After Darkness

by Christine Piper

  As it was cold outside, Nomura, Ota and I arranged shifts: one person stood outside looking out for the truck, while the other two stayed inside. Every half hour, we rotated.

  At around midnight, Ota ran into the foyer. ‘The trucks—I think they’re here.’

  Nomura and I jumped to our feet, and I hurried downstairs to alert Shimada. When I returned, I approached the two army trucks parked outside the entrance. Guards with rifles stood at the back of each truck.

  ‘Can I help unload the cargo?’ I asked.

  The guard closest to me assessed me with disdain. ‘We’re under orders to act according to Major Kimura’s instructions only. Unless you are him, you can’t even touch the crates.’

  I slunk back inside. Kimura and Shimada soon arrived, and they directed the army personnel to take the cargo down to the basement and into a storeroom. The two trucks were full of large wooden crates marked ‘Fragile’. Nomura, Ota and I helped direct the men carrying the crates down the stairs and into the storeroom. Some crates seemed much heavier than others. I heard the faint clinking of glass from inside them. Throughout the unloading, Nomura and Ota exercised characteristic restraint. Their expressions revealed nothing. I wondered if they already knew what was inside—if they had been privy to a conversation I had not.

  The men unloading the crates hardly spoke, but they moved with urgency. The officers beside the trucks whispered their instructions. I wondered why they did so, as the building was not in a residential area.

  After forty minutes the last crate was unloaded. Kimura signed a document and saluted the officer in charge of the shipment—the one who had spoken to me with such disdain. When Kimura came back inside, Shimada locked the entrance to the building after him. ‘Just temporarily,’ he said.

  ‘Come,’ Kimura said, and we followed him downstairs.

  The storeroom was crammed. Kimura picked up an iron bar lying on the ground and passed it to Shimada. ‘You do the honours,’ he said.

  Shimada went to the closest crate, and worked the bar under the lid, eventually loosening the nails that held it to the frame. He lifted the lid and stepped back so that Kimura could see. I leaned forward. It was full of glass specimen jars of various sizes. From my position I could only see metal lids, some with wooden tags attached to them with string, and glimpses of yellow formalin contained within the jars. But Kimura stood over them and brought his hands together in excitement.

  ‘Ah, here’s a good one,’ he said. He reached in with two hands and brought out a large jar.

  It held a severed head. In the formalin, the flesh was the colour of butter. The scalp was shaved and a section had been cut from the crown, exposing the brain. Several deep incisions ran from the temples to the edge of the cavity. The man’s eyes were closed tightly, as if subjected to unbearable pressure, but his mouth was open, the purplish lips forming a slack ‘O’. It was as if he had tried to say something, but the final words had been stolen at the moment of death.

  When we were finally allowed to go home, I walked out of the building onto the empty streets and breathed deeply. The air had never tasted so sweet. Nomura, Ota and I said nothing to each other as we parted at the gate. I looked at my watch: one-thirty. The last train had left hours ago. I could have slept in the tearoom at work, as I had done before when Shimada needed a large batch of bacteria by the following day, but tonight I wanted to be as far away from the laboratory as possible. I pulled my coat around me and began the long walk home. Cold air stung my face. I tried not to think about what I had seen that night; I trained my thoughts on washing myself clean and soaking in a hot bath when I got home.

  I saw almost no one, aside from the occasional drunk curled up in an alley. At one point, I passed a street cleaner in navy overalls. He was bent over, sweeping rubbish into a bamboo basket. When I walked past him, he looked up. One eye was the colour of milk. That pale, unblinking eye seemed to penetrate deep into my soul. A chill passed through me and I quickened my pace.

  I was freezing and exhausted by the time I got home. I drew the entry door shut behind me, careful not to wake Kayoko. The table in the living room was clear of bowls. I had been returning home later each night as my responsibilities at work had grown. At first, Kayoko had left dinner on the table for me, but I rarely wanted to eat at that hour and the rice and fried fish became hard by morning, not even good enough to use in rice balls. She began to leave out only simple food—cold miso soup and rice balls. Tonight, for the first time, she had left out nothing at all. It didn’t matter, as I wasn’t hungry. I went straight to the bathroom and slid the door open, expecting a gush of hot air. But the air inside was cool. My heart sank. I eased the lid of the bathtub open. Empty. I dipped my hand inside, hoping my eyes were playing a trick on me, but no. I put my hand to the furnace, but that too was cold. I forced open the iron hatch to see if I could light a fire, but there were not even a few embers inside. Kayoko must have cleaned it that evening.

