Pathway to Japanese Literature

The reasons for the judgment were exceedingly long.
This was only natural.
To summarize it would amount to just four or five criminal acts.
Had these been viewed as a conspiracy aimed at a single objective, it might have been more appropriate to try this minority separately from the remaining majority.
No—had they been divided thusly, they might well have succeeded in clarifying the truth.
To unify into something cohesive the individual criminal acts committed by nearly thirty defendants who had separately conceived and acted required first identifying a pivotal point from which to synthesize everything.
Taking recent facts as their foundation and working backward through connections and systems, their efforts ultimately forced them to trace all incidents' origins back to an event two years prior.
By first establishing Akiyama Koichi as ringleader, they determined the origin lay in his whispers to certain individuals in Kyushu and Kishu.
From this emerged a rough outline: discussions between figures in Kyushu, Osaka and Kishu; Akiyama Koichi's subsequent conversations with Mano Suzuko—the sole woman among defendants; then his dissemination of these talks to all defendants.
The narrative—beginning with facts so distant they seemed disconnected when casually heard, gradually narrowing them until forged into Penal Code-applicable form—must have demanded immense labor alongside those rigid legal documents.
One could only imagine.

The Chief Judge was already a semi-white-haired elder.
Having entered the judicial department immediately upon graduating from school, he had spent nearly thirty years passing through the seasons.
With round eyes and high cheekbones, his sparse beard lent him a measure of dignity—though his countenance was not particularly severe.
Yet not a trace of softness could be seen in his eyes or the corners of his mouth.
In the courtroom convened over twenty sessions total, he had always interrogated defendants with identical attitude and tone.
It seemed as though he wished to pose the same questions to every defendant and obtain identical answers if possible.
Even were there dozens of defendants, the case remained one.
He appeared to place the unit upon the case itself through this thinking—the individual thoughts, emotions, and wills of defendants seemingly requiring little attention from him.
The base of a triangle has length.
Yet the apex is but a point.
When all criminal facts were synthesized and concluded, cause, motive, origin, and progression converged upon a single point.
It declared: unlawful acts committed by persons possessing criminal responsibility.
Believing his task complete upon reaching this conclusion, he focused thought solely upon shortening the base's length.
His voice—as devoid of vitality, luster, or shine as his darkened paper-like countenance—remained perpetually flat-toned and static-filled.
Just as no trace of joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure ever surfaced on his face, neither did his voice ever hold variation in pitch or tone.
If reading his emotions from facial muscle movements proved impossible, one might assume the same regarding his vocal inflections.
Was this his innate nature or cultivated through rigorous discipline?
In any case, this single trait must be acknowledged as an invaluable characteristic for a Chief Judge.

He listened to each of the defendants' petitions. With an attitude that seemed to say he would hear anything they wished to express, he tirelessly continued the interrogations. This made the defendants exceptionally pleased. There were many who thought they might finally receive a proper trial if things continued this way. Generally, they spoke at length. Four or five individuals—having already resigned themselves to their ultimate fate and wishing to avoid implicating their fellow defendants—kept their answers as brief as possible, for these were ones who had admitted to criminal facts that ten thousand words could not alter. In contrast, for most defendants, their very arrest had been entirely unexpected. And the criminal charges themselves proved even more unimaginable. The Press Law’s publication ban exerted its power here, preventing news of Akiyama Koichi, Mano Suzuko, Kamiya Tarokichi, Furuyama Sadao, and others’ detention and interrogation from reaching society for over a month. Though unaware of specifics, people yearned to know details upon hearing a grave crime had occurred. What could they possibly have done? The public remained imprisoned by this question. Indeed, most defendants hoped to learn the incident’s truth just like everyone else. To be precise, some hadn’t even known about Akiyama’s arrest. When accused as accomplices themselves—when warrants were forcibly executed against them and they were branded heinous criminals— Was it anticlimactic? Like a dream? Utterly absurd? Later in court, beneath open skies where their handcuffs were removed and they were finally granted civilized freedom to speak truthfully, reflecting with slight composure revealed how utterly spineless, how excessively fearful, how completely dehumanized they had been. Criticizing themselves, they couldn’t help but inwardly sneer. Yet from that moment constables dragged them into police cells under cover of night—"Our heads were already gone," [they thought]. "[We’ll be killed anyway.]"

This sensation, swarming from the surrounding air to entangle their very souls, had left them utterly bereft of spirit in their complete despair.
Interrogations that continued from morning to night and night to morning were carried out by loyal investigators who treated them as sworn enemies, demanding: “On such-and-such month and day at a certain place, one of you already confessed thus—and you too must have made such statements and taken such actions at that time—has not that person given a splendid account of this?”
They were all forced to undergo interrogation by this method.
The presence or absence of memory was no longer an issue at that point.

Among the defendants had been one suffering from no minor case of enteritis at the time of arrest.
Despite having lain still without eating for two and a half days, they executed the warrant on him.
The investigators—urgently pursuing their inquiry into criminal traces spanning from Tokyo westward through Yokohama, Nagoya, Osaka, Kobe, then Kishu, all the way to Kumamoto—pressed forward with interrogations without making allowances for even somewhat ailing physical conditions.
Not that they lacked pity for his illness-induced debilitation, but this defendant’s examination continued through the night.
Exhaustion and despair stripped him of both obstinacy and endurance.
Then came another matter that further unsettled his mind:
His brother too had been arrested.
Depending on how I testify, even my brother might become branded a terrible criminal.
My brother isn’t an ideologue.
He knows nothing at all.
That mere association through my circumstances should bring such unexpected misery upon him—this I cannot bear.
To save my brother, I must sacrifice everything.
When he stood in court and recounted this plight, a weeping voice rose from the defendants’ seats—
They must have been overcome and broken into tears.
The courtroom’s sacred solemnity shuddered.
“Who was that?”
“What’s happening?” Each turned eyes toward the sound’s source.
One keenly sensitive young defense lawyer involuntarily rose from his seat.
Yet the Chief Judge’s expression remained utterly unchanged—
He merely shot a piercing glare and nothing more.

