by Неизвестный
“Guzzling liquor at a woman’s place—unspeakable insolence!”
The sentry who presented arms at the barrack gate had an angry bark hurled at him. Beholding the battalion commander’s terrible visage, the commander of guards panicked into thinking he’d come to strike him with a whip.
“Adjutant!” He bellowed upon entering the room.
“Adjutant!”
As the adjutant appeared, he flung himself into a chair without bothering to unfasten his sword and snorted hard: “Immediate emergency roll call. Now, this instant!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also: mess hall is off limits to the Russians. Not one is to come near it. Absolutely no leftovers are to be given them. Not a crumb. Strictly forbidden.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all.”
As the adjutant withdrew to the adjoining room to issue the order, he shouted again:
“Adjutant!”
“Yes, sir.”
“About the roll call. If there are any latecomers, the company they belong to is to be sent to Iishi garrison duty instead of the first. They will not be permitted to remain here. That’s the penalty. Do as I say. At once.”
8
A company of soldiers walked mutely through the snow. They were tired and dispirited. The big arctic boots that sank into the snow at every step felt extremely heavy and cumbersome. Snow frequently reached up to their shins.
All were dejected and uneasy. The company commander’s face looked profoundly troubled.
The steppe, the road, and the river were each blotted out by snow. There was nothing to be seen except for scattered clusters of five or six withered trees with branches so laden with snow they looked exactly as if they’d born icy fruit. In every direction the only visible object was the expanse of dazzling white snow. There was no audible sound, not a solitary shout. The crunch of soldiers’ boots crushing the snow faded instantly as if absorbed by the sky.
They had been plodding through this wasteland since the early morning. For lunch they had nibbled bread and dried noodles and moistened their throats with snow.
Which way was Iishi?
From the top of a smallish hill on the right, a scout came running down, carrying a rifle in one hand and clutching the sword scabbard in the other. His arm seemed stretched to the limit by the weight of the gun. The weapon trailed in the snow. It was Matsuki.
Out of breath, he raced to the company commander’s side, made a great effort to lift up the rifle he’d been dragging, and strove to present arms. His hands were frozen and didn’t move as he wanted them to. He couldn’t elevate the rifle straight and properly in front of his nose.
Company commander regarded him with a disgruntled stare. His eyes brimmed with silent contempt for the bungled greeting.
Shortness of breath prevented Matsuki from uttering anything for a time. From his nostrils to his larynx, everything was parched and stiff like after running a marathon race. He tried to produce some saliva to wet his throat, but it refused to come up. He wanted to fall into the snow and rest.
“What happened?”
The company commander was looking daggers at him.
“The road— There’s—” Matsuki lacked the breath to go on. “There is no sign of the road.”
“What does the Russki say?”
“Yes, sir. Smetanin—” Again he fought for breath. “He says he has no idea because of the snow.”
“He’s useless. There’s supposed to be a big river and, on the other side of the road, a pine woods. Find the spot. If we come out there, we can get to Iishi in no time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get on the Russki’s back and make damn sure he’s guiding me straight.”
The company commander fumed as he walked.
“If need be, prod him with a bayonet for all I care. The snake is probably in cahoots with the partisans and leading us wrong on purpose. Don’t you dare take an eye off him for a second!”
“Yes, sir.”
Secretly hoping to be relieved, Matsuki marched side by side with the commander. He was deathly pale. All his muscles ached as if they’d been pummeled. He was in a daze, and his ears kept ringing.
“Hey, get going. Use your eyes.”
Like an aged horse spurred by a whip into wringing out its last ounces of energy, the tottering Matsuki broke into a trot, again trailing his rifle.
“Hey, Matsuki!” The company commander called him back. “You’re not just looking for a road, is that clear? I want to know if there are partisans, if there are any houses, and if you can see the railroad. So keep your eyes peeled.”
“Yes, sir.”
The scout scrabbled up the hill and vanished over the ridge. Takeishi and the guide Smetanin were waiting for him on the other side.
Ever since they’d left the main force at daybreak, Matsuki and Takeishi had been made to reconnoiter.
The company commander had stormed, showering them with abuse.
“Who do you think is responsible for this company’s being sent to guard Iishi? It’s the fault of you two bastards who scraped under the wire to go play with a woman!” Thoroughly angry, he’d fixed them with a fierce glare. “Does a company commander want to expose all his men to danger? This company is precious! And you two idiots made sure we’re all stuck with facing devil knows what kind of jeopardy! Soldiers don’t do such things!”
And then he had put them on the most backbreaking, hazardous duty.
Matsuki and Takeishi tramped through the piled up snow more than a thousand yards ahead of the company. Taking in the situation, they ran back on the double to make the report. They delivered it only to be ordered out in front again. The snow blinded them. They had to keep glancing forward and to both sides. Every time they returned to gasp out their reports, the company commander found something wrong and bawled them out.
“Won’t he relieve us yet?” asked Takeishi, sitting in the snow to rest.
“No.” Matsuki’s voice, too, was spiritless.
