Pathway to Japanese Literature

I A wind so cold it froze the nose swept through.

The village was completely buried under snow. The street trees, the hills, the houses—all of them. There was nothing but white, dazzlingly shining snow.

At the midpoint of a hill, in front of a farmhouse, a single sled had been abandoned. From the room that served as both parlor and dining area came the unmistakably clumsy and crude Russian of a Japanese person.

“It’s cold… You should come inside.” 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 sled and hunched his neck. He was a young, small-statured man. His cheeks and the tip of his nose had turned russet from frost. “Thank you.” “Please do come in.” “Thank you.” However, the young driver kept gathering hay around himself—doing just enough to stop the wind from piercing his clothes—and did not attempt to rise from the sled.

The blindfolded horse exhaled steam from its nose as it obediently waited for the Military Contractor to emerge. The steam froze instantly upon leaving the nostrils, becoming frost. It clung to the horse's facial fur, leather harness, and blinders like scattered white sugar.

II Old Pyotr did not readily agree to the Military Contractor's terms.

The Military Contractor had a full beard stretching from his cheeks down to his chin. And he produced a stiff, harsh voice as though he thought highly of himself. Even when addressing the woman—and indeed even in situations where such terms were inappropriate—he invariably referred to Russians as “you” without honorifics. He had learned Russian by ear alone, in a haphazard way. “It’s war, probably.” Ivan, who had been listening to his father and the merchant’s conversation, turned toward his younger brother and said.

“No!” The Military Contractor’s eyes glittered keenly. “We’re transporting provisions and uniforms.” “Why would you need so many sleds just to transport provisions and uniforms?” Ivan said. “Of course they do. Every last one of them soldiers needs clothes to wear and food to eat, you know…” The merchant was attempting to use the two sleds that Pyotr owned for the regiment’s purposes. He offered to pay any amount of money. Pyotr held no goodwill toward the Japanese military. Not only did he hold no goodwill toward the Japanese military, but he harbored hatred and resentment. He had been subjected to a house search by the Japanese without reason. There had also been an instance where, even as they claimed they would pay, they had unceremoniously requisitioned a pregnant pig as if it were their due. The fields were laid waste. They never knew when fighting might break out right beside them, sending stray bullets flying their way. He cursed the Japanese who had come all the way to Siberia for no good reason.

Every time the Military Contractor went to the farmers’ houses on errands under the regiment’s orders, he perceived the resentment they harbored toward the Japanese even in their trivial actions. Some displayed it blatantly. However, that was a very small minority. Most did not voice what could be called resentment and, even when offered money under other pretexts, refused to comply with his demands. Things like horseshoe nails coming loose or a horse catching a cold. But the merchant—who thought only of bargaining by reading people’s true intentions—quickly saw through their hearts. And he proceeded with the conversation in a manner that accommodated this. He had kept the fact that they were going to war completely secret.

After about fifteen minutes, he had Pyotr agree to send two sleds to the regiment, with his two sons as drivers. “Alright then, get ready immediately and head to the regiment,” he said. “Wait,” Ivan said. “I want the money up front.”

And Ivan looked at his father’s face.

“What?”

The Military Contractor, who had been about to leave, turned back. “I want the money.”

“Money...” The Military Contractor deliberately laughed. “Hey, Pyotr Yakovlevich, if you let the two young ones drive, money’ll come rolling in easy-like.” Ivan muttered something under his breath as he pulled on winter boots and a torn fur coat stained with grime. “Might be war,” he said quietly. “If they start shooting each other—I’m bolting.”

Outside, the young driver was freezing. The Military Contractor went outside,

“Alright, on to the next one!” he said briskly.

The sled glided smoothly over the snow, slipping lightly down the gently sloping path. The Military Contractor verified the presence of sleds and horses at the next farmhouse, then proceeded further inside through the entrance.

There as well, he offered to pay any amount of money. Once that was settled, he drove the sled onward to the next location. Resentment toward the Japanese clashed with his skills and money at every stop they made. And his skills and money always managed to wrap them around his finger.