This crying defendant was called Mimura Yasusaburo and was a resident of Osaka.
It was the second day after the trial had commenced.
Everyone had taken their seats as the Chief Judge turned the pages of documents.
Suddenly he—

“Your Honor,”
he shouted.
The abruptness of his tone was so utterly incongruous that while everyone in the courtroom sensed a faint absurdity, there remained not a soul who did not seek to clarify his purpose through whatever question might follow.
Moreover, since the first hearing, all defendants had maintained postures of deference—not one dared lift their face to meet the judges’ bench directly.
They cowered as if before an inviolable sacred authority.
Yet now this defendant had abruptly called out to the Chief Judge.
To this too they felt a peculiar fascination.
The Chief Judge silently regarded the defendant and gave a slight chin movement.
This meant, “Go on—say your piece.”
Thus he conveyed those unspoken words.

“I-I’m hard of hearing…
Because I can’t hear properly—it’s really troubling me…”

He had requested to have his seat moved forward.
He was indeed hard of hearing, just as he had described himself.
His face appeared somewhat vacant and listless, likely due to this condition. He had been raised solely by his mother after being separated from his father at an early age.
He was the eldest son of a family running a small business, but he did not have much education, and of course his ideological studies were far from thorough.
He took pleasure in eccentric matters, posed himself as a malcontent, and thereby gained some comrades as one of the ideologues.
He always went to meeting gatherings dressed in a happi coat and work apron.
It was all to act tough by claiming to be a laborer.
“When I arrived, about five people were gathered, but when they saw my face, everyone fell silent.”
“Yes, I was indeed wearing a happi coat.”
“I told them it was outrageous to hold a workers’ meeting at a restaurant.”
“But th-that’s… actually a habit of mine.”
“Since it seemed like everyone was excluding me, I left on my own.”

As he himself had stated, he was a man not much trusted even among ideologues.
There were even suspicions that he might be a spy from the authorities.
He had vaguely sensed his comrades' suspicions, yet he clung to their coattails, unable to break free.
He was spineless, a cowardly man.
When examining the family lineage, his uncle had died of mental illness.
It was only somewhat later that rumors emerged suggesting his father’s death might also have been a suicide.

Now, why ever did this man cry?
Had he begun to cry out loud?
Since being detained, he had feared too much.
When he was first brought into the interrogation chamber and stood before the investigator, his body trembled.
His soul quivered.
He was asked something incomprehensible and answered something incomprehensible.
When diaries and letters were spread out before him and read aloud over his quivering heart, he found it nearly impossible to comprehend how he had ever written with such vehement words in those days.
“Persecution has come.
Persecution has come.
Those who fight for justice are persecuted thus.
“Ah! Alas! Beware of niusu within four or five days.”
Who had sent this note? Anonymous as it was, he had no time to recall when it might have been.
“In Kanda’s streets, ヽヽヽヽヽ’s struggle was a valiant warrior-like effort!”
“I too want to come to the capital to support [you], but given my circumstances as you know, please don’t hold it against me.”
This was the note addressed to Momoki during the Red Flag Incident.
“I will watch a motion picture tonight. When two or three miners throw the happi coats they each hold in their hands, the iron-like rock wall is shattered into powder.”
“What a magnificent spectacle!”
“Saltpeter… Potassium chloride.”
I have at last obtained this today.
“My long-cherished wish has at last begun to take shape.”

“Today a certain someone came.”
“He is a senior member within our party.”
“I respect him in this sense.”
“Yet he is not the one who carried it out.”
His diary was filled with pretentiousness, bravado, and rash moral indignation.
He had never attempted to deny his own signature.
Yet he could not comprehend how these carelessly written notes and diary entries could constitute evidence for his most heinous crimes.
That he had plotted grave misconduct; that events like his visit to a certain hotel in Horie, Ishikawa of Kishu about a year and a half prior served as both cause and execution; who had said what, and what he himself had heard.
Of course there had been times—many times—when he himself had acted rashly and recklessly.
He had merely seized a moment’s satisfaction from debate, stirring the blood in his chest.
After two or three days passed, everything would vanish completely.
While dredging up memories from a year and a half prior, he was rebuked even more severely.

He recalled the scene from that time.
Even the investigator had grown weary from the interrogation continuing since afternoon.
He was of course tired.
The palpitations had somewhat subsided, but the evening meal would not pass through his throat.
Even the cup of tea he had finally received carried an earthy smell and could not be drunk down.
Gradually, the night deepened.
The guard sat sleepily on one side—there was no one else present. Had he possessed the courage to attempt escape, there would have been no better opportunity than this. But for him in his current state—indeed, such a plan would have been carefree—there was no leisure to entertain such thoughts.
When the attendant withdrew from his seat, amidst the instructions telling him to wait for a while, he thought he might have been given permission to sit down—but fearing he might be scolded for impropriety, he had no choice but to remain standing.
His legs had already lost all sensation.
He felt nothing but the immense weight of his upper body.
His head throbbed and his hands were hot.
He lifted one leg slightly and tried supporting his entire weight on the other.
The thought that he had found relief did not last even a minute.
This time, he tried switching legs.
Again, before even a minute had passed, the leg he was supporting his weight on could not bear the burden.
If he tried walking, perhaps his suffering would lessen somewhat.
He wanted to try walking.
He resolutely lifted his left leg.
The guard was staring intently at him.
Startled, he assumed his posture once more.

He thought that if he could devise something complex to concentrate his entire mind on, it might offer some distraction. But he could think of nothing. His head had gone utterly empty. What might be called distracting thoughts seemed to have been banished somewhere. The more he thought, the more his legs felt like giving way beneath him. He wanted to lie stretched out at full length. The happiest thing in all the world was nothing but lying fully extended upon a bed—he could conceive of no alternative. He desired only that.

