by Shusaku Endo
The pushing against the door now stopped, and a man’s voice could be heard, low and plaintive: ‘Padre, Padre. … ’
This was not the signal of the peasants of Tomogi. They had agreed to give three gentle knocks on the door. Now at last Garrpe too was awake and without the slightest movement he strained his ears for the next sound.
‘Padre!’ The plaintive voice made itself heard again. ‘There’s nothing wrong. Don’t be afraid of us.’
In the pitch darkness we held our breath in silence. What sort of crazy official was laying a trap like this?
‘Won’t you believe us? We are peasants from Fukazawa. For a long time we have been longing to meet a priest. We want to confess our sins.’
Dismayed by our silence they had now given up pushing at the door, and the sound of their receding footsteps could be heard sadly in the night. Grasping the wooden door with my hands I made as if to go out. Yes, I would go. Even if this was a trap, even if these men were the guards, it didn’t matter. ‘If they are Christians, what then?’ said a voice that beat wildly in the depths of my heart. I was a priest born to devote my life to the service of man. What a disgrace it would be to betray my vocation from cowardly fear.
‘Stop!’ cried Garrpe fiercely. ‘You idiot. … ’
‘I’m no idiot. This is my duty.’
As I tore open the door, the pale white rays of the moon bathed the great earth and the trees in silver light. What a night it was!
Two men dressed in rags as though they were beggars crouched there like dogs. Looking up at me they murmured: ‘Father, won’t you believe us!’
I noticed that the feet of one of them was covered with blood where he had cut himself while climbing the mountain. Both of them were faint and ready to collapse with exhaustion. Nor was this surprising. They had made their way here from the Goto Islands twenty leagues away, a two-day journey.
‘We were on the mountain a while ago. Five days ago we hid over there and looked across in this direction.’ One of them pointed at the hill beyond our hut. So it was these men that had been watching us that evening.
We brought them inside, and when we gave them the dried potatoes that Ichizo had brought us they seized them greedily with both hands and thrust them into their mouths like beasts. It was clear that they had not eaten for two days.
And then we began to speak. Who on earth had told them that we were here—that was our first question.
‘Father, we heard it from a Christian of our village. His name is Kichijirō.’
‘Kichijirō?’
‘Yes, father.’
Still they crouched like beasts in the shadow of the oil lamp with the potato clinging to their lips. One of the fellows had practically no teeth, but he would stick out the one or two he had and laugh like a child. The other seemed stiff and tense in the presence of two foreign priests.
‘But Kichijirō is not a Christian,’ I said finally.
‘Oh, he is, father. Kichijirō is a Christian.’
This was an answer we had not quite expected. Yet we had half wondered at times if the fellow were not after all a Christian.
But now the whole situation was gradually beginning to change. Now it was clear enough: Kichijirō was a Christian who had once apostatized. Eight years before, he and his whole family, all Christians, had been betrayed through envy by an informer and had been brought up for questioning. Ordered to tread on the picture of Christ, his brothers and sisters had firmly refused to do so. Only Kichijirō, after a few threats from the guards, had yelled out that he would renounce his faith. His brothers and sisters were immediately brought off to prison but Kichijirō himself, though set free, did not return to his native village.
On the day of the burning at the stake, his cowardly face was observed in the crowd that surrounded the place of execution. And then this face, covered with mud and looking like a wild dog, unable to endure the sight of the martyrdom of his brethren, immediately withdrew and disappeared from sight.
From these men we heard astonishing news. In the district known as Odomari, the villagers had succeeded in escaping the vigilance of the officials, and they were still Christians to a man. And not only Odomari. The neighbouring district and villages of Miyahara, Dozaki and Egami, although to outward appearances they were Buddhist, were in fact Christian—a fact which was barely kept hidden. For a long, long time they had been awaiting the day when we priests would once again come across the distant sea to help them and give them a blessing.
‘Father, we have not been to Mass. We have not confessed our sins. We have only said our prayers.’ It was the man with the bloodstained feet who spoke.
