An hour later, the special agents came back. They lined us all up in front and the head guy asked each of us a series of questions. When it came to my turn, he asked if my name was really Malek Ulrich Schiller, if I’d got my passport through the legal channels, if I really was going to Aïn Deb to see my family, if I was planning anything illegal and if I harboured any ill intentions. He was a bit thrown by my name, he said, ‘Your father is German, but you’re Algerian?’ I explained that my father was a scientist, a Muslim, a hero, a veteran Mujahid, a respected cheikh and a chahid. He pointed to his left and said, ‘Go stand over there.’ A minute later my new best friend Slim joined me. An hour later, there were two groups, one on the right, one on the left. We eyed each other fearfully, resentfully, everyone thinking, it’s their fault we’re in this mess. The selection process finished, the group on the right were loaded back onto the truck and driven off. Where to, I don’t know. A cop came over to our group and said ‘Follow me’. We trailed after him like sheep. He led us to the building marked Arrival Hall, Welcome to Algeria. He said, ‘Now fuck off.’ We didn’t need to be told twice. Still shaking, we went through the necessary formalities: immigration, customs, baggage check, body search, brief routine interrogation, sundry declarations, compulsory foreign exchange, payment of taxes, and found ourselves outside, half-dead from exhaustion, hunger, thirst, cold, humiliation, soaked to the skin but free and ecstatic to be free. I felt like I’d just done a thirty-year stretch. The sunlight hurt my eyes and Aunt Sakina’s suitcase was ripping my arm out of its socket. For a long time I wondered what had happened to the other group. I can’t bring myself to believe that the cops tortured them, killed them, deported them. I’d rather believe they just locked them up and that their parents aren’t worried. Some day, when the war is over, when the camps are liberated, we’ll find out.