Pathway to Japanese Literature

To Leningrad

11 PM.
At Oktyabrsky Station’s platform, the Leningrad-bound train stood parked alongside.

Gunny sacks.
Birch wooden boxes with tin cans and kettles tied to them by rope.
The crowd, dressed in all manner of clothing, hurried more than necessary—craning their necks and jostling one another while staring fixedly ahead.

The third-class carriages were steel.
They were painted dark green.
Beneath the platform roof lay the train's black roof, and in the dim light, every lined-up carriage appeared gloomy in their muted hues.

Natalia, who worked at the State Publishing House,

"Don't lose your papers, and make sure someone stays by the luggage at all times."

She made a farewell gesture with her hand and unusually large eyes.
But it vanished from sight almost immediately.

Upon entering and looking inside, the interior of the third-class carriage was far from dark.
It closely resembled an extremely clean livestock shed.
It was lit in yellow.
The seats were two-tiered, arranged so that even those on the upper level could lie down comfortably.
The two Japanese women settled into the corner seat where a square lantern holding a candle hung on the opposite paneling.

The carriage was empty.

Before long, a young woman arrived and took a seat in front of the Japanese women.
A single brown cloth-covered briefcase—the sort Soviet citizens carried about with bread or shoes needing repair inside—constituted her luggage.
When she removed her hat, blonde hair shone with unaccustomed beauty in the third-class carriage's corner light.

The woman moved with travel-worn ease; soon opening the briefcase on her lap, she withdrew a plain housedress and draped it over herself while remaining seated.
Bringing her legs together onto the seat, she lay down quietly upon the wooden board.

In Soviet third-class night trains, futons, blankets, and pillows could be rented for about one rouble per set.
However, the young woman did not rent any.
The two Japanese women untied the leather straps and took out blankets and futons.
The darker-skinned Japanese woman first tossed up her blanket and document-filled briefcase, then climbed to the upper berth using the iron foothold attached to a nearby pillar.

As the other Japanese woman at the lower seat tried to place her briefcase at her feet, the young woman who had been watching this while fanning her beautiful hair in the shadow—

“You should place it by your pillow,” the young woman cautioned.

“Since we’ll surely fall fast asleep, there’ll be no one to watch the luggage until tomorrow morning, right? That’s why,” they laughed.

With that, they laughed.

Propping her briefcase upright at the head of the berth and wrapping the futon around her body, the second Japanese woman finally lay down.

Leningrad-Moscow: 865 kilometers.
The clatter of the wheels effectively rocked the Japanese women through their peach-colored sateen futons.
The seats were wide and spacious.
Here, even bedbugs seemed unlikely to appear.
That’s right.

In the revolutionary era, it had been far safer to abruptly spread straw and ride in either a third-class carriage or a freight car than in those ill-advised soft-bed carriages with their velvet upholstery. At that time, lice had thrived as a matter of historical fact. Lice crawled about bearing typhus bacteria.—

Who could claim that some of these passengers now sleeping and being rocked in this third-class night train—shoes still on—had not walked with the glorious USSR's historic lice clinging to the hems of their torn coats between 1917 and 1921? Natalia, who had just had her two large eyes swallowed by the station's bustle at age twenty-five, had been a middle school girl that year. She boarded a freight car and went all the way to the Finnish border. The locomotive pulling the freight car moved at an excruciatingly slow pace, then came to a complete halt in the most unexpected of places. Then the young people jumped out of the freight car and went into the forest. In the forest, they cut down birch trees. The locomotive started running with sooty black smoke billowing out, and they cooked wheat bran into a mushy porridge using the rusty iron stove with a chimney standing in the middle of the freight car. Moreover, there were times when everyone ate it only twice a day, and Natalia herself, who was the food commissar, ate it only once.

What connection could there be between a Japanese woman sleeping on the night train to Leningrad and the conductor extinguishing two ceiling lights at 12:05 AM to make the car dimmer for sleep before moving on? The Japanese woman perceived it—that every rail joint resonating through her body had been secured through the unrecorded footsteps of the revolutionary proletariat, just as Natalia’s minor deeds had gone undocumented—much like how “October” once had. Petrograd was renamed Leningrad. There too lay a great amassing of unrecorded individual footsteps.

Scholars' House

When the Japanese woman entered that room, she felt a slight dizziness.

Beneath the two large windows of the former house of Grand Duke Vladimir flowed the Neva River. It was flowing swiftly. Wherever one looked, there was nothing but vast water without a single ship, flowing swiftly.

In the distance on the opposite shore could be seen the low gray stone walls of the Peter and Paul Fortress washed by water. A golden spire, tapering to a point as though vanishing into the sky, towered from within the fortress. The sun lay somewhere deep within the clouds.

Directly below the window was the riverbank behind the Winter Palace—an imposing stone embankment of nineteenth-century Europe. No one passed by. Thick iron chains hung heavily between stone pillars with several stalks of straw scattered about. The Neva River flowed swiftly without cease, flowed swiftly without sound.—

And the silence?

When the Japanese woman awoke in the train at dawn, she saw yet another watery landscape through the window.
In the field, the grass grew thick.
It was early summer's green grass.
Water of unknown origin spread shallow and wide, soaking the plain.
In the waterlogged plain stood a broken fence, weathered by rain and wind.
A little further on, at the swollen river, willows swayed with only their heads above the water.

After the snowmelt, coming from parched Moscow, such landscapes appeared watery and desolate, distinctly reminiscent of Northern Europe.

Here again flowed the Neva River.
At 3:30 AM on October 25, 1917, the cruiser Aurora had sailed up this river, turned its cannons toward the Winter Palace, and anchored there.
That was a glorious flaming commemoration.
But now here, a beautiful desolation filled and spread.

In the room were chairs upholstered in slightly faded chintz and a table covered in the same fabric.
The two Japanese women suddenly grew quiet and washed their faces with a buzzing sensation at the core of their heads.

There was a knock at the door,

“Are you ready?”

N, who had come to meet us at the station, emerged with his head—slightly broadened and enveloped in soft black hair.

“Well, come in.”

Then N turned around and said in Russian, “It seems it’s fine,” yielded the way, and let a large-framed woman enter the room.

“She’s the director of the Scholars’ House, and very kind.”

Then he continued in Russian:

“Let me introduce you—this is Elena Alexandrovna.”

“Our hostess—Yusa-san, Chujo-san.”

“It’s truly a pleasure to meet you.”

While N was speaking in Japanese, the large-framed middle-aged woman—her chestnut eyes holding a smile as she watched N and the two Japanese women—once again greeted them politely with her gaze and extended her hand.

“Good day.”

Touching that hand, the Japanese women felt a strange sensation.
This was because our hostess had given a light handshake, much like that of a British spinster missionary in Sapporo.
Not shaking hands at all is not uncommon in the Soviet Union.
But this handshake—

“Do you speak French?”

Amidst the overwhelming silence of the surroundings, the Japanese women grew restless.

