Pathway to Japanese Literature

I A bitter cold wind that froze the nose swept past. The village was completely covered in snow. The street trees, the hills, the houses—all of them too. There was nothing but white, dazzlingly shining snow.

In front of a farmhouse located halfway up the hill, a sleigh had been abandoned. From the room that served as both a parlor and dining room came the clumsy and crude Russian of a Japanese person. "Cold out, huh? ... You there, come on in."

The entrance door opened, and a housewife wearing low-heeled shoes showed her face. The driver was buried up to his waist in hay inside the sleigh and hunched his neck. He was a young, small-statured man. His cheeks and the tip of his nose had turned red from the frost. “Sank you.” “Do come in now.” “Sank you.”

However, the young driver merely continued adjusting the hay around his body, trying as much as possible to prevent the wind from blowing through his clothes, and made no move to rise from the sleigh.

The blindfolded horse was exhaling steam from its nose as it waited quietly for the Government-Contracted Merchant to emerge. When the steam came out of its nose, it froze instantly into frost. And the frost glistened like white sugar sprinkled over the horse's facial fur, leather harness, and blinders.

II Old man Pyotr did not readily agree to the Government-Contracted Merchant's terms.

The Government-Contracted Merchant had a thick beard covering from his cheeks down to his chin. And he produced a stiff, formal voice that he himself likely believed sounded dignified. He would address Russians with the blunt "you" even when speaking to women, and in situations demanding respectful language. He had learned Russian solely by ear, leaving his grasp of the language crude and broken.

“It’s a war, probably.” Ivan, who had been listening to his father’s discussion with the merchant, turned toward his younger brother and said. “No!” The Government-Contracted Merchant’s eyes gleamed sharply. “We’re transporting military provisions and uniforms.” “Why would you need so many sleighs just for moving provisions and uniforms?” Ivan demanded. “They’re essential—every single soldier needs clothes and food…” The merchant sought to requisition Pyotr’s two sleighs for regimental use. He proposed paying any amount required.

Pyotr held no goodwill toward the Japanese military. Not only that—he harbored hatred and antipathy. He had been subjected to a house search by the Japanese without reason. Moreover, there had been times when they had said they would pay, yet still requisitioned pregnant sows as if it were only natural. The fields were destroyed. They never knew when war would break out right beside them and stray bullets would come flying. He was cursing the Japanese who had come all the way to Siberia for no reason at all.

Every time the Government-Contracted Merchant went to peasant households on regimental errands, he detected their anti-Japanese resentment even in trivial gestures. Some displayed it overtly. But these were exceedingly few. Most refrained from voicing recognizable resentment yet rejected his demands despite monetary offers under other pretexts. Loose horseshoe nails or equine colds. Yet this merchant—whose sole focus was haggling and discerning true intentions—instantly pierced their veiled resistance. He steered conversations accordingly. The war purpose itself remained wholly concealed.

After about fifteen minutes, he had Pyotr’s two sons serve as drivers and got Pyotr to agree to send two sleighs to the regiment.

“Alright then, get ready immediately and go to the regiment,” he said. “Wait,” Ivan said. “I want the money upfront.”

And Ivan looked at his father's face. "What?"

The Government-Contracted Merchant, who started to leave, turned back. "I want the money." "Money..." The Government-Contracted Merchant deliberately laughed. "Hey, Pyotr Yakovlevich, if you let the two young ones drive, wouldn't the money come rolling in without a hitch?"

Ivan muttered something under his breath as he pulled on his cold-weather boots and fastened his torn, soiled fur coat. “It might be war,” he said in a low voice. “If they start exchanging fire out there, I’ll just run away on my own.” Outside, the young driver was freezing. The Government-Contracted Merchant went outside,

“Alright, next! Let’s go!” he said briskly.

The sleigh slid smoothly and lightly over the snow, descending a gently sloping path.

The Government-Contracted Merchant verified the presence of sleighs and horses at the next farmhouse, then entered through the front door into the interior. There as well, he would pay any amount of money—he proposed. Once that was settled, he raced his sleigh to the next farmhouse.

Antipathy toward the Japanese clashed with his skills and money at every stop he made. And his skills and money always outmaneuvered them.