III

The sled was driven up to the front of the company. The horses neighed at each other, the bells on their backs jingling crisply. Each company was swamped with preparations for deployment. However, in the battalion’s mess hall, making no move to return to preparations, four or five privates were talking about whatever they pleased. There, the smells of pig fat, cabbage, burnt bread, and rotten pickles mingled together and filled the air. The stench seemed to have seeped even into the very skin of the cooks on duty working there.

“Even pigs and chickens—aren’t we the ones who go out requisitioning them?” “So who do you think ends up eating all that ham and bacon?” “The officers hog all of it!” “—We’re the ones stuck with that dirty job.”

Yoshihara was ranting near the fireplace. He had often witnessed owners—Siberian native farmers—suffering as if their chests were being torn open when watching their livestock get requisitioned. He had grown up farming and raising cows and pigs. How dear livestock could be when raised from birth was something only those who'd done the raising would understand.

“We torment the Russians, make them cry and beg, then force them to haul it all here—it’s wrong, plain looting.” His voice was hoarse yet resonant and voluminous. His words resonated so powerfully that the windowpanes rattled. He had once served as the battalion commander’s orderly. There, he had seen how the officers’ meals and the privates’ meals differed as if they belonged to entirely different species of humans.

In the evening, when the battalion commander went out somewhere, he would have to polish his boots, brush his uniform with a clothes brush, lay out his cold-weather gear, and on top of all that, trim his beard that had grown out a mere three rin. When he trimmed the beard, he also had to fetch hot water for washing his face.... The Major dresses up smartly and heads out.

However, there were times when he would return late—past one o’clock—and be in such a foul mood that it seemed he might snap a stick and hurl it. Yoshihara couldn’t make sense of it. He had probably been rejected. Then, the next day too, he remained in a foul mood. And the privates would be scolded, then whipped for their inefficiency. He used to think: What right did superior officers have to such privileges?! He found it absurd to bow obsequiously and polish boots with such earnestness.

The reason Major Chikamatsu had made him his orderly was that he was well-built and handsome. Because of that, he had never been beaten. Yet he couldn't help resenting how the officers chose orderlies just for their looks and treated them like playthings—exactly like men lusting after pretty women. Like hell I'll be their damn toy! "Pigs and chickens—we're the ones sent to requisition them! We slaughter them, cook them..." "And then all the prime cuts get snatched by the bigwigs." He repeated himself. "What the hell even is our purpose here?!"

“Hey, quit talking about that stuff and let’s get back.” “Even if we complain, there’s no point.” Abe said. “They’re all arming themselves already.” Abe had a dark, gloomy face. Let me return to the company first and prepare. His mind was consumed by that desire. But leaving the others behind to go back alone felt wrong—he hesitated to leave. “Another battle—I can’t stand it.”

Nearby, Kimura was whispering quietly to his companion Asada. They sat facing each other, straddling the bench. Kimura let out a light, listless cough. “It’s said that the Russian soldiers have no will to fight.”

Asada said. “Is that so? That’s promising.” “But waging war isn’t something soldiers choose,” Kimura responded. “Does the Commander-in-Chief intend to keep waging war indefinitely?” “They’ve been wanting that from the homeland all along—that’s how it is.” “I hate it—sending people all the way out here to this freezing place just to make them kill each other!” Kimura would occasionally interrupt the conversation with a cough. When phlegm built up in his throat, he sometimes couldn’t speak unless he coughed it up.

He had not had any chest problems before coming to Siberia. The breath sounds at his lung apexes were clear, with no abnormal noises ever detected. But after winters spent in snow-covered terrain and summers inhaling airborne dust from sun-dried horse manure littering the roads, he gradually lost flesh and developed a hacking cough. The climate was merciless. During that year and a half, he had killed Russians and watched several comrades from his enlistment year get killed in turn. He himself had taken lives. The man had been a pale youth with lips twisted into a tearful grimace. A sparse reddish beard had just begun shadowing his jaw. When Kimura saw that man crumpled before him, he realized for the first time he felt neither hatred nor resentment. The revelation seemed bizarre. And he became secretly convinced these acts were compelled by some external force—done wholly against his will.

