Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kobayashi Takiji

Anyone would be like that, but when Taguchi emerged from there, he grew so talkative you’d think he’d become a different person altogether. For eight long months he had been utterly alone between wall and wall and wall and wall—in other words, confined to a single tiny solitary cell—so the only time he could hear his own voice was when muttering to himself. Even when attempting to speak properly, it still amounted to little more than soliloquies. All those words dammed up through that interminable stretch now came surging forth one after another, finally set free.

On the first night after his release on bail—since they said it wouldn’t do to get tired—he decided to turn in early. But in the end, Taguchi didn’t sleep a wink and talked nonstop about all sorts of things until morning. He himself insisted he wasn’t excited at all, and there was no particular change in his physical condition or complexion, but the outside world he had emerged into after nearly a year must have stirred him up without his realizing it.

This was Taguchi's story. Nor was it what you could properly call a novel.

The Girl Who Never Forgets Her Drawers

It was when he was passed around like a hot potato from S Police Station and ended up at Y Police Station.

The detention cell I was put in was Cell Number One, but everyone delighted in calling it the "special room."

“You got yourself a nice spot here,” the menial laborer said. The neighboring house was packed right up against it, so from morning till night, the radio blared clear as day into the detention center—baseball broadcasts, variety shows, naniwabushi ballads, orchestral music. I was utterly delighted. If this was the special room, I thought, even the same old twenty-nine days could pass without boredom. But that wasn’t why everyone called it the “special room.” At first, I couldn’t make sense of it.

However, on about the second day, a sharp-eyed man who’d been in for Mosa (pickpocketing) came sidling over to where I was sitting, grinning slyly, and told me to look. Driven by curiosity, I slid over there, and— “Look there.” With that, he looked up from the window.

It was then that I understood the true meaning of the "special room." The high barred window’s exact top aligned with the neighboring house’s clothes-drying area, where a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl was climbing the steep ladder with laundry in hand—all of it visible in direct upward view from directly below. After that, when someone gave the signal, they would—keeping their faces turned toward the guards—slide their bodies closer so as not to be noticed.

“Damn! She’s wearing drawers again!”

As I grew accustomed, I too began making those kinds of jokes. "If a Communist says things like that, you're a real class act, man."

The delinquent who hung around Enko (park) teased. Contrary to what you often find in novels, it wasn't as if we always sat here wearing solemn, grave expressions. The daily "anticipation" directed at this girl who never once forgot her drawers seemed to let us pass through those same endlessly repeating twenty-nine days in a surprisingly easygoing manner. Of course during that time, I was hauled out for interrogation two or three times—beaten with bamboo swords, kicked while still wearing shoes, subjected to strangulation—left lying flat for three days straight. 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 shreds down the back.

“They got me.” Having said this, he would turn his bloodless face toward us. Each time, we gnashed our teeth. Yet at other times, we grew more boisterous, more energetic, more prone to fooling around than anyone.

Ten days, seven days, five days... The days dwindled down. That’s right—on the very afternoon when just three days remained, an evening downpour arrived. “The laundry! The laundry!” Inside the neighboring house, there was a clattering commotion as they scrambled about. Perfect! I grinned. That was pure providence.—Today she’d forget! The shutters flew open in a flurry, and the girl scrambled up the ladder. I was unconsciously holding my breath. Damn it! What the hell! She’s not forgetting them again! We were utterly disappointed.

“Number Six!”

At that moment, the guard shouted loudly. They’ve found us out, I thought. I was startled. If we’d been discovered—it wasn’t just me—the secret joy that hundreds yet to come here had been hoarding away would be stolen from them. If they closed the windows, this place would turn into a pit just like that.

“Interrogation time. Come out.” I thought I was safe. Then I stood up energetically.

When I went up to the third floor, the prosecutor had arrived with a clerk in what appeared to be a reception room. I was interrogated there for about two hours. It amounted to rehashing the police investigation—nothing particularly consequential. When the interrogation ended, “The detention center must be grueling in midsummer.” Without any basis, the prosecutor offered this hollow pleasantry in his customary tone. “Uh-huh... Doing just fine.” I replied flatly—but then suddenly remembering the drawers, I couldn’t suppress a snicker. Yet beneath my thoughts at that moment lay this conviction: No matter how much you bastards tried tormenting us by tossing us into detention, not a chance—we weren’t suffering half as much as you imagined.

“Well, you’ll just have to endure a bit longer.”

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

The Bean Story

I was finally indicted. When my twenty-nine days at Y Station ended, I was summoned to court, where the preliminary judge read me the prosecutor’s indictment. Then a brief statement was taken. “Well then, we’ll have you transferred to T Prison. I’m sure we’ll meet again there.” The Preliminary Judge—a handsome man with long, slender white hands that suited a ring well—said this and pressed the bell. The Special Higher Police officer who had been waiting at the door immediately entered in a stiff posture. Responding to each of the judge’s words as if punctuating them with staccato utterances—“Ha,” “Haa,” “Hah”—he bowed his head each time.

