‘That’s normal,’ I said, trying to brush aside his worries. ‘I sometimes think that Tolstoy wrote The Brothers Karamazov and André Gide wrote The Red and the Black. A man’s memory isn’t perfect. We have the ability to remember, but also an ability to forget.’
Dong-ju looked around. Perhaps he was thinking about his own incinerated poems, pieces of him that perished without ever having touched another being. ‘Once, Sugiyama asked me why Koreans talked so much. He wanted to know what we talked about during our breaks.’
I’d always wondered about that, too.
Dong-ju glanced at me. ‘They talk about Jean Valjean, Jammes, Shakespeare.’
I must have misheard him. Was it possible? ‘How? Most of them don’t even know how to read.’
‘The men who went to solitary were literate, but they weren’t reading just for themselves. In one week they would memorize as much of a book as possible. They’d go back to their cells and tell their friends what they’d memorized. And the men who heard the stories remembered them. A few pages or a chapter or a poem at a time.’
Dong-ju smiled.
‘Cell 113 has Jammes’s book of poetry, Cell 115 has Les Misérables, Cell 119 has The Count of Monte Cristo. Our breaks were the marketplace for tales. Men would take turns telling others what they remembered. The men who heard those stories would repeat them. They shared and gave each other hope this way.’
So books were still alive, having laid down roots in someone’s heart. They were living and breathing inside this brutal prison.
Ten prisoners were assigned to transform the underground library into a bomb shelter. They built reinforcing beams and laid thick planks against the walls. The space quadrupled in size in a mere three days, so that it could comfortably shelter the forty-odd guards working in the central facilities.
Air raids continued daily. Death became even more commonplace. When the siren went off, we ran down to the basement. I would crouch against the dirt wall, imagining what was happening above ground. But the prisoners who actually built the bomb shelter were not only unprotected; they weren’t even told what to do in the air raids. They would hear everything – the propeller approaching in prelude to death, the wail of the siren, the explosions – without any means of escape. They could only pray that the bombs would fall elsewhere. Even as I waited out the bombings, I felt a deep shame; we’d left these men to die while we’d scurried into safety.
One day, while we were hunkered in the bomb shelter, we heard a loud explosion. The light bulb overhead flickered. Dirt rained down on us, but we all survived. We left the shelter, and my fellow guards were laughing and talking, thrilled to be alive, as though we were boys returning home after a game of hide-and-seek. I pushed through them and sprinted up to Ward Three, which had sustained minor damage. I found Dong-ju. He was alive, his head covered in white dust. His lips trembled when our eyes met.
EXCESSIVE HARDSHIP, EXCESSIVE FATIGUE
Dong-ju dragged his feet as he made his way towards the chair. His white ankles showed under his threadbare trousers. He creaked when he moved, like a shuttered window. He placed his interlaced fingers on the table. His thumbnail had cracked from the cold. His deep-set eyes watched mine. I’d brought him to the interrogation room because I wanted to know more about Sugiyama. Dong-ju’s memories were fading. I had to get all the information while I still could.
‘You must know who killed Sugiyama,’ I said bluntly.
‘Yes. This terrible era. Everyone goes insane. Everyone’s dying off.’ He didn’t sound like his usual self.
I didn’t say anything.
‘Being alive is the most beautiful thing,’ Dong-ju said, regaining his customary optimism. ‘Surviving this hell, Yuichi, means being cowardly. It’s better than meeting a hero’s death. You need to see this war through and witness the end of all the atrocities. Promise me that.’
‘Do you think Sugiyama wore the mask of evil to survive?’ I asked, changing the subject. He shook his head. ‘No, no. He was evil. But he was ashamed of being that way, which was why he was so brutal.’
‘What do you mean?’
Dong-ju glanced down at his hands, hesitating. ‘He wasn’t a war hero, you see. He was only a survivor. He hated himself for that.’
‘What does that have to do with how violent he was?’
‘He was punishing himself. He destroyed others, which ruined his soul. He closed his eyes to humanity and encouraged his own hatred and rage.’
