Boualem Sansal - The German Mujahid

My mother-in-law is really something. I don’t mind that she’s fat, ugly, eccentric and her taste in clothes might best be described as garish. It’s quite funny watching her play at being the diva. My problem is she has a poisonous tongue and a stare that could turn a nest of rattlesnakes to stone. When she’s around, I can’t breathe without her thinking the worst.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Rachel, you’ve really changed, you’ve completely let yourself go. In my house, we don’t. . ”

“Well, I’m delighted to say that you clearly haven’t changed at all. But may I remind you that we are not in your house, this is my house. . ”

With that, dinner came screeching to a halt. My mother-in-law stormed off spluttering, her daughter threw her napkin in my face and went after her. A minute later, the front door banged as though a hurricane had ripped it from its hinges, the whole house shook. I sat by myself, finishing my dinner, delighted at the thought that I had spared at least a few rattlesnakes.

The next morning, there was a shitstorm waiting for me at the office. Another one. When it rains it pours. I was summoned to see the boss and, from his secretary’s tone, I knew he was going to tear me off a strip. I’d been expecting it. It was all over the office, people had been talking behind my back for months. Whenever I walked into a room, everyone suddenly changed the subject. I was worried, but not too worried. My boss, Monsieur Candela, is a friend, he’s like a brother, he hired me, he showed me the ropes, and whenever this magnificent money-making machine kicked me in the balls, he was the one who helped me up again. We had two things in common: Nantes, where both of us had studied and where he had once taught fluid mechanics; and Algeria, his birthplace and that of all his tribe going back generations to some distant Basque forefather. The minute he saw my CV, he decided to hire me. He needed a fellow student, a fellow countryman to help him run his kingdom: the largest sales force in Europe and Africa. And he needed a talented engineer, something I believed I could become. I was twenty-four, I had a brand-new degree and a head full of new ideas. The job was a gift, I had made a good friend and had gained the prospect of travelling. Six months later, I moved into our dream house and — with her mother’s rose-tinted blessing — I married Ophélie, the only girl I’ve ever loved. They were good times, our feet only ever touched the ground when we needed to walk somewhere.

Monsieur Candela was sitting at his desk with the sullen, scornful glower of a manager expecting an underling who has suddenly fallen from grace. Playing bad cop doesn’t suit him, he has a sunny, cheerful Mediterranean disposition. I hadn’t even closed the door when he ripped into me. “Are you planning to keep up this shit?” This is how he always talks at work, very American, shooting from the hip, straight to the point, no pussyfooting. It makes sense, after all we are here to make money and the company article of faith can be summed up in three words: Time is money, our god is the Almighty Dollar. The company is 100 percent American, the only thing foreign about it is the market. And the staff — the pissant, prolix, profligate Frogs, though at least they get to pay us in French francs — they consider to be infidels.

“I’m going through a bad patch.”

“So what else is new? Is it Ophélie?”

“Not really.”

“What then? Is Monsieur having a crisis of conscience?”

I told him the whole story, about the April 24 massacre, about papa’s past. I gave it to him in bullet points like it was a corporate debriefing. I skipped over my crisis of conscience. He skipped over his shock and his questions.

“Let’s go to the café, we can talk there. But I’m warning you, the boss wants your hide — or my head. Your sales figures for the last six months are a disaster, and he’s obviously got someone keeping tabs on every day, every minute, you’re out of the office. Congratulations. You’ve set a new world record! I’ve put in a good word for you, but this is a company, not a church, so you’re going to turn this fucking thing around right now or three months from now you’ll be clearing your desk. Is that clear?”

It was clear. I was going to be fired. My stay of execution was complicated by other factors, the union wouldn’t get involved, there were too many human-resources hoops to jump through, too much red tape. The company was doing well, but per capita revenue is per capita revenue. It’s a principle we’ve been taught to carry around like a sick man carries a thermometer. The company philosophy is simple as a biblical exhortation: Better we throw out one bad apple rather than risk infecting the whole barrel. The “we” in that sentence is a formality — the rank and file swallow management decisions hook, line and sinker and parrot them as their own. It’s inevitable, given our profit-sharing system. How was I going to break the news to Ophélie? She wouldn’t believe it. Say nothing, tomorrow is another day, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. .

Monsieur Candela has a flair for understanding things without anyone needing to explain. Our conversation was brief; in his half-closed eyes I saw all the wisdom of the world. I also saw the swift hand that wise men raise to ward off evil.

Stirring his coffee, he said, “Listen to me, Rachel, I know about these things, in my family, we’ve seen it all, hardship, war, deportation, more war, exile, contempt, loneliness, you name it, so listen up: you have to draw a line through this whole thing right now or it’ll destroy you. First of all, you’re grieving for your parents, and feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to bring them back. You need to do what any good son would do — visit their graves once a year and pray for the repose of their souls. Thank them for the gift of life they’ve given you and let them know that you are making the most of that gift. As for the rest of it — the Holocaust and all the other atrocities in this world — pray to God they never happen again. That’s all you can do. Read if you have to, campaign if you have to, make what little difference you can. Anything more is the devil’s work, anything more means letting your hatred and your thirst for revenge get the better of you. If you let evil in, it will only breed evil, and without realising it, you’ll become a monster. Okay, now, let’s get back to the office. Work is therapy.”

Another favourite Americanism. You wipe the slate clean, spit on your hand, get back behind the wheel. His advice seemed to be to deal with evil by forgetting, which is the worst evil. I was disappointed, but not very. I had expected Monsieur Candela to enlighten me and he had. But was light enough?

Later that afternoon, he phoned and told me that if I needed him he was there for me, then abruptly hung up like a real boss who’s said what he has to say. I wanted to say thank you, but he caught me unawares. Besides, when it comes to expressing my feelings, I take the Buddhist approach: the less you say, the better.

After work, I went to a bookshop. There was a book I needed to pick up. This would be the last book. A man can’t live off welfare even with a couple of hundred share options. We have a lot in common, me and the guy who owns the bookshop. As he gave me book, there was a gleam in his eye. “This is the book you should have started with,” he said. It was true. It hadn’t occurred to me. Urged on by horror, I had started at the end, with the Nuremberg Trials, and slowly worked my way back to the beginning, the hunt for war criminals, the discovery of the camps, the Normandy landings, the war itself, the phony war, etc. All the way back to the source. And this book was the source. When I’d asked him to get me a copy a couple of weeks earlier, he shook his head. “It might be tough to get hold of. It used to be banned. I’ll do what I can, otherwise, you can try secondhand bookshops. . I’ll give you a few addresses.” In the end, he managed to track down a copy of the book which had unleashed the most terrible tragedy on the world. On me. Mein Kampf .