Heaven's Harlots: My Fifteen Years in a Sex Cult (24 page)

Recently, Mo had been sending us letters explicitly describing the sex between himself and every woman in his home. Sometimes, the descriptions were not flattering, especially if the woman did not please Mo in some way. One young woman whom I knew was rebuked in a letter because she preferred to return and live with the father of her baby rather than stay in Mo’s house.

By now, I was in a continual state of ambivalence over whether I believed in Mo or detested him. It was as if he had given us all a beautiful way to live and then destroyed it, but we kept hanging on for different reasons. About this time I received a message from one of our leaders through Tim.

“I am asked to remind you that you are the writer of The Uneager Beaver, so we should keep a very close watch over your spiritual growth,” said Tim hesitantly one morning.

“But that doesn’t mean that you are not doing good right now, Jeshanah. We just want to be sure nothing happens that could hurt the work we are doing here,” added Sharon sweetly.

“We thought you should have more time in the Word, you know. You have been going out every night, and you usually miss morning devotions. I think we will switch the morning devotions to noon, and we all should be up by then,” said Timothy, seemingly pleased that he had already come up with a workable solution.

“Can I go on a bike ride right now?” I asked, wishing to get away for a few moments. “I will take a Mo book with me and read something in the field down the road.” Sharon spoke up immediately and said that would be a good idea. As I rode through the posh neighborhood, seeing only the large servants’ quarters from the streets, I thought about Tim’s message. Surely it meant that Mo did not want me too near him or any of his pet projects.

That was fine with me, as long as I could stay near my son. What if Mo thought I was too unspiritual to raise a child of God? Why did he keep harping on that story I had written? Did I not already receive forgiveness for that? According to the Bible, that sin should have been washed away.

I parked the bike near a pretty orchard, probably someone’s private property, and sat under an olive tree. Opening my booklet to one of the more “milky” Mo letters, I tried to read, but my eyesight was hindered by tears. I closed the book and let myself cry uncontrollably. They were tears of despair and confusion. I grasped for meaning in my life, and I came only to Thor. My son was happy and healthy. I was near him, and I knew that if I was good enough, if I obeyed and sacrificed, repented of sins I didn’t even recognize yet, I would get him back one day.

When the sobs subsided, I admired my surroundings of neat fences, manicured pastures, and picturesque olive trees with their gnarly, bumpy trunks suggesting a life of difficulty. After releasing the recurrent pain and replenished by nature, I got on the bike and continued my ride around the Cap. As I continued along the road, pushing the bike now, I met a woman named Sophia, who was visiting from Provence. She promised to visit the next day and to bring her host with her.

Sharon, Tim, and I were excited about the prospect of meeting someone who actually lived in this exclusive neighborhood, but we were not prepared to meet Charles. We had in mind a stiff, dignified CEO type, or maybe a flashy Hollywood pretender. Instead, Sophia walked in the next day with an unpretentious-looking young man who slightly stuttered at first acquaintances.

Charles was of medium build, slightly taller than average, he wore his straight, brown hair in a conservative short cut, and looked eerily like Anthony Perkins when he wasn’t playing a psycho. I thought he was handsome, and his strangeness only made him more appealing. Charles had a look that contained a blend of extreme sensitivity and discernment, a combination that I have found makes normal life more difficult to live.

As I grew to know Charles better, I discovered that he overcame this difficulty by considering nothing “normal.” But then, he could afford this luxury.

Charles had received a title of nobility and a substantial inheritance from his grandfather, who also provided an intricate royal history. An illegitimate child without formally recognized parentage, he had been adopted by a wealthy Hungarian Jew, himself ennobled by Emperor Franz Josef II of Austria-Hungary. The Hungarian noble’s mother was a Hapsburg and his father was rumored to have been Queen Victoria’s son, Edward, who became King Edward VII. The queen, by special decree, had granted him the right and privilege to use his foreign title in Britain. But the paternity issue was never finally resolved, and the most likely candidate to be his ancestor was the Austro-Hungarian baron himself.