“What a mess. . . . I might as well stay here and freeze to death.”
Takeishi drew a sigh and seemed about to burst into tears.
The two resumed walking with Smetanin. Coming down the hill they reached a shallow valley. There followed a sluggish ascent. On their left rose a precipitous mountain. On the right, the snowy wilderness unfolded far into space.
Smetanin suggested they try climbing the mountain. Looking down from the top might enable them to grasp the lay of the land. The trouble was, they’d have to climb up, survey the position, and rush down, all in the time it took the company commander to arrive at the foot of the mountain. If they failed, they’d catch hell from him again.
In the folds of the mountain the snow was even deeper. Matsuki and Takeishi struggled upward, using their rifles for support. They came across bear tracks. Footprints of small, unknown animals were inscribed in all directions. Wormwood bent under the snow. The men’s boots tangled in shrub roots. The two felt dizzy, as if with a fever. The desire seized them to unfasten all their equipment, throw themselves into the snow, and rest.
The mountain at its crest linked up with the next. That mountain in turn connected with the succeeding one, and on they ran into the distance like a string of prayer beads.
As far as the eyes could penetrate, there was only the whiteness of snow. Smetanin clearly had no idea where he was.
Like a column of ants, the company was inching its way over the hill. In the wide, infinite snowy waste, it truly looked no more significant than a few insects.
“Take us anywhere you like, just take us,” pleaded the two desperately.
“You keep pushing me so much I get even more confused.” Smetanin swept off his fur hat and mopped the sweat on his forehead.
9
A thin, whitish dusk descended over the entire region. Which way to go?
Matsuki had often heard of tired people simply dropping into the snow and freezing where they lay.
E
xhaustion and hunger robbed the organism of its resistance to cold.
Was it possible for a whole company of men to die of cold in the snow? Could it be permitted to happen?
The soldiers had been sacrificed to a major’s lechery. They didn’t even know it.
Why had they been compelled to come to Siberia? Who had sent them? The answers, hidden behind clouds, were of course a mystery to them.
“We didn’t want to come to Siberia. We were forced to come.” —Even these facts they were now on the verge of forgetting.
I don’t want to die, thought each. One way or another I want to get out of this snow and live. Nothing but that.
It was Matsuki and Takeishi who had gotten them mired in the snow. And it also was Matsuki and Takeishi who had lost the way. —This is how the men reasoned. They didn’t understand that it was from much higher spheres the demons’ hands reached down to wield such power over them.
No matter how much the men hurried, only snow lay at the end of the journey. Their limbs were starting to turn numb. Consciousness began to take leave of them. A ruined hut—or anything—just a place to spend one single night!
But however far they walked, there was nothing except snow.
Matsuki was the first to collapse. Takeishi followed him. Matsuki still knew enough to realize his senses were getting blurred. But very soon his mind was in a whirl, and he could no longer distinguish the sequence of events or remember where he was. As in sleep, his consciousness slipped away.
His limbs grew stiff. Shortly his entire body turned as hard as wood and as still.
Snow fell.
Its white shroud drifted down to settle in successive layers on prone human flesh. It draped over the fallen soldiers so that before long the rucksacks, boots, hats all were concealed under the snow and not a trace remained to show where they lay.
Still it continued to snow.
10
Spring came.
Bright sunlight poured through gaps in the clouds. The bare trees had, unobserved, shaken off the oppressing snow. Flocks of sparrows chirped among the bushes and hopped happily around. Even the rumble of a troop train crossing the steel bridge had an exhilarating ring.
Snow was melting, and the water formed a delightful sound as it trickled ceaselessly through rain ducts.
Yoshinaga’s company had been detailed to Iishi. At the moment they were occupying a wooden hilltop building. Water dripping from the barrack eaves ran across a wilted lawn and, swelling into a minor torrent, flowed into the valley.
At the time that Matsuki and Takeishi’s company had strayed out of contact, the battalion commander had mobilized another company and conducted a search. The commander made it a point to appear worried. He went so far as to say he was inexpressibly sorry for the men’s families. Inwardly, however, he felt no concern whatsoever. He was relieved, in fact. The one thing that weighed on his mind, the sole important consideration, was what sort of report he should submit to the division commander.
The search went on for a week, but the company’s whereabouts remained as mysterious as before. The major seemed to have forgotten all about it. From the second floor of the headquarters he gazed in the direction of Galya’s house and whistled “The Red Setting Sun.”
Spring had come. And still no one knew where the company had so utterly vanished or why.
From the hilltop barrack Yoshinaga looked out over the immense plain whose snow had not yet totally thawed and marveled that he had survived. His own company had been detailed to go. One day before the scheduled departure, their orders had unaccountably been changed. Had they been forced to go on foot rather than by sled, some unknown dog would probably be chewing his bones by now.
Proceeding by foot through the snow of that depth amounted to sheer suicide.
Those who had sent them to Siberia did not give a damn whether the men were torn apart by guns or devoured by wolves. They took it for granted that a handful would die. If two hundred perished, that, too, was nothing. A soldier’s death meant less than a puppy’s. There were plenty more to be had. A single written notice sufficed to hunt them up.