That didn’t make any sense. The person who deserved sympathy was the victim of torture, not its perpetrator. I’d known Sugiyama – he was unfeeling towards another man’s pain. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. ‘Brutality is simply immoral. It’s not a way to punish yourself,’ I shot back. ‘Your theory might make more sense if he harmed himself or committed suicide.’
Dong-ju mulled over my words before nodding agreement.
‘That’s right, but you should know that he was a very sensitive soul. He was wounded and broken.’
‘And you’re wrong, by the way,’ I countered. ‘He was a war hero. He was surrounded by a Soviet mechanized brigade with dozens of tanks. At night, he attacked the enemy base. He dodged shells for two weeks before returning to headquarters.’
‘That’s not true,’ Dong-ju insisted. ‘The Army Ministry fabricated that story. They made him a hero because they needed to hide the fact that they had been defeated. He wasn’t a hero. He was a human being, just like the rest of us. He was someone who wanted to run away.’
‘What are you saying? He was never surrounded by the Soviets?’
Dong-ju paused. ‘Well . . .’
Actually, he had been surrounded. Sugiyama’s search party of nine had broken off from the rest of the unit in search of a retreat route. That was when the Soviets attacked. Four of the party died on the spot and Sugiyama was captured. Later, he couldn’t remember the details of the ten days of brutal torture he’d suffered. As evil ate away at his soul, he gradually turned evil, too. That was the only way to fight against it. As he had known only pain since birth, survival to him was winning; death was defeat, abandonment, shame.
The Soviets were insistent. They kept him dehydrated, then demanded that he tell them where his platoon was hiding out. When he refused, they taunted him, pouring iced water on the ground in front of him. He wouldn’t break. They kept him awake for three days straight; soon he wasn’t sure how many days had passed or even who he was. He fervently wished he could forget where the platoon was and its plans and signals, so that he wouldn’t accidentally say something. He fainted, came to, fainted again. Everything smelled like blood. His consciousness eroded; he spat out smashed fragments of words, not realizing what he was saying.
When he opened his eyes, he smelled something fresh instead of blood. He thought he’d died. He figured he was in hell. But when he looked around, it was as though he’d gone to heaven. There was a cup of water and a bowl of watery gruel by his bed. He was in a Soviet field hospital.
He touched his legs. His knees were skinned and parts of his flesh were burned, but nothing was broken. He looked out through a gap between the tent flaps. A soldier was standing guard at each of the four large tents of the field hospital. He had to escape. There was still hope. Even if they knew where the platoon was, his comrades would have moved by now. If he followed the signs they left behind, he might be able to rejoin them. Sugiyama pulled a tent stake out of the ground. He considered stabbing the guard and stealing his gun, but changed his mind; his goal was to escape, not to kill. He stretched his weak legs and looked around. A thick forest of birch trees began about a hundred metres from the tent.
He counted to three, closed his eyes and dashed out, kicking one leg out before the other leg touched the ground. A bullet might shatter his spine at any moment. The breeze rushed at him and whistled past his ears. Soon it was quiet. It smelled of fallen leaves. He opened his eyes. He’d made it into the dark woods. The forest embraced him. He couldn’t tell in which direction h
e was going; the thick branches slapped his face, the thin rays of light stabbed his eyes, roots grabbed his ankles and vines tangled his limbs. His tired legs trembled and he felt nauseated. Each time he was close to collapse, the thought of his platoon members kept him going. He walked all day and night, and another day and night until he arrived at the platoon’s hiding spot. There was no sign of his friends. They had already moved on to their next location, as planned. Two days later, he’d almost caught up with them. He hoped he would be forgiven for revealing their location. If he were fated to die, he wanted to die with them. He had just one more hill to climb before he could be reunited with his brothers. He was crawling up the steep slope when he heard the long whistle of death: a shell flying overhead. The forest erupted into chaos, with explosions, gunshots and screams.
