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 told me the whole story. I’m terribly sorry about that, but going to war with Japan will not restore thy Ellen. We must show our love through forgiveness. Please, oh, please! Thee must not even think of going to war.”
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.