Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One

Both hands gripped the wire-meshed window frame—and as his fingertips tensed with effort, the man’s face appeared at the window.

It was a little before noon. At the H.S. Canning Factory, five lines of tinplate cutters, body attaching machines, edge curlers, can sealers, and leak testers shook the concrete-reinforced floor while reverberating deafening noises off the corrugated iron ceiling. Countless belts linking each machine to the pulleys of shafts that spanned steel girders sliced through space at various angles as they rotated in a fixed rhythm, slackening with each slap, slap, slap, slap, slap... In the stifling, dimly lit factory, the empty cans riding the conveyor belts as they moved from machine to machine glinted all the more sharply. The female workers were singing loudly against the din of the machinery. And the window remained oblivious.

―Ah! “Tanaka Kinuyo” cried out. By this factory’s custom, no one ever called that female worker—who looked like Tanaka Kinuyo—by her real name. She ran to the window. The eyes of a male worker testing cans by the conveyor followed her movement.—Outside, a man was hauling himself up to the window. The man appeared to be trying to push a tightly rolled paper through into the factory. When he saw the woman running toward him, his face suddenly brightened. She took the paper through the wire mesh and pressed her ear against the windowpane.

“Make sure the supervisor doesn’t take them—distribute these to everyone.” “I’m counting on you.” The man dropped down below the window with a thud. But immediately, his fierce figure was seen climbing over the wall. When the noon siren wailed, the machinery’s clamor seemed to be sucked away one by one as it faded—and suddenly the female workers’ shrill voices rose clamorously into prominence. “What’s this, Kinu-chan? A love letter?” “A sample love letter?” “Isn’t this ridiculously thick?”

The male workers who had been watching also gathered around. "If you do that, Dennai-san will cry." "So you’re saying she’s got to be a high roller? What a woman with peculiar tastes!"

Everyone burst out laughing. Tanaka Kinuyo handed out the flyers to everyone one by one. "What the hell—this one’s especially lacking in charm, ain’t it?" "It’s a union flyer." Unemployed Workers’ Rally ・Storm the city hall! ・Give us work! ・The city must guarantee livelihoods for the unemployed! From the direction of the finishing area, stepping over the rails of the low-ceilinged, dimly lit trolley path, Morimoto Hitoshi emerged, scrubbing his face and neck with a hand towel from the nape downward. In his pants pocket lay the same flyers carelessly stuffed inside.

“Hey! You’ve been grinding iron again!” When they saw him approach, the Canning Department workers trotted out their usual routine. “What’re you yapping about? You damn can louse!” He hadn’t backed down. “Keep scraping nothing but iron and you’ll end up whittling your own bodies down to bonito flakes!” The Finishing Department and Canning Department workers were always butting heads—skilled craftsmen versus machine-tending grunts who only needed to stand by their stations day in and day out. That’s where it came from. Normally they managed well enough together—but let something come up and before you knew it they’d split into separate camps without even realizing it. Take that time someone from Finishing couldn’t tell whether “welcome” was written with kanji meaning “joyful greeting” or just plain “looking at greeting.” The whole Finishing crew kicked up such a ruckus you’d think Mount Fuji was erupting again—got themselves all worked up over nothing. No matter how many heads they put together—all equally thick—they still couldn’t puzzle it out and wound up more confused than ever. But would they go ask those Canning guys across the way? Hell no—they’d sooner traipse all over to that office across the street and pester some necktie-stiff salaryman instead.

Searching for biting jokes that would strike home, they traded them back and forth as they trailed up the stairs to the cafeteria in a straggling line. From above came the sounds of chair legs scraping against the floor and the female workers’ shrill voices, mingling noisily with the smell of grilling “salt-trout.”

On this day, about three hundred copies of Y’s “United Workers’ Union” flyers made their way into the H.S. Factory. Even the foremen in each workplace had flyers. However, throughout the entire meal, not a single person mentioned those flyers.

When the meal ended and Morimoto came down the stairs late, he saw flyers from earlier carelessly crumpled up, turned into nose wipes, and discarded in multiple copies across stair landings and every corner of the factory. He contorted his face vividly.

II

The H.S. Canning Company was situated along the canal. The western part of Y Port had been reclaimed by the Ministry of Railways, and throughout that area canals had been dug. The canal water lay stagnant with oil and soot floating on its surface. Motorboats and flat-bottomed barges resembling flounders threaded beneath the sluice gate’s bridge, entering and exiting the canal. The H.S. Factory sat in one corner like a gray super-dreadnought, its massive bulk planted there. It truly did resemble a battleship. The cans could be loaded directly from the product warehouse onto the canal’s wharf, which had been arranged for such cargo handling.

The city’s people referred to the H.S. Factory as the "H.S. Kingdom" or "Y’s Ford." Young workers would take off their work uniforms when leaving and change into low-collared student jackets with gold buttons. The middle-aged workers and foremen wore white shirts with neckties fastened.—The “Nearby Points of Interest” guide on Y Station’s platform stated: “H.S. Factory—approximately eighteen chō (about 1.96 kilometers).”

Due to Y City’s status as a port town, transport laborers handling sea-land connections—dockworkers and stevedores—were overwhelmingly numerous. Koreans accounted for thirty percent of those. Therefore, when people in Y spoke of “workers,” they were referring to them. Since most were semi-free laborers, each lived a wretched existence. The workers at H.S. Factory hated being called “workers” for that reason—to say they worked at “H.S. Factory” was in itself a point of “pride” to their neighbors.

Morimoto approached his workbench but couldn't focus on his work. He knew the union flyers would be distributed today, and he was supposed to report on the movements within the H.S. Factory when those flyers were scattered at a certain meeting. But look—how the hell am I supposed to report this kind of situation to you lot? Not only does not a single worker take it seriously, but even the guards—former policemen—and the factory manager pay it no heed. If even a single horsefly or bee were to wander into the factory instead of the flyers, that might cause a bigger commotion than them. "Horseflies" and "flyers"?! Even that comparison didn't hold.—Once it came to that, he could no longer feel any drive.

The ten-horsepower motor installed in a corner of the workplace ceaselessly emitted a gloomy groan while invisibly shuddering the floorboards. A gasoline engine prepared for power outages stood installed right beside it. This was the factory’s heart. From there, drive belts stretched like arterial highways across the workplace ceiling to the main shaft’s pulley. And from this base point, they branched further via belts of differing widths to each respective machine. The entire arrangement evoked a human arterial system. Punching machines, lathes, boring machines… all emitted shrill screams as they sliced through iron, bored holes, and sent sparks flashing.

The workers toiling away appeared to be desperately writhing against the machines they were bound to. With hips braced and thick shoulders anchored, their bodies' full force subtly concentrated into arms pressing chisel ends. An unpleasantness like pressing a furnace directly against living bone traveled straight through their arms. From blade tips, twisted iron scraps scattered like water spray. From the forge came riveting sounds erupting burst after burst like machine-gun fire.

Here, unlike the Canning Department’s rapid-fire rhythmic clatter, bold booming thuds intermingled with thin sharp clangs—steam hammers pounding THUD after THUD! The rumbling vibrations and shrill clangs rising from the anvil interwove... jumbling together and merging into one until the entire factory roared and reverberated with a thunderous din. When the forge’s flames flared up fiercely under the blower’s force, only one cheek of each worker in the finishing department flashed crimson for an instant.

A crane suspended by creaking wire pulleys from two rails running vertically along the ceiling passed right over the workers' heads with a tremendous noise. It was a massive thing three times the size of a locomotive car, freshly cast in the foundry, meant to be installed on a horizontal boring machine that would carve out grooves for wire receptacles.

“I’m beggin’ ya!” “Nanbu senbei are cheap!”

He stepped aside while shouting up at those above. “First, tighten up!” “Don’t gimme any lip!” “If you’d just clear one damn thing, I’ll make quick work of ya!”

The worker gripping the handle above made a spitting gesture.

“Damn it all!” Those below leaped exaggeratedly sideways. “Look down from up here—every last one of them’s filthy as garbage.” “Think they’ve climbed a bit higher—poor bastards—already showing their proletarian guts.”

Huh. Weird. If I don't even get to boss you lot around with a jerk of my chin once...

Beside the horizontal boring machine, four or five workers and a foreman in a pancake hat had gathered, watching as the crane—its wire pulley suspended lopsidedly—clattered closer.

“All right!”

The foreman of the migrant workers raised his hand. The worker at the handle—who had been watching the foreman’s signal—yanked it toward himself. When the crane halted, the wire pulley swayed loosely from its residual momentum. With each movement, the chain creaked shrilly—Gii! Gii! The encircling workers seized the rhythm of its sway and heaved it precisely onto the platform.

“Heave-ho! Heave-ho!” The foreman wiggled his fingers in a beckoning motion. The chain lurched forward with a jolt. “Heave! Pull! Heave! Pull!...” The workers began chanting in unison. They secured the wire pulley by mounting its base on two rollers and fastening its shaft and flanges to the punching machine’s arm. The crane clattered loudly as it hauled up the chain. Chalk tucked behind their ears, they circled the installed machine—prodding it with fingertips, making disapproving clicks of their tongues.

From Morimoto's vantage point, it looked like ants swarming to drag something unmanageably massive. Before the immense iron machinery, humans seemed as small as filthy iron scraps.

He clamped the broken part of the Canning Department's rubber coating machine into the vise bench and heated it with the furnace.—Suppose the footing position had differed by one minute. At that moment, the chain came loose… Then, without making a single sound, that massive wire pulley lurched forward with a violent jerk. The four workers' ribs would have been crushed more easily than a shoji screen's lattice. Even if it were a mere one-minute difference. To earn a meager daily wage that didn't even reach two yen, the workers nonchalantly risked their lives.—Yet these very workers had used the union flyers as tissue paper!

He rubbed his machine oil-stained hands vigorously against the seat of his work pants. "Well, I guess that's good enough...!" — Then he snorted derisively.

III

When the end-of-work siren sounded, everyone dashed from the workplace to the washroom.

The narrow concrete walls reverberated with a clamor as raucous as a women’s bathhouse, booming deafeningly. Before a peeling mirror that only showed patches of their faces, workers stripped to the skin splashed soap suds and hot water. Each time they moved, their fierce shoulders and upper arm muscles creaked and bulged up. “You idiots! The soap’s bawling—hey, scrub hard over at the furnace!” “So you wanna get dumped by Ms. Tanaka Kinuyo, huh?”

“Well, well... you bastard.” They blocked the bastard trying to cut in by pressing their butts together.

“What’s with that scrawny ass of yours!” “I’ll split you wide open, bastard!” “My apologies it’s not Emi-chan’s sweet cheeks.” “Can’t screw or get screwed—that’s about the size of it.” “Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Afterward, they wrapped towels around their necks, stood stiffly, toyed with white angular bars of floating soap, and waited.

“Damn bastards—if I stay quiet, they get all cocky! I’m not some fucking wooden post.” The guy who’d been told off scrubbed his soap-covered face vigorously, “Well, well! When did you start acting all high and mighty? I thought you were just another ‘Mr. Worker’!” He looked in the wrong direction and retorted.

There was a token partition, and immediately beyond it lay the female workers' washroom. When they squatted in the washroom, the area below the female workers' waists became visible. The workers grew accustomed to identifying each other by their lower-half attire alone. Pretending to wash their faces indefinitely, they watched them. "That third one's Aya-chan from 'Monnami,' that's." In the factory, they took the exotic names of Y City's famous cafés and bars and used them to call the chic female workers.

“How ’bout those hips!” “That one’s really come into her womanhood lately.” “Hmph!” “Hips don’t lie.”

“Who's this one here?”

“Whoa, she moved!” She crossed her legs... “Damn, what a view! Bastard!” “Hey!”

The one standing behind noticed this and suddenly knocked the two aligned heads from both sides with a thud. “Peeping Tom!”

The women burst out laughing all at once while saying something. Then they too deliberately raised their voices.

When they exited the washroom, the two groups came together from both sides at the exit. When leaving, the women emerged as completely different people.

“Who are you again?”

To the nearly sixty-year-old worker with poor eyesight and failing hearing who did riveting on chimneys and boilers, they truly became indistinguishable. “Pfft!” “Grandpa, you’ve lost your spark, haven’t you?” And then he was slapped on the back by the women. “Don’t mistake me for granny now.” Damn bastards! The company remained silent about the female workers becoming “young ladies” on their way home, about them becoming café “waitresses,” about the workers becoming “students,” and about them becoming “company employees.” Since they were capable of allowing that much, they did so, and there couldn’t possibly be any problem with it. Even if one looked all over Y City, there was probably no factory that provided its workers with such treatment, the factory manager said.

When they exited the washroom, jostling shoulders in the narrow hallway, they made their way up to the second-floor “changing room.” Both sides were scrap warehouses, with boxes piled up like skyscrapers dozens of stories high. It was dark there. “Ah—!” a woman screamed. When they reached that spot, someone would often play pranks on the women. “You... insufferable man!”

“Hey... what about today...?” “Today?” “I have plans.”

“Really?” “What plans?” “With who?” “Even so, I’m keeping up my end.”

“Damn bastards!” There, quick “exchanges” had become customary at any time. Workers often, while working, would write on cans coming down the conveyor to arrange evening meetings with women at the next station, “Bridge, six” and write it on them. The man moved only his fingertips while watching the can pass in front of the woman behind the machinery. The woman caught sight of it, erased it, and then flashed a smile at the man.

“Six o’clock at the usual bridge”—that was what it meant. There are several such pairs.

Morimoto frowned. From all this, how many would ever emerge as comrades in our work? The thought sent strange unease welling up beneath his breastbone, leaving him unable to settle.

At the entrance to the changing room, a notice was posted. Morimoto initially thought "Huh!" Everyone was putting their arms through their sleeves as they stood before it. Notice As you are all aware, certain individuals have today distributed flyers for an "Unemployment Rally" at our factory. Needless to say, the recent recession has cast unemployed individuals out onto the streets—a sight truly unbearable to witness. However, our factory has fortunately remained entirely unaffected by such minor impacts through everyone's diligent efforts. Once you step outside the factory and look around, you will understand that our factory truly lives up to its name as 'Y's Ford'. Since we provide everyone with treatment fully worthy of this esteemed name—both in working hours and wages—we must earnestly urge you to absolutely refrain from blindly following such propaganda on this occasion.

Factory Manager Morimoto felt an inexplicable impatience as he read it and began skimming over the words. Tch! They’re really clamping down!

He was startled to realize his own words had betrayed a lapse in vigilance - his mental armor loosened through unguarded carelessness. He slapped the greasy, misshapen bird-hunting cap onto his head without ceremony.

The narrow street before the factory was filled to full width as workers and female workers streamed in the same direction. He merged into their flow while feeling the desolate chill of being alone.

When they crossed the iron bridge over the canal, there lay the Customs office, wharf, Water Police Station, steamship company, and warehouse-lined harbor street. Dockworkers were unloading cargo from the barge, crossing over creaking planks. However, here and there groups of laborers stood clustered together. These workers had their large tiered lunchboxes either placed directly on the ground or slung over their shoulders as they watched others laboring. ——"Unemployed" They were dockworkers.

It was the summer lull, and in the harbor there wasn't a single job worth the name. They were the ones planning to descend upon the city hall. Each barge moored to the quay resembled a dead flatfish. By the roadside near the pier, a vendor who had piled up apples and summer oranges sat blankly watching people's feet. The 'unemployed' dockworkers were watching the H.S. Factory workers cross the iron bridge. Raw envy contorted their faces. The H.S. factory workers flaunted an attitude that declared "We're no comrades of yours," then briskly brushed past them. This dynamic, however, had persisted even without the notice posted outside the changing room.

The dockworkers—these transport laborers—lived under harsh feudal exploitation through systems like the "oyakata system" and "genba system," enduring subdivided subcontracting arrangements and having their wages skimmed until driven into desperate circumstances, so they frequently initiated strikes whenever some trigger occurred. Y City’s "United Workers’ Union" had these laborers as its core membership. However, it could safely be said that not a single worker from the H.S. Factory had joined.

Morimoto found several familiar faces among those dockworkers. They were people he had encountered at the union. However, now that he was among these workers, he had lost the "audacity" to speak to those people.

IV

Father had not returned. Father, who was over sixty, left home an hour earlier in the morning than he did and returned two hours later. He had been working at the "Yamazangemba" site as a land-based dockworker. His hearing had grown poor, and cataracts now clouded his eyes. Since he couldn’t even handle phone calls or perform half his assigned tasks, the foreman made no effort to hide his disgust toward him every day. However, given that he had worked there for over twenty years, even the foreman seemed utterly at a loss about how to deal with him.

Ah, this is so hard…! The words escaped him involuntarily. In the morning, Father was still reluctant to go out. If he’s looking at the foreman’s face more than his work, then it’s still…! In the still-dark morning departure, at the top of the entranceway, Father in work clothes stretched his back with a creaking sound. Every time he heard that sound, Morimoto felt unbearable pain. —But he suddenly realized that someday he would have to make this father of his even more, even more miserable.—

The house's interior, stuffy with the day's heat, trapped dampness and the stench of urine. The swollen tatami mats had puffed up, their surfaces clinging stickily to sweat-dampened soles.