I was led by that Special Higher Police officer down flight after flight of winding stairs until we returned to the barracks-style waiting room. Along the way, I encountered various people hurrying along. When those people saw me, they paused for a moment, then shook their heads. "Well—this'll be your final glimpse of this world—you." said the Special Higher Police Officer. “Even those March 15th guys who got tossed in over two years ago haven’t had their trials yet—so if we stick to order here, this’ll drag on forever.”

At that moment, through the glass door, I was looking at an unnamed plant with broad leaves—covered in dust at the corner of a dirty vacant lot. Because the surrounding buildings were tall, the blazing midday sunlight pouring down didn’t reach it. It wasn’t a particularly strange plant or anything—but even now, I can’t explain why staring at it alone remains so oddly vivid in my memory. There was no reason for it—maybe such things just happen.

I opened the package of tomatoes and manju that N had brought me this morning before heading out to the police station, but sat vacantly for some time, leaving it untouched on my lap. In the waiting room apart from me was a thick-lipped man with a bushy thief-like beard, accompanied by a policeman awaiting the prosecutor’s interrogation. Though seemingly hungry, I managed only three pieces of manju when I tried eating. So I gave the remainder to that man. The beard devoured them noisily while I watched. This time he stared silently at my mouth as I ate tomatoes. I felt an odd pressure from him. When push came to shove, I wondered then whether I measured up less than this man.

The car arrived around noon. I had been imagining a "prison transport vehicle" with iron bars reinforcing every window. But it turned out to be a cream-colored Nash open-top—an incongruously stylish vehicle. Sandwiched between two Special Higher Police officers on either side, I settled onto the cushion. This car—just how many hundreds of comrades had it transported before now? I surveyed my immediate surroundings, looked up at the ceiling, and tested the springs.

The city I saw for the first time in sixty days, and the city I wouldn’t lay eyes on for at least two years—from both sides of the car, I thought I had to take in every last thing. Kōjimachi—which block?—Yotsuya Mitsuke—Shiomachi—and Shinjuku…. That day was a Saturday, and Shinjuku teemed with people. From the countless faces in that jostling crowd, I searched for even one comrade who might be walking among them. But the car had already rumbled under the echoing overpass with a deep roar and emerged into Yodobashi.

The car impatiently roared past the Seibu train—the same one I used to ride daily, clattering along as it leisurely waited for oncoming traffic—leaving it behind with a thunderous rush. The wind split past both cheeks with a rushing sound—the entire area was a familiar stretch of streets.

When the car turned onto the narrow road leading to N Station, I spotted the owner of the cafeteria where I used to eat every morning crossing in front of us—one hand clutching a bundle of green onions, the other soothing a child as she went. There was a time when I’d eaten fifteen-sen meals with a woman who worked in "metal" at that cafeteria. At that moment—probably directed at the child now crossing in front—I heard the cook’s voice from the back: “Oh, this kid goes crazy whenever anyone mentions beans around here! Damn nuisance!”

The cook had said such things. Then the woman who'd been eating with me burst out laughing before flustering and turning bright red. I suddenly remembered that. Then a surge of affection for that female comrade struck my chest. What was that woman doing now? Had she not been caught? Was she still working?

The car sounded its horn. The road there was narrow. The cafeteria owner glanced back slightly toward us, but of course there was no way she could have noticed me—someone she knew so well—riding in such a car—and we passed by. I craned my neck uncomfortably and kept looking back through the rear window for some time.

“Almost there. Turn that corner and you’ll see the prison walls.”

—At those words, I turned around silently. Blue fundoshi.

The car sounded its signal horn as it entered the prison grounds. The prison's concrete walls, when approached, stood higher than expected—requiring one to crane their neck upward—and made the people walking beneath them appear small. —Getting out of the car and repeatedly looking up at that wall, I tightened my belt firmly. After being scrutinized by the guards—who wore leather-holstered pistols slung over their shoulders and swords at their sides—as they 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. It was a sound that lingered within my body in its original form long after I'd heard it. This door would remain closed for me, just as it was now, for the next two years—I thought.

As I passed before the dim visitation room, numerous faces turned toward me from the waiting area clustered there. Puffing on a half-smoked cigarette butt, I went in carrying the lone furoshiki bundle containing everything I owned when arrested. Tobacco too—with just this single stick left—for years and years to come, I won't get to smoke!

It was a clear, fine day.

Passing through a dimly lit space that looked like a basement at first glance—its floor laid with crisscrossing minecart rails—and climbing the stairs brought me to a broad office. There, the Special Higher Police officers who had been flanking me on both sides carried out the transfer formalities.