Yoshihara, who had been speaking in a hoarse voice that carried across the area, turned toward Kimura. “You’ve got a perfect excuse—say you’re sick and get examined.” “Do that and you won’t have to go today.” “They won’t examine me unless I start coughing up blood.” “That’s impossible! Why don’t you just say your body’s too weak from fever to work?!” “They’ll only accuse me of slacking off and yell at me.” Kimura coughed. “The army doctors didn’t come to Siberia to heal patients—they came here just to shout at us.”

Yoshihara fixed his gaze with a look of utter frustration. “Hey, let’s just go back already.” Abe said. From the company barracks came the tense, frantic shouts of preparation and barked commands that echoed through the air.

“Hey, let’s go back already.” Abe repeated. “We’ll have to go anyway.” The air stirred. And the stench of fat, burnt bread, and rotten pickles once again assaulted everyone’s nostrils. “I’ve been examined twice before.” With that, Kimura coughed. “Both times, they just gave me a week’s suspension from drills, then put me right back on duty.” “Why not have them examine you thoroughly?” “No matter how much I have them examine me, it’s no use.”

And he coughed again.

“Hey! What are you all doing?!” barked the Master Sergeant from the entrance. “Can’t you see there’s an order?! Get back and prepare already!” “There he is—Buu’s here.”

IV

Dozens of sleds carrying soldiers raced across the snowy wilderness. The bells had been removed from the horses’ backs. The snow was deep. And the wilderness stretched endlessly vast.

The creaking of sled runners and the sound of hooves kicking frozen snow were all that resounded there. Those too vanished somewhere almost instantly, as if swallowed by the wilderness’s silence.

On the sled 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 horses advanced, kicking through the frozen snow with ice-gripping horseshoes whose undersides protruded nails to prevent slipping.

The battalion commander was calculating the salary in his pocket. It was something he had received just the day before. Ivan kept jerking the reins and cracking the whip to catch up with the company that had rushed ahead. The sled raced like wind across the snow, leaving two parallel runner tracks in its wake. Two other sleds followed behind Ivan. Those too carried officers. When they reached a depression in the land, the sled dropped with a thud. Then it was immediately pulled up onto level ground by the horses. When one fell in, the others followed, thudding down one after another before being pulled up. The metal fittings of the runners creaked.

“Hya, hyaa…” Ivan signaled to the drivers behind.

The battalion commander was a man whose body, swollen with fat, overflowed with blood. It was blood made from eating ham and bacon.

“Well, out of the three hundred yen…” He regretted having handed over to the daughter of former Colonel Tsuar—that very evening he received it, last night in fact—an amount nearly matching what he sent monthly to his family in the home islands. If I’d known we’d be heading to war today, I wouldn’t have given it. That sum could have easily sustained his wife, elderly mother, and two children for a month!—Yet he failed to recall how, entranced by the colonel’s daughter’s beauty and allure, he had even resolved to later take out and likely squander the bills still remaining in his pocket now.

“Major Chikamatsu!” The battalion commander continued his mental calculations. The shouts from behind did not reach his ears. What a foolish thing I’ve done. There’s barely anything left in my pockets now! “Major Chikamatsu!” “Battalion Commander, sir. The Lieutenant Colonel requests your presence.”

The adjutant said.

The wind howled past their ears. Ivan Petrovich eased his speed. His mustache and eyebrows were dusted with frost like white sugar. “Major Chikamatsu! What do you suppose is gathering at the foot of that mountain to the left, sir?” “……” The battalion commander could suddenly see nothing. “Isn’t that group gathered at the foot of the mountain on the left enemies?” “Understood.” The adjutant produced binoculars.

“……They’re enemies. Battalion Commander, sir! …What the hell—marching in column formation with their flanks exposed right before the enemy?!” The adjutant spoke as if to stave off despair. “Shall we halt the company and have them execute a change of direction?”

But in that instant, a puff of smoke rose. And from quite nearby, the report of a gunshot rang out.

“Heeey! Heeey!” Like a patient calling for a nurse—in a feeble, pleading voice utterly unlike an officer’s command—Major Chikamatsu shouted to the company that had rushed ahead. The company too seemed to have noticed the Russians on their left almost simultaneously with those behind. When the battalion commander shouted forward, soldiers leaped from sleds onto snow.