During his interrogation in the courtroom, he recounted the events of that time in excessively verbose language and desperately repeated that his own confession was untrue.
By the end, his voice had dissolved into trembling stammers.
This was why the young defense lawyer immediately understood what had driven him to weep uncontrollably while listening to others' testimony.
"What a wretched thing this is."

The young defense lawyer secretly grieved.

The Chief Judge showed no lapse in resuming the interrupted interrogation from where his weeping had left off.
There was not even a pretense of forced composure in his demeanor.

Regarding this defendant, there were a great many things that needed to be told.
At the conclusion of his statement, he said the following.
He spoke with a slight stammer.
The statements tended to stray from the main point onto side paths, so even the Chief Judge had to caution him once or twice.
Each time—though trembling—he would again dwell solely on trivial details.
When the factual cross-examinations had finally concluded, he made this statement:

According to his account, his confession was not at all true.
Originally he was not an anarchist.
He had merely been spouting grandiose and inflammatory words out of a desire to imitate others.
Suddenly finding himself detained, he was subjected to intense interrogations.
He thought they would kill him without even a trial.
On being transported from Osaka to Tokyo, he considered suicide.
When they departed Osaka, night had already fallen.
The streets blazed with countless lights.
In Umeda, electric lamps and gaslights cast their glow from every direction as bright as day.
Flanked by two escort officers before and behind, he trudged forward with a waist rope binding him.
The familiar Osaka streets felt as alien as some foreign metropolis.
"I feel like an orphan of the world now—as though I crawled up from beneath the soil to wander aimlessly without destination."
Though desolation seeped into his bones, when he searched for what exactly he yearned for or regretted, nothing concrete took hold in his heart.
Even thinking he might never return to Osaka again stirred no particular sorrow within him.

It even seemed that all emotions beyond a certain degree had ceased their activity.
He walked unconsciously and entered the station unconsciously.
As it was early evening, people were scurrying about chaotically within the station premises. Overwhelmed by the dizzying commotion, his mind became disordered, and feeling as though he wanted to forget everything, he sank onto a bench in the corner.
Keeping his eyelids open felt burdensome, but with the intrusive thought of what kind of looks people might be giving him taking precedence, he could not neglect to survey his surroundings.
The gazes of numerous passengers were all converging upon him from every side—couldn't they see?
There were even brazen ones among them who came right up close to peer at his face.
"It's because of the rope."
Thinking this, he forcibly narrowed his shoulders and made himself smaller.

When he thought back, it had been a strange turn of events. He was now being sent far away to Tokyo as a criminal guilty of sins unforgivable in the eyes of both gods and men. He would soon be sentenced to death and vanish like dew upon the gallows. Was this his true intention, or was it not? He had once considered going to prison an honor and had even envisioned a bravery akin to that of a warrior heading to the battlefield. However, that had been under the assumption of it being a minor offense like violating the Press Law—something warranting two or three months of confinement at most. Yet this bold resolve—to bear the gravest criminal charges, endure relentless interrogations day after night, and ultimately atone for sins before the nation through death—had never once sprouted within his heart.

After he grew exhausted from the interrogation and collapsed from the unbearable pain of standing rigidly, when his thoughts turned to this unfathomable origin, process, and conclusion, he was nearly frenzied with anguish.
It was late at night.
The trembling in his heart that had persisted since daytime was finally subsiding, but terror now assailed him with sharp clarity.
The detention cell where he was confined was a three-tatami solitary cell.
There was only one entrance, with all four sides enclosed by high-ceilinged walls.
A ventilation window had been cut in a place too far back to reach, but at night the shutters were closed.
It was a strangely foul-smelling room where mold, dampness, and the stench of confinement had mingled into a jumble.
Since it was late June, the straw-mat-like futon did not trouble him overly much, and upon that hard bedding—which had borne the sorrows, laments, and resentments of scores of people, weaving together their dreams of misery—he too now lay his body down. Yet once sleep had departed, it did not readily return.
A sense of oppression gradually intensified, as though the groan of machinery were pressing close against his ears.
Now I lie here stretched out like this, but what will become of me come tomorrow morning?
Handcuffs, waist ropes, interrogation rooms, investigators.
And intense interrogation.
Severe denunciation.
Prolonged standing.
What a terrifying thing this was.

I am neither a patriot nor a thinker.
I have never once resolved to become a victim.
Things like revolution are the role of other brave people who have nothing to do with me.
If I watch from afar and cheer it on, then my role would be fulfilled.
What in the world could I have plotted?
When carried away by temporary impulses, I did engage in quite wild speech and actions, but that was merely a passing fancy.
When the whim fades, I am merely Mimura Yasusaburo.
I am a cowardly, weak-willed, good-for-nothing yakuza.

I can't fathom why the authorities would haul in someone like me and try to treat me as some patriot or thinker.
Yet they pursue my crimes relentlessly—I might not survive this.
They might have already scheduled my execution.
If they're going to throw me into this stinking room and force confessions through their so-called interrogations and coercion, I simply can't endure it.
If I'm to be killed regardless, maybe I should just tell them to fabricate the deposition however they like.

He wanted to escape fear's grip as much as possible.
How should he go about that?
Sleeping would be the wisest course.
Or should he resolve that execution would never occur?
Only two paths remained: face death and discover its sorrows, or resign himself.
Sleep remained impossible.
Could he then devise some plan to prevent events from culminating in execution?
To make such a plan required enduring countless coming torments of denunciation.
Then should he conclusively accept death?
This enormous mysterious problem defied his solving.
Life? Death? Freedom? Obstinacy?
He tried calming himself by seeking the end of tangled threads.
Swarming thoughts disrupted his efforts.
A sharper irritation began racing through his mind.
He attempted meditation but finally lifted eyelids to survey surroundings.

