people are suffering from false consciousness. And when, soon after his trip to Jerusalem
with Mendel, von Gottberg went back to Germany and wrote his infamous letter to the Manchester Guardian, things were never the same between them. Von Gottberg wrote that the Guardian was wrong to say that there was discrimination against Jews in the courts in Hamburg. He had never seen it, and he was working
there as a prosecutor. He had even spoken to some active storm troopers who, though they supported their leader's race policies,
said they would never have countenanced violence against Jews.
And now, in this wrangle, Conrad saw what he already knew, that there was no hope of recovering what he and Francine had lost.
'Fran, take whatever you want. And we'll sell the flat whenever you are ready. Or you can buy me out. You decide how much
it's worth. I don't care.'
This insouciance upset her more than the wrangling. Maybe she thought it was a ploy. Her throat was colouring and her tired,
tired eyes, flecked with late-night blood spots, looked at him for the first time today.
'What's the matter with you? Why are you doing this to me? You know we were going nowhere.'
'Going nowhere. It's a common but untrue belief that life is a journey.'
'Please, Conrad. Please, please, spare me, spare us, this hell.'
'You take whatever you want. And pay me out when you can. I mean it.'
She started to cry, but resisted his attempt to put an arm around her.
'No, Conrad. I've made up my mind. Conrad, you are an extraordinary person, wonderful really and I loved you. But you have,
I don't know, a kind of contempt for me and the world I live in which has hurt me terribly.'
'I don't have a contempt for you. Not at all, I admire you. It's almost unbelievable to me what you do and what you know.'
'Yes, unbelievable is the word. But you are engaged, in your estimation anyway, in the higher pursuits.'
'That's just not true. But you know, you are what you are. You once said to me, "Who asked you?" and the answer is nobody.
Nobody asked me. But it's in my nature. And, by the way, the contempt is largely from your side, from the practical side of
life, towards the airy-fairy, represented by me. I never wanted to hurt you. Never.'
'You see where we've got to? It's hopeless.'
'Do you love John?'
'Yes. I love John.'
'Do you know what Axel von Gottberg's brother called him on the day he was hanged by Hitler? He called him an outcast dog.'
'Am I supposed to see a connection?'
'No. But to me it suggests that desperate people will do or say anything. Are you desperate?'
Zur selben Stunde starb Axel in Berlin-Plotzensee. That was what von Gottberg's wife wrote in her memoir: one brother called the other an outcast dog in the same hour as Axel
died in Berlin-Plotzensee. This is where all his talk with Mendel led von Gottberg, to a blank wall in a prison, a wall decorated
with meat-hooks to which thin cords were attached to form nooses. How could you call your own brother an outcast dog? What
is it about us, we presumptuous human creatures, that makes us on the one hand desperate for order and certainty, and on the
other craven, vicious murderers? I don't know and, for all her knowledge, Francine doesn't either.
When he looked at Francine she was ticking the list frantically and he saw with an upwelling of sympathy that rose like a
tidal bore from within him, starting somewhere at the bottom of his torso, that her face was blotched now: the colour had
escaped from the neck. All her composure was in that moment gone. She was a frightened woman, young but not very young, and
she was exhausted by her work, by his intransigence, by her childlessness, by the realisation that life is full of disappointments.
He put his arm around her now, brushing away her muted protest. He kissed her and she was trembling and he was shaking too,
because there was something exciting about taking back, even for a short time, his sexual property,
with Mendel, von Gottberg went back to Germany and wrote his infamous letter to the Manchester Guardian, things were never the same between them. Von Gottberg wrote that the Guardian was wrong to say that there was discrimination against Jews in the courts in Hamburg. He had never seen it, and he was working
there as a prosecutor. He had even spoken to some active storm troopers who, though they supported their leader's race policies,
said they would never have countenanced violence against Jews.
And now, in this wrangle, Conrad saw what he already knew, that there was no hope of recovering what he and Francine had lost.
'Fran, take whatever you want. And we'll sell the flat whenever you are ready. Or you can buy me out. You decide how much
it's worth. I don't care.'
This insouciance upset her more than the wrangling. Maybe she thought it was a ploy. Her throat was colouring and her tired,
tired eyes, flecked with late-night blood spots, looked at him for the first time today.
'What's the matter with you? Why are you doing this to me? You know we were going nowhere.'
'Going nowhere. It's a common but untrue belief that life is a journey.'
'Please, Conrad. Please, please, spare me, spare us, this hell.'
'You take whatever you want. And pay me out when you can. I mean it.'
She started to cry, but resisted his attempt to put an arm around her.
'No, Conrad. I've made up my mind. Conrad, you are an extraordinary person, wonderful really and I loved you. But you have,
I don't know, a kind of contempt for me and the world I live in which has hurt me terribly.'
'I don't have a contempt for you. Not at all, I admire you. It's almost unbelievable to me what you do and what you know.'
'Yes, unbelievable is the word. But you are engaged, in your estimation anyway, in the higher pursuits.'
'That's just not true. But you know, you are what you are. You once said to me, "Who asked you?" and the answer is nobody.
Nobody asked me. But it's in my nature. And, by the way, the contempt is largely from your side, from the practical side of
life, towards the airy-fairy, represented by me. I never wanted to hurt you. Never.'
'You see where we've got to? It's hopeless.'
'Do you love John?'
'Yes. I love John.'
'Do you know what Axel von Gottberg's brother called him on the day he was hanged by Hitler? He called him an outcast dog.'
'Am I supposed to see a connection?'
'No. But to me it suggests that desperate people will do or say anything. Are you desperate?'
Zur selben Stunde starb Axel in Berlin-Plotzensee. That was what von Gottberg's wife wrote in her memoir: one brother called the other an outcast dog in the same hour as Axel
died in Berlin-Plotzensee. This is where all his talk with Mendel led von Gottberg, to a blank wall in a prison, a wall decorated
with meat-hooks to which thin cords were attached to form nooses. How could you call your own brother an outcast dog? What
is it about us, we presumptuous human creatures, that makes us on the one hand desperate for order and certainty, and on the
other craven, vicious murderers? I don't know and, for all her knowledge, Francine doesn't either.
When he looked at Francine she was ticking the list frantically and he saw with an upwelling of sympathy that rose like a
tidal bore from within him, starting somewhere at the bottom of his torso, that her face was blotched now: the colour had
escaped from the neck. All her composure was in that moment gone. She was a frightened woman, young but not very young, and
she was exhausted by her work, by his intransigence, by her childlessness, by the realisation that life is full of disappointments.
He put his arm around her now, brushing away her muted protest. He kissed her and she was trembling and he was shaking too,
because there was something exciting about taking back, even for a short time, his sexual property,
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