“If it’s us, we’ll handle the conversation—please go ahead.”

――Unfortunately, I do not understand English.

Elena Alexandrovna amiably said in Russian as a natural consequence.

“This marks the first time we have welcomed Japanese women—particularly writers—to this ‘Scholars’ House.’”
“Please do make yourselves at home. Did you find the room to your liking?”

Yes, extremely… thank you.

N seemed thoroughly accustomed to this hostess.

"This was truly a splendid room here!"

He strode to the window and gazed at the river.

"You won't find many rooms with such a splendid view! From my place, I can't even see the fortress."

"Mr. N!"

Elena Alexandrovna called N.
"You haven't had breakfast yet, have you?"
"We came directly from the station."
"Our cafeteria doesn't open until twelve o'clock, but hot water is always boiling in the kitchen, so please feel free to have tea."

She explained to the two Japanese women.

“You may also use the kitchen—since everyone here lives as if it were their own home, when you go out, please leave your room key in the box in the kitchen.”

Under the direct control of the Soviet Cabinet, there existed an entity called the Scholars' Life Preservation Committee.
The "Scholars' House" was managed by that committee.
Tse-Kub maintained an affiliated hospital, clinic, "rest house," and club in addition to the "Scholars' House."

Moscow, Leningrad, Rostov, and other major cities of the USSR each had a building somewhere bearing a sign that read "Farmers' House."
And whether near or far, they invariably maintained a "Scholars' House" somewhere within those same cities.
Scholars—specialist technicians engaged in socialist-cultural construction—would come to these cities for conferences, study tours, or very occasionally personal matters.
Some arrived from abroad too.
When hotels lacked vacancies or proved too costly, these visitors were granted use of the Scholars' House free of charge—depending on circumstances—for a quiet, uncomplicated stay spanning several days.

Moreover, in the case of foreigners, an example of how broadly and liberally the definition of "scholar" was interpreted could be seen in Japanese youth N—who had grown so accustomed to living here that he nearly called director Elena Alexandrovna "Mother." He would likely become a scholar in the future. But at present, aside from N's notorious sweet tooth, no scholarly traits had manifested. This was further evidenced by the stay of the two Japanese women, who were literary workers.

The Japanese women knelt before the large travel trunk placed in the corner of the room and, to make tea at any rate, took out a square tea canister, two aluminum spoons, and sugar, placing them on the old-fashioned chintz-covered table.

Suppose Edison were to visit the Soviet Union from America.
Suppose Gorky were to come from Sorrento to his homeland as a guest.
Of course, their luggage would certainly not contain such Soviet citizens' travel trunks.

If he had time, Edison would not refuse to visit the "Scholars' House."
Through an interpreter speaking fluent American English, he would learn what nobleman's mansion this had been before the Revolution, how it now accommodated thousands of scholars annually, and grasp a fragment of Soviet Russia's cultural facilities.
But Edison himself would not stay here.
This was not merely because there was no scale to measure his famous salmon cutlets.
Even scholars—those like Edison—did not stay here.

Even Gorky had not been confined indoors during the imperial era without cause.
In Grand Duke Vladimir’s dining hall today lay a twenty-kopek salad arrayed with tomatoes and cucumbers in vivid hues; observing the round-backed, white-bearded petty scholar—who made moss-gathering his occupation in Siberia’s depths—seated with his wife at a wood-carved table could hardly prove disagreeable. Yet for Gorky himself, the Soviet would doubtless furnish quarters elsewhere.

The wing of the building where the Japanese women's room was located had, it was said, housed relatives and heads of servants during the era of Grand Duke Vladimir. A winding, dark corridor. In the thick-walled corridor with no windows anywhere, there was a damp, musty smell.

The kitchen was bright.
The window was thrown open brightly, with a counter by its sill where a middle-aged man in a suit—his thin, light-colored hair translucent in the light—was chopping ham.
Beside him lay a small pot and two eggs.

With her bare, sturdy arms folded across her large chest, a woman wearing a white cloth watched the middle-aged scholar’s housekeeping.
When she saw the Japanese women, she smiled with curious eyes but without saying anything unnecessary, slowly taking the requested teacups and teapot from the shelf.
One of the teacups bore a design of a sickle and hammer encircling sheaves of wheat against a red flag background, with black letters proclaiming, "Proletarians of all countries, unite!"

It was only the front-facing rooms—those oriented toward the embankment street—that seemed apt to induce dizziness from the Neva River’s swift, broad, soundless flow. Through the window of the large dining hall with murals and a high ceiling one could see a small gray scaly slate roof, the weathervane shaped like a pigeon at its peak, and a small square tower that appeared to have once been a chapel—all clustered tightly together. Inside the tower, three bells of varying sizes could also be seen.

In the glass-enclosed indoor greenhouse, among palms and cacti, there were several rattan chairs, and on one of them lay a foreign newspaper left out. Given the signs that someone had been there, the area was hushed.

Leaning against the marble railing of the grand staircase and looking down, they saw that the front entrance was closed and dim like a shrine. Vaguely visible beyond it was a black-and-white marble mosaic.

A door was flung open violently right behind them without warning. The walls of the room—covered in gaudy crimson damask—along with chairs and golden ceiling frames came into view as someone emerged. Here too, several beds were placed. That person left toward the dining hall, looking down while hurriedly adjusting their glasses.

A typical Russian door—coarse woolen cloth inserted for insulation, covered with black oilcloth and tacked down.
That was the regular entrance to the "Scholars' House."
At the very bottom hung a sign that read “Bath.”
They couldn’t tell where the bath was located or for whom that sign had been posted.
(Since those living here wash faces next to the bath every morning.)

There was a courtyard.
The ground was completely paved with wooden bricks.
In the courtyard’s center stood a storage shed-like structure, while in the vacant lot beside it lay heaps of rusted old wire netting, bent iron bars, and broken bed parts.

Two basement windows faced the pile of old metal scraps.
Women were lined up doing laundry.
From there rose soap-scented steam, and the stones outside the window frame were wet.
At the corner of the stone, green moss clung.

When the horse-drawn carriage entered the courtyard, the clatter of its hooves echoed loudly off the surrounding gray buildings.

Whether it was Harturina Street where the two Japanese women were walked or the former Nevsky Prospekt, unlike Moscow, they were all paved with wooden bricks.
The sound of hooves echoed softly and distantly there.
The quietness of the daytime city was felt even more.

The iron gate was left open with only one leaf swung wide.

A marble statue lay broken and fallen beneath its base.
Surrounded by thickly growing grass, purple lilac flowers bloomed.
On the bench sat a woman without a hat, reading a book while facing away.
Beyond that was a French-style iron fence.
Embankment Street.
The flow of the Neva River could be seen through that iron fence.

Within such gates lay the Leningrad Foreign Cultural Liaison Association.

A thick crimson carpet was laid out.
Gilt chairs, tables, and mirrors were present in that room.
On the oval-shaped large table, Soviet domestic travel guide pamphlets and the Foreign Cultural Liaison Association’s weekly magazines were neatly arranged.

