The Message

by Mai Jia

  However, what’s done is done. Having seen the truth, having felt it in my very bones, am I supposed to pretend that I have heard nothing, seen nothing? That is impossible. It would be quite wrong. I simply cannot do it; I cannot sell my soul that way.

  His meaning is clear: he used to love China because he learnt about it from books. He paid no attention to what was going on in the real world, so he was misled. But now that he found himself confronted by real life, for all the pain that this caused him, he could no longer remain blind to the suffering around him.

  As Akutagawa said, he was very quick-witted and good at presenting a case, and in this instance he was fighting his own corner, so naturally he wanted to show himself in the best possible light. His argument seemed flawless, and, as always, totally plausible. There were people in the Imperial Japanese Army who had noticed that his writings were becoming increasingly right-wing. They saw him as a potentially valuable asset: he could be presented as a prodigal son who had returned to hearth and home. If they could recruit him, he might be just the person to carry out certain important missions for them.

  An agent of the Imperial Japanese Army sought him out at Akutagawa’s funeral and gave him the nod. He didn’t refuse; in fact, he felt as if he had finally come home. Someone appreciated him! At last he’d have the chance to show what he could do. He was happier than he could have said. He felt no pain at all in giving up his old life and taking his first steps down to hell, just as his mentor Akutagawa had calmly and painlessly moved from this world to the next.

  It seems almost unbelievable. Akutagawa thought Hihara was like him, but in fact he turned him into his opposite. Hihara’s accreditation as a journalist, and his column, eventually led to him joining the secret service, and this was all the unintentional outcome of Akutagawa’s encouragement. That’s the way of the world, but once you’re dead, you’re dead – there’s nothing more to worry about. Later on, there would be people who made a connection between Akutagawa’s despair and Hihara’s betrayal; they said that by turning his back on everything Akutagawa stood for, Hihara caused his mentor’s death. This is just gossip. In all fairness, Hihara didn’t betray Akutagawa, their paths simply diverged. They had very different perspectives on the world and so their paths led them further and further apart.

  3

  As his friend and mentor, Akutagawa paid close attention to Hihara’s ‘Travelling Around China’ columns and often mentioned them in interviews with journalists. To begin with he was very admiring, but later on he became highly critical. A couple of months before he died, he was interviewed by a reporter from the Jiji Shimbun and was even more cutting than normal. I don’t know whether this was because he’d already made up his mind to commit suicide or because he so fundamentally disagreed with the extremely right-wing tone of the Jiji Shimbun. Whichever it was, their conversation ran as follows:

  Akutagawa: I realized about six months ago that today would happen.

  Journalist: I’m sorry but I don’t understand what you mean by ‘today’?

  Akutagawa: Today, right now, the situation that we see before us. That ‘Travelling Around China’ would migrate to your paper, and therefore that you, or someone like you, would come and ask me the questions that you’ve just asked.

  Journalist: And can we discuss them? I’m sure you have something to say on the subject.

  Akutagawa: I’ve already said everything I want to. I answered all these questions a few days ago when I was interviewed by another journalist from your paper.

  Journalist: I’ve seen the notes from that interview. You said that some people are on their way to heaven, while others are heading for hell. So I’d like to ask where you think Mr Hihara is going: to heaven or to hell?

  Akutagawa: To hell, of course. In my opinion, your paper is a kind of hell, since only people who live in eternal darkness, surrounded by demons, could write the kind of articles you want. As I see it, he’s just right for you.

  Journalist: And for the majority of our country. Our newspaper represents the majority view of the Japanese people.

  Akutagawa: Then I am in the minority.

  Journalist: Mr Hihara used to be one of the minority, which is why you got to know him. Can you see yourself joining the majority, as Mr Hihara has done?

  Akutagawa: No. Never. And I refuse to believe that I’m in the minority. We at the Mainichi Shimbun have just as big a circulation as you at the Jiji Shimbun.

  Journalist: But you have lost Mr Hihara.

