Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Theodore Roosevelt’s acquisition of presidential hegemony in 1902, spanning two terms until 1909—alongside the fierce struggle for supremacy among W. McKinley and W.H. Taft before and after his tenure, a rivalry hailed as a blizzard of petals in North American political history that still lingers in public memory whenever occasion arises—coincided precisely with the trinity of university football championships among Washington, Philadelphia, and Harvard, which stirred Midwestern fervor to even greater heights. Yet such festive events, needless to say, vanished like dreams and likely left no trace in global sports history.
For those matches were entirely ancillary to the political battles of the three presidents of the time; in origin, they were merely a “university festival” to extol the champions.
Philadelphia University, representing the Pennsylvania region, supported Taft; Harvard University from New Hampshire supported McKinley; and Washington University, as Maryland’s representative, supported Roosevelt.
In the winter of each new year when this auspicious match was held, it was customary—needless to say—for the sitting president to attend and personally present the victory cup.

During President McKinley’s term, “W” University and “P” University pressed Harvard; during Roosevelt’s term, “H” and “P” positioned themselves against Washington; and during Taft’s term, “W” and “H” frantically sought to overthrow Philadelphia with such fervor that finally, an unreasonable trend arose—one where even these match outcomes threatened to influence the Presidents’ popularity.

When “W” University crushed “P” University and successively defeated Harvard in 1898 and 1899, President McKinley’s arm trembled with sorrow as he attempted to present the victory cup—a rumor spread that this very act cast the shadow of defeat over the next general election.

The genesis of this story must be drawn from an episode in the autumn of 1904—a scene of W University players encamped at their riverside training lodge by Port Mac.
The previous winter, they had defeated Harvard and pressed Philadelphia only to suffer a regrettable defeat.
Furthermore, two years prior, they had suffered the bitter experience of a crushing defeat all too easily.
President Roosevelt had, for three consecutive years since the start of his term, been awarding the "melancholy victory cup" to "H" and "P."

Resounding through the dawn sky, free—

The bell rang,

O Port Mac River’s dream of glory!

Our youth’s eternal victory

…

This was a verse from W University’s newly created cheer song—rumored to have been composed following an encouraging letter sent from the White House’s secretariat to their training lodge—but to them, it felt like nothing more than an ironic blow.

“Should we be defeated in this match, come dawn we shall stand upon the precipice where we must inevitably cede next year’s participation rights to Columbia University.
Is it not the height of grief and indignation to even imagine such defeat in our dreams?
Was it not our true oath—rather than wandering Alaska—to wish for the fragments of our lives to become a blizzard upon the Port Mac River?”

In the hall of the training lodge, a manifesto that Captain Jimmy had boldly penned with a red ink brush was posted beneath the president’s portrait.

“Jackie… Will your tuxedo be ready in time for tonight?”

The rugby players, having finished practice in sleet-laced rain, returned to their lodge drenched like rats. They showered more thoroughly than usual, and some even took up their razors once more.

“Well, you see…”

The young man called Jackie—his freshly washed auburn locks hanging heavily over his forehead—vigorously jerked his head back using only his neck and groaned theatrically. He was a navigation student named J.L. Hamilton, though “Jackie” served as a nickname shared by every one of his comrades.—“It’s been three weeks since then, yet it still haunts me...”

“Well then, for tonight’s film screening, you’ll have to serve as the operator again—there’s no other way.”

“Ben, don’t be so mean—just for today, you handle the operator job for me.”
“Truth is, I promised we’d settle Roland’s feelings toward Henry and me today.”
“Which one?”
“We’ll ask her straight out, I say.”
“And depending how that goes, our friendship’ll either step onto a new path or fall off the edge…”

“Hah hah… How enviable.”
“Still, my coat stays mine forever—no chance it’ll ever do you any good.”

“Must I blow this lonely whistle in the corner of the waiting room once more, like a crow on a cold day… Ah, how bitter it is!”

The tall Jackie grabbed the round shoulder of Ben—nicknamed Waterwheel Horse—and struck a grand pose of lament.
“If only I could get permission to work at W Daily News for three days—even half a day each—then I’d be saved in an instant from this emptiness of being tormented by such cheap worries… Ah, ah—.”

“So where exactly did you do all that high-rolling, Jackie? Depending on how you confess, I might just make time for you to go to the Daily News office.”

Suddenly, Jimmy called out from beside them.
Under ordinary circumstances, students facing shortages of spending money had the option to earn daily wages by becoming temporary employees at the W Daily News newspaper office whenever needed; however, players who had entered the training period were expressly prohibited from doing so.

“No…”

When Jackie realized the other party was the Captain, he managed a wry smile and turned red.
“It was just a little commotion at the soda fountain—I got carried away sympathizing with Henry’s patriotism and popped open three bottles of champagne… Not that I’m making excuses, mind you.”

Then Jimmy burst into bright laughter and clapped Jackie’s shoulder.

“So you too? If I said I’m in the same state as you tonight—then you’d feel reassured, right? After all, patriotism has no price.”

The much-discussed Henry—Hiroo Otsu—was that evening again at the foreign department of the Daily News, straining every nerve as a temporary telegraph operator.
Diplomatic relations between Japan and Russia had already been severed: General Kuroki’s First Army had landed at Chinampo, while General Oku’s Second Army assailed the Liaodong Peninsula and took Jinzhou Castle.
Hiroo’s youngest brother Yukio Otsu, serving as a first-class private in Kuroki’s vanguard unit, was scattering sparks in the fierce battle at Shahe.

Hiroo Otsu was a student in the Department of Telegraphy at Washington University’s School of Engineering and simultaneously a member of the football team; however, owing to the special consideration of teammates who sought to support his patriotism, he was permitted to adjust his practice hours and take on night shifts at the foreign department.
He was by no means the first Japanese student at the school around that time; however, precisely during a period when his compatriots had vanished both before and after, ever since the war began, he could not help but feel it an honor to suddenly begin being regarded with special attention by those around him for no other reason than being the sole Japanese.
Even when walking through the streets, he would be asked to shake hands by strangers or showered with praises like “Very bright!” from female students,

“Very bright!”

Being showered with such praises also gradually became more frequent.
Every time he received news of the Japanese military’s victories at the newspaper office, he was surrounded by many employees and treated as if he himself were a war hero.