The room remained pitch black.
When he recalled waking earlier, it seemed slightly brighter—but only because his eyes had adjusted to the dark.
He peered through the gloom seeking anything to distract from this endless torment.
Nothing.
Walls and pillars.
Only a single window beyond the door.
He fixed his gaze on the faintly white shoji screen.
Stared blankly without purpose.
After moments, the window slid open with a swish.
A hole gaped as distinct as a human mouth.
It resembled a vast maw stretched taut, cackling with hollow rasp.

"Hm?"
He wondered in surprise and wiped his eyes to look again.
The window remained a window.
He shuddered and threw himself face down.
Then he pulled the futon over his head.
His heart began pounding violently, cold sweat seeping into his skin.
He grew more afraid of this present moment tonight than of death itself.

"I want someone to come."
He thought this with his whole being.

He sat up and knocked on the door.
He banged repeatedly.
There could have been no better method to make them think some incident had occurred.
Sure enough, a frantic commotion arose.
It was four pairs of disordered footsteps and the clatter of swords.
In the brief span of time, there even came a loud, guttural voice speaking outside the door.
Unsteadily, he leaned against the door and was poised waiting for the lock to open.

There came the sound of a faulty lock being forced open, and soon the door swung wide.
Two white-uniformed police officers stood there; one was holding up a lantern.

“What’s going on here?”
One of them shouted in a shrill voice.
He could hear nothing.
From this terrifying darkness, the sound of human voices and the light of fire came, and he found it unbearably delightful.
Driven by the single thought of wanting to escape this room as quickly as possible, he leaped out beyond the threshold the moment the door opened.
Of course, there had never been any destination he intended to go.

“Hey!”
The police officer shouted.
And he firmly grabbed his collar.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Another police officer threw down his lantern and blocked his path.

“You’ve got some nerve acting cocky, huh?”

A thick fist came down upon his head.
He was slammed across the back with bone-crushing force.
He collapsed to the ground without a moment’s resistance.

Before this raging storm, he was but a small sparrow with folded wings.
He had never even contemplated escaping the cage.
The pitiful sparrow fell as though his very soul had vanished, not a single word of protest escaping his lips.
Though born of misunderstanding, even the officers had been momentarily terrified.
As custodians of prized captives, they bore grave responsibility for strict surveillance.
Even had he fled less than a hundred paces, it would have meant negligence of duty.
Amidst daytime fatigue and sultry night air—in guards’ quarters where drowsy snores might have escaped at midnight—the prisoner burst forth with clamorous commotion.
Naturally enough, their hearts surged not with suspicion but shock—no, less shock than fury.

He was forced back into the solitary cell.
New handcuffs were even fastened on him.
Like a daruma doll being knocked over, the armless puppet was sent sprawling sideways.
The pain from his beating throbbed dully.
The area around his upper arm seemed scraped raw—not only did he feel a persistent stinging pain, but there appeared to be some bleeding too, though with his hands bound, he could do nothing about it.
The police officers barked a mix of rebukes and admonishments before finally leaving.
The door slammed shut with the lock snapping sharply into place.
The harsh metallic clang of the lock echoed in the prisoner's skull as though it would never open again from this moment forth.
Yet due to the recent commotion, the air in the room now felt charged with vitality.
A heavy, sunken, pitch-black mood had grown more pronounced.
He had completely escaped "the terror of the night."
Simultaneously, he turned his gaze inward.
And contemplated his wretchedness.
His hands were shackled, his body dumped like a log of wood, leaving only about four square meters of floor space where his feet could find purchase.
Were he to take even one step beyond this boundary, they would bellow at him, strike him, jab him, kick him.
Without fail came "Death-damned wretch!"
Even now, the two officers had ranted at length before departing.
Of all their vitriol, only one phrase still rang in his ears: "For a death-damned wretch like you..."

"I will really be killed."
When he convinced himself of this, tears overflowed.
They trailed down his cheeks and fell beside the pillow.
With a plop, plop—each drop falling with a lonely sound—the tears fell.

In a friendly tone, the police officer visited him at his home and took him into custody without allowing any discussion.
It all began from there.

Until now, he had not been unaware of freedom’s value.
He had brandished half-baked ideological theories, spouting off phrases like “humanity’s greatest happiness arises from a life absolutely unconstrained by others” as if they were articles of faith.
However, for him, that had been mere empty theory.
It was as if he were gazing at the characters inscribed on a door lintel; he had placed the word “freedom” at a distance and been enraptured by it.
Now it became reality.
The absolute constraint that had befallen him abruptly narrowed the distance between him and “freedom,” compelling him in this intensely intimate relationship to become an aesthete, desirer, and seeker of freedom.
Even earlier in the interrogation room, he had come to feel infinite value in the slightest freedom—to the point where being permitted to sit after prolonged standing seemed an immense happiness.
This wall that would crumble to pieces if given a poke, this door.
And yet, to him, it was no different from the four walls of a massive steel furnace cast in iron.
Earth, nails, wood fragments—these materials might be shattered by his physical strength, but the intangible force binding them together—that is, the power of the state—could never be destroyed, not even with all his wisdom and all his spirit.
As long as he curses the state, seeks to nullify its power, and attempts to overthrow society, he must be deprived of all his freedom.
Proceeding further, his very existence must be denied.

Moreover, he had thought there was no reason he himself should be so hated, detested, and treated as a harmful thing.
And so now that he was granted neither a place to lay his body nor permission to move even a finger—he believed this could by no means constitute a legitimate exercise of power.
In this way, he could not help concluding that politicians who wantonly abused authority—without investigating the truth of matters or validity of reasons—merely lumped everything together indiscriminately; no, rather than that, they passed off falsehoods as truths, twisted right and wrong, and obstructed by any means necessary the advancement and spread of thought.

He indignantly raged that he must resist this pressure. Might it not be that enduring the hardships of prison like this was rather something to be proud of? As he came to think this, he became aware of the tension within his mind.

