Pathway to Japanese Literature

Everyone was like that, but when Taguchi came out from there, he became so talkative that one might think he had become a different person. For eight long months confined between wall and wall and wall and wall—that is, within a tiny solitary cell utterly alone—the only time he could hear his own voice was when talking to himself. Even if he did speak something, that too would likely only be when muttering to himself. The words that had been dammed up all that long time now came rushing in one after another with their newfound freedom.

The first night after being released on bail, it was decided he should go to bed early to avoid getting too tired, but Taguchi ended up not sleeping a wink and talked straight through until morning about all sorts of things. He insisted he wasn’t excited at all, and his physical condition and complexion hadn’t changed much either, but the outside world after nearly a year must have stirred him up without his realizing it.

This is Taguchi’s story. It’s not particularly something that should be called a novel.

The Girl Who Never Forgets Her Drawers

It was when he had been shuffled around from S Station and ended up at Y Station.

The detention cell I was put in was Cell Number One, but everyone was happily calling it the "special room." “You’ve been put in a nice spot,” someone told me. Because the neighboring house was pressed right up against it, from morning till night you could hear the radio plain as day inside the detention center. Everything—baseball broadcasts, variety shows, storytelling ballads, orchestras. I was downright thrilled. With this, it really was a special room—I figured even those recurring twenty-nine-day stretches could pass without boredom. But that wasn’t why everyone called it the "special room." At first, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

However, on about the second day, a man with a fierce gaze—a pickpocket (moso)—grinned slyly and sidled up to where I was sitting, telling me to take a look. Driven by curiosity, I slid over there,

“Look there.” Having said that, he looked up from the window. Through that, I finally understood the true meaning of the "special room." The high barred window was positioned directly beneath the neighboring house’s laundry-drying area, and just then, a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl was climbing the steep ladder there with a bundle of laundry in her arms—visible in its entirety from directly below. After that, when someone gave a signal, they would all—keeping their faces turned toward the jailer—slide their bodies over without being noticed.

“Tch! She’s wearing drawers again!” As I got used to it, I too started making such jokes. “A Communist saying that? How vulgar!” A delinquent hanging out in Enko (Park) teased him.

Contrary to how novels often depict us, we weren't always sitting here wearing grave, solemn expressions day after day. It was this daily "anticipation" of the girl who never once forgot her drawers that somehow made those endlessly recurring twenty-nine-day stretches pass with unexpected ease. Of course during that time, I was hauled out for questioning two or three times—beaten with bamboo swords, kicked while still wearing shoes, throttled until I spent three days straight lying motionless. Our comrades in other cells would come back dragging one leg, or return with clothes that had been perfectly intact when they left now torn to ribbons down the back.

“They got me.”

he would say, turning his pallid face toward us. We ground our teeth each time that happened. But during those other times, we were the rowdiest, most spirited, and prone to joking around more than anyone else. Ten days, seven days, five days…. The days gradually diminished. That’s right—exactly on the afternoon when there were three days left, a sudden downpour arrived. “Laundry! Laundry!” In the neighboring house, there seemed to be a flustered commotion with hurried footsteps. Yes! I smirked. That was entirely Ten'yū’s doing—today she’d forget them for sure.

The storm shutters clattered open in haste, and the girl scrambled up the ladder. I found myself holding my breath without realizing it.

Damn! What the hell! She didn't forget them again! We were completely deflated. "Number Six!"

At that moment, the jailer shouted loudly. I thought we’d been discovered. I was startled. If they discovered it, it wouldn’t just be me—the secretly stashed enjoyment of the hundreds who’d be brought here from now on would be stolen away. If they were to close even the windows, this place would turn into a pit just like that.

“Interrogation’s starting.—Get out here.”

I thought I was safe. And I stood up energetically. When I went up to the third floor, the prosecutor had arrived in what appeared to be a reception room with a clerk. I was interrogated there for about two hours. It was like a rehash of the police interrogation and was nothing particularly significant. When the interrogation ended, “Mid-summer detention must be hard.” Despite there being no cause for it, the prosecutor offered such a hollow compliment. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine.”

I retorted flatly.—But then, suddenly remembering the drawers incident, I couldn’t help chuckling. But deep in my thoughts at that moment was this conviction: No matter how much you bastards tried to torment us by locking us up in detention, not a chance—we weren’t suffering half as much as you hoped. “Well, just a little more patience.”

The prosecutor said as he picked up his briefcase and stood up. I wasn’t listening.

The Bean Incident I was finally indicted. When my twenty-nine days at Y Station ended, I was summoned to the courthouse where the preliminary judge read me the prosecutor’s indictment. Then they took a brief statement. “We’ll have you transferred to T Prison.” “We shall meet again there in due time.”