When Sarumata sat back down at his desk alone once more, there was a letter waiting. The sender was listed as Nakano Eiichi. This was one of the factory’s female workers. Morimoto had finally managed to locate her. Using this single “one” as his foothold, he now had to start forging connections among the women workers. He had received these strategic instructions from Kawata at the union. The letter read simply: “Anyway—urgent matter to discuss. “Wait tomorrow at eight beneath Ishikiriyama.” True to their agreement about omitting names, neither hers nor Morimoto’s appeared anywhere.

When the late summer dusk arrived, a faintly cool breeze—no more than what a hand fan could muster—had begun blowing before anyone noticed. The tenement residents who had been out in the alleyway wearing only a single white undergarment finally retreated into their low, oven-like houses. A band of children clutching sticks, their kimono fronts hanging open, clattered across the mud-gutter planks as they ran wild. Long after the evening glow had lingered, their shouts echoed through the clear sky.

They’re just a bunch of starving brats!

Father had returned. Father cleared his throat with a rough, rumbling sound at the entrance.

——How was it on your end, Dad? ——Hmm?

He knew his father was always opposed to things like “Workers’ Assemblies” and “labor unions.” It was perhaps because of that that Father had kept working there over twenty years. And even now—clinging to his job by a thread yet not being day laborer—he seemed convinced getting dragged into such incomprehensible matters would spell trouble. “Makin’ a racket ’fore the office door.” “Roundin’ up them jobless strays.”

"That's union business!" Father said with the detachment of someone commenting on a newspaper article. This isn't someone else's problem, Dad. He'll get fired before long. Father didn't reply, making rustling noises in the dim dirt-floored area. Even slight darkness left him utterly bewildered through his cataract-clouded eyes. Father went around back. Right next to the toilet, he'd clumsily built a shelf and arranged three flowerpots on it. The area reeked of toilet stench. Whenever Father left home, he'd inevitably buy cheap pots haggled from night stalls.

This spendthrift old man! When we can't even get a proper meal! Mother would shout each time. In other matters, even when they descended into fierce arguments, when it came to the flowerpots Father would strangely just grin faintly—no matter when. Father cherished them to an almost absurd degree. When he returned home, he always made sure to water them himself before entering the house. When he had no choice but to ask someone else, and that person happened to forget, Father would get truly angry.—Pitiful—it’s an outlet for his slave mentality, Morimoto had laughed.

――Today’s sweltering heat had left them all limp.

From the back, the sound of him muttering to himself could be heard.

At the H.S. Factory too, there were many older workers who kept small birds, collected various flowerpots, tended to them with meticulous care, and on every public holiday tinkered with minor home improvements. One of the workers brought a pot to the factory and placed it beside his workbench. “They say she’s a beauty like a flower.” “Then this here’s a flower like a beauty, ain’t it?” “We spend our days gazing at beauty’s flowers, ain’t it?” The flowers placed in the factory writhed under the stench of machine oil, the iron filings, the dust, and the deafening roar. And there, it was discovered they couldn’t even last a week.

“——Whoa!”

Everyone widened their eyes. ——And what about us humans? Morimoto, who happened to be there, suddenly let slip a joke. —Only after he had let it slip did he realize the profound significance of what he’d said.

Takebayashi of the punching machine sneered derisively. “I’ll swap it out for another one at the night stall.” “Workers—free to pick and choose, ha ha ha ha!”

He was an anarchist worker who knew newspaper printers and such.— Father was saying something from the back door. No voice could be heard; only his moving lips were visible through the grimy glass.

“You don’t happen to have about fifteen sen?” He said this with a sickly look. He thought it was happening again. When Morimoto grunted acknowledgment, Father’s face lit up with childlike delight. “See—there’s this pot... Every time I went to market I kept my eye on it...” Five

He waited for darkness to fall. That "meeting" had to be kept secret. "I'm heading out for activist work."

He told the household.

Unable to bear staying indoors due to the lingering daytime heat, the tenement residents—once they finished dinner—left their homes wide open and brought out platforms to cool off at the front. The alley reeked of the muddy ditch's stench. Even so, it felt more bearable than inside the houses. They were mostly naked. They talked loudly with their neighbors. A young man and woman crouched in a dim corner away from the others. Only the fans showed white, fluttering visibly. Morimoto passed through them, exchanging greetings as he reached the main street. This town housed people working at the "factory," others at the "port," and "day laborers"—each group living with mindsets rooted in separate worlds.

This area was located on the outskirts of Y City. Outskirts though they were, they remained undeniably part of Y City. Yet when the people of T Town went to the city center on errands, they would say, "I’m going to Y." As if they were setting out from some distant countryside. Shared buses, one-yen taxis, and rickshaws all charged the same "surcharge" for trips to T Town as they did for destinations outside the city. It was dim, damp and muggy, stank, and was soot-blackened. It was a workers’ town. Rowhouses resembling crushed bean jelly sank their floors into the unsteady, sodden wetland.

Morimoto walked through the shadows. He paused only when rounding corners. The safehouse had been strategically placed—a building fronting a lively, illuminated avenue. Its true access lay at the rear. Following protocol, he made two passes before the façade before approaching the back door. The door swung open to reveal a precipitous staircase climbing sharply before him. Testing each step with his toes, he ascended the notched stairs one cautious movement at a time. Rusted pulley stains mottled the crude steps beneath his feet. His hunched shoulders—thick from factory labor—contorted awkwardly in the confined space. The ceiling caught his skull mid-ascent.

“Who?” Together with a band of light from above, Kawata’s voice fell.

“Morimoto.” “Ah, you made it.”

The room was thick with tobacco smoke; chewed pipe stems and cigarette butts had spilled haphazardly from a small dish onto the tatami mats. It seemed some other discussion had taken place beforehand. Kawata, who had stood up, closed the door himself after Morimoto entered. He had a large mortar-like head that was closely cropped. Moreover, his hulking frame made him resemble a villainous monk. At all times, his manner of speaking was so blunt that people may have perceived him as arrogant. "But that’s precisely why he has a rock-like presence," the union members had said.

Ishikawa, who had been lying on his back fashioning a cup with a stand from Bat cigarette silver paper, raised his head when he saw him. "Yo!" Ishikawa had previously been at R Foundry, so he had known him well for some time. He had come to know Kawata through Ishikawa’s introduction as well. Since Ishikawa had joined the union, Morimoto had received various kinds of education in that area from him. Until then, he had been just like any ordinary worker—teasing cheap prostitutes, spying on activists, scrounging meals, and picking fights as he went about his days. And then he had resolutely stopped giving Youth Group speeches.

He had only met the other Suzuki briefly before. He seemed nervous and had the sharpest features. He always seemed sullen and spoke little, so Morimoto hadn’t yet developed any familiarity with him. He was hugging his knees and rocking his body, but opened the window to let out the smoke. Suddenly, a wave-like sound flooded in. People were shuffling endlessly along the asphalt below. It was their footsteps. Multi-lamp streetlights stretched their arms from both sides, with night stalls lined up beneath them—plant nurseries, used bookstores, fountain pen shops, fruit stands, Chinese vendors, university-capped students… The people were flowing along both sides like two wide ribbons moving in different directions. No matter how long one watched, there was no end to it.

“There sure are a lot of idle people.” “Mr. Suzuki—showing your face is dangerous.” Kawata had been aligning the serial numbers on the mimeograph prints but looked up. “So showing your face is dangerous?” “Ha ha ha—feels like we’re riding a train.” “Well... let’s just get it over with.” The four of them sat around the ashtray. “Since I’ve only met Mr. Morimoto twice so far—I think he may not fully grasp our stance…” Kawata frowned while busily smoking his Bat.

“To put it bluntly, I think it goes like this...” “It could be said that Japan’s leftist movement up to now has been quite active.” “In particular, Japan’s capitalist development had lagged behind in every field.” “But through things like wars and various other factors, it rapidly—managed to develop in about five years what took foreign countries ten.” “The proletariat too had been manufactured to overflow just as rapidly.” “Then came the postwar recession.” “And that’s why Japan’s movement rebounded vigorously from there and surged upward.” “But the problem lies in this ‘active’ label.” “Why was it active? Here’s why—it was only after we experienced that ‘March 15th Incident’ that this became clear to us... To put it bluntly, it stemmed from not having roots in factories.” “And not just any factories—‘large factories.’” “You could say no efforts had been made at all on ‘heavy industry factories.’” “Take Y for example—it’s the same there.” “The real strength of labor unions lies with port transport workers.” “Each and every one of them is minutely divided.” “Moreover, in practice they’re non-unionized laborers detached from their workplaces.” “So naturally mobilization works well for every matter, and at a glance it looks flashy and splendid.” “The reason Japan’s movement was called active, I think, comes from this very point.” “But above all, organizationally speaking, it was zero.” “Since it arose from scattered fragments, once it ended, it just scattered again.” “Even looking at the statistics makes it clear—during that time, the large factories didn’t budge an inch, like sleeping cows.”

“The reason factories resist mobilization lies precisely there.” “Small factories being wrung dry aside—when dealing with advanced large-scale operations employing thousands upon tens of thousands of workers, it becomes profoundly difficult. Difficult, yet without ‘organizing these major factories,’ our movement cannot possibly exist.” “To put it bluntly—rather than staging a thousand petty disputes around here, try striking just two coal mines in Yūbari and Bibai.” “Japan’s vital industries would grind to an absolute halt.” “This isn’t some grand fantasy—it demonstrates how strikes must inevitably develop in this direction. We must abandon these repetitive strikes of the past.”

"So... he’s really started acting like a proper teacher now..." Kawata stroked his mortar-shaped head once. "Well, we can cover the details gradually over time." "Strange to bring this up now, but it comes down to why we made such unnecessary sacrifices during March Fifteenth." "That’s because those seniors running flashy campaigns—though it was illegal work—kept reverting to old habits, bobbing up like goldfish breaking the surface." "They hadn’t done the submerged work of planting roots in factories." "In reality, our work needed to sink deeper into the factories until it vanished from sight—yet they went climbing podiums instead!" "They’d completely misunderstood—thinking it meant grand proclamations or dashing through streets with leaflets." "Japan’s movement has finally come this far in understanding…"

However，the truth was I couldn't quite grasp it. It was terrifying.

Ishikawa picked up on Kawata’s words. While setting a silver-paper cup into an empty Bat box, he turned his usual vague smile amiably toward Morimoto.

“It’s like steering a rotting boat—you crank the wheel, and only after an hour does it finally respond.” “There’s also the practical inertia from our past misguided campaigns—that’s undeniably powerful.” “And factory work itself is dreary—the drearier it actually is, the better… Makes it quite a challenge.—” That’s true. “You see why we keep hammering ‘submerged factory organizations’ every time we speak? Even if we created a thousand flashy unions like Y—if there were a thousand March Fifteenth Incidents to match—they’d all get crushed flat every time.” “Then they couldn’t withstand revolution or riots either—not for a moment.” “Too ambitious?” “But here’s reality.” “With war looming closer by the day, state armament plants are secretly hiring more hands despite the depression.” “The S Factory in M City—they’ve ballooned from three thousand workers to five thousand.” “This is exactly the situation.” “Suppose we build an organization inside that factory.” “Of course we wouldn’t show anything ‘active’ or ‘showy’ on the surface—it must operate in absolute secrecy.” “Then war finally erupts.” “That’s when our organization moves.” “Strike.—Oppose arms production.” “Weapons manufacturing grinds to a halt.” “If this happened in Osaka—and not just one factory—wouldn’t the war itself end?” “This is my point.—But say this to anyone in Y Union, they’d call it a pipe dream.” “But unless we start this now—when crunch time comes—we’ll be scrambling like beggars counting heads.”

“We’re determined to see this through.” “That’s precisely why……”

“I messed up too.”

Ishikawa said.

"I shouldn’t have left my post." "Right, Mr. Kawata!" "But back then, they only called it a 'movement' if you came to the union, mimeographed flyers, and distributed them."

That's how it was. To be honest, I couldn't stand staying put in the factory conscientiously back then.

Morimoto interjected for the first time. “But I think factories are hard to mobilize.” “When it comes to large factories, they don’t resort to prison-like cells after all…”

He gave a detailed account of today’s factory conditions. Kawata and the others listened carefully to each point.

“That’s right.”

Kawata said.

"That’s why the factory had always been pushed to the back burner until now."

Six

Morimoto drew a map of the H.S. Factory at Kawata's instruction. Kawata possessed maps of various other factories across the city. He then spread out a full map of Y City and marked H.S.'s location with a red symbol.

“Is it considerably far from the water police station?” “Four... four chō [about 436 meters], I’d say.” “Four chō [about 436 meters]?” “It’s positioned in a terrible location.”

Ishikawa looked up.

“The water police in this city are notoriously fierce, you see.”

Morimoto gave a general explanation about the factory. "Factory A was the can manufacturing department, divided into the Body Line that produced can bodies and the Top Line that produced can lids. On the Body Line, they cut tinplate into cylindrical bodies, attached the lids, tightened them, and checked for air leaks. The Body Line's machinery included cutting machines, body attaching machines, can edge curving machines, can seaming machines, air testing machines, and others; while the Top Line had tinplate press machines, corrugated cutting machines, and rubber coating machines that wrapped rubber around the grooves of lids. Factory B's lower floor housed the lacquer workshop where they applied lacquer to cans—work that was kept secret. The upper floor housed a nailing workshop that manufactured boxes for can storage, producing side panels, end panels, and partition boards.—The finished cans and these empty boxes would converge in the second-floor packing room of the warehouse to be packaged. Factory C was the finishing area where Morimoto and the others were located."

“What about other attached facilities?”

Kawata asked.

“Laboratory.” This handled testing of rubber coatings and research on lacquer paints. “The people here show real understanding toward us.” “They say they got fired from some university.”

"They must be liberals."

“Then there’s what they call the drafting room—a place researching things like industrial rationalization.”

“Huh—industrial rationalization?”

Kawata's voice took on a different tone. "It was apparently this department's members who handled converting the H.S. Factory into a full conveyor system." "When they suddenly didn't need so many workers anymore, it finally led to a strike—workers stormed the factory at night, beat up the guard, and smashed those conveyor belts to pieces." The coordination between tasks had become so seamless there wasn't a moment's gap, forcing workers in each workshop to complete their assigned jobs during the brief moment when cans moving along the conveyor passed before them—it was intolerable. Even edge-curving machines that originally required operators now ran automated, needing not a single worker.

――Hmm.

“Right now, the factory uses trolleys to transport tinplate sheets, but if those were replaced with conveyor systems, people would get pushed out there too, wouldn’t they?” “That’s likely.” “Makes sense.”

“It does happen.” “A bounty has been placed on the people in the drafting room and laboratory.”

“Clever bastards.”

“Those people were always ordering magazines from America filled with photographs of motors and boilers and reading them.” “As we move forward with advancing our various tasks—separate from matters concerning the workers—the company’s so-called ‘high-level policies’ become absolutely necessary too.” “So I want you to consider leveraging those upper-level bastards in precisely that sense—that’s what I’m thinking.”

Morimoto nodded.

Even regarding factory matters, what we knew amounted to barely more than a sliver. I think that's right... And then...

His eyes slid across the wristwatch. "That's right..." Seeming weary, Ishikawa stifled a tiny yawn behind closed lips. "Hmm... And what you might call internal conflicts within the factory... There must be some."

"Well... they do exist in each workplace," he mused. "The finishing area has skilled workers, while the can manufacturing department's work is—how should I put it—something even female workers can handle." His voice trailed off into silence.

Morimoto said this and ran a hand through his hair. Kawata thought he was seeing his bashful smile for the first time. He had thought it was an angular, rugged face, but when he smiled, its contours softened, and a friendly warmth appeared at the corners of his eyes. That was unexpected. If we do anything... we're metalworkers—and he's the big boss in that area. And then there are day laborers and stevedores—they're a bit different from regular workers. As for office employees, this probably exists everywhere. Since most female office workers have graduated from girls' schools, their clothing naturally differs.

When company employees with business passed through the factory, it would stir up quite a commotion among the female workers. Morimoto laughed aloud,

“Even the men get worked up seeing those smartly dressed company employees,” “But the company’s got this rule about turning diligent workers into full employees.” “They’ve been using that real skillfully again.” “Way back, they went all out and made one or two into employees.” “But that stopped right there—they haven’t done much since—yet somehow that approach works like magic.”

Kawata was listening more intently than anyone. Suzuki, however, did not utter a single word until the very end. He bit his thumbnail, scratched his head vigorously—yet still looked up here and there to listen.

Morimoto received further investigation items from Kawata for the upcoming meeting. "Factory Investigation Report" No. 1 and No. 2. Kawata had been conducting thorough, meticulous investigations of Y City's "important factories" in this manner. The purpose was to create organizations within those factories and establish a unified "organization" and "liaison" body comprising each factory's representatives. This became the "Factory Representatives Conference." Kawata had been pursuing his work with this grand design. Even should problems arise in just one factory, through this apparatus they could instantly—and simultaneously—be transformed into issues affecting every factory across Y City. Drive this work underground and advance it steadily, relentlessly! That itself would become something capable of enduring any manner of suppression. "On this foundation we can erect unshakable industry-specific labor unions."——Kawata declared this with eyes ablaze.

“Even the bourgeoisie have already been doing this very same thing.” “The factory owners are properly ensuring their mutual communication and solidarity through names like ‘Sansankai’ and ‘Suiyōkai’.”