Five The battle continued for about an hour. "The Japanese are like mad dogs—they’ll bite anything they can get their teeth into," Petya said. "They’re still firing away!"

The Russians had lost the will to wage war. They were lowering their guns and fleeing toward safety. Bullets whizzed past—once, twice! And with relentless persistence, they came streaming toward wherever they fled. “I’m beat.” “Isn’t there any way to propose a ceasefire?”

“Go ahead and try that! They’ll slaughter us all the moment we drop our guard!” “Run! Run!”

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

“Papa, I’m hungry… Bread.” “Why did you bring such a small child out into the snow?” A voice passing by from behind asked. “There’s no one left to look after them.”

Liepsky twisted his face into a look of sorrow. “My wife?” “She passed away five years ago.” “There was my wife’s younger brother, but he too died last year—it’s the lack of food that’s killing us!” He rummaged through the bottom of the bag and gave his son a slice of black bread. The younger brother tried to take it with stiff hands encased in small gloves. And then, at that moment, Liepsky groaned something and collapsed onto the snow still clutching the bread.

“Papa!” “He’s been hit!”

Someone fleeing past them said.

“Papa!” The twelve-year-old brother tried to lift his sturdy father—a man who bore the marks of peasant upbringing—by the neck. “Papa!”

Another bullet came flying. It hit the younger brother. Blood spilled over the white snow.

Six

Before long，Japanese soldiers arrived where the father and sons lay collapsed. “How far do they expect us to chase them?” “I’m starving.” “Hey，let’s take a break.”

They too were weary of the war. Even if they won, it would do them no good. Moreover, war depletes physical and mental strength like a speeding train. Nauseous, Kimura coughed and gasped for breath as he dragged his rifle along behind them. The snow that was only crusted over on the surface crumbled under their weight, boots sinking heavily into it. Each time they shifted their feet, their boots threatened to be pulled off by the snow. “Ugh... I’m beat.”

Kimura coughed up phlegm mixed with blood. “Why don’t you just head back already?” “I’m so worn out I can barely move.” “Take a sled and head back.” Yoshihara said. “That’s better—Is there any law that uses sick men as killers?!”

A few voices from the side spoke up simultaneously. “Oh… I might have killed this one.”

Asada saw Liepsky lying collapsed and felt his chest tighten in shock. “I pulled the trigger two or three times back there.”

The father and son lay on the snow about a few meters 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 someone had been struck down while trying to eat it. The son had thrust his left arm into the snow, his small body lying face down. The surrounding snow was stained with blood, and the small boots were torn. The sight was utterly poignant. The small white lips pressed against the snow seemed about to cry out something to them.

“Killing each other is such a cruel thing, huh!”

They felt as though something suddenly pierced their chests. “Hey, I finally get it now,” Yoshihara said. “We’re the ones waging this war.” “There are bastards forcing us to do this against our will.”

Someone said.

“But we’re the ones waging this war. If we quit, it’ll end.”

As if swept by an urgent current, the soldiers came to an abrupt halt around Liepsky. They were utterly exhausted and drained. "What's wrong? What's wrong?" someone called out. Some sat down on the snow to rest. Others threw down rifles whose muzzles still smoked and grabbed snow to eat. Their throats were parched.

“No matter how long we keep fighting, there’s no end.” “I’m starving.” “Why don’t they let us withdraw already?” “If we don’t stop this, it’ll never end no matter how long it drags on! Those bastards will work us to death just to get their medals! Hey, let’s stop! Let’s stop! Let’s withdraw!” Yoshihara raged like a man possessed. They had grown sick to death of the war. They wanted to hurry back to the barracks and rest in warm rooms—no, more than that, they wanted to return home and tear off these suffocating uniforms.

They thought of those back in the homeland—those who had escaped conscription—sleeping stretched out comfortably in warm beds. Beside them were beautiful wives—for the men their age who had remained in the homeland held the privilege of selecting women they found beautiful and desirable first. There was sake and lavish feasts. Amusing themselves with the snow, they drank sake while viewing it. And yet, here they were in Siberia, forced to kill Russians who had done them no wrong!