  I peeled off my clothes and sat on the low stool, my head in my hands. I turned on the tap and filled the bucket with cold water, then poured it over me. I sucked in my breath. The sting was like an electric current. I brought the bar of soap along my arms and legs, then filled the bucket with water again and washed the suds away. I drew another deep breath and shuddered. Behind me, the door scraped on its track. Cool air hit my back.

  ‘What are you doing? You must be freezing.’

  Kayoko’s voice was high and thin, like a child’s. I didn’t turn. I couldn’t face her, not yet. I needed more time to calm my thoughts before I went to bed.

  ‘The bath. You emptied it. I need to wash myself.’ I clenched my teeth to try to contain my feelings.

  ‘I’m sorry. You were so late—I thought you’d stayed at work overnight like you did the other week.’

  I shook my head. I prayed she’d leave me alone. As I sat on the stool, holding a bar of soap, silence stretched between us.

  ‘Tomo, are you okay?’

  I imagined her expression: lips pressed into a thin line and her big, troubled eyes.

  ‘Yes. Please, just leave me alone.’

  I heard her step back and felt cool air again as she closed the door. I hugged my knees to my chest. After a minute, I leaned forward and filled the bucket again.

  Ota said he’d seen him in the hallways: a man with a thick moustache and wearing a military uniform bedecked with insignia. I thought little of it, as high-ranking military officers often visited our offices. But a few days later, passing through the foyer, I saw three men standing near the entrance. The one in the middle, facing me, was tall and thin. Perhaps it was his eyeglasses, or the way the light from the entrance threw shadows, but I noticed the angles of his face: the peaked eyebrows that dwarfed his small eyes. I had no doubt he was Lieutenant Colonel Ishii, the head of our organisation.

  Ishii Shiro was known as a gifted microbiologist who’d given up a promising medical career to devote his life to research. He and Kimura had studied together at Kyoto Imperial University medical school and were still good friends. Ishii had started doing research in Manchukuo several years earlier, and I suspected it was Ishii whom Kimura visited when he went abroad.

  That afternoon, Kimura visited the laboratory to make an announcement. ‘At the end of this week, the head of our unit, Lieutenant Colonel Ishii, will give a lecture on his current research. I’m sure I don’t need to point out how fortunate we are to receive him. It will be a wonderful opportunity to learn from a pioneer of modern science. His insight will also help us to analyse the specimens to the best of our abilities.’

  On Friday, we walked into the second-floor training room. As some of the first researchers to arrive, we were conspicuous in our white coats. A small group of army officials stopped talking and turned to survey us. Behind them a line of windows offered a glimpse of the tree-lined streets around the station. To the east, out of sight from where I sat, were the extensive grounds of the Imperial Palace. I imagined what these would look like from
where we stood: a dark, impenetrable mound encircled by a snaking moat.

  On the wall at the front of the training room hung a gilt-framed picture of the Emperor, his kind eyes full of light. Looking at him, my heart swelled with devotion. Beneath the picture stood the desk I had seen on my earlier visit, its surface polished to a high sheen and its brass handles gleaming. The rows of wooden chairs that filled the rest of the room were like statues, not a single one out of place.

  ‘Where should we sit?’ Yamamoto whispered.

  ‘At the back, I suppose,’ Nomura said. ‘Lots of people have been invited.’

  Ishii’s lecture had been a topic of discussion in the tearoom all week. Nomura had wanted to meet him for years, ever since his senior college classmate who’d studied under Ishii had gushed about his brilliance. ‘Apparently he only sleeps a few hours a night; he’s always busy thinking up experiments and analysing,’ Nomura had said. Ota had pointed out that Ishii had only graduated from Kyoto ten years earlier, and in the past two and a half years had been promoted from major to lieutenant colonel. ‘To rise that fast, he must be a genius.’