When he descended the dark staircase, balancing himself on both handrails, Kawata came down after him. “You’re an invaluable asset,” he said. “You must never let the police see your face.” Morimoto felt Kawata’s breath brush his cheek. “I intend to have you operate as a ‘factory cell.’”

His right hand was clenched tightly in the thick, stagnant darkness beneath the staircase.

He stepped outside. He was distracted. While picking up the gutter planks in the alley, his feet stumbled repeatedly. Factory cells!

He repeated it. As he kept repeating it, he felt a steady excitement welling up from deep within himself.

VII

It had been decided that for this meeting, participants must never arrive or leave together. Morimoto and Suzuki each returned separately. Even if they cling to me, I intend to keep doing this work. My life might become a target...

Kawata, who had been waiting to put distance between himself and those who had left earlier, shook his thick shoulders.

“The police are saying this, I hear,” “People like me, you, Suzuki—those who’ve already surfaced—aren’t the least bit frightening.” “From now on, it’s the ones whose faces remain unknown.” “Even those bastards make statements that properly grasp the direction of our movement.” “So it seems their spy tactics have changed as well.” “The Special Higher Police and their ilk—seems even those bastards themselves have stopped putting much stock in mere figureheads with fancy titles.”

“Hmph—they’re thorough,” Kawata said. “Legal activities are one thing—but once the movement starts sinking, there’s only so deep those spies can dig. The real terror is when a comrade turns spy. Or gets turned into one midway through. Bribery—that’s what it boils down to. To put it bluntly...” “Oi oi—I’m countin’ on y’all!” Ishikawa cut in.

Ishikawa raised his voice heatedly. “Ha ha ha ha! Well now, if you’re secretly taking handouts, tonight’s business will leak straight through.” Kawata’s words carried a blade-like edge beneath their casual delivery. “The Special Higher Police types—they’re no scarier than those legalist clowns strutting about yelling ‘I’m a labor activist!’ There’s limits to how frightening they can be.” He leaned forward, the shadow from his bowl-shaped head swallowing half his face. “The danger’s not outside—it’s in here.” “Quit spouting that creepy crap again.” Morimoto’s interjection sliced through the basement’s damp air. Kawata merely laughed carefree, vigorously scratching his large cranium as if dislodging lice. Then, with abrupt seriousness: “It’s true!”

He said. And he looked at his wristwatch.

“Today I’ll be heading back first.”

Kawata exited from there and walked along the asphalt before Maru Department Store, handkerchief clutched in one hand. The haberdashery's clock - its face visible only if one stooped - showed eight. He paced twice across that stretch of pavement. This was his appointed meeting with a man who'd come smoking Shikishimas. Exactly ten days had passed since receiving that letter - eight o'clock sharp on this tenth evening marked their agreed time. Keeping watch on the storefronts, he purchased a three-sen stamp needed for their recognition signal. As he stepped from the shop, his gaze caught a suited figure approaching through the dusk - Shikishima smoke curling upward. He scrutinized the cut of the man's clothes. A hesitation flickered through him. Yet those eyes scanning the street left no doubt - this was his contact. His palm pressed tighter around the handkerchief.

The man approached. So he too pretended to be nonchalant and began walking in the same direction as the man. He broke the silence.

“I’m Yamada.”

Then, the man in the suit immediately— “Kawamura.” replied the man. “The ‘mountain’ and ‘river’ connected.” The two of them walked down the riverbank where there weren’t many passersby. After walking a short distance, the man, “Isn’t there somewhere we can rest?”

the man said. “Let me see…”

Kawata walked along searching both sides. And then went up to the second floor of a small restaurant. When they sat down at the table, the man took out a three-sen stamp from his pocket. The '3' in '3sn' had been blotted out with ink. Kawata took out the three-sen stamp from earlier and blotted out the 'sn' portion. The two of them fully realized they were "comrades". The man was a Party organizer dispatched from the Central Committee. Kawata began discussing the situation in the Y district and the number of new party members acquired there.

Eight Suzuki found it painful to spend even a moment longer with Kawata and Ishikawa. There was no joy in his heart whatsoever. Without exaggeration, he felt himself severed from everything. And he was always vanquished by that emotion. Completely un-proletarian! "But am I truly engaging with 'the movement' through the movement itself—or through trust in 'people'?" However Kawata and Ishikawa might regard me—shouldn't that leave my 'sentiments' toward the movement entirely unchanged? —They must not be altered again. Yes—I understand that. But what was this 'desolation' that followed immediately after? —He already knew he had strayed from the path.

Theoretically, practically, even from the standpoint of personal feelings—seeing his comrades surging past his own frantic shoulders filled him with pain more excruciating than enduring torture. He envied those other comrades who seemed never to have felt even a sliver of such doubt. Yet he knew this proletarian movement was neither as gloriously pure-hearted as it appeared from without, nor free from ugly squabbles and haggling beneath even petty merchants. This instilled in him a terror of disappointment.

"In the movement, you're senior to Kawata and his lot." The words carried an unspoken challenge: "Doesn't that rankle?" This concerned the flyer distribution incident—the time he'd been apprehended on the 29th. Yet he recognized this as one of the Special Higher Police's favorite ploys. "You're more insensitive than I expected." "Can't you see how Kawata and Ishikawa keep sidelining you, even as you work together?"

He turned his face away silently.—But against his will, he clearly felt the blood draining from his face. “You must be thinking ‘tactic,’ aren’t you?”

The Special Higher Police Chief smiled thinly there. “Well now—to be honest, we often use such ‘tactics’ ourselves.” “But whether this is a ‘tactic’ or not—I think you know the truth in your heart better than I do.” “As I mentioned earlier to Mr. Ishimoto, poor Suzuki’s always getting left behind.” “It’s impressive they have the magnanimity to keep working on the movement together like that.” “They said it’s a feat we could never manage.” ——……。

“...Shall I tell you then?”

The Special Higher Police Chief suddenly tilted his head. Suzuki felt a tightening dread course through his body in the pauses between those words. "Though this is perhaps something rarely spoken of—through certain methods, leveraging what we might call the world's finest police network—we have obtained definitive proof that Kawata and his group have already joined the Communist Party." "However, you're not part of it. ...Because you're not, I can tell you this." "Whether it's a lie or the truth—you're the one who'd know..."

——…………. It may sound strange to put it this way, but when I realized that fact, I couldn’t tell whether I should be glad or sad. “When you heard you weren’t included, you must want to say our gladness is self-indulgent.” “Then so be it.” “After all, we’re in a line of work that can never bring people joy.” “But I believe what ‘comrades’ feel between them—that profound trust—is something we could never begin to fathom.” “Yet you’re being betrayed by it.” “When I realized that, I was overcome with such a lonely, dark feeling—I didn’t know what to say to you.”

“Don’t spout that nonsense!”

His chest heaved, rising to his throat. He had to force it out in one go. And then he shouted—he held back the tears filling his chest.

The Special Higher Police Chief fiddled with a pencil while staring intently at his face. He paused for a moment.

“That’s not all.” “In dispute negotiations and distributing strike funds—you’ve no idea how much they’ve been swindling you.” “We’ve got solid proof Kawata’s lot are frittering that money away on their own amusement.” “And you’ll still play the noble pauper…?” Whether lies or truth, each barb struck precisely at the doubts he’d privately nurtured.

He mustn't care, he mustn't care—but the more he consciously tried to suppress it, the more that very effort warped his mind. He could no longer speak to Kawata with an honest heart. He couldn't bear to look at Kawata and the others' faces. He found it almost comical how restlessly he fidgeted, letting his gaze wander. And yet, somewhere within himself, he was expending razor-sharp nerves on Kawata’s words.

It was a little while ago. The Special Higher Police officer who always visited his lodgings approached him when he saw him on the street.

“You’ve fallen quite behind on your rent, haven’t you?” the Special Higher Police Chief sneered. “So it was you!”

He stopped right there. The detective laughed loudly.

Four or five days prior, someone claiming to be Suzuki’s friend had come to the lodging house where he was staying and paid off all the back rent he owed. “It’s fine, isn’t it? Things like this.” “We’re in this together.” “Not like I’m doing this to put you in my debt or anything.”

"Then there's just one more thing I'd like to ask," said the man with the sparse red beard kept in a square shape as he scanned his surroundings.

The two of them found Café Monnami off the main street. They pushed the spring-loaded door there and went up to the second floor. The Special Higher Police arbitrarily ordered beer and beefsteak for him. “Let me make this clear—these matters are for you all to decide as you please...”

“Without letting everyone speak,”

“I know.” “Don’t be so tense.” “I’d like to have a proper talk at least once—after all, even we… don’t you think?”

he said, laughing with a thin, creeping heh-heh-heh. He was already worn-out; he thought he was tainted. He got so drunk there that he could barely stand.

―― Even during the "second-floor" meeting when Kawata had seemed to be in a hurry, Suzuki had already left on his own. He couldn't endure the gnawing pressure of emotions closing in on him. When he returned to his lodgings, someone told him a book package had been left there. When he heard that, he understood its meaning.

When he went up to the second floor and untied it, it was an unfamiliar kōdan book. He pinched the spine of the book and shook the pages. Two tightly folded ten-yen bills fell onto the reddish-brown tatami.

He suddenly turned pale—but not because ten-yen bills had appeared. It was because he was startled to realize he had been mechanically shaking the book’s pages without thinking. He grabbed it, descended the stairs, and went out into the street. But there was no color in his face.

Middle Nine

“Missy, Missy! —Okki!”

On the second-floor packaging area, male and female workers faced each other across the conveyor, packing empty cans into boxes. The packed boxes could be loaded directly onto ships moored at the canal wharf via an escalator from the second floor.—As noon approached, the cans ran out. It was when all the workers were descending the dimly lit staircase while dusting off their bodies with hand towels. From inside the "Product Warehouse" with its dark maw agape, a hushed voice called out. Okimi, who was adjusting her apron, snickered—then hurriedly looked around her. She kept quiet.

“Okki, don’t string me along!”

Okimi let out another stifled laugh and sprang into the warehouse.

"Ah, it's dark," she thought. Deliberately pitching her voice higher, she covered her eyes with both hands. She pretended to play absent—"Not here, not here."

“Over here.” The man’s hand landed on her shoulder.

“No.” The woman pulled her body away. “What’s this ‘no’ about? Get your hands off me.” ——…… Okimi writhed her body in refusal as she felt the man’s chest pressed against her. “Just let me take your hands already! Huh? Come on. Huh?” The woman felt an even stranger excitement and interest in continuing to act this way. The man forced her hands away and, with one arm now behind her, yanked her body tightly against him. The woman writhed her body in the man’s arms. And, keeping her face tilted upward, she mischievously and deliberately parted his lips in various ways. The man pressed his lips to the woman’s cheeks and forehead.

“Stop! Someone’s coming!”

The man panicked and let out a voice that caught in his throat. Okimi at last burst out laughing. And then, as if stretching, she put her hands on the man’s shoulders——. “You’re pretty good at this.”

The man said. “No way!” “I’d get hooked if I kept this up—so we’re through!” She found it amusing how the man was being dragged about so freely. After saying that, Okimi twisted her body around and bounded down the stairs, her cheeks still flushed.

Okimi, however, suddenly stopped her lively antics after noon passed.

The cafeteria at lunchtime was, as usual, a clamorous bustle of female workers staking out their spots with their peers. Okimi was called over by a close female worker friend and sat shoulder-to-shoulder there eating her lunch.

“Hey!” The talkative friend who had deliberately called Okimi lowered her voice. “I was shocked!”

The woman had stayed late yesterday cleaning up after work and was coming down from the changing room as the factory grew dim. The base of those stairs happened to be the "Rubber Hut". The friend who had come down unaware abruptly stopped in her tracks there. It was because she thought someone was inside the hut. From where the woman had stopped, slightly diagonally below in the small glass window set high into the wall—the faint shadows of a man and woman were moving.

“—So here's the thing!”

The woman covered her mouth and lowered her voice even further.

The man had his back turned toward them as he fastened his trouser waistband. The woman, still facing the window, looked down and ran her hands through her hair. The man finished fastening his belt, then put his hand on the woman’s shoulder from behind. And put one hand into his pocket. The hand in the pocket seemed to be groping for something. “Money!” “Then he slipped that money right into the fold of her obi! Can you believe it?” ——……⁉ “So, who on earth do you think that woman was?”

The woman looked at Okimi with eyes brimming with mischievous light. “Did you find out who it was?” “Well obviously!” “No question about it.”

“——………………?” “It’s Yoshi-chan!” “No way!” Okimi recoiled reflexively.

“Hmph. If that’s how it is, then fine.” The woman shrugged her shoulders.

Okimi fell silent for a moment. “Who was the other person?” “The other person?” “It’s paid work—the guy’s probably different every day.” “Who cares who it is?” Yoshi-chan, whose lips always looked pale and cold, now that she mentioned it, was supporting a family of four all by herself. Okimi remembered that fact—at the woman who spoke of it in such a tone, Okimi flew into her usual fiery temper. “But what do you think our daily wages even are?” “Fifty sen to seventy or eighty sen.” “Go on, calculate how much that adds up to per month! If she were really some slut, she wouldn’t be doing it for free!”

Okimi, having finished her meal and halfway to her feet, flung her words down from above. And she was the first to leave the cafeteria.

"You're looking down on me!"

10

In the afternoon, there was going to be a "factory tour" by female students, so the male workers were getting worked up.

—That's strange. Work uniforms and Miss High-and-Mighty Students?! What a perfect match! The female workers showed overt hostility. “Must be frustrating! When those female students come in, the factory girls’ expressions change.” “How pathetic!” “—If it’s about looks, which side do you think has it worse?!” “Hey now, don’t pick on them too much,” said Takebayashi. “Even Miss High-and-Mighty University Students come to tour the place sometimes, you know.” He was a worker who always made blunt, sarcastic remarks. “—So what’s supposed to happen then? ‘Miss High-and-Mighty University Students and Miss Factory Girls,’ huh? Ha! That’s the latest craze!”

“What, are we waiting for Nekhlyudov to show up or something……?!” The Artisan Worker interjected. “After those schoolgirl tours, it’s strange how our young ladies’ fire dies down—so we’d better have those visits once in a while.”

The elderly worker spoke as though he couldn’t bear to listen any longer. “Quit this ‘cannibalism’!” Even Kii-kun fell silent. “No matter what you say… It’s a dead end!” “A dead end?” And then, they all burst into awkward laughter at each other. To promote its fully equipped factory that could be shown anywhere without shame, “Y’s Ford” welcomed “factory tours” as free advertising requiring no fees. For the H.S. Company—which held considerable monopoly over the canning industry—maintaining factory facilities and worker treatment at this level posed no particular burden. Moreover, this welcome anticipated how its effects would rebound upon the workers themselves.—“Our factory here——” “My company——” The workers spoke in such terms. When anyone criticized their factory, they would defend it with almost comical intensity. Employees working for Mitsui maintained an air of pride before employees from any other company. Such employees would consequently never betray Mitsui. The Senior Managing Director of H.S. knew this fact.

A messenger arrived. They had sent him over using child laborers.

“They’re here.” “There’s dames here!”

“—Kii-kun, did you hear?” “There’s dames here, I tell ya!”

“Well, maybe I’ll go do some reconnaissance too.”

A kind-hearted female worker in the same packing section wore a sullen expression. “Hey... you,” she said. “I can’t stand this.” “If they’re from a girls’ school—there might be people here who went to elementary school with me.” “As if I care!” Okimi replied with masculine bluntness. If they come over here—I’ll just hide in the bathroom during that time! What do they think they’re doing coming to gawk at us working?

—What's there to be ashamed of?! We oughta smash an empty can right into those high-and-mighty faces of theirs. They're treating this place like some goddamn zoo.

“Yo! Yo!”

“What’s with the ‘yo’?” “If they’re putting on their high-and-mighty act with money they earned themselves, I wouldn’t say a word.” “The hell?!” “Well now—look who’s gotten all high-and-mighty.” “How ’bout it? I’ll treat you to the pictures tonight.” “You coming?” “That swordplay flick starring Tsukigata Ryūnosuke—what’s it called... The Sword That Cuts Down Men and Horses?” “Touch a man—he gets sliced! Touch a horse—it gets chopped!” “C’mon—let’s go!” “Whaddya say?” “Even this Okimi here keeps appointments sometimes.”

Kii-kun had grown damn sharp-tongued lately.

Okimi had to meet Morimoto tonight regarding "work." ——

The sound of numerous footsteps ascending the stairs echoed.

Here they come!!

Eleven

That noon, Morimoto invited Kasahara and stretched out at length on the neatly trimmed lawn beside the company.—He had to take advantage of every opportunity like this. Kasahara was the factory manager’s assistant. A graduate of Kōshu Commercial School, he seemed to have read some of Marx’s works as well. From there, white-shirted employees playing catch in front of the office could be seen. Each time a ball thrown with all their might landed in the mitt, it produced a crisp, satisfying sound that pierced clean through the languid midday air. The female clerk standing nearby missed catching it and clapped her hands in mockery.

But in the shaded area of the factory, a middle-aged female worker sat with an infant—carried there by a child—perched on her propped-up knee, her breast exposed. There were four or five such pairs. Morimoto was looking at the blue sky. When he lay on his back, the sky seemed especially blue. At that moment, a violent surge rose in his chest. Morimoto chewed it over in his mouth.