“You said you were born in Akita.” “Same here.” “This must be some kind of fate too.” “It’s odd coming from me, but above all—take care of your health.”

The stocky man seemed slightly embarrassed and touched the brim of his hat. Passing through numerous desks haphazardly stacked with documents, near the window, a beautiful female clerk with a jutting chin and sunken eyes was typing on a typewriter while occasionally glancing our way. Seeing such a woman in a place like this felt somehow strange to me. After all my belongings had been thoroughly inspected, an officer brought over a thick ledger and made me sign for the personal funds the prison would hold. When I was arrested, I had about ten yen in cash as transportation funds. Those of us engaged in the movement treasure our "transportation funds" as dearly as our lives. ―As I prepared to stamp my seal and looked over the opened ledger, my eyes caught a familiar name two or three entries above my own. That was a well-known left-wing figure—someone I’d been wondering why they’d stopped writing recently. However, he was here. This one too! When I thought that, I somehow suddenly felt my resolve strengthen.

Then I was taken to the “Temporary Examination Room” and stripped naked. With my genitals fully exposed, I was made to turn sideways, execute right-face turns, and have every distinguishing feature of my body recorded. A mole on my back I hadn’t even known existed was discovered. There I was made to put on the blue garment. I put on the blue garment, blue underpants, fastened the blue fundoshi loincloth, tied the blue belt, slipped into straw sandals—and for the first time in my life, donned the woven hat. But I thought there was no need for even my fundoshi to be blue.

Through the gaps between the concrete buildings ahead, I could see prisoners in red garments lining up in a row as they returned from work.

At first, my body kept trembling in small, rapid tremors no matter what I did—it was maddening. “How’s your first time in uniform…” the guard said.

I released the tension that had unknowingly built up in my shoulders and drew a slow, deep breath.

“Go straight down this corridor—and put on your woven hat.” I looked in the direction the guard pointed.

At the end of the long corridor stood a red brick building with many iron-barred windows.

I silently started walking in that direction. Apartment Dwelling

The upper floor of “Nanbō.”

Solitary cell—"No. 19." Accomplice Number ‘Se’—Number 63.

Coming from the police station—how quiet this place was!

On both sides of the long corridor, dozens of solitary cells with their locks engaged were lined up in a row. As I passed by them, I suddenly heard a low, raspy voice from one of the solitary cells. At that moment, as if someone had suddenly seized my shoulder, I felt that within those cells too our comrades sat with arms crossed and eyes gleaming.

I was initially placed into a solitary cell still completely bare and unprepared. The door slammed shut with a gust of wind into the cramped space, the lock clanging down with a sharp metallic sound—and for the first time in my life, I found myself utterly alone. Moving soundlessly, I paced about the cell, tested the walls with knuckle-raps, peered cautiously through the window slit, then pressed an ear against the door to listen down the corridor.

Someone was walking down the corridor. When I stopped and strained my ears toward that sound at any hour, suddenly a quivering would rise from the depths of my body—a frenzy akin to terror would assail me. At that moment—I still remember it—if I could have cried, I would have burst out wailing, louder than any child, weeping shamelessly.

After some time, a menial laborer in red clothes brought various “household goods”—that’s what he called them—and delivered them. “What’s wrong? Your eyes look red,” he said—looking at me— “Nah—you’ll get used to it soon.” I averted my face from him,

“Idiot! Would a Communist cry?” I said.

Broom. Duster. A dustpan made of persimmon-tanned paper. Spittoon. Rag. Two lidded bowls. One plate. One metal bowl. One pair of chopsticks.—That’s all the utensil box contained. One dishcloth. Earthenware teapot. One teacup. Black lacquered chamber pot. Washbasin. Clear water bucket. Drainage bucket. Ladle. One. Tatami mat without edging. One. A toy-like, low-legged mosquito net.

I was given a number patch along with a needle and thread, so I sewed it onto the collar of my garment. And then, I secretly tried looking at myself in a small, round mirror. Suddenly, my own face appeared to me as that of a convict. I hurriedly turned the mirror face down on the desk. At the end of his tasks, the menial laborer said with a sly grin, “This is your first time, isn’t it. “With this, all the basic tools should be properly set up now.” “From now on, this cell’ll be your apartment for a good long while.” “So you’d better keep it neat and tidy yourself.” “Then you’d actually grow fond of the place.”

Then, he shot a quick glance toward the guards, “Fancy that! Calling this dump an ‘apartment’ during a depression!”

With that, he left. Long European voyages

If someone were to ask what felt best after being sent to prison, I’d say it was on the sixtieth day when I first used soap to soak in hot water. The bathtub was a compact concrete structure. Even while submerged in the steaming water, turning the switch would send steam pumping in with a clank-clank-gurgle rhythm. Bathing time: fifteen minutes

Those who fail to adhere to the prescribed time may have their bathing order changed.

