The Investigation

by Jung-myung Lee

  Sugiyama felt himself flush. ‘You want to steal confiscated books? It’s a death-wish!’

  ‘No, no. I won’t steal them. That would be too obvious. I’ll just borrow one a week. I promise to return it, after I’m done translating it.’

  ‘Why would I let you do that? For free? I’m no Jesus Christ!’

  ‘You’ll be paid handsomely for your contribution.’ Sugiyama snorted. What could he expect in payment from a prisoner?

  ‘Do you remember telling me that I had to start writing poems again?’ Dong-ju asked. ‘That’s what you’ll get. I’ll write poems and translate them into Japanese for you. What do you think? Is that fair?’

  Sugiyama didn’t hesitate. He caught himself nodding fervently.

  A sudden worried look passed over Dong-ju’s features. ‘Why are you trying to help me?’

  ‘I’m not.’ Sugiyama stared at him. ‘I’m just trying to help myself.’

  ‘You might be accused of being a traitor.’

  ‘You’ve become as powerful as Choi,’ Sugiyama explained. ‘My goal is to keep you inside these walls. I’m agreeing to your plan so that I can keep you here.’

  Dong-ju let it go. Beauty would yet purify the underground torture chamber, once soaked with Korean blood and tears.

  I shook my head in disbelief. Dong-ju had turned against Choi with Sugiyama’s help. Choi had killed Sugiyama while also protecting Dong-ju. The three created a labyrinthine tangle. Where to start unravelling the knot?

  ‘Did Choi ever find out about your betrayal?’

  Dong-ju nodded. ‘At the end of summer he came to me after a stint in solitary. His eyes were burning with rage. He’d discovered my tunnel. He tried to strangle me, shouting, “Why did you dig your own tunnel, you rat?” I told him it was a way to freedom, just like his tunnel. I mean, who was to say that either one would work? And I knew he wouldn’t kill me or report me. I don’t know how I knew that, but I did. He said, “We’re both digging to get out of this place. I guess it’s good to have more than one route. All I can do is hope that my tunnel will save me.” I said a prayer for our two tunnels to free us in our separate ways. We didn’t say anything else about the subject after that.’

  ‘Choi kept your underground library secret this whole time,’ I mused. ‘He must have known that talking about your tunnel wouldn’t help his cause.’

  ‘For all Koreans, Sugiyama was someone who deserved to die. At first, I thought Choi killed him, too.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s not the murderer?’

  ‘When Sugiyama died, several Koreans saw Choi in the underground library. He couldn’t have killed him.’

  ‘Then why didn’t they say anything?’

  ‘Because Choi was going to be executed anyway, for his escape plot. Why send another to his death? I’m sure everyone wanted to protect whoever it was that killed Sugiyama.’

  Dong-ju’s words struck me as if I’d been winded. Had I accused an innocent man? He was going to die because of me. How would I prove now that he didn’t kill Sugiyama? I had to start all over again. ‘Then who killed Sugiyama?’

  A dark smile appeared on Dong-ju’s pale face.

  Was that the smile of a murderer wearing the mask of a poet? Suspicion and fear spread like a vine in my head. Was Dong-ju lying to me? He had fooled Choi, after all. ‘You blamed Choi to hide the fact that you killed Sugiyama!’ I cried. ‘Your tunnel led to the inspection ward, which is connected to the central facilities!’ My voice trembled.

  Dong-ju assumed a cold expression. ‘And why would I kill him?’

  ‘Because he found out about the underground library! He knew you stole those books. You silenced him to keep your secret safe. You murderer!’ My voice choked with rage. I wanted to punch him. He’d made me falsely accuse another man.

  He looked at me sympathetically, as though he understood.

  I walked along the dark corridor. My boots were as heavy as lead. Dong-ju’s insistence that Choi wasn’t the murderer confused me. If Dong-ju had killed Sugiyama, he’d committed a perfect crime. Choi was already accused of it. But Dong-ju went out of his way to insist that it wasn’t Choi, even though he must have known I would suspect him next. Or perhaps he was urging me, in his subtle way, to find the real murderer, chastising me for accusing an innocent man. I was back at the beginning, inundated with questions, without a single answer. Titles on those black books swam into my hazy, muddled head. Government publications had been smuggled into the underground space to be reborn as new books – The Birth of an Empire became Les Misérables, Regulations for Actions in War became The Poetry of Francis Jammes.