  Akutagawa: You win some, you lose some. Everyone has their own ambitions – there’s nothing surprising about that.

  Journalist: So you admit that Hihara’s ambitions have changed?

  Akutagawa: They haven’t changed, they’ve regressed… been corrupted.

  Journalist: If they have regressed, have you thought about why?

  Akutagawa: I have very little time to waste, and there are many more important matters for me to think about.

  Journalist: I feel that this is a very important question, one that deserves careful consideration. In my personal opinion, Mr Hihara has indeed been travelling through hell. I just came back from China last month, where Mr Hihara took me on a two-week tour of the cradle of Chinese civilization, the Yellow River, and the whole way I felt as if I were in fact on a journey through hell. The people were all in rags, reduced to skin and bone, and beggars outnumbered everyone else on the streets. When they caught sight of us they’d rush over, kneel down in front of us and beg for money or food. I’m convinced that Mr Hihara is writing the absolute truth, and we ought to give him credit for that.

  Akutagawa: I too have been to China, and more than once. I too travelled with Hihara, and we saw exactly what you’ve just described. But that is their business and it has nothing to do with us.

  Journalist: I remember that you once said writers should be humanists; why would you say that their suffering has nothing to do with us?

  Akutagawa: Are you telling me that sending soldiers to invade their country is an expression of humanism?

  Journalist: What invasion? So far, all we’ve seen is a civil war there. As far as I know, our Imperial Army hasn’t gone into battle against Chinese government forces.

  Akutagawa: Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t. You’re still young; if things carry on the way they’re going now, I think you’ll live to see the day when Japan goes to war with China.

  Journalist: And if that day does come, I’m sure the Imperial Japanese Army will be victorious.

  That day did come; in fact, there were a succession of such days, beginning just four years after that interview:

  18 September 1931: the Japanese invasion of Manchuria, north-east China, and subsequent establishment of the puppet state of Manchukuo.

  28 January 1932: the Japanese bombing of Shanghai, followed by the stationing of Japanese troops in Shanghai.

  7 July 1937: the Marco Polo Bridge Incident (a fight between Japanese and Chinese troops near Beijing), after which the Imperial Japanese Army invades northern China, including Beijing and Tianjin.

  13 August 1937: the Battle of Shanghai begins and the various branches of the Chinese military join forces to create an enormous army; this subsequently crumbles in defeat, resulting in the Japanese occupation of Shanghai, Nanjing and Hangzhou.

  In short, after 18 September 1931 there were many such days in China, and they happened all over the country – first on one side of the Great Wall, then on the other; north as well as south of the Yangtze; both inside and outside the capital. On all too many of these days, the Imperial Japanese Army did indeed win, just as the reporter from the Jiji Shimbun had anticipated. And, just as Hihara had predicted, the place collapsed at the first nudge.

  4

  As I have said, there were many such days, and in August 1937 yet another one came to pass, this time for Hangzhou.

  On this day, one hundred and twenty-seven planes with red circles on their sides took off from Unryu¯-class aircr
aft carriers anchored in the Wusong River and flew directly to Hangzhou, where they dropped countless bombs. West Lake was in terrible danger. The people of Hangzhou have always had great affection for their West Lake; even as they were running for their lives, they thought about how it had nowhere to go, and they worried about it – there were many whose escape route took them right past it or who made a special detour to visit it for what might be the last time. An endless stream of people, young and old, men and women, gathered by the lake shore, praying to whatever gods there might be to protect it. If they could have carried West Lake with them instead of their gold and silver and household treasures, I am sure they would have.

  Since they couldn’t take it with them, they gazed intently at it so that it might be engraved in their memories. They knew that even if they escaped, even if they were to come back alive one day, West Lake would have been blown to pieces. And so they would not return to look at it again; they would rather not see it at all than see it in ruins.