III

The sleigh was driven up before the company. The horses neighed, and the bells on their backs jingled. Each company was swamped with preparations for deployment. However, in the battalion’s kitchen—where they made no move to resume preparations—four or five soldiers were talking freely about whatever they wanted. There, the smells of pig fat, cabbage, burnt bread, and rotten pickles mingled together and filled the air. It seemed as if those smells had seeped even into the very skin of the soldiers working kitchen duty there.

“We’re the ones out there requisitioning pigs and chickens, aren’t we? So who do you think eats the ham and bacon? The officers hog all of it! We’re just stuck with the dirty work.” Yoshihara ranted by the fireplace. He’d often seen the owners—Siberian peasants rooted to this land—watching their requisitioned livestock being taken away, anguished enough to tear their chests open. He’d been raised a peasant himself, had tended cows and pigs. How dear those animals raised from birth must be—something you’d never grasp unless you’d fed them from your own hand.

“We torment the Russians, make them cry and beg, then haul them here by force—it’s wrong, I tell you. It’s plunder.” Though hoarse, his voice remained resonant and booming. His words carried so clearly they made the windowpanes tremble. He had once served as the battalion commander’s orderly. There he had seen how officers’ meals differed from soldiers’ rations as though they were separate species of humans.

In evenings when Major Konmatsu went out somewhere，Yoshihara would have’to polish his boots，brush down his uniform，lay out his cold-weather gear，and even trim his beard—which had grown out by a mere three rin. Whenever he tended’to that beard，he’d also need’to haul water for washing up…

The Major would doll himself up and go out.

However, when he returned late—past one o'clock—he would sometimes be in such a foul mood that it was as if he'd snapped off a stick and hurled it. Yoshihara couldn't make sense of it. He'd probably been rejected. Then the next day too, he remained foul-tempered. And then the soldiers would get scolded and ultimately whipped for their inefficiency. He used to think: Did superior officers even have the right to such privileges?! He found it absurd—bowing his head so earnestly and polishing boots.

The reason Major Konmatsu had made him his orderly was because he was a well-built, handsome man. Thanks to that, he had never been beaten. However, he could not help but feel resentment toward the officers for selecting orderlies based solely on their handsome looks—just as men fancy beautiful women—and treating them like playthings. Become a plaything? Like hell I will!

“We’re the ones sent out to requisition pigs and chickens, aren’t we? We slaughter them, cook them…” “And then all the good cuts get snatched up by the officers!” He repeated himself. “What the hell even is our role here?!” “Hey, quit yappin’ about that crap and let’s move out.” “Bitchin’ won’t fix a damn thing.” Abe cut in. “They’re already arming up over there.” Abe’s face darkened like storm clouds. I should get back to the company and prep my gear first. That’s all he wanted to do. But leaving the others behind felt wrong—he couldn’t bring himself to go alone.

“Another battle… I can’t stand it.”

Nearby, Kimura was whispering in a low voice to his companion Asada. The two men sat facing each other astride the bench. Kimura let out a faint, listless cough. "It's said Russian soldiers lack the will to fight this war."

Asada said.

“Is that so? That’s welcome news.” “But wars aren’t started by soldiers’ wills.” “Does the army commander intend to prolong this war indefinitely?” “They’ve been demanding it from the homeland all along, I tell you.” “How vile—dragging people out to this frozen hell just to make them slaughter each other!”

Kimura would occasionally interrupt the conversation to cough. There were times when phlegm would accumulate in his throat, and he couldn’t speak unless he coughed it up.

He hadn’t had any chest problems before coming to Siberia. The respiratory sounds at his lung apices had been clear, without a single murmur to be heard. It was from winters spent buried in snow and summers breathing airborne dust—dried horse manure left on roads that swirled through the air—until gradually his flesh wasted away and the cough took hold. The climate was harsh. During that time, over about a year and a half, he had killed Russians and witnessed several fellow soldiers who had eventually been killed themselves. He himself had killed people before—a pale youth with lips twisted in a face on the verge of tears. A reddish beard had just begun to sprout sparsely on the man’s face. When he saw him lying there before his eyes, he realized for the first time that he felt neither hatred nor resentment toward him. He found it strange—how such acts were being done against his own will, urged on by some unseen force. He had secretly come to feel this way.