  I took the incineration log and a lamp and headed to the inspection library. I lifted the wooden board; dust and the dank odour of mould washed over me. I ran down the stairs. I pushed aside the construction materials and found the waist-high entrance to the tunnel. I examined the wall, bringing the lamp closer. Inside the tunnel I noticed sharp marks from a shovel carved in the hard dirt wall; the way they were cut into the dirt showed that the digging had commenced from the library. So Sugiyama had not only supplied the books. No wonder he had dirt on his uniform. Dong-ju had been telling the truth. Sugiyama hadn’t stumbled upon the secret plan; he’d had a crucial role in creating it. Sugiyama Dozan, that feared guard of the Empire, had wilfully betrayed everything it stood for.

  Who was he really? And who exactly had killed him?

  THE TRUTH DOES NOT LEAVE FOOTPRINTS

  The next day I dragged myself to Maeda’s office, feeling embarrassed, fearful and guilt-ridden. Maeda was stirring lumps of coal in the furnace with tongs, his cheeks ruddy.

  ‘I’ve discovered something new in regard to the murder of the guard,’ I announced.

  ‘And what is that?’ he asked, bored. ‘Did Sugiyama’s ghost tell you something?’

  I swallowed hard. My lips felt stuck together, as though a spider had spun a web in my mouth. ‘I believe we have the wrong man.’

  Maeda tossed the tongs aside and turned round to look me squarely in the eyes. ‘What are you talking about? You’re the one who investigated the murder. You said it was Choi. You’ve been given a medal and promoted to corporal. And now you’re saying you’d reached the wrong conclusion?’

  ‘There was an error in the investigation. Circumstantial evidence pointed strongly to Choi, who, as you know, confessed. But there are still unresolved issues.’

  ‘This prison is filled with unresolved issues! For example, why don’t these filthy Koreans disappear from the earth? Why do soldiers of the Empire have to take care of them? Everything is an issue. That doesn’t mean there are answers.’

  ‘If Choi killed Sugiyama, there would have been footprints at the entrance to the central facilities. If you remember, it snowed that night. But there were no footprints at the scene of the murder or in the yard leading up to the building.’ Of course I knew that the lack of footprints had nothing to do with Choi’s innocence, since he could have entered the central facilities through the tunnel leading to the underground library. But I wasn’t about to reveal that secret. To get at one truth I had to hide another; I was playing a dangerous game.

  ‘I suppose they could have got erased by the guards’ or the prisoners’ footprints.’

  ‘That night all the prisoners were in their cells. I have another question.’

  ‘How many goddamn questions do you have?’ Maeda snapped.

  ‘Why didn’t Sugiyama report Choi’s tunnel? And why hasn’t Choi been executed for digging it?’

  The damp coal in the furnace crackled. Maeda waved his hands impatiently. ‘Enough! You intellectuals never know when to put a stop to things. You’re over-thinking it. When you’re not sure, the very first thought that comes to you is usually the right one.’

  ‘But Sugiyama was so thorough. Why would he look the other way when a prisoner tried to escape? And why would that prisoner be allowed to live? Neither of these things should have happened at a place like Fukuoka Prison.’

&nbs
p; Maeda looked uncomfortable. ‘So you have a lot of questions. But you’re a soldier! Your job is to take orders.’

  I straightened my shoulders. ‘Sir, I’m not resisting an order. As an investigator—’

  Maeda’s voice sliced through mine. ‘You’ve wrapped up that incident!’

  I forced myself to keep talking. ‘But if Choi isn’t the murderer . . . If it wasn’t Choi, then who killed Sugiyama? Who’s the real murderer?’ I looked down at my feet.

  ‘Yuichi,’ Maeda said gently. ‘The investigation is over. Stop picking at scabs. It doesn’t matter who killed him. All Koreans are the same. They’re not worth being kept alive.’