“Hey, Morimoto!”

Kasahara, who had been beside him, abruptly raised just his head and looked at Morimoto. —…? Ruminating? What an unpleasant guy. He smirked awkwardly. Morimoto learned all sorts of things about the company from Kasahara. The company was now conducting extremely thorough investigations regarding "industrial rationalization." However, the real issue wasn’t with the rationalization policy itself, but rather with how to implement it—in other words, they were racking their brains over how to execute it without the workers noticing or provoking their outrage.

At "H.S.", newly hired workers had to be parents or siblings of those currently employed... or else.

The Senior Managing Director was considering the complete familialization of the factory. But its true purpose lay in creating an invisible "chain of responsibility" so that no worker could act independently of the others. Moreover, beyond the cold, material relationship of wage employment, it could also be seen as the company’s "benevolence" toward this familial unit. But above all, it served as a strike deterrent. And now, when attempting to implement rationalization policies, this would prove useful.

The company did not view the unemployed workers flooding the city or the semi-free laborers before its very eyes—dockworkers subjected to labor conditions below those of animals—merely as isolated phenomena. They had considered that the more severe such problems became, the more these issues would manifest subtle effects even upon the workers of "H.S."—that "Y's Ford." By strategically wielding those "poor conditions" when needed—applying just enough pinprick hints at crucial moments—they ensured the workers couldn’t voice strong demands. Thus, when it came down to it, "H.S." possessed precisely such leverage.

As one condition of rationalization—for instance, when attempting to decisively implement extended working hours—they knew full well this would directly provoke the workers' resentment. However, there had been cases where establishments like the "Seima Company" in S City producing military supplies and the "Steelworks" in M City were able to smoothly implement extensions by propagandizing that this was not mere "profit-seeking enterprise" but a grave "national duty." ——“There are loopholes everywhere.” Thus, if one cleverly leveraged each factory’s respective particularities, matters could proceed more smoothly than expected.—“H.S.” was no exception.

No idle boast do we make, The Miss Canning Factory Girls Beneath Russian Kamchatka's frigid skies Through life-risking canning work Craft indispensable cans. Enviable indeed! The Miss Canning Factory Girls Once you leave port as canned goods, Return to enrich our nation and prosper yourselves Crafting indispensable cans. No idle boast do we make, The Miss Canning Factory Girls Could we ever shirk duty for our company?

Could we ever let our guard down for our country’s sake? Work that can’t be done without risking one’s life. (From H.S. Company’s publication *Can Club*.) When such songs and articles were submitted, the company would give them special treatment in *Can Club*. Moreover, the company even secretly commissioned people to write them and have those published. "H.S. Company had exported 58 million cans to Kamchatka, 7.8 million cans to crab cannery ships, and 9.8 million cans to the Chishima Islands, Hokkaido, and Karafuto." Proportionally, Kamchatka was overwhelmingly dominant.

Under the factory manager, Kasahara was made to read works like *Scientific Management* and the *Taylor System* and forced to compile various statistics, so he came to know the company’s plans in concrete detail. Not only Japan’s but the world’s wage fluctuations were plotted on graph paper.—Globally speaking, nominal wages had been falling, and when compared against daily necessities’ prices, real wages too were clearly following a downward trajectory. "H.S." alone could not remain an exception to this indefinitely. Furthermore, to strengthen productivity, they examined whether the current machine organization could be further divided through specialization; whether they could manage without using high-wage skilled workers by relying on women and children instead; whether the conveyor could be utilized somewhere else more effectively; and whether laborers still had opportunities to "slack off" or "catch their breath"— whether they had too much free time—and whether switching to piece-rate wages might be better... While the workers were engrossed in the factory’s finicky details, dawdling along with their heads buried in trivialities, they proceeded with their strategy in step with the "world."

When examining the five-year statistics of H.S. Factory, although production volume had increased, the number of workers had decreased. This had two meanings. One was that workers were being exploited more than ever before; the other was that just as many were being cast out onto the streets as unemployed. After the conveyor system was fully installed, "transport workers" and "menial laborers" decreased particularly noticeably. The disparity in both numbers and wages between skilled and unskilled workers decreased significantly. The astonishing thing was that female workers had increased without anyone noticing, and furthermore, from around the time of this increase, wages across the factory had been imperceptibly declining. ——The factory manager had said that employing women worked because not only were their wages lower, but they didn’t join organizations like labor unions and were less resistant, making them easier to push to the limit.

However, all these measures could equally be described as mere "efficiency enhancement" or thorough implementation of "factory management methods"—nothing more than a mere internal fragment of the grand slogan called "industrial rationalization." ——"Industrial rationalization" had its true purpose elsewhere. It went by the term "concentration of enterprises." The intention was to streamline the cluttered small and medium commerce and industry, make the large ones ever larger, and steadily reduce their numbers.

And its ultimate purpose lay in allowing the remaining profitable large enterprises to effortlessly sip the sweet nectar of monopoly. And it was the banks that actually pulled the strings of this "industrial rationalization" from behind the scenes.

For instance, when banks extended substantial loans to numerous iron and steel manufacturers, even from the standpoint of their own profits, competition among these entities was undesirable. Therefore, banks considered it beneficial to restrict and abolish competition among enterprises as much as possible. At such times, banks—driven by this necessity and their power as creditors—devised agreements and mergers among these same-industry producers to unify them into a single entity, thereby operating to steer an economic development stage that would otherwise still be in an era of competition into a monopolistic position.—The rationalization policy had clearly been serving the interests of “large financial capitalists.”

Kasahara, who was made to write the monthly "business reports" submitted to Mitsuda Bank, knew exactly what relationship bound "banks and companies" through capital ties.—That Mitsuda Bank held all supervisory authority, control rights, and regulatory power over H.S. Factory; that complaints frequently came to the company regarding business performance; that the Senior Managing Director paid near-daily visits to Mitsuda Bank; that, to put it hyperbolically, the Senior Managing Director might as well have been an employee dispatched from Mitsuda Bank to H.S....... This relationship will likely become quite entertaining… Kasahara had remarked. Morimoto hadn't so much as glanced at the blue sky.

Industrial rationalization had further manifested itself in purchasing and sales. Capitalists formed "joint purchasing" and "joint sales" associations among themselves to "control" raw material and product prices. By doing so, they could dramatically increase surplus value by sacrificing workers on one hand, while at the same time—since prices were here "guaranteed"—manage to double their profits. Because of their monopolistic price agreements, who is it that suffers from being unable to buy cheap goods? It was the workers who comprised the majority of the nation.

Factories that had become cluttered garbage were shut down. Workers were unceremoniously dumped onto the streets. Those fortunate enough to keep their jobs were exploited with increasing scientific precision, not an ounce of waste permitted. This wasn't someone else's problem—through such ruthless friction, capitalism advanced toward its stage of large-scale socialized organization and monopoly. Thus every aspect of industrial rationalization ultimately drove capitalism to its final developmental stage while creating conditions favorable for socialist revolution—yet every single measure ultimately forced its sacrifices upon the workers. As for H.S., soon...Ah...

Kasahara narrowed his eyes against the glare and looked at Morimoto. “I wonder if even ‘Y’s Ford’ can remain ‘Ford’ forever…”

Twelve

At the blare of the start-of-work siren, the two of them leapt up. Kasahara brushed off his trousers vigorously and ran toward the office.

The ground-shaking thud-thud of the air hammer ticklishly jolted the soles of his feet. At the dimly lit factory entrance, as Morimoto was about to step inside, he caught sight of the Senior Managing Director heading out for golf through a window and hesitated in his tracks. He had the attendant carry his golf bag. Suddenly, he collided with Saeki, who had emerged from inside. “Out of my way!” ——That clown! Saeki? What the hell was he doing coming over here?—Morimoto thought he was a shady character.

"What the—are your eyes those of a skate or a flounder?" "What the hell are you on about?" "Look out the window!" Saeki glanced briefly at it and made a disgusted face.

——Look at that getup. "Isn’t he the Showa-era flower-blossoming geezer?" Do you really need that ridiculous outfit just to play golf? Hmph, who knows… Saeki gave an evasive response. The remark had hit a nerve.

“Actually, Abe Isoo is coming to give a campaign tour this time.” “…Taking that opportunity—once his city lecture concludes—we’re planning to have him speak at the factory for about an hour too.” “This has the Senior Managing Director’s approval too, but…”

“Who’s organizing it?” “……Are you all the ones inviting him?” “Don’t be ridiculous—it’s the Senior Managing Director.” “The Senior Managing Director?!” Morimoto gave a thin smile. “Well, that’s one hell of a bold move.” “He’s truly admirable.”

Saeki, not understanding Morimoto’s meaning, said with earnest seriousness.

Morimoto had heard a rumor that the Senior Managing Director was running for city council from the Social Democratic Party. It had also been Saeki who had brought up that matter. At that moment, Morimoto said: “Then whose party is the Social Democratic Party supposed to be? Isn’t it supposed to be the workers’ party?” Saeki’s face twitched. And there had been a time when he’d said: “It’s not the Communist Party.” At the company, to prevent workers from flocking to leftist labor unions, they had been secretly aiding Saeki and his associates to enroll workers deemed slightly dangerous within the factory into the “Labor General Alliance.” That was something Morimoto and the others knew. Yet this very scheme was cleverly concealed behind claims that H.S.’s Senior Managing Director was remarkably liberal—that he sympathized with workers and even deliberately allowed union membership. Thus, the many workers laboring there remained entirely unaware of that connection. If the influential elements in the factory—those who had once held weight—were now consolidated under the Social Democratic faction, then no matter what unfavorable or harsh treatment befell the workers within the “factory,” it would all be allowed to pass unchallenged. It was obvious.

Morimoto could sense a significant ulterior motive there. The company was taking a proactive stance as they aggressively advanced toward the workers. Wasn't this some kind of preparation against that? He felt that momentous event drawing ever nearer. He still didn't concretely know the mission of the "factory cell." Yet through his long years of factory life experience and within the various mechanisms he'd finally begun grasping lately, he thought he could now discern his own position—

“So with this opportunity, I plan to build a foundation for the Social Democratic Party within the factory too……I’ve already given the general outline to the finishing department.” “That’s the plan—I’m counting on you.”

After saying just that, Saeki ran off along the trolley track. While running off, he reached out from behind and groped the buttocks of a female worker pushing a trolley loaded with tinplate. Morimoto saw it from where he stood. The woman yelped! She leapt up and struck Saeki’s back. "Heh, heh, heh!"

He swaggered his hips in a clownish manner and turned the corner.

Saeki had created an organization called the "Central Association," a youth group-style body, in T Town of the workers' district. Up to seven-tenths of them were workers from H.S. Since he was skilled in judo, the association served that purpose in part. There was also a dojo. They appeared to be receiving some subsidy from H.S. Company. When a strike occurred somewhere, they would interfere with the dispute “for the benefit of the general public.” Under the guise of mental discipline and spiritual refinement, they were clearly cultivating a "violent group" for strike-breaking. When the company held "martial arts tournaments," his comrades took center stage.

As Morimoto descended to his workplace, he felt the steps and objectives of his work coming into clear focus before his eyes.

When he returned home that day, the newspaper-wrapped pamphlets Kawata had brought were lying on the desk. It was a forty- to fifty-page pamphlet bound with a gear design. ・“Factory Newspaper” ・“Tasks and Activities of the Factory Cell” On the cover, in pencil, was a hasty note by Kawata: “Read immediately.”

Thirteen

"When women begin joining us," he would caution, "we must stay vigilant—there’s always a risk of warping our movement."

Kawata often said. "So when Morimoto met with Okimi, he firmly held onto that resolve."

He had her wait at Ishikiriyama, then talked while walking. Okimi walked with a mannish stride—chest thrust forward and torso arched back. The female workers who spent all day standing through hectic factory labor had forgotten Japan’s so-called “womanly” way of walking. They’d abandoned that “womanly” gait.—If you put them to slightly more rational work, Takebayashi the anarchist had remarked in his characteristic way, female factory hands might become the Japanese women best suited to Western clothes.

At the factory, Morimoto would banter freely with the female workers and exchange playful jokes. Yet when alone with her like this, he found himself unable to even mention work matters. Whenever he tried to speak, his words came out awkwardly stuttered. This felt utterly alien compared to his usual transactions with prostitutes. When they had to cut through an alleyway and cross the sunlit street, he grew absurdly flustered. Okimi gave muffled chuckles behind him—he practically scampered across alone, then waited in the opposite alley. She approached composedly, chest thrust forward, flicking her kimono hem like a Western-dressed woman unaccustomed to traditional wear—only her eyes remained fixed on Morimoto with an amused glint. As they walked shoulder-to-shoulder,

“Mr. Morimoto, you’re such a softie.” Okimi said. Ah—I’m sweating. Is that what men are really like? Is that how it is…? The thin summer kimono clung in rounded folds, revealing every contour of her stolid figure. Their shoulders occasionally brushed. Morimoto flinched and drew back his shoulders. My throat’s parched. I want a cold soda. “Why don’t we rest somewhere and talk?” A short walk brought them to a shaved ice shop. Glass blinds clinked coolly as they swayed. On a miniature hillock, a toy fountain sprayed water like a dream. In a crude cement pond, two or three goldfish flashed crimson backs.

“Hey old man—a cold soda.” “And you?” “I’ll have shaved ice.” “Right.” “Old man—and one shaved ice.”

When he realized she was the type of woman who would drag Morimoto along and make decisions briskly, he thought it was perfectly acceptable to feel fully pleased about that. He felt an unexpected tautness in the work he was about to undertake.

“So… um…” His Adam’s apple bobbed with gulps as he drained the soda in one go—once again she seized the initiative. “You told me all sorts of things earlier, but I disagree. It’s just the company polishing its own image.” “A female worker remains a female worker.” “How much do you think a female worker’s daily wage actually is?” “That alone tells you everything.” Okimi recounted what she’d heard from a friend about “Yoshi-chan,” omitting the name.

“Her friend says that woman is loose,” she said, recounting the gossip. “But if she were truly loose, she wouldn’t be getting any money, right? The one at fault isn’t the woman who has to support a family of four—it’s the company that won’t pay more than sixty sen a day. You know that.” “There are female workers who quit the company to become bar hostesses or sometimes even mistresses.” “That’s not how it works—they don’t quit the company and then turn to that life. They quit because the company’s pay alone can’t possibly support them, so they leave intending to do that from the start! The company people twist it around—claiming ‘they became corrupt’ or ‘should’ve stayed properly employed here’—but it’s all a cover-up! Total cover-up!”

Morimoto looked at the woman in surprise. A woman who spoke truth—and with such sharpness! That’s what a factory girl was! “Female workers are such pitiful creatures! So pitifully enough, all they ever talk about are movie actresses making thousands of yen a month, or café hostesses and geisha.” Was that really how it was? And then came the endless complaints about daily wages—a sen here, two sen there. “The Factory Committee’s never been any use whatsoever—and even there they ignore us female workers, don’t they?”

"There were two of them there." "They were just observers." "And even those two just stand there like wooden sticks—no right to speak at all, don't you think?" —Hmph.

“Won’t you have another shaved ice?”

“Hmm.” “Since you’re in the finishing department making over twice what we get, you should treat me.”

Okimi laughed brightly. Her well-aligned white teeth were clearly visible. Morimoto felt the stiffness in his shoulders gradually easing from Okimi’s carefree openness. Okimi often ended phrases with “—just that.” “—that tone.” She would cut things off with just that or answer with “Right” “Uh-huh.” She had a way of putting things. This alone differed completely from what Morimoto had previously thought about women. He wondered—might these very qualities stem from life inside the factory, something Japanese women had never before considered until now?

“Once we’re away from the company and actually talk to each other, things become clear,” she said. “They’re all fragmented. You may be pessimistic because of Ford, but I feel I can find one or two allies in each department.” She paused. “Women…” Okimi chuckled softly. “Women are strange creatures. Once they fix on a direction and start moving, they’ll outdo men every time. Might be some form of warped hysteria.” Warped hysteria—he liked that phrasing.

Morimoto also laughed.

He began explaining in detail the "method" he had heard from Kawata to Okimi. Then Okimi listened with an uncharacteristically cautious and earnest expression to every single detail. “I’ll do it.” “Let’s all encourage each other and do this together!”

Okimi raised her face, only one cheek flushed.

After leaving the shaved ice shop, they hadn't walked far before coming to a railroad crossing. The crossing gate quietly descended ahead. A passenger train with a row of bright windows passed by, stirring up a lukewarm wind and rumbling the ground. The residual heat from the steam boiler lingered behind. The white-painted fence loomed in the darkness and quietly rose. From the opposite side, five or six loitering people passed by. Each of their faces turned this way. “Well, ain’t they sharp!”

Morimoto felt a chill. When he realized they were being seen as lovers, his face flushed bright red. "What are you talking about?" Okimi retorted.

As she walked, she talked about the factory: how older female workers—unwanted companions due to odd faces and rendered almost genderless by years of monotonous labor—hoarded small savings yet never mingled with younger peers; how pretty-faced workers got faster raises; how when two factory girls fell for one male worker and one suffered heartbreak, the jilted girl married someone else only to return wearing a crimson *marumage* chignon dripping with allure to parade around the factory floor; how some visited *soba shops* with foremen after movies to negotiate higher wages; how a company employee who had impregnated a girl once drove out a male worker he found joking with her, regardless of their actual relationship...