Yoshihara, who had been speaking in a hoarse voice that echoed around them, turned toward Kimura. “You’ve got the perfect excuse—tell them you’re sick and request a medical exam. Then you won’t have to go today.” “They won’t examine me unless I start coughing up blood or something.” “That can’t be true! Just say your body’s too weak from fever to work!” “If I claim laziness, the doctor will only berate me.” Kimura coughed. “Those medics didn’t come to Siberia to treat patients—they came to scold us.”

Yoshihara fixed his eyes with an expression of unbearable frustration.

“Hey, let’s just go back already.”

Abe said. From the company barracks echoed tense, hurried shouts and barked orders as they prepared.

“Hey, let’s just go back already.” Abe repeated. “We’ve gotta go anyway.”

The air shifted. And then the stench of fat, burnt bread, and rotten pickles assailed everyone’s nostrils anew. "I’ve been diagnosed twice before." With that, Kimura coughed. "Both times they gave me a week’s rest from training, then forced me straight back to duty." "Why don’t you make them examine you properly?" "No matter how properly they examine me, it won’t help." And then he coughed again.

“Hey! What are you all doing?!” the Special Duty Sergeant barked from the entrance. “Can’t you see orders’ve been issued?! Get back and prepare already!” “Well now,” Yoshihara muttered. “Here comes the brass.”

IV

Dozens of sleighs loaded with soldiers were dashing across the snowy wilderness. The bells had been removed from the horses' backs.

The snow was deep. And the wilderness stretched vast and endless.

There was nothing but the creaking of sled runners and the sound of hooves kicking frozen snow echoing there. They too vanished somewhere almost instantly, as if swallowed by the wilderness’s silence.

In the sleigh where Pyotr’s son Ivan Petrovich held the reins rode the battalion commander and adjutant. The whip cracked through the wind against the horse’s hindquarters. The horse advanced, kicking up frozen snow with ice horseshoes whose undersides protruded nails to prevent slipping. The battalion commander was calculating the salary in his pocket. —It had only just been received yesterday. Ivan jerked the reins and kept swinging his whip to catch up with the company racing ahead. The sleigh flew like wind across the snow, leaving two parallel runner tracks. Two other sleighs followed behind Ivan. They too carried officers. When they reached a depression in the ground, the sleigh dropped with a thud. Immediately the horse pulled it back onto level ground. When one fell in, those following clattered down one after another before being hauled up. The metal fittings of the sled runners creaked.

“Hyah! Hyah-hyah…!”

Ivan signaled something to the driver behind. The battalion commander was a man whose corpulent body brimmed with blood. It was blood made from eating ham and bacon. "Well, out of three hundred yen..." He regretted having given away—that very night, last night in fact—to the daughter of former Colonel Tsuā nearly the same amount he sent monthly to his family back home. If he’d known they’d be heading into battle today, he wouldn’t have done it. That much would have been more than enough for his wife, elderly mother, and two children to live on for a whole month! —Yet in his rapture over the colonel’s daughter’s beauty and allure, he failed to recall that he had even considered taking out the bills still left in his pocket later and likely squandering them all on her.

“Major Konmatsu!”

The battalion commander continued his mental calculations. The shouts from behind didn’t register with him. What a fool I've been. There’s hardly anything left in my pockets now!

“Major Konmatsu!” “Your Excellency, the Lieutenant Colonel requests your presence.”

The adjutant said.

The wind howled around their ears. Ivan Petrovich reduced his speed. From his mustache to his eyebrows, frost clung thickly like white sugar. “Major Konmatsu! What’s that gathering at the foot of the mountain on the left?” “...?” The battalion commander could suddenly see nothing. “That gathering at the foot of the mountain on the left—isn’t that the enemy?” “Yes.” The adjutant took out binoculars and peered through them. “...They’re the enemy.” “Your Excellency! ...What madness—marching in column formation before the enemy while carelessly exposing their flank!” The adjutant spoke as if clinging to hope against despair.

“Shall we halt the company and have them change direction?”

But at that very moment, smoke suddenly billowed up. And from quite nearby, the sound of gunfire echoed.

“Hey—hey—”

Like a patient calling for a nurse, in a weak, pleading voice utterly unlike that of a superior officer, Major Konmatsu shouted to the company advancing ahead.