A handsome man with straight, elongated white hands that perfectly suited rings—the preliminary judge—said this and pressed the buzzer. The Special Higher Police officer who had been waiting at the doorway immediately entered with rigid formality. To each word the judge spoke, as if inserting punctuation marks between them, he responded with “Ha,” “Haa,” “Hah,” bowing his head every time.

I was led by the Special Higher Police and descended flight after flight of winding stairs until I returned to the barrack waiting room. Along the way, I encountered various people walking hurriedly. When they saw me, they paused briefly and shook their heads. "Well, this'll be your last look at the world, you."

“Well, this’ll be your last look at the world, you,” said the Special Higher Police officer. “Even those March 15 guys who got thrown in over two years ago still haven’t had their public trials. If things go by the book, it’ll take a damn long time.” At that moment, I found myself staring through the glass door at a nameless weed in a corner of the vacant lot—its broad leaves caked with dust. The surrounding buildings stood so tall that even the midday sun pouring down couldn’t reach it. There was nothing particularly strange about that weed—yet even now, I’m left with this odd impression of how I’d ended up fixated on it without understanding why. No logic to it—such things must happen often enough.

I opened the package of tomatoes and manju that N had brought me this morning as the police were leaving, but for a while, in a vacant state of mind, I simply left it sitting on my lap. In the waiting room, besides me, there was a man with thick lips and a bushy beard like a petty thief’s, accompanied by a police officer, waiting for the prosecutor’s examination. I thought I was hungry, but when I ate, I couldn’t even finish three pieces of manju. So I gave the rest to the man. The bearded man devoured them noisily right before my eyes. And this time, he silently stared at the corner of my mouth as I ate tomatoes. I felt a strange pressure from that man. When it came to the crunch moment, I wondered then if I was less capable than this man.

The car arrived around noon. I had been imagining a "prison transport vehicle" with iron bars on every window. Yet what appeared was a cream-colored Nash open-top—an incongruously stylish vehicle for such purposes. Flanked by two Special Higher Police officers on either side, I sank into the cushioned seat. But this car—how many hundreds of comrades had it transported before me? I inspected my surroundings, studied the ceiling, tested the springs with experimental shakes.

The city I first saw on the sixtieth day—the city I wouldn’t see again for at least two years—I thought I must take in every last thing from both sides of the car without missing a single detail. Kōjimachi Nanchōme—Yotsuya Mitsuke—Shiomachi—and Shinjuku.... It was Saturday, and Shinjuku teemed with people. I scanned through the countless faces in that jostling crowd, searching to see if even one comrade walked among them. But the car had already passed roaring under the echoing overpass and emerged into Yodobashi district.

The car impatiently roared past the Seibu train—that same train I’d ridden daily—which clattered along as it leisurely waited for oncoming traffic. The wind split past both cheeks with a sound, and the surrounding area was all familiar streets.

As the car turned onto the narrow road leading to N Station, I noticed the cafeteria proprietress—the one I’d gone to every morning for breakfast—crossing in front of the car with a bundle of green onions in one hand while soothing a child.

Before, I had eaten fifteen-sen meals at that cafeteria with a woman who worked in "metal." At that time, I likely heard the cook from the back saying something to the child who was now crossing in front.

“Oh, this kid goes crazy when you mention beans around here. What a pain!” The cook had said such a thing. Then, the woman who had been eating with me burst out with a pfft of laughter, then became flustered and turned bright red.

The memory had suddenly come back to me. Then a surge of attachment toward that female comrade struck my chest. What was that woman doing now? Had she avoided capture? Was she still continuing her work?

The car blasted its horn. The road there had narrowed. The proprietress glanced back our way, but of course there was no chance she'd notice me—someone she knew so intimately—riding in this sort of automobile, and we swept past. I craned my neck at an awkward angle, staring back through the rear window for some time.

“We’re almost there. Once we turn that corner, you’ll see the prison wall.”

At those words, I silently turned back. Blue loincloth.

The car sounded its signal horn as it entered the prison grounds. The concrete wall of the prison, when approached, was so high that you had to look up more than expected, and the people walking beneath it appeared small. After getting out of the car, while looking up at that wall again and again, I tightened my belt firmly. After being scrutinized by guards—leather-holstered pistols slung over their shoulders, swords hanging at their sides—who compared our faces to small cards, we passed through the iron gate. Once inside, the heavy iron door behind us creaked shut with a groan.

I heard that sound. Even after hearing it, it remained within my body in its raw form. This door would stay shut exactly like this for two years because of me, I thought.

As I passed before the dim meeting area, numerous faces from the gathered crowd turned toward me. I entered while puffing on the last cigarette butt, carrying the solitary furoshiki bundle that held all my possessions from when I'd been arrested. This cigarette—this single remaining one—meant I wouldn't smoke again for years to come!

