The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by Неизвестный

  Since this morning, it’s been nothing but war songs on the radio. They went all out. They broadcast one after the other, until I wondered whether they wouldn’t run out at some point, and then they ended up pulling out those old, old chestnuts: “We’ll beat the enemy, no matter how many thousands there are,” and stuff like that. I burst out laughing to myself. I felt affection for the broadcast station, how innocent they were. My husband absolutely hates radios, and so we’ve never had one in our house. And then, until now, I’ve never especially wanted to have one myself. But at a time like this, I found myself thinking: Wouldn’t it be great if we had one ourselves? I wanted to keep up with every bit of news. I think I’ll talk to my husband about getting one. Somehow I have a feeling now he’d buy us one.

  As noon approached, I could hear important news reports coming in one after the other, and I couldn’t stand it any longer. I grabbed Sonoko up in my arms, went outside, stood under the colored autumn leaves of my next door neighbor’s trees, and listened avidly to their radio. Surprise attack, landing on Malay Peninsula. Attack on Hong Kong. Imperial edict declaring war. As I hugged Sonoko, I couldn’t keep the tears from coming. I went back to the house and interrupted my husband’s work to tell him all the news I’d just heard. He listened to it all and then said, “So that’s it,” and he laughed. Then he stood up and sat down again. He seemed to be unable to settle down.

  A little after noon, my husband somehow or other managed to finish up one of his pieces of work, and he left the house in a rush, taking the manuscript with him. He was taking the manuscript to the magazine company office, but I could tell from how he looked that he was probably not going to be home until late again. Somehow, whenever he ran away in such a hurry, he usually got home quite late. But as long as he didn’t stay out all night, I didn’t mind how late he got home.

  After I saw him off and finished up a simple lunch of grilled sardines, I put Sonoko on my back and went out to do my shopping by the station. Along the way I stopped off at Mr. Kamei’s house. We had gotten a bunch of apples from my husband’s family in the country, and I wanted to give some of them to the Kameis’ Yume-chan (their sweet five-year-old daughter), and so I had wrapped up a few and brought them with me. Little Yume was standing at their gate. When she caught sight of me, she immediately ran clattering into the vestibule and started calling out: Mother, Sonoko-chan is here. Sonoko apparently had a big friendly smile as she looked at Mrs. Kamei and her husband from my back, and they made a great fuss over her. Mr. Kamei, wearing a windbreaker, came out to the vestibule with a somehow brave attitude; and saying that he had been stuffing straw mats under the veranda, he went on:

  “Somehow, crawling around under the veranda is hardly any better than landing in the face of the enemy. I apologize, looking as messy as I do.” What on earth was he doing, laying straw mats under the veranda, I wondered. Was he planning to crawl in there if there should be an air raid? It was all quite strange.

  But then Mrs. Kamei’s husband, quite unlike my own husband, did truly seem to love his family, and I felt envious. I hear that he loved them even more before, but ever since we moved into the neighborhood, my husband had gotten him into drinking, and he wasn’t as devoted as he’d been. His wife must hate my husband, for sure. I felt apologetic toward her.

  In front of the Kameis’ gate there were all kinds of things in case of air raids: fire-beater brooms, some sort of weird rake, and the like. They were all prepared. There was nothing at my house. My husband is lazy, and so there’s nothing I can do.

  “My, you have prepared well,” I said. He answered cheerfully:

  “Well, yes, you see, it’s because I’m the leader of the neighborhood assistance group.”

  Actually, he’s just the assistant leader, but the leader is an elderly man, and he’s helping him out, his wife explained to me, whispering. Mrs. Kamei’s husband is truly a hard worker, and the difference between him and my husband is like between day and night.

  I had some cake with them and then said my good-byes in front of the door.

  Then I went to the post office and picked up a sixty-five-yen manuscript payment that Shinchō magazine sent and headed for the market. As usual, there wasn’t much choice. Sure enough, again there wasn’t anything to buy but squid and dried sardines. Two pieces of squid, forty sen. The sardines, twenty sen. And again, at the market, the radio.