His grandfather had also passed on to Charles the responsibility for a wildlife foundation, which included a large piece of property and an enormous villa on Cap Martin. It was here that Charles lived and cared for a number of protected animal species, but his mild manner and scruffy attire made it impossible to guess he was a descendant of one of Europe’s oldest royal lines.

Charles and I immediately struck up a close friendship. He had been married to the daughter of his grandfather’s housekeeper, but their marriage did not last long. It appeared that Sophia, the young lady I talked with on the road, was someone interesting he had met while picking grapes in France, and although he informed me that they’d remained in contact throughout the years, she was gone in a few weeks and I never saw her again. Of course, Charles and I spent more time together after Sophia left, and I remember my first evening visit to his chateau as one of the most mysterious and melodramatic moments in my life.

The huge chateau, set off from the main street by a winding drive, appeared nestled in the wild trees like Dracula’s castle when I first saw it in the bluish-purple light of the evening. The gray stones contrasted with the live pink flamingos that populated the small pond in front of the chateau’s massive doors. We entered through the back door that led past the servants’ kitchen, actually the only kitchen in the house. I imagine that nobles never had to cook for themselves in the days when the castle was built. Charles, however, used the kitchen quite frequently to entertain guests. In fact, most of the ornately decorated rooms with their Baroque, gilded furniture were never used by Charles at all. This night, he led me to the library, which had a small room next to it that he used for his bedroom. Instinctively he felt that the library is where I would want to be, and Charles seemed to want to please me. Lighting a fire in the darkened room, he let me browse through the books. I touched them hesitantly. The Family had been through a number of book burnings, and we were discouraged from reading anything, especially books such as these, that seemed to hold ancient wisdom. I was drawn to one in particular, a book by Chiero on reading palms.

“Are you interested in palm reading?” asked Charles, coming up from behind me so silently that I jumped. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No, well, yes. I think I am. This looks very intriguing,” I said as I thumbed through sketches of the heart line, the fate lines, and others.

I was wondering if I should tell him that we really don’t believe in anything but what is in the Bible or the Mo letters, but since this was such a rare opportunity to find out something really interesting, I decided to keep that subject for later.

“My sister was into palm reading, among other things. She moved to Greece and opened a bar there with her girlfriend.” said Charles quietly.

“Oh? Is she still there? I would love to go to Greece.”

“No! She committed suicide a few years ago. In fact, I think this book is hers. Do you want to borrow it?” Dire thoughts raced through my mind. Tim had warned me that I should not go to Charles’s castle alone. Both he and Sharon thought that Charles hid some great secrets in this place.

Did he know black magic or something? The eerie shadows made by the fire caused what looked like ghosts to play on the bookshelves. If I took this book, would I be possessed? I looked Charles in the eyes and saw nothing but sincere devotion to a friend, along with a sadness brought on by thoughts of his sister.

“Oh, Charles, that would be lovely. Are you sure you don’t mind, this being your sister’s book? I’m sure it means something special to you.”

“You are special to me too, Jeshanah. You picked up that book, among the hundreds in this room, so I think you should take it.”

“Okay, but only to borrow. I’ll learn how to read palms, and I’ll read yours one day.” I went home that evening with a confusing realization of having found a friend outside the Family. That was not supposed to happen.

“I don’t know about that book,” said Timothy questioningly as we went over the previous evening during our noon devotions. “What if it has a strange spirit attached? You know what Mo said about spirits using things as vehicles.”

“Well, we can pray over it and cast out any spirits,” replied Sharon. “Mo’s own grandmother read palms.” I never understood if Sharon was just coming to my rescue as a friend, or if she was just a closet rebellious woman.

“Yeah, and Mo himself had his palm read by Madam M,” I added, by now earnestly desiring to read this book.

Although we wanted to keep Charles as a friend, Timothy and Sharon thought it would be unsafe to give him God’s Love since he lived so close. They were also concerned about all the questions Charles asked.