It was a clear, fine day. Passing through a dimly lit place crisscrossed with trolley rails that at first glance looked like a basement, then climbing the stairs, I emerged into a spacious office. There, the Special Higher Police officers who had been flanking me conducted the handover.

“You said you were born in Akita, didn’t you.” “I’m from there too.” “This must be some twist of fate.” “It might be strange coming from me, but above all, do take care of your health.”

The stocky man flushed slightly and reached for the brim of his hat. Moving past many desks cluttered with jumbled documents, near the window a beautiful female clerk with a receding chin and sunken eyes was typing on a typewriter while occasionally glancing this way. To see such a woman in a place like this struck me as somehow strange.

After my belongings had been thoroughly searched, an officer brought a thick ledger and had me sign for the personal funds being held by the prison. When I was arrested, I’d had about ten yen in cash as travel expenses. Those of us in the movement treated “travel expenses” as something as vital as life itself. As I prepared to stamp my seal and glanced over the opened ledger, my eyes caught on a familiar name two or three entries above mine—a well-known leftist whose recent silence I’d wondered about. But here he was. This one too! At that realization, I felt an abrupt surge of resolve course through me.

Then I was taken to the "temporary examination room" and stripped naked. Exposing everything including my dick—turning sideways and right around—I had every physical characteristic recorded. A mole on my back that even I hadn’t known about was discovered. There I was made to put on the "blue garment." I put on the blue garment, pulled up the blue leggings, fastened the blue loincloth, tied the blue belt, slipped into straw sandals—and for the first time in my life, donned the "woven hat". But I thought it didn’t need to be blue all the way down to the loincloth.

Through the gaps between concrete buildings ahead, I saw prisoners clad in red garments lining up in a row as they returned from work. At first, my body wouldn't stop trembling in tiny spasms no matter what I did, leaving me distressed. "How's your first time wearing it..." the jailer said. I let tension drain from shoulders I hadn't realized were clenched and drew a slow, deep breath. "Go straight down this corridor—and keep that woven hat on." I looked where the jailer pointed.

At the far end of the long corridor stood a red brick building with many iron-barred windows. I silently started walking in that direction. Apartment living

The upper floor of "South Cellblock".

Solitary cell—"No. 19." Accomplice Number "Se" 63. Coming from the police station, how utterly quiet this place was! Along both sides of the long corridor, dozens of solitary cells with dropped locks stood lined in rows. As I passed before them, I suddenly caught a low, rasping voice from one of the cells. At that moment—as if someone had seized my shoulders—I felt with sudden clarity that within those cells too sat our comrades, arms folded and eyes blazing.

I was initially put into a Garandou solitary cell where nothing was yet in order. When the door closed with a gust of wind into the small cell, the lock dropped with a sharp clang—and for the first time in my life, I was left completely alone.

I moved about the room as quietly as possible—walked around the cell, tapped on the walls, peered stealthily outside through the window, then strained my ears toward the corridor. Someone was walking down the corridor. When I stopped and listened intently to that sound, my body suddenly began throbbing and trembling from the depths—a frenzy resembling terror assailed me. At that moment—I still remember—if I could have burst into tears, I would have wanted to wail even louder than a child, shamelessly.

After a while, a prison laborer in a red garment brought various “household goods”—as the laborer called them—and left them for me. “What’s wrong? Your eyes look red,” he said, looking at me— I turned my face away from him. “Idiot! Since when does a Communist cry?”

“Ah, you’ll get used to it soon enough.” I turned my face away from him. “Fool! Would a Communist cry?” Broom. Duster. A dustpan made of persimmon-tanned paper. Spittoon. Rag. Two lidded bowls. One plate. One wooden bowl. One pair of chopsticks.—That’s all that’s in the mess kit. One cloth. Teapot. One teacup. A black lacquered bedpan. Washbasin. Water bucket.

Drainage bucket. One ladle. A single untrimmed tatami mat. A toy-like low-legged mosquito net. Then, since I was given a number tag along with a needle and thread, I sewed it onto the collar of my kimono. And then, I secretly tried to look at myself in the small round mirror. Then suddenly, my own face appeared to me as that of a criminal. I hurriedly flipped the mirror face-down on the desk. The prison laborer said with a sly grin as he finished his tasks.

“This your first time, eh? With this, your whole kit’s properly squared away now, I reckon. From here on out, this cell’s gonna be your fancy apartment for a good long stretch. So best keep it spick and span yourself. Do that, and you’ll get right fond of the place.” Then, after darting a glance at the jailer: “Hmph! Swanky digs—an apartment in these hard times!”

With that, he left.