  But as everyone now knows, the bombing eventually stopped and West Lake had been left completely unharmed. It was as lovely as ever. Its three hundred hectares of wetland and dozens of beautiful vistas and scenic spots were untouched. The mansions were still there, the formal gardens were still there, the pretty stone bridges and blossom-filled causeways were still there. Not a single tree had been knocked over, and every flowerpot was still in its place; you could say that not a hair on West Lake’s head had been harmed. It seemed almost miraculous.

  What kind of magic had worked such a miracle?

  The people of Hangzhou were determined to get to the bottom of this because they wanted to thank whoever was responsible. However, the person behind this miracle turned out to be a demon, and there was no way they could do anything to repay the unexpected kindness. The demon had a name, Matsui Iwane, and at that time he was the senior general in command of the Japanese army in the Battle of Shanghai. This was no ordinary demon but the devil himself! That summer, he sat in an Unryu¯-class aircraft carrier anchored at the mouth of the Wusong River as a massacre began that was to claim the lives of hundreds of thousands of Chinese soldiers and civilians. A few months later, he was directly responsible for orchestrating the tragedy known as the Rape of Nanjing.

  It seems hard to imagine that a devil of this kind would be interested in saving West Lake. But it’s a fact. According to historical records, the evening before Matsui brought together the hundred-plus aircraft in preparation for the bombing of Hangzhou, a famous Japanese journalist came to see him. The result of the secret conversation between this individual and General Matsui was that the latter gave orders that a thick red line delineating a no-bombing zone be drawn on the maps of Hangzhou given to the air force. This red line seemed to follow the winding shores of West Lake, and it incorporated not only the whole of the lake itself but also all the major beauty spots surrounding it. General Matsui also wrote an instruction inside that red line:

  This blue area is an imperial beauty and must not be destroyed. Anyone who contravenes this command will be dealt with according to military law.

  Of course, it was this hand-drawn red line that saved beautiful West Lake, just like a fairy ring.

  That sinuous red line separated heaven from hell. Outside the red line the flames leapt high in the sky and bodies were blown to pieces; inside the line, the waters flowed peacefully and fish played in the shallows. Hangzhou in August 1937 was a very strange sight – it was bizarre, unnatural, even a little ridiculous. But what is entirely clear is that the famous journalist who turned up to talk to General Matsui was none other than Hihara. So when it comes down to it, the people of Hangzhou had much cause to be grateful to him.

  Ever since he’d first visited Hangzhou with Akutagawa, Hihara had been obsessed with the place. He’d developed deep feelings for it. He particularly loved West Lake with its mountainous backdrop. He once wrote an article in which he compared West Lake to a moon that had descended to the human realm, filled with clear waters. You can travel all over the world and you will never find the like; you can read ten thousand books and you still won’t have discovered all there is to know about it.

  After he was employed by the Japanese military as a secret agent, he would bring his young wife to Hangzhou every summer and they would rent a room somewhere beside West Lake and stay for a week, reading and walking and enjoying the landscape. Even then he would be carrying out his official duties, since he might, after all, see or hear something that constituted intelligence, which he could either pass on to the authorities to show his loyalty or sell to the highest bidder; it really was a wonderful job.

  When the Battle of Shanghai broke out on 13 August, Hihara and his beloved wife were at West Lake, escaping the summer heat. He soon received word from his superiors that they should leave Hangzhou, and he immediately guessed that the city would shortly be attacked. When he got back to Shanghai he was distraught to learn that General Matsui Iwane had already given orders to prepare for the bombing of Hangzhou.

  Hihara was convinced that as soon as Shanghai was taken, Hangzhou would simply surrender without a fight. Every month he wrote a ‘Strategic Analysis Report’ for his superiors, and he’d given this as his opinion on numerous occasions. But it seemed that General Matsui was paying no heed to his advice.

  General Matsui was himself an old China hand and had lived there for more than a decade. He had headed up a regional secret-police force, been Deputy Commander of Japan’s prestigious Kwantung Army and served as the military attaché at the embassies in Guangdong and Shanghai. His knowledge of the country was entirely comparable to Hihara’s. Which was why, on the outbreak of hostilities in Shanghai, he’d been summoned back and given the position of Commander-in-Chief, even though he’d already retired from active service on the grounds of old age.