Back when I was in the police detention center, members of the "Blue Sky Family" living by the foot of Monzembashi Bridge and Mikawashima scrap pickers would often get dragged in. When those guys were brought in, they’d peel off their soggy, stinking shirts and start picking out lice. Jet-black, round lice swarmed in every conceivable fold.

Once, a sixty-year-old scrap-picker, his entire body crawling with scabies, was brought in. He was a pitiful old man who would go out to Enko, wandering around the back doors of restaurants to scrounge for zuke (leftovers). He’d been in prison for five years and had just gotten out that New Year, so he said he wanted to spend at least this coming New Year’s on the outside. While I was sleeping next to that old man, I completely contracted his scabies. And so, this hot bath on my sixtieth day utterly consumed me.

Unlike the solitary cell, there the windows were low, so I could see the prison’s vast courtyard. Low, rounded pine trees trimmed close to the ground stood planted across lush green lawns, while here and there along the paths between them, figures in red garments crouched unhurriedly plucking overgrown weeds. A guard in black gaiters and rubber-soled tabi, hands clasped behind his back, was sauntering nearby while talking to someone……. The setting sun dyed the prison wall on the opposite side red and cast the shadow of a brick building diagonally across half of the nearer garden. It was that moment when the day was fading into evening, yet night had not yet fallen—a time when all things ceased their movement and sound. As I gazed at that tranquil prison scenery, I kept scrubbing my body, the only sound being the splashing of water. In a world where all things were silent, the splashing of hot water being the only sound—somehow, that still remains impressed upon my memory.

The next day was "barbering."—In this way, ever since coming here, I had been gradually becoming like everyone else.—The barber here wore a red garment. When I sat by the window where a small broken mirror that didn’t reflect one’s face at all was placed, he still tied a handkerchief around my neck and draped a white apron over me. This "red" barber was a former sailor with a lumpy, close-cropped head and thick eyebrows. He said he was doing three years. When asked if he didn’t want out, he laughed and said that if you thought of it as just repeating a long European voyage a couple times without ever going ashore, it was nothing.

“Apartment living” and “European voyage”—every red garment here tossed out such phrases more casually than if they were at home. When the preparations were complete, the barber circled around to the back and, “I’ll buzz it all off with the clippers!” he said.

I knew that... yet when he actually said it, I still flinched. “Please! Just leave it a bit longer!” “Who the hell you trying to show off to in here?” he said with a dry chuckle.

“Oh right, right, I get it. You must have a woman visiting you—” And so my hair alone was spared. However, whether it was a pimple or anything else, this barber would take his razor and shave it all off in one swift motion from top to bottom. As I pressed a hand to my stinging cheeks, he smirked and—

“This ain’t some Ginza barbershop, you know,” he said. Red calisthenics

We woke up at 6:30 a.m. This varied slightly depending on the season. Upon waking, we immediately put away the futon, folded the blanket, brushed our teeth, and washed our faces. Right around that time, the inspection would come around. The squad consisted of three men. As the lead guard clanged open each door, the chief following behind would peer into the solitary cell and cross-check with the inspection log,

“Number Sixty-Three.” he called out. The trailing guard clanged them shut one after another as he moved down the line. At 7:30, a menial laborer shouted “Meal prep—ready!” from the far end of the corridor. Then they placed a metal bowl and two rice bowls on the mess tin’s lid while gripping a teapot in one hand, standing waiting at the entrance. The meal cart made its rounds through the corridor. When the door opened, they presented them—receiving rice portioned into round molds with stamped numbers into their metal bowls, miso soup limited to two cups in their rice bowls, and hot water in their teapots. Occasionally, white insects resembling boiled dead maggots floated on the surface of the miso soup.

At eight o'clock came "drainage" and "water supply." They received fresh water, had the used water disposed of, and had the toilet taken out into the corridor to be cleaned. (This happened twice daily - once more in the afternoon.) Once finished, free time followed. They read books at the small, hard desk. With radio calisthenics diagrams stuck to the walls, they could also do exercises.

At the top left of the solitary cell’s entrance was a simple mechanism; pressing the protruding wooden tip produced a clunk, causing a fan-shaped “indicator” marked with the cell number to jut out into the outer corridor. The guard saw it and asked “What is it?” through the small peephole in the door, coming to inquire about the matter. In the afternoon, the guard in charge would make his rounds, announcing “Tomorrow’s requests.” One caramel. Apple 10 sen.

Books sent in: "Request for Permission to Receive". Correspondence: sealed postcards (two). Kimono: Home Delivery Request.