A long European voyage

If someone were to ask what felt best after being transferred to prison, I would say it was the first time I used soap and soaked in hot water on the sixtieth day. The bathtub was a compact concrete structure. Even while soaking in the hot water, twisting the switch would send steam rushing in with a clank-clatter-clank-clatter-gurgle-gurgle.

Bathing Time: Fifteen Minutes Those who fail to observe the prescribed time may have their bathing order changed. When I was in the police detention center, those called the "Blue Sky Family" living by Kototoi Bridge and the Mikawashima ragpickers (scrap collectors) were often dragged in. When those folks came in, they would take off their stinky, damp shirts and pick out lice. Jet-black, plump lice squirmed densely in every conceivable fold. Once there was an old ragpicker in his sixties, his entire body covered with scabies, who had come in. He was a pitiful old man who would go out to Enko, make the rounds of restaurant back doors, and scrounge for zuké (leftovers). Having been in prison for five years and finally getting out that New Year, he said he wanted to spend just that New Year in the outside world. While I was letting the old man sleep beside me, I’d completely contracted his scabies. And so, the bath on this sixtieth day had me utterly entranced.

There, unlike the solitary cell, the window was low enough to reveal the prison's vast garden. Low, rounded pine trees stood trimmed across lush green lawns, between whose paths red-clothed figures crouched here and there, casually plucking overgrown grass. A jailer in rubber-soled tabi with black gaiters wrapped around his calves sauntered nearby, hands clasped behind his back as he addressed them... The setting sun dyed the far prison walls crimson, casting the diagonal shadow of a brick building across half the nearer garden. It was that transient hour when day yields to dusk but night hasn't yet arrived—when all movement and sound seem suspended. Gazing at this tranquil prison vista, I scrubbed my body to the rhythmic splash-splash of bathwater. Even now, that memory persists—of existing in a silent world where only hot water's splashing made any sound.

The next day was "barbering."—In this way, ever since coming here, I gradually became human again.—The barber here wore a red kimono. When I sat by the window where there was a broken little mirror that didn’t show my face at all, he still wrapped a handkerchief around my neck and draped a white apron over me. This "red" barber was a former sailor with a lumpy head of tight curls and thick eyebrows. He said he was serving three years. When I asked if he didn’t want out, he laughed and said it was nothing—just like repeating a long European voyage two or three times over without ever coming ashore.

Whether it was calling it "apartment living" or this "European voyage," every last one of the red-clad figures here would casually toss out remarks like these as naturally as if they were in their own homes.

When everything was ready, the barber moved behind me and, “I’ll just snip-snip it all off with the clippers.” said the barber.

I knew that… but hearing it said aloud, I still couldn’t help but startle.

“Please! At least leave it a bit longer.” “In here, who exactly are you trying to show it off to?” With that, he gave a dry chuckle. “Right, right—got it. Because there’s some woman coming to visit—”

And so, my hair alone was spared.

However, this barber would take the razor and shave everything off in one swift motion from top to bottom—pimples be damned.

As I pressed my stinging cheeks, the barber smirked and said, “This isn’t some Ginza barbershop.”

Red gymnastics

We woke up at six-thirty in the morning. This differed slightly depending on the season. Immediately upon waking, we put away the futon, folded the blanket, brushed our teeth, and washed our faces. Right around that time, the inspection would come around. The team consisted of three members. As the leading jailer clanged open each door, the next section chief would peer into the solitary cell and cross-check with the inspection log, “Number Sixty-Three” he called out. The trailing jailer clanged them shut as he moved along. At seven-thirty, a prison laborer would shout “Preparations for meeeal!” from the far end. Then they would place a bowl and two teacups on top of the mess kit lid, grasp an earthenware teapot in one hand, and stand waiting by the entrance. The meal cart would come around the hallway. When the door opened, they would hold them out—rice stamped with a number in a round mold into their bowls, miso soup limited to two cups into their teacups, then receive hot water in their earthenware teapot. On the surface of the miso soup, white insects resembling boiled dead maggots would occasionally float.

At eight o'clock there were "drainage" and "water supply." They received new water, had the used water disposed of, and had the chamber pot taken out into the hallway to be cleaned. (This happened twice a day, with another instance in the afternoon.) Once that was done, the remaining time became free. They read books on the small, hard desk. Since there was a "radio calisthenics" diagram posted on the wall, they could also do exercises. At the upper left of the solitary cell’s entrance was a simple mechanism—pressing the protruding wooden tip produced a click, causing a fan-shaped “indicator” marked with the cell number to extend into the hallway. The jailer saw it, peered through the small peephole in the door, and came to ask, “What is it?”

When afternoon came, the assigned jailer came around saying, “Tomorrow’s requests.”

