“The Japanese supporters of this plan are several men in the foreign ministry and some navy officers. There’s considerable support for the idea, but there’s opposition, too, Daddy. Even the Japanese who like the idea, including the president of the South Manchurian Railway, want to do it on the cheap. They think rich American Jews should put up most of the capital. Nathan wants our family and his to put up—what did he call it?—the ‘seed money.’
“What’s in it for us?”
“I wish you would not think of it in that crass way, Daddy.”
“I have no choice. We’ve already lost a lot of money in the past two years, and we are going to lose a lot more in this war. Even if I believed in this plan wholeheartedly and loved all the Jews in the world, the Macneils could not invest enough to make any difference. We have resources, but we’re not that rich.”
“Nathan is determined to plunge ahead.”
“And I suppose you are, too?”
“I love him, Daddy. With all my heart.”
“This plan: What does your Nathan Blum call it?”
“He calls it FEZ: Far East Zion.”
“Jesus Christ in the Andes, Chankoro! You’ve bitten off one hell of a mouthful this time. I didn’t mind when you wanted to buy a ranch to keep those cattle that escaped from the slaughter house in Shinagawa. Or your opening a refuge for stray cats. Or even your building a home for battered wives in Chiba. But this is too much, girl.”
“At least, will you let me use my own money?”
Macneil thought for a moment. “I might let you have an advance against your inheritance. Maybe a few hundred thousand dollars. More, once I can get our liquid assets into dollars and out of Japan.”
“I’ll take it,” Sarah said sweetly, rising.
“Hold on a minute. I’ll want to know a lot more about the exact details of how you’re going to invest that money.”
“Daddy, remember, I’m twenty-one now,” she said, with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
“How well I know.” Macneil shook his head ruefully. “Still, I want to talk to your Nathan Blum about this. Even if I don’t invest any of my money, at least I can give him some advice.”
“I’ll arrange it, but we’ll have to hurry. Mrs. Chang and I are sailing for Dairen in a few days.”
“Remember, you’ll have to cultivate all the Japanese support for—FEZ?—you can get. I suppose I can get you an introduction to Mister Aikawa of the South Manchurian Railway.”
“Wonderful! You’re such a dear. I’ve already begun circulating in Japanese society there. I’ve got two colonels and even a general who are obviously interested in a lot more than my sweet smile.”
“Sarah, I do not like the sound of that.”
“Don’t worry, Father dear. I’ll tell you in confidence what Nathan says about me: Always on the verge, but still a virgin.”’
“God, I hope so.”
Sarah shielded her eyes against the burning afternoon sun. She waited impatiently for one of the drivers to bring a family car around from the garage.
The chauffeur was a middle-aged man she had not seen before, but Sarah resisted her natural impulse to engage him in a conversation. After telling him to take her to the Imperial Hotel in Hibiya, Sarah sat back, closed her eyes, and immersed herself in impatient thoughts about her lover.
Only two years older than she, Nathan Blum had returned from the Conservatoire de Musique in Paris earlier in the year, when she had first met him.
At once he had begun an ardent pursuit of Sarah. If he had not, she would have pursued him. Nathan was delicate and sensitive and quiet, and she longed to hold him in her arms and nurture him. His longish hair and intense eyes suited the image of what he burned to be: a concert pianist. His flexible fingers fascinated her as they danced over the piano keys. Those same fingers caressing her bared breasts sent a lovely thrill into her nether region, where those nimble hands had yet to be admitted.
Nathan was courtly and reserved. There was an unmistakable Gallic elegance about him. Although he and his father held French citizenship papers, Nathan was born in Manchuria and spoke French as his native language, good Mandarin Chinese, but utterly inadequate English. He and Sarah conversed in Chinese, which raised curious eyebrows when they were overheard in public speaking the Peking dialect.
Nathan Blum had not become the concert pianist he longed to be. He could never bring himself to practice more than two hours a day, even as his teachers at the conservatory assured him a minimum of four (“Four, M’sieu Blum, four!”) was necessary. They could have added, but charitably did not, that even more essential was a natural talent for the keyboard, which they privately feared had not been bequeathed to Nathan by his Creator.
After a vacation at his home in Dairen, Nathan Blum had intended to return to Paris and his studies, but then he met Sarah “Chink” Macneil, known to her Chinese friends as Lin Hsiao-mai.
Nathan played on the strings of Sarah’s heart with a skill and devotion he had never addressed to the keyboard. She had responded by falling passionately, exhilaratingly in love. It was as if all the affection and devotion Sarah had ever lavished on abused wives, desperate cattle, lost kittens, and fallen sparrows had focused on a single person—the slim, aesthetic Jew, Nathan Blum.
Chapter 3
Yokohama, Japan
August 1941
The freighter’s cranes whirred and creaked, the second mate roared commands, the stevedores shouted at each other, and the August afternoon sun peeled more paint off the ship’s strakes. If the 7,800-ton vessel was to clear the bay’s crowded entrance before dark, the master would have to push all hands to their limits.
Reclining against a stanchion on the main deck, Bill Macneil hoped they made it. His schedule was flexible, but the sooner he left this country he had come to dislike so intensely the better. In fact, if the Macneil Lines’ City of Glasgow could cast off its mooring lines from the dock bollards and stand out to sea this instant, it would not be too soon for Bill Macneil. Then he could have avoided what was sure to be a painfully awkward parting with Helma Graf.
“Excuse me, Mister Macneil.” The stubby, white-haired captain stood beside Bill, touching the enameled visor of his white hat with two fingers. “I regret we don’t have an owner’s cabin aboard these freighters, sir, but I don’t think we’ve ever had the pleasure of having a Macneil aboard. Is your cabin satisfactory? I’d be glad to let you have mine, but it would be tomorrow before I could have it cleaned and ready for you.”
Bill Macneil smiled. “The accommodations are quite all right, Captain. Tell me, when do you expect to slip lines?”
Captain Davis cast a judicious eye at the heaps of cargo still on the dock, then at his pocket watch. “Not for at least three or four hours.”
“In that case, I believe I’ll take a quick ride up to the Bluff.”
“Your family once had homes up there, didn’t