“The hall’s already prepared, and we’re about to let the spectators in soon—how’s your side coming along?”

It was a call from Jackie.
Hiroo had been assigned the role of commentator at the training lodge’s hall, carrying with him the second dispatch of “Japanese Film” that had arrived from Japan.
At the training lodge, it was customary to select one night each month for the players’ recuperation and host a tea party inviting their parents and friends; however, in recent instances they instead screened actual war footage films and magic lanterns provided by this newspaper company.
These were held in public halls across towns as well, but the training lodge’s screenings—rumored to feature a Japanese student’s commentary—grew increasingly talked about.
Requests for Hiroo Otsu to provide commentary came from various film societies, but as students were prohibited from appearing before general audiences, the magic lantern shows at the training lodge became ever more acclaimed.

“Where are you now?”
“Jackie, you must’ve gone out already—couldn’t wait, could you?”

“That’s right.”
“Calling from Roland’s fruit parlor.”

“Don’t worry—I’m about to collect this week’s wages.”

“…And Jimmy’s share?”

“The money couldn’t wait.”

Hiroo laughed.
—He raced his bicycle from the newspaper’s back entrance to the Jewish pawnshop and retrieved three tuxedos.
After the previous lantern show, they’d been forced to remove their coats at the fruit parlor’s second-floor café—having drunk far more champagne than their tolerance allowed in their excitement over Hiroo’s commentary that evening.

“Henry, your eloquence wasn’t something you were born with, yet that commentary of yours was more splendid than our President’s speech denouncing the Republican Party.”

Jimmy and Jackie, having presented such grand praises for Hiroo and for the brave Japanese military—in their fervor, ended up pawning their only good coats.

“The goodwill of us letting you work—ending up becoming our drinking money instead—is a bit contradictory, isn’t it?”

Jackie, slipping his arms into the coat he’d finally retrieved, said, “Thanks to this, I didn’t have to become a technician.”

Jackie gave a wry smile.

“After all, patriotism has no budget.”

Hiroo also laughed, uttering the catchphrase.
With Roland at their center, they drove the carriage toward the training lodge.

The hall of the training lodge was full before the scheduled time.
The students, uniformly dressed in jackets with black satin collars that gleamed, were utterly consumed with attending to the guests.
The secretary-general of the official residence appeared incognito with his family in tow—such was the event's success that word reached the waiting room of Theodore's own son and daughter being among his companions.
Hiroo listened to the music club members' rendition of the "Military Nation Song" as if in a dream while devoting himself to memorizing the commentary script.
Even then, from audience seats already primed for his appearance, cries of "Henry! Henry!" grew increasingly insistent.
He—rather than attributing this fervor to his past commentary skills—felt himself buckling under an immense responsibility, crushed by the weight of being scrutinized as a brave representative of Japan during this pivotal era.

The program began, as usual, with magic lantern portraits of the Japanese and Russian commanders, followed by the listing of countless names of unnamed war dead.
Then, in sequence, fragmentary motion pictures capturing scenes of transportation from both nations’ armies were projected.
Hiroo appeared at the podium with a single artificial cherry blossom adorning his chest and, in the dimness as thick and still as the water’s depths, began his lecture with measured deliberation.
Because his memory was exceptionally remarkable, he had only glanced at the manual and recited it two or three times in the waiting room; once he appeared on the podium, he spoke in rhythm with the screen without the slightest error in dates or numbers, his tone gradually infused with a tragic passion.

“…First, to outline the Russian military’s formation: their combat headquarters advanced to Siping Street as the central command. Across the eastern flank, General Kuropatkin’s First Army—comprising 160 infantry battalions, 47 artillery companies, and 84 cavalry companies—was deployed along the frontlines. In the plains from the central sector westward to the Liao River, General Kaulbars’ Second Army—176 infantry battalions, 42 cavalry companies, and 68 artillery companies—was stationed for defense. Beyond the Liao River into the Greater Mongolian region, Lieutenant General Mishchenko’s forces—48 cavalry companies and 3 artillery companies—prepared for a last stand. From Hailongcheng to Beishanchengzi, Lieutenant General Rennenkampf’s units—42 infantry battalions, 24 cavalry companies, and 14 artillery companies—were positioned to guard the flanks. Along the entire Gongzhuling front, General Bilderling’s Third Army—128 infantry battalions, 48 artillery companies, and 12 cavalry companies—was deployed. As strategic reserves, Commander-in-Chief Linevich’s newly transported troops were dispatched. Thus, their total force stands calculated as a vast army of 538 infantry battalions, 219 cavalry companies, and 207 artillery companies.”
“Their forces were roughly three times the size of Japan’s military. Moreover, whereas the Japanese units had reached a state where the majority of active-duty officers had sustained casualties, necessitating the mobilization of reserve and auxiliary officers, the Russian military’s logistical capacity—drawing upon the continent’s inexhaustible resources—held overwhelming superiority, with European line infantry arriving in unending waves.”
“Here, the vanguard of the Japanese military now finds itself like bees defying tens of thousands of flying dragons. They have steeled themselves for bloody battle, resolved to strike down a thousand enemies with a single cavalryman, driven solely by blazing resolve. Ah, will God indeed bestow His grace upon this eastern isle where cherry blossoms bloom?”

Oily sweat streamed from Hiroo’s forehead.
When he uttered his final words and took a breath, the hall erupted in cheers loud enough to shatter.
Upon the whitish screen now appeared a train packed with troops departing for the front, sent off by elementary school students waving Rising Sun flags, billowing thick black smoke as it advanced southward through the Tokaido landscape.
...From the train windows, soldiers departing for the front leaned out their upper bodies, shoulders overlapping as they responded to the cheering crowd seeing them off.—Hiroo gazed obliquely up at the screen,

“Thus, while Russia still embraces within its homeland an incomparably vast military force, we have already exhausted every last soldier at our disposal—and find ourselves in a state where we can no longer easily replenish the many officers and soldiers lost since the war’s commencement.”
“Whether assuming a defensive stance by remaining seated or taking the offensive by advancing, the path ahead stretches endlessly, with no hope of easily regaining peace; all one can do is watch humanity’s form, where even clouds grow darker each day as they contend.”
“But behold—what meaning does the beautiful smile upon Japanese military personnel’s faces convey to your eyes…?”