I became a man of conviction. I am being treated as an ideologue. I am a sacrifice before the altar of a new society, offered by the hands of obstinate conservatives. The nature of my crime is such that it can be publicly declared to the world. My crime has no relation to my personal interests, occupation, emotions, or even property. It is the relationship between my principles, my thought, my public outrage, and crime. To the extent that they detest, shun, and fear me—precisely to that extent—I am treated as an honorable warrior. My body is tormented. It will either be injured or destroyed. But my spirit resists any violence whatsoever. It can live tranquilly, peacefully, and grandly. Examples where the lash of punishment has fallen upon justice have occurred—and can occur—in every era and every place, across all ages and throughout East and West. The prisoner who laughs as he receives the lash becomes the pioneer who later receives tear-soaked eulogies of mourning. I'm the same—soon I'll become that...

Brushing away unmanly tears, he tried to rise.
Because his hands were immobilized, he could not lift himself even slightly.
Frantically attempting to remove the handcuffs, he braced both feet and shoved with full force.
The palm naturally exceeded the wrist in size.
There was no possibility of the handcuffs coming loose through such efforts.
The pressure drove the handcuffs' metal into his flesh and bone with searing pain.
"Ah."
He went limp and collapsed once more.

It was two days later that he boarded the train from Umeda Station to be transported to Tokyo.

"I truly thought I wouldn't survive.
Even after boarding the train, I resolved to die.
As I sat by the window looking outside, the sun had completely set, leaving everything pitch black.
Even when I thought that jumping off would let me die immediately, when it came down to it, I couldn’t muster the resolve—and all the while, the train kept clattering onward.
If I kept dawdling like this, I thought the opportunity would be gone, and my mind grew restless.
There was just no good opportunity.
Then I remembered that a small amount of pocket money remained in my pocket.
Well, it was about 1 yen and 65 sen.
'If I’m going to die anyway, I’ll have something sweet with this first…'"

In a faltering manner of speaking, he had continued talking.

Because the progression of that story was so peculiar, the judges, defense lawyers, and fellow defendants alike eased into a relaxed state as they listened.
The story was so tinged with absurdity that one could hardly believe they were listening to a tragic tale of someone resolved to die now.
Yet he himself remained utterly serious throughout.

“Then I asked a police officer and bought Western food.”
“I believe it was in Maibara.”
“I finished eating all the Western food, but since I was going to die anyway, I thought there was no need to hurry.”

Someone stifled a laugh.

“In Osaka they were so strict, but if I went to Tokyo, things might be a bit different.”
“Depending on how that looked, it wouldn’t be too late to steel myself.”
“That’s what I thought, so I put off dying.”

When he arrived in Tokyo, things remained harsh. The investigation grew even more rigorous than in Osaka had been. I'm done for. There's no saving me now. I'll die here... Yes, absolutely. "I..."

He looked up at the judges' bench. Seeing that the chief judge's expression showed no particular sympathy, he became desperate.

“It is absolutely not a lie.”
“I truly intended to die.”
“With the heko-obi sash around my neck...”
“My neck...”

He desperately wanted to lend credibility to his testimony.
When he looked back, he found Detention Chief Miyabe leaning against a chair in the farthest corner of the defendant seats.
He pointed at the detention chief while—

"That... that person was."
"Mr. Detention Chief... It was Mr. Miyabe."
"Right?"

He thought to call the detention chief as a witness.
Mr. Miyabe reluctantly raised his head, compared the defendant's averted face with his own, and implied, "You're right."

“You stopped me.”
“I was about to strangle myself…”
“When I was about to strangle myself…”
“It was truly a moment of crisis then, you know.”

The suppressed laughter finally spread across everyone’s faces.
When his discordant voice declared “It was truly a moment of crisis,” not a single person could maintain their solemn expression.
Even the Chief Judge’s eyes revealed a glimmer of warmth.

"How should one consider this?"
The young defense lawyer contemplated this silently.

He feared death the most.
However, his fear was not directed at death itself.
He feared the threat of life being prolonged all the way to death.
The very fact of being killed made him imagine unbearable agony.
If he was to be killed, he would rather die by his own hand.
That was his offhand resolve.
Even after forming this resolve, he still did not forget to indulge his appetite.
One might say this showed he loved life, but rather, it should be interpreted as meaning he neither truly sought death itself nor truly feared death itself.
Therefore, when he had eaten Western food and sufficiently satisfied his appetite, had he not completely detached himself from the notion of death?
He thought that depending on how things went in Tokyo, he might not necessarily have to die.
That is, he thought that if even the threat to his life were removed, there would be no need for him to die.
It was neither attachment to life nor fear of death—only the immediate pain before him that tormented him in various ways.
Since being dead seemed easier, he would die.
If there was something easier than that, he would choose that method.
In any case, he wanted to escape his current hardships.
He remained thinking in an exceedingly simple manner.
When he attempted suicide for the second time, he was stopped by the detention chief.
This obstruction was truly a matter of chance; he neither cursed this accidental obstruction nor dwelled on the anguish that had he lacked even this chance occurrence he would already be dead—he merely thought it had been “a moment of crisis.”
From his perspective, death and life seemed to be treated as one and the same.
He could objectively discuss his own suicide from a third-party perspective.

He appeared to have completely transcended everything.
"If we apply Dostoevsky's words - 'For a genius, death and life are the same' - then he too must be called a genius."
The young defense lawyer smiled inwardly as though he were the belated discoverer of some truth.

＊ ＊ ＊

The time was Meiji X year X month X day—a date that shocked the entire nation.
It was the day when the verdict for a particular criminal case would be delivered.
Several hours before the court opened, the public gallery was already full.
The spectators were all impassioned individuals—visibly robust, with seemingly powerful arms.
After all, they had been roused from their beds in the bitter winter dawn, exposed to the freezing winds sweeping down from the high ground of Hibiya Field, stood waiting for two or three hours, and finally managed to enter the courtroom only after jostling and pushing through the narrow iron gate—such an ordeal meant that those of average build could never hope to achieve their aim of attending the trial.
Many were dressed as students.
There were also many who appeared to be workers.
Along the route from Ushigome Fukucho to Hibiya, within the courthouse grounds, many police officers had been deployed, and the figures of red-capped military police could also be seen among them.
Each entrant was questioned one by one and had their belongings inspected.
Even a single pencil sharpener was mercilessly confiscated.
The courtroom interior was especially heavily secured.
A guard was assigned to each defendant, and between every two defendants, one guard was always seated.
The judges, prosecutors, and court clerks took their seats, the defense lawyers also attended, and the courtroom was properly constituted.