Having left behind a USSR map, a Soviet-style gentleman hurried.
In the center of the room sat a typewriter. Facing it, a slender woman of evident refinement sat with her knees properly aligned and typed several letters of introduction for the two Japanese women.

When they came out, there was no one left on the bench under the linden tree, and a man with a dog was strolling along the sidewalk in front of the gate. The man was leisurely carrying a cane.
Well, well!

(The building of Moscow First University is yellow.
Stand on the side sidewalk and look at the canes that appear there in the afternoon.
The owners of those canes were all those who had injured some part of their legs in revolutionary street battles.)

There was a bridge adorned with stately lamp posts.

A park.
There was a memorial to the victims of the October Revolution.
Pansies were in full bloom.
Reddish gravel was neatly spread, and a silence piercing through to the distant grove filled the space.
Above the grove, the bulbous roof of a Byzantine-style church—resembling marbled green, yellow, and eggshell arabesque sugar craft—pierced the European sky with Asian curves.

A streetcar ran along the canal.

Again, it was a park.
Within the linden trees stood a statue of Russia’s Ivan Krylov.
On the broad slope, a patterned flower bed was created with flowers and grass.
It was a red and green arabesque pattern.
It was neither a star shape like the grand flower beds of Moscow’s Theater Square nor a hammer and sickle.

Peter the Great remained astride his eternally rearing horse in the peculiar elongated square beside the equestrian arena, while on December 25th Street, at the vegetable canteen, they used white gold-rimmed Seto ware instead of aluminum tableware.
While reading a small German book of poetry, an old woman dressed in black sat beside the steps of that vegetable canteen, holding out one hand to passersby.
She was a beggar woman of Leningrad.

There was a barracks.
Beneath the barracks lay a canal where dark water flowed slowly.
A Red Guard who had undone his coat's collar hook sat at a window playing an accordion haphazardly.
When elected to the Soviet, soldiers of Soviet Russia were granted the right to concurrently hold two types of committee memberships.
If they had been employed until enlistment, they would receive unemployment benefits until finding new employment after discharge.
Even if parents lacked suffrage rights, they were permitted to join collective farms provided their sons served as Red Guards.

A boat rowed up through the canal beneath the window where a Red Guard sat playing his accordion.
Inside the boat, Red Guards were packed in two rows, four gripping oars.
One of them held a guitar.

The canal passed under a bridge where old women lined up selling numerous unglazed clay pots for milk and such, and led from beside the Winter Palace to the Neva River.

Smolny

One day, an old peasant woman boarded the train.
With a chintz cloth draped triangularly over her head and square-toed lace-up boots peeking out from beneath the wide hem, the old woman asked the young female conductor.

“How do I get to Sadovaya?”

“Take October 25th Street and get off at March 18th.”

“——Huh? From October 25th to March 18th?! I’ll drop dead—if I ride that far at my age…”

This was a Leningrader’s joke poking fun at how post-revolutionary Russia had changed various town names—mostly to dates and names connected to the global proletarian revolutionary movement.

The Winter Palace is situated between the former Nevsky Prospekt—now October 25th Street—and the Neva River.

In the eleventh year of the revolution, on a certain June morning.
The morning sun shone evenly across the square before the Winter Palace.
It still wasn’t hot at all.
Bathed in the gentle morning light, a woman carrying a black document case hurried from Harturina Street toward the arch beside the former General Staff Headquarters—now the Leningrad Soviet Administrative Department.
From across the way, some entered through October 25th Street and cut diagonally across the square toward the Neva River’s bank.
A truck loaded with printing paper sped past the Administrative Department and vanished toward the park on the right.

The flow of people dwindled by half.

A horse-drawn carriage arrived carrying a young man who had bundled several cocoa-colored raincoats—products of the State Garment Atelier—on his lap.
As if sown, dark figures appeared at the far end of the square opposite and scattered hurriedly in all directions.
Across the square, pedestrians were tracing a large star shape as they passed through.

A young Red Guard, holding a rifle, stood watch at the Winter Palace’s carriage porch, gazing contentedly at the morning scene of such a square.

In January 1905, Father Gapon staged an elaborate public pageant in this square.
The people of Petrograd came appealing to the emperor, led by Father Gapon who waved sacred banners and chanted "Oh Father Tsar."
Countless women and children stood among the crowd.
When they knelt to pray and began wailing, Emperor Nicholas extended his paternal benevolence through an unannounced order for volley fire.
A proletarian child in a gray government-issued overcoat—failing to grasp the command’s meaning—shot another proletarian child wearing a goatskin coat.
This was “Bloody Sunday.”

The blood had not been in vain as it soaked into the snow before the Winter Palace.
“October” had come.

All power to the Soviets!!

Hungry peasants and workers came to understand that the indecisive Provisional Government was ultimately a bourgeois tool that did not belong to them, while soldiers drove off the social democratic agitators in frock coats who came from the trenches.
Kerensky fled to Gatchina in an American embassy car with the Stars and Stripes fluttering—utilizing the extraterritoriality within those few square meters supported by four tires.
In the midnight hours of the 25th, thirty-five shells flew over this square, and for the first time since 1768, the floors of the Winter Palace’s “Golden Hall” and “Alexandrovsky Hall” resounded beneath the heavy boots of proletarian masses.

The Bolsheviks who had occupied the Winter Palace marched in tight formation through the resplendent hall.
It was a historic moment.
Someone stretched out a hand and stole the mantel clock adorning the hall.
No sooner had one hand reached out than another followed—then another—until suddenly, heated shouts erupted from ahead.

“Comrade!”
“Don’t touch anything!”
“Don’t take anything!”
“All of this belongs to the people!”

As they progressed from hall to hall, cries echoed incessantly from every direction.

“Revolutionary discipline!”
“Obey revolutionary discipline!!”

“Comrade! We Proletariat Bolsheviks will show them we’re neither thieves nor beggars!”

Worker Red Guards with red cloth wrapped around their civilian-clothed arms, pistols in hand, conducted body inspections on all comrades when withdrawing from the Winter Palace.
Anything small that had been put into pockets was confiscated and recorded.
(Among them were souvenirs like matchboxes and candle stubs.) All of this was done for the honor of the proletarian revolution.

The Red Guard stood gazing at the square with a carefree young face tanned by the sun.
The Winter Palace is now a museum.

The Japanese Woman slowly crossed the square and emerged onto October 25th Street.
Through the bright, airy street with neatly aligned houses offering clear vistas, the streetcar ran like a doctor wearing a head mirror on the forehead.

There stood an aged elm tree with a thick trunk.
Beneath its dense branches were a newsstand selling newspapers and magazines, and glass bottles of red fruit juice drink.

A small Russian-style house with old chestnut-shaped ornaments adorning its window frames. Rounding past it into an adjacent vacant lot lay horse manure. Flies buzzed about—this was the outskirts of town.

