane to the article I want to write.”
The old man smiled kindly. “It’s the prerogative of a beautiful woman to make mistakes ... and to be forgiven instantly.”
She nodded in relief. “Just one final question, Henry, and then I’ll leave you in peace.”
“So soon?” He smiled again.
She looked at her watch. “My goodness, it’s been nearly two hours. Where do you get the strength to go through all this? What keeps you going?” Sonntag stroked his chin, “I often think about that. I suppose it’s a bit like schizophrenia. One cannot allow the past to become so overwhelming that it will make one unable to function in so-called normal life. Yet it’s always there, giving me a total world view. You might call it extreme pessimism – really knowing the truth about people, about human nature, about death, really knowing the truth in a way that other people don’t know it. And all of this truth is harsh, and impossible to really accept, and yet you have to go on and function. I suppose I have a complete lack of faith in human beings, whether it’s politics or anything else. You hear one thing and you believe another.”
Once again Danielle felt an overwhelming sense of humility before her elderly host. It was as if he encompassed all the terrible trials of a lost generation.
“I think we’ll leave it there,” she said, switching off the tape recorder. “All I can say is that it’s been a privilege meeting and talking with you. I only hope my feature will do you justice.”
“I’m sure it will,” beamed Sonntag. “I feel better for getting all this off my chest. Thank you.”
Glancing at her watch, Danielle smiled sweetly. “By the way, our photographer, John Chivers, will be here shortly as arranged. He knows what shots to take. Usual stuff. A head and shoulders and some in the dealing room.”
“I don’t photograph very well.”
“Don’t worry,” she laughed, “with modern technology we can make the Elephant Man look like George Michael.”
“Who’s George Michael?”
“A pop star.”
For a fleeting moment Sonntag looked sad. He sighed. “Having no wife and children means I’ve missed out on all those sorts of things. I’m what you English call an old fuddy-duddy.”
“It’s never too late for romance, you know.”
“Maybe. One day. In the meantime , zeime gezin t .
“And you should be healthy too, Henry. Until one hundred and twenty, as they say.” She held up the tapes. “I’ll make copies of these tomorrow and send them to you right away. Don’t worry, I won’t misquote you.”
“I have complete faith in your journalistic principles, my dear,” Sonntag responded. “Just make sure whoever edits the feature doesn’t distort the truth. It’s so easily done.”
“I’ll make sure I have the last word on this one,” she said reassuringly. She allowed Sonntag to help her with her coat.
“Take care, it’s a horrible night for driving.”
“Thank you once again, Henry,” she said, shaking his hand warmly. As she took her leave of her host she could not help feeling that th e Mail on Sunda y magazine was the wrong forum for the story of this remarkable man. Only a book could do Henry Sonntag real justice.
CHAPTER 3
Joe Hyams was dog- tired. He was tired because he was working all God’s hours in order to pay the household bills. He was tired because his wife and children demanded more than he could give them. Anyway, that’s what he tried to convince himself. If the truth be known, of course, it was them he was trying to keep away from. There was only one thing worse than the Jewish mother syndrome. The
“This is off the record, you understand. Officially, to paraphrase Ivan Karamazov, it’s not that I don’t accept God, it’s the world created by Him that I don’t and cannot accept.” The pain in Sonntag’s voice was tangible.
Danielle breathed deeply. “I’m sorry, Henry, maybe I’m being too personal. It’s not really germane to the article I want to write.”
The old man smiled kindly. “It’s the prerogative of a beautiful woman to make mistakes ... and to be forgiven instantly.”
She nodded in relief. “Just one final question, Henry, and then I’ll leave you in peace.”
“So soon?” He smiled again.
She looked at her watch. “My goodness, it’s been nearly two hours. Where do you get the strength to go through all this? What keeps you going?” Sonntag stroked his chin, “I often think about that. I suppose it’s a bit like schizophrenia. One cannot allow the past to become so overwhelming that it will make one unable to function in so-called normal life. Yet it’s always there, giving me a total world view. You might call it extreme pessimism – really knowing the truth about people, about human nature, about death, really knowing the truth in a way that other people don’t know it. And all of this truth is harsh, and impossible to really accept, and yet you have to go on and function. I suppose I have a complete lack of faith in human beings, whether it’s politics or anything else. You hear one thing and you believe another.”
Once again Danielle felt an overwhelming sense of humility before her elderly host. It was as if he encompassed all the terrible trials of a lost generation.
“I think we’ll leave it there,” she said, switching off the tape recorder. “All I can say is that it’s been a privilege meeting and talking with you. I only hope my feature will do you justice.”
“I’m sure it will,” beamed Sonntag. “I feel better for getting all this off my chest. Thank you.”
Glancing at her watch, Danielle smiled sweetly. “By the way, our photographer, John Chivers, will be here shortly as arranged. He knows what shots to take. Usual stuff. A head and shoulders and some in the dealing room.”
“I don’t photograph very well.”
“Don’t worry,” she laughed, “with modern technology we can make the Elephant Man look like George Michael.”
“Who’s George Michael?”
“A pop star.”
For a fleeting moment Sonntag looked sad. He sighed. “Having no wife and children means I’ve missed out on all those sorts of things. I’m what you English call an old fuddy-duddy.”
“It’s never too late for romance, you know.”
“Maybe. One day. In the meantime , zeime gezin t .
“And you should be healthy too, Henry. Until one hundred and twenty, as they say.” She held up the tapes. “I’ll make copies of these tomorrow and send them to you right away. Don’t worry, I won’t misquote you.”
“I have complete faith in your journalistic principles, my dear,” Sonntag responded. “Just make sure whoever edits the feature doesn’t distort the truth. It’s so easily done.”
“I’ll make sure I have the last word on this one,” she said reassuringly. She allowed Sonntag to help her with her coat.
“Take care, it’s a horrible night for driving.”
“Thank you once again, Henry,” she said, shaking his hand warmly. As she took her leave of her host she could not help feeling that th e Mail on Sunda y magazine was the wrong forum for the story of this remarkable man. Only a book could do Henry Sonntag real justice.
CHAPTER 3
Joe Hyams was dog- tired. He was tired because he was working all God’s hours in order to pay the household bills. He was tired because his wife and children demanded more than he could give them. Anyway, that’s what he tried to convince himself. If the truth be known, of course, it was them he was trying to keep away from. There was only one thing worse than the Jewish mother syndrome. The
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