The path sloped downward, and when they reached the bottom, they emerged near the wharf. Cooling-off visitors were strolling near the pier where the harbor lights could be seen. “Apples, summer oranges, pears—how about some?” A roadside vendor called out in a hoarse voice.

"I want to eat an apple." Okimi muttered as if to herself and approached. Like the other female workers, Okimi too enjoyed buying snacks to eat once outside—as she walked, she rubbed the crimson apple's skin to a glossy shine with her sleeve, then crunched right through it from the top without peeling. In the darkness, white teeth flashed as they slid past his eyes.

“Delicious!” “Want some?” The apple and this woman fit together perfectly. Well... Maybe I'll take one. One? She’d only bought one after all. The woman laughed like she couldn’t hold it in anymore. “That’s mean.” “Then how ’bout a bite here?” She wiped the apple again with her sleeve and shoved it right in front of his eyes. He turned red with embarrassment.

“Then how about this side?” The woman mischievously twisted the apple to show where she’d bitten. … “You seem down.” “Then you’ll take a bite on this side after all.” He reluctantly took just one timid bite.

From there, the “H·S Factory” came into view. The large gray form looked like a silenced battleship moored there.

This first night seized Morimoto.

He was perhaps thinking about Okimi. He had come to feel a different kind of "strain" in his work. When he realized that this came from Okimi, he felt a pang of guilt. And then he wondered—was he already beginning to fall into what Kawata had been cautioning against?

Fourteen They said there wasn't a single decent worker among them—that they were all numb good-for-nothings—but viewed from outside, this wasn't true at all. Even labeled "Ford," the laborers still received only treatment befitting mere workers. No matter where they turned, the bottomless depression left them paralyzed—they had to cling desperately to their jobs while being lulled by the opium of self-delusion that this was "Y's Ford."

"When you talk to them away from the company, they all start grumbling—every last one of them." Okimi had said this before. This hit the mark. But even so, no matter how dire their circumstances, they would still wait for someone else to take the initiative—that was the gist of it.

Until now, Morimoto had never spoken about factory issues or political matters even when meeting close comrades. That began when his friend Ishikawa joined the union. Until then, he had been nothing but a metalworker promoted from apprentice status—chasing female workers' skirts, buying streetwalkers, and talking only about women. Yet when he now approached those same comrades with his changed awareness, strangely enough, they responded in ways unrecognizable from their former lewd-talk clique. Seeing this made clear how no one had ever sparked the consciousness latent within them. They all maintained meticulous calculations for their daily survival. Over matters of one sen a day—when dried squid at the company store cost five rin too much—they would argue fiercely enough to nearly come to blows.

Due to the monthly premiums and the unkindness and coldness of the insurance doctors, they were thoroughly fed up with the "Health Insurance Law". Moreover, since the implementation of the Health Insurance Law, the company had cleverly evaded its obligation to cover two-thirds of workers’ medical costs for non-work-related injuries and the full amount for work-related ones. “The Health Insurance system is inherently something that should make the company bear all costs.” The workers had been saying this without anyone teaching them.

The workers saw the "Factory Committee" as nothing but a game of fox-and-hound. "Docile" and "spineless"— They hadn't placed the faintest hope in this "Factory Committee" where management arbitrarily selected worker representatives and held token meetings. The workers went pale at rumors that management might replace the all-male body line crew—never once employing female laborers till now—with cheaper women workers.

Despite the utterly trivial appearance of the surface, just from seeing this much alone, Morimoto felt a swelling within himself—and could fully sense the power capable of making it swell.

Morimoto discovered that his feelings when heading to the factory each morning had—without his realizing it—changed from how they'd been before. On cold mornings, hunched forward with shoulders raised and neck pulled in as he trudged through crunching snow, he felt acutely the wretchedness of being nothing but a slave. Lying in his warm bed, slowly stretching his legs, he wondered if he couldn't just stay asleep another hour. Seeing the long, winding line of workers—stains moving single-file along the narrow snow-covered path at dawn, all trudging lifelessly in the same direction—he found himself wondering when this might coalesce into that magnificent force like "Russia." In that procession, only the chains remained invisible. It called to mind a grim convict march.

That was why he never put his heart into his work at the factory on his own initiative. He once worked desperately hard trying to advance and become a "company employee". But no matter how hard he worked, they wouldn't make him a company employee, so he grew reckless from around age nineteen. Here especially, it wasn't humans using machines—rather, the machines kept them constantly glued in place. How could human beings endure being forced to work like machines? He thought it better to be slovenly and keep his hands tucked in his sleeves. "Just as an old woman who keeps many cats gradually comes to resemble them, you'll all end up looking like machines soon enough," Morimoto declared as he walked. Amid the factory's roaring din, they could only speak in voices that scattered sparks like an emery wheel striking iron. Their hips possessed the tenacity and precision of machinery bolted to the floor. Their thick expressionlessness resembled iron's cold blackness. Their finger joints held the hardness of chisels. And they possessed wills like steam hammers—fasten a belt around these laborers' necks, and they'd exert power identical to a lathe shaving shafts, a drill boring holes, a planer flattening steel, or a milling machine finishing gears. Where machine ended and laborer began in a worker gripping a handle—distinguishing this proved impossible for anyone.

There, what determined human movements was not the humans themselves. In the conveyorized canning department, how many tens of times per minute they moved their fingers, how many times a day they walked around the machines, at what speed, and within what range—none of this was up to them. The rotation of the machinery and the speed of the conveyor mercilessly determined those factors. To say that "workers" were laboring inside the factory was both too inhuman and entirely off the mark.—Only machines were truly at work there. Even as the female worker standing by the conveyor spilled menstrual blood, the "female worker component" embedded as part of the machinery could not possibly break free from there.

If things continued like this, the workers wouldn’t just come to resemble machines—they would become machines themselves. Morimoto couldn’t help but think. “Artificial humans” must have originated from such thoughts. The workers disliked talking about “artificial humans.”—Who would want to become a machine? The workers all wanted to be human.— As Morimoto came to engage in their “work” and began understanding various things, the factory now took on a strange allure. When he left in the morning, he would decide whom to approach that day. Considering his comrades’ varied traits, hobbies, and jobs—what approach to take, which topics to broach first, whether to casually visit their homes—he would leave his house deep in these thoughts, and every laborer he saw hurrying before or behind him in oil-stained work clothes seemed destined to become one of their comrades someday.—This realization stripped away the damp, gloomy thoughts that had clung to him until now.

Under Kawata and Ishikawa’s guidance, he divided their squad into two—male workers and female workers—taking charge of the men himself while assigning Okimi to handle the women, with only their representatives contacting Kawata’s group on the “second floor” to decide methods for crucial activities.

In each squad, small "gatherings" were instituted to acquire fundamental and immediately useful economic and political knowledge.

At the outset, Kawata read aloud a short text written by a central leader to Morimoto.—It took the form of a letter that leader had sent to a comrade in a small provincial city. “According to communications, I hear you’ve succeeded in organizing a workers’ study group in your area.” “I’ve become thoroughly delighted.” “Moreover, how splendid it is that seven workers from the ×× Ironworks have participated!” “Certainly, that ×× Ironworks is the largest factory in your area.” “That’s impressive.” “Seven whole members!” “Who would utter such contemptuous words?” “If we could befriend even one worker in a factory of thousands—a factory made impregnable through conciliation policies and suppression—who rises against capitalist exploitation, we would already have gained half of that factory through this alone.” “The crux lies in how we reach that acquisition.” “If the policies we provide are correct, the path will rapidly open before us…….”

“Now, about that study group—you’re not trying to turn nine workers into experts, are you? If that were true, you wouldn’t be proceeding through that notorious, stale method—first making them comprehend labor movements, social movements, and Marxist economics, then organizing and struggling—a method that has only ever piled up persistent failures and reckless energy expenditure. Instead: What grievances do the workers in your area currently hold against the capitalists? Especially, what are the labor conditions for workers at the ×× Ironworks? They should proceed by determining how to connect the workers’ current grievances to specific demands that can incite struggle—if they do so, those meetings will completely transform from being study groups for cultivating experts into something entirely different. Vitality will arise with genuine interest in reality.”

—Were we not already on the verge of stepping into that famous failure? It had continued a bit longer. "For instance, when bringing agitation flyers to incite struggle at the ×× Ironworks, it would be absolutely disastrous to put those seven workers on the front lines." "That would mean letting the enemy mow down the sprouts of our efforts within the factory before things even properly begin." "Such tasks are best handled by people outside that particular factory." "And the factory workers would act as reporters at that evening’s study meeting—detailing what kind of response the flyers provoked inside and how many sympathizers emerged." "Then regarding today’s turmoil within the factory—what form should further agitation take next? How do we ensure none of these new sympathizers slip away? How should we advance the organization?... With these matters, the meetings would surely become thoroughly vibrant……."

This was absolutely correct.

Kawata said. That was close. We too had to proceed along this line.

Fifteen

No matter what difficulties might arise, publishing the "factory newspaper" had to take absolute priority. Proletarian newspapers served not merely as organs of "propaganda and agitation," but simultaneously functioned as collective "organizers." The factory newspaper's mission was to clearly expose—through workers' own daily experiences within the plant, factory incidents, and deceptive policies—then provide Marxist solutions, gradually awakening them to class consciousness. Yet this newspaper's ultimate purpose lay in using such means to deeply infiltrate the Proletarian Party's (Communist Party's) influence among the factory worker masses, ultimately aiming to build the Party upon the factory's foundations. This was where Kawata's efforts found their true purpose. Yet none knew this truth.

In the case of the H·S Factory, they decided to produce the factory newspaper as the "H·S News" using mimeograph printing. Kawata knew through numerous examples from his predecessors that those like himself in detached positions would invariably end up writing nothing but abstract, formulaic phrases without knowing concrete facts about their target factories—and that this had grown tiresome to everyone within those factories. However, he could create it using knowledge shared with Morimoto and Okimi. Kawata was also advancing the same plan at other ironworks, rubber factories, and printing factories.

"H·S News" was published. It could be compact if needed. It had to be something workers would devour, love, and cherish. The cartoons and caricatures inside would make the news more accessible to them. What if the factory director's portrait looked strikingly real? They should ditch those long-winded, clunky essays. Since workers wouldn't read such things... Kawata imagined this newspaper with the fierce joy of counting knuckle-days until a child's birth.

Through the publication of H·S News, Morimoto’s relationship with the many factory workers would no longer remain vague, weak, and inadequate as it had been until now; moreover, they would become able to discover even more exceptional “factory cells” from among them. The News had another major task as well. The H·S Company had been regularly publishing its company magazine, Can Club. As was standard practice at any company, they included not a single worker in the editorial process; the gathered manuscripts were arbitrarily handled by company employees alone, then further reviewed by the factory director to weed out anything detrimental to corporate interests. Against such deceptive articles, counter-propaganda, and bourgeois indoctrination propagated by these company-controlled newspapers, H·S News had to wage constant struggle, expose their falsehoods, and turn the tables by weaponizing those very tactics against them.

Since submissions to Can Club could be made anonymously, it seemed they were pounding out things they couldn't openly say. "Manuscripts came in with such incredible content you'd think there were workers actually harboring these ideas," remarked the editing employee. That this was no lie was something Kawata knew well. Imperial warships had docked at Y Port over twenty times. The flagship Mutsu maintained its own exclusive "newspaper." Newspapers found use in such varied circumstances! The officer editing it had complained, "We get manuscripts by the cartload, but no decent ones—have to pad issues with substantial articles." "The enlisted men write such preposterous things, you know."

When Kawata heard that, he once told Ishikawa, “My eyes lit up like a hawk’s!” “An imperial warship! You see? There really are some among them after all!” The News had to act like a magnet extracting iron fragments from sand—attracting those who wrote such “explosive things,” those who penned such “reckless things,” even when buried deep.

After three months, female workers attending the meetings grew to four. They were only one fewer than the men. Okimi and Yoshi-chan were at the center of it.—Because of this, only nine copies of H·S News were cautiously printed. At the "gatherings," Suzuki—who managed to keep things entertaining without ever letting the female workers grow bored—became popular with everyone. "Suzuki’s become ridiculously proactive lately."

“Is it because there’s a woman?” Kawata said with a laugh. For every comrade added, the News was printed with just one more copy. It was passed by hand from workers attending the gathering to one carefully selected individual—the news brought to mind termites that never surface, silently gnawing away at foundation beams until, by the time anyone notices, the massive house must collapse as it stands.

“The movement isn’t about handing out flyers on street corners or making speeches anymore, you know.” Whenever Kawata noticed a young worker who’d started developing awareness growing impatient, he would have to stress this point. “What we absolutely need is the grit to keep putting out this News for five years straight.” The H·S News ran a cartoon showing Abe Isoo and the Senior Managing Director shaking hands while secretly strangling workers by the neck behind their backs. “A ‘Fox Meeting’ was in session.” Around a massive table sat the factory director—along with foremen and office staff all drawn with fox faces—forcing workers to clutch “horse-dung coins.” This was their “Factory Committee.” “Where exactly were the Mutual Aid funds disappearing? Who profited from skimming our Health Insurance payments?” Workers had been made to write flowery “thank-you notes” for condolence gifts and childbirth allowances—the whole racket of posting them by the cafeteria entrance got mercilessly mocked……

All of these things shocked the workers who had thought of the company as "Y's Ford."

Sixteen

“I’m sick of this,” “Okimi and Kawata are acting weird.” Suzuki said irritably as they walked back from the meeting. Morimoto halted abruptly—he had long known there were already two men at the factory rumored to have kissed Okimi. Yet that seemed so typical of her character that he’d found it oddly unremarkable. But with Kawata?! The moment this thought struck him, he felt the ground lurch beneath his feet. Kawata really is careless about such things.

——……. However, that very Suzuki had actually been in love with Okimi. He had thought that his own "last straw" was Okimi. He had already sneakily used up nearly two hundred yen of police funds. He had to forget his own wretchedness. He panicked. But that very struggle only served to push him down further. It was a bottomless quagmire with no foothold.

And now, he had even lost his last Okimi. For what purpose had he worked so desperately hard at the "meeting"?! Now that things had come to this, he dimly felt for the first time where his path was truly headed this time. At night, he began experiencing night sweats and having terrifying dreams.

It was four or five days later. “Yoshi-chan's completely fallen for someone, you know.” Okimi laughed mischievously.

“And she's been moping around, all worried.” “That’s just strange.” “So I told her, ‘What are you, some delicate young lady?’” “Whenever she sees the moon, she gets all sentimental, and whenever she sees flowers... or whatever—that’s such a young lady thing to do.” “I told her she should just say what’s on her mind briskly and get it over with briskly, you know?” “That’s so Yoshi-chan!”

Morimoto laughed sadly. "If her work gets thrown off because of that, it'd be serious business." "I told her I'd talk to him for her... If she wants a kiss, get her kiss... Then she'd actually find some drive in her work, wouldn't she?" "Then she goes all 'That's too embarrassing!'" "Well?" Okimi spoke in a loud, unguarded voice. When it suddenly struck him that this way of talking might all come from Kawata, he felt sickened.

“Being all embarrassed like that—Yoshi-chan’s got this part of her that reeks of a proper young lady.” If Okimi had been a man, it might have been Kawata—this thought crossed Morimoto’s mind in that moment. “If Kawata were to fall in love,” everyone had joked, “it’d be ‘love dyed the same color as his work.’” Meaning that even were he to love, not the slightest warp would appear in his emotions—let alone any slippage in his work.

Okimi did not say who Yoshi-chan’s crush was.

Part Two: Seventeen

That summer was hot. However, autumn brought alternating rain and sleet, and the port town became battered.

When winter came, following autumn, the weather was unusually good this time. But if the good weather continued, the snow removal work would disappear, and the workers would have to waste away.

The lives of port workers were driven down to utter depths by the government's austerity policies on top of it all.—Burdened with exploitative pre-industrial systems layered like kelp-roll wrappings—the "master-apprentice system" and "piece-rate system"—even when workers managed to find work at the docks, their take-home pay was whittled away through multiple deductions until it ended up being just half. Despite being on a piece-rate system, the masters arbitrarily doctored the "total haul" (handling volume) without disclosing them and gave the workers only a fraction of those falsified amounts.

After Kanabishi installed loading machinery at the coal site, the laborers who had been carrying coal pikes were laid off in a group of fifty.

The wives could no longer sit still inside their homes. However, if they sat blankly by the hearth, once seated, they would remain so all day long. They had become as if stupefied. They weren’t thinking about anything. They headed to the kitchen. But when they went to the kitchen, they had forgotten why they had gone there. They couldn’t stay in one place. Something deep within their hearts kept driving them relentlessly.—The wives found themselves drawn to the port street along the canal where their husbands worked.

They stayed until sunset, and on their way back, the wives stopped by the master’s place. They wanted to borrow as much as they could get. —This was no laughing matter!

The master showed his face from the reception counter. “Take a look at this depression! We’re the ones who can’t even put food on our own tables first!”

Even when told this, the wives remained leaning on the reception counter's handrail, staying silent. They had forgotten to go home………….