One caramel. Apple – 10 sen. Books sent in – “Request for Granting.”

Letters – Two sealed postcards. Clothing – Request for Granting.

Exercise was once a day—twenty minutes. Bathing was twice a week, haircuts once a week, and medical examinations every other day. Since we received checkups every other day, it sometimes gave us this luxurious feeling like we had our own personal physician on retainer. But of course, what kind of doctor this so-called "personal physician" actually was—that was another matter entirely. At night, lights out at eight o'clock—a full eleven hours of sleep.

We had a terrible life when we were “outside”. There were times when we went over a month without bathing while still healthy enough to move about, and stretches where we survived on just one meal a day until we became gaunt from roaming around. We had to keep changing addresses because we couldn’t stay in the same place for more than a week. Without grasping these realities, they wore us down over time—until after sixty days with the police and being shuttled between prisons, I felt my limbs steadily filling out. In my case, it wasn’t swelling from lack of exercise or anything like that—it came from my body returning to its natural state for the first time, a mark of perfect health.

Even now, our comrades still called going to prison a “red villa trip.” The cheerfulness born from the proletariat’s unyielding fortitude that never bent to any circumstance was contained within that term. But it wasn’t just that—I discovered that for us, even in its original bourgeois sense of “rest,” this place truly was a villa. Therefore, we had to build up new vigor and strong bodies here before we went out.

But then again, this red villa cost not a single sen—far from being some pleasure resort, each day passed under ironclad discipline—yet precisely because that suited us so well, I found it rather amusing. “Alright, time to start the red calisthenics!”

Whenever I did "radio calisthenics" in my solitary cell, I always said that. If this was the red villa, then the radio calisthenics done here must accordingly be red calisthenics. I energetically swung my arms and raised my legs with all my strength. Pine-needle "K"s and "P"s.

The exercise yard had nine fan-shaped concrete walls standing erect that formed eight separate spaces. They would enter one by one and run around—right at the fan’s pivot point stood an elevated platform where the jailer stationed himself, overseeing everyone with a single glance.

Those who entered through our connections were left alone until exercise time. Van Gogh’s famous “Prisoners’ Round”—where everyone walked in circles—depicted thieves or murderers doing their prisoners’ exercise, while ours must have been something even Van Gogh couldn’t capture.

I hiked up my clothes, stripped to the waist, and began jogging—One-two, one-two. Twenty minutes. Whenever I went out for exercise, I would carefully employ my simple method of gauging my health by how I managed my speed and how fatigue set in. As I ran, when I deliberately raised my voice here, the comrade jogging beside me raised theirs loudly. When I cleared my throat with an “ahem,” someone at the far end answered with an “ahem.” Then sometimes with my elbow, I knocked on the wall and signaled.

On that concrete wall, seemingly written to evade the jailer’s watchful eyes, were smears of mud and—sometimes, in chalk from who knows where—the character for "共" (Commu-) and incomplete versions missing the final stroke. ※ (the character for ‘Party’ written up to its fifth stroke) and K.P. (abbreviation for Communist Party) were scrawled numerous times. The jailers would erase them as soon as they found them during their rounds, but by the next day, they would be neatly written again. The day after it rained, when I went out for exercise, I surreptitiously grabbed a handful of mud and looked for chances several times, but it didn’t go well. When it comes to things like that, I might just be a clumsy oaf.

One morning, I discovered "K" and "P" meticulously formed by combining each pine needle in a crack of the charred wooden fence at the edge of the exercise yard. I could not forget the joy I felt at that moment. I suddenly struck a pose as if dancing—and started running. The jailer looked in my direction from his high position. While evading the jailer’s watchful eyes, how much preparation and time had gone into making that? The feelings of the comrade performing each of those actions came through to me just as they were.

Comrades are everywhere—more than anything, that’s what I thought. Once, having grown tired of reading books, I ran my hands over the walls of my solitary cell and searched for graffiti. Unlike police detention centers, a solitary cell only houses one person, and since inspections occur periodically, graffiti is rarely done. However, even so, after a while, I managed to unearth dozens of “Communist Party” flags and K.P.s from various nooks and crannies. What kind of person was the comrade who had been in this same cell before me? I tried to draw out some vestige from them as if sniffing for their scent among the graffiti. When I went to the “Letter Room,” both the desks and walls there were covered in graffiti to my heart’s content. Whenever I went to write letters, I made sure to bring back some graffiti.

Indeed, I am in a solitary cell. But I’m certainly not ‘alone.’

Coughs, sneezes, farts. Through the sound of farts, I confirmed the comrade in the neighboring cell was alive—back when I'd been on the outside, I had read about this in some magazine regarding the March 15th comrades' song. Only after arriving here did I discover that everyone in every cell block farted constantly—but in my case, being overwhelmed by forty to fifty—no, even more—farts a day left me exhausted. With this situation, the comrade next door must surely be worrying about my health instead.