As he continued, both the commentator’s tone and the audience’s cheers grew increasingly fierce, nearing the peak of frenzy.
Before they knew it, many of the spectators
“Banzai…… Banzai……”
Having memorized these words, they raised voices of support.

“Banzai…… Banzai—Pull hard! Pull hard……”

Standing amidst such commotion—where voices blended indistinguishably with those of the crowd sending off the military train onscreen—Hiroo found himself growing intoxicated by a resolute dreamlike state, no different from those now boarding that very train to depart for war.

Far away—under the thatched roofs of Hiroo’s hometown, a magic lantern show was also being held. Spanning two ten-tatami rooms, small Rising Sun flags and regimental flags made by children crisscrossed from transom to transom. In the alcove, beneath the sacred portrait scroll, hung portraits of Generals Nogi, Kuroki, Oku, and Togo, while atop the armor assembled on the metal-fitted cabinet lay a sacred rope. And the lamps burned ceaselessly, day and night. The elderly housewife Tai, having counted the one hundred and fifty stone steps, was devoted to her prayers at the Marishiten Hall on the back mountain for the Ushi no Koku Mairi—the Hour of the Ox prayer ritual. To Yukio, her youngest son on the Manchurian plains—Become a noble guardian spirit of the nation, unsullied and pure—his mother conveyed through the gods. She, though unaware of why her eldest son Hiroo—who repeatedly informed her in letters of his battles in America, staking his life to uphold honor as a Japanese—framed his struggle as akin to an “exhibition match,” nevertheless prostrated herself before the gods for its victory.

The tatami room was filled with neighborhood children, spilling into the hallway; by the garden pond, a bonfire was lit, leaving not an inch of space among the old and young spectators, while four or five craftsmen in happi coats adorned with deer antler crests hoarsely devoted themselves to managing the crowd.
The artificial hill had just the right slope, and since they could look down directly at the screen hanging from the ceiling on the far wall, it was so crowded that they laid out straw mats to create seating.

The north-facing six-tatami room behind the screen—separated by a round window—had been the study of Taro and his cousin Teruo, but on magic lantern show nights served as both music room and orator’s waiting room.
The narrator was Manjuro Hattori, president of the Shonan Newspaper, who boasted a tiger-like voice and beard he proudly claimed as his own—a man who even ordinarily wore a crested cotton haori with its white cord, long as reins, tied around his neck.
“Manju—Manjuu…” When such cheers arose from the crowd, he—

“Is this my true name you call, or some derisive nickname?” he would confront them, making a habit of halting his lecture until hearing the reply: “No! No!” When he reached his proudest zenith, he performed a self-composed sword dance during lantern show intermissions.

The music department consisted of a trio—Taro’s organ, Mr. Keraa’s accordion, and the moon guitar of Taro’s young mother. Mr. Keraa, an elderly Englishman and missionary at the town’s Methodist church, had taught Taro both organ and English conversation.

“If Taro reaches school age, have him enrolled in the local elementary school...”
Hiroo, Taro’s father, had been writing letters containing such instructions to his parents and wife since before Taro even turned three years old—detailing his meticulous and far-reaching hopes on every possible occasion. Above all, he fervently insisted that once the boy began speaking, they should systematically teach him English conversation as a regular habit.

“Mom—am I really going to America all by myself soon?”

When Taro imagined this, he would be drawn into vague, unceasingly lonely thoughts—as though he were some mysterious figure—while reassuring himself that those around him could never actually carry out such a thing, or else excitedly anticipating it; this habit seemed to have naturally made his seven-year-old self acquainted with melancholy.

“Do you want to go—Mr. Keraa will be returning home via America soon—if you truly wish to go, we could ask whenever a ship carrying Father’s friends comes to Yokohama.”

Oha said that and stared fixedly at Taro’s face.—Taro always found that gaze terrifying with its inexplicable bluish intensity; how should he answer to avoid displeasing his mother?
And so, against his will, he could think of nothing but that matter.
Oha had been laughing in good spirits until then, but it was not uncommon for her demeanor to suddenly shift and for her to plunge into a frenzied state.
Just when she seemed to be playing the koto alone, Taro’s footsteps happened to pass by there; deeming them disrespectful, she flew into a rage, violently disrupting the instrument and letting out a shriek.
Therefore, even when playing the organ at the magic lantern show, he was most concerned about his mother’s state as she played the moon guitar, stealing sideways glances.
When his mother closed her eyes and immersed herself in playing without distraction, he felt relieved—his fingertips grew free, and he was able to play a well-timed bass line.
With the outbreak of war, the rumors of Mr. Keraa’s return home died down, and when Taro—now eight years old—began carrying his school satchel, his conduct grade from the first term remained a B, a mark he could not redeem even by graduation.
Though he wasn’t particularly mischievous, his lack of composure during class—a nervous disposition as if constantly glancing left and right—was the reason for the B grade, according to his grandfather, who had been a town office treasurer.—

When Manjuro Hattori had finished outlining the general state of the battle as usual,

“First, everyone—let’s give our all in roaring out the Expeditionary Army Song against Russia—”

He struck the lectern with all his might, ordered “Lamp…”, then signaled to the music department with a “Ooh…”.
The American-made glittering oil chandelier—designed to vanish when its chain was pulled—disappeared like an illusion amid the audience’s “Waaah—” of fervor, as the crudely projected Rising Sun flag scene by technician Teruyoshi burst into resplendent color.

“Begin… Now!”

Manjuro Hattori raised his clenched fist and roared like a true tiger.
The music surged ahead, and soon the entire hall—young and old alike—stomped and clapped with such exaggerated solemnity that one might have thought blood-mist would rise from their fervor. A chorus of unparalleled intensity swelled up, its force nearly sufficient to blow away even the ponderous thatched roof overhead.

〈Even should the enemy number tens of thousands—they are no mere rabble! Yet even if not a rabble, our side holds righteous cause; evil cannot prevail against that which is just…〉

II

Manjuro Hattori carried his five-shaku frame—which he proudly declared to be "an iron-clad body forged through sword dance and drenched in patriotic tears"—(though his actual height was indeed five shaku [~150 cm], he resembled a stout Hotei statue weighing seventeen kan [~63.75 kg]) and took charge of conducting the grand chorus. He had somehow leaped to the very center of the screen and, bathed in a perfectly round spotlight like moonlight, kept time with flamboyant movements that could be mistaken for a sword dance.

