by David Peace
‘Dig a hole,’ he says.
The caretaker and the boiler-man begin to dig up the ground, the caretaker already sweating and saying, ‘He made a peephole to spy on the women workers as they bathed…’
The boiler-man wiping his skull, then his neck and agreeing, ‘We caught him and we beat him but…’
‘But he kept coming back…’
‘He couldn’t keep away…’
Captain Muto points at a spot just in front of where the two men are digging. The captain orders Fujita and me to stand the old Korean man in front of the deepening hole –
The old man just blinking –
His mouth hanging open.
Fujita and I push the Korean towards the spot, his body weaving back and forth like rice-jelly. I tell him, ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Just stand over here while we sort this out…’
But the old Korean man looks at each of us now –
The two Kempei officers, the Neighbourhood Association officials, the caretaker, the boiler-man –
Detective Fujita and me –
The dead body lain on the newspapers, the dead body partially covered by the blanket –
‘I am here …’
Then the Korean glances back at the freshly dug ground, at the hole that the caretaker and the boiler-man are digging, and now he tries to run but Fujita and I grab him and hold him, his body shaking, his face contorted as he cries out, ‘I don’t want to be killed!
‘I didn’t do anything! Please, I want to live!’
‘Shut up, Yobo!’ says someone –
‘But I didn’t do anything…’
‘So why did you just try to escape, Yobo?’ asks Captain Muto. ‘In Japan, innocent men don’t run away.’ ‘Please don’t kill me!
Please!’
‘You lying Yobo bastard!’
‘Shut up!’ shouts the younger Kempei officer now and he points over to the body beneath the blanket, the body lain out in the dirt and the sun by the corrugated metal doors to the air-raid shelter, and he asks the old Korean man, ‘Did you rape that woman?’
And the old Korean man glances again at the body on the newspapers, the body beneath the blanket –
Bloated and punctured …
‘Did you kill that woman?’
He shakes his head –
Flesh and bone …
Captain Muto steps forward. The older Kempei officer slaps the Korean’s face. ‘Answer him, Yobo!’
The Korean says nothing.
‘This Yobo is obviously a criminal,’ says Captain Muto. ‘This Yobo is obviously guilty. There’s nothing more to say…’
The old man looks up at us all again; the two Kempei officers, the Neighbourhood Association officials, the caretaker, the boiler-man, Detective Fujita and me; the old man shakes his head again –
But now all our eyes are fixed on Captain Muto’s sword, the Kempei man’s bright and shining military sword –
The sword unsheathed and drawn –
The blade raised high –
All our gazes slowly falling to one single spot above the old Korean man’s back –
One spot …
‘It’s time!’ shouts the younger Kempei officer suddenly –
The caretaker rushing back into his cabin-cum-office, shouting, ‘The Imperial broadcast! The Imperial broadcast!’
Everyone turns to stare at the office, then back again to Captain Muto. The Kempei man lowers his sword –
‘Bring the Yobo over to the radio,’ he shouts and marches off towards the caretaker’s cabin himself –
And everyone follows him –
To stand in a semi-circle before the open window of the caretaker’s cabin-cum-office –
To listen to a radio –
Listen to a voice –
His voice …
A voice hollow, sorrowful and trembling –
‘To Our good and loyal subjects …’
The voice of a god on the radio –
‘Oh so bravely, off to Victory/Insofar as we have vowed and left our land behind …’
I can hear the strains of that song from a sound-truck again, the strains of ‘Roei no Uta’ and the voice of a god on the radio –
‘After pondering deeply the general trends of the world and the actual conditions in Our Empire today, We have decided to effect a settlement of the present situation by resorting to an extraordinary measure …’
‘Who can die without first having shown his true mettle/Each time I hear the bugles of our advancing army
The strains of the song, the voice of a god, and the heat of the sun beating down on all our hats and all our heads –
‘We have ordered Our government to communicate to the governments of the United States, Great Britain, China, and the Soviet Union that Our Empire accepts the provisions of their Joint Declaration …’
‘I close my eyes and see wave upon wave of flags cheering us into battle …’
The strains of the song, the voice of a god, the heat of the sun, and the men from the Neighbourhood Association on their knees, heads in their hands, already sobbing –
‘To strive for the common prosperity and happiness of all nations as well as the security and well-being of Our subjects is the solemn obligation handed down by Our Imperial Ancestors, and which We hold close to heart. Indeed, We declared war on America and Britain out of Our sincere desire to ensure Japan’s self-preservation and the stabilization of East Asia, it being far from Our thought either to infringe upon the sovereignty of other nations or to embark on territorial aggrandizement. But now the war has lasted for nearly four years. Despite the best that has been done by everyone –the gallant fighting of military and naval forces, the diligence and assiduity of Our servants of the State, and the devoted service of Our one hundred million people, the war situation has developed not necessarily to Japan’s advantage, while the general trends of the world have all turned against her interests. Moreover, the enemy has begun to employ a new and most cruel bomb, the power of which to do damage is indeed incalculable, taking the toll of many innocent lives. Should We continue to fight, it would not only result in the ultimate collapse and obliteration of the Japanese nation, but also it would lead to the total extinction of human civilization. Such being the case, how are We to save the millions of Our subjects, or to atone Ourselves before the hallowed spirits of Our Imperial Ancestors? This is the reason We have ordered the acceptance of the provisions of the Joint Declaration of the Powers …’