The Chief Judge began reading the written judgment.
He postponed reading the operative part and began with the reasons first.

The reasons for the judgment were long, long.

The Chief Judge’s voice was noise-ridden, low-pitched and flat.

When five or six lines had been read, the young defense lawyer already inferred the final judgment.

“They intend to give everyone the death penalty.”

He thought this way and sank into despondency alone.

Now, a great confusion had arisen in the defendants' minds—a lassitude born of restlessness; forcibly stifled breaths, swallowed spit, suspicions regarding crimes they couldn't even comprehend as crimes; a curse upon freedom torn away; a faint-heartedness unable to withstand oppression; the power of the snare exploiting that faint-heartedness; hearts startled by mysterious turns of events; the unexploded bomb's whereabouts; the meaningful effect wrought by meaningless characters; every emotion, every imagination, every hope flitting through before their eyes. All this despite knowing that in mere ten or fifteen minutes everything would become an ironclad decision—precisely why their nerves were both agitated and hypersensitive.

The reading had finally ended.
As for what had been explained, no one paid close attention.
For people were solely rushing to hear the verdict.

He proceeded to pronounce the operative part.
The Chief Judge assumed an even more imposing demeanor.
His voice was also slightly raised.

Alas.
"Death penalty!"
All except three of the remaining twenty-odd individuals were sentenced to death.
The conclusion was thus unceremonious.

The interval between the conclusion of reading the operative part and the judges rising from their chairs lasted but an immeasurably brief moment.
Though one couldn't use the adjective "like fleeing," one might say its swiftness was almost akin to fleeing.
Of course, they showed no sign of panic.
They showed no signs of disarray either.
While fully maintaining the dignity and composure befitting judges, it was nevertheless swift in every respect.
Once, such a thing had occurred in the courtroom of the Court of Appeals.
The defendant may have been a violent robber and murderer, but the judges lined up in their customary manner and recited the judgment’s operative part with customary formality.
"The defendants are hereby sentenced to death."
The defendants, who had been standing solemnly to receive the judgment, upon hearing this operative part being read out, erupted in fury.
"You damn fool!" he shouted, snatching up the spittoon placed near his feet and hurling it at the judge.
Fortunately, it struck the edge of the judges’ bench and shattered, resulting in no injuries.
There is no greater terror for human beings than the fact of dying.
Once it was settled that one would be killed, there remained nothing in this world to fear.

For defendants such as these, it was all too common to resolve to unleash their wild, bestial nature and rampage as they pleased.

Had the judges who had just sentenced twenty-odd people to death at once truly been concerned that such an event might occur?
No, that was not the case.
The judges' duty ended with delivering the judgment.
Once their duty was completed, they had no further role in the courtroom.
With that, they withdrew from their seats.
There could be no other reason beyond that.

However, the young defense lawyer sought to rationalize this outcome. It had been over thirty years since Japanese courts adopted the structures of civilized nations—during which time death sentences had certainly not been uncommon—yet never before had a single case condemned over twenty people to execution simultaneously. In applying the law, judges must maintain absolute composure. Human life carries immeasurable weight. To extinguish it constitutes an act of profound cruelty. Yet national law outweighs such considerations, and duty compels one to endure even the unendurable. However deep one's attachments or lingering regrets might run, those found guilty of capital crimes must face execution. Whether one individual or a hundred stand accused, numbers hold no relevance once involvement is established. Thus this case too yielded multitudes for the gallows. The judges had steeled themselves to bear what should have been unbearable—in this regard, who could fault their severity? Yet had they possessed any shred of compassion, surely they would have felt boundless sympathy for these defendants now confronting death's agony beneath their fated sentences. Cast off those judicial robes and caps! Imagine these defendants restored as free citizens! Let Your Honors recognize that you and they alike are creatures born of heaven and earth, sharing this era and space! Were someone to threaten Your Honors' lives... By what justification could Your Honors contemplate slaughtering these defendants? When upholding the law, one becomes its embodiment—yet absent that role, Your Honors remain merely human. That Your Honors as humans could not meet these condemned souls' gazes, turning away your faces while withdrawing with all possible haste yet maintained dignity—does this not reveal true human sentiment laid bare?

The young defense lawyer drew such conclusions and bade farewell to the judges with charitable interpretation.

The spectators had maintained solemn silence from the very outset.
Even after hearing the sentencing, not a soul uttered a single word.
When exiting, they merely formed orderly queues and filed out.
This matter had never concerned their own existences from the beginning.
Though they might weep in disarray and thrash in anguish over their personal plights, what bearing could that have on this affair?
They required only to sate even their curiosity—that alone sufficed.

The courtroom situation, the defendants' expressions, the verdict result obtainable slightly earlier than the newspaper extra—with all those hopes fulfilled beyond measure, what desire could they possibly have had?

Had there not been extenuating circumstances for each defendant that warranted consideration? Even if such circumstances existed, had the judges not considered them? Was that an appropriate approach for judges? Was there some legal principle mandating that these entirely disparate factual relationships—those of four or five who should form the core and those of the majority—must necessarily be combined into a single operative clause? What of the far more significant impact—what benefits and drawbacks would stem from this harsh penal policy born of so easily producing numerous death row inmates upon the nation's moral education?... None of these countless doubts ever arose among the spectators. The civilized judicial system had come to be trusted by the nation to such an extent.