The two Japanese women entered the white grand arch visible to their right. Their faces alight with keen interest, they passed through while examining the pediment of the building ahead and the green benches placed in the garden where summer grass grew tall and thick.

The Japanese women knew what formidable force had streamed forth from here on that October night in 1917 toward old Petrograd’s center. Smolny had originally been a school for daughters of the nobility. Kerensky had loaned it to the All-Russian Central Executive Committee of Workers' and Soldiers' Soviets. On the night of the 25th, motorcycles had raced across these cobblestones until dawn, bonfires blazing, while between the columns of the front staircase stood loaded machine guns—guarded by Red Cossack soldiers—their muzzles trained on the archway. This had been the headquarters of the Military Revolutionary Committee.

Now within Smolny resided the Leningrad Soviet Central Committee and the Central Executive Committee.
The glass doors of the thick colonnade quietly reflected the early June sunlight, the entire massive white building standing out against the blue sky.

The Japanese women ascended the stone steps in succession.

The space beyond the glass doors they opened was spacious, with a stylized hammer-and-sickle stand to the left where the State Publishing House sold books.

Another layer of glass doors.

The interior was a corridor. Industrialization bond campaign flyers. Notice of meetings. Advertisement benches for the outdoor music concert hosted by the National Defense Aviation Association Club were lined up along the wall.

A woman postal carrier with a red cloth wrapped around her head spread out a black bag stuffed with documents on the bench and busily searched for something. Black knitted boots cinched tightly around thick legs.

Various people passed through the corridor in hurried steps. Everyone seemed thoroughly familiar with the locations and duties of the countless rooms within this vast building.

The Japanese women went to the reception desk on the right.

“Please give me the permit for Room 124.”

They had the rubber stamp pressed on a slip of paper with a written number, opened yet another glass door, and ascended the front staircase.

On the second-floor wall was posted an illustrated Smolny Workers’ Wall Newspaper.

Smolny’s exterior was cheerful.
In keeping with this, the interior too was clean and white.
It was extremely neat and tidy.

At the entrance to the third-floor corridor, a Red Guard stood watch.
They handed the permit to the Red Guard.
A gold-lettered sign for the Women's Department hung displayed.
The door was stiff.
When they threw their weight into opening it, a terrible noise rang out—enough to startle the Japanese women.

There was an office desk.
Two telephones.
A large wastebasket held stacked documents while one woman worked.

“May I help you?”

She drew lines on some documents with a red pencil,

“I believe there was a call from the Society for Foreign Cultural Relations... We are from Japan.”

“Ah.”

She looked up and saw the two Japanese women standing there.

“I understand. Please wait a moment.”

Following the retreating woman, a slender young woman in dark clothing emerged from the back room.
She extended her hand as she walked directly toward the Japanese women with light steps.

“Good day. You understand Russian, I presume?”

“I believe I understand most things.”

“What more could you possibly need?”

She led the way and opened a door opposite from where she had emerged; there too was a room, now empty. A photograph of Rosa Luxemburg hung there. There were only two chairs.

“Please wait a moment—I’ll go fetch it right away.”

The work of the Women's Department was entirely carried out by women.

“Now, where should I begin...” The comely party member laughed, her eyes darting between the two Japanese women.

“The transformation in women’s lives before and after the revolution—it’s nearly impossible for those who didn’t experience it to grasp.”
“If you ask what changed, I can only say everything changed.”
“In our society, the old bourgeois structures shattered into fragments useful to no one.”
“Upon new productive relations, we rebuilt socialist society from scratch.”
“From 1917 to 1921, our people in the USSR weathered unimaginable trials.”
“As you’re aware, Britain and the Czechs allied with the Whites and came pressing in relentlessly...”

“Firstly—‘October’—”
“Do you know what the Social Democrats of the bourgeois intelligentsia said about the Bolsheviks during the revolution?”
“They used to say this.”
“Even that Paris Commune lasted two months and two days.”
“But the Bolshevik government won’t even last three days.”
“Might as well let them try.”
“And let the very people now clamoring about it realize that the Bolsheviks haven’t the capability to organize a government!”

"The Social Democrats thought the Bolsheviks were just like themselves."

"In our midst there was Lenin—"

She fell silent for a moment.
Then the young female party member asked.

"In Japan, how well is Lenin known?"

"As for how much... Those who know outnumber those who don’t, and those who know do so from positions where they must present themselves accordingly—in other words, some know and love him."
"—and others probably fear and despise him."

The Japanese woman laughed and added.

"And liberals are always saying this: 'Lenin was, at the very least, a great revolutionary leader.' But you see, Japan still doesn't have its Lenin yet."

The young female party member laughed merrily, revealing her well-aligned teeth.

"The bourgeois Social Democrats failed to grasp how fervently the Bolsheviks were supported by the revolutionary proletariat nationwide during October—how deeply the Bolsheviks were the proletariat's own party. Because Russia's proletariat had already lived through 1905 by the time of October. Men and women knew the worth of their blood."

“The crucial point is—”

With shining eyes fixed intently on the Japanese woman’s face, the young party member emphasized each word.

“In our case, women’s liberation has unfolded through the revolution—through transformed relations of production and labor—emerging from within daily practice itself. During those revolutionary days, every new morning felt like a new century for us women. Work overflowed while hands remained few. Those who had once kept hidden now stepped forward. We had to adapt instantly to new roles, assess shifting situations moment by moment, fulfill whatever duty our position demanded. We went to battlefronts, served on committees, built barricades for street fighting. Between life and death, there was nothing we didn’t do alongside men. Through this crucible, we discovered capabilities within ourselves we’d never imagined—identified needs—systematized them all.”

“Therefore, every single law we currently have pertaining to women was forged through thoroughly experiencing actual hardships and necessities. Take suffrage—in the Soviet Union, even women have it starting at eighteen. Bourgeois politicians say they’re too young, but are they truly too young? How many hours does capitalist production force thirteen-year-old child laborers to work? Do they claim they’re too young and refrain from making them work night shifts?”

“Through long experience, the proletariat knows that eighteen-year-old women of the proletariat are fully capable production units in the workplace.”
“They know that eighteen-year-old girls express their views at meetings and possess practical opinions worth voicing.”
“Therefore, it’s only natural that they have suffrage.”

The young female party member brought printed statistical tables and showed them to the Japanese woman.

“Please take a look. In the Soviet Union there are approximately 3.2 million working women; over 3 million are trade union members; 301,100 hold leadership positions; and of the 167,600 female party members, 57.4% are working women.”

From where they entered, there were already desks.
Long desks were arranged on all four sides.
Surrounding them tightly from both sides were women of various ages.
In a position where he tilted his head sideways to gaze that way sat a male teacher on a chair.
There was no podium.
Only one desk stood before him.
The women nearest the door perched on stools in the narrow space between back bookshelves and desks—appearing cramped yet indifferent to their discomfort—as they earnestly wrote in their notebooks.

Simple clothing. Sturdy shoulders. Young and middle-aged faces intermingled—all earnestly channeling their thoughts through pencil tips.