Exercise was once a day—twenty minutes. Bathing was twice a week, haircuts once a week, and medical examinations every other day. Because we received medical examinations every other day, there were times when it made us feel almost luxuriously as if we had a personal physician in attendance. But of course, when it comes to what sort of physicians these so-called “personal doctors” actually are—that is an entirely different matter. At night—lights out at eight—we secure a full eleven hours of sleep.

When we were "outside," we lived a terrible life. We went over a month without taking a single proper bath, and there were times we wasted away to skin and bones, surviving on just one meal a day as we kept moving from place to place. Because we couldn’t stay in the same place for even a week, we kept changing addresses. Without understanding these things, over time, it had taken a heavy toll on us. So after sixty days in police custody and being transferred through prisons, I felt my limbs steadily filling out. In my case, this wasn’t swelling from lack of exercise or anything like that—it came from nothing other than my body finally returning to its natural state of perfect health.

Even now, our comrades still call going to prison a “villa trip.” The buoyancy born of the proletariat’s unyielding fortitude—a resilience that never bends under any circumstances—is precisely what lies embedded within that term. But beyond that, I discovered that even in its original sense—that is to say, in the bourgeois meaning of “rest”—this place truly was a villa for us. Therefore, we had to forge new vitality and strong bodies here in this place before we would leave.

But then again, this red villa cost not a single penny, and far from being some pleasure retreat, each day passed under ironclad discipline—yet precisely because it suited us so perfectly, I found it rather amusing.

“Alright—time to start the red calisthenics.”

Whenever I did "radio calisthenics" in the solitary cell, I always said that. If this was our red villa, then it followed that the radio calisthenics performed here must naturally be red calisthenics. I swung my arms vigorously and lifted my legs with all my strength.

Pine-needle "K" and "P"

The exercise yard had nine fan-shaped concrete walls standing in a radial formation, creating eight separate spaces. They entered one by one into these spaces and ran around.—At the precise pivot point of this fan-shaped arrangement stood a raised platform where a guard stationed himself, surveying everyone below with a single sweeping gaze.

Those of us incarcerated due to our affiliations were left alone until exercise time. Van Gogh’s famous “Prisoner Exercise”—where everyone walks in circles—depicted thieves and murderers’ routines, common criminals’ routines; our prisoner exercise was something Van Gogh, after all, couldn’t have captured. In that space, I hiked up my hips, stripped to the waist, and broke into a jog—one-two, one-two—keeping time with my steps. Twenty minutes. Whenever I went out for exercise, I always carefully employed this simple method of assessing my health based on how I managed my speed and how my body tired.

As I ran, deliberately raising my voice here, the comrade running next to me also shouted loudly. When I cleared my throat with an “ahem,” someone at the far end answered with an “ahem.” Then at times, I knocked on the wall with my elbow to signal. On those concrete walls—apparently scrawled while evading the guards’ notice—were smears of mud and, at times, characters like “共” (“comrade”) in chalk from who-knows-where, along with half-finished versions missing their final strokes. Half-written “※” characters (the character for “Party” incomplete beyond its fifth stroke) and numerous “K·P” (abbreviated form of Communist Party) were scribbled there. The guards erased them as soon as they were found during their rounds, but by the next day, they’d reappeared properly. The day after it rained, when I went out for exercise, I quietly scooped up mud and tried several times to find openings to write, but it didn’t work out. I might just be a bit of a dunce when it comes to that sort of thing.

One morning, at a crack in a charred wooden fence on the edge of the exercise yard, I discovered "K" and "P" formed by pine needles meticulously assembled one by one. I cannot forget the joy I felt in that moment. I suddenly struck a pose as if dancing—and started running. The guard looked down at me from his high position. While evading the guard's eyes, how much preparation and time had it taken to create that? The feelings of the comrades performing each of those actions come to me just as they are.

Comrades are everywhere—that’s what I thought more than anything.

Once, having grown tired of reading books, I ran my hands over the walls of my solitary cell searching for graffiti. Unlike police detention centers, solitary cells held only one person at a time, and with periodic inspections, there was hardly any graffiti to be found. Yet even so, after some time, I managed to discover dozens of "Communist Party" slogans, flags, and K·P symbols scrawled in various corners. What kind of person had the comrade who occupied this same cell before me been? I tried to sniff out some lingering essence from those markings, as if drawing forth a shadow of their creators.

When I went to the “Correspondence Room,” every desk and wall there was covered in graffiti scrawled with abandon. Whenever I went to write letters, I resolved to always leave some graffiti behind.

So, I am in a solitary cell. But I am never truly "alone" here.

Coughs, sneezes, farts. By the sound of a fart, I knew the comrade in the neighboring cell was alive—back when I’d been free, I’d read in some magazine how March 15th comrades used songs for this purpose. Only after arriving here did I understand how much everyone in every cell farted.—But my own case—forty to fifty, no, even more farts a day—was exhausting me. At this rate, the comrade next door must be fretting over my health by now.

