Boualem Sansal - The German Mujahid

Affectionate thanks to Mme Dominique G. H., my teacher at A. M. who was kind enough to rewrite my book in good French. So good I hardly recognised my own work. It was hard for me to read it. She did it in memory of Rachel, because she taught him too. The best pupil I ever had, she stressed.

Sometimes Ive taken her advice, Ive changed names and scrapped some remarks. Other times Ive kept to my version, because its important to me. She says there are dangerous parallels that could get me into trouble. I dont give a shit, Ive said what I have to say. Full stop.

Malrich Schiller

Rachel died six months ago. He was thirty-three. One day, about two years ago, something in his head just snapped and he started tearing around all over the place France, Algeria, Germany, Austria, Poland, Turkey, Egypt. Between trips, hed hole up in a corner and read, think and write stuff and hed rage. He lost his health. Then his job. Then his mind. Ophlie walked out on him. One night he killed himself. It was this year, 24 April 1996, at about 11 P.M.

I didnt know about any of this shit. I was a kid, I was seventeen and when that something in his head snapped, I was into all sorts. I didnt see much of Rachel, I steered clear, he was doing my head in with all his preachifying. I dont like to say it, I mean, he was my brother, but when someone goes all self-righteous on you like that, it does your head in. He had his life, I had mine. He had this big job with this giant American company, he had the girl, the house, the car, the credit cards, every second of his day accounted for; me, I was zoning round H24 with the dregs of the estate. The H24 Estate is classed SUA-1Sensitive Urban Area, Category 1. Theres no room to breathe, you stumble out of one fuckup into another. One morning, Ophlie phones me to tell me whats happened. Shed stopped by the house to check on her ex. I had this feeling, she said. Momo hes the son of the halal butcher he lent me his moped and I bombed down there. There were people milling round everywhere cops, paramedics, neighbours, rubberneckers. Rachel was in the garage sitting on the ground, his back to the wall, legs stretched out, chin on his chest, mouth open. He looked like he was asleep. His face was black with soot. Hed been there all night, bathing in exhaust fumes. He was wearing these creepy striped pajamas Id never seen before and his hair was all shaved off like a convict or something. It was freaky. I didnt react, didnt say anything. I couldnt take it in. This paramedic says, Is he your brother? I said, Yeah. He said, Thats it? Thats all youve got to say? I just shrugged and headed into the sitting room.

Ophlie was in there with ComDad hes the area police commissioner. She was crying, he was taking notes. When he saw me, he said, Come here a minute. He asked me some stuff. I told him I didnt know anything. This was true I didnt see much of Rachel. I had a feeling he was stressed about something, but I just thought, hes got his shit, Ive got mine. It sounds pathetic when you put it like that, but thats life, weve got suicides all the time on the estate. When it happens youre like, What the fuck? Youre bummed for a couple of days and a week later youve forgotten all about it. You think, Thats life, and you get on with things. This time, it was my brother, my big brother, I had to get my head around it.

I had no idea what had happened to him, I couldnt imagine how far he had come, how far I had still to go. I ran through every possibility, I thought about it for days girl trouble, money trouble, trouble with the cops, an incurable disease, every shitty thing that can go wrong in life but I never thought of this. Dear God almighty, not this. I dont think anyone in the world has been through what weve been through.

After the funeral, Ophlie took off for Canada, to her cousin Cathy who got married over there to some fur trader whos rolling in it. She gave me the keys to their house, asked me to look after it. She said, Lets just see how things go. When I asked her why Rachel killed himself, she said, I dont know, he never told me anything. I believed her. I knew just from looking at her standing there shaking that she didnt know anything, Rachel never told anybody anything.

So there I was all alone in Rachels big house, feeling pathetic. I was beating myself up about the fact that I hadnt been around when Rachel lost it. A whole month I spent going round in circles. I felt like shit and I couldnt even cry. Raymond, Momo and a couple of other mates came round and hung out with me. Theyd swing by in the afternoon, wed talk about nothing much, knock back a couple of beers. Thats when I got the job with Raymonds dad, Monsieur Vincent, working in this garage hes got called Rustbuckets Delight. I was making minimum wage plus tips. I could deal with being on my own. The best thing about work is you forget everything else.

A month later ComDad phoned me at the garage and said: I need you to come down the station, Ive got something for you. I went down after work. He sat there staring at me for a bit, clicking his tongue, then he opens this drawer, takes out a plastic bag and shoves it across the desk. I pick it up. Inside, there are four battered notebooks. ComDad says to me, Its your brothers diary. We dont need it anymore. Then he pokes his fat finger right in my face and says: You should read it. Might knock some sense into you. Your brother was a good guy. Then he starts talking about this and that, the same stuff hes always banging on about: the estate, the future, France, the straight and narrow. I listened to him, shifting from one foot to the other. Then he looks up at me and says, Go on, get out of here!

As soon as I started reading Rachels diary, I felt sick. It was like my insides were burning up. I had to hold my head in my hands just to stop it exploding, I felt like screaming. On every page, I thought, I dont believe this. Then, when Id finished, I suddenly felt calm, like I was frozen inside all I wanted to do was die. I felt ashamed to be alive. A week later, I realised that this whole thing, Rachels story, my story, was all about papas past, I was going to have to live it for myself, follow the same path, ask myself the same questions, and, where my father and Rachel had failed, I had to try to survive. I felt like this was all too much for me. But I also felt, and I dont know why, I had to tell the world. I knew it was all ancient history, but still, life doesnt change and what had happened to us could happen again.

Before I start, I need to tell you some stuff about us. Rachel and me were born back in the bled, in Algeria, in some godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere called An Deb. When I was little, uncle Ali told me it An Deb meant The Donkeys Well. I used to laugh, picturing this donkey standing on its hind legs, rubbing its belly, bravely standing guard over the well.

Our parents were Acha and Hans Schiller; maman was Algerian, papa was German. Rachel came to France in 1970 when he was seven. His name was actually Rachid Helmut but people shortened it to Rachel and it stuck. I came here in 1985 when I was eight. Im Malek Ulrich, and that turned into Malrich and stuck too. We lived with uncle Ali, hes a good man, hes got seven kids of his own and a heart the size of a truck. The way he sees it, the more kids around the house, the better. He was from back in the bled too, hed been friends with papa but he was one of the first people to leave and go to France. He worked every lousy job going and managed to build a life for himself here. Hes a typical chibanian old soldier he doesnt say much. I made his life hell, but hed never complain, hed just smile and say, One day, youll be a man. His own sons disappeared one by one: four of them are dead, illness and work accidents, the other three are out there somewhere, working on building sites in Algeria, the Persian Gulf, Libya, going wherever the work is, chasing after life. You could say theyre missing in action: they never come home, they never write, they never phone. They could be dead for all he knows. Now Im the only one uncle Ali has left. I never saw my father again. I never went back to Algeria and he never came to France. He didnt want us going back to the