‘Come quickly to our village. Father, we teach our little children their prayers. They are waiting for the day you will come.’ The fellow with the yellow teeth, opening a mouth that yawned like an enormous cave, nodded approval. The fish oil burned and crackled. Garrpe and I could not refuse such a plea. We had been too cowardly until now. It was embarrassing to think of our weakness in comparison with the courage of these Japanese peasants who had slept in the mountains and lacerated their feet in order to come to us.
The sky was white. The air of the milky morning blew into our hut. In spite of all our urging they refused to get into the straw and rest; instead they slept squatting down with their arms around their knees. And then at last the rays of the morning sun pierced the cracks between the boards of our hut.
Two days later we discussed with the Christians of Tomogi the question of our going to Goto. Finally it was decided that Garrpe should remain while I would try to contact the Christians of Goto for a period of five days. They were not too enthusiastic about the plan. Some even ventured the suggestion that the whole thing was a dangerous plot to ensnare us.
The appointed day came. It was night; and they secretly came to meet me at the beach. I was wearing the clothes of a Japanese peasant, and Mokichi with one other man came to see me off in the ship they had prepared at the shore. It was a moonless night; the sea was jet black; and the only sound that could be heard was the rhythmic movement of the oars. But the man who plied them spoke not a word. As we sailed into the open sea the waves swelled and the ship rocked.
Suddenly I was seized with a terrible fear, doubt, suspicion. Was not this fellow here to sell me? The people of Tomogi had warned me; and they were right. Why had the fellow with the bloodstained feet not come?—and the other with no teeth? I looked at the Japanese face in front of me. It was impassive and expressionless like a Buddha; and my feelings became all the more apprehensive. Yet go I must. I had said I would.
The black sea stretched out everywhere in the night; while the sky held not a single star. Then, after travelling for two hours through the darkness I sensed the black shape of an island moving slowly beside us. This, my companion told me, was Kabashima, an island close to Goto.
Reaching the shore, I felt dizzy with seasickness, exhaustion and tension. Three fishermen were waiting for us, and as I looked up at them there in the center was the face of Kichijirō with the same old cringing, servile smile. In the village there was no light, but somewhere a dog was howling frantically.
The toothless fellow had not exaggerated in his description of how eagerly the peasants and fishermen of Goto were waiting for a priest. Even now I am completely overwhelmed with work. I don’t even have time for sleep. They come to my house one after another, completely ignoring the ban on Christianity. I baptize the children and hear the confessions of the adults. Even when I keep going all day long I don’t get through them all. They remind me of an army marching through the parched desert and then arriving at an oasis of water—this is the way they come to me, thirsty and longing for refreshment. The crumbling farm house that I use for a chapel is jammed tight with their bodies, and so they confess their sins, their mouths close to my ear and emitting a stench that almost makes me vomit. Even the sick crawl in here to meet me.
‘Father, won’t you listen to me?’. … ‘Father, won’t you listen to me?’. … And so it goe
s on.
But the funniest thing of all is Kichijirō. No longer the same man, now he is the hero of the village, extolled to the skies; and he walks around with his head in the air. Anyhow, I suppose it is alright for him to put on airs because without him I could not have come here at all. But his past—his apostasy and so on—seems to be completely forgotten. I wonder if this drunk has exaggerated to the Christians the whole story of Macao and our sea journey. Perhaps he has made out that the arrival of the two priests in Japan is all his work.
And yet I have no inclination to scold him. I hate his glib talk, but I cannot deny that I am greatly in his debt. I urged him to go to confession, and with great humility he confessed all the sins of his past life.
I ordered him always to keep in mind the words of Our Lord: ‘He who confesses my name before men, him also will I confess before my Father who is in heaven; but he who denies my name before men him also will I deny before my Father who is in heaven.’