To the left of the hill a train was passing.
There was a river, still coated with ice. Cows shambled over its frozen surface.
To the right stretched the savage, boundless plain.
Withered trees stood in it. The snow was taking a long time to melt.
Black as spilled ink, a flock of crows circled in midair. Their raucous, melancholy cries could be heard all the way to the barracks. There were so many they seemed to have assembled from all points of the horizon and, like a storm cloud, appeared intent on obscuring the sky.
Soon the crows began a clamorous descent. Alighting, they searched, tenaciously scratching and pecking at the snow.
The flock had been there the previous day.
It was there again today.
Three days had passed. But the number of crows, the noise and the gloom, continued only to increase.
One day a soldier patrolling the village came across a Russian peasant returning home with a rifle over his shoulder and a knapsack slung from its barrel. Both the gun and the knapsack were Japanese.
“Hey, hold it! Where did you swipe that from?”
“Over there.” The heavily bearded peasant raised a big arm and pointed toward the plain where the crows were flocking.
“It was just lying there.”
“Liar!”
“There are a lot of them in the snow over there. . . . A lot of dead soldiers, too.”
“You lying son of a bitch!” The soldier slapped the peasant hard across the cheek. “Move! I’m taking you to the headquarters.”
It became clear that Japanese soldiers were indeed buried in the snow. The insignia on the knapsack indicated it was Matsuki and Takeishi’s company.
The following day a company of men marched out to the spot over which the crows had been circling since the early morning. The crows were already swarming over the snow, striking greedily with their rapacious beaks.
As the soldiers approached, the crows, in a crescendo of cawing, soared cloudlike into the sky.
Partly devoured bodies lay scattered over the field. Their faces had been hideously mutilated and rendered unrecognizable.
The snow was nearly half melted. Water seeped into boots.
Screeching wildly, the flight of crows swooped to the ground some hundred yards away.
The soldiers saw them pecking and tearing amid the snow and started after them.
Again the crows whirled up, screeching and dropped down two or three hundred yards off. Corpses sprawled there too. The soldiers ran toward them.
The crows were gradually fleeing farther and farther—two miles, five miles—touching down in the snow all along the way.
ORIGUCHI SHINOBU
Origuchi Shinobu (1887–1953) is considered, along with his mentor Yanagida Kunio (1875–1962), to be one of the most prestigious modern scholars of Japanese folklore and early culture. Origuchi also was well known as a poet and a translator into modern Japanese of the earliest Japanese anthology of poetry, The Anthology of Ten Thousand Leaves (Man’yōshū). His one novel, Writings from the Dead (Shisha no sho), published in 1939, is a unique attempt to conjure up in fictional form the mental world of ancient Japan. The opening section is presented here.
WRITINGS FROM THE DEAD (SHISHA NO SHO)
Translated by J. Thomas Rimer
I
He awoke quietly from his sleep. In the midst of this black night, in this stagnation, made all the more oppressive by the cold, he remembered opening his eyes.
A soft sound. And again. Was the sound coming to his ears that of dripping water? Now, in the midst of what seemed to be this freezing darkness, the very lashes of his eyes seemed to separate by themselves.
His knees, then his elbows, seemed now to return slowly to his buried consciousness, and something echoed in his head. . . . The muscles in his body were growing stiff, yet there was s
ome kind of faint echo inside him as his body began to cramp from the palms of his hands to the bottom of his feet.
And then, always this dense darkness. The pupils of his eyes, which could look around as he opened his eyes ever so slightly, became conscious of the pressure of a dark rock ceiling. Then of an icy stone bed. On both sides of him hung walls of rough stone. And then that drip, drip, dripping sound of water from the stones.
Time passed. For the first time he took cognizance of the depth of his sleep. It had been long, long. Yet now it seemed to him that he had only continued on immersed in a series of shallow dreams. His drowsy thoughts seemed to link themselves together, piercing distinctly into his very eyes.
“Ah, Miminotoji.” These words came back into his memory, springing up again, echoing in his consciousness.
Ah Miminotoji. I still think of you. I did not just come here . . . yesterday. Was it yesterday? . . . Or the day before? . . . It was not then that I came here to sleep. I have been sleeping a much longer time. Ah, lady. Since before I came here . . . before I slept here . . . until now, when I can remember again, I have thought again and again, and about only one thing.
From so long ago, since the time of his ancestors, he had lived on this earth . . . such had been his custom. The man suddenly thought to get up. But he felt a pain as though his muscles would tear apart. It hurt him as though the very joints of his bones were being crushed. He remained still. Blackness as ebony. A white figure carved in the very walls made of huge stones, like dark jewels, he put forth his hands gravely, solemnly, yet gently.
Memories of Miminotoji. Only this in his deeply frozen memories. Then as his thoughts slowly began to spread themselves outward, he pulled along a train of short, associated memories, various appearances from the days that had passed. And then his clear will rose again, in the midst of his death-withered body.