“Mom, look—please look! Mr. Hattori is so…”

The music had been overwhelmed to something as faint as insect chirping—stopping the performance made no difference—so when Taro whispered to his mother beside him, Oha too lifted her gaze toward the back of the screen.

“You take the cornet…”

Oha pointed to the new cornet resting atop Taro’s bookshelf.
Grandfather Einosuke had purchased it at Jujiya on Ginza Street during his recent trip to Tokyo for the Red Cross Society’s general assembly. Though Taro could effortlessly play military songs on it, one day when Oha watched him practice—his cheeks puffing so excessively he looked unlike himself—she had burst into raucous laughter that grew louder the more skillfully he played. Since then, he had hesitated to pick up the instrument in his mother’s presence.

“But… Mom laughs, you see.”

When Taro hesitated, Oha sharply retorted.
“This isn’t the time to be saying such things.”

To that shrill rebuke, Taro would always surrender without a retort.
On the wall above the bookshelf hung a Washington University pennant sent by Hiroo—purple with white lettering—and in the dim light, the cornet emitted a brass gleam.
Taro, relieved by the darkness where he couldn’t discern people’s faces, picked up the new instrument.

“You may be small, but your lung capacity is just fine. Blow with all your might in time with the shadow pictures.”

Mr. Keraa continued playing the accordion while urging Taro on, and Oha took over the organ. After all, had they not rearranged their formation in this manner, even the music department members would have been on the verge of suffocation amidst a whirlwind.

〈We have resolute hearts…〉

As the resonant blare of the cornet suddenly rang out, the chorus summoned an even fiercer hurricane of sound, surging forth as if seizing this moment as their last stand.

〈The persistence of resolute hearts…〉

Manjuro’s chest extended down to his abdomen, and he pounded his bear-like chest as if to shatter it, striking a grand, exaggerated pose.

〈For the stone, there was the arrow that stood; for the arrow that stood on the stone, there was…〉

Mr. Keraa, Oha, and Taro each poured their souls wholeheartedly into their instruments and became utterly engrossed. Mr. Keraa walked about here and there holding the organ, and Taro blew a particularly strained semitone with all his might, piercing the tragic darkness. In the pauses between songs and breaths, when the sound of Taro’s cornet trembled, voices of sobbing flowed from all around.

“Extra—Extra—”

The clanging bells raced through the thoroughfare like a gale.

And then—on the screen appeared boldly written characters in red ink, vivid and dripping.

“Fall of Port Arthur!
“Our Forces Achieve Decisive Victory”

January 1, 1905—.

People had neither New Year’s celebrations nor awareness of their ages; their tears transformed into a torrential snowfall that buried heaven and earth.
In that seaside town blessed with refreshing southerly winds, snowflakes as large as peonies—unfamiliar even to the elders—fell ceaselessly through the night.

General Nogi’s Third Army, having crushed Port Arthur, turned north toward Mukden.
The Oku Second Army, which had attacked Kinchow from the Liaodong Peninsula and turned northward, annihilated General Kuropatkin’s Port Arthur relief force at the strategic pass of Te-li-ssu.
The Kuroki First Army crossed over the Korean Peninsula and charged straight into the heart of Manchuria.
Nozu’s Fourth Army covered the gap between the First and Second Armies, aligned its flanks with the Third Army under Commander-in-Chief Oyama to capture Liaoyang Castle, and shattered the newly transported enemy line infantry in a sacrificial rout at the Battle of Shaho.—Here, the undefeated Japanese forces united their final reserves and launched a massive advance toward Mukden, where Kuropatkin had reformed his ranks with 600,000 troops to avenge their string of defeats.

In Taro’s seaside town too, amid days that dawned and duskened to the clangor of “extra” news bells and funeral marches for the war dead—and nights that seethed like a boiling cauldron with lantern parades’ victory revelries and choruses of marching songs—the snow on distant mountains at last melted away, their purple slopes gleaming sleekly.
Taro’s house was designated as an office handling victory banquets following magic lantern shows and daily funerals for war casualties, and a telephone was installed.
None of the household members dared use it, hesitant and fearful; they could only watch in breathless amazement alongside the neighbors who gathered to gawk as President Hattori and the town hall officials called Tokyo.

“Is that—the telephone ringing?”

Even late at night, whenever the bell rang, Einosuke would panic greatly and could not help summoning the Hattori household across the bamboo thicket—though they were considered neighbors.

“This time, it’s Yukio’s turn!”

And he, resigned to his son’s death in battle, chanted Buddhist prayers each time.

“Grandfather lacks courage—blood will out, I suppose.”

When Einosuke started at the telephone bell, Tai and Oha would say such things and scold Taro.
Einosuke had been adopted from the vicinity.

“Quiet! Do you think I can endure listening to this?—I’m waiting for Yukio’s death in battle!”

As father of a deployed soldier, he had temporarily entrusted town office duties to others and secluded himself in his private office under the title of Town Military Affairs Director.
Whether in sorrow or joy, the sake cup never left his fingertips.
He would crouch in the detached sitting room—its walls papered with Manchuria maps and holding a large globe—only dozing against the armrest when the sake had circulated.
He persisted, telling himself he couldn’t stretch out to sleep until Mukden’s total assault concluded.

On the map were drawn red lines tracing the Japanese Military’s advance routes, with flags erected at each occupied location. He had not yet reached sixty years of age, yet at first glance appeared to be a man of about seventy. Sitting cross-legged on a chair hung from the hook of a rice-bale scale, he tested his weight periodically using three men’s combined strength until his flesh wasted away to around eleven kan—roughly forty-one kilograms—sighing that at this rate he’d end up as taut and hollow as a scarecrow by Mukden’s fall. When he tried singing noh chants, no vigor remained—he laughed weakly, comparing himself to a balloon.

“Once the war ends, I’ll straighten my back properly—stand firm with nothing but my bare self.”

When his mood grew despondent, he would have Taro blow the cornet or listen to Manjuro’s poetic recitations, then rally his spirits through drink before sallying forth to the pleasure quarters, indifferent to the disapproving frowns of his wife and daughter-in-law.
When Kinchow Castle fell, he released scarlet carp from his garden pond into the old fortress moat; upon hearing of Port Arthur’s decisive victory, he dedicated the ancient five-needle pine from his yard to the shrine’s inner garden.
This was the renowned pine tree celebrated as the finest in the county, its branches stretching outward like multiple wings forming conical shapes that tiered downward in stair-like layers.

