Macneil was alarmed by Helma’s frequent use of the word ‘thee.’ He knew enough about the Friends to know their women used that expression only with men they loved.
He held on to his anger and tried to talk rationally to this woman of such tempting nubility. “Even if I don’t go to war myself, dear—” he gritted his teeth on the word ‘dear’ “—we may not be able to go back and forth between Japan and America for a long while. That’s why you and your parents really should leave Japan soon. Return to Switzerland. You’ll be safe there.”
“Does my safety matter to thee?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“I . . . I’m fond of you, you know.”
“That is all? Does thee not love me . . . a little?”
Bill looked away. “I think I could love thee—I mean, you—Helma, but we only met three months ago and—”
“Thee loved Ellen, did thee not?”
“For God’s sake, I was only fifteen when I knew her in Nanking.”
‘And because of that memory, thee cannot love me?”
“I did not say that.”
“I love thee.”
Bill reached out to pull down the sheet covering Helma. He wanted to take her hand in his for what he was trying to say, but she pulled the sheet out of his grasp.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to go, Helma. This ship will be leaving soon.”
A determined look came over her face, turning down the corners of her timeless smile. “How much longer can I stay?”
“I don’t know. Maybe an hour. Possibly less.”
“That will be time enough,” she said, throwing back the sheet. She was totally, gloriously naked, right down to her sparse golden pubic hair.
“My God!” Bill gasped, unable to tear his eyes from her luscious figure with its tight waist, long legs and neck . . . or from the lewd marks she had painted with lipstick on her nipples and nether lips.
In blatant invitation, Helma raised her knees and opened her legs. She was blushing furiously, intensifying the pale blue of her enormous eyes.
“I’m sorry. I had to do this. I want thee to have my virginity as a . . . going-away present. Then I know thee will come back to me. ”
“Helma, I can’t . .”
“Yes, thee can. Quick, lock the door. I’ve already doubled up a towel and spread it under me. Come closer. I’ll undo thy belt. Thee must do this—or I’ll die. Can thee not see how much it shames me to do this? I love thee, dearest. Don’t make me beg. “Thee are my only chance for happiness in this life. Oh, darling, come. Take me. . . . take me. . . .”
Exactly forty-seven minutes after five o’clock that afternoon the tug at the bow began to push City of Glasgow away from the dock and into the harbor.
A forlorn Helma Graf stood on the dock, her cheeks wet with tears. She waved farewell to Bill Macneil, who responded uncertainly.
He knew he should say more than goodbye—after what had just happened. The distance between them was not yet great. No one else was near at hand, so he took a grip on himself and said in a voice he hoped would carry to her ears, “I—love—you.”
Helma’s face brightened. She clasped her hands beneath her chin in a prayer gesture. “I hope thee really do.”
His voice strengthened. “Go back to Switzerland, Helma. Take your parents with you.”
She was thoughtful for a moment but alarmed by the growing distance between them. She cried, “But I can’t. God’s work is here. I must—”
The freighter’s horn obliterated all sounds. By the time it had faded, the distance to the dock had doubled, then tripled.
Helma’s lips were still moving but Bill could not make out her words.
As her figure grew smaller, he looked over her head and saw Mount Fuji half obscured by summer mist and the belching smoke from Yokohama’s factories.
On clear fall days, the mountain was usually visible in all its pristine beauty. That autumnal, snow-tipped Fuji represented to Bill Macneil the Japan of the past—before 1937 and Nanking. The industrial smoke was Japan’s new militarism. Could Helma Graf be part of the past he wanted so much to put behind him?
Her shrinking figure saddened him. He doubted the Swiss girl would ever leave Japan. Her fondness for these complex people was as great as his dislike. He had no intention of returning and was doubtful—with that bone of contention festering between them—that he would ever ask her to join him elsewhere.
Chapter 5
Dairen, Manchuria
September 1941
Sarah Macneil wasted little time before calling on her paunchy future father-in-law Joseph Blum. (God, she thought, what chemistry of nature produced a marvel like Nathan from these loins?) Perfunctorily she kissed him on the cheek. “You wanted to see me?
“Sit, my dear girl.” His English was Frenchified but usually understandable. Unlike his son, Joseph had never learned Chinese. Knowing Russian—he was born there and had emigrated to France—French, and English were more than enough for one man, he always explained.
“You told Nathan you would be able to put some of your family money to our little project,” he said.
“I hope, sir, it will become more than a ‘little project.”’ Sarah’s voice was a lilting soprano.
“It will, I am sure. Anyway, that’s marvelous news.”
Sitting demurely beside Joseph Blum’s desk, Sarah waited. She knew there would be more.
“I’ve heard of a job I think you should apply for.”
“A job? I have a job, Mr. Blum. It’s an easy one and that gives me free time to be with your son. Once we’re married, I don’t expect to work at all.”
“Hear me out, Sarah.” Joseph Blum carefully lit one of the Havana cigars he was addicted to. “Colonel Kazuo Ishihara has let it be known he wants to employ a young, attractive, trilingual female assistant. He hasn’t found anyone with those qualifications yet.”
Sarah straightened up. “I know about Ishihara. In fact, I’ve met him. He’s supposed to be in charge of everything that goes on behind the scenes in the Japanese administration.”
“That’s right. He’s chief of the secret police—but he’s also General Doihara’s right-hand man. In fact, he has almost as much influence as the general.”
“And you think if I were his assistant, I could help promote Far East Zion?”
Joseph