The company ahead also seemed to have noticed the Russians on their left almost simultaneously. When the battalion commander shouted forward, the soldiers were leaping from the sleighs into the snow.

V

The battle continued for about an hour.

“The Japanese are like mad dogs—they have to sink their teeth into everything they touch,” Pyotr said. “They’re still banging away over there!”

The Russians lost the will to wage war. They lowered their guns and fled toward safety. Bullets whizzed by—whizz! whizz!— clinging with relentless persistence to their fleeing path. "I'm exhausted." "Isn't there any way to propose a ceasefire?" "Try that and they'll slaughter us all!" "Run! Run!"

An old man named Fyodor Liepsky was fleeing with his two children. The older brother was twelve years old. The younger brother was nine years old. The younger brother was exhausted, dragging his feet just to keep his cold-weather boots from being swallowed by the snow. The parent and children gradually fell behind.

“Papa, I’m hungry. …Bread.” “Why’d you bring such a little one out in this snow?” Someone passing them from behind asked.

“There’s no one left to look after anyone.”

Liepsky twisted his face sorrowfully. "My wife?" "She died five years ago. My wife had a brother, but he died last year too—it's this lack of food that's killing us!"

He searched through the bottom of the bag and gave his son a piece of black bread. The younger brother tried to take it with hands made stiff by small gloves. At that moment, Liepsky groaned and collapsed onto the snow, still clutching the bread. “Papa!” “He’s been hit!”

Someone fleeing past said.

“Papa!” The twelve-year-old older brother tried to lift his sturdy father—a man who seemed of peasant stock—by the neck to get him up. “Papa!”

Another bullet came flying.

It hit the younger brother. Blood overflowed on the white snow.

VI

Before long，Japanese soldiers arrived where the father lay collapsed with his children.

“How far do they expect us to chase them?” “I’m starving.” “Hey, let’s take a rest already.” They too were sick of the war. Even if they won, it wouldn’t get them anything. Moreover, the war was depleting their physical strength and mental energy like an express train.

Kimura, his chest heaving, coughed and gasped for breath as he dragged his rifle along behind them. The snow, crusted thinly on the surface, crumbled under their weight as their boots sank heavily into it. Each time they shifted their footing, the snow threatened to snatch their boots away.

“Aah... I’m exhausted.”

Kimura coughed up phlegm streaked with blood. "Why don't you turn back now?"

“I’m so exhausted I can barely move.” “Take the sleigh back.” Yoshihara said. “That’s better—what law says they can use even the sick for killing people!”

From beside them, two or three voices spoke at once. "Oh... I might've killed this one." Asada looked at Liepsky lying collapsed and felt his chest constrict in shock. "Just now - I pulled the trigger two, three times."

The father and son lay on the snow about six feet apart, their heads facing the same direction. At the edge of the old man’s hand lay a small piece of black bread, fallen as if struck down mid-bite. The son had thrust his left arm into the snow and lay face down with his small body. The surrounding snow was stained with blood, and his little boots were tattered. That sight was truly pitiable. The small white lips touching the snow seemed on the verge of crying out something to them.

“Fighting to the death... What a heartless business!” They felt as though something had struck them sharply in the chest.

“Hey, I’ve finally figured it out,” Yoshihara said. “It’s us who’ve been waging this war.”

“There are those forcing us to do this against our will.”

Someone said. “But it’s us who are waging the war. If we stop, it will stop.” As if hurried by some unseen current, the soldiers came to a halt around Liepsky. They were all exhausted and listless. Someone kept asking, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Some sat down on the snow to rest. Some threw down rifles whose muzzles still smoked, grabbed handfuls of snow, and ate it. Their throats were parched.

“No matter how long we keep at this, it’ll never end.” “I’m starving.” “Can’t they just call it quits already?” “If we don’t stop this ourselves, it’ll never end no matter how much time passes! Those bastards will work us to death and kill us all just to get their damn medals! Hey, let’s stop, let’s stop. Let’s withdraw!” Yoshihara was raging as if picking a fight.

They had grown weary of the war. They wanted to quickly return to the barracks and rest in a warm room.—No, more than that, they wanted to go back home, strip off their constricting military uniforms, and be done with them. They thought of those back in the home country who had been spared from conscription, stretching out comfortably in warm beds. Beside them were their beautiful wives—for the men of the same age remaining in the home country had the privilege of selecting the most beautiful and desirable women first. There was alcohol, there were nourishing feasts. They took pleasure in the snow, drinking sake while admiring its beauty. And yet here they were in Siberia, forced to kill Russians who had done them no harm!