A plain bob-haired woman walked quietly between desks. Peering over shoulders at notebooks, she occasionally gave necessary guidance. When reaching beside the Japanese woman, she peered at a late-twenties trainee's notebook and said in a low voice—

“This is wrong.”

She corrected her.

“This is a question.
What you have to write is the answer to this.”

The addressed woman thrust her chin out slightly and nodded emphatically.
Then she blushed.

In Soviet Russia, as the female party member had explained earlier in the third-floor room adorned with Rosa Luxemburg’s portrait, the percentage of women fully exercising the civil rights they had gained through practice had been increasing remarkably year by year.
For example, even in rural areas, the rate of women active during Soviet elections—

1924    25%

1925    30%

1926    73%

It was such a leap forward.

There were already several thousand women working in leadership positions in rural Soviets.
At a time when the USSR was undertaking socialist reconstruction centered on rural collectivization and collective farms, the course of action taken by rural Soviets held significant meaning.
Naturally, how these rural women active in the rural Soviet elections understood the practical mission of the rural Soviets consequently had significant bearing as well.

During the imperial era, rural women lived harshly.
Now, they were liberated.
However, could every single one of them truly understand the tasks required for building a socialist society in the same way?
It could not be said that this was the case.

Therefore, the Leningrad Soviet Women’s Department at Smolny organized this summer training session for rural Soviet election preparation as a Cultural Department initiative.

Duration.
Two months.

Subjects.
What is the Soviet Regime?
World economy.
Party history.
Mathematics.
Russian.

The peasant women—wives and mothers—studying there now would have to return to their villages after completing the training and directly serve as leaders in activities related to rural Soviets in their respective communities.

A young woman in a hemp work uniform, who had entered unnoticed and was standing behind the Japanese woman, said in a small voice:

“Among them are those who currently serve as village soviet secretaries.”
“……Everyone came from faraway places.”
“There are also those who have come even after requesting to leave three children at the ‘Children’s House.’”

They moved their pencils vigorously with large strokes for each question, and it took them a long time to write them down.

“Look—sometimes the classes are quite difficult. They’re unaccustomed to sitting at desks, organizing their thoughts and writing them down.”
“But look—see how earnestly everyone is striving to overcome those difficulties.”

The Japanese woman invited the young female party member in the hemp work uniform and stepped out into the corridor.

“How many hours of classes do they have each day?”

“Four hours, and sometimes six depending on the day.”

She answered while ambling toward the brightly lit staircase.

“They all live here in the dormitory. They receive train fare to come here, study for free, and are given allowances of about fifteen rubles each... Yesterday, we went with them to visit the museum—the Hermitage.”

“Are most of them Party members?”

“No, no!”

The ruddy-cheeked female party member, her head wrapped in a thin tussah-silk-like cloth, denied it vehemently.

“They’re all non-Party women. The Party can’t accomplish anything without assistance from people outside its ranks. ……Ah, you—do you have time?”

To Room 124 they had no choice but to go.

“Well, that’s perfect. They don’t have time to talk with you today, but I’m sure they’re hoping to do so.”
“Could you come by again?”

There was no room for objection.
But when does this person ever rest?
The Japanese woman,
"Have you already used up your vacation?"
asked the woman in the silk crepe-like cloth.
"After... once this training ends."

She was twenty-five.
She was set to graduate from Communist University next year.
Students at Communist University, like those at other Soviet specialized schools, always used their summer breaks for practical training.
She too was spending part of her break there for that purpose.

“……I have a little daughter—she’s eleven months old.”

Suddenly, she said energetically with a warm smile.

“Right now, she’s living in the countryside with her father, but…”

Bright light suddenly streamed in from the rear window, illuminating strands of hair in various colors.
(We had arranged to meet the day after tomorrow.) Among them was a single strand of jet-black hair.
It was the Japanese woman’s.

She stood up and was speaking.

“Comrade Kuznetsova told me to speak,” said the Japanese woman. “But since my Russian is poor, everyone—won’t you ask me what you’d like to know? If it’s something I know, I’ll answer.”

She spoke in an almost tender tone,

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

While asking this, she looked around at the faces of the peasant women trainees gathered around her.

“We understand!”

“We understand.”

“Don’t worry!”

Kuznetsova was wearing the silk crepe-like cloth again today.
She stood beside the group, her bosom ample.
She nodded encouragingly at the Japanese woman.

——…………

“Um… In Japan… in Japan do women have suffrage?”

The first to raise her question from the overlapping heads in the back was a red-haired woman in a white blouse.

The Japanese woman replied that they did not.
In Japan, women accounted for fifty-one percent of the total workforce.
However, the overwhelming majority of these countless women were exploited with wages half those of men and did not possess suffrage or anything of the sort.

A young woman sitting with both elbows propped on a front-row desk,

“Look!”
She said in a low, angry voice to the older comrades lined up beside her.
“And yet that place has electric lights in every village—and calls itself a civilized country!”

Then she turned to the Japanese woman and asked in a loud voice.

“Do women have freedom in marriage and divorce?”

Someone said in a small voice,

“Over there, they say they sell girls by putting them in baskets…”

“...” she said.

“They marry them off at eight.”

Kuznetsova looked toward where the voice had come from.
Then she corrected them.

“That concerns China and India, not present-day Japan.”

The questions continued.

Are elementary schools coeducational?
Can women enter men’s universities and specialized schools?
What are the living conditions of rural women—what is their labor like?
What is the main production in Japan’s rural areas?
Are there labor unions in Japan?
Is there a Communist Party?

When urban factories go on strike, are rural areas permitted to provide practical assistance?

How developed are nurseries and health consultation offices?

The Japanese woman felt a deep interest in the questions from the peasant women trainees.
She explained earnestly to the extent of her knowledge.
As could be seen from the items listed, they were posing questions from the clear stance of those working for the rural Soviets.
(Municipal Soviets, like higher-level Soviets, have within them Cultural Departments, Public Health Departments, Political Departments, and other specialized departments.)
Some Soviet members become Cultural Department staff; others become Public Health Department staff.
Each department meets separately and resolves specific issues.
(The resolutions are then presented at the general assembly.)

After speaking at length, everyone fell silent on their own.
Suddenly,
“In Japan too, are there a lot of husbands who beat their wives?”

Everyone laughed involuntarily.
The woman who had asked the question had withdrawn her head somewhere.
Laughing, neither everyone nor the Japanese woman felt it had been a foolish question.
Peasants in old Russia used to beat their wives quite a lot.
They beat them, claiming that was affection.
Such an era had of course passed.
However, such cases do appear in the "self-criticism" letters to the editor of Moscow’s Workers' Newspaper.

Ivan Bolkov, a worker at a certain factory residing at 58 Such-and-Such Street, Room 15 in the Baumansky District, returned home drunk at least three times a week.
He first banged loudly on the room’s door, waking the neighbors.
Next, he beat his wife, and with the commotion, even woke up the neighborhood children.
Ivan Bolkov worked at the Factory Committee.
Worker correspondent.