“If Mukden falls, I’ll donate the cherry tree by the gate to the school.”

Einosuke kept saying such things. Even on ordinary days when he associated with Manjuro and others—after all, Hattori was a notorious political activist who took pride in having served penal sentences—Tai and Oha had disapproved. Yet thanks to the war, everyone had lost the leisure to pass judgment on private affairs, and thus for the first time, Einosuke’s assertions began to take hold. Einosuke’s heart seemed to harbor an excitement—as if to vent his long-standing resentment on such an opportunity.

“If it’s for the war…”

Whether it was Tai or the rest, there had been no reason for them to be stingy.
“How can one think of household matters now—this is fundamentally a time like the Meiji Restoration—”

“Exactly! Exactly!”

Einosuke pounded his chest and became elated.
“It’s not just soldiers fighting this war!”

The problem with Grandfather was that—though he lacked real courage—he kept spouting grandiose words through clenched teeth. Worse yet, whenever he glimpsed another’s face, he’d strike absurd poses as if flaunting himself as some magnanimous soul—like a third-rate country performer, the very height of vulgarity. Oha would often furrow her brow and warn Taro: “If that man ever snaps to attention, we’ll be in real trouble.”
When thus admonished, Taro too saw it clearly—Grandfather’s figure, buoyant with drink he normally scorned; usually fussy yet tongue-tied before others; now suddenly transformed into a garrulous braggart—all struck him as viscerally repulsive.
Yet when men of higher station—a governor or parliament member—appeared, he’d panic so pitifully one could scarcely bear to watch, acting like a man possessed.

“Taro—hey! How dare you walk right past the Governor without a greeting, I say!”

Einosuke shook his head fiercely and glared, but there was not a shred of dignity in either his voice or demeanor, and Taro remained perpetually like the east wind to a horse’s ears.
Einosuke’s chin was unpleasantly sharp and elongated, the Adam’s apple on his slender neck jutting out like a hammer’s tip.
Before the Governor—a bloated figure Taro had secretly nicknamed “Pufferfish”—he would fumble at stroking his absurdly long chin with an air of forced composure, then laugh—*ehe…*—in an ingratiatingly flat tone never used around his own family or juniors.
Then the pointed Adam’s apple quivered in minute tremors, abruptly bobbing up and down.

“Well, with my eldest son having been absent these many years, I’ve been compelled to make this grandson my proxy for the time being…”

Such introductions had grown commonplace, yet Taro always wore a sullen expression, refusing even to bow as he stared fixedly at Grandfather’s bobbing Adam’s apple. When sufficiently drunk, he would rail about how his wife Tai and daughter-in-law Oha put on airs—“Know your place when looking down on others!”—but none feared him; rather, his posturing became mere comic relief for all present. Yet late at night, swaying like a shorebird, he would peer into Taro and Oha’s bedroom—

“Taro, you’re such a good boy—won’t you sleep with Grandpa tonight? I’ll buy you anything you want.”

When teased like this, Taro let out a scream of terror from the depths of his heart and leaped into Oha’s bed.

III

The Yaezakura cherry tree at the gate was an ancient tree with a hollow large enough for Taro to hide in its half-rotted trunk—a withered thing that seemed unlikely to bear flowers anywhere—yet when the season came, it still unfurled fresh blossoms.
But even as Taro saw it day after day, he simply couldn’t believe this was a tree that would bloom again this year—only the absurd memory of those evenings when they spread felt carpets on the grassy shade beneath its boughs and gazed up at the night blossoms remained, fleeting as a theatrical dream.

“By the time the war ends—will we have left this house and moved somewhere else?”

Following his grandmother—who had gone out to prune peach branches with buds just beginning to swell—Taro asked as they passed beneath the cherry tree.

“How can one know what will happen when the nation itself may perish?”

Tai straightened her back and gazed absently at the cherry tree.

"Even you, Taro, wouldn't think this is a tree that blooms again, would you?"
"It must look that way to everyone—a tree that would appear in a tale, wouldn't it…"

Tai muttered such things.

Tai often recalled—drawing from tales of pre-Restoration wars—the time when her father and brother had died fighting at Hakone checkpoint. “Truly an ancient cherry tree!” she would muse with profound emotion. The bell tower’s bell had tolled ceaselessly, day and night—so Tai recollected. When the tolling ceased—the signal that enemy forces had finally pressed in—the boys’ army gathered in the bell tower and desperately exerted their arms to ring the bell, bolstering their allies’ final morale.

"Was Grandfather also among those who went to strike the bell then?"

"No, he wasn't from the castle town..."

Tai indeed showed a bitter expression.
At last, the tolling of the bell ceased, and she joined the throng of refugees crossing the northern hill and abandoned the town with her mother.

“Even as Mother scoffed, ‘What will you do carrying such things?’ I defiantly stuffed the pair of imperial dolls into a bag and set out.”
“After all, I was fourteen at the time.”

After the marriage arrangement with Einosuke was settled in Otowa Village, their refuge, she arrived in the town she was never meant to return to—during the season of young leaves—in a procession of palanquins.
Einosuke had originally been named Kinsuke Otowa but changed his name upon being formally adopted.
Even recently, when old guests from the village carelessly called him “Mr. Kin,” he would inexplicably flush red and involuntarily glance around.

For the seasonal festivals, it had been customary for a pair of large old dolls—the very ones Tai had brought back at that time—to be displayed on Oha’s tiered doll stand, but this year, with the military affairs office occupying the space, there was none of that usual bustle there.
Even so, only on the eve of the seasonal festival did Tai arrange peach branches she had pruned in a vase; then Tai, Oha, and Taro hid in a corner of the storeroom and secretly lit a small red paper lantern.
And as the three of them—huddled closer than usual like sparrows—listened to Tai’s recollections while passing around sweet sake, Einosuke suddenly thrust his head in,

“What’s this—hiding in a place like this? This is no joke!”
“Here’s a letter from America!”

He brought in a parcel.
One was the usual newspaper, and as Taro unfolded the New Year’s color-printed supplement—where lithograph illustrations kept appearing one after another—he suddenly exclaimed, “Ah!”
He cried out in astonishment and grasped his mother’s hand.
In the dim, faintly red glow of the paper lantern, both Tai and Oha—who had been listening to Oha’s attempt to read the letter—simultaneously turned their eyes to where Taro’s finger pointed.