  We took our seats in the back row and watched as more army personnel and researchers trickled in. I recognised many of the faces from the photos in the foyer, although I didn’t know their names.

  ‘Isn’t that War Minister Sugiyama?’ Ota said.

  A man in a high-necked jacket decorated with medals stood at the door, flanked by two men in khaki uniforms. People jostled as the seats filled up. Everyone shifted their attention to the front as two men entered the room. We all stood up. Through the gaps I saw Kimura and Ishii. They both stopped, saluted the picture of the Emperor on the wall, then turned towards us and bowed.

  Ishii was only a few years older than Kimura, but physically the two men couldn’t have been more different. Kimura was short and stocky where Ishii was tall and lean. Kimura’s hair was neatly parted, waxed and combed to the side, his uniform spruce, from the pleat in his trouser legs to the shine of his buttons. Ishii’s appearance, however, was unorthodox. He had thick, wavy hair about two inches long and wore heavy-rimmed glasses. The top button of his uniform was unfastened—whether it was a genuine mistake or a deliberate gesture of laxness, I didn’t know.

  Kimura cleared his throat. ‘For most of you, Lieutenant Colonel Ishii needs no introduction. He’s chairman of the Army Medical College’s Immunology Department and was recently promoted to chief of the Kwantung Army’s Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Unit in Manchukuo. His work in the area of water purification and B encephalitis has saved literally thousands of Japanese lives. Today, he’ll share the research he’s been undertaking in Greater East Asia.’ Kimura paused, allowing his eyes to roam the room. ‘You’ve been invited here today as leaders and innovators in your fields, and you are asked to behave accordingly regarding the confidentiality of today’s lecture.’ Kimura’s stern tone brought to mind my interview with him, when he’d questioned my ability to be discreet. ‘Without further delay, I invite Lieutenant Colonel Ishii to deliver his lecture.’

  Ishii stepped forward and smiled. ‘Thank you, Major Kimura. Some of you are already familiar with my research in Manchukuo, but for the sake of those who are new to this area, I’ll give a brief summary.’ His loud nasal voice commanded attention. He talked with his head slightly tipped back, so that he looked down the length of his nose at the audience. ‘In the winter of 1933, thousands of Japanese troops in northern China died from cholera and a fever epidemic prevalent on the China–Russia border, and thousands more died or lost limbs as a result of frostbite. These three afflictions dealt a harsh blow to our expansion, and so, with the support of the Army Medical College, I began developing a treatment for frostbite and a vaccine for cholera and the fever epidemic. In the four years since the Epidemic Prevention Research Group was established, I have expanded its focus to include the bubonic plague as well.

  ‘We’ve recently completed building a new compound twenty miles from the city of Harbin in northeast Manchukuo. It is the first of its kind: a compound of more than sixty thousand square feet dedicated to epidemic research and prevention. As well as dormitories for workers, there are recreational theatres, swimming pools, bars, restaurants and, of course, laboratories with the most advanced technology in the world. The true purpose of the facility is concealed from the local community through the disguise of a lumber mill. We’ve even started calling our test subjects maruta. It started as a joke, but “logs” has turned out to be a convenient euphemism, so we have persisted with the term.

  ‘Although we are still in the early stages of research, our experiments with logs have proved enormously successful. Take, for example, the fever epidemic. Ticks collected from rats that tested positive to the virus were ground and mixed into a saline solution, which was injected into a group of logs. After nineteen days, most of this group showed mild symptoms of the disease. We took their blood samples and injected them into another uninfected group of logs. This time, after only twelve days, symptoms of infection became apparent. These logs were then dissected, their organs ground and mixed with a saline solution, which was in turn injected into a new group of logs. By repeating this process continuously we were able to successfully isolate a pathogen in a few months. Being able to conduct research in this way has delivered unparalleled knowledge, which we’ve already passed on to the army to minimise further loss of life.

  ‘Our research into frostbite prevention and treatment has been similarly rewarding. By subjecting logs to repeated exposure to cold air and cold water over weeks, we’ve ascertained that wet cotton clothing more often results in gangrene, and that the most effective method of treating frostbite is to soak affected areas in a warm bath of one hundred degrees Fahrenheit.’ He turned to his assistant. ‘Make sure you circulate those photographs.’