  Nevertheless, Matsui’s experience had been gained many years earlier, so when it came to the current situation in Shanghai and Hangzhou, and the various new organizations and up-to-date connections, Hihara was in a much stronger position. The latter had great confidence in his own judgement and insisted on meeting Matsui to try and bring him round to his own point of view.

  And so Hihara and Matsui had their historic meeting on the deck of an Unryu¯-class aircraft carrier.

  5

  What I’m going to say next falls largely within the realm of gossip and should not be taken too seriously.

  It is said that the first meeting between Hihara and General Matsui was very dramatic, and so were its results. To begin with, Matsui refused to meet Hihara; he was a secret agent and the general was very familiar with the arrogance of such men, and anyway he didn’t think a meeting was necessary. He furrowed his brow and said to his staff officer, ‘If he has some intelligence to report then let him write it down.’ But when he heard that Hihara was the author of ‘Travelling Around China’, he changed his mind.

  It transpired that Matsui was a loyal reader of Hihara’s recent essays in the Jiji Shimbun. Both men were convinced that China was on the brink of collapse, and now they found themselves in complete accord. One was a true believer, the other was the man tasked with actually carrying out the policy.

  Matsui had repeatedly informed the Japanese parliament that as long as the Nationalist government remained in power in Nanjing, Japan’s territorial gains in China would be just a flash in the pan and the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere would never be established. His many years as a military attaché had given him a deep understanding of the Nanjing government, but it had also fostered in him an inexplicable hatred of the city and everyone in it. Not long afterwards it was he who orchestrated the Rape of Nanjing, so horrific that it shocked the entire world.

  Hatred made him into the devil himself and destroyed the last vestiges of his humanity. On 23 December 1948, Matsui Iwane was hanged as a Class A war criminal by the International Military Tribunal for the Far East, because of his direct involvement in the Rape of Nanjing.

  In the summer
of 1937, as he issued orders from the Unryu¯-class aircraft carrier, he was able to correctly predict much of the outcome of the battle he was commanding, but he was unable to anticipate what would eventually befall his own person.

  Matsui invited Hihara to join him on board. They paced the decks together, enjoying the breeze as they analysed the situation and discussed future plans. Both of them very much enjoyed their conversation, each man feeling that he had found his complement.

  It was only when Hihara brought up the precise reason for his visit that their views diverged: Matsui laughed at his idea that Hangzhou would simply surrender once Shanghai had fallen. He took Hihara into his office and pointed to a large, three-dimensional, multi-coloured tabletop model of the battleground. Reports detailing conditions on the ground were pinned to the wall opposite and he encouraged Hihara to look at them.

  From these, Hihara learnt that there were more than three hundred Chinese aircraft at Hangzhou’s Jianqiao Airbase and that these planes were continuously patrolling the Bay of Hangzhou, appearing at regular intervals in the smoke-filled skies above where the Battle of Shanghai was being fought. Far from surrendering, Hangzhou and its planes were greatly limiting the operational effectiveness of the powerful Japanese air force.

  That was in the skies. On the ground, three major divisions of the Chinese army were advancing on Shanghai via two separate routes and would join the battle any moment now. A further nine divisions were advancing via three other routes, and soon they too would arrive in Shanghai. All of which meant that the Chinese forces stationed in Hangzhou could determine whether the Japanese won the Battle of Shanghai. The point wasn’t whether Hangzhou would surrender if Shanghai fell; it was that Shanghai wouldn’t fall unless Hangzhou was bombed into submission first.

  The scales now fell from Hihara’s eyes. He swallowed his long-standing advice. But when he thought about the imminent destruction of beautiful Hangzhou and paradisiacal West Lake, the place he always chose for his summer holidays, he felt a soft clutch at his heart. It was a kind of blind sadness, genuine regret at the loss of a treasure.