He was very inquisitive, and living right down the street, he could spy on all our doings. Since the Family was inherently paranoid, living illegally in most countries, having no visible means of support, and not adhering to local laws, such as sending children to school or doctors regularly, the idea of having an outsider know about our daily activities was out of the question.

“Has he made any physical advances towards you, Jeshanah?” inquired Sharon in an excuse-me-for-intruding voice.

“Well, no, not really. We kissed once after the movies, but he was so shy about it, I didn’t want to push anything,” I answered, remembering the kiss that Charles had given me. His hands shook as he held my hand in the car, and his lips were quivering. I didn’t feel that this was someone I should seduce. He seemed so vulnerable.

“Jeshanah, witness to him every time you’re alone. Then, if he wants sex, he knows what it’s for, and if he doesn’t we know why.”

“Why?” I asked, wondering what Timothy’s train of reasoning could be.

“Why, he’s not a sheep then.” Ironically, Timothy’s simplistic advice was really the best we could follow. He usually gave the right advice for the wrong reason. If I slept with Charles, I felt, he could be terribly hurt when he found out that I did the same with lots of men.

I did not want to hurt my new and only friend, and although I had various degrees of closeness to Charles throughout the years, I never had a sexual relationship with him. He never asked for it either, and we enjoyed a platonic but deep relationship, a rarity it seems between a man and a woman.

By the winter of 1978, Sharon, Timothy, and I had established ourselves in Monte Carlo as an eccentric but accepted singing team. Going out by two, we took turns staying home with the baby. We sang at most of the restaurants near the palace—they all had enough of a clientele to make it worthwhile—and at some of the fancier restaurants down in the Monte Carlo casino area. With Sharon’s amazing talent, I did little but collect the money after she sang, make new contacts, and talk to anyone who had questions. After a singing excursion, we usually went to the Cafe de Paris to sit with a drink and wait until the clubs started to fill up. I was used to drinking nightly now, and although I never became a heavy drinker, I felt that I could witness better after a glass of wine. Often, we met people just sitting in the luxurious and much frequented cafe. Now I had a new tool for breaking the ice. If I saw someone who looked like a prospect for fishing, I introduced myself by asking if he wanted his palm read.

One evening, as I was drinking my third or fourth kir, I spied the cooler-than-thou crowd hanging out at the back of the room. I got up and walked straight to their table, keeping my eyes on a short, muscular man who I believed was a high-bred noble.

“Do you want your palm read?” I asked, taking his hand and studying it curiously. He looked up with glassy eyes.

“Can you do this?” He responded too simply, caught off guard for a second.

I studied his hand for quite sometime, while the others at the table debated the validity of palm reading. Actually, even though I had digested the Chiero book completely and knew the lines, clever palm reading becomes perfect with practice. Much of it is relying on intuition and feelings. As I held his small, square hand in my long, slender one, I was surprised at the coarseness of this noble hand. His fingers were short and stubby, with flat, square fingernails. I had more than enough material to reveal what I thought of royal titles and elitism based on blood and wealth.

“You have the hands of a peasant,” I said, as I kept my eyes intently focused on his palm. I felt him jerk his hand ever so slightly, and then relax.

There was a roar of protest from his friends.

“Some connection you have with God, not to recognize a noble hand,” chirped a little pretty thing at the end of the table, obviously having heard about me before.

“This is a work hand,” I continued. “In the old days you would have been working in the fields. Today this hand would work in the factories, but it seems you have had some help from fate.” I had no idea how accurate I was in accessing his ancestry. Many years later I would find out that his famous family was once known as “the dynasty of the peasants.” This seemed to be enough for him. He pulled his hand away.

The gentleman, whose name was Andre, bellowed for more drinks.

“What will you have, Jeshanah? Sharon?” he asked kindly. His deeply tanned face showed early signs of age, although he was probably still in his thirties. At twenty-six, I still looked much younger than anyone at the table, probably due to my lack of makeup and unstyled hair. I was beginning to feel sorry for what I had said. It had obviously moved him in some way. When they all decided to continue the party at his house, we were invited.