The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by J. Thomas Rimer

  The lamp in the cabin went out. The smell of the tide and the fresh fish loaded in the hold grew stronger. In the darkness, warmed by the boy beside me, I let my tears flow unrestrained. My head had become clear water, dripping away drop by drop. It was a sweet, pleasant feeling, as though nothing would remain.

  KOBAYASHI TAKIJI

  Kobayashi Takiji (1903–1933) was, during his short life, the most admired of the so-called proletarian writers, who attempted to expose what they saw as the evils of the Japanese capitalist system. Brought up in a poor family, Kobayashi was virtually self-educated and witnessed personally many of the indignities to which he bore witness. Forced underground by fear of the police, he eventually was caught and died in prison, reportedly as a result of police torture, thus becoming a martyr to those in progressive circles, both in Japan and elsewhere. In his writings, mostly notably The Factory Ship (Kanikōsen, 1929), based on data he collected, he describes the travails of the workers and those who sympathize with them.

  The story translated here, “The Fifteenth of March, 1928” (1928 nen 3 gatsu 15 nichi), published in the same year, is an English version first published in 1933. Although the style of the translation may now strike readers as somewhat old-fashioned, this slightly briefer rendering of the longer original had a considerable impact when it was made available around the world in a collection of stories chosen to illustrate “the virile proletarian literary movement in Japan.” The name of the translator is unknown; the Publisher’s Note says only that “the stories are translated by various hands.”

  THE FIFTEENTH OF MARCH, 1928 (1928 NEN 3 GATSU 15 NICHI)

  A True Account of Events

  I

  Okee could not get accustomed to it. The police came to the house quite often now, but she was just as alarmed as she had been the first time.

  Her husband’s comrades from the trade used to come to the house, and Okee would bring them tea. She often heard her husband say, “Yes, but I can’t alter my wife all at once.

  “I suppose you realize, comrade, that the revolution will have to go through the kitchen, too,” someone said, “but you are too soft.”

  “Well, that’s true, maybe, but you can’t do much with my wife. She’s rather backward.”

  “You’re too easygoing, that’s what it is,” his comrades taunted him.

  Rinkichi gave an embarrassed snigger. He was a little ashamed of his weakness.

  One morning Rinkichi was cleaning his teeth, and his wife was standing by pouring warm water into the washbasin, he asked suddenly, with the toothbrush still in his mouth, “Do you who Rosa was?”

  “Rosa—a man or a woman?”

  “Rosa.”

  “I know Lenin, but Rosa—no. I’ve no idea who that could be. Who is it?”

  She had often heard the names of Lenin and Marx from the lips of her daughter Yukiko, and she remembered them. The people from the trade union, Kudo, Sakanishi, and Senzomoto, often mentioned Lenin and Marx. Once she asked her husband, “Is Marx the workers’ god?”

  He nodded and smiled, “How did you guess?” She could not understand why he was so pleased at her question.

  When the general strike started, Okee heard many strange tales. She did not quite grasp all she was told. She could not believe that this terrible strike was being organized by that same Mr. Kudo or Mr. Senzomoto that came to her house. “And whom do you think the strike hurts?” asked her husband. “The rich or the poor?” But the question was beyond her.

  Every day the newspapers came out with flaring headlines about the strike.

  “Strikers bringing ruin on the whole town! Houses of rich men to be burned to the ground!” or “Clash between strikers and police! Hundreds arrested!” “Strike still hanging over the town like a curse!” Kudo and Watari had already been arrested.

  Okee knew that her husband spent nearly every night at the trade union. That he was taking part in organizing the strike she also knew. He would come home at last, weary-eyed, and ask her to wake him at five in the morning. She would sit by his bed for hours, never taking her eyes from his face. Okee could not understand him. Did he never think of his little daughter Yukiko?

  But later on when active workers from the union came and told her of the workers’ bitter lot, she sympathized with the workers’ struggle. She herself grew to hate the exploiters who were robbing the oppressed classes. She came to understand that the work of her husband and his comrades was indeed a great work. Okee began to feel a pride in her husband and to agree with the movement for which he labored, though she did not believe in its success.

  After his third detention Rinkichi lost his post as teacher. Then he opened a tiny shop and sold haberdashery, hoping in this way to support his family. Okee had expected that he would lose his job. She had known for a long time that it would turn out like that. Still, tears would not help, she thought, and so had remained silent.

  Rinkichi had more time to spare now, and he worked for the trade union with greater zeal than ever.

  As a result, the attention of the detectives redoubled.

  The first time Okee noticed that a spy was strolling up and down in front of their shop she was terrified. The worst was yet to come, however. Sometimes one of these persons would study the signboard for some time, suddenly enter the shop and announce, “Come with me to the police station, will you?”

  A couple of policemen would then come up, and Rinkichi would be taken to the police station.

  Okee could not overcome her terror. The visits of the police always upset her, and Rinkichi had to calm her.

  Early on the morning of March 15, Okee was rudely awakened from her sleep. Another search! Five or six policemen dragged Rinkichi away with them, without giving him a chance to exchange a word with his wife. This time Okee was thrown into a kind of stupor from terror.

  II

  It was three o’clock in the morning. The cold nipped one’s hands and face and pierced through one’s clothes to the very bone.

  Five or six men were tramping over the frozen snow.

  They came out of dark, narrow alleys and turned up the wide street leading to the union hall. The street was lined with tall, naked telegraph poles.

  These men were police and they had their belts in readiness, their sabers grasped firmly in their hands.

  They halted before the trade union headquarters and then burst into it without even stopping to take off their shoes.

  The members of the union had lain down to sleep only an hour before. They had fixed on March 15 for a public protest against the force of arms. The entire membership had been mobilized. Leaflets had been pasted at every comer. Agreements had been concluded with the owners of the meeting halls.

  The executive committee had met once more, and by two o’clock that morning preparations had been completed. And now, instead of the rest that everyone stood in so much need of, a raid. Seven or eight of the comrades suddenly became aware that the blankets were being torn roughly off them.

  They all scrambled to their feet in silence, heavy as lead, staggering from want of sleep. Senzomoto was in despair. He had feared this before, but still a faint ray of hope had sometimes lightened his heart. “These dogs want to arrest our speakers the night before Tanaka’s reactionary government should resign! It’s a favorite trick of theirs! Just what one would expect of them.”

  Sakanishi, nicknamed by his comrades “Don Quixote,” was still half-drunk with sleep. He asked one of the intruders.

  “Well, what’s up now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Don’t try to fool me!” The officer was silent.

  The police started to search among the books and papers.

  “If you lazy hogs would work more, you wouldn’t have the time to go poking your nose in everything! It’s all your own fault,” said one of the police to Senzomoto in a loud, insolent tone so that everyone could hear him. Senzomoto snapped at him:

  “Stop your nonsense there! I didn’t ask you
to speak!”

  Watari was trying to make his way unnoticed toward the staircase. One of the police became aware of his movements and caught him.

  “Where are you making for? Don’t you dare to budge!”

  Senzomoto had been watching Watari for some days. He was astonished. What could be the matter with him? Watari was usually so quiet. Just now his face was whiter than chalk. Watari, in spite of his youth, had always worked in the front ranks. He had seemed like a man forged out of iron, and now?—Senzomoto felt puzzled and alarmed.

  At length the prisoners, surrounded by the police, started to descend the stairs. With the exception of Watari, they were all lively and even nonchalant. Sessito—who always encouraged them with “Heads up! The great thing is not to lose courage”—was the most lively of all. He edged close to Senzomoto and whispered:

  “We must be firm, otherwise—”

  “Yes, that’s so, or—”

  “What are you muttering about there?”

  The policeman caught hold of Sessito and flung him away.

  “The People’s Flag” somebody in front was singing. The sound of a heavy blow followed.

  “You’ve gone crazy, you swine!”

  A worker gave one of the police a great push with his shoulder. There was a blow of a saber, a loud smack, and then silence.

  The workers marched in step, arm in arm.

  “Halt!” shouted Sessito and stood still. “Halt, comrades! I protest against our being arrested without any explanation. We want to know the reason.”

  “That’s right!” shouted the rest. Senzomoto glanced at Watari. In cases like these Watari was usually ready to fly out at the faintest provocation. This time he was perfectly quiet. He stood still as if chained to the floor.

  The police surrounded little Sessito. The workers shouldered their way in between the police.

  “Are you gong to tell us, devil take you, what we’ve been arrested for?”

  “You’ll find out at the police station.”

  “Always the same answer! We’re not going to be locked up in those dirty, stinking cells again!”

  Somebody shouted from the rear: “It’s an abuse of government.”

  One of the police started to beat Sessito.

  A clump of human bodies swayed to and fro. The workers fought their way into the center of the group. A general scrimmage ensued.

  “You—swine, you—” came the half-choked voice of Sessito.

  “You think—you can put down out movement—like this—you dogs—you think you can do that—” The disorder increased.

  Watari, who had stood motionless up to now, suddenly threw the full weight of his hulky body into the tussle. Senzomoto felt something like relief.

  “Unless you tell us the reason, we won’t let ourselves be arrested. We’ll fight with all our might!” Watari roared in his deep voice. His sonorous tones never failed to make a profound impression.

  Ishida stood apart and watched his comrades. “Childish” would have been too mild a term to apply to their conduct, in his opinion. He always got angry when people like Sessito—and there were many such in the union—made rows on the slightest provocation. According to Ishida, it was advisable only to use defensive methods on exceptionally important occasions and then do it thoroughly. In general, it was better to save one’s strength than to get worked up over every trifle.

  “What is all this rubbish for, anyhow? Fine militants they are! What good are they?”

  Ishida was almost beside himself with rage.

  The workers felt surer of themselves after Watari had joined in the fray, but ten more policemen soon appeared on the scene, and the unequal fight had to be given up.

  It grew lighter. The icy fingers of the morning crept inside the prisoners’ clothes and made them shiver.

  The snowy street lay silent under a gray and heavy sky.

  Ishida and Sessito were dressed in thin corduroy jackets thrown on hastily next their skin. Their bodies ached from cold. Their fingers and toes were numb.

  Shibata, a lad of twenty who had only joined the union a few weeks before, had not yet recovered from his fright at being arrested. He saw the others defend themselves and shout. He also wanted to shout, but had momentarily lost all control over the muscles of his face. His month moved heavily and clumsily, as if his lips were made of wet clay, and he could not emit a sound. He knew that more than one arrest was before him now, and still his teeth went on chattering involuntarily.

  The comrades marched in rows, forming a solid mass. They kept very close to each other so as to get a little warmer, and tried to march in step. The footsteps of the twenty men gave back a hollow sound in the empty morning streets. No one spoke. But in the hearts of all, a feeling of mutual sympathy and kinship arose. Senzomoto, Watari, Sakanishi, “Don Quixote,” Sessito, Ishida, the novice Shibata, and all the other members were conscious of this feeling. In moments of danger it never left them; it was the feeling of solidarity—the solidarity that unites the proletariat into one unbroken front.

  These members of the union were no longer a loose conglomeration of individuals, but one tremendous united whole. They marched hand in hand, their dark eyes saw only one great end, to which they were all moving. This end was called—revolution.

  III

  “Get up!” shouted the policeman. He groped about in the dark for the electric switch. Kudo’s little children awoke and began to cry. The police could not find the switch and went on groping about in the dark. Then they found it and snapped it twice.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We have no lights.”

  Kudo spoke in a slightly irritated tone. The light had been cut off two months previously. Kudo had not enough money to buy candles. In the evening they would send the children out to the neighbors and go themselves to the union. They had lived like that for sixty days now. “Bright lamps are the best adornment for rooms,” said the advertisements in the shops for electrical goods.

  “Hush, children, they won’t eat you,” said Kudo, laughing. His wife, Oyoshi, tried to soothe them, too.

  “There’s nothing to be frightened about, these gentlemen come to see us quite often now.”

  So, one after another, the children stopped crying. These risks were indeed no new thing to them.

  Kudo’s comrades from the union had asserted, more than once, that Oyoshi was developing class-consciousness in her children. As a matter of fact, their upbringing was not carried on along any definite principles. Life itself educated them.

  Oyoshi’s hands hung down to her knees and seemed too large and heavy, like the claws of a crab. Dirt had eaten into her skin, which had grown as coarse and rough as a potato grater. She never washed now.

  In the course of her short life, Oyoshi had more than once discovered who were her “enemies.” When her husband joined the union, this knowledge became even more plain to her. Sometimes, when there was much work at the union, Kudo did not return home for weeks on end. Then Oyoshi had to work alone. She did everything: helped load coal into ships down at the dockside, and made sacks for potatoes and other vegetables. Sometimes she was lucky enough to find work in the canning factories, where she had to wash bones. Before she gave birth to her third child, she worked right up to the last moment as a coolie, carrying sacks of coal.

  In Kudo’s room the wallpaper had long since peeled away. The wind blew freely in through the cracks. Oyoshi had no money to buy new wallpaper, so she went to the union and got a few old numbers of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Chronicle and the Proletarian News. These she pasted over the cracks in the door. The flaming announcements of the strike stretched the length and breadth of the door panels. Whenever Oyoshi had a few moments to spare, she would read the headings of the articles. Sometimes the children would point to different words and ask what they meant. She would read slowly out loud to them. She pasted old leaflets and proclamations all over the half-mined walls. Once Kudo and Watari and Senzomoto came in and looked around at
the walls with astonishment. Then they said: “This is indeed our house.” They were delighted with it.

  Kudo got up and dressed himself.

  How would his wife and family exist while he was in prison?

  Every time he was arrested, he asked himself this question.

  He tried not to think of this when working with his comrades in the union, but as soon as he was alone for a moment, the thought of his family would come to disturb him.

  Oyoshi helped him collect his things and then nodded to him:

  “Don’t worry about us! We’ll manage without you.”

  Her voice rang out bravely.

  The eldest boy, who understood something of what was going on, ran up to his father and said: “Well, good-bye, then, Father, good luck!”

  The policeman was astonished. “What a disgusting family,” he thought to himself, and said aloud: “They all take it as if it was the proper thing and wish each other good luck into the bargain!”

  “Oh, well if we started to bawl every time this happened, we’d have no time left to work for the movement.” Kudo spoke lightly, trying to disguise the fact that his spirits were low.

  “Hey, you dog, we’ll plug you if you start any of your impudence!” the policeman roared.

  Kudo wanted to say something more to his wife, but his mind seemed a blank.

  “Don’t be upset. We’ll get on somehow,” said Oyoshi with conviction. She looked at her husband. He was silent. He could only nod his head.