At this Kichijirō grovelled like a whipped dog and struck his forehead with his hand in token of repentance. This fellow is by nature utterly cowardly and seems quite unable to have the slightest courage. He has good will, however; and I told him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to overcome this weakness of will and this cowardice that made him tremble in face of the slightest violence, the remedy was not in the sake he kept drinking but in a strong faith.
My hunch from some time back was not wrong. What are the Japanese peasants looking for in me? These people who work and live and die like beasts find for the first time in our teaching a path in which they can cast away the fetters that bind them. The Buddhist bonzes simply treat them like cattle. For a long time they have just lived in resignation to such a fate.
Today I baptized thirty adults and children. And not only from here; for the Christians make their way through the mountains from Miyahara, Kuzushima and Haratsuka. I then heard more than fifty confessions. After Sunday Mass for the first time I intoned and recited the prayers in Japanese with the people. The peasants stare at me, their eyes alive with curiosity. And as I speak there often arises in my mind the face of one who preached the Sermon on the Mount; and I imagine the people who sat or knelt fascinated by his words. As for me, perhaps I am so fascinated by his face because the Scriptures make no mention of it. Precisely because it is not mentioned, all its details are left to my imagination. From childhood I have clasped that face to my breast just like the person who romatically idealizes the countenance of one he loves. While I was still a student, studying in the seminary, if ever I had a sleepless night, his beautiful face would rise up in my heart.
Anyhow, whatever about this, I realize how dangerous these gatherings are. Sooner or later the whole movement may get to the ears of the officials.
Here also there is no word of Ferreira. I met two Christians, old men, who had seen him. The upshot of our conversation was that Ferreira had set up a house at a place called Shinmatsu, near Nagasaki, for abandoned infants and the sick. This was, of course, before the persecution became intense; but just from listening to their talk, the countenance of my old teacher rose up before my eyes—the chestnut-colored beard, the slightly hollowed eyes … I began to wonder if he had mingled with these destitute Japanese Christians in the same way as he had with us students, putting his hand on their shoulders with the same friendly warmth.
Quite deliberately I asked a pointed question: ‘Was the father of a severe nature?’
One of the old men looked up at me and earnestly shook his head in disagreement. ‘No, no, no, I have never met such a kind and gentle person in my life’, was what his trembling lips seemed to say.
Before returning to Tomogi I instructed these people as to how to form the organization I have already described to you. I mean the one that the people of Tomogi had devised secretly when they were completely deprived of priests. So I taught them how to choose their Jiisama and to make their Tossama. In their present circumstances this is the only way they can continue to teach catechism to their young people and to their children. Indeed, they take to this method with great enthusiasm, and when they come to decide on their Jiisama and Tossama they begin to wrangle with one another like the people of Lisbon at election time. Amongst them, of course, Kichijirō keeps stubbornly putting himself forward for any post of honor.
One more interesting point. The peasants here, just like those at Tomogi, kept pressing me for a small crucifix or medal or holy picture or some such thing. And when I replied that I had left all these things behind, they looked quite crushed. Finally, I had to take my rosary and, unfastening the beads, give one to each of them. I suppose it is not a bad thing that the Japanese Christians should reverence such things; but somehow their whole attitude makes me uneasy. I keep asking myself if there is not some error in their outlook.
Six days later, in the evening, I once again secretly boarded the little ship and we rowed our way back through the dark sea in the night. I listened to the monotonous sound of the oars plied through the water and to the sea as it washed the sides of the ship, while Kichijirō stood in the stern singing softly to himself. Five days previously, when I had crossed over to the island in this same ship, an inexplicable fear had suddenly seized me; and now as I recalled this foolish panic I could not help smiling. Anyhow, all was well now. Such were my thoughts.
In fact, since coming to Japan everything had worked out beyond my wildest expectations. We had not been obliged to undertake any dangerous adventure; we had succeeded in finding new groups of Christians; to date the officials knew nothing of our existence. I went so far as to think that Father Valignano in Macao had been altogether too afraid of persecution from the Japanese. Feelings of joy and happiness suddenly filled my breast: the feeling that my life was of value and that it was accomplishing something. I am of some use to the people of this country at the ends of the earth, I reflected—a people and a country which you can never understand.