Sugiyama hauled himself over the hill, pulling himself up by rocks and roots. Sweat and dirt clung to his body. When he got up to the top of the hill, he saw what had transpired. The Soviets had attacked his platoon. They’d been one step ahead of him. The trees were columns of fire. He practically rolled down the hill. The forest had burned to a crisp. The heat from the explosions warmed the bottom of his feet. He shouted the names of his friends. There was no answer. He was looking up at a far-away hill when a flash blinded him. He heard a gunshot that shattered the quiet and was knocked off-balance as though he had been clubbed. Hot blood trickled down from his shoulder. He laid his cheek against the ground, listening to the burning trees crackle; it sounded like music. He remembered the long, white fingers of the girl he once loved. This wasn’t a bad way to go.
When he woke again, the forest was cold. He opened his heavy eyelids. He saw the gaiters that were part of the Japanese military uniform. They belonged to a search squadron of the Kwantung Army mobilized to rescue the isolated platoon. They were too late. They’d only found one dying soldier. Sugiyama’s eyelids slid shut. He heard someone shouting, as though through a tunnel, ‘A survivor! Let’s evacuate!’ He heard urgent footsteps; his body was hoisted up. He’d performed his duty; he’d survived. For the rest of his life he wondered if he should have died in that forest. For a long time he couldn’t forget what he’d seen. In the meantime, a demon entered his soul and settled there.
I heaved a deep sigh. ‘So you’re saying Sugiyama was violent because he felt guilty. He was trying to atone for betraying his comrades.’
Dong-ju ran a hand through his bristly hair. ‘He might not have thought about it that way, but yes, that’s what happened.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘I believe he thought the torture he experienced caused everything that happened. If it weren’t for the torture, he wouldn’t have told them anything.’
‘What does that have to do with how he treated the prisoners here?’
‘Becoming evil might have been the only way for him to survive. Judas hanged himself after betraying Jesus,’ Dong-ju said cryptically. ‘But Sugiyama survived.’
I pondered Dong-ju’s words. So every time Sugiyama felt guilty, he remembered being tortured, and then he thought about his dead friends. An awful memory bred another evil; it was an unbreakable chain. ‘How could you possibly atone, if you keep doing bad things?’
‘I think he had to see with his own eyes that man is powerless in the face of pain. He had to assure himself that nobody could stand up to cruel treatment.’
I was having a hard time wrapping my head around all of it. ‘Did Sugiyama really tell the Soviets the location of his platoon?’
‘Nobody knows. He didn’t know. But he was still destroyed over it.’ Dong-ju shook his head.
‘I don’t think Sugiyama talked,’ I said quietly. ‘He should have realized that the Soviets were tricking him. They would have let him escape precisely because he didn’t talk. They must have followed him. And then, when he had led them there, they destroyed the platoon.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘If he had told them, his platoon would have been killed much sooner. Then he wouldn’t have witnessed the attack. His remorseful conscience is what destroyed his soul.’
I still wasn’t certain if Sugiyama had been a good man, and I still didn’t know what to make of his death.
THE CHORUS OF THE HEBREW SLAVES
It was February. Dong-ju’s release date inched closer. But now he often forgot when he would be released.
Some time after Sugiyama’s death, Dong-ju stopped writing letters for the prisoners. One day I pulled aside a friendly Korean prisoner who’d frequently sent out postcards, to ask him why they’d stopped.
He sighed. ‘We need good news to send out a postcard. If it’s bad news, it’s better if our friends and family don’t know.’
But then why had all those Koreans asked Dong-ju to write postcards for them in the first place?
‘That man has a talent for writing the worst news in the most beautiful way. It could be so cold that it might kill you, and he would write: Thanks to the cold, I’m feeling invigorated. Even though there are so many of us crammed into our cells, he would write: Thanks to the tight quarters, we can survive the winter. He never lied. He just framed our truths in warm, kind words that reassured the reader. He helped us think about terrible things in a good way. That’s why so many of us went to him. I wonder if he’ll ever help us write postcards again.’
I didn’t have an answer.