From the windows of the H·S Factory, across the stagnant canal, that crowd could be seen. The docks grew tumultuous. The Y Union maneuvered its activities through their midst. For an ominous strike to occur, all that was needed was a "trigger." The union had to establish sufficient communication channels and organizational networks in preparation for this.

A "Factory Representatives Conference" was urgently convened. In this context, it carried two implications. Even if transport workers were to rise up en masse, it remained perfectly clear that Y City’s "factory workers" would stand apart from that struggle—as would be true in any other city. They had to expand it into a citywide strike through the "factory delegates’" influence. One concerned the recent upheavals at the H·S Factory.

Six workers from four iron factories, three from three printing factories, and four from two rubber factories gathered. They each represented the opinions of dozens from their respective factories behind them.

Among them were two comrades from the iron factory where Morimoto had gone around working as a trainee. "We really are...!" With that, they laughed together.

It had taken Kawata and the others over half a year of unassuming effort to build up the factory delegates to this level. —And,

The H·S Company was trembling with fear. Both employees and workers found themselves unable to focus on their work. This stemmed from Mita Bank's merger with Kanabishi Bank—a first-tier financial institution in Japan. The government had been pursuing nationwide control of financial institutions—their consolidation. This merger formed part of that initiative. Banks were increasingly being consolidated into massive entities, fewer in number. Thus, Mita Bank's control over the H·S Company transferred wholesale to Kanabishi Bank as a natural consequence.

However, Kanabishi Bank already had "N.S. Canning Company" and "T.S. Canning Company" under its control. It had these two companies. However, in the canning industry up until now, Kanabishi-affiliated companies had always been overwhelmed by the "H·S Company". Therefore, if H·S were now brought into the fold, they could safely monopolize Japan’s canning industry.—They could not only “standardize” their products nationwide to boost production efficiency, implement shared improvements in technology and factory equipment, and reduce personnel costs, but particularly in sales, they could prevent the wasteful price declines that had been triggered until then, establish monopoly pricing, and reap profits to their heart’s content.—Thus, it was perfectly clear that Kanabishi would aggressively intervene directly into the business operations themselves, rather than maintaining the “simple control” that Mita Bank had exercised until now. This meant that the "industrial rationalization" the workers had long feared would now be implemented directly—and with extreme cruelty. The factory was abuzz with that rumor.

However, the problem was even more complex. “With this situation—listen, the Senior Managing Director, managers, factory chief—those bastards are turning pale.” Kasahara said this while being forced to work late every night at the office preparing handover documents for the new bank. “Kanabishi plans to bring in executives and heavyweights from their own clique to purge that lot. But when push comes to shove, those guys crumble surprisingly easy.—Makes things interesting though. They’re scrambling like madmen plotting something.”

Yet Kasahara, who was always nearby, had grasped their general intentions—they seemed to be agitating about how Kanabishi’s unscrupulous expansion would sacrifice the factory’s “beloved” workers, degrade their livelihoods, and abruptly reduce “Y’s Ford” to “Y’s prison cells,” all while attempting through unified employee action to protect their own positions that were tilting toward ruin. “They do seem to be getting ensnared, don’t they?”

“But once Kanabishi got involved,” said Kasahara, “no matter how much the Senior Managing Director thrashed about, by any measure it was no contest. From now on, industrial capitalists not tied to financial capitalists would come crashing down one after another. There are plenty of good examples of that. Speaking of which, even Suzuki at the shop marked with ※(a reversed ‘Γ’ alongside ‘辰’) was subjected to the same treatment. It was a stage in the process of financial capital’s hegemony.”

Not only that, but the majority of H·S’s canned goods production was sold to its parent company, Nichiro Company, and shipped off to Kamchatka. Thus, they were constantly threatened on one front by the advance of Soviet Russia’s Five-Year Plan, and on another by the futile competition among domestic capitalists. Fluctuations in the number of fishing zone bids directly impacted production volumes.—To prepare for this, H·S had to mobilize the government to stir up public patriotism and hostility toward Soviet Russia.

This year, reliable rumors had spread that Russia was systematically encroaching on our prime fishing zones through various means. The stock prices of Nichiro and H·S had plummeted like water spilling from an overturned vessel. In response to these circumstances at H·S, Kawata—while naturally continuing the factory cells' active efforts, the News' exposures and agitations, and the acquisition of new cells—further sought to seize upon this immediate climate of trembling uncertainty to ensure workers could defend their positions and interests as laborers,

"Autonomous Operation of the 'Factory Committee'" Kawata proposed that efforts must be made to initiate a struggle for the autonomous operation of the factory committee. For workers to withstand any "offensive" by capital, above all else, it was essential that all workers in the factory align their steps. In workplace after workplace, it was not uncommon for them to be mercilessly crushed due to inconsistent attitudes. This stemmed from their lack of an "institution" that allowed them to fully discuss various issues across the entire factory. As that institution, an autonomous factory committee was necessary. At present, that was being arbitrarily handled by the factory chief, foremen appointed by the company, and emasculated workers. We must demand that it be organized by workers as an institution for their benefit.—Once that was passed, the specific plans regarding timing, methods, and other details were carefully formulated over a long period.

Then came situation reports from other representatives.

In transportation workers' strikes, their list of "demands" must include "clauses" capable of mobilizing factory workers as well. It was resolved that the factory cells would exert their full strength to link these efforts with issues unique to the factory and thereby launch propaganda and agitation campaigns.

When it ended, Kawata fell over backward. "I haven't slept properly in about three days now."

Kawata was being especially pursued by the police. He kept changing hideouts and fleeing from place to place. From each new location, he maintained contact and continued guiding the union and Morimoto's group. Yet in a small city with under two hundred thousand people, this was an almost impossibly dangerous undertaking.

Eighteen

When the meeting ended, they exited outside one by one, each going their separate ways. As they left the bustling street and approached the entrance to T-town, someone slipped up from behind Morimoto and fell into step beside him. When he thought Oh! it turned out to be Kawata. “I’ve just got some business in T-town now.” Morimoto had a strange premonition at that moment—was Kawata heading to Okimi’s place?

Kawata, walking alongside him, began speaking earnestly about their movement. Kawata's earnest tone was always like that, but it carried a stubbornly arbitrary quality. It even gave people encountering it for the first time an unconscious sense of resentment. However, whenever Morimoto heard that tone from Kawata, he always felt a strange sense of "reassurance" in what he was doing. He could even feel what might be called strength radiating from it.

“Can you devote yourself to this work?” Kawata asked. Morimoto answered, “Sure, I can.” “But when I say ‘devoted’…”

Kawata said that and fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. There were still people passing by. The car’s headlights occasionally sliced across half of Kawata’s face—then the vehicle rounded the curve and drove away. “When I say ‘devoted,’ I mean being prepared to dedicate your entire life to it,” he said. At their feet, snow resembling springtime granulated sugar sifted softly, sifted again. “Of course, our work isn’t something that can be done half-heartedly—and given that people like us must emerge time and again, piling up until something finally takes shape—though this goes without saying…”

Morimoto thought it was a stiffly formal way of phrasing things now. "Even the 'News' managed to reach this level within six months—that was thanks to the meticulously disciplined 'organization,' I think." "So, you see—our goal is to build a socialist country." "To achieve that, we need an ironclad organization and the power of what you might call devoted comrades who operate and staunchly defend it......" Then again, uncharacteristically for Kawata, he broke off mid-sentence.

“Do you understand?” “I know.” Strange him bringing this up now... When he said that, Kawata stifled a laugh through his teeth. “That ironclad organization means building our foundation solidly among factory workers through factory cells—a political party that stands at the forefront fighting for workers.” “And when we talk about a workers’ party, there’s only one possible name—the Communist Party.” But Morimoto had heard all this until he was sick of it. “Yeah,” he said.

"I could go for some hot pot."

Kawata stopped and looked around the area. After walking a short distance, a small place caught their eye. The two ate hot pot there. Kawata began talking about himself while asking about Morimoto's family circumstances, income, and dependents. He spoke of things like the motivation that had led him to join this movement, stories about times he'd faced off against three spies with lead pipes in wild brawls, and the pitiful woman living in destitution who occasionally sent him money. He talked about how she was his only woman, and how back home his mother had grown ill from worrying about him. He recited a poem that said, "Do you think you're the only one with parents?" Listening to this, Morimoto felt his chest tighten—Kawata's eyes, which always remained cool and unmoving, had moistened as he finished reciting the poem. Morimoto thought he was seeing a side of Kawata he'd never seen before. Kawata at work had never shown this aspect of himself to anyone for even a minute.

“Is the factory still holding up?” Kawata asked. He was always worried about Morimoto’s “situation.” “It’s holding up a little.” “It’s been a long time now.” “Hmm, even a little is bad.” “According to Mr. Kasahara from the company, high-ranking police officers have been visiting the factory manager’s office constantly lately—discussing something.” Kawata—who had been rolling the piping-hot tempura across his tongue—suddenly twitched his eyebrows. “The factory manager sometimes brings strangers to tour the facility—they might be those high-ranking officers.” “And from what you’ve heard, there’s apparently someone among the workers who’s been bought off by the company—reporting everyone’s movements.” “If they accidentally cross paths with Saeki’s underlings without realizing it, we’ll have real trouble!”

“...!? We’ve gotta be careful.”

“They’ve figured out about the News after all.” “They’re struggling with it, it seems.” “They seem to be desperately trying to figure out where it’s being made and what route it’s coming in through.” “Hmph!”

The News had initially been distributed through strict hand-to-hand transfers. However, as the organization’s roots spread and became considerably solid, they began intentionally leaving them in conspicuous places within the factory and scattering them on a small scale. “The factory manager is saying that the union members are making it!” In issue No.16 of the News, that piece detailing the Senior Managing Director’s exact annual income, family life, one year’s worth of geisha expenses, and his mistress became so popular that it ended up circulating widely throughout the factory. Because of that article, it’s said many female workers—if this was true—had wept upon realizing they’d been deceived all along by the Senior Managing Director’s “charity uniforms.” “It’s like a rumor, but—”

The two laughed out loud. "After all, we've exposed every last detail—those bastards must be scrambling like rats in daylight." Outside, the streets had grown sparse. They walked with measured steps, eyes scanning shadows.

When they came to the slope near Morimoto's house, Kawata took out a newspaper-wrapped package from his inner pocket.

“Read this by tomorrow,” Kawata said. “And burn it right after you’re done.”

Morimoto received it.

“Then I’ll come by your place around nine tomorrow—make sure you’re home.”

Having said that, Kawata turned down the dark path and walked away.

He stood listening to the sound of those footsteps receding.

The next day, Morimoto received an invitation from Kawata to join the "Communist Party."

Nineteen

The cells of the H·S Factory gathered every single day. To ensure no oversights, detailed methods were decided there. Kawata also showed up. For mass-distributed news in flyer form to truly have a living impact, its “timing” absolutely had to be chosen. It had to be slightly before the factory committee was convened and simultaneously the very day when Kinryo’s restructuring was finalized.

The second and third tactical phases following the flyer distribution, along with plans for convening an employee assembly, were resolved.

This time, even the Senior Managing Director was attempting to exploit the workers, and the workers were likewise attempting to exploit the Senior Managing Director. It was different from an ordinary strike.

The Senior Managing Director was on the verge of downfall. Therefore, the true adversary was not the Senior Managing Director or the factory manager. It was about seizing this great "upheaval" to secure an instrument of worker solidarity. Yet what the Senior Managing Director and his ilk schemed took identical form in uniting the workers—how would these two diametrically opposed forces, both converging on this single point, become entangled? The flyers generally followed this skeletal structure:

1. If the factory manager unilaterally decides the factory committee, what’s the point? We demand that all committee members be determined through elections by all workers. 2. Up until now, the factory manager had merely glanced over submitted proposals, only putting forward those that posed no issues. How could we tolerate such absurdity? To forcefully present the real day-to-day interests and issues affecting workers. 3. The factory manager had arbitrarily assumed the position of committee chairman. Under these conditions, items beneficial to workers would never be resolved; the committee chairman must be determined through mutual election by all members. 4. Even when matters were decided by the committee, some were left unresolved; moreover, crucial factory regulations had never once been brought before the committee for amendment—the Senior Managing Director and factory manager alone arbitrarily decided such things. In the end, they only brought completely trivial matters before the committee. In this state, the committee became inferior to a mere signboard. We opposed all such deceptions. 5. Since this was a factory where female workers were also employed, committee members must be elected from among them as well. 6. The only force to counter Kinryo’s brutal restructuring, worker exploitation, and layoffs lay in seizing control of this factory committee’s autonomy, aligning our steps, and uniting all workers. 7. The Senior Managing Director and his ilk might scheme to cling to their positions. We must not be taken in by this.

8. Rubber companies, printing companies, and ironworks in the city are also taking up the same issues and beginning to rise up. We seek solidarity with our H·S comrades. 9. The plight of the dockworkers is no longer a fire on the opposite shore. The same fate lies in wait for us as well. We must join hands with them and stand united... and so on.

Rumors and speculations emerging from various places swirled until they grew snowball-large. This unrestrainedly agitated the workers. Everyone forgot how to remain composed. Eagerly anticipating break time, they all clustered together. Even the foreman thrust his head into their circle. The finishing department workers who'd always secretly fabricated tools for the factory manager now faced blatant verbal assaults. Workers couldn't even craft personal items in the factory - removing a single iron scrap or tin fragment meant instant dismissal.

——Even the new factory manager too? Ha ha ha ha! Give it your best shot! Those who had curried favor with their superiors and swaggered about now found their positions clattering into complete reversal. Once they lost their mainstay, they were magnificently ostracized by everyone. ——Serves you right!

They openly spat. The foremen involved in such relationships turned pale and were flustered. But they said that they must hold a workers' assembly and devise countermeasures. Saeki and his group took the lead. “H·S faces its hour of crisis! We implore you all to rise up!” they proclaimed, marching about to stir up company loyalty. —They only ever thought to use the workers as pawns in such moments.

During lunch break, the female workers lurked around where the male workers were deep in conversation. "What's going to happen?" they asked. "They're axing half of us—men and women both!" the male workers shouted desperately.

20 The flyers were brought into the factory by the female workers through meticulous preparation. When night work preparations delayed their return home, they slipped them one by one into jackets in the changing room. Nearly ten female workers worked briskly at this task.

When Morimoto was pressing the time recorder at the factory entrance, the finishing department foreman wearing a Panama hat,

“This is bad!” he said. It was an alarming flyer. It was of the same line as the News.

“Huh.” “They’ve distributed all of them this time,” said the foreman. “Where’re they getting in from? This factory’s grown downright insolent.” The foreman was a so-called “migrant worker” who’d drifted from factories around Tsurumi. He’d always treated everyone as “country bumpkin workers,” sneering at what they could possibly understand. In the finishing department, they’d been saying that if a strike broke out, they’d string this foreman up on the crane before even dealing with the Senior Managing Director, jabbing him from below. “Hmph—just you wait!” Morimoto laughed bitterly to himself.

The factory buzzed intensely with Kanabishi's stance from the morning edition and the flyers' contents. The moment Morimoto stepped inside and sensed this, he knew they were hooked. In those brief moments before work began, everyone clustered in small groups around the machinery, discussing the flyers. Now that things had reached this point, this was indeed the foremost issue.

Morimoto caught the words that came flying from outside the circle of gathered workers. When he showed his face in the canning department, Okimi—who had been stationed on the top assembly line—quickly noticed and walked over. With an air of nonchalance, "It's fine. They're saying it's only logical for the committee to be elected through voting." "That old geezer on your side—that stubborn baldie!" "That bastard's the only one going around snatching up all the flyers from everyone!"

Having said just that, she ran off like a man. The anarchist Takebayashi was oiling the can rim bending machine. With a quick upward glance, “So it’s you.” he said. “What’s this? Everyone’s all worked up like this, but you’re just sitting there aloof as if you’ve become the factory manager.” Morimoto started and removed the drill bit. “Our guiding spirits differ.”

“I see.” “So your guiding principle is that you alone can go hungry?” “Fine then.” “That’s right.” “Exactly.”

What Morimoto had to keep an eye on in the canning department was the movements of workers who had familial relations with each other. He had taken particular care to warn Okimi and his own comrades about that as well. But it was not yet visible.

The only concern was that the factory manager, having already perceived the movements across the entire factory and being someone who had vested interests in the whole of H·S, might take some preemptive move in the form of a "factory-wide assembly" or similar. Among the movements within the factory—though this was clearly understood—he could not overlook that the excitement there stemmed not from their own position or class-based sentiments, but rather from it being a "grave issue for the entire company." He sensed there a susceptibility that could be easily exploited.

In the foundry, on the side where wheel sand molds were kept, three or four workers stood clustered together. Wood pattern carpenters had joined them too. They kept sniffling back their runny noses repeatedly. "If there isn't someone bold enough to step up and lead decisively, this whole thing'll fall apart," came the voice. The speaker was Masuno—as an apprentice, he'd been carrying a bucket of molten iron from the furnace to the sand molds when he tripped over a discarded wooden pattern lying at his feet, burning half his face. The injury had left his features horribly twisted.