‘The earth and its flora burn in flames/As we endlessly part the plains …’
The song, the voice, and the heat; men on their knees, heads in hands, sobbing and now howling –
‘We cannot but express the deepest sense of regret to Our allied nations of East Asia, who have consistently cooperated with the Empire towards the emancipation of East Asia. The thought of those officers and men as well as others who have fallen in the fields of battle, those who died at their post of duty, or those who met an untimely death and all their bereaved families, pains Our heart night and day. The welfare of the wounded and the war sufferers, and of those who have lost their home and livelihood, are the objects of Our profound solicitude. The hardships and sufferings to which Our nation is to be subjected hereafter will be certainly great. We are keenly aware of the inmost feelings of all ye, Our subjects. However, it is according to the dictates of time and fate that We have resolved to pave the way for a grand peace for all generations to come by enduring the unendurable and suffering what is insufferable …’
‘Helmets emblazoned with the Rising Sun/And, stroking the mane of our horses …’
The endless song, the endless voice, and the endless heat; men on their knees, howling, now prostrate upon the floor in lamentation, weeping in the dust –
‘Having been able to safeguard and maintain the structure of the Imperial State, We are always with ye, Our good and loyal subjects, relying upon your sincerity and integrity. Beware most strictly of any outburst
of emotion which may engender needless complications, or any fraternal contention and strife which may create confusion, lead ye astray, and cause ye to lose the confidence of the world …’
‘Who knows what tomorrow will bring – life?’
The song is ending, the voice ending, the sky darkening now; the sound of one hundred million weeping, howling, wounded people borne on a wind across a nation ending –
‘Let the entire nation continue as one family from generation to generation, ever firm in its faith of the imperishableness of its divine land, and mindful of its heavy burden of responsibilities, and the long road before it. Unite your total strength to be devoted to the construction for the future. Cultivate the ways of rectitude; foster nobility of spirit; and work with resolution so as ye may enhance the innate glory of the Imperial State and keep pace with the progress of the world.’
‘Or death in battle?’
It is over and now there is silence, only silence, silence until the boiler-man asks, ‘Who was that on the radio?’
‘The Emperor himself,’ says Fujita.
‘Really? What was he saying?’
‘He was reading an Imperial Rescript,’ says Fujita.
‘But what was he talking about?’ asks the boiler-man and this time no one answers him, no one until I say –
‘It was to end the war…’
‘So we won…?’
Only silence …
‘We won…’
‘Shut up!’ shouts Captain Muto, the older Kempei officer –
I turn to look at him, to bow and to apologize –
His lips still moving but no words are forming, tears rolling down his cheeks as he brings the blade of his sword up close to his face, the thick blade catching the last sunlight –
His eyes, red spots on white …
He stares into the blade –
Bewitched.
Now he turns from the blade and looks into each of our faces, then down at the old Korean man still in our midst –
‘Move!’ he shouts at the Korean –
‘Back over there, Yobo!’
But the old Korean man stands shaking his head –
‘Move! Move!’ shouts the Kempei man again and begins to shove the old Korean back over towards the hole –
Kicking, prodding him with the sword –
‘Face the hole, Yobo! Face the hole!’
The Korean with his back to us –
The sword raised high again –
Eyes, red spots on white …
The man begging now –
The last sunlight …
Begging then falling, falling forward with a shudder as a cold chill courses through my own arms and legs –
The sword has come down –
Blood on the blade …
Now a desperate, piercing lament whines up from out of the mouth of the old Korean –
My blood cold …
‘What are you doing?’ the man cries. ‘Why? Why?’
The Kempei officer curses the Korean. He kicks the back of his legs and the Korean stumbles forward into the hole –
There is a foot-long gash on the man’s right shoulder where he has been cut by the Kempei’s sword, the blood from the wound soaking through his brown civilian work clothes –
‘Help me! Please help me! Help me!’
Now he claws wildly at the earth, screaming over and over, again and again, ‘I don’t want to die!’
‘Help me! Help me!’
But Captain Muto has lowered his bloody military sword now. He is staring down at the old Korean in the hole –
Each time the Korean comes crawling back up from the hole, the officer kicks him back down into the dirt –
The blood draining from his body –
Into the dirt and into the hole …
‘Help me!’ gasps the man –
The Kempei captain now turns to the caretaker and the boiler-man and commands, ‘Bury him!’
The caretaker and the boiler-man pick up their spades again and begin to heap the dirt back into the hole, over the man, faster and faster, as they bury his cries –
Down in the hole …
Until it is over –
Silence now …
My right hand trembles, my right arm, now both of my legs –
‘Detective Minami! Detective Minami! Detective Minami!’
I close my eyes. Eyes that are not my own. There are scalding tears streaming from these eyes. Eyes I do not want …
I wipe the tears away, again and again –
‘Detective Minami! Detective Minami!’