The young defense lawyer could not deny the fact of the death sentence declaration that materialized before his eyes, yet he found himself utterly unable to believe this was a real event. Twenty-odd people would die in a few days. No—how could they possibly die? He struggled to reconcile these contradictory thoughts. Suddenly, an idea flashed in his head—Ah, the judges were deeply considering. The defendants would never be killed. This judgment—being both first and final instance—became irrevocable upon pronouncement. Not even the power of an emperor could alter this. The death penalty would immediately be carried out, and they would all be killed. But they would not die. Even if the judgment could not be altered, its effect might not be impossible to influence through some method. Some method... some method...

The young defense lawyer rose from his seat and moved toward the defendants' benches.
It was because he intended to give some caution to the two defendants he was assigned to.
Those defendants were far removed from the center of the crime.
If there were judges who adhered to the principle of valuing testimony given by defendants in court over descriptions in pretrial and investigative records, they should naturally have been acquitted.
At the very least, a maximum five-year sentence for lèse-majesté would have been appropriate.
In today's courts, after all, absolute value was attached to the evidentiary weight of pretrial and investigative records.
It was believed that the truth of facts should be constructed from materials secretly investigated by prosecutors and preliminary judges.
The investigation records, being products of legally knowledgeable judge-prosecutors constructed through logical rigor, remained entirely consistent without showing the slightest contradiction or flaw.
When the defendants were brought to trial, their criminal charges had already been irrevocably decided.
In this sense, the current trial was but a reiteration of the preliminary investigation.
The pernicious practice of preliminary judges and prosecutors coercing extreme confessions from defendants could be said to originate from the trial judges' ignorance and lack of discernment in conferring absolute evidentiary value upon these investigation records.
In cases such as this, they seemed to have particularly labored over the creation of investigation records.
As investigation records for a major criminal case that should have shaken an era, anyone who flipped through its few pages could discern that these confessions were constructed precisely from statements about facts no one could possibly testify to—unless they possessed either superhuman memory or reckless savagery.
They had plotted to set fires and plunder wealthy individuals, or planned to electrify the entire city of Tokyo and burn its citizens to death in a single night—chattering with extreme ease about criminal schemes that should have induced shudders merely to hear.
If such investigation records existed and served as the one and only evidential material for the court, then the defendants had nowhere to turn.
The young defense lawyer had never offered comforting words to the defendants under his charge.
Even when they believed in acquittal or a light sentence, the lawyer would always shake his head.

“There are no judges courageous enough for that.”

However, even he had occasionally entertained such thoughts—if only...
If the judges had possessed both clarity of insight and courage to act decisively... if they had those qualities...
Perhaps the defendants could have been acquitted.
Holding onto this hope, he maintained unwavering focus on every courtroom development.
Whenever he heard their trial testimonies, an unexpected optimism would take hold—leaving the courtroom with heart buoyed by thoughts of *This might yet turn out all right*.

But when he returned home and reviewed the investigation records—What terrifying criminal charges these were!—he would inevitably grow pessimistic, forced to conclude there was no saving them after all.
That pessimism had turned into fact, and the defendants’ expectations had been utterly betrayed.
They were after all sentenced to death.

The young defense lawyer, thinking their disappointment and despair might transform into resentment or reckless abandon—that they might well commit some rash act—and considering he should offer them solace and what hope remained, quietly advanced toward the defendants' seats.

The defendants' benches were arranged in four rows, and those he was assigned to sat in the middle of the third row.
He saw beyond the right-hand aisle of the fourth row that Mano Suzuko sat alone, leaning against her chair.
She noticed him and silently bowed.
He returned the silent bow.
Realizing he would part forever with this woman without ever having exchanged a single word, he was struck by an indefinable emotion.

As a procedural formality under the Code of Criminal Procedure, when all interrogations had concluded, the Chief Judge permitted the defendants to make their final statements.
Two individuals had made statements in response to this opportunity.
One of them was Suzuko.

“I have caused you great trouble over this long period, but today the case will finally come to an end.”
“I have nothing more to state, and nothing to regret. My only sorrow is that all my efforts ended in utter... in utter... That is all.”
“Because I am a woman… because women inevitably lack resolve…”
“That is my disgrace.”
“Among our predecessors, there are many who died demonstrating bravery and resolve as examples.”
“I truly feel sorry toward those predecessors.”
“I will resolutely die.”
“For this is my fate.”
“Sacrifices always receive the highest honor and respect from future generations.”
“I too have become one of those sacrifices, and now I will die.”
“I believe that someday an era will come when my ideals are made clear, so I have no regrets.”

When she made such statements, the young defense lawyer found it absurd.
What was she?
What understanding could she possibly claim?
Spreading unspeakable words and scattering unwritable texts had forced them under severe police surveillance - needlessly heightening their nerves and fueling rebellious sentiments until they ultimately plotted such crimes.
What kind of sacrifice was this? What honor or respect could possibly reward it?
The authorities' commotion had been excessive from the start.
As if national destruction loomed imminent, they stationed one officer every five paces along defendants' passageways.
They secured the courthouse with military police.
They assigned guards even to judges and lawyers.
Such measures only made them grow more emboldened.
To see her act like some revolutionary pioneer - it was agonizing.

“I have one request.”
She still would not stop talking.

“I have already prepared myself.
“I have been prepared from the very beginning when I conceived this plan.
“No matter how severe the punishment becomes, I have not the slightest dissatisfaction.
“But it is the many people besides me.
“These people have nothing to do with us.
“From the very beginning, I had realized that such a criminal plan could never be accomplished if it involved a large number of people.
“It was a mere four-person scheme.
“It is a four-person crime.
“As if there were many accomplices, they conducted investigations both in the prosecutor’s office and during preliminary hearings.
“That is a complete misunderstanding.
“Due to that misunderstanding, how many people have suffered? Your Honors are already aware of this.
“These people have elderly parents, young children, and young wives.
“If those who know nothing were to be killed in this way, not only would it be tragic for the individuals themselves—how profoundly would their relatives and friends come to resent those in power?
“Just because we conceived such a plan, innocent people are killed.
“When one comes to see such inconvenient outcomes, I…
“I… even if I die… I can’t die and be done with it…”

Her chest grew increasingly tight.
Tears choked her voice into inaudibility.