*So it’s one or two people from each workplace,* Morimoto thought. He had been considering him as a candidate for a “cell.” The foundry workers all had burns on their faces or bandages on their hands. When they poured iron into the sand molds, everyone would get burned from the rapid evaporation of moisture and the accompanying iron sparks. When the hard-of-hearing Kitakawa Jii from the forge saw Morimoto, “Will something really happen as the flyers say?” “Does it really gotta be done this way...? Mori!”

he said. "That's right." "If that happens, even you can rest easy, Gramps."

Kitakawa Jii, being hard of hearing, tilted his head as he looked at him and directed an uncertain smile. Yamagami from the riveting section,

“Let’s do this!” he said. He was one of the comrades. What about the finishing department?

Even when he moved his arm slightly, the muscles in his upper arm would bulge into hard knots, his body solid. “Well, that’s the main department for you.” The main department was solid. “Don’t get outdone now.” He laughed. “They’d like to see anyone try to outdo them.” The finishing department with skilled workers—referred to as “Kanehishigi”—didn’t directly respond in that manner, but it held the advantage of not being easily replaceable like the canning department. Above all, since Morimoto and the core of the “cell” were here, they remained steadfast.

The comrade who had been drawing a circle in white chalk on the ball pan glanced at Morimoto, his eyes crinkling with silent understanding. He wiped his chalk-dusted hand on the seat of his work pants, "What about the 'paper'?" he asked.

Early morning. They needed to take preemptive action. The comrades stationed at the lathes, planers, and drilling machines glanced over with smirks tugging at their faces. They propped a foot on the machinery and argued fervently about the "Kanehishigi Policy," their words practically frothing. On the drilling machine sat the gear that had been cutting teeth since yesterday, still mounted in place. Beside the large lathe lay a vacant space piled high with ordered gears, shafts, riveted smokestacks, and iron plates. The greasy stench of fresh red paint from finished machinery assaulted their nostrils.

The start-of-work siren blared through the corrugated roof with broad resonance. Only about two foremen had appeared in the factory. They seemed to have gone to the office. The workers, as usual, showed no inclination to immediately start operating the machines even after the siren sounded. As the belts began moving with heavy, deliberate slowness..., voices that had been raised in loud conversation were swallowed by a deep rumbling sound surging up from below. When they engaged the belts with the shafts, the machines sprang to life—gears interlocking with gears, cylinders slicing through air. A conveyor bearing empty cans at regular intervals slid between machines like cinematic film frames. Each time they transferred large tinplate sheets from trolleys to blanking tables, reflections flashed—flashed—striking ceilings, walls, and machine profiles sharper than blades. Through gaps in the machinery's roaring din came voices of top-line female workers singing while aligning and counting lids.—Ceiling beams strained against mechanical forces, trembling beyond visible perception.

“That News thing’s doing Communist Party propaganda, isn’t it?” The foreman walked between the machines with his hands behind his back. “Well?” The worker who was questioned brusquely rebuffed him. But then he suddenly froze—that was one of the cell members. When the H·S News contained many cartoons, he would often smear paste thickly and press himself against the machinery. “Behind them stands the Communist Party, resolutely.” That certainly seemed to be the case.

But if that was what the Communist Party was, then all they did was state the obvious. That was what made it terrifying. He burst out laughing. That was why it was really nothing at all, he supposed.

About twenty minutes had passed since work began.—A worker who had been laboring felt a jab in his back from behind. —It had come around from somewhere. A scrap of paper was quietly slipped into his pocket. The fortunate thing was that only about two foremen were present. "All members must assemble in the cafeteria after hours for discussions on implementing elected representatives for the Factory Committee." "The crisis is looming." "With the power of unity, let us protect ourselves." "They say they'll pass it to the next person." "They say they won't pass it to any suspicious folks."

Ha! Just as expected. At the same time, identical paper scraps were circulating through the "Workplace," "Foundry," "Body Line," "Top Line," "Lacquer Painting Shop," "Nailing Shop," and "Packing Department" via the same method.— The foremen returned from the office in a line, talking amongst themselves. When the foreman stationed at the machinery saw it, he panicked and ran off. He began a huddled conversation in a corner of the factory. The workers kept working while shooting sidelong glances at them.

From behind the glass door of the finishing area’s watch post, the Guren Foreman came rushing out in a panic. Saitō, who had been pressing a metal piece against the grindstone, received a paper scrap from a worker at the lathe right next to him and slipped it into his pocket. It was because he had caught a glimpse of that. Their nerves were on edge.—The workers wondered what had happened. They saw the back of the “itinerant worker” and snapped to attention, turning right in unison as if on command. “Hey!”

A large hand grabbed Saitō’s shoulder. However, when Saitō turned around, he was calm. “What is it?” Speaking slowly, his other hand swiftly crumpled the paper scrap in his pocket and ground it under his shoe. “Th-th-that paper!”

The foreman panicked.

“Paper?” The sandy floor was damp with water. Saitō fiddled with the paper scrap using the tip of his shoe while, “What seems to be the problem?” *What’s wrong?* *The fat bastard.* But there was nothing more the foreman could do. Resentfully, while looking at the trampled paper scrap,

"You bastard! You finally managed to trick me!" "You bastard!" the Guren Foreman said. The workers who had taken their hands off the machines and been watching thought, "Serves you right!" "It won’t be long before Guren gets strung up." The foreman, his plans having failed, gave an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulders and walked away. The workers' eyes derided him mercilessly from every side. "What a moron." A comrade who had been cutting grooves into shafts with a grinding disc covered their mouth with their palm and mischievously teased from behind. They burst into laughter. The foreman whirled around and surveyed the workshop. Suddenly, they all put on serious faces and pretended to fiddle with the machinery. Unable to contain themselves, someone in the corner snorted with laughter.

What an insufferable bastard!

He violently flung open the glass door and stormed inside. “Watch your own neck, you bastard!”

During lunch break, Morimoto and four close comrades sat in the same spot and once again meticulously deliberated their plans. "What about the women?" "—Tactically speaking too." Ha ha ha ha... "That’s right." Okimi could be seen in a far corner, earnestly talking to her comrades. She moved her entire face freely and exaggeratedly while speaking with her mouth wide open. Okimi stood there fully visible.—Morimoto abruptly felt a pang of loneliness at being utterly unable to convey his feelings to her. As the meal was ending, Okimi passed by where everyone was gathered, still holding her dishes.

“How’s it going?” “About a quarter.” “There’s no one opposed to it.” “Even so, the women probably won’t show up even once.” “Yeah.” “But I’ll give it my best shot.” “Please.” “Mr. Mori, go ahead and risk getting ‘axed’ today.” “If you get ‘axed,’ we’ll all take care of you.” Okimi laughed brightly and went to her workstation. “And how about the ‘big shots’?”

Morimoto asked his comrades. "The office hasn't noticed anything about the 'Factory Assembly' yet, of course, but they're probably taking countermeasures.—The attendant told us." "The Senior Managing Director came by car." "The factory manager apparently called him over the phone." "But the Senior Managing Director was running around frantically, his mind in complete turmoil." "He still doesn't seem to be in any condition to handle factory matters—"

"This here is our point of advantage."

The changing room was adjacent to the cafeteria that served as an assembly area and was located on the second floor. And there was only one stairway exit. Thus, to leave, they had no choice but to go up to the second floor, pass through the cafeteria, change their clothes, and then come back down those stairs. This very arrangement had coincidentally given Morimoto and his comrades supremely advantageous conditions. If they didn't attend the cafeteria assembly, they simply couldn't go home.—They had positioned trusted "cell" members at the stairway exit beforehand to intercept the workers.

The dissenting male and female workers loitered for a while on the lower factory floor, grumbling by the machinery or in corners. They couldn't go home even if they wanted to. Many were elderly workers or those with wives. The female workers formed clusters here and there and stood motionless. The women's reasons were no different. They somehow felt awkward and seemed hesitant, finding it presumptuous.

“This isn’t about strike planning.” “Please make the committee members elected.” “That’s all we’re asking.” When Morimoto said this while moving through the crowd, some remarked that if it were truly just that matter, there ought to be a calmer way to discuss it. Was there anything uncalm about this? “We’re not picking fights with the company—it’s a simple request.” When Okimi and Yoshi-chan persuaded them, five or six female workers clustered tightly together, bodies jostling as they ascended the stairs.

The foremen, when they saw that something was happening, had withdrawn to the office, so none of them were in the way.

In the cafeteria, more than two-thirds of the workers had crowded in unexpectedly. However, most had gathered out of concern for "the company's survival." That would be an unthinkable outcome if miscalculated. If that hadn't been the case, there was no way this many Ford workers would have gathered. But they had to immediately seize upon that momentum, wield powerful agitation, and pull it in their direction—

At that moment, a shadow came bursting through the dimly lit factory. It was a lookout they had posted at strategic positions throughout the factory.

“Morimoto, Saeki and his gang are up to something in the materials warehouse.” “And they’re only wearing their judo uniforms!” “Saeki?!”

Morimoto's face twisted sharply. "Coming to smash us with violence?" The thought enraged him. He wasn't prepared for this. "Right—get the young guys from Finishing positioned here." "And cut the dawdling! We start now!"

Morimoto climbed the stairs. The muffled din of nearly five hundred workers—shuffling feet and scraping chairs combined—bore down like a crushing weight. The prearranged rallying speeches cut through it with resounding force. From his position apart, each word hung resonantly in the air, gripping the workers with unmistakable clarity. He recognized the crowd's momentum now—a tidal swell of collective unrest. Through this, above all else, they had to drag those company-loyal workers into their orbit using that speech.—A surge of blood fiercer than any he'd known coursed through him. Contemplating the monumental task ahead, his body began trembling violently. He tensed his neck muscles and pulled his chin tight, but still it wouldn't stop. Even a vague terror crept through his mind. At times like these, he thought, if only Kawata were here—even just to strike him once—he could push forward with strength.

A familiar face turned around and smiled.—Hang in there, the smile seemed to say. The cafeteria sweltered thick with steam heat and human congestion. Oil-stained work uniforms pressed shoulder to shoulder, face to face—some sitting, others standing—arms crossed, chins propped on hands, glaring at the speaker. They had clustered into workplace groups without realizing it themselves. Takebayashi the anarchist’s comrades leaned against the wooden wall at the very back in sullen defiance.

The female workers on the left, acutely aware of everyone's gazes, had huddled together as awkwardly as stagnant puddles. In every company "meeting" until now, they alone had been excluded. Now the women buzzed with excitement over this unprecedented inclusion and their newly elevated status—. On the platform stood Masuno from the foundry. "Why has half my face turned into a demon's?" He was recounting his disfigurement. With each emphatic gesture, his flushed, sagging face contorted into that very demon—twisting grotesquely. At first, scattered whispers rippled through the crowd.

"He's making that damn awful face again!" Occasionally, small laughs mingled. However, those were relentlessly quelled by Masuno's fervor. “We stake this much danger on our ‘daily work’.” “With my face like this, you’d all laugh.” "But poor me—I think it’s a blessing it’s just my face." "With money that doesn't even amount to two yen a day, we have to casually stake even our 'lives'." "To you in the canning department working with tin cans—I know how many people here are missing fingers. People without fingers!" “I’ve heard they say this canning factory is number one in Japan!” "And in such cases, we can do nothing but obey the company." "Why is that?" “Isn’t it because we don’t have an organization that protects the interests of us workers alone?”—Masuno continued with growing vigor.

“I don’t know about all that fuss with Kinryo this and industrial rationalization that,” “Just that over half of us are about to get fired—fired! Our wages slashed, forced to work harder and harder!” “All because they say the big shots need to rake in even more profits—”

He looked around for a cup of water there. "—And…………"

There was no cup of water. He began to stammer. When he flushed with excitement, he repeated the same words. Then he lost track of where he was in his speech. Countless faces before him piled up, distorted, and swayed. They were shouting something at him. He didn't know what to do. He could only shout the final part. "So—the factory committee!" "We must take back the committee they've been running however they please!" "Our first step—electing committee members!" "We must all unite and fight for this goal—Wait, what was I even saying?!"

At the end, he tacked on something that couldn’t even be called a soliloquy. Because everyone heard that, they burst out laughing. ―Alright, we get it now!

Someone deliberately clapped. Okimi had come after Morimoto. She quietly leaned back. When excited, Okimi would often flush bright red on just one cheek. "Your ear..." "Just a moment." "Hmm?" "You know... we decided to have Yoshi-chan do it." "Yoshi-chan?" That "Wandering Orphan"? he thought. When following Kawata—who always spoke bluntly—Yoshi-chan had been called the *Wandering Orphan*. Her skin looked perpetually parched and dull, her narrow shoulders giving her a chronically chilled appearance. Though quiet, she only spoke after careful consideration. Whenever Okimi stood beside her, Yoshi-chan's presence seemed to shrink into the shadows.

“Well, serious people can be surprisingly bold when it counts.” “Even if I were to do it—that’s fine—but you know I’m the type of woman who might actually say such things.” “So I don’t think it would make much of an impression.” “But if it’s Yoshi-chan—they’d go ‘Huh?!’” “They’d all go ‘Huh?!’—maximum agitation effect!” “We’re making her do it by force.”

Okimi laughed slyly. Moist red lips were right by his ear.

Everyone waited to see who would come out next. But what they saw was unexpected. From the corner emerged—could it be a woman?—and everyone abruptly hushed. And when they realized it was Yoshi-chan, the restrained silence suddenly recoiled. A tumultuous uproar broke out.

“That woman!!”

Yoshi-chan climbed onto the platform with unsteady steps, then turned slightly toward where her fellow female workers were, kept both hands properly lowered, and stood with her head down. —Her face was pale. "—To be standing in front of all these men..." "Even so, she's pretty gutsy, huh?"

Next to him, Morimoto caught what a worker from the lacquer factory was saying. Yoshi-chan began to speak without raising her face, remaining just as she was. Because they couldn’t hear her, everyone stopped talking. Putting their palms behind their ears, everyone stretched upward. "...How much resolve it must take to come up here... I may seem presumptuous... but I'm desperate... If someone doesn't step forward and dare to be presumptuous... what will become of us...?"

"That gentle Yoshi-chan..." With every phrase she spoke—each one sharply divided—the workers' voices cut in.

“Hey, what do you think?”

Okimi said. “She’s steady.” “Ever since I started working with all of you, I’ve changed so much that even I can tell.” “……We’ve always received special treatment from both the men and the company……” Her words occasionally faltered. “For women to come out to a place like this and speak like this... I think it’s unprecedented since this factory began... We too must all come together without exception... and we want to keep helping each other. Everyone… please…”

When Yoshi-chan stepped down, a “Waa!” erupted along with applause. It continued endlessly. Just as Okimi had said, it elicited an even greater reaction from the male workers than anticipated. “Still, it was a bit too sentimental.”

Okimi said.

“For Yoshi-chan, that was a stellar performance.” “But she did well.” “When I listen to her, it just brings tears to my eyes.” “That’s right.”

Okimi rubbed her own eyes. "Alright, I should go praise her." Okimi ran toward the female workers. Yoshi-chan stood encircled by the crowd. When they looked, she—overcome by pent-up emotion—let out a sudden "Waa!" and burst into tears. "I can't relax yet," Morimoto thought. "When I walked through the crowd earlier, most were from the Company Survival Faction." One comrade told him: "But once they've gathered like this and get swept into the momentum, things might not turn out so badly after all."

However, we too seized those perilous subtleties and pulled it off. Now there’s no need to force things recklessly—we just have to drag them to our side.

Next, representatives from each workplace ascended the platform one by one. They were all "cells". Each hurled fiery words. They laid bare the schemes of those bastards trying to sell out all workers under the banner of "The Company's Critical Hour." —And through the workers passed a rustling unrest like wind through thickets. Morimoto stiffened. But under this relentless barrage of exposures, they were swept before their eyes into a surging movement of different nature.

The lights came on. In the dimness, the workers who had been suffused in uniform gray—the collective—their fierce shoulders leapt into sharp relief in an instant. Someone— “Look, the lights are on!” someone said. That meaningless phrase, however, suddenly made everyone’s spirits liven up. This was the moment for unity—now!

Suddenly, four or five people started stamping their feet and singing. The workers who went bar-hopping all knew that song at least. It now flowed from their mouths without the slightest strain. Because everyone turned to look at them all at once, they seemed slightly embarrassed, and the next song faltered. However, the deep, unaligned voices persisted. You cowards—if you’re going to leave, then get out!

Morimoto was the last to take the platform. He needed to say nothing. All he had to do was explain the contents of the prepared "resolution document" and "demand letter" to obtain everyone's approval. Every minute detail here had been prepared by Kawata and his comrades. He had not yet finished speaking. A fierce argument broke out on the stairs below.—The workers simultaneously kicked their stools. The group of them, carrying a unified momentum, kept pushing through the narrow entrance just as they were.

“If anyone’s come to interfere, take ’em out!” At that moment, as if forcibly contained, the commotion below stopped dead. Then one of the lookouts came scrambling up in panic. “They’re saying Saeki’s crew is coming up!” “So right when we were getting into it with them, the Senior Managing Director and factory manager and foremen showed up.” “What do we do?”

“Alright!”

Morimoto said decisively.