  Serious news reports were announced one after another. Air attacks on Philippines, Guam. Major bombing of Hawaii. American battle fleet totally destroyed. Imperial government proclamation. I was ashamed at how badly I was trembling. I wanted to give thanks for everyone. As I stood rigidly in front of the market’s radio, two or three other women gathered around me, wanting to hear it for themselves. The two or three became four or five and then around ten.

  I left the market and then went to the concession at the station to buy my husband’s cigarettes. The town looked just as it always did. The only thing that was different was that a piece of paper had been posted in front of the vegetable store with the radio news written on it. The scene in front of the store and people’s conversation were not much different from what they usually were. The silence was reassuring. And today I had a little money, so I resolved to get myself some shoes. I hadn’t known at all that starting this month, there would be a 20 percent tax levied on things like this that cost more than three yen. I should have bought them at the end of last month. But to give up buying them seemed stingy, and I didn’t want to do it. Shoes, six yen, sixty sen. And then other shopping: face cream, thirty-five sen. Envelopes, thirty-one sen. Then I went home.

  Soon after I got back, Mr. Satō of Waseda University came by to say that he was graduating and that at the same time he’d decided to get a job with a particular company, and he wanted to pay his respects; but unfortunately my husband wasn’t home, and I felt bad for him. I told him from the bottom of my heart to take care of himself, and I bowed deeply to him. Right after he left, Mr. Tsutsumi from Tokyo Imperial University stopped by. Happily, he, too, had graduated; he said that he had taken his physical for the draft, but he’d turned out to be 4F and felt bad about it. Both Satō and Tsutsumi had been wearing their hair quite long, but now they’d had it all cleanly shaved off; and I found myself deeply moved: wow, it’s really tough for students, too.

  In the evening, Mr. Kon came by for the first time in a while, twirling his walking stick. But my husband wasn’t home, and I felt really bad for Mr. Kon. Really—it’s such a shame when he comes all the way to this backwoods part of Mitaka for this specific purpose, and then my husband’s not here, and he has to go home just like that. How awful he must feel all the way back. As I thought about it, I felt a dark feeling growing inside me.

  While I was getting dinner together, the neighbor wife came over to tell me that the December saké ration coupons had arrived and to consult with me about what to do. We had gotten coupons for only six two-quart bottles to divide among the nine households of the neighborhood association. First we thought about doing it in turn but realized that every household would want some, and so in the end we decided to divide the six bottles into nine portions. We quickly gathered together a bunch of bottles, and then she went out to the Ise store to buy the saké. Because I was right in the middle of preparing dinner, I was excused from going with her. When I reached a stopping point, I put Sonoko on my back and went to see where things stood. I could see several members of our neighborhood association coming toward me on their way home, each one carrying a bottle or two. I, too, quickly had them hand me a bottle to carry, and I went back with them. Then, right by the entryway of the association leader’s house next door, the division of saké into nine portions began. We lined up the nine bottles in a straight line right next to one another and carefully, carefully compared their fill levels, in order to fill each one to the same height. To divide six two-quart bottles into nine portions is no easy matter.

  The evening paper came. It was four pages, quite unusual. “War D
eclared between Empire and U.S.” was in big headlines. For the most part, what was written in the paper was what I had been hearing on the radio news all day. But I read every last word anyway and felt the same deep feelings welling up.