I wondered what was wrong with me. During the examination, I told the doctor about the flatulence. “It’s because you’re eating easily fermentable barley rice and not getting enough exercise.” With that, the prison doctor stated it matter-of-factly—and yet he laughed. After that incident, I began thinking about flatulence. When I’m here, no matter how trivial the matter, I can spend two or even three days pondering it thoroughly. And so, I resolved to release each successive fart that emerged—carefully, with full force, and resoundingly. This was nothing less than the ultimate fart bomb against those bastards. The concrete walls in particular amplified them, making them echo all the more resoundingly.

It was something I realized after some time had passed—every comrade who had arrived earlier not only farted but also possessed their own distinctive sneezes and coughs, which they employed with precision. Musical ones, demonstrative ones, sardonic ones……and so on.

When night fell and a hush settled over the prison, sneezes and coughs would drift from some solitary cell. From their mannerisms alone, I could immediately tell who it was. Hearing them, I felt emotions that couldn’t be put into words welling up beyond these thick concrete walls.

This was precisely how we comrades had established our method of exchanging greetings through these "coughs," "sneezes," and "farts." So when their nostrils began tingling ever so slightly—signaling an imminent sneeze—they would treasure that sensation dearly. ——After some time, I too succeeded in developing my own distinctive style of coughs and sneezes.

On, a, ra, ha, sha, nau

The spot where the sunbeams streaming through the high window fell gradually shifted as I watched—autumn had arrived. After returning from exercise, when I touched the door’s metal fittings, the iron’s coldness seeped chillily into my fingertips.

I could perceive Tokyo’s autumn beauty for the first time through the window of red bricks and iron bars—day after day—in that high, crystalline sky. ——Up north, this would be the season of snow mingling with drenching rains. ——Though it hadn’t been so before, the clattering and knocking sounds from the neighboring solitary cell now resonated with a depth that seeped into my very core. Was the comrade next door from Zenkyo? From P (Musansha Shinbun)? From Y (Musan Seinen)? Or perhaps a Party member...?——As autumn deepened, what manner of person was my neighbor?

The door suddenly clanged open.

“Heave-ho!”

The menial laborer who had carried in the futon threw it down with a thud at the entrance. Wiping his sweat, “This is the first time I’ve seen such a thick, heavy futon.” “Even to an unfilial child like this… Do parents really go and send such a thick futon, huh?”

I remained silent.

After being left alone, as I stacked it in the corner, I realized just how coarse and heavy it truly was—thick beyond measure and impossibly wide. Afterward, I wrote to those outside: "When the futon grows too heavy at night and makes sleep difficult, one can't help but wonder what exactly this weight represents." I had written such a sentimental thing.

Together with the futon, a lined garment was included.

A few days later, when I changed into warmer clothes as it had grown cold, I noticed something seemed to be inside the sleeve pouch. Thinking "Huh?", I felt around with my hand and pulled out what appeared to be a small card-like object.

Year of the Rabbit Manjusri Bodhisattva Guardian Deity

It was an "amulet" written in gold and vermilion. For a Marxist, an amulet didn’t sit right—I found myself blushing alone.

When I opened it, inside was written what appeared to be the Manjusri Bodhisattva Mantra—"ON, A, RA, HA, SHA, NAU"—in Korean script resembling Buddhist sutra characters. "On, a, ra, ha………………." I repeated those syllables two or three times in my mouth. I couldn’t recite them smoothly at all. But as I kept repeating them, I found myself touching—deeply—the heart of this foolish mother I hadn’t seen in so long.

They say we mustn’t cry, no matter what happens. They say you mustn’t fall for any woman, no matter who she might be. They say you mustn’t indulge in melancholy even when gazing at the moon. They say you mustn’t get teary-eyed thinking about your mother—people say that. But this mother, unaware that I was in this place, had bought my favorite watermelon and kept it—saying I’d return today, and if I didn’t come back that day, then surely tomorrow—not letting my younger brothers and sisters, who longed to eat it, lay a finger on it, until in the end it rotted away entirely. Since coming here, I read about that in a letter from my younger sister—written in kana-studded script with large, uneven characters. After reading it, I cried silently for a long time.

I could see my petite mother—perched there with her hands tucked into her obi—as clearly as if she sat before me. For that was how Mother always positioned herself whenever she had worries.

Proletarian Red Days Tap, tap, tap………………. He tapped on the wall from the neighboring solitary cell.

Tap, tap, tap………………. I immediately tapped back from my side. The neighboring comrades' wall-tapping methods varied in many ways. They all became the rhythm of our songs. As for me, I only vaguely knew even The Internationale, which troubled me. When I recognized the song my comrade tapped out, I responded by tapping back in the same rhythm as a signal. During that time, the neighbor stopped their own and listened. And when mine ended,

Thud, thud, thud……………….