I wondered what was wrong with me. During the examination, I told the doctor about the flatulence. “It’s because you’re eating easily fermenting barley rice and not getting enough exercise.”

The prison doctor said this nonchalantly and still laughed. After that incident, I thought about the matter of flatulence. Here, no matter how trivial the matter, I could spend two or three days thoroughly pondering it. And so, I decided that from now on, I would release each fart that kept coming one after another—carefully and forcefully with all my might. It would become the ultimate stench projectile against those bastards. The concrete walls especially made it resound even more forcefully.

It was something I noticed after some time had passed—every comrade who had arrived earlier not only farted but had carefully cultivated their own unique sneezes and coughs, which they put to use. Melodic ones, defiant ones, sardonic ones… and so on.

When night fell and a deathly stillness settled over the prison, sneezes and coughs would drift from some solitary cell. From those quirks alone, I could immediately tell who it was. Hearing them sent emotions surging through me—feelings I couldn’t put into words—rising up beyond that thick concrete wall. We comrades had made these coughs, sneezes, and farts our method of exchanging greetings. So when we felt that subtle itch in our nostrils signaling an impending sneeze, we treasured it with utmost care.

After some time, I too succeeded in developing my own style of coughs and sneezes.

On, a, ra, ha, sha, nau

The spots where sunlight streamed through the high window shifted gradually as I watched—autumn had arrived. Returning from exercise, when I touched the door fitting, the chill of the iron seeped into my fingertips. I felt the beauty of my first Tokyo autumn day after day in that high, crystalline sky visible through the window framed by red brick and iron bars.—Up north, this would be the season of sleet-laden downpours.—Until now it hadn't been so noticeable, but the clattering and thudding from the neighboring cell now resonated with piercing clarity. Was the comrade next door from Zenkyo? From P (Proletarian News)? From Y (Proletarian Youth)? Or perhaps a Party member...?—In autumn's deepening embrace, what manner of revolutionary dwells beyond this wall?

The door suddenly clanged open. “Heave-ho!” The prison laborer who had shouldered the futon threw it down with a thud at the entrance. Wiping sweat,

“I’ve never seen such a thick, heavy futon.” “Would parents really send such a thick futon even to an ungrateful wretch like this?”

I remained silent. Alone, as I stacked them in the corner, I realized just how coarse-textured, heavy, thick, and unimaginably wide they were. Afterward, I wrote to outsiders: "When the futon grows too heavy at night and sleep proves difficult, one can't help but wonder what this weight truly signifies." I had written such sentimental things. Along with the futon came a lined robe.

A few days later, when I changed into warmer clothes due to the cold and felt something in my sleeve—thinking "Huh?"—I groped around and pulled out what looked like a small card. *Year of the Rabbit* Monju Bosatsu *Guardian Deity* It was an amulet written in gold and vermilion. As a Marxist with an amulet, it just didn’t sit right—I ended up feeling embarrassed all by myself. When I opened it, inside was written “Monju Bosatsu Shingon” in script resembling Korean characters: “On, A, Ra, Ha, Sha, Nau.”

"On, a, ra, ha………………." I repeated that phrase under my breath two or three times. The words refused to flow smoothly. But through this halting repetition, I found myself brushing against the heart of this foolish mother I hadn't seen in ages. We'd been instructed never to cry, no matter what. Never to love any woman we might encounter. Never to lose ourselves in moonlit reveries. Never to snivel over thoughts of our mothers—so went the doctrine. Yet this mother—unaware of my imprisonment—had bought my favorite watermelon, declaring I'd return today, then tomorrow when today passed, forbidding my siblings from touching it until the fruit rotted away. After arriving here, I'd read about this in my little sister's letter—its sprawling characters mixing clumsy kana and kanji. When I finished reading, I wept without sound for what felt like hours.

I could see my small-statured mother sitting compactly with her hands tucked into her obi. That had always been her posture whenever worries weighed on her.

Proletarian Banner Day

Tap, tap, tap………………. From the neighboring solitary cell came knocking on the wall.

Tap, tap, tap………………. I immediately knocked back from my side. The knocking patterns from neighboring comrades' walls changed in various ways. All of them had become the rhythm of our songs. As for me, I was in a bind because even "The Internationale" I only hazily knew. When I recognized the song being tapped by the other person, I would knock back in the same rhythm as a signal. During that time, the neighbor would stop their own knocking and listen. And when mine ended,

Thud, thud, thud………………. And they knocked back—this was how the wills of two comrades became fully connected.