The young defense lawyer also felt a resonance with this statement of hers.
He thought it was indeed filled with a woman's beautiful sympathy.
He also thought he saw a glimmer of human sincerity within it.
He genuinely wanted her words to be taken up, and he himself thought of throwing himself before the judge to plead in earnest.

All of this had now become futile.
When he saw her face, the lawyer instantly recalled that scene from that time.

She was not beautiful in features. Her mouth alone possessed a captivating power that drew people in. The space between her cheeks was rather wide; her nose sat low. The color of her cheeks remained perpetually vivid, flushed with crimson. This may have stemmed from prolonged nervous agitation. Or perhaps it revealed the telltale signs of tuberculosis—her chronic condition.

It came time for the defendants to withdraw from the court as well.
She was to be first in the order to exit the courtroom.
Immediately after the young defense lawyer silently bowed to him, she rose from her chair.
Handcuffs were clamped on, and a waist rope was attached.
She bent down with hands still in handcuffs and took the woven hat.
Once they left here, they would never be able to meet each other again.
It was an eternal farewell.
She stretched her back slightly and looked toward everyone.
Her face glowed brilliantly.
In a piercingly clear voice, she called out.

“Everyone, farewell.”
As he said this, he covered his face with the sedge hat.
He briskly trotted out of the courtroom.

Her final words stirred up the rebellious mood of all defendants.

"Woo! Woo! Woo!"

The first cry had been let out by defendant Mimura Yasusaburo, with all defendants joining in unison.

“Woo! Woo! Woo!”

The young defense lawyer, suddenly met with shouts near his ears, was momentarily stunned.

However, one could not hear these as voices truly sacrificing themselves for …ism.
Those who mistakenly believed these cries arose from their convictions would commit the same error as those who mistakenly believed this criminal case had been planned from their convictions.
They were dissatisfied with the judgment.
They cursed the judgment that completely ignored differences in circumstances and any room for leniency.
The sudden outburst of their discontent had immediately become "Woo! Woo! Woo!"

The young defense lawyer, having interpreted it exactly as such, looked toward his assigned defendants.
One such person had returned utterly dejected.
Shuffling along, his footsteps appeared precarious.
The young defense lawyer positioned himself in the aisle between the second and third rows and, as two defendants attempting to exit the courtroom crossed before his eyes, brought his mouth close to their ears.

“Stay calm. The world isn’t made up solely of verdicts.”

Having said this, he saw that the meaning of these words seemed to be understood by the defendants and felt somewhat relieved.

“No.”
“What difference does it make now?”

Someone passed by, refuting his words in a rough tone.
When he looked, it was Toyama Naodo wearing a persimmon-colored prison uniform.

This man was a monk who had been serving time in a clandestine publication case and was implicated in this incident.
His words and deeds in the courtroom were reckless from start to finish.
When asked about his occupation during interrogation,

“I was a monk of the ... sect, but due to this incident, my monastic status has been stripped.”
“I gladly accepted this,” answered the man who had created newspaper material.

Ah, an irredeemable human.
He had completely developed a persecution complex.
The young defense lawyer watched the retreating figure of this man in persimmon-colored prison garb, who seemed determined to affect an air of composure.

The lawyers’ waiting room was crowded to the point of steaming with body heat.
On every face—on every single face—hovered hues of anxiety, surprise, and sharp-edged emotion.

“It can’t be that everyone gets the death penalty.”

“This trial is worse than the prosecutor’s closing argument.”

“Are they serious?”

“Nonsense.”
“They shouted ‘Banzai!’”
“Woo... woo... woo.”

“Akiyama also shouted, they say.”
“You’d better not say too much.”

The young defense lawyer had to draft telegrams notifying the wives and sisters of his assigned defendants about the judgment results, but finding no space to write them in such chaotic surroundings, he went out into the corridor. A knife-like cold wind blew from the large staircase entrance onto his heated face. He felt as if his spirits had cleared.

“How was it?”

Someone gently pressed his shoulder. When he looked, it was a newspaper reporter.

“Ah, it’s nothing.” He tried to avoid conversation as much as possible, but the reporter pressed on and asked.

“Do they intend to carry it out exactly as decided?”

“Yes.” Seeing that he had not grasped the meaning of the question, the reporter added an explanation.

“Will they execute everyone exactly as per the judgment?”

“Of course they will.”
He answered irritably like this.

“But isn’t this too cruel?” the reporter said.
At this moment he had constructed a sharp logic in his mind, and as soon as it was complete, he turned to confront the reporter with a counter-question.

“Appeals aren’t permitted for this judgment, you know.
“It’s both first instance and final judgment.
“It becomes final immediately upon pronouncement.
“A finalized judgment should naturally be executed.
“What do you think?”

“That is certainly so. But…”

“Are you suggesting they might not carry it out?
“You have doubts about the validity of the judgment, then.”

“It’s not that I have doubts—”

“No—you do doubt it.” He pressed down on the other man and, “As long as doubts arise about whether executions will proceed as per the judgment, then concerns must also lurk within you about whether it was a judgment delivered in earnest. The suspicion should naturally follow that while they have rendered this judgment, the judge himself calculated with the expectation that it would not be carried out as is. If we extrapolate your doubts, you see?”

“It does indeed come to that.”

“Very well. In short, it amounts to a judgment without authority. It’s the corruption of judicial power.”

Muttering the latter part like a soliloquy, he busily descended the stairs and went to the in-house telegraph office. Taking a telegram form, he first wrote: “The death penalty has been pronounced.” But he felt this alone was insufficient. He imagined how the defendants’ families who received them must be despairing.

"Who cares?" he resolutely added as follows.

"But persist."

He finished writing and shouted inwardly.

"I am the first person to have scorned the authority of the judgment."

(Taisho 2.7.17 Manuscript completed / "Taiyo" Vol. 9 No. 12 /

Taisho 2.9)