Steve told everyone boldly that this had been the background against which Helen had invited me to her apartment that night. "She realized that her goal actually corresponds to Plato's method," he said, "which is to begin with the highest perception of absolute truth, and then to open the door to it, so to speak, that is, to guide humanity in such a manner that it will find itself, its true image, in the higher domain of Truth and universal Principle."

      Steve pointed out that Helen realized that this goal was so tall that it could not even be laid before me in words, that it could only be understood once the goal has been attained, which she however felt was totally achievable.

      Steve paused, then smiled, and said that I couldn't possibly have had a more beautiful and effective teacher than Helen, to guide me to this goal. He described Helen exactly as I remembered her. I could still see myself sitting in her apartment that night while she stood before me near a small table getting the cork out of a bottle of port. I could still remember her sheer back stockings and the dark seam in the back of them that ran all the way up her legs, as far as the eye could see. I could also remember the nervousness and the excitement that I felt when I stood beside her in the kitchen later on and asked for her permission to touch her beautiful long hair. I also remembered the shock that I felt, intermixed with a great joy, when she invited me later still to join her in bed, and also the disappointment that I felt when I couldn't take that final last step because of the wedding ring that I wore.

      It had all begun on a light and easy note. She had made us some sandwiches to go with the port. While we ate, evidently in response to the desires urged by my very Soul, she changed her day dress into something exceedingly exiting to look at. Then at one point, after a lengthy conversation, with our drinks and snacks in hand, she had showed me the rest of her apartment. The apartment had a balcony, accessible through the kitchen, with a view to a small park. The bathroom was tiny, with barely enough room for a tub and a small counter. I recalled that there was a blue glowing glass sculpture at the end of the counter. The bedroom was large in comparison. The furniture were modern, painted white. Her bed, too, was large. A giant mirror graced one of the walls that made the room appear double in size. I also remembered that shortly after we entered Helen had suddenly turned the main lights off, shed her gown and crawled into bed. "Come, Peter," she had said gently.

      My reaction must have seemed like that of an idiot that night. I just stood there and couldn't move. I wanted to respond, to be with her, but I couldn't move.

      "Do I make you feel uncomfortable?" she had asked. "But why should you feel that way? How many times a week do you go to bed with your wife? Every night, usually. Am I right? So why not now? Am I not a woman just like your wife is? Or am I a lesser woman?"

      "No Helen, you are a great woman and a great person. You are a dream to be with," I told her that night immediately.

      "Ah, that's not it the," she had said and smiled. "Are you saying then that you have never had any close, intimate moments of sexual sharing with a woman before in your entire life? Is that why you are hesitant?"

      "Of course I had sexual encounters with a woman before, on countless occasions, with my wife," I answered.

      I remembered that I had begun to laugh as I said this. I sounded so stupid, so silly. It was obvious what this was leading towards, but it was also rather beautiful what was unfolding, as it brought to light what the principle of truthfulness with oneself really is. It came to light as something far greater than I had thought it to be. I could think of no principle to support the narrow concept that I had clung to for so long. Still, I let the train of thinking continue in order to discover what else I had not discovered before.

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Stories about War from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche