Silence

by Shusaku Endo

  This time Mokichi shook his head. Only afterwards did I realize that in this country where blood relationship is of such primary importance the people of one village, though closely united among themselves like one family, sometimes go so far as to look with hostility on the peoples of other villages.

  ‘Yes, father, I can only speak for the people of our own village. Too much contact with other villages might end up in accusation before the magistrate.’

  But I begged Mokichi and his friends to look for Christians in the other villages also. I felt that as quickly as possible word should be sent out that once again a priest, crucifix in hand, had come to this desolate and abandoned land.

  From that time our life has become more or less as follows. At dead of night we offer Mass, just as they did in the catacombs; and then when morning comes we climb the mountain again and wait in hiding for any of the Christians who may want to visit us. Every day two of them bring to us our ration of food. We hear confessions, give instruction, teach them how to pray. During the day we keep the door of our tiny hut tightly closed and we refrain from making the slightest noise lest anyone passing outside may hear it. Needless to say, it is out of question to build a fire lest any trace of smoke be seen. And then, just in case. … foreseeing every contingency Mokichi and his friend have dug a kind of cave under the very floor of our hut.

  It is not impossible that there are still Christians in the villages and islands west of Tomogi, but under the circumstances we cannot so much as stir outside our hut during the day. And yet I am determined, come what may, to seek out and find the lonely and abandoned flock.

  Chapter 3

  (Letter of Sebastian Rodrigues)

  IN this country June marks the beginning of the rainy season. I have been told that the rain falls continuously for more than a month. With the coming of the rain the officials will probably relax their vigilance, so I intend to make use of this opportunity to travel around the neighbourhood and search out the remaining Christians. I want to let them know as quickly as possible that they are not utterly abandoned and alone.

  Never have I felt so deeply how meaningful is the life of a priest. These Japanese Christians are like a ship lost in a storm without a chart. I see them without a single priest or brother to encourage and console, gradually losing hope and wandering bewildered in the darkness.

  Yesterday rain again. Of course this rain is no more than a herald of the heat that follows. But all day long it makes a melancholy sound as it falls in the thicket which surrounds our hut. The trees shake and tremble as they let fall the drops of rain. And then Garrpe and I, pressing our faces to the tiny cracks in the wooden door, try to peer out into the surrounding world. Seeing nothing but rain and more rain, a feeling like anger rises up within our breasts. How much longer is this life to continue? Certainly both of us become strangely impatient and jittery, so that when either one of us makes even the slightest faux pas the other turns on him a baleful eye. This is only the result of nerves stretched taut like a bowstring day after day after day.

  But now let me give you some more detailed information about these people of the village of Tomogi. They are poor farmers who eke out a living by cultivating potatoes and wheat in little fields. They have no ricefields. When you see how the land is cultivated right up into the middle of the mountain facing the sea, you are struck not so much by their indefatigable industry as by the cruelty of the life they have inherited. Yet the magistrate of Nagasaki exacts from them an exceedingly harsh revenue. I tell you the truth—for a long, long time these farmers have worked like horses and cattle; and like horses and cattle they have died. The reason our religion has penetrated this territory like water flowing into dry earth is that it has given to this group of people a human warmth they never previously knew. For the first time they have met men who treated them like human beings. It was the human kindness and charity of the fathers that touched their hearts.

  I have not yet met all the people of Tomogi. This is because from fear of the officials only two villagers can climb up to our little hut each night. Truth to tell in spite of myself I cannot help laughing when I hear the mumbling Portuguese and Latin words in the mouths of these ignorant peasants: ‘Deus’, ‘Angelus’, ‘Beato’ and so on. The sacrament of confession they call ‘konshan’; heaven they call ‘parais’; hell is ‘inferno’. Not only are their names difficult to remember, but their faces all look the same—which causes not a little embarrassment. We confuse Ichizo with Seisuke, and we get Omatsu mixed up with another woman called Saki.

  I have already told you something about Mokichi, so I would like now to say a few words about a couple of the other Christians. Ichizo is a man of about fifty who comes at night to our hut—and he always wears on his face an expression which makes you think he is angry. While attending Mass, and after it is over, he says not a word. In fact, however, he is not angry at all; this is just his natural expression. He is extraordinarily curious, and he scrutinizes carefully every movement and gesture of Garrpe and myself with his narrow, wrinkled eyes.

  Omatsu, I’m told, is Ichizo’s elder sister. Long ago she lost her husband and is now a widow. Twice she has come right up to our place with her niece, Sen, carrying on her back a basket with food for us. Like Ichizo, she too is extremely inquisitive and, together with her niece, scrutinizes Garrpe and me as we eat our meal. And what a meal! You couldn’t imagine how wretched it is—a few fried potatoes and water. And while Garrpe and I gulp it down, the two women look on, laughing with evident satisfaction.

  ‘Are we really so queer?’ exclaimed Garrpe once, flaring up in anger. ‘Is our way of eating so funny?’

  They didn’t understand a word he said, but burst out laughing, their faces crumpling up like paper.

  But let me tell you something more about this secret organization of the Christians. I have already explained about the offices of Jiisama and Tossama, that the Jiisama is responsible for the sacrament of baptism, and that the Tossama have the job of instructing the faithful in prayer and catechism. These Tossama have moreover made a calendar of all the feasts of the Church and teach the faithful accordingly. From what they say, the feasts of Christmas, Good Friday, Easter—all are celebrated by these Tossama. Needless to say, they cannot have Mass on these days since there are no priests; but they secretly set up a holy picture in one of the houses and recite their prayers in front of it (they say their prayers in Latin just like us—‘Pater Noster’, ‘Ave Maria’ and so on) and in the intervals between the recitation of their prayers they chat about everything and anything. Nobody knows when the officials may come bursting in; but if that should happen everything is so arranged that the Christians can say they were simply having some kind of meeting together.

  Since the rebellion of Shimabara the Lord of this district has made an extremely thorough effort to hunt down the hidden Christians. Every day the officials go around making a thorough inspection of every village, and sometimes they will make a sudden swoop upon a house when no one is expecting it.

  For example, since last year a decree has been issued forbidding anyone to make a fence or hedge between his house and that of his neighbour. They want everyone to be able to see into the house of his next-door neighbour and, if he notices any suspicious behaviour, to report it at once. Anyone who informs on us priests receives a reward of three hundred pieces of silver. For one who informs on a brother the reward is two hundred; and anyone informing on a Christian receives one hundred. I don’t need to tell you what a temptation such an amount of money must be for these destitute peasants. Consequently, the Christians have almost no trust in the people of other villages.

  I have already told you that Mokichi and Ichizo have expressionless faces, much like puppets. Now I understand the reason why. They cannot register on their faces any sorrow—nor even joy. The long years of secrecy have made the faces of these Christians like masks. This is indeed bitter and sad. Why has God given our Christians such a burden? This is something I fail to understand.


  In my next letter I’ll tell you about our search for Ferreira and also about Inoue (do you remember? the man who, at Macao, Valignano said was the most to be feared). Please give my respects and my promise of prayers to Father Minister Lucius de Sanctis.

  Rain again today. Ganpe and I are lying in the darkness on the straw that serves us for a bed. Tiny little lice are crawling over my neck and back so that sleep is out of question. Japanese lice keep quiet during the day, but at night they walk all over our bodies—brazen, unmannerly wretches!

  Until now no one has gone so far as to climb up to our hut on such a rainy night, so we have a chance to rest not only our bodies but also our nerves stretched to breaking point by this daily tension. Listening to the sound of the rain dripping from the trees in the grove my thoughts have turned again to Father Ferreira.

  The peasants of Tomogi know absolutely nothing about him. But it is certain that until the year 1633 the father was carrying on an underground apostolate at Nagasaki not too far from where we are. And it was precisely in that year that all communication between himself and Valignano at Macao was cut like a cord. I wonder if he is still alive. Could it be true, as the rumor goes, that he grovelled like a dog before the infidels and cast away everything to which he had hitherto devoted his life? And supposing he is alive, is he too listening to the depressing sound of this rain? and with what feelings?

  Suddenly I turned to Garrpe who was fully engaged in his battle with the lice, and unburdened myself: ‘If one of us could go to Nagasaki we might find some Christians who know Father Ferreira.’

  In the darkness Garrpe stopped his twisting and turning and coughing. Then he commented: ‘If we were caught it would be the end. This is not just a problem for the two of us. The danger extends to these peasants around us. Anyhow, don’t forget that we are the last stepping-stones of the Gospel in this country.’

  I uttered a deep sigh. He raised his body from the straw and as he peered intently at me I could gauge his way of thinking. The faces of Mokichi, Ichizo and the youngsters of Tomogi came before my eyes one by one. But could no one go to Nagasaki in our place? No. That wouldn’t do either. These people had relatives and dependents. Their position was quite different from that of the priest without wife and children.

  ‘What about asking Kichijirō?’ I ventured.

  Garrpe laughed a dry laugh. And I also recalled to mind the scene on the ship—the cowardly figure of Kichijirō with his face buried in the filth, clasping his hands and begging for mercy from the sailors.

  ‘Crazy!’ remarked my companion. ‘You can’t trust him an inch.’

  Then we lapsed into a long silence. The rain pattered rhythmically on the roof of our little hut like the trickling of sand through an hour-glass. Here night and solitude are identical.

  ‘And we, too, will be caught like Ferreira?’, I murmured.

  ‘I’m more worried about these insects crawling all over my body,’ retorted Garrpe.

  Since coming to Japan he has always been in good spirits. Perhaps he feels that with good-nature and humor he can give courage to both of us. To tell you the truth, my own feeling is that we will not be captured. Man is a strange being. He always has a feeling somewhere in his heart that whatever the danger he will pull through. It’s just like when on a rainy day you imagine the faint rays of the sun shining on a distant hill. I cannot picture myself at the moment of capture by the Japanese. In our little hut I have a feeling of eternal safety. I don’t know why this should be. It’s a strange feeling.

  At last the rain has stopped, after three days of incessant falling. We can only judge this from the white ray of sunlight that penetrates a crack in the wooden door of our hut.

  ‘Let’s go out for a moment,’ I said.

  Garrpe nodded approval with a smile of joy.

  As I pushed open the wet door, the song of the birds broke in from the trees like the rising of a fountain. Never before had I felt so deeply the sheer joy of being alive. We sat down near the hut and took off our kimonos. In the seams of the cloth the firmly entrenched lice looked just like white dust, and as I crushed them one by one with a stone I felt an inexpressible thrill of delight. Is this what the officials feel when they capture and kill the Christians?

  Some fog still lingered within the wood, but faintly through it could be seen the blue sky and the distant shimmering sea. After the long confinement in our hut, I now stood again in the open, and giving up battle with the lice I gazed greedily at the world of men.

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of!’ Garrpe’s white teeth flashed as he smiled with good humor and exposed his golden-haired chest to the rays of the sun. ‘I don’t know why we’ve been so jittery. In the future we must sometimes at least allow ourselves the pleasure of a sunbath.’

  And so day after day the cloudless skies continued; and as our self-confidence grew we gradually became bolder. Together we would walk along the slopes in the wood filled with the smell of fresh leaves and wet mud. The good Garrpe would call our charcoal hut ‘the monastery’. When we went for a stroll he would say with a laugh, ‘Let’s go back to the monastery and have a meal of warm bread and good, thick soup. But we’d better say nothing about it to the Japanese!’ We were recalling the life we led with you in the monastery of Saint Xavier’s at Lisbon. Needless to say, we don’t have here a bottle of wine nor a piece of meat. The only food we get is the fried potatoes and the boiled vegetables that the peasants of Tomogi bring us. But the conviction grows deeper and deeper in my heart that all is well and that God will protect us.

