But, at every moment of our lives, we all have a choice. There is a pact between us and life, it can leave us when it chooses, if it should judge us unworthy, too obsessed with our power, and we have the luxury of leaving it when we choose, the moment it takes a direction which does not conform to our ideals and obstinately follows it. We make our decision and we choose an amicable separation, however painful and permanent it may be. If one is to die, one might as well do so with a little self-respect, a little respect for others. My father chose his path and each time life presented him with an alternative, he persisted in his path. He did not kill one person, he killed two, then a hundred, then thousands, tens of thousands, he might have killed millions. He was caught between hatred and servitude and such chasms of the mind are bottomless. And in the end, when the day of reckoning came, he chose to turn his back on his victims and run away. To do so was horrifying, it was to kill them a second time. Later still he knowingly made the mistake of fathering children, knowing that sooner or later the truth would come to light and that his children would suffer. To say that such a man is not a man is to strip him of his responsibility, his guilt, it is a way of offering him his quietus, he has nothing to atone for, no forgiveness to ask. But even for God in all his glory, for Satan in all his power, such impartiality does not exist, they must earn their thrones and protect them, it is we who have made them kings. And even if nothing at all in the power of man can ever clean again, we can at least agree to this: we must pay, pay in full. We must not leave our debts behind us.

So, for my father, for his victims, I will pay in full. It is simple justice. Let it not be said that all the Schillers have failed. May God, that blind and senseless thing that majestically roams the heavens, forgive my father, and let Him take note that for my part I expect nothing of Him. May his victims forgive us, that is all that matters to me. My death does not atone for anything, it is a gesture of love.

My dear Malrich, my beloved brother, if you should read this diary, forgive me. I should have told you, should have shared this terrible burden with you. You were so young, so ill-equipped. But I have made amends, I have written this diary as much for myself as for you. Be strong and steer your course. I love you. Give my love to Aunt Sakina and Uncle Ali. If you see Ophélie, tell her that I love her and ask her to forgive me.