  I ate my dinner alone and then put Sonoko on my back and went to the public bath. Oh, giving Sonoko her bath is absolutely the happiest moment of my day. Sonoko loves the bath, and when I put her into the warm water, she quiets right down. She paddles her hands and feet around and looks up steadily right into my face as I hold her in my arms. It almost makes me feel uneasy. The other people, too—they seem to find their babies so, so unbearably dear, and when they are in the water, each one nestles her cheek on her own baby. Sonoko’s little belly is as round as if it had been drawn by a compass, and it is white and soft as rubber shoes. I find it amazing to realize that she came perfectly provided right in there with a little stomach, a little coil of intestine. And then a little below the center of her belly, her belly button is stuck on like a little plum blossom. Whether I look at her hands, or her feet, everything about her is so beautiful and sweet that I am absolutely carried away by her. No matter what little garment I put on her, it is not equal to the loveliness of her naked body. When we have to get out of the hot water and I have to dress her, I feel a sense of loss. I want to stay right there, hugging her little naked body.

  When we went to the public bath, it had been light on the road, but on our return, it was now totally dark. We were under a blackout. This was no drill anymore. I felt an unusual tightening in my heart. But then, mightn’t this be just a bit too dark? I had never before walked down a road as dark as this one. I continued on, step by step, almost feeling my way, but the road was long, and I began to feel worried. The place where the fennel fields extended to the cedar forests, it was truly dark and terrible. I suddenly remembered when I was in the fourth grade of girls’ school how terrible it was to have to ski from Nozawa Hot Springs to Kijima in the middle of a blizzard. In place of the backpack I’d had on my back then, now Sonoko was sleeping on my back. Sonoko was sleeping without a thought.

  From behind me I heard very unsteady footsteps and a man singing completely out of tune: “We have been commanded by our lord. . . .” Two distinctive harsh coughs told me clearly who it was. “You’re making trouble for Sonoko,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” he said. “The trouble with you all is that you don’t have faith. That’s why you have trouble on a night road like this. Now I have faith, and so the night road is just like full daylight to me. Follow me,” he said as he plodded on ahead of us.

  Truly, I was disgusted with my husband. Is he even sane?

  ISHIKAWA TATSUZŌ

  Ishikawa Tatsuzō (1905–1985) was one of the first writers to visit the battlefields of the war between Japan and China. His alarming account of what he witnessed, Soldiers Alive (Ikite iru heitai), was first published shortly after he returned to Japan in 1938. His work was instantly banned, however, and the complete text was made available only after the war.

  SOLDIERS ALIVE (IKITE IRU HEITAI)

  Translated by Zeljko Cipris

  Chapter 2

  On the eleventh of November, having overrun Dachang-zhen and Suzhou to encircle Shanghai, the northern units joined up near Sijing-xian with the southern units, which had landed at Hangzhou Bay, crossed Huanpu River, and marched north. Shanghai was totally surrounded. It was at this juncture that the main force of the Takashima division sailing out of Dairen entered the Yangtze River delta.

  The ships steamed upriver, cleaving the turbid water. Soldiers were warned to stay in their berths; coming out onto the decks was dangerous. Standing on the deck, buffeted by the river wind, Commander Nishizawa and his adjutant closely watched the riverbanks through the binoculars. The land rose a mere two or three yards above the water surface and was flat as a board, so they could see nothing but a long horizontal line of grass and willows along the banks. Above this line, dozens of airplanes flew furiously about. The mopping up of the enemy remnants in Pudong was, on this day, being carried out with the utmost ferocity. Black smoke rose to the sky from countless fires; at intervals the dull roar of the big naval guns reverberated in the wind.

  At length some twenty ships anchored upstream came into view. They were all Japanese troopships, flying the Rising Sun flags, numbers painted on the sides. The newly arrived ships merged with this flotilla and lowered their anchors. The men were now in the vicinity of the Wusong fort; what looked like gutted pillboxes were visible through binoculars. The sensation of having reached the front was powerful. Men’s nerves, relaxed ever since sailing out of Dairen, grew tense once more.

  A three days’ supply of field rations were distributed. The ships remained at anchor for the night.

  “Each of you’d better write a letter home. We’ll have the captain collect them. It might be the last letter you write. The enemy this time are the crack troops of the Chinese army.”