In this solitary cell where every day was the same—monotonous and interminably long—the repetition of these gestures occupied a surprisingly vital place among our daily rituals. Having heard that certain comrades had, over a long period, used these wall-knocking patterns to share their names, exchange messages, and establish contact, I too tried altering the rhythm of my knocks, spacing them out or shortening them—but it didn’t work out.

We would knock on the walls for each other at wake-up, bedtime, when planes came, when in high spirits, when feeling dejected, and during "our banner days."—Just as the bourgeois class had their various "banner days," now too the Japanese proletariat had their own!

However, there remained one truly regrettable thing. It was that the neighboring comrade knew "our banner days" remarkably well…… No—that wasn’t it. In that case, I certainly knew them just as well without being outdone. The truth was, whenever that day came, I would always end up having the initiative taken from me by the neighboring comrade through wall-knocking. I’d wait, thinking—This time I’ll definitely strike first myself. But when the day arrived, I’d get beaten to it again. September 1st, October 7th—and regrettably even "November 7th"—I’d been beaten to it every time.

That day—the morning of November 7th—the moment the wake-up bell clanged, every last cell erupted with foot-stomping and wall-knocking. The four walls of the solitary cell were raw concrete, so the sound resounded dully through them.—A whistle pierced through. From another direction rose bold singing. The instant I awoke, I stomped my feet and hammered the wall. My face flushed hot, tears springing to my eyes. Before I knew it, my shoulders shook and eyebrows arched upward.

“Meal prep—Ready!” I had been waiting for that. At that exact moment, both the jailers and prison laborers were at No. 1—the cell farthest from mine in No. 19.—I suddenly dashed to the window, gripped the frame with both hands, and with a grunt of effort, hoisted myself up. And I pressed my face between the iron bars and shouted outward.

“Long live the Russian Revolution!!”

“Long live the Japanese Communist Party!!” A roar! A voice rose from somewhere—indeed, from an open cell window on the opposite side. Over there, they were saying something. My chest pounded like a rapid bell. When the meal cart came around to my cell, this time I heard someone from the farthest cell on the opposite side—No.1—shouting “Long live the Russian Revolution!!”

The jailer was grim-faced.—Someone was whistling "The Internationale"... I left my meal as it was—excited, I stood stock-still for a while.

It was just about when we finished eating. From the deck-like upper corridor came the clattering sound of two or three people running past. A cell door was violently thrown open somewhere. And it seemed someone was dragged out. Suddenly, tangled shouts erupted. The sound of bodies scraping across the floor echoed, followed by a muffled, choked voice—as if someone were being pinned down.—In an instant, every single cell that had been clamorous until then fell silent, as though suppressed. I sat frozen with my chopsticks halfway raised, holding my breath.

And then—at that moment, someone suddenly knocked on the wall. That was the trigger—this time, everyone explosively began stomping their feet and pounding the walls.

The comrade who had bravely fought for our November 7th was taken away through that uproar, shouting something at the top of his voice. We didn’t stop stomping our feet until that voice grew distant and faded away.

Court Appearance

On a cold winter morning, the jailer peered out with only eyes visible through the peephole,

“You’ve got a court appearance today.”

he said.

After eating my meal, I left the cell and was taken to the guards' waiting room. Everyone had their feet propped on the edge of the brazier, warming themselves. It was the first time I had seen "fire." I was subjected to a body search in that corner. “What’s this?”

The jailer who had been checking my sleeve suddenly assumed a professional demeanor and took something out. I jolted in spite of myself.—But it was the amulet. “Ah, it’s the amulet.” I said with relief. The jailer wore an uncertain, uncomprehending look, “Huh—?” “The amulet? …How’d this get here?” he said as if to himself.

“My old lady…” When I started to say that, the elderly jailer didn’t let me finish,

“Ah, so that’s it—of course! What a waste!” Having said that, he pressed it to his forehead. Then he carefully returned it to its original state and slipped it back into the sleeve. “Alright—both hands out now.” The jailer came back clattering the handcuffs. He fastened them around my outstretched wrists. The iron’s coldness pierced me with shocking intensity. “Fuckin’ freezing!”

I instinctively pulled back my hands. “Cold?—I see, I see. Then pull out your shirt cuffs. We’ll put them on over that.” “Much obliged. Go ahead!” “If your parents saw you like this… What filial impiety! What filial impiety!” His aged fingertips trembled and were numb from the cold, so he couldn’t fit the key into the keyhole, clattering it around the edges. While facing each other, I watched the jailer’s hunched shoulders.