“Does a husband have the right to beat his wife?”

After all, through Smolny’s Women’s Department work, various lecture meetings targeting rural women had been held.

This was one of those questions sent at the time.

At Smolny there existed a large basement cafeteria.

All those working there would eat meals and drink tea.
Even outsiders could obtain soup with meat and vegetables for forty kopeks.

Through wide-open large windows one saw early summer groves and flower beds blooming with pansies.
Ceilings and walls stood white.
A cool breeze passed through.
The Japanese Woman sat eating black bread among the peasant women trainees.
Having an idea, she took several silver and cupronickel coins from her handbag.
Those were Japanese.

“This equals five kopeks, that one ten kopeks, and that over there twenty kopeks...”

Taking it up in her hand and looking at it, the woman sitting right next to the Japanese Woman silently passed it to the next person.
She received it and gazed at it.
Examining the ten-sen coin with a hole in its center by flipping it over, she raised her head to glance around at her companions gathering their gazes, then with a slight shrug of her shoulders passed it onward.
Kuznetsova,
“Did you go out of your way to bring these?”
asked Kuznetsova.

Yesterday, when I came here, Murov—who also works at the Cultural Department—gave me a Soviet one-ruble silver coin as a memento.
It was a beautiful, gleaming silver coin, freshly minted.
In return—though they weren't as beautiful—she had brought these Japanese silver coins.

Nearly thirty women were gathered around the table.
The Japanese silver coins were passed from hand to hand, some placed on palms to test their weight.
But no one said a word.
Those who had finished looking acted on their own,

"This swelling hurts unbearably."

"Why didn’t you go to the medical department yesterday?"

they were chatting about such things.

In rural areas, one never saw foreign currency.
Peasants were intensely wary of any money that looked even slightly unfamiliar.

The hallway was filled with people who had sunken eyes and were covered in dust as they rushed off somewhere.
A door to one of the rooms stood open.
There, several people slept directly on the floor.
They had placed their rifles nearby.

John Reed wrote of the Smolny corridors in *October* like this.

Now, the Japanese Woman was reading the wall newspapers in the same corridor.

The good weather had persisted.
Through the open door at the end of the corridor, a quiet river could be seen.
It was a tributary of the Neva River.
It flows behind Smolny.

We are not horses!

A horse’s face with flared nostrils was drawn on the wall newspaper.

The bread slices in Smolny’s cafeteria were always cut extremely large.
People didn’t eat them all.
Half-gnawed pieces could occasionally be seen abandoned about.

We are not horses!
Human mouths need bread slices of appropriate size!
Why not let them eat as many properly sized pieces as they want!

An article described a visit to a collective farm outside Leningrad organized by the wall newspaper office.
A report stated how many rubles Smolny’s workers had contributed to industrialization bonds.—

Wall newspapers were published in offices, factory workplaces, and schools throughout the USSR. They were mostly handwritten—comics and photographs pasted up, clippings from newspapers and magazines edited together. Even workplaces that had printed weekly factory newspapers still hung handwritten wall newspapers alongside production schedules on their own walls.

*Pravda* wrote about issues concerning the entire world proletariat across the ever-changing expanse of the USSR. Factory newspapers took up the same topics from individual factories' perspectives when confronting those issues. Wall newspapers were utilized as a means for candid statements, demands, and self-criticism within workplace study groups subdivided into smaller units. Thus people would see—even beside the main elevator of *Izvestia*, the newspaper with a daily circulation of hundreds of thousands—an illustrated handwritten *Izvestia* worker wall newspaper always hanging there.

(Our wall newspapers and factory newspapers, along with various external publications, maintain connections with over 300,000 labor and rural correspondents across the Soviet who contribute to building a socialist society.)

“Hello.”

As I turned to look, there stood Murov.
He was wearing a white loose rubakha and carrying a document case with its lid left open.

“Thank you for the Japanese money the other day. What brings you today?”

“It seems there’s a Leningrad City Soviet Committee.”

He looked at his own sturdy wristwatch covered with wire mesh.

“There’s still nearly two hours to spare—why not come to the room?”

Murov, a Leningrad Soviet Cultural Department staff member with kind eyes, had been a blacksmith during the revolution.
He had been a party member since 1913.
When they first met, Murov—while sharpening a pencil held upside down in his large hand—had asked the Japanese Woman, “What’s your profession?”
“I am a writer.”
“Hmm.
Writers also have jobs.”
Then after carefully disposing of the pencil shavings into the wastepaper basket under his desk, he had said, “…I wonder if Libedinsky’s *One Week* is known in Japan?”

“Have you folks been shown Lenin’s room yet?”

Suddenly, Murov asked.

“No.”

When they came to his room,

“Take a seat and wait here for a moment.”

He tossed the document case onto the desk and hurried out.

"I wonder if we can see Lenin’s room."

"Well, that would be nice—if things turn out that way."

Soon, Murov—having returned—popped his head through the open door and called out to the two Japanese women.

“Let’s go!”

Following Murov, who carried a key ring, they went out into the corridor again.

After walking a short distance and turning left down the corridor, the Japanese woman—her steps nearly carrying her past it—stopped before a perfectly ordinary wooden door.
The key wouldn’t fit.
A man holding printed materials passed by from behind,

“Won’t it open?”

“Yeah, Misha isn’t here now.”

On the other side of that corridor as well, a row of identical rooms were lined up.

The door opened.

However, the Japanese woman did not hurry; wearing an expression that seemed determined to memorize everything she saw, she entered the room. Murov also looked around the area together.

“Lenin stayed here throughout the October Revolution… This used to be the maids’ room of the Peeresses’ School.”

Sure enough on the left wall were traces of several faucets and sinks lined up in a row.
It was a narrow room.
At the far end was only a single window.
A large cupboard stood between the left wall and the window.
A lock was fastened on the cupboard with a red seal affixed.

"He lived on this side."

A three-foot door led to an inner room.
This square space measured twice the size of the entrance chamber.
Both rooms remained extremely small regardless.
On bare wooden floors stood three or four crude chairs upholstered in red baize.
A sofa with broken springs slumped against one wall.
The desk though sizable showed poor craftsmanship.
Two iron bed frames—their springs utterly slackened into downward bows—stood lined behind a drape.
Here two windows pierced the wall.
But there was no entrance.
The design forced visitors through that front room with its faucet traces first.

It was here that Lenin had worked from around the time of the October Revolution until the capital was moved to Moscow—in this very room, in this very chair—alongside his wife Krupskaya.

Even during his foreign exile, Lenin had lived in various rooms across cities and rural areas.
Those who visit the Lenin Museum at Moscow's Lenin Institute can learn not only how Lenin—then a middle school student under his birth name Ulyanov—had been a model honor student, but also see what sort of rooms he lived in after the government relocated to the Kremlin.