  One evening an interesting thing happened. We were sitting as usual chatting on a stone between our hut and the wood. All of a sudden in the rays of the darkening sky a huge bird flew out of the trees and, tracing a great black arc in the sky, winged off towards the distant hills.

  ‘Somebody is watching us!’ Garrpe spoke breathlessly, his eyes fixed on the ground, his voice sharp but hushed. ‘Don’t budge! Remain just as you are!’

  From a hill bathed in the dying sunlight and slightly removed from the thicket from which the bird had sprung up just now, two men stood looking in our direction. We realized immediately that they were not the peasants of Tomogi whom we knew so well. We sat stiff like stones without moving a muscle, uttering a prayer that the western sun would not reveal our faces.

  ‘Is anybody there?’ The two men from the top of the hill raised their voices and shouted aloud. ‘Is anybody there?’

  Were we to answer or to keep quiet? A single word might well betray us. So from fear we said nothing.

  ‘They’re descending the hill and coming here,’ whispered Garrpe in a low voice, remaining seated as he was. ‘No, they aren’t. They are going back the way they came.’

  They went down into the valley growing smaller and smaller as they receded into the distance. But the fact was that two men had stood on the hill in the light of the western sun, and whether or not they had seen us we did not know.

  That same night Ichizo came up the mountain and with him a man named Magoichi who was one of the Tossama. As we explained what had happened in the evening Ichizo’s eyes narrowed and he scrutinized every inch of the hut. At length he stood up silently and after a word to Magoichi the two men began to tear up the floor boards. A moth flew round and round the oil lamp as they worked. Taking a spade that was hanging on the wooden door, Ichizo began to dig up the soil. The silhouettes of the two men as they wielded the spades floated on the opposite wall. They dug a hole big enough to hold both of us, and in it they put some straw; then they closed it up again with boards. This, it seems, is to be our future hideout in case of emergency.

  From that day we have taken the utmost precautions, trying not to show ourselves outside the hut at all, and at night we don’t make use of any light whatever.

  The next event took place five days after the one I have recorded. It was late at night and we were secretly baptizing a baby that had been brought along by Omatsu and two men belonging to the Tossama. It was our fi
rst baptism since coming to Japan, and of course we had no candles nor music in our little hut—the only instrument for the ceremony was a broken little peasants’ cup which we used for holy water. But it was more touching than the liturgy of any cathedral to see that poor little hut with the baby crying and Omatsu soothing it while one of the men stood on guard outside. I thrilled with joy as I listened to the solemn voice of Garrpe as he recited the baptismal prayers. This is a happiness that only a missionary priest in a foreign land can relish. As the water flowed over its forehead the baby wrinkled its face and yelled aloud. Its head was tiny; its eyes were narrow, this was already a peasant face that would in time come to resemble that of Mokichi and Ichizo. This child also would grow up like its parents and grandparents to eke out a miserable existence face to face with the black sea in this cramped and desolate land; it, too, would live like a beast, and like a beast it would die. But Christ did not die for the good and beautiful. It is easy enough to die for the good and beautiful; the hard thing is to die for the miserable and corrupt—this is the realization that came home to me acutely at that time.

  When they departed I lay down in the straw, exhausted. The smell of the oil the three men had brought still lingered in the hut. Once again the lice crawled slowly over our backs and legs. I don’t know how long I slept; but after what seemed a short time I was wakened by the snoring of the optimistic Garrpe who was fast asleep. And then—some one was pushing at the door of the hut, trying little by little to open it. At first I thought it might only be the wind from the valley below blowing through the trees and pressing against the door. Quietly I crawled out of the straw and in the darkness put my fingers on the floor-boards underneath which was the secret hiding-place dug by Ichizo.