The war limped on. There was nothing to eat, nothing to wear and nothing left over. People starved; fear suffocated them. But the prison was roiling with excitement. In a week there would be a concert; it was the biggest event in the history of the institution. Warden Hasegawa rushed about, from the auditorium to the yard to the administrative offices, while Maeda prepared to host high-level officials from Tokyo, the choristers focused on final rehearsals and Midori fine-tuned their voices. Some officials declined to come to Fukuoka amid the continuing air raids, but the Interior Minister and an army general would still be attending.
Dong-ju seemed revitalized as the concert approached. He knew it would be impossible to hear anything from his cell; it was too far from the auditorium. The noisy machinery in the work area would drown everything out.
Two days before the concert he came up with an idea. ‘Yuichi,’ he said, his eyes sparkling, ‘I know how I can hear it.’
‘How?’
‘The concert’s on Monday. I’ll volunteer to receive medical treatment that day!’
The infusion room was on the same floor as the auditorium, so he might be able to hear something. But his plan was dangerous; he might only become weaker.
I shook my head firmly. ‘Your medical treatment schedule is Tuesday and Friday. It can’t be changed.’
‘Yuichi! Please!’
I couldn’t refuse him. His memories were slipping away like sand pouring through open fingers. He would do anything to fill his failing mind with music. The next day, after I escorted the choristers to the auditorium, I headed to the infusion room. I kept stopping in the long corridor, wondering whether to turn back. Finally I opened the door to the room and reported to the puzzled doctor that a prisoner wanted additional infusions. ‘It appears that the medication is starting to work. The patient has recovered and he does not tire during labour.’
A look of disbelief flashed across the doctor’s face. He excitedly asked for the prisoner number. Three numbers circled my head. It took me a while to spit out the numbers. ‘645.’
‘Wonderful!’ the doctor cried. ‘Bring him here at two on Monday! We’ll conduct a careful observation.’
I turned to leave. Had I finally become a murderer?
I woke up on the morning of the concert to a blanket of snow that had fallen silently overnight. The prison yard looked like a piece of white paper. As the sun rose, I escorted the singers across the yard to the auditorium. Inside, dozens of guards were scurrying about under Maeda’s direction. The stage was carpeted in red. There were enough seats for 300. I lined up the choristers backstage and finished
the head count. I looked at Midori. She led the final rehearsal, starting with simple individual vocalizations and organizing the men to then practise by voice part.
Some minutes past noon, a black car pulled up to the gates of the prison. Professor Marui, wearing a black tuxedo, got out. He immediately headed to the auditorium to inspect it. After the final stage check, he went into make-up. Black cars drove up to the main gates, spilling out men in tuxedos and dress uniforms and women in finery. They appeared uneasy about the unusual setting, but seemed oddly excited, too. Warden Hasegawa greeted each guest, smiling widely. Senior guards in well-ironed uniforms and nurses ushered the guests to the auditorium. The empty seats gradually filled. Then the concert began with everyone singing the ‘Kimigayo’. The stage lights were turned off and the curtain rose. Professor Marui, wearing tails, walked into the spotlight.
A guard checked the shackles around Dong-ju’s ankles before leading him out of the cell. They slowly proceeded towards the infirmary. The snow underfoot made angry grinding sounds and fluttered in the wind, but silenced the clanking of the shackles. As soon as they entered the infirmary building, Dong-ju could sense the expectation in the air. His footsteps became lively. A doctor greeted him with a smile in front of the infusion room and, as Dong-ju entered, he could hear a clear, sorrowful voice singing from far away:
Am Brunnen vor dem Tore
Da steht ein Lindenbaum:
Dong-ju closed his eyes.
The doctor spoke. ‘Prisoner number!’
‘645.’
Ich träumt in seinem Schatten
So manchen süßen Traum.
‘Name?’
‘Hiranuma Tochu.’
Und seine Zweige rauschten,
Als riefen sie mir zu:
‘When will you be released?’
’30 November 1945. In 298 days.’
Applause broke the short silence. Professor Marui wiped away the sweat on his forehead. The applause continued. He bowed deeply and disappeared backstage. The unceasing applause brought him out again. Backstage, I closed my eyes.
The Investigation Page 22