There was the desk made familiar by the globally circulated photograph of Lenin reading *Pravda*.
Three glass-doored bookshelves stood.
Three leather-covered chairs.
And on the wall, a map was pasted, and there was another notice.
“No Smoking.”
There was no bed in this room.

But in any photograph labeled as a room where Lenin lived, without exception, there was sure to be a desk and, simultaneously, a crude bed captured in the frame—evidence that he had lived with such consistent frugality.

“Originally, various items were displayed in this room, but they were all moved to the Lenin Museum.”

Murov said while gathering dust that had settled on a crude red cloth-upholstered chair with his thick fingers.

“However, the furniture remains exactly as it was.”

This room’s floor too was wood.

“Smolny has plenty of much larger and grander rooms.”
“Because this was a school for princesses.”
“Yet Lenin preferred it here.”
“He laughed that sitting in splendid places made him feel cramped and lived here.”

Though anyone could understand that Lenin—through the October Revolution that had upended world history—had no time to even consider personal rest, let alone luxury, as the Japanese woman gazed at his spartan room and then out the window at Smolny’s colossal rear façade, she recalled a map.

It was indeed something that had been in the Lenin Museum in Moscow.
It was the map Lenin had drawn on a scrap of white paper to inform his comrades of a meeting location when he was exiled in London.
It was a meticulously drawn map.
It was extremely clear.
And yet, various side streets were meticulously drawn as precautions for emergencies.
In how Lenin, a foreigner, had so precisely mastered London’s labyrinthine maze of backstreets—and in his method of drawing that map for his comrades—she keenly sensed his caliber as a leader.

The careful, clear black lines of that map now resurfaced in the Japanese woman’s memory as she gazed out the window at the rooftops beyond from this Smolny room once occupied by Lenin.
The position of this room, the way the roofs connected from one to the next, the branch of the Neva River flowing gently around the back of Smolny.
Amidst all these, the Japanese woman sensed that Lenin had drawn tightly systematic lines within that large, round head of his.

"No—it's not limited to here," the Japanese woman thought. Having circled the entire globe, there now existed a single powerful line of organization—a searing line encompassing the world that the proletariat, while combating the severe class oppression following the European War, was progressively tempering step by step.

As Murov exited the inner room—
“Have you seen this before?”
He pointed at the wall.
“Ah.”
“I know!”
An extra edition from the night of October 25th, when the Provisional Government cabinet was arrested, was posted there.

Future Successors

One could hardly fathom how much attention the Soviet Union—as the sole socialist nation on this earth defending its own country and striving ever forward to perfect a socialist society—was paying to the coming era.

Since the Revolution, the Soviet Union had protected every infant’s right to life through all its legal might. For example, pregnant working women received four months of paid leave before and after childbirth. Maternity hospitals for delivery were free of charge. They received a stipend of about 25 to 35 rubles for baby clothes and other necessities, along with a special nursing allowance for nine months postpartum. “Mother and Child Consultation Centers” and nurseries were established in every district. Furthermore, the Labor Law strictly prohibited dismissing mothers with children under ten months old and women over five months pregnant except in utterly unavoidable cases.

Elementary schools and factory-affiliated technical schools were all opened to proletariat children through funding from the state treasury and trade unions.

Especially the Pioneers, as the vanguard of the proletariat class, were being educated under every necessary attention for socialist society's construction and expansion.

Education was by no means conducted only within school classrooms.
That was something even the bourgeois masters knew well.
Therefore, what had cold Russia been like until the Revolution?

Priests, trailing their black hems and letting their long hair hang down, came into elementary and middle school classrooms and even into homes.
Then, pressing the icy-cold hands gripping crosses against the child’s lips, they spoke in a fearsome voice.

“Do you know who the most exalted being in this world is?”

“God.”

“And next?”

The child looked up at the priest’s red nose and answered mechanically.

“The Tsar.”

“Good.
You must absolutely submit first to what God ordains—that is, to what the Tsar ordains.
Understood?”

“—Yes.”

The priest made the sign of the cross over the child’s head and said,
“God be with you!”

The bourgeoisie had their own theaters.
They had their own art galleries.
What was given to the working people—the residents of their so-called “Black Towns”—were firewater, churches, and ignorance, from which the bourgeois state grew fat on taxes.
(The children of workers and peasants could not enter university.)
(If they enlisted in military service, they could never rise above being soldiers for life.)
And of course, they could not even think of entering the theaters to which the bourgeoisie came in sleds pulled by beautiful horses, kicking up snow.
(Even Marquis Kropotkin, who was an aristocrat, wrote in his memoirs that when he was a student in uniform, he could only listen to music from the gods of the opera theater.)

The October Revolution, while replacing Russia's rulers from the bourgeoisie to the proletariat, fundamentally transformed these conditions at their very roots.
At the opera theater today, the audience listening to *Boris Godunov* consisted of working men and women who labored in factories and offices during the day, clad in cotton work clothes.
In the gilded box seats and red velvet-lined chairs, women who had washed their faces with cold water and donned freshly laundered white cotton blouses listened to the music while biting into fragrant Russian apples with front teeth.

It was not merely that they had acquired bourgeois culture from the past for proletarian use. The Soviet Union stood at the forefront of global proletarian culture, producing new and unique plays, music, and films; each theater consistently allocated a fixed number of seats through trade unions to general laborers at half price or less.

Art was one of a class’s weapons. Through its distinctive proletarian art and methods of utilization, the Soviet of proletarian dictatorship expressed socialist society’s real life while providing vivid class-based education to Soviet adults living in the new era and children who were the future smiena—successors.

The British proletariat had a gutted Labour Party and two million unemployed. Would the British proletariat ever be able to make use of such theaters for children?

America educated the children of the wealthy with individualistic genius cultivation methods—the Dalton Plan. But where would the American proletariat—with six million unemployed and sixteen million family members, adults and children, starving—have had such a theater for children?

It was not unreasonable that the Japanese woman had involuntarily thought so under the sway of profound emotion.
For at this very moment, she was sitting in one of Leningrad's finest theaters—*the Young Spectators' Theater*—surrounded by hundreds of happy children.

On stage, the second act of *Indian Child* was underway.

In India, there existed many castes divided by religious sects.
The caste discrimination proved exceedingly rigid; for instance, Sundari—a Hindu girl dwelling in a thatched hut—was forbidden to draw her drinking water from the spring where members of the upper Brahmin caste fetched theirs.
Merely approaching the spring meant being cursed and beaten.
The small dark-skinned boy Umesh watched this and seethed with anger, but what could he do?
Even Umesh had those who beat him.
British officials.
He had been made to serve the British as a young Indian servant boy and knew not a single written character.

Ragunath—the son of Chandranath Paap, a European who had always worked as a kind doctor for the pitiable Indian proletariat—and Umesh became friends.

The stage was now Chandranath Paap’s house.
The two were about the same age—that is to say, children of eleven or twelve, just like the children in the audience—but look!
When Ragunath slipped into the curtain at the left-hand corner, the entire room suddenly plunged into pitch darkness.