“Dad’s photo is in here!”

“...Indeed, this is certainly Hiroo’s face!”

IV

At the dawn of 1905—on the day of the tri-university football match held at Port Mac Stadium—a mist-like drizzle had been falling since morning, through which the serpentine procession of spectators pressed forward, forming a line that soon stretched nearly two miles.
The grand procession circled the stadium and overflowed into the town, and a force of five hundred police officers was mobilized to manage the crowds.
The ticket premium was raised by one dollar every thirty minutes and scrambled for among the crowds—so reported the W Daily News.

In the national flag seats of the main stand, T. Roosevelt had been sitting since thirty minutes before the match’s start, his pince-nez glinting as he surveyed the stadium’s scene while appearing to listen with an air of “anticipation and unease” to W University’s alma mater, which had begun playing slowly.
As it was customary for the sitting president’s university team to occupy the central stands regardless of victory or defeat, W University—though having suffered four consecutive years of defeats—still kept its purple school flag fluttering atop the central pole’s pinnacle.
In the Philadelphia supporters’ seats on the right wing, Candidate McKinley—a soft cap pulled deep over his eyes—sat fixing what seemed a nervous gaze.
P University was last year’s champion school, and with the approaching spring presidential election season, they were spurring their hopes for conquest.
On Harvard’s left wing, Candidate Taft—as if brimming with confidence for the coming electoral battle—sat with a seemingly leisurely smile upon his plump double chin, wafting cigar smoke into the air. That the 1905 football season had drawn such extraordinary popularity was self-evident: it coincided with a presidential election period to be conducted under the imperative of arbitrating the great war turmoil in the East.

“Henry—give it your all. Let me say it again: we chose you as this year’s regular because we’re covertly capitalizing on how you, as a lone Japanese, draw curious eyes from all quarters. It’s the mere fact of being Japanese that’s propping you up as a warrior—not your skill as a player.”

In W’s waiting room, Captain Jimmy once again cornered Hiroo and showered him with such words of encouragement.

“That honor’s a life-and-death matter!”

Hiroo put on his helmet, rubbed his shoulder, and bit his lip.

“I wish I’d been born Japanese too.”

Jackie, who had yielded the F.W. position to Hiroo, gripped both his shoulders and shook him.
“This being our final year—our last stand before graduation—even someone like me can’t hold out much longer. The only thing I can resign myself to is finding some happiness in the fact that this Japanese man here is my friend Henry—that’s all.”

No sooner had they exchanged these words than a clarion trumpet blared from atop the main stand, signaling the match’s commencement.

The teams from W University in purple and white uniforms, P University in maroon and yellow, and H University in green and crimson each emerged from their respective entrances, led by brass bands, lined up before the national flag seats, and awaited the president’s handshake.

Roaring applause erupted; instead of calling out the universities’ names, they shouted their respective candidates’ names, while from the supporters’ seats came a barrage of colorful epithets hailing the players’ gallant figures.
Among them rose cries of “Japanese!”
The shouts of “Henry!” climbed highest.
The first match commenced as a contest between W and H.
Before long, voices cheering for Hiroo of F.W. began arising from somewhere,

“Cherry blossom petals!”
“…The Spirit of Cherry Blossom…”

With no one knowing who had started it, they scattered like a snowstorm.
Of all the players, Hiroo alone lacked injury insurance.

P University had been the previous year’s champion, and H University the champion two years prior. In that day’s first H versus W match—judging from their performance over the past two or three years—no one could have failed to expect H’s victory.
Though spectators had anticipated sating their appetite with a P versus H showdown, W initially found themselves gradually pressured—until the latter half, when W, having fortified their endurance, scattered sparks like lightning and effortlessly crushed their formidable opponent with a decisive 16–24 score.

At this moment, Taft of the H side involuntarily bit through his cigar and hurled it to the ground.
The W supporters, having witnessed an unexpected landslide victory, rose as one with a triumphant roar and—unmindful of the icy wind that had just ceased its cold rain—danced wildly, even shedding their coats.
Even the bespectacled gentleman in the national flag seats could no longer contain his broad smile, patting the shoulders of his secretaries on either side and whispering something to them endlessly—or so it appeared.

W University had likely obtained the opportunity for the second round for the first time in five years and thus earned the honor of facing the formidable Philadelphia team.

“Henry… S.C.B…”

Even among W’s players who had withdrawn to the waiting room, Hiroo’s nickname—picked up from the crowd’s earlier cheers—was now being fervently bandied about.

“Henry—Roland’s at the door! I’ve surrendered all my love for her and can’t help but bless you. Your efforts now are sufficient—they’re worthy of that.”

Jackie threw his full strength into embracing Henry. “Go receive Roland’s kiss—I’ve discarded the scales of love I weighed against you for her, and I can’t help but become a bystander to your affair—Henry.”

He remained agitated, making no attempt to release Hiroo.

“Jackie, we’re about to enter the second round—we don’t have time to be burning with such agitation.—Wait, forgive me, Roland...”

Hiroo waved his hand toward Roland, who was trying to rush to their side, and dashed into the waiting room.

“But that was our promise—”

Roland, wearing a lily-adorned bonnet, tapped the floor with a stick tied with a purple ribbon and called out, but Henry was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ve already given up on you.”
“With that momentum, even the second round is probably ours.”
“To feel such joy in giving up love—it’s a miracle.”

Jackie took Roland’s hand and hummed the Port Mac March. “Even so, Roland—which of our affections have you indulged in more until now? Even I can’t help but ask such a question at a time like this…”

“Ha ha ha! Poor Jackie—!”
“If I knew that much, there wouldn’t have been anything left to discuss in the first place.”

Roland left behind a playful wink as she departed.
The crowd gradually parted—so compelled were they to turn and stare—for Roland’s figure radiated such striking elegance that she seemed no mere gaudy fruit parlor girl.
In the backstreets of W University, the nickname “Parlor Swan” carried considerable renown.

