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Macneils of Tokyo. Jack Seward
Читать онлайн.Название Macneils of Tokyo
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isbn 9781462918126
Автор произведения Jack Seward
Издательство Ingram
Still, she did not allow the constant discourtesy of Japanese men to discourage her from her self-assigned mission. After all, she reminded herself, we are all God’s creatures. If we have direct access to God, as the Society of Friends held, then God must have direct access to us, and one day, He would enter into the souls of these benighted ones and open their eyes with a soul-shaking epiphany.
At the Hibiya intersection, Helma transferred to a car bound for Kudan. At Hibiya she was only two short blocks from her favorite place—aside from Bill Macneil’s bed—in all Tokyo: the Florida nightclub. How often she had longed to go there, to sway and turn to the magic of the Argentine tango.
In a mood of desperation, she had determined to teach Shipton Macneil how to tango. She had shoved aside chairs and a table and made enough space in the dining room. There was a phonograph in Sarah’s old room, and Helma commandeered it. Ship was willing. At sixteen he was taller than Helma and even shaved now and then. (He claimed to shave every other day, but she did not believe him.) Even Umeko managed to descend the stairs and watch and applaud as they twisted and glided back and forth.
The only problem was that the youngest Macneil had begun to press too close at inappropriate moments with a look in his eyes that unsettled Helma.
Another cause of concern about Ship was that he was becoming more outspoken in his support of the United States in the present conflict. He held an American passport and his brother was extremely anti-Japanese, so that was to be expected, but after all, they were living in Japan, and Ship—unlike his brother Bill—was half-Japanese.
Ship had waxed half-deliriously with rapture when the Doolittle planes flew low over Tokyo in April. He had rushed into the garden and, jumping about, had waved a small American flag at one of the bombers.
Later, Helma scolded him. “You mustn’t ever do anything like that again.”
He was sullen. “Why not? I’m an American, aren’t I? Why shouldn’t I cheer for them?”
Helma took his hand. “If word gets around, Ship dear, the Tokko Keisatsu will be on our doorstep the next day. You would cause serious trouble for your mother.” Helma knew Umeko’s welfare was always uppermost to Ship Macneil.
Helma looked out the window of the swaying, rattling streetcar. Her stop was close at hand. She had an early appointment to see Captain Horace Milmay, a British turncoat who had found a niche of safety in the war by transferring his allegiance from the British monarchy to the Japanese emperor.
She had gone to work at Radio Tokyo in April, first as a clerk-typist and later as a broadcaster. Now she was the POW specialist at the station and she had a one-hour program on Saturday nights. Other women—all Nisei—broadcast on different topics on other nights. All the programs were called the “Zero Hour.” The number of Allied prisoners-of-war in Japan was mounting as the conflict in the South Pacific grew more savage. Helma’s job was to relay information about these POWs to their former comrades in the combat zones and, through their comrades, to relatives back home: “Hi, there, you guys. Jeepers, is it ever cold here in Tokyo! First, I’ve got news about one of your buddies. Private Tom Maxwell is alive and healthy and sends regards to his friends in the Second Marine Division on Guadalcanal. He is doing productive work in a coal mine—never mind exactly where—in Japan. I can tell you he’s a lot better off than you fellows are, so why don’t you pick up one of our surrender leaflets and raise both hands over your head? Then, just walk on over to the Japanese lines and all that pain and fear and filth will be behind you. God did not mean for men to kill each other, so why are you fighting?”
Helma Graf felt no qualms of conscience about making these broadcasts to Allied military personnel in the South Pacific. Why should she? She was, first of all, Swiss, and that had always meant being neutral. She hated no race or nationality, but loved one and all. Besides, what was wrong about her appeals? She was asking them—the Allies—to lay down their arms and surrender—surrender to the concept of Brotherly Love. Given the same chance she would have said as much to Japanese soldiery. “Quit fighting. For the love of God, stop killing each other! Embrace your enemy.”
There had been times when Captain Milmay had tried to change her script to include inflammatory admonitions she thought would only increase the slaughter. So far Helma had resisted his editing, and Baron Matsui had ruled in her favor. She was, after all, Swiss—protected by a treaty of neutrality between Japan and Switzerland. Most of the other broadcasters had dual nationality, so Japan had a whip to crack over their heads.
However, Helma was dear-minded enough to recognize that what made her case somewhat different was that she loved—to the verge of distraction—a man who, as an American, was an enemy of the Japanese and who might even now, for all she knew, be fighting and killing Japanese in Guadalcanal or New Guinea. In rebuttal she riposted to her imaginary prosecutor that she could just as easily have fallen in love with a Japanese. Really? the prosecutor asked. Who, for example? Well, I don’t know exactly, just someone—I doubt it, her opponent said. If so, give me a name. All right, I will, Helma answered. Uh—Baron Matsui. Matsui? Yes, Baron Matsui: he’s fine-looking, he graduated from Cambridge, and he dances the tango.
If Helma had not given her heart and her chastity to Bill Macneil, she would almost certainly have said yes to Matsui’s invitations to go dancing, but now that was out of the question. Or was it? She wondered.
One man who would never engage her affections was Captain Horace Milmay, whom she faced in the small conference room on the third floor of the Radio Tokyo Building.
Milmay was a sandy-haired Englishman in his early thirties. He had been a radio broadcaster in Hong Kong, with a commission as a reserve officer. When war broke out, he was called to the colors, but the British forces in Hong Kong, including Captain Milmay, surrendered to the Japanese in short order.
Baron Matsui, chief of the foreign broadcast division of Radio Tokyo, had sifted through POW records and had found five Americans and Britishers with broadcasting experience. They were brought to Tokyo for interviews with Matsui.
Of the five, two were rejected out of hand by Matsui. The remaining three were offered the opportunity to make broadcasts in English to Allied forces throughout the Pacific. Only one—Horace Milmay—accepted the offer enthusiastically. The second was doubtful, the third said no unequivocally.
Milmay, out of uniform but with the equivalent yen salary of a captain, was designated an assistant to Baron Matsui. His job was supervising the preparation of the broadcasts, approving script contents, planning broadcasts, and teaching correct delivery to the broadcasters.
At first, Baron Matsui, who came as close to being a British aristocrat as a Japanese could, got along famously with Milmay. They drank and dined together in out-of-the-way corners of the capital, but gradually certain flaws in Milmay’s character became apparent to the baron, who began to distance himself from the British officer in mufti. Now Matsui kept a close watch on Milmay, but had yet to find little to complain of in the man’s performance of his duties.
If anything, Milmay was leaning too heavily toward the cause of ultranationalistic Japan: the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere. His anti-British and anti-American bias was becoming too blatant, too rabid, and the broadcasters themselves—who were given some discretion over the words they spoke over the airwaves—were trying to tone down Milmay’s excesses. Matsui, too, recognized that a certain degree of subtlety in these propaganda programs would be more effective than strident, Hitlerian bashing of the Allied broadcasts.
“You don’t like me, do you, Helma?” Milmay began.
“I don’t really know you, I’m afraid.”
“You could get to know me if you wanted to,” the British officer said in his precisely enunciated English. “It would be difficult for a couple like ourselves to move about freely in Tokyo these days, but we could meet at your place or in my room, you know.”
“I’ll