  Although I had begun this investigation only under orders, now I found myself unable to let it rest. I still had no idea what had happened. What was behind Sugiyama’s mysterious actions, the secret tunnel and the underground library?

  Maeda raised his voice. ‘You need to realize how serious the war situation is. Every day young men are dying on one battle-front after another. Sugiyama was just one of them. It’s like pouring a small gourd of water into the Pacific. Obsessing over a closed investigation is an affront to their memories. Understood?’

  I turned around woodenly and walked out of the office, feeling his gaze burning into the back of my head.

  Maeda’s voice flew at me like a leather whip. ‘By the way, I’m assigning you to take over Sugiyama’s other duties. You must censor the sheet music for the concert, escort the chorus and watch over them during practice.’

  The grandfather clock rang ten times, like a heavy axe chopping down a tree. I was certain I would begin to fall very slowly, unable to stand upright any more.

  JESUS CHRIST, A HAPPY, SUFFERING MAN

  The cells were filled with cold, grey air. Twelve men were crammed in a space five metres wide by five metres long. Their breath formed tiny water drops that clustered on the walls. The stiff, frozen men waited impatiently for the beginning of labour; it was easier to live with the cold when they moved their bodies. They were starving, freezing and dying. Before falling asleep at night, they stared into the face of the person lying next to them. Nobody knew what would happen overnight; an invisible hand silently yanked souls away in the dark. In the morning the prisoners woke with moans, starting a new nightmare all over again. Lying on the frosted floor, their blood frozen, the men would turn their heads to check that their neighbours were still breathing.

  One day, as a man ate his meagre ration of rice, he announced, ‘If I die, don’t move my body until spring. My body won’t start rotting because it’s so cold. And you can have my share of the rice.’

  Indeed, nobody told the guards when someone died. The prisoners would rather sleep next to a corpse, if they could fill their hollow stomachs with a few more frozen balls of rice. They wished they were living a nightmare; at least they wouldn’t feel pain if they were dreaming. The men who were still alive ate the meals of the dead, then paid the price by digging graves in the frozen ground when the guards found out. They all believed they might be next.

  Soon, even the healthy men started to die. The prisoners liked to say that one could survive the year if one lived through the winter. As the season deepened, more and more men were assigned to receive medical treatment every week. The prisoners felt protected and cared for as the doctors listened to their hearts, measured their blood pressure and drew their blood. Depending on the results, the doctors prescribed infusions. The men entrusted their bare arms to gentle nurses in white masks. They hoped the warm solution entering their veins would invigorate their tired bodies and strengthen their feeble heartbeats. Their fellow cellmates eagerly waited for their return to hear every last detail. The men who’d received treatment exaggerated what they’d experienced, creating a fantastical infirmary, a place filled with bright light that wasn’t hot in the summer or cold in the winter, a paradise where angels in white caressed their wrists. Everyone wanted to be chosen, to revel in that special privilege. Weak, sickly men were treated as heroes. Before long, though, their dreams and fantasies crumbled. Those who were called into the infirmary saw no visible changes to their health. They became more subdued and talked less, but it wasn’t clear what the cause was. The patients began to tire of going to the infirmary. Eventually some of them wanted none of it, but it wasn’t in their power to decide.

  Dong-ju was selected to receive treatment at the beginning of winter. I discovered this one Monday morning when I didn’t see him in his work area. I felt a sense of foreboding. It began to snow as I ran across the yard. I didn’t believe in God, but I prayed that nothing had happened to him. As I ran into the main corridor of the central facilities I heard a guard shout authoritatively, ‘Step to it!’

  The solemn guard was leading thirty-odd prisoners. Dong-ju stood out among the grey faces. He smiled as always; his smile was luminous against the other pale faces, lustreless skin and muddy eyes.

  The guard spotted me. ‘I’m escorting prisoners to their medical treatment. What is it?’ He was a seventeen-year-old boy, but as he’d been conscripted even younger than I, he was at a higher rank. He should have been eating his lunch in a classroom or trying to stay awake while reading a grammar book or learning trigonometry or calculating the distance to the moon. But war made him a soldier. The youth became taciturn, learning how to destroy a man’s dignity before he could realize what dignity was.