“Let’s only allow up the Senior Managing Director and the factory manager. We absolutely must not permit the foremen or Saeki’s gang to come up.” “Right.” “No objections!” Either they would push through decisively or be pushed back—the critical moment had arrived. The factory manager led the way as the Senior Managing Director ascended. The factory manager pressed his flushed lips together tightly, exerting force into them. Yet a gentle smile hovered on the Senior Managing Director’s face. He politely greeted the workers and representatives—the same mild-mannered Senior Managing Director as always. Some of the female and male workers finally began to stir.—Morimoto, who had been deciphering the Senior Managing Director’s hidden agenda, instinctively knew he had to seize the initiative first. This burgeoning movement—the preemptive strike! He believed this single action would determine the outcome. For if the Senior Managing Director managed to speak even one word first, it would mean cleverly wresting control of this assembly.—

He stood before all the workers and clearly recounted the course of events up to that point, announced that the elected committee system for the “Factory Committee” had been decided by unanimous approval, and submitted both the “resolution document” and “demand letter.” At that moment, applause erupted in unison from the front ranks of the cells. It had been prearranged. The applause of five hundred people followed, slightly out of sync. Morimoto’s stomach tightened. Yet the applause shook the low corrugated iron ceiling and rattled the glass windows, reverberating through them. The lingering echoes rendered the Senior Managing Director’s diminutive frame—isolated among them with but a single ally—as fragile as kindling wood.

The Senior Managing Director was clearly agitated. Holding the "Demand Letter," he stood vacantly as if having forgotten what to do next—in truth, he had clung to a glimmer of hope until entering this cafeteria. The excessive benevolence he had long bestowed upon the workers as “Y’s Ford” would not crumble so easily. He had believed this. Even if those “ungrateful” agitators had been somewhat managed, he had taken for granted that his mere presence would make all workers come “instantly” rushing to his side like an avalanche. But could things truly collapse into such wretchedness?! And that unified applause! More than anything, the Senior Managing Director was crushed by this self-betrayal—this betrayal by his own convictions. To compound matters, pressures assailed him from two fronts. One concerned his very position! This had thoroughly unnerved him. The pathos of “industrial capitalists”—those doomed to decline under “financial capitalists’” control—gnawed at his bones. Moreover, Russia’s impending encroachment upon Kamchatka’s prime fishing grounds this year—retaliation for the crab cannery ship labor dispute—stood as an undeniable certainty.

But the factory manager spoke up—he had perceived the danger.

"Anyway, this is a critical matter, and the Senior Managing Director has something he wants to address with all the workers... We'll set that aside for now..." "Hey!"

“Wait a minute!” From behind Morimoto, the lacquer factory cell hurled needle-sharp words.

“D-did we... did we do this meeting all by ourselves...?” “That’s right! That’s right!” Excitement rather than words rose to their throats. Then Morimoto took his turn. “In light of this... we cannot simply... abide by your... arbitrary decisions...” This was the first time he had spoken to the Senior Managing Director and Factory Manager with them positioned less than three feet away. He turned red and floundered repeatedly. Morimoto, who even on normal days worked like scrap metal in a corner where he couldn’t properly catch sight of the Senior Managing Director’s face. When they came face to face, the Senior Managing Director unexpectedly possessed a dignified air—but having been told this, the “scrap-metal-like” To the workers, the Factory Manager could not find words to retort.

“First—give us your ‘definite answer’!” They were going to make them accept their demands! That comes next! From among the workers packed into the cafeteria, someone shouted that. Such a manner of speaking toward superiors was utterly unprecedented in this factory. When gathered together in this way, they unconsciously relied on that power. And then they calmly stated things that were completely unlike themselves as if it were nothing.

The Factory Manager and Morimoto simultaneously opened their eyes wide. Who had molded the workers into this state, and when? “I’m afraid that’s impossible to decide here immediately.” “We must ask for some leeway.”

For the first time, the Senior Managing Director spoke up. This manner of speech, along with their work uniforms, had been the pride of H·S. “Leeway?” “But this modest, entirely reasonable resolution leaves us no further room for compromise.” “However, our side...”

Morimoto had to drive a wedge. "In these difficult times when we can't foresee what may come and can barely make ends meet day by day, we're driven into a corner where we must defend this organization to our last breath." "For some time now, worker after worker has been leaping onto this platform declaring that if these demands aren't met, they'll sink their teeth into an all-out strike and fight until they win them." "Of course we have absolutely no desire to resort to strikes..."

“Strike!” “Now.” There was no way these words would fail to strike home with the Senior Managing Director and the factory manager. The sixty-six million can order from Kamchatka! ——….

The workers fell silent.

Morimoto had to take another crucial preemptive move.

"Of course, I take it that regarding Kinryo, the Senior Managing Director himself would also have various matters he'd wish to discuss jointly with us..."

The Senior Managing Director suddenly raised his head. Morimoto couldn't help but smirk— He did. However, he boldly pressed his attack. “However, all of that—if we make it contingent upon these demands being accepted and the regulations being clearly amended accordingly—then I believe we could consult with each other. ……Otherwise, we’d be the ones left completely pitiful.”

——………………. Until just moments earlier, the Senior Managing Director had been contemplating how to fully exploit this "workers' assembly" for his own benefit. He would have all the workers pass a resolution supporting him and make the entire workforce oppose Kinryo's appointment of new directors. Each would contribute funds to form a "Tokyo Delegation" of workers and employees that would visit relevant authorities and campaign—particularly convenient since this matter wasn't solely his personal concern. As proof, hadn't even the workers themselves reached the point of holding spontaneous assemblies? Thus, when the Senior Managing Director heard about the workers' gathering from the foremen, he had actually smirked to himself—contrary to their panic. Things don't just work out because everyone's in agreement. Had that not been the case, he should have called the police immediately. Yet he hadn't done so. But now, the Senior Managing Director clearly realized he had catastrophically miscalculated the workers' feelings toward him. Nor had he ever imagined they would confront him in this manner. Someone's pulling strings behind this! But could "Y's Ford" really be this fragile? Workers are such peculiar creatures—they've outmaneuvered me! And now it was too late!

“Then... within two or three days...” The Senior Managing Director realized even he himself was betraying this miserable frailty. “Within two or three days!” But Kinryo had no reason to wait two or three days. ——…… Morimoto was executing the final decisive move that would determine victory or defeat in a single stroke!

——…. The ears of five hundred workers awaited the Senior Managing Director’s single word. Those who sided with him and those workers who had attended that outrageous meeting—once gathered here, they had all become the same. Five hundred workers breathed as one. ——………………. From the very back came the sharp click of a shoe heel being set down. "Until tomorrow after work...—" A wave-like roar surged through the crowd. In the next instant, it became a thunderous uproar that seemed to lift the cafeteria from its foundations as they shouted, “Banzai!”

He simply thought—eyes brimming with tears, hands clenched tightly over his chest—that he had glimpsed Okimi, who was staring his way, over the shoulders of the crowd...

Twenty-One How anxiously Kawata must be waiting! Up there on the "second floor," Kawata must have been pacing restlessly as he waited.—But Morimoto had no idea how to begin explaining today’s remarkable success, or where to even start. Okimi felt the same. The two needed to report the situation to Kawata, decide countermeasures based on the Senior Managing Director’s response, then immediately return to attend the cell meeting at a comrade’s house. Before ascending to the "second floor," they always passed by the house twice to survey the area.—Walking along the dark opposite side of the road, they glanced up at the second floor. The light was on. No figures were visible. At the haberdashery below, the familiar shopkeeper sat at her counter watching the street.—Abruptly, she seemed to notice them; her face twitched.

The shopkeeper waved her hand as if swatting away smoke before her eyes. It seemed to be signaling "No good, no good." —Something's off. Unable to stop, they continued walking past. They went a short distance before circling back to the same spot. They had to stay alert to their surroundings. "Hey, Okimi-chan—pretend to be a customer and go buy some tissue paper or something." "Right." "Something's wrong." "There's absolutely no way they could know about that place."

Okimi hurriedly entered the brightly lit haberdashery. Morimoto was waiting by the wall of a vacant lot a short distance away. After a short while, he caught sight of Okimi emerging from the shop. “What happened?” “—It seems serious.”

Okimi was catching her breath. "The fact that the shopkeeper couldn't speak out loud means they've probably got someone planted inside," she said. "When she hands back my change, she pushes me like she's saying 'Get out quick! Get out quick!'—" A chill surged down his spine like a cold wave. Had it been brighter, Okimi might have seen his face turn ashen like dull clay. This wasn't like him—the man who'd cornered the Senior Managing Director. —Hmm, what's going on? Could it be about the strike? His tongue felt unnaturally thick in his mouth.

No matter how he looked at it—this area was dangerous. They avoided the bright main street. They stopped briefly at a comrade’s house where a meeting was being held. They didn't mention that matter, thinking it would cause worry. Two or three people had come. They were all excited, making a lively commotion.—He found himself worrying about his own home. And his throat immediately went dry. He stood up twice to go to the kitchen for water.

He decided to regroup and went outside. “You look pale,” came the remark. “This is a crucial time, so be careful.” A comrade said it offhandedly. Okimi was also with him. He walked on without saying a word, completely unlike his usual self. “Mr. Suzuki’s such a strange person,” Okimi suddenly blurted out, as if she’d been pondering something. She seemed unable to endure walking in silence any longer.

“That person says such strange things.” “…You let even Mr. Kawata kiss you, so why not me too!” he’d say. And then he’d get drunk and glare at me with those eyes.” “After that… I really came to hate him.” “He seems to have misunderstood something.” “He claims I’m easy to misunderstand… But you know”—she drew out her words—“ever since I started this work, I’ve completely cut out all those pointless things I used to do.” “First of all, it’s strange that I’ve lost even the inclination for that.” “And the person Yoshi-chan is infatuated with is Mr. Kawata, you know.” “She apparently hasn’t told Mr. Kawata yet…”

He gasped—startled. He felt flustered beyond reason, even to himself. But was that really true? Come to think of it, Kawata had once told him about a pitiful woman living in utter destitution—that she was his one and only woman. "It’s not just Mr. Suzuki… Men are all…" Okimi said this and—with her usual mischievous habit—snickered softly. "But you… you’re at least a bit different…"

“Well, you see…” Morimoto let the words slip out from some strange impulse even to himself. But somehow, he felt if he didn’t say it now, that would be the end of it. He produced a terribly earnest, low voice. “Well, you see... It’s because I truly... love you!” “How ridiculous! What are you saying, this man?!”—That bright, brazen laughter of hers would surely blow away these cloying words of his own making, Morimoto realized the instant he spoke them, flushing crimson. But Okimi fell utterly silent. The two walked on without another word, an awkward mood persisting all the while.

When they came to the bridge, he noticed. He had Okimi walk ahead a little and thoroughly checked all his clothing pockets. From his inner pocket emerged a thin pamphlet folded into fours, its creases frayed and tattered. It was something he had received from Kawata that needed burning and disposal. He tore it thoroughly into tiny pieces and cast them into the river. On the surface of the dark river where murk stagnated, those paper fragments floated stark white before fluttering down. He spaced out the timing, dividing them into several batches. As he did this, he felt himself growing calmer.

Okimi remained leaning against the thick shop window glass, waiting for him. He still said nothing. When they came to where they would part ways and stopped, Morimoto took the woman’s hand for the first time and said.

“Cheer up—one more push, let’s push through! There are times when Y’s Ford comes to a dead stop through our power!”

Okimi kept her head bowed, not looking at his face—and squeezed back.

Morimoto gasped when he opened the house door! He jerked. He had not actually seen anything, but this was one of those flashes of intuition that only they possessed in moments like these. The shoji door clattered open. Two unfamiliar suits loomed there.—He thought he’d failed. It was his first experience of this kind.—But now that it had come to this, strangely, he hadn’t lost his composure.

“Who are you?” “Hmph.” The suit’s face twisted mockingly. “We’re from headquarters.”

He silently went upstairs. Was Father not back yet? He wasn’t there. “Well now, you!” Mother had turned pale and remained seated. While they had kept her waiting, it seemed this pitiful mother had served tea to the men in suits—a tray of Nanbu senbei rice crackers and two teacups sat neatly arranged. When he saw that, his heart clenched. He turned to his mother, who couldn’t say what came next, “It’s nothing serious. I’ll be back soon.”

he said. He had every last pocket searched by the two men in suits. The inside of the house was left completely scattered by the "house search". While tying his shoelaces in the earthen entryway, the stocky man— "I never imagined someone involved would be holed up in a place like this." said the stocky man. He detected an unusual meaning in those words. He had been adhering to what Kawata had told him. Until now, there should not have been a single instance where they had seen his face. Had even Kawata said something? That was absolutely impossible. Then— He thought something had happened.

Mother remained seated. He felt that if he were to say anything—that would be all—he would break down in tears.

“I’m going now—but I’ll be back.”

He was then taken away.

Twenty-Two

The foul-smelling detention cell did not let Morimoto sleep. It was a solitary cell. He sat with his back pressed against the wooden wall in the stagnant air.—Thoughts grazed through his head, one after another. But strangely, he felt no terror. Only his mind was growing keener.

Dawn drew near. Yet it had not come. Through fragmented consciousness, he believed he'd dreamt of Okimi. Cold bit through him. He folded his chin against his chest and hunched his back.

Tap, tap... Tap, tap, tap... His sharp ears caught the sound, its source unknown. The moment he pricked up his ears, it stopped. He held his breath. His ears buzzed hollowly. Everything stood frozen. Tap, tap, tap……tap……tap…….

He pressed his ear against the wooden wall. And then—it was coming from next door. However, he couldn’t tell what the sound was. He reflexively glanced toward the front. Then, pressing his fist quietly against it, he tapped back three times from his side in low tones: tap, tap, tap.—The sound from the other side stopped. Doing such a thing—but was it wise? Morimoto suddenly felt a jolt of alarm. Both sides remained silent for a while. Tap, tap, tap……. The other side resumed tapping. But this time, the tapping location differed. He shifted toward it. Then, from there, a thin beam of light seeped through. As often occurred in detention cells, it seemed previous occupants had gradually worked open that spot—only there had the board splintered enough to form a hole. Fortunately, this spot lay recessed from the front. Gathering resolve, he tapped the same spot—tap, tap, tap.

A low voice leaked through! He shifted his body slowly, pressing his ear precisely against the hole.

Da… He couldn't make it out. He adjusted and readjusted his ear again and again. —Who…?

“Who are you?”—But who, in truth, was the speaker himself? He pressed his mouth to the hole.

“Who are you?”

he asked. And then immediately pressed his ear against it. The other person seemed to have fallen silent, but then spoke slightly louder: ―Who...? he repeated. Ah! That voice―wasn't it Kawata?! His blood suddenly surged. After checking toward the front again, he brought his mouth to it: ―Kawata? The other person had clearly been startled. ―Who...? ―Mori! ―Mori...? The other man had also realized. He focused every nerve into his ears: ―Gen...

―Gen…?

―Gen…ki…ka…? You okay? “I’m fine.”

........

He couldn't make out what had been said.

"I can't hear—louder!" "Fac..." "Factory... uh." "—Everything okay?" "Hmm—it worked." "—After that…" "And then?" "—How is it?"

"I'm fine." "Hh..." "Hm?" "Don't let them crush you." "Hn!" "When..." When? "No—anytime." Anytime. "Stay strong............."

I got it! Even amidst their constrained communication, he recognized Kawata's familiar essence. Heat flooded his chest. His throat convulsed with a wet click.

—Someone… —Hmm. —Even among comrades... —Hm? Even among us?

He pressed his ear desperately. —No, comrade.

Ah... a comrade. —Garbled fragments… U… ra… —U... ra...

Kawata's words weren't clear. He jolted— he thought. —Betrayed? He involuntarily raised his voice.

Nn. Is it true?

―It’s true.

The palm he had been clenching without realizing was clammy with sweat.

I understand... Hmm, I understand. It can't be... —Hm? Hm? Things that shouldn't make sense... I should understand... Hmm. —Everyone...

—Everyone... —I got it now.

—…! —The incident…

—The incident? Hmm. —The incident...

—Hmm, I got it now. —The Communist Party! —True after all!

So it was true after all, he thought. He felt a chest tightness as though bound around the torso. —Sai...

—Hm? —Until the end… —Nn.

―Hang in there. ―I get it now! ―That... At that moment, he startled and jolted upright. Because he thought he had heard footsteps approaching down the corridor. And those were indeed footsteps. Something noisy seemed to have suddenly broken out at the far end.

Suzuki, who had been formally detained and given special treatment in the detention cell, was discovered by the jailer at dawn to have hanged himself.

＊　　　　　　　　＊

The next day, the workers of "H·S Factory" secured the autonomy of the "factory committee" as they had anticipated. Even if it contained whatever second-phase schemes the Senior Managing Director had embedded within. Yet they had to solidify their "foundation" to endure the real struggle that would truly come next. What remained after Morimoto was— The handshake that first connected them had been meant for parting, Okimi realized. Thinking of this made her chest constrict. But until he returned, Okimi knew the work they must do.

On her way home from the factory, Okimi discussed the matter with Yoshi-chan. Yoshi-chan quietly wiped her eyes.

“Don't cry!” “Don't you dare cry!”

Okimi placed a hand on her thin shoulders. Yoshi-chan was thinking about Kawata. Spring was approaching. —The snow, gritty like coarse sugar, shifted with a sandy crunch underfoot. (1930/2/24)