He thudded back—and with that, the wills of us two comrades became fully united. In the solitary cell where each identical day stretched long and tedious, this repeated gesture occupied a surprisingly significant place among the day’s events. Having heard how some comrades had spent ages using these wall-thumping methods to exchange names, relay messages, and establish contact, I too tried altering my thumping rhythms—lengthening intervals here, compressing them there—but none of it worked right.

We comrades tapped on the walls for each other at waking, at sleeping, when planes came overhead, when feeling spirited, when sneezing, and during “our red days.”—Just as the bourgeoisie had their various “flag days,” now too did Japan’s proletariat possess their own “red days”! Yet there remained one galling frustration. It was that the neighboring comrade knew “our red days” far too well… No—that wasn’t quite it. If he knew them, then I certainly knew them just as thoroughly without yielding an inch. The truth was, whenever those dates arrived, I always found myself beaten to the wall-tapping—the neighboring comrade seized the initiative every single time. This time I’ll strike first without fail, I’d vow while waiting—only to be outmaneuvered again when the day came. September 1st, October 7th—and most bitterly of all, “November 7th”—he’d beaten me to every one.

That day—the morning of November 7th—the moment the wake-up bell’s clangor rang out, stomping and wall-tapping erupted in every last cell. The four walls of the solitary cell were bare concrete, so the sound resounded with a deep, muffled boom.—A whistle sounded. From another direction, a bold singing voice arose. The moment I woke up, I stomped my feet and pounded the wall. My face flushed, and tears welled in my eyes. And before I knew it, I was shrugging my shoulders and raising my eyebrows.

“Meal prep—ready!” I had been waiting for that. At that exact moment, both guards and laborers were at the cell farthest from mine (No.19)—No.1.—I suddenly rushed to the window, gripped the frame with both hands, and with a grunt braced myself to heave upward. Then pressing my face between the iron bars, I shouted outward: “Long live the Russian Revolution!!” “Long live the Japanese Communist Party!!” Raaah! The voices rose from somewhere—indeed from opened windows of cells on the far side. They were shouting something over there too. My chest pounded like a rapid bell.

When the meal cart reached my cell, this time I heard someone shouting “Long live the Russian Revolution!!” from the farthest cell—around No. 1. The guard wore a troubled expression.—Someone was whistling *The Internationale*... I left my meal untouched—excited, I stood rooted to the spot for some time.

It was just around the time when meals were finished.

The sound of two or three people clattering down the deck-like upper corridor echoed. A cell was violently opened somewhere. And then someone seemed to be dragged out. Suddenly, a tangled chorus of shouts erupted. The sound of bodies scraping across the floor echoed, followed by a stifled, dull voice—as if someone were being choked.—In an instant, every cell that had been clamorous moments before fell deathly silent. I lifted my chopsticks halfway and remained frozen there, holding my breath.

Then—at that moment, someone suddenly tapped the wall. That was the trigger—this time, as if exploding, everyone began stomping their feet and pounding the walls.

The comrade who had valiantly fought through our November 7th was taken away, shouting something at the top of his lungs all the while. We did not stop stomping our feet until his voice grew distant and faded from hearing.

Court Appearance

On a cold winter morning, the guard peered through the peephole with only his eyes visible,

“You’re due in court today.”

said the guard.

After finishing my meal, I left my 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 guard checking my sleeve suddenly adopted a professional demeanor and pulled something out. I flinched involuntarily—but it was an amulet. “Oh, just an amulet.” I replied with relief.

The guard wore a vague, uncomprehending look, “Huh—?” “An amulet? …What’s it doing here?”

he muttered as if to himself. "My mother, she..."

When I started to say that, the elderly guard didn’t let me finish, “Ah, I see, I see—of course! What a waste!”

Having said that, he pressed it against my forehead. Then he carefully restored it to its original state and returned it to my sleeve.

“Alright, both hands out.” The guard clattered the handcuffs as he returned. He clamped them onto my wrists, which I’d held out together. The iron’s coldness pierced with a startling intensity. “Freezing!” I jerked my hands back instinctively. “Cold?—Ah yes, yes.” “Pull your shirt cuffs down.” “We’ll put them over that.” “Thanks! Go ahead!” “If your folks saw you like this—what an unfilial son!” “What an unfilial son!”

The guard’s aged fingers seemed to tremble—numbed by the cold—so he clattered the key against the keyhole, unable to slot it in properly. While facing him, I watched his shoulders hunched forward before me. There was another prisoner appearing in court that day. A small-statured, emaciated man whose pale lips had turned bluish from the cold. He seemed to be a comrade from “Daini Mushin”. I couldn’t help but ache to see the “outside” for the first time in half a year. After the prison van cleared the compound, we removed our woven hats and had them open the window curtains.—Year-end approached, the town clamoring with decorations. Here and there, brass bands blared noisily.