In the match between W and Philadelphia, completely defying the spectators’ expectations, W’s attacks were remarkable from the very start, and with a score of 5–10, W overwhelmed them in one unstoppable surge.
The advantage on W’s side that day was an invisible, utterly unforeseen momentum akin to splitting bamboo.
Finally, with a decisive score of 15–25, the stadium where Washington University had raised its banner of triumph seethed like boiling water—as if mirroring the immense popularity of Theodore Roosevelt, who would soon reclaim his seat in the White House’s grand chair during the coming general election—to such an extent that even the man in the national flag seats involuntarily removed his silk hat and raised both arms high into the air.
“The P side’s McKinley candidate,”

“Suffering such an unforeseen defeat is nothing short of a miracle. Just as in the 1894 election when I triumphed despite P University’s defeat in that previous campaign, perhaps I should regard this loss as a harbinger of happiness.”

While muttering such things, he carved deep wrinkles into his brow and retreated dejectedly.

Many photography teams swarmed from all directions to capture the honored figures of W University’s players returning after five years. Leading newspapers such as The New York Times, Chicago Tribune, Boston Daily, and W Daily News featured in their New Year’s supplements a color-printed scene of the W team being overcome with emotion as they received the President’s Cup from their party’s Theodore. Among them, the Times and the W Daily News included a full-body photograph of W University’s FW alongside it.

“The uninsured player—the Japanese H. Otsu—fought so valiantly that day that one could not help but feel as though witnessing the Yamato spirit of Japanese soldiers who had utterly lost themselves in Manchuria’s battlefields.”

“The rare fighting spirit of the entire W team appeared to foster a peculiar unity through his extraordinary agility.”

They carried such articles.
In one photograph, Henry stood between Jackie and Jimmy, arms spread over their shoulders, a smile radiating from his entire being.
In another photograph, he held a football under one arm and, having removed his helmet, raised one hand high above his head.
In yet another, he stood modestly beside the captain holding the championship cup, embracing a large wreath.

At the dormitory on the night of the victory celebration, the group was gathering in preparation to head out to Roland’s Parlor,

“Finally, we’ve got our chance to show Henry up,” and things like, “But Jackie must be suffocating.”

They were saying such things, but for some reason, Henry did not appear.

Hiroo was in his second-floor room writing a letter to his hometown.

“Taro, you must be thriving ever more—though I haven’t held any of your drawings lately, with Port Arthur fallen, surely our town now bustles with life. This time, please draw scenes like the Port Arthur Blockade and Lieutenant Colonel Hirose to send me. Our team has won its first victory in years today—I’ll mail the prizes I received, so display them in the tokonoma. From afar I pray without cease: guard well the lives of Grandfather, Grandmother and Mother; nurture that valiant spirit within you.”

Hiroo had not yet told anyone about his wife and children back home.
He went with the elated group to Roland’s Parlor while remaining vigilant—careful not to let himself fall into any traps.
Roland’s bewitching smile remained vivid behind his eyelids like a photographic print, but when he thought of his wife and children back home—realizing he must steel himself especially on such a night—he continued writing his letter.

After finishing the letters to his parents, wife, and Taro, Hiroo thought that now he could go out without causing any missteps—and as he did so, he felt a faint intoxication from the fluttering in his own chest.
Perhaps because he had been too tightly wound without time to send word for so long, whenever he noticed that somewhat emotional phrases had been woven into the letters—the maelstrom of countless emotions in his heart remained something words could never fully express.

Though the evening had barely passed eight o'clock, the players had all gone out, leaving the spacious dormitory as quiet as a dream.
The silence left not a single speck of sorrow's dust in any corner, so divine in its clarity that it seemed to fill the heavens.
The church clock tower visible beyond the square from the window stood silent in the hazy glow of a crescent moon, while the sky above the bustling street opposite blazed so fiercely it seemed aflame; when he strained his ears, the clamor of the town resounded like a great mountain stream.
Wondering if the cheers of his elated companions were mingled within that clamor, Hiroo found himself imagining each friend's figure anew—a reflex born of associating it all with his homeland's victorious night—and could not help but brace himself against Japan's great difficulties looming ahead.
The assault on Mukden following Port Arthur's fall was an unbearable anxiety.

In his letter to his father, he wrote: “I am now on the verge of leaving academia’s nest, but having already obtained the means to support myself by working at the W Daily News telegraph department while attending school, I will soon be in circumstances that allow me to remit funds sufficient for Taro’s education. Therefore, there will no longer be need to send tuition fees. I wish to reserve these funds entirely—should my younger brother Yukio, now deployed, return safely, they shall serve as welcome expenses; and should he meet the honorable death he desires, they may contribute to funeral arrangements—to be kept as a brother’s consideration.”

In his letter to his mother, he conveyed first the joy of his eldest son’s victory in the glorious match—a testament to his mother’s heartfelt wish reaching across the distance—and wrote with pure gratitude that her prayers would surely extend to Yukio in Manchuria as well, ensuring that whether in life or death, he would serve honorably.
And to his wife Oha, Hiroo had written of his hopes until the day of his return to Japan and about Taro’s education—but becoming too emotional, with yearning words and homesick sentiments overflowing too openly and becoming unbearable, he rewrote it to express only his wish to return home immediately after graduation.

Hiroo felt that quietly writing these letters was more fitting than anything else for today’s victorious mood. Even as he faced a busy time ahead—one that had left him no moment to recall his hometown’s mountains and rivers—he now found himself vividly recollecting the light beneath thatched roofs. He could not help but consider this too a gift of victory. The Taro Hiroo knew was still a toddler who could not even toddle properly. Yet he had already turned nine and sent drawings and letters he made. Three or four years earlier, I had received word that electric lights had finally been installed there. In the house Hiroo remembered, paper lanterns and bamboo-tube lamps were used; snow-viewing lanterns lit hallways when one walked through them. “In my hometown,” I told my friends, “they’ve only just gotten electric lights around this time!” Their eyes gleamed with curiosity as they exclaimed enviously, “How quaint—such old-fashioned charm!” That Christmas, Jackie had given him a beautiful oil chandelier adorned with cut-glass decorations. Promptly, Hiroo arranged sturdy packaging and sent off “The Joy of a House with Electric Lights for the First Time.” The house in his memory was so dark that recollecting Taro’s night-crying habit amid paper lantern light became nearly unbearable.

“Henry, you there?”

Suddenly, Hiroo heard Jackie’s voice from below the window, calling his name with unusual hesitance.