  Having seen the specimen jars already, I thought I knew what to expect. The photos reached me first. I leafed through the black and white images: swollen fingers, blistered toes, blackened faces, and grotesque, rotting flesh that shrivelled and puckered to reveal bone. The final photo depicted a child’s chubby hands, the tips of the fingers all black.

  That evening, after finishing my notes and cleaning my equipment, I decided to leave work earlier than usual. Since the afternoon, pain had gathered and throbbed at my temples. Yamamoto was nowhere to be found, and I hadn’t seen Shimada since Ishii’s lecture. Nomura and Ota were still hunched over their microscopes, their coats aglow beneath the overhead lights. Without saying anything to them, I slipped away.

  As I made my way down the corridor, I heard laughter coming from within Shimada’s office. Voices overlapped and merged together. Not wanting to be caught leaving early, I stopped short, but my foot scuffed the floor.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Shimada called.

  ‘Just me, Ibaraki.’

  ‘Ibaraki? Come here.’

  I presented myself in the doorway. Shimada, Kimura, Lieutenant Colonel Ishii and Yamamoto were arranged in the tiny office on an assortment of chairs and stools. An almost-empty bottle of whisky sat on Shimada’s desk. They must have been drinking all afternoon, as they were all red-faced—especially Yamamoto, who slumped against the desk, his head lolling on his neck. He smiled at me, blinking slowly like a cat. I was surprised to see him mixing with our superiors, but then I remembered he was a relative of Kimura’s and they occasionally socialised together. Seated next to Yamamoto, Kimura seemed to be asleep, nursing an empty cup in his lap. Ishii appeared the most sober. He gazed at me evenly with his long legs stretched before him.

  ‘Aren’t you leaving a little early?’ Shimada looked at his watch.

  As I had already changed out of my laboratory clothes, I couldn’t deny that I had intended to go home. ‘I’m sorry, sensei. I was trying to find you to ask if I could go home. I have a terrible headache. I’ll come in early tomorrow to make up for it.’

  Shimada drew himself up. ‘A headache? Our soldiers are risking their lives and yo
u have a headache?’

  I blinked. His expression was severe. A moment later, however, he burst into laughter and the others followed.

  ‘Stop pestering him and give him a drink.’ Ishii reached for the bottle. ‘No, I’ve got a better idea. We’ll go out. I know a great place just a short ride away. We can take one of your cars, can’t we?’

  Kimura scowled, his eyes still closed. ‘No, not another one of your geisha nights. I’ve had enough of them.’ His words were thick, as if his tongue was swollen.

  ‘Fine then, we’ll take mine.’ Ishii stood up. ‘What are we going to do about your cousin, Kimura? He looks a little queasy.’

  Yamamoto jerked his head up, struggling to keep his eyes open.

  ‘Not my cousin . . .’ Kimura muttered.

  ‘Ibaraki will take care of him,’ Shimada said. ‘Yamamoto and Ibaraki are good friends. They sometimes go out together after work. Isn’t that right?’

  I hesitated, trying to think of how to respond. As if in silent protest, pain shot behind one eye—a pain so intense that I had to close my eyes. I pictured Kayoko beside me as I lay in darkness at home. But I knew I couldn’t refuse the invitation. When I opened my eyes, Shimada was on his feet, his coat under one arm while he tidied his desk. Even Kimura was rising from his chair, a surly expression on his face.

  Ishii clapped his hands together and turned to me with a look of delight. ‘So it’s decided. You will come.’

  The tea house was in Kagurazaka, an area I had only visited once before, during the day. We turned off the main thoroughfare, and the streets narrowed, feeding into a crisscrossing network of alleys, many only wide enough for two people to pass. They were not like the grimy, rubbish-strewn lanes in other parts of Tokyo. Kagurazaka’s alleys were cobblestoned and swept clean; lanterns hung outside the doorways of restaurants and tea houses, emitting a soft light. As we left the car and made our way down one of the narrowest passageways, now and then a door opened, and a hubbub of voices and music spilled onto the street. I was gripped by the feeling that I didn’t belong. Although I was from a reasonably well-to-do family, this was a world hitherto unknown to me.