Finally I open these eyes –
‘Detective Minami!’
There are flags falling to the ground, but these flags are no flags, these buildings no buildings, these streets no streets –
For this city is no city, this country no country –
I eat acorns. I eat leaves. I eat weeds …
The voice of a god on the radio –
Hollow and sorrowful …
Everything distorted –
Heaven an abyss …
Time disjointed –
Hell our home …
Here, now –
Ten minutes past noon on the fifteenth day of the eighth month of the twentieth year of the reign of the Emperor Shōwa –
But this hour has no father, this year has no son –
No mother, no daughter, no wife nor lover –
For the hour is zero; the Year Zero –
Tokyo Year Zero.
to them weep. Thirty Calmotin, thirty-one. To my father: I hope you have been well. We land tomorrow. I shall do my best, as you would wish. To my wife: the great moment has come. To me, there is no tomorrow. I know well what you are thinking about, my dear wife. But be calm and serene. Take care of our children. To my son: Masaki, dear, your daddy is going to fight with the Chinese soldiers soon. Do you remember the big sword that your grandfather gave me? With it, I shall cut and stab and knock down enemy soldiers, like your hero, Iwami Jutaro. Daddy is going to bring home a sword and a steel Chinese helmet as a souvenir for you. But Masaki, dear, I want you to be a good boy always. Be nice to your mummy and Grandmother and all your teachers. Love your sister, and study so that you may become a great man. I see your little figure, waving a little flag in your little fist. Daddy cherishes that picture forever in his mind. Masaki, Banzai! Daddy, Banzai! Forty Calmotin, forty-one. Heavy fog hides everything but the railway station. Hints of Chinese houses, echoes of Chinese voices. Everything is yellow. Now we can smell acacia flowers, now we see Rising Sun flags. Everything khaki. Lookout patrols are dispatched, sentries posted. This unit to the noodle factory, that unit to the match factory. The Chinks rob the Japanese. The soldiers cook and clean. The Chinks rape the Japanese. The soldiers guard and patrol. The Chinks murder the Japanese. The soldiers build defence zones. The Chinks rob the Japanese. Barbed wire and barricades throughout the city. The Chinks rape the Japanese. Every Chinese is challenged at every intersection. The Chinks murder the Japanese. There are sandbags and there are roadblocks. More units arrive. There is always sand, there is never water. More units arrive. Always dust and always dirt. More units arrive. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Daytime duty is followed by nighttime duty. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. Nighttime duty followed by daytime duty. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. The mattresses are torn, the bedbugs hungry. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari. There among the corpses, I cannot sleep. Bayonets fixed. I can hear their screams. Rifles loaded. I can hear their pleas. The Chinks rob the Japanese. The Japanese bosses don’t pay their Chinese workers. The Chinks rape the Japanese. The Chinese workers complain to their Japanese bosses. The Chinks murder the Japanese. The bosses insert cotton-thread needles into the gaps between the flesh and the nails of their workers’ fingers. I can hear their screams. The bosses thrust the needles into their ring fingers, their middle fingers and their index fingers. I can hear their pleas. The Japanese bosses do what they want now. I wa
s impertinent, lazy and bad. Workers are lashed with wet leather whips. This is a warning. Workers are hung from the branches of trees. I was impertinent. Fifty Calmotin, fifty-one. A child shits behind a sorghum straw fence. Single-wheeled carts rush down the street. In this city of robbery. A woman with bound feet hurries past. The solitary wheels groan beneath the weight of huge gunnysacks. In this city of rape. Coolies the colour of dust sift through peanut shells and watermelon rinds. The rhombus-shaped sails of the carts inflate and disappear. In this city of murder. Long-eared donkeys lead a lengthy funeral
1
August 15, 1946
Tokyo, 91°, overcast
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …
The sound of hammering and hammering –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …
I open my eyes and I remember –
Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton … I am one of the survivors –
One of the lucky ones …
I take out my handkerchief. I wipe my face. I wipe my neck. I push my hair back out of my eyes. I look at my watch –
Chiku-taku. Chiku-taku. Chiku-taku …
It is 10 a.m.; it is only 10 a.m. –
Just four hours gone, eight still to go, then down to Shinagawa, down to Yuki. Three, four hours there and then out to Mitaka, to my wife and my children. Try to take them some food, bring them something to eat, anything. Eat and then sleep, try to sleep. Then back here again for 6 a.m. tomorrow …
Chiku-taku. Chiku-taku. Chiku-taku …
Another twelve hours in this oven …
I wipe the sweat from my shirt collar. I wipe the sweat from my eyelids. I look down the length of the table. Three men on my left, two men on my right and the three empty chairs –
No Fujita. No Ishida. No Kimura …
Five men wiping their necks and wiping their faces, scratching after lice and swiping away mosquitoes, ignoring their work and turning their newspapers; newspapers full of the First Anniversary of the Surrender, the progress of reform and the gains of democracy; newspapers full of the International Military Tribunal, the judgment of the Victors and the punishment of the Losers –