“Ah! Ragunath!”
“Where did you go?”
“I’m scared!”
“Devils come out in dark places!”

“It’s okay!”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m here.”

But what on earth was about to begin?
The boys and girls in the audience felt Ragunath’s tension in their own hearts and held their breath.

“Look here.”

As she looked toward Ragunath’s voice, a long, narrow box-like space glowed dimly—and no sooner had it done so than a human form materialized.

“Yikes!”
“Help me!!”

It was only natural that the Indian child screamed.
A skeleton—that’s what had appeared there.

The audience stirred.

“Ragunath!”
“Ragunath!”

The lights flashed on, illuminating Umesh, who had nearly collapsed in tears.
The skeleton vanished as well.

This time, Ragunath put Umesh inside the curtain,

“Reach your hand out over there.”

The lights went out. What appeared dimly was a skeletal hand.

“No way—!”
“I don’t want to die!!”

“You won’t die.”
“Look!”

When the lights came on, Umesh leapt up in delight.

“Hey!”
“I’m not dead!”
“I’m not dead!”

The children in the audience and the Japanese woman roared with laughter alongside Ragunath, while at the same time quietly feeling a sense of relief.
That was an X-ray.
It was evident that a certain percentage of the audience consisted of children who had there witnessed firsthand the scientific workings of X-rays for the first time.

"The Young Spectators’ Theater began its activities in 1921 under the management of the Leningrad Regional Soviet Cultural Department.

In the programs held by the Japanese Woman and the children, it was not merely the roles for *Indian Child* that were written there.
In gentle terms, India’s social circumstances were explained as an introductory note.
At the end appeared 'What to Read.'
The titles of introductory books on Indian affairs were listed."

"The Young Spectators’ Theater was known throughout Europe for its artistic direction and distinctive Greek-style stage. The art department members had a research room and handled stage sets, costumes, and lighting. Divided into specialized fields, each incorporating the latest styles, they strove to perfect their theatrical art. Meanwhile, the Education Department—beginning with the white-bearded head of the Education Department, who now sat beside the Japanese Woman carefully observing the rhythm and tension arising between the stage and young audience—was ardently researching how to delight children while unifying training in labor, politics, science, and art entirely within socialist themes."

A large poster was posted at the theater entrance.
It was the performance schedule for two weeks starting June 10th.

10th–15th.
*Indian Child.*
(For third-year students)

16th–17th.
*The Prince and the Pauper.*
(For second-year students)

19th–21st.
*Uncle Tom’s Cabin.*
(For fourth-year students)

In accordance with the audience’s age, the scripts’ content grew progressively more complex.
But what made the Japanese Woman envious was the chart below titled *Ticket Distribution from May 29th*.
This served as advance notice: elementary schools, Pioneer detachments, children’s libraries, children’s homes, and factory schools in each district within Leningrad would receive free ticket allocations from the “Young Spectators’ Theater” on designated days each.

Parents received half-price or free tickets from trade unions for adult theaters.
Children went to the “Young Spectators’ Theater” through the organizations they belonged to!
Here lay the radiant source of joy for Soviet theaters.

Even if some were not entirely free, with a ticket price of twenty-seven kopeks, one could watch such an interesting and educational play.
Soviet children were fortunate.
—Their parents, brothers, and sisters had won ‘October’ with blood for that very purpose.

(There are also two theaters for children in Moscow.)

When the second act ended, the white-bearded head of the Education Department sitting next to her
―“How is it?”

He beamed and glanced back at the Japanese Woman.

―“Not bored, I hope?”
“Not in the least.”

“It’s honestly far more interesting than watching ‘Sleeping Beauty’ at the classical Mariinsky Theatre,” the Japanese Woman said.
That was no empty compliment.
The young Indian girl Sundari fell victim to her parents’ superstitions and was offered up to some temple.
Umesh learned of this and grieved in sorrow.
At “The Young Spectators’ Theater,”
the contrast between superstition’s power and science’s power that the Education Department sought to convey there—through skillful theatrical expression—possessed an appeal that captivated even adults.

“We consider this relatively successful ourselves,”
“But adults often misjudge children’s sentiments, you understand.”
“Constant research remains essential.”

There was a fifteen-minute intermission.
The Japanese Woman followed behind the white-bearded Head of the Education Department and stepped out into the corridor.
Children.
Children.
A land of children.

“Good day! Semyon Nikolaevich!”

A Pioneer boy wearing a red neckerchief greeted him.

“Semyon Nikolaevich!”
“I brought the drawing from before.”

The one who had spoken was a freckled girl.

“I see,” said Semyon Nikolaevich.
“Now, come over here.”

“May I come along too, Semyon Nikolaevich?”
A boy tugged at his sleeve.

Semyon Nikolaevich and the petite Japanese woman, surrounded by a crowd of snub-nosed and button-nosed children, made their way down the corridor teeming with young spectators.
Navigating the lively corridor proved challenging.
On both walls hung rows of paintings.
Children clustered around them, peering intently.

“What kind of paintings are these?”

“These are drawings by children who watched the play here, capturing their impressions.”

The girl who had been walking pressed against the Japanese Woman’s side turned to her companions.

“There’s one Sasha drew too,”

she said over her shoulder.

Semyon Nikolaevich opened a narrow door and ushered the Japanese Woman along with a cluster of children into a small room adjoining the corridor.

Here too the walls bore paintings—smaller works than those hanging in the corridor. Drawn in colored pencils were wide-eyed human faces and children astride puppet horses with four wobbling legs.

“Now then, children, show these to the guest.”

Semyon Nikolaevich handed the thick scroll to one of the Pioneers.

“What?”
“What?”
“Let me see!”

“Move.”
“If you all stick your faces out like that, you’re in the way.”

It was something akin to psychological statistics on children, painstakingly compiled by the education department staff of “The Young Spectators’ Theater”.

“Suppose we were to perform ‘Indian Child’ for the first time.”

Semyon Nikolaevich explained.

“We take great care to orchestrate climactic moments and emotional shifts—fear, joy, curiosity, humor—onto an educational plotline. However, unless we actually try it out, we cannot clearly know where the children will applaud or become deeply engrossed. Yet knowing this is absolutely essential. So take a look.” He pointed to the chart. “Taking this baseline as calm emotion—look here—the laughter begins and gradually rises to this intensity. When the laughter fades, curiosity stirs into motion simultaneously, and the tense moment persists for precisely this duration.”

Black zigzag lines, gentle curves.
A single script traced children's psychological response waveforms from beginning to end.
“Look here—when small children laugh excessively, nerves fatigue and such reactions emerge. Afterwards, attention disperses to this degree.”

The children gathered around the desk watched the chart with curious expressions.

In the corridor, children walked while singing the melody of the Indian child’s song they had just heard from the stage.

When they went backstage, preparations were underway for the climactic uprising where the Indian populace would soon rise up against the British and Brahmins.
The black Indian child was diligently passing the red flag from hand to hand among their comrades.

[January 1931]