There was another person appearing in court that day. He was a small, emaciated man with thin lips turned pallid from cold. He seemed to be a comrade from Daini Mushin. I couldn't help but look forward to seeing the 'outside' for the first time in six months. After the prison van exited the penitentiary grounds, we took off our woven sedge hats and had them open the window curtains.—The year's end drew near, and the streets clamored with festive decorations. Here and there, brass bands blared. When we emerged from N-town toward Nakano, that sluggish Seibu Railway had somehow become double-tracked, and whenever rain fell, the churned-up road had completely transformed into asphalt. The realization that I'd been sitting there so long returned to me with startling freshness.

We arranged to take a special detour through Shinjuku on our return route. The van turned right from Yodobashi, came out at Yoyogi, and sped through the Outer Garden of Meiji Shrine. The two of us pressed our cheeks, foreheads, and noses flat against the window glass, staring fixedly outside. When we saw a movie poster pasted on the back of a blue bus, the comrade with us said, “When I get out, first thing I want to do is catch a newsreel.”

The anachronistic parliament building stood mostly completed. We peered up at its spire through the window. Near the pinnacle, lingering scaffolding etched sharp outlines against the crystalline blue of winter sky.

“You see that? That’s your dear old Metropolitan Police Department.” The jailer smirked and opened the left-side window a crack. I and another comrade briefly exchanged glances. ―Speaking of the Metropolitan Police Department, I’d once read an interesting novel. It was about a laborer working on its construction—this laborer had declared they should build it extra sturdy. But his comrades jeered at him: “Quit it! You’re just tightening the noose around your own neck! Do a half-assed job and leave it!” Then the laborer—

“Don’t talk nonsense! Once the regime falls into our hands, that place will become the GPU headquarters. That’s why we’re making it as grand and sturdy as possible right now—something that won’t break from trivial damage!” he declared. That was the gist of it.

Even someone like me who hates novels had found those words amusing, so they’d stayed lodged in my memory.

On the high scaffolding of the Metropolitan Police Department, a laborer with a bundle of rope hanging from his waist was working……. He could be seen moving slightly.

That day, after concluding the preliminary hearing and being loaded back into the prison van, I was struck by an indescribably unpleasant feeling. When coming here, even so, I was buoyant. Shinjuku was still bustling. When we saw a beautiful woman panicking in front of the car, we were delighted—but why were there so many "women" walking about? And when I was in the world, there had never been this many women walking around. I found this strange. Women, women, women…… Our eyes, aching from the crowd, kept picking out nothing but women…….

The distance to the prison was narrowing. We exchanged all sorts of jokes along the way. However, both of us gradually fell silent. "I’ve seen the town… and I’ll just sit again…" I blurted out just that.

I uttered just that. And then fell completely silent. By now, the van was already winding through the national railway underpass and entering N-town.

This year, too, has only five days left.

Solitary Cell Ditty

“...Ever since I read Dostoevsky’s *Notes from the House of the Dead* the other day,I’ve been unable to stop imagining you living through that interminably long,dark prison life—it’s left me unable to sleep,and I truly wish I hadn’t read it.” “But every time I visit you,your'e always joking around or laughing loudly—completely unlike how someone in prison should act—and every letter you write is filled with such carefree things…I just can’t understand why.”

When I saw this letter, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. It’s absurd to compare Dostoevsky with proletarian fighters, I thought. I too remembered tediously reading that book long ago. To be sure—to humanitarians this place might appear so anguished, so bleak, so utterly hopeless—but the proletariat, who never lose sight of the future, remain “cheerful” wherever they may be. They’re even humming carefree tunes.

Occasionally in the hallway, we would encounter other 'basket hats'. At a single glance, we could tell whether that was one of our comrades or just some petty thief or robber. With his basket hat flung back, shoulders swinging, and taking long strides—that was a comrade. He was clearly different from the other criminals, who walked with downcast eyes, hunched forward, always shuffling nervously. In fact—according to what the prison laborer told us—some of our comrades had prearranged specific locations in the communication rooms and exercise yards, using prison laborers to exchange "repo" with comrades in other solitary cells and even creating something called a "Prison Central Committee." For instance, they were reportedly attempting to connect with external "MOPR" groups to link up with actual movements, while internally uniting everyone to try submitting demands for "improved prison treatment."

No matter where those bastards grabbed us and tried to shove us, we prisoners hadn’t stopped our activities for even an instant.

When people speak of "solitary cell," "solitary cell," it might sound like some hellish place. For that reason—if anyone fears being thrown into such a place and consequently thinks the movement might waver—I swear by God (though how absurd to say "God")—

“Truly, what a carefree soul you are.”

First of all, I would sometimes start singing in my solitary cell while doing the gestures of a bon festival dance I remembered——

Solitary cell—yo-heave-ho, Everyone—come one and all— Heave-ho!

………………

Note: There are still many more of Taguchi’s stories.

This is just a small part of that. I hope to have another opportunity to introduce them one after another in the future.

(June 9, 1931)