“Advance! “What are you doing in front of the enemy!” The company commander came carrying his military sword.

VII

Like students exhausted from a field trip gathering by a spring to rest, the soldiers clustered on the snow with completely listless postures. They were arguing about something. “Hey, get moving over there!”

The battalion commander said to Ivan Petrovich: "That man's the rare troublesome sort." The horses, driven around on the snow until exhausted, made Ivan feel that whipping them further would hurt like striking himself. He thought it would've been better if he'd only transported soldiers. When combat began, all soldiers got off the sleighs and walked across the snow on their own feet. Only the commanders never abandoned the sleighs. The Government-Contracted Merchant had deceived him. They were using their sleighs to kill Russians. Without sleighs, they couldn't do a damn thing!

When they veered off the packed, frozen path, the horses' slender legs sank deep into the snow. And each time they pulled their legs free, the kicked-up snow scattered down onto Ivan’s face. The more the horses sank into such hard-to-traverse spots, the greater their fatigue became.

The sleigh approached where the soldiers were clustered, and when it was just about a hundred meters away, the soldiers suddenly stood up and began advancing in scattered formation. Yet five or six men remained sitting on the snow, making no move to rise. The officer was saying something to those five or six men. Then from among them stood up a tanned, well-built man who moved with quickness—retorting in an agitated tone. That was Yoshihara. The officer seemed overwhelmed. And the soldiers showed signs of being about to strike him down. There sat a man coughing up blood.

“What’s happened? What’s happened?”

The battalion commander asked the lieutenant, who was walking unsteadily nearby as if about to stumble. "The soldiers are declaring they'll stop the war on their own authority, acting like commanders themselves." "It seems he's stirred up quite a few others." The lieutenant replied while adjusting his cold-weather cap. "It's truly vexing how even the rank-and-file grow radicalized here in Siberia." "What company's men are they?" "X Company, sir." When the man's facial features became discernible, the battalion commander confirmed it was Yoshihara—his former orderly. He recalled how Yoshihara had only given him curt replies and let his spurs rust, irritation welling up inside him.

“Disgraceful insubordination! “What disgraceful insubordination!”

He shouted angrily. The sudden shift to that harsh tone made Ivan stiffen, thinking the words might have been directed at him. It had been Yoshihara who discovered his infatuation with the colonel’s daughter and spread the rumor. “Disgraceful insubordination! What disgraceful insubordination!” “They must be made thorough sacrifices!” Then he ordered Ivan to stop the sleigh, leapt down, and began striding heavily through the snow toward Yoshihara—who was still arguing with the company commander—dragging his boots as he advanced.

The company commander, having noticed the major’s arrival, suddenly put on an air of authority and slapped Yoshihara across the cheek.

When the sleigh became lighter, Ivan decided he didn’t want anyone else riding in it. He pulled the reins to turn the horses around and retreated from the front lines to the rear. He was the last man who had transported officers the longest and endured exhausting labor. The sleigh that had been carrying soldiers had retreated three versts to the rear and was now trying to flee even further away. He proceeded the horses at a pace that wouldn’t tire them and, after a while, looked back toward where the soldiers and officers had been arguing.

The corpulent battalion commander stood beside the tanned man. The battalion commander puffed out his lips angrily. About ten ken away from there, behind them, an officer knelt with his rifle aimed at the soldiers in firing position. This was visible from here but likely unseen by the soldiers. They meant to ambush them. Ivan thought he was participating in something evil. The battalion commander stepped back three or four paces and raised his hand in signal.

From the tip of the officer’s rifle, smoke puffed out. Then the tanned man collapsed onto the snow like a felled tree trunk. At the same moment, a sound like beans popping reached Ivan’s ears.

Again, smoke burst from the officer’s rifle muzzle. This time, a frail man with sharp cheekbones who’d been coughing up bloody phlegm collapsed. The soldier with an alert face—the one who’d stood quietly until now—suddenly yelled something, ripped off his cap, and charged forward. He too had definitely been among those arguing with the officers earlier. Ivan felt terror prickle across his skin. He swung toward the horses and lashed the whip, desperate to escape this place quickly. What would happen to that pale-faced man now sprinting through the snow? He couldn’t bear to turn back and look. He kept whipping the horses harder.

