Boualem Sansal - The German Mujahid

The group moved on. I positioned myself so that I would be walking beside the little old woman. We struck up a conversation. She spoke English with a thick Mitteleuropean accent I couldn’t quite place. She told me she was born in Czechoslovakia, in Bratislava, but had been living in New York since ’48. I told her I was French and that I lived on the outskirts of Paris. When I felt we were getting on well, I said, “Were you in Birkenau?”

She blushed and said, “Oh, no, not me, my sister Nina was sent here. I was at Buchenwald. . with my parents.”

“Your sister. . did she die here?”

“Yes. I found out from a friend who was at Birkenau with her. . She died last year.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“They were at school together in Bratislava. One day, they didn’t come home. Later on, they came for us. . for the whole family.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I. . well, I. . ”

“One of your parents?”

“Yes. . my father. . My father was at Birkenau and at other camps. . miraculously he survived. I never knew, he never said anything. . I only found out recently, by accident, after he died.”

“I understand. . You mustn’t feel bitter. . there are things you cannot speak of to your children. Believe me, it is almost unbearable to speak of them even with those who were here.”

We came to a crossroads. Her group was heading towards their bus, I had to follow my journey to the end. As she was getting on to the coach, I suddenly rushed up to her, I gripped her elbow and said, “I wanted to apologise. . ”

“But what have you to apologise for, young man?”

“I. . life has been cruel to you. . to your family, your parents. . I feel somehow responsible. . ”

She looked at me, her old, beautiful eyes had known too much pain, and taking my hand she said, “Thank you, child, I’m very touched. No one has ever has ever said sorry to me before.”

I leaned and kissed her on the forehead. A gesture of friendship, of solidarity across the gulf that separated us.

I was overwhelmed by the encounter. This woman did not deserve for me to lie to her. I had the sickening feeling that I had robbed her of her life, her dignity. But I told myself perhaps she had long since done her mourning and that it would have been cruel to wake the dead. In fact, I realise the only person I have lied to is myself, no propitiatory prayer, no pardon, no expiation by the guilty, which nothing at all in the power of man can ever clean again . If I were her, Helmut Schiller, I would have spat your apology into the dust.

It was time I left. I had no business being here, I have no place here. I should never have come, I have defiled it.

After Rachel came back to Paris in February 1996, he holed up in his house and never came out again. Two months later, on April 24, he killed himself in his garage. I found out he was back from Momo, who always knows everything. He said, “Hey, I saw your bro down at Prisunic. Jesus, the fucking state of him! Has he got AIDS or what?” “Leave it,” I said. “It’s just some middle-class bullshit, problems with his wife or his high-powered job.” At the time I didn’t suspect anything, but what Momo said got me thinking and I decided to go round there. I made out like I was just passing. It was pretty choked up. He looked like a walking corpse, he was all hunched and confused like an old man, and Rachel had always been sharp, well turned-out, always plugged-in, always had his shit together better than any CEO. He was wearing these creepy striped pyjamas I’d never seen before and he had his head shaved like some convict. The house was upside down, the whole place was filthy, it reeked, the blinds were closed. It was like a cell in solitary. He sat on the arm of the chair and he said in this little voice, “I was going to come and see you on the estate. . I will come. . I will, I’ll come. . ” I asked him if everything was okay. He shrugged like it was nothing serious. “It’s fine.” We drank cold coffee in awkward silence. I kept looking at him out of the corner of my eye, he was staring at the floor, his hands on his knees. If I didn’t know him, I’d have thought he was some junkie who’d woken up in our place. He wasn’t there, he was off some place in his head, I could hear him thinking. It looked like he could feel everything he was thinking. He looked so frail, so alone. And so strange. I was moved. Then suddenly, doing his best to sound serious and persuasive, he started giving me one of his little lectures about reliability, honesty, decency, studying hard. I got up and said, “Okay, all right, I can see you’re fine, I’ll leave you to it.” He called me back! First time ever, he was never the kind to be pushy, to keep people hanging around if they wanted to head off. He said, “I wanted to say I’m sorry.” He hesitated and then he said, “I haven’t been a good brother to you, but never forget that I’m your big brother, and I love you more than anything in the world.” I guess I shrugged, I hate that sort of soppy shit, I found it really embarrassing. He said again, “Don’t forget that. . whatever happens.” What he said had me so choked up, I got angry. I got up and stormed out and didn’t look back. I regret it now. I should have stayed, talked to him, asked him what was going on, taken him in hand, moved into the house so I could keep and eye on him. I could tell he was losing it, it was obvious. But back then, the way I looked at it, I had my shit and other people had theirs. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t go back there, I wouldn’t let myself, I was pissed at him for not keeping his word, he’d said he’d come and see me on the estate. I’d even told aunt Sakina, and she was so happy. And I’d told my mates so they could “accidentally” drop by while he was there, they’re pretty useful for filling up space and giving the impression that life’s spur of the moment and everything’s a party.

In his diary, there are three pages about his suicide. To Rachel, it wasn’t suicide. He never uses the word. He talks about retribution, about justice. He calls it an act of love for papa and for his victims. I don’t know if it’s just to try to link two things that can’t be linked, to make a single gesture for both victims and executioner. I don’t think I’ll ever really understand what was going on in his head. It’s probably the same with anyone who commits suicide. Faced with their lifeless bodies, we’re dumbstruck, asking questions to which there are no answers. Now I’ve read and reread his diary, I can understand the mental process that led him to kill himself, but the act itself is beyond all understanding. I can understand thinking about suicide, everyone does it, on the estate it’s like an epidemic. I can even accept that there might come a time when you do something, when you plan, when you decide how to do it, when you run through it in your head, when you play at being a desperate man putting a bullet through his brain, falling back, holding your breath to see what it feels like but it’s a long way from there to actually going through with it. That moment is beyond imagining. Even the person committing suicide can’t imagine it, at some point there’s a click and it’s all over. Rachel didn’t choose the easy option, didn’t put a bullet in his brain, swallow poison, jump off a bridge, throw himself under a train, he killed himself slowly. It was nothing to do with suicide, he wanted to atone, he wanted to be gassed to death like papa’s victims, like it was papa who was gassing him. He watched himself die and I think he probably tried to stay conscious right up to that last second. This was the price he wanted to pay in papa’s place for the victims of the camps and probably for me, to relieve me of the burden of our debt. Yeah. “Suicide” is not the word.