  Second Lieutenant Kurata took off his jacket to get ready for bed. His voice was extremely gentle as he spoke to his men. A bold platoon leader who fought flushed with rage muttering “Damn you!” over and over, he addressed his own troops with the calm affection of an elementary school teacher, an affection that seemed uppermost in the heart of the thirty-one-year-old unmarried officer.

  We warriors face

  Death with open eyes.

  Crickets in the grass,

  Hush your trilling cries.

  In the stillness of the berth, interrupted only by the sound of the river waves, the voice rose and fell with a strange emotional power. When the song had ended, he turned his face away and cried. His was not the sadness of a man going into battle or fearing violent death. It was, rather, the unendurable sadness brought on by the spectacle of 180 men around him silently waiting to be killed in tomorrow’s battles. This spiritual oneness that kept even a single soldier from muttering against the imminent doom struck him as worthy of tears. Hirao was a romantic young man who had worked as a proofreader for a city newspaper. His highly receptive, delicate nerves, out of keeping with his large bodily frame, could not but helplessly shatter in the harsh world of the battlefield. Coming to animate him instead was a kind of desperate belligerence. After arriving at the front, he had suddenly learned to boast. With the skill of a professional storyteller, he delivered vivid accounts of cutting down the foe. This was his romanticism in its new form. During the war’s quieter moments, however, his delicate feelings revived and threw him into utter confusion.

  “Hirao, aren’t you going to write any letters?” asked First Class Private Kondō, who lay nearby writing yet another in a growing heap.

  “I’m not!” snapped Hirao.

  “Why not?”

  Hirao said nothing for a while. At last, pulling a blanket over his head, he declared conclusively, “Those people at home have no idea how I feel.”

  Kondō lifted his pen from the paper and gazed at his friend’s reclining form. He thought he fully understood Hirao’s feelings, but he did not share them. “So what if they don’t? Write anyway! When you’ve finished, you’ll feel so refreshed, dying won’t bother you.”

  “Heh, heh, he talks as though he knows!” guffawed Corporal Kasahara, who had been licking his pencil and writing postcards. Second son of a farming family, he possessed no learning whatsoever, but had an unshakeable heart, all the more unquestioningly steady in his present circumstances.

  Footsteps of the guards patrolling the deck—now approaching, now receding—rang overhead throughout the night. Visible through the portholes, the sky over Pudong blazed a festering red.

  Early the following morning Lieutenant General Takashima, who had been sailing on a different ship, boarded a launch accompanied by the divisional staff and adjutants and set off up the Huangpu River. They were going to the headquarters, the soldiers rumored. In the afternoon the officers returned to their ship.

  That evening perhaps a hundred smaller vessels swarmed around the troopships.
Where they had come from was a mystery. They ranged in size from twenty to sixty tons. The sun was beginning to set. The soldiers shouldered their knapsacks, loaded the rifles, and boarded the smaller craft one by one, groping for footing in the deepening darkness. Two destroyers had somehow materialized alongside the ships.

  Just then, a brilliantly illuminated passenger ship of about a hundred tons came steaming up the river as if meaning to cut through the throng of smaller craft. “Wuchang, Great Britain” proclaimed the great white letters beneath the Union Jack. It was almost as though the ship had appeared in order to observe the units going ashore.

  Men of the Kurata platoon packed themselves tightly into a vessel named Nagayama-maru, which resembled a river steamer. They could not budge once they had sat and embraced their rifles and knees. The river night wind moaned in their ears, bringing with it the early winter’s chill.

  At one hour past midnight they received orders to proceed upriver. One of the destroyers led the way; the other, on full alert, patrolled ceaselessly up and down the line of boats. Neither stars nor moon shone on this cloudy night, nor a single light on land or water. Only the sky over Pudong to the rear burned as red as the night before. The voyage was extremely slow. The soldiers spoke in whispers and shivered with the cold; half of them had not yet been issued their winter coats.