How can they kill people so easily?! Why did that man have to be killed? Do they really need to wage war against Russians to such extremes?!

He was partly concerned about what had become of the fair-skinned man. Had he been killed? What had become of him... But witnessing men being killed like this was unbearable.

After driving on for a while, Ivan looked back, thinking the matter must have been settled by now. The man was still running across the snow. The snow was deep. His legs had sunk up to his knees. He struggled desperately with both hands while trying to move his legs.

The man screamed and shouted curses. Ivan could no longer bear to watch. It was too much to bear. But they would kill him mercilessly anyway. He turned back toward the horses. And then, at that moment, gunfire cracked from behind like popping beans. However, he did not look back. He couldn't bear it.

“The Japanese are nothing but rabid dogs—stupid bastards!”

VIII When the soldiers alighted, the drivers slowly turned back toward the rear. They were all furious at having been deceived by the merchant. They had brought the Japanese here to have them kill Russians. And they were Russians!

“You tricked us! Bastard!” After traveling a short distance, they suddenly sped up. And at full throttle, they surged beyond the bullets’ effective range.

There, they took out the bells that had been forbidden from hanging from their pockets, attached them to the horses, and drove the sleigh cheerfully and carefree. The bells that had been resting in pockets until now rang crisply on the horses' backs with a clear jingle. The horses exhaled steam from their nostrils. And they fled far into the endless snowy wilderness.

The mass of soldiers killing each other squirmed smaller and smaller on the rear horizon. And finally became like ants, until at last they vanished from view.

IX

The snowy wilderness stretched endlessly like an ocean.

A mountain wrapped in snow existed distantly. However far they pressed onward, that mountain remained the same size, fixed in the same position. It showed no sign of drawing nearer. No dwellings stood there. No watchmen's huts either. No white-beaked crows flew.

There, like a shipwreck that had lost both compass and propeller, the battalion lurched. The soldiers, fearing execution by firing squad, had withdrawn their opinions. Major Konmatsu intimidated all his subordinates exactly as he pleased. The soldiers wrenched out every last ounce of strength and charged recklessly at the Russians. Either go kill Russians or be killed themselves—those were the only two paths they had! However, because of that, their fatigue had only grown more intense.

Major Konmatsu could not ride on the soldiers as if they were sleighs. He blamed the fleeing sleighs on his subordinates' carelessness, yelled at anyone nearby, and struck the snow with his military saber. His long boots were nearly claimed by the snow. The spurs that Yoshihara had let rust—once a source of fury—now served only to hinder his walking.

Their provisions ran out. The water in their canteens froze solid.

Their rifles, their boots, and their bodies were all heavy. The soldiers staggered aimlessly across the snow, nearly collapsing at every step. They became aware of their own deaths. Probably no one would come with sleighs to save them.

Why must they die on the snow? Why had they been forced to come all the way out to such a snowy wilderness to kill Russians? Even if they repelled the Russians, it would bring them no benefit whatsoever.

They became unbearably gloomy. Those who had sent them to Siberia had done so knowing full well they would die like this on the snow, standing idly by as they dispatched them. Those who had sent them were probably cozily lying by their kotatsu, saying, “What lovely snow.” Even upon hearing of their deaths, those who had sent them would only say, “Oh, I see.” And that was all.

They trudged unsteadily over the snow. ……Still, they had not yet lost consciousness. Anger, hatred, defiance—

Their bayonets—unwittingly becoming the tools of those who had sent them to Siberia—now converged wildly and cruelly upon the chest of Major Konmatsu, the man who had recklessly driven them to exhaustion.

The snowy wilderness stretched endlessly like an ocean. A mountain wrapped in snow loomed in the distance. However, no matter how far they pressed on, the mountain remained the same size, anchored in the same position. It did not seem to get any closer at all. There were no houses. There were no guard huts either. There were no white-beaked crows flying either.

There, they—starving, overworked, pushed to the brink of exhaustion—staggered aimlessly. The boots were heavy, and the cold seeped through to the core of their bellies.……

(September 1927)