“Why aren’t you moving?!” “What are you doing at the enemy front?!”

The company commander came with his military sword drawn.

Seven Like students exhausted from a field trip clustering around a spring to rest, the soldiers had gathered on the snow in attitudes of utter depletion. They were arguing.

“Hey! Move it over there.”

Major Chikamatsu said to Ivan Petrovich. “That one’s a rare compliant sort.” The horses were exhausted from being driven around on the snow—to Ivan, striking them with the whip any further felt as painful as striking his own body. He thought it would have been better if he had only been transporting privates. When combat began, all the privates would get off the sleds and walk on the snow with their own legs. Only the officers persistently refused to abandon the sleds. The Military Contractor had deceived him. They were using their sleds to kill Russians. If there were no sleds, they wouldn’t be able to do anything!

When they strayed from the packed, frozen road, the horses' slender legs sank deep into the snow. As they pulled their legs free, the kicked-up snow scattered across Ivan’s face. The more they struggled through this treacherous terrain, the more the horses’ exhaustion mounted.

As the sled drew near the cluster of soldiers, coming within about a hundred meters, the privates suddenly stood up and began advancing in scattered formation. But still, five or six men remained sitting on the snow, making no move to get up. The officer was saying something to the five or six men. Then one of them—a dark-complexioned, well-built man who looked agile—stood up and retorted in an agitated tone. It was Yoshihara. The officer seemed to be overwhelmed. And the privates showed signs of being about to strike the officer. There, a man was sitting, coughing and spitting up blood.

“What’s going on here? What’s going on here?”

The battalion commander asked the lieutenant, who was stumbling over his own feet as he walked. “The privates are declaring they’ll stop the war themselves—acting like commanders.” “It seems he’s stirred up quite a few others.” The lieutenant replied while adjusting his winter cap. “Damned nuisance—even our own men turn radical out here in Siberia.” “Which company?” “X Company, sir.” When facial features grew discernible, the battalion commander confirmed it was Yoshihara—his former orderly. He remembered the man’s curt replies and neglected spurs, irritation rising like bile.

“Disgraceful conduct!” “What disgraceful conduct!” He shouted irritably. Because it was a sudden, harsh shift in tone, Ivan wondered if something had been said to him and startled.

It was Yoshihara who had discovered his infatuation with the colonel’s daughter and spread the rumor. “Disgraceful conduct! What disgraceful conduct!” “They must be sacrificed without mercy!” After forcing Ivan to halt the sled, he leapt down and strode toward Yoshihara—who stood arguing with the company commander—dragging his boots through the snow.

The company commander, noticing the major’s arrival, abruptly asserted his authority and slapped Yoshihara across the cheek. When the sled became lighter, Ivan thought he didn’t want anyone else to ride. He pulled the reins to turn the horses around and withdrew from the front line to the rear. He had transported officers longer than anyone else and was the last one left completely worn out. The sled that had been carrying soldiers had fallen back three versts and was now trying to flee even further away.

He advanced the horses without tiring them too much and, after a while, looked back toward where the privates and officers had been arguing. The corpulent battalion commander stood beside the dark-complexioned man. The battalion commander puffed out his lips in anger. About sixty feet behind them, an officer knelt down, assumed a firing position with his rifle, and took aim at the privates. From here it was visible, but the privates likely couldn't see it. They were going to spring a surprise attack. Ivan thought they were doing something wicked.

The battalion commander stepped back three or four steps and raised his hand in signal.

A puff of smoke burst from the officer’s rifle muzzle. The dark-complexioned man collapsed onto the snow like a felled log. Simultaneously, a popping sound like roasted beans splitting reached Ivan’s ears. Smoke erupted again from the officer’s rifle muzzle. This time it was a gaunt-cheeked man—frail-looking and coughing up bloody phlegm—who fell. The private who had stood quietly until then with an alert expression suddenly shouted something, tore off his cap and charged forward. That man too had undoubtedly been among those arguing with the officers.

