relatives and friends, he despised the people of Japan en bloc, especially the arrogant, cruel men. This was not a casual difference of opinion between him and Helma. It was a chasm deep as the Grand Canyon, into which Bill had actually parachuted in March 1941.
After their reasonably successful, albeit impromptu, revival meeting, Bill Macneil had taken Helma Graf aside and introduced himself. She thanked him courteously and agreed to have tea with him in a shop near Manazuru Station. In her quiet, insistent way, she overwhelmed him with questions about himself: his ability in Japanese, his inspiration to come to her aid, why he was in Manazuru. Bill wondered if she considered him a possible convert to the peaceable persuasions of the Friends.
After her torrent of questions, Helma retreated into the stillness Bill was to find so characteristic of her. Quiet, watchful, contemplative, always peering into the souls of others. That contagious serenity made the most lasting impression on him.
Helma’s waters ran deep indeed, and he was only beginning to discover their depths.
Yet her passions were surprising for a daughter of missionaries. Her favorite song was “I’m in the Mood for Love,” which she hummed and whistled to his distraction. She was addicted to the tango and had twice prevailed on Bill to take her to a Tokyo nightclub called the Florida, known in Japan as the ‘home of the tango’. Her dance steps had been so smooth and skillful that Bill soon quit the floor to let one of the instructors employed by the club dance three tangos with her. One, Helma’s favorite, was “Ein Spanischer Tango.” Bill led the applause after her performance.
The taxicab stopped on the Bund and was dismissed by Macneil.
On this miserably hot afternoon, Bill Macneil did not relish what he would have to say to Helma.
Chapter 4
Yokohama, Japan
August 1941
Bill Macneil stopped on the main deck to cool off in the shade of the number four lifeboat. Here, at least, he could feel a breeze off Tokyo Bay. His cabin, even with the benefit of fans and ice, might, at best, be considered tolerable.
Besides, he wanted to collect his thoughts before what would most likely be an emotional scene with Helma Graf.
Glancing toward the end of the dock where it joined the Bund, Bill spotted a tall, erect, slow-moving Caucasian. For a moment, he thought the man was his father come to bid him goodbye, but then knew it was not. Bill had not really expected Neil Macneil, Jr. to travel the 33 miles to Yokohama in this summer heat. They had said their farewells at the Azabu residence, and they were on the chilly side because of their recent harsh words of disagreement. The two men had stopped just short of shouting at each other, the first time in Bill’s memory he and his father had engaged in a near-violent argument. In time they would apologize and forget, but the words of the dispute smoldered in Bill’s mind.
Their conflict came down to opposing views about Japan. His father was a loyal American, but he was born in Japan and had lived here most of his life. He was married to a Japanese woman and had two children by her. The wellspring of Neil’s fortune was in Japan, with tributaries flowing in from other Asian countries. He opposed Japan’s rampant imperialism, but his roots penetrated too deeply into Japanese soil to be pulled up like a stray weed and discarded.
“We may have to get out of Japan, Bill, but we’ll be back. Maybe not me; I’m too old. But the family will.”
With some heat, Bill had replied, “Not me. Maybe I’ll look after Macneil interests in the United States. Or, who knows, I might become an airline pilot. Let Ship or Chankoro take care of things in Japan, if the damned Japanese don’t confiscate everything we own.”
“Ship’s too young to think about a career. I can’t tell yet what he might become. All he seems to think about now is his mother. And Chankoro? God only knows. If she marries that pianist, no telling where she’ll end up. No, it’s you, Bill, whom I count on to carry on for me. It has to be you.”
“Dammit, Dad, I just don’t want anything more to do with the Japanese.”
“Do you really hate them so much, Son? Why? What has turned you against them so? I remember those summers when you used to have fistfights with the children of our China branch managers about the Chinese and the Japanese. You always stood up for the Japanese.”
“You know very well what happened.”
“You mean Nanking.”
“Of course.”
“But Son, you cant let that single outrage dominate the rest of your life.”
Finally, Bill Macneil went to his cabin, which was cooler than he expected. Two fans were churning away, one directing its flow toward the single bunk over a large block of ice sitting in a basin. The portholes were open but the curtains had been pulled shut, dimming the cabin’s interior and making the furniture ill-defined.
Someone seemed to be asleep under a sheet in his bunk. Could he have gotten into the wrong cabin? Switching on the light, Bill saw with a sinking feeling of resignation that the bunk’s occupant was who he had most feared it would be.
“Did you plan to stow away, Helma?” He supposed she had grown sleepy waiting for him.
“If you’ll let me, I will,” the Swiss girl said, smiling warmly.
Bill pulled a chair next to the bunk, forcing some cordiality into his tone. “Well, I’m glad we have this chance to say goodbye. No telling when we’ll have a chance to see each other again.”
“I could visit you in America,” Helma said, holding the sheet tight against her chin. And thee will be coming back next summer, yes?”
“Helma, listen. My father thinks America will be at war with Japan very soon. In fact, he is trying to transfer everything we own out of Japan just as soon as he can.”
Helma’s expression sobered, alarm in her eyes.
“If war starts,” Bill went on, “it’s certain I’ll join the army.”
“But they won’t take thee with that bad ankle,” she protested.
“I won’t tell them.”
“No, no! Thee must not go to war! Oh, no! I could not bear that. Just the thought of thee killing other men, bombing cities, sinking ships.”
“If my country goes to war, I’ll do my duty. You know that, Helma. We’ve been over this often enough.”
“Brotherly love, Bill! Why can’t I persuade thee to see the light? Love thy fellow man, Bill darling. Just say no to the warmongers.” Her tone was desperate.
Macneil stiffened. “It was Japan, Helma, that sent her armies into China and Manchuria. Not my country.”
“It’s thy country that cut off Japan from the oil and raw materials she needs to survive.”
Bill’s voice rose in anger. “If you had seen what I saw in Nanking, you would not—”
“I know what happened to thee in Nanking,” she said quietly.
“How do you know?”
“Chankoro
