I struggled to my feet, raised my arms and shouted, ‘My name is Malrich, I am the son of the SS officer Hans Schiller, a man guilty of genocide. I am carrying the weight of the greatest tragedy the world has ever known, I am its repository, and I’m ashamed, I’m afraid and I want to die! I’m begging for your help, because no one told me anything, all of this has been visited on me and I don’t know why. My brother killed himself, my parents and their neighbours were murdered and I don’t know why or who by, I’m alone, more alone than anyone in the world.’

It was then that I felt rage, black rage grip my insides, I had no right to feel sorry for myself, the only truth is Nakam – revenge. I hated the Islamists, those Nazi bastards, I wanted to kill every last one of them, to kill their wives, their children, their grandchildren, their parents, to bulldoze their houses, their mosques, the bunkers, break up their sleeper cells, hound them into the next world and crush them before God Himself, the same God they claim to represent. I wanted to celebrate like on Bastille Day, to celebrate their deaths, our rebirth. Why are they like this, God? Why have You made them like this? Who can save them? Who will save their wives, their children? Who will save us from them?

I was trembling, I collapsed on the ground and rolled in the mud. I wanted to die. ‘I want to die,’ I howled.