Perhaps it was because of this feeling of well-being that the return journey seemed so much shorter than the journey out. So when the ship grated on the shore I could scarcely believe that we had already reached Tomogi.
Hiding on the shore I waited alone for Mokichi and his friend. Even this precaution, I felt suddenly, was quite meaningless; and I kept reflecting on the night when Garrpe and I had arrived in this country.
Footsteps on the shore. ‘Father. …’
Overcome with joy I jumped up to clasp the other with my sand-covered hand.
‘Father, flee! Quickly, quickly, go away!’ Mokichi spoke with great rapidity, pushing me in front of him. ‘The guards are in the village.’
‘The guards. … ?’
‘Yes, father, the guards. The news has reached them.’
‘And they know about us?’
Mokichi shook his head quickly. ‘They haven’t noticed yet that we have been keeping you in hiding.’
And so I ran in the opposite direction, away from the district, with Mokichi and Kichijirō pulling my hands. Into the fields we went, trying to keep ourselves hidden as we made our way through the wheat to the place where our little hut was.
Drizzle was falling gently, Japan’s rainy season had begun.
Chapter 4
(A Letter of Sebastian Rodrigues)
SO once again I can send you a letter. I have already told you about my return from Goto and how the government officials were ransacking the village. I cannot but be grateful to God for the safety of Garrpe and myself.
Fortunately, before the officials reached the place, the Tossama got everyone to hide away with all speed their holy pictures, crucifixes and any object that might arouse suspicion. In these circumstances the ‘cordia’ organization was splendid. When the officials arrived, all kept working in the fields with innocent faces, and the jiisama answered the questions simply and nonchalantly. The wisdom of peasants shows itself in their ability to pretend that they are fools. After a long period of interrogation the exhausted officials were satisfied and wen
t away.
Ichizo and Omatsu told us this story with evident pride, and as they described the details they pushed out their teeth and laughed with glee. What cunning showed itself in their features!
Yet one puzzling problem remains: did someone betray us? Surely it could not be one of the villagers; and yet little by little they themselves have become suspicious of one another. I begin to get anxious lest there be a split among them.
Apart from this, however, now that I am back again in the village I am completely at peace. Our hut is full of light; I can hear the cock crow from the foot of the hill; the red flowers are in bloom, spread over the earth like a beautiful carpet.
Since coming back to Tomogi, Kichijirō is very popular here too. He swaggers around visiting the houses and talking big about conditions in Goto. He tells them what a welcome I got there and how he himself was much appreciated because he brought me there—and when he goes on with this talk, the people of the village give him food and even sometimes offer him sake.
One time he arrived at our hut completely drunk with two or three of his young comrades. His face was flushed as he shouted: ‘I am with you … If I am with you, you have nothing to fear.’ His companions looked at him with respect, and he began to sing with even more enthusiasm. ‘I am with you. If I am with you, you have nothing to fear,’ he shouted when he had finished singing. And then stretching out his legs he fell fast asleep. Is it that he is a good fellow at heart? or is that he is agreeable? Anyhow, I just can’t hate him.
Now let me tell you some more about the life of the Japanese. Needless to say, I am telling you about the peasants of Tomogi whom I have seen. I’m just passing on to you what they said. Don’t conclude that the whole of Japan is just like this.
The first thing you must realize is that the poverty and squalor in which these peasants live is beyond anything you have ever seen in Portugal. Even the more wealthy among then, the upper class, only get the taste of rice about twice a year. Their usual fare is potatoes and radishes and such-like vegetables, while their only drink is warm water. Sometimes they dig up roots and eat them. They have a queer way of sitting—completely different from ours. Their knees are on the ground or the floor, and then they sit back on their heels. For them this posture is restful; but until we got used to it, it was terribly painful. The roofs of the houses are made of thatch. The houses are filthy, and their stench is unbearable. In Tomogi there are only two households that have a cow or horse.