The German Mujahid

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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 I’ve taken her advice, I’ve changed names and scrapped some remarks. Other times I’ve kept to my version, because it’s important to me. She says there are dangerous parallels that could get me into trouble. I don’t give a shit, I’ve 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, he’d hole up in a corner and read, think and write stuff — and he’d rage. He lost his health. Then his job. Then his mind. Ophélie walked out on him. One night he killed himself. It was this year, 24 April 1996, at about 11 P.M.

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