  I approached Dong-ju. The escort guard cocked his head disapprovingly. While he paused, wondering if he should stop me or not, I grabbed Dong-ju’s elbow and tugged, forcing him to stumble out of line. He smiled faintly and shrugged as though to ease my worries, moving his parched lips. ‘I’m fine. I have a cold, but it’s nothing serious. It would be a cause for worry if you don’t get a cold or two in this kind of weather.’

  I looked him over, but he did seem fine.

  ‘I don’t know why I was chosen, but it’s a good thing,’ he said. ‘If I get treatment I’ll feel lighter and it’ll be easier to get through winter.’

  The escort guard shot Dong-ju a tense look. He limped back into line. The escort guard reported to another guard manning the gates the reason for the transport and the number of prisoners, and the line slowly passed by.

  The red prisoner’s garb looked like a baggy coat on Dong-ju because of his emaciated physique; he soon became invisible among all the other pale faces.

  I recalled a poem he’d sung out last night in the dark interrogation room, now cradled in my breast pocket like a ticking time bomb:

  CROSS

  The sunlight that used to chase me

  Is hanging on the cross

  On top of the church right now.

  The steeple is so tall

  How did it climb up there?

  The bells aren’t ringing.

  I pace, whistling,

  If a cross were allowed to me

  Like it was to

  Jesus Christ,

  A happy, suffering man,

  The poem still gave off warmth, as though Dong-ju’s breath was lingering over the words. I quietly recited the last stanza to myself. He wasn’t yet twenty-five when he wrote it, but he was already grappling with his death:

  I would bow my head

  And quietly let

  Blood blooming like flowers

  Trickle under the darkening skies.

  The previous night I’d ripped the poem out of the file. ‘There’s one stanza that doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘“Jesus Christ, a happy, suffering man.” It is surely contradictory.’

  Dong-ju gave me a faint smile. ‘Life isn’t always logical. Everything is contradictory.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Life is like that. It’s filled with falsehoods and filth and evil. But life is made up of these contradictions. Contradictions aren’t falsehoods. They’re a way to strengthen the truth. Jesus Christ’s suffering absolved mankind of its sins. That’s why he could be happy at the same time.’r />
  It did make sense. With shame I remembered the way I thoughtlessly treated the people closest to me. Perhaps a brutal era like this forced you to grow. Reality might appear gloomy, but life was even more valuable because of it. Still, I was troubled. ‘You’re not Jesus Christ!’ I shouted at him. ‘You’re going to die like a dog!’

  He just looked at me sadly.

  The next day I stood waiting in front of the auditorium. A line of prisoners shuffled over from the other side of the corridor. Their pallid faces were cast with powerlessness and dejection. One man had ringworm from the top of his head down to his temples, another had red, chapped skin and blistered lips, and yet another had pale, cracked cheeks. They limped along, their shackles rubbing against their ankles. The sour smell of unwashed bodies wafted over. I stepped up to the guard, the same one who had escorted these prisoners to the infirmary the day before. The chains stopped clacking.

  He looked uncertainly at me. ‘What is it?’ he barked.

  ‘I am requesting your cooperation, sir.’

  He tensed at my use of formality. I assumed a gentle expression, but continued stiffly. ‘The chorus is nearing the end of rehearsals. They are improving, but they have stage fright. If they are thrown onstage like this they’ll be nervous. It’ll ruin their singing.’

  ‘And what does that have to do with me?’

  ‘If the chorus could practise singing to an audience before getting onstage, it would help ease their fear.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘These prisoners walk through this corridor every day for medical treatment. If they could stop and listen to the chorus practising even for five minutes, they’ll be able to perform better.’

  His eyes sparked with curiosity, but soon dulled again. ‘I have to bring these men to the infirmary on time.’

  ‘You know how important this concert is,’ I pressed. ‘Everyone will be in attendance, from the Interior Minister and the heads of police, to foreign ambassadors and consuls and their families. If something were to go wrong . . .’