When we left N-town for Nakano, that sluggish Seibu train line had somehow become double-tracked, and once it rained, the churned-up roads had turned completely to asphalt. The fact that I had been sitting there for such a long time struck me with fresh vividness upon returning. We had especially arranged to detour through Shinjuku on the return trip; the vehicle turned right from Yodobashi, emerged at Yoyogi, and raced through the Outer Garden of Meiji Shrine. We pressed our cheeks, foreheads, and noses flat against the windowpane, doing nothing but look outside. When I saw movie posters plastered on the back of a blue bus, the comrade beside me said, “Once we’re out, the first thing I want to do is see the movement.”

The anachronistic Diet building was mostly completed. We peered up at that spire from the window. Near the summit, what remained of the scaffolding stood out sharply against the clear blue winter sky. “You see that? That’s your dear old Metropolitan Police Department, you know.” The guard grinned slyly and opened the left-side window a bit for us. The other comrade and I briefly exchanged glances. Speaking of the Metropolitan Police Department, I had once read an interesting novel.

It was about laborers working on the construction of the Metropolitan Police Department’s building—apparently, one of those laborers had declared they should make this structure extra sturdy. However, his comrades jeered at him: "Cut it out! Aren’t you just tightening the noose around your own neck? Better do a half-assed job while you can!" Then, that laborer,

“Don’t talk nonsense! Once we seize power, that place will become the C.P.’s headquarters! That’s why we’ve got to make it as splendid and sturdy as possible right now—something that won’t break from a few knocks!”

the laborer said. That was the gist of the story.

Even I, who hate novels, had found those words so interesting that they’d remained etched in my memory.

On the high scaffolding of the Metropolitan Police Department, laborers with coils of rope hanging at their waists were working... I could see them making small movements there. That day, after finishing the preliminary hearing and being put into the car again, I was struck by an indescribably unpleasant feeling this time. When coming here, even so, I had been buoyant. Shinjuku was still bustling. When we saw a beautiful woman flustered in front of the car, we were delighted.—But why were there so many "women" walking about? And when I was out in the world, there had never been so many women walking about. This struck me as strange. Women, women, women… Our eyes, until they ached, kept searching out nothing but women from the bustling crowds….

The distance to the prison was shrinking. We exchanged all sorts of jokes along the way. But both of us steadily fell silent. “We saw the town… and now we’re sitting here again…” I blurted out just that. And then I fell completely silent. By now, the prison van had passed under the national railway overpass and entered N-town.

This year, too, had only five days left.

*Solitary Cell Ditty* “……Ever since I read Dostoevsky’s *Memoirs from the House of the Dead* the other day, I keep imagining my brother enduring those endlessly long days in that dark prison—unable to sleep—and I truly wish I’d never read it.”

“But every time I visit, you’re goofing around—laughing so loudly it’s unlike someone in prison—and every letter you write is full of carefree nonsense.—I simply can’t understand why.” When I read this letter, I burst out laughing. What idiot would equate Dostoevsky with proletarian warriors? I too remembered laboring through that book long ago. True enough—to humanitarians this place might seem anguished, grim, and devoid of salvation. But the Proletariat, who never lose sight of tomorrow, stay “bright” wherever they’re kept. They even whistle nonchalant ditties.

Occasionally in the hallway, I would encounter other "woven hats." With just a single glance, we could immediately tell whether they were comrades or petty thieves or robbers. There he’d be—woven hat flipped back at the nape, shoulders swinging wide with each stride—a comrade through and through. He stood in stark contrast to the other criminals shuffling about with downcast eyes, perpetually hunched forward as if expecting a blow.

Far from it—the menial laborers had told us—some of our comrades were designating specific spots in communication rooms and exercise yards, using them to exchange “repo” with fellow solitary cell comrades and even creating something called a “Prison Central Committee.” For instance, they were attempting to link up with external “Moppur” contacts to connect with actual movements outside, while internally uniting everyone to try submitting demands for “improved prison treatment.”

No matter where those bastards seized us and tried to shove us, we never ceased our activities for even an instant. When people spoke of "solitary cell," "solitary cell," it might ring as though it were some hellish place. If there existed anyone who feared being thrown into that place and consequently considered hesitating in our movement, then I swore by God—(though saying "God" felt odd)—

“Truly, I’m such a carefree one,” he said.

First off, I would sometimes start singing in my solitary cell while mimicking the familiar movements of a bon dance—

Solitary cell—yoisho, Whoever you are—O-ide,

Heave-ho!

………………

Postscript: There are still so many stories about Taguchi. This is but a small part of those stories. I hope to have another opportunity to introduce them one by one in the future. (1931・6・9)