Ivan felt terrified, his skin crawling. And he turned back toward the horses, applied the whip, and tried to quickly flee from that place. The man who had started running—he was pale-complexioned—what would become of him? He could not bear to look back and see. He continued to whip the horses. How could they kill people so easily?! Why did that man have to be killed?! Was it really necessary to wage war against the Russians to such an extent?!

He was concerned about what had become of the pale-complexioned man. Was he killed? What happened to him... But witnessing the scene of their being killed was unbearable.

After driving for a while, Ivan looked back, thinking matters must have been settled one way or another by now. The man from before was still running across the snow. The snow was deep. His legs had sunk up to his knees. Forcibly struggling with both hands, he wrenched his legs through it. The man screamed and cursed.

Ivan could no longer bear to watch. It was unbearable. But they would mercilessly kill him. He turned back toward the horses. And then, at that moment from behind came a crackle like bursting beans. However, he did not look back. He couldn't bear it.

“The Japanese bastards are like rabid dogs! They’re such fools!”

VIII

The drivers, when the soldiers got off, 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 deceived us!” “Damn you!”

After moving on for a while, they suddenly increased their speed. And at maximum speed, they moved out of the bullets’ effective range.

There, they took out the bells—which had been forbidden to hang—from their pockets, attached them to the horses, and drove the sleds nonchalantly and briskly.

The bells that had been kept in pockets until now rang crisply, jingling on the horses' backs. The horses exhaled steam from their nostrils. And they raced away into the distance across the endless snowy wilderness. The swarm of soldiers locked in combat writhed on the rear horizon, growing gradually smaller and smaller. Until at last they became like ants, vanishing completely from view.

IX

The snowy wilderness stretched endlessly like a great ocean.

The mountain lay in the distance, enveloped in snow. However, no matter how far they traveled, the mountain remained the same size and stayed fixed in position. It did not seem to get any closer. There were no houses either. There were no guard huts either. There were no white-beaked crows flying either.

There, like a shipwreck that had lost its compass and propeller, the battalion staggered.

The soldiers, fearing execution by firing squad, swallowed their objections. Major Chikamatsu bullied his subordinates with unchecked authority. The privates charged blindly at the Russians, wringing dry what little strength remained. Either kill Russians or be killed—those became their sole options. Yet this desperate struggle only deepened their exhaustion.

Major Chikamatsu could not make use of the privates as sleds. He blamed the escape of the sleds on his subordinates’ carelessness, yelling at those nearby and striking the snow with his military sword. His boots were nearly swallowed by the snow. The spurs he had resented Yoshihara for letting rust now only hindered his walking. Their food had run out. The water in their canteens had frozen. Their rifles, their boots, and even their bodies were heavy. The soldiers staggered across the snow, nearly falling as they wandered aimlessly. They became aware of their own deaths. Probably, no one would come with sleds to rescue them.

Why must they die on the snow? Why had they had to venture out into this snowy wilderness to kill Russians? Even if they repelled the Russians, there would be absolutely no benefit for themselves after all. They became unbearably depressed. Those who had sent them to Siberia had done so knowing full well they would die like this on the snow, callously sending them to their fate.

They were probably sprawled out cozily by their kotatsu—those heated tables—saying, “What lovely snow!” Even if they heard about their deaths, they’d only say, “Oh, I see.” And that would be all. They trudged heavily, staggering across the snow. ……But they hadn’t yet lost consciousness. Not their anger—nor their hatred—nor their defiance. Their bayonets had unwittingly become tools of those who’d sent them to Siberia, now converging with reckless cruelty upon the chest of Major Chikamatsu—the man who’d driven them to such extremes.

The snowy wilderness stretched endlessly like an ocean. The mountain lay in the distance, enveloped in snow. However, no matter how far they traveled, the mountain remained the same size and stayed fixed in position. It did not seem to get any closer. There were no houses either. There were no guard huts either. There were no white-beaked crows flying either.

There, they—having reached the limits of hunger, overwork, and exhaustion—staggered aimlessly. The boots were heavy, and the cold seeped into the very core of their stomachs.…… (September 1927)