“That’s quite a long letter.”
“If it’s a request for celebration funds, wouldn’t two or three lines suffice…”

“Hey, Jackie—are you so steeped in victory fever you’d say such things? Had you known my country now balances on a razor’s edge of war, you couldn’t utter those words.”

Hiroo nevertheless answered in a tone matching Jackie’s cheer.
“Finding modest joy by this quiet lamp has its own charm, Jackie. Why shout from down there? Won’t you come up?”

“You know there’s a rule here at the dormitory—we must ask you to refrain from receiving ladies’ visits—come down at once.”

Jackie said this and disappeared toward the back gate.
Hiroo, clutching the letters and the package addressed to Taro, chased after Jackie without even putting on his hat.
When he slipped through the side door and reached the backstreet corner, Jackie and Roland were waiting under a blue gas lamp.
The moment she saw Hiroo—in a tone that wasn’t at all displeased—

“Henry, how could you keep us waiting like this while calmly writing letters? And then you couldn’t even manage to come meet Jackie and me properly…”

she pressed.
Jackie and Roland were in such an ecstatic mood that even the time they spent waiting there felt too precious to spare.

Instead of responding to her, Hiroo placed a hand on Jackie’s shoulder and spoke in a strangely breathless tone.

“The affection Roland holds for us is perfectly balanced, and when we made that promise to recognize each other as fiancés under certain circumstances—well, since I’m a foreigner, I had already in my heart clearly respected you as her spouse by then. As I am the closest friend to both of you, all three of us should be able to find happiness.”

“What kind of nonsense are you spouting now? (He’s using Greek now? Ridiculous.)”

Jackie turned red and laughed.
“Let’s hurry to Swan’s house—Jimmy, Ben, and everyone else are waiting. No matter how shy you act today, the groom is none other than you.”

Even though it was merely a hypothetical scenario for a one-night victory celebration’s entertainment, Hiroo flinched as if burdened by considerable shame, astonishing his two friends.

Hiroo could not help but deeply dread encountering Roland on such occasions and in such a manner.

"As repayment for you conceding today's FW position to me, I want you to substitute for me in tonight's entertainment—and so that it may become your everlasting happiness..."

Hiroo felt exhilarated even by his own words in such situations, so much so that he couldn't bring himself to meet Roland's gaze.

"Aren't you pleased, Jackie...?"

"...It's certainly a pleasure."

"What about Roland?"

"Love doesn't require budgeting either."

And she too nodded with solemn gravity.

Foreigners received some degree of special treatment, but generally within W University's athletic department, married individuals were absent as an unwritten rule.
Moreover, there had been no reason for them to exist.
Hiroo had not yet told even Jackie about his wife and child, as there had been no particular need to do so.
Being pitied over such matters gave him a constricting sense of shame.

Five

One evening, as Taro was in the back study gazing at his father’s photographs arranged on the bookshelf along with the medals and trophies he had won, lost in imaginings about what kind of voice this father in the photographs might have had when speaking or laughing, his mother—who had been unwell since the previous day and lying in the adjoining room—suddenly:

“Ah… I simply must die.”

She muttered such words clearly.
Was that delirium?!
Taro's heart pounded as he stared at the sliding door.
Just moments earlier, when he had peeked in quietly, his mother had been sleeping soundly; as he convinced himself it must have been sleep-talk, he heard the same voice again, followed by a faint escaping sob.

“Mother—what’s wrong?”

Taro quietly slid open the sliding door and called out.
“Are you hurting somewhere? Should I call a doctor?”

“Ah… you were there—Mother is… Mother is…”

Oha’s cheeks were freely drenched in tears, and by the drawn-up corners of her eyes, Taro immediately discerned it was his mother’s usual inexplicable illness.

“Taro—what will you do if Mother dies?”

“…………”

Taro could not possibly answer such a question; just as he had been told by someone that people who say such things do not die, he was not particularly surprised.

“Why are you silent?”

Oha suddenly sat up and grabbed Taro’s shoulders.
“Will you die with me?”

“…………”

Even so, Taro did not flinch further.
For Oha, such occurrences were common.

“Why do you say such things… Mother?”

“No—it’s because I wanted to test your courage.”

Oha pressed closer with renewed defiance.

“It doesn’t matter either way.”

Taro truly was in such a state of mind.

At that moment, at the entrance,

“Welcome back—”

The voice of the rickshaw driver announcing could be heard, followed by the commotion of Einosuke, who seemed thoroughly intoxicated.
He was in such a drunken stupor that he could barely stand on his own two feet, and—

“Yukio hasn’t died in battle yet!”

He kept repeating this over and over.
He would eagerly await casualty reports until finishing his daily office duties, yet once he finally left work, he never returned straight home anymore.
On two or three occasions, Taro had been sent by Tai’s order to fetch his grandfather from town restaurants.

“For us too, each day’s life is a gamble. If you claim your life’s been extended another day, who could stay composed?”

“If we reach Liaoyang, it’ll be just one final push—so how could we possibly count on tomorrow, I ask you—!”

Einosuke and Manjuro Hattori had hit it off splendidly, striking poses as though crossing blades.

“No smoke to be seen, no clouds either...”

He shouted in his own peculiar, unsettling tone as he stumbled into the entranceway.

“Ah… I’m terrified of Grandfather’s drunkenness—Taro, run away with me!”

Oha abruptly jumped up and without pause forcibly pulled Taro's hand, running out from the back gate into the alley. It was a mansion-lined path under a hazy moon, hushed and still. For Taro, why his mother had so suddenly begun trembling at Grandfather's voice remained utterly beyond his comprehension.

Oha hurriedly grabbed an old-fashioned hood and wrapped it about herself as they went, keeping Taro buried beneath the long gray woolen shawl that trailed past her haori while she ran at a trot along the dark path lined with stone walls. It was that hour when lamplighters bearing ladders at dusk darted about like bats to light the gate-side gas lamps—lamps already grown threadlike and teetering on extinction.

“Mother, where are we going?”

“…To the sea.”

“What will we do when we go to the sea?”

“I’ve been crying all through the night…”

“I don’t like this.”

“Then… if it’s with Mother… would it be all right to rush straight into the sea’s depths just like this?”

“As for me, I don’t know whether that’s good or bad…”

Taro had once been taken to Tokyo to see what was called a patriotic play, where everyone wept at a scene of a mother and child about to die; yet when he observed from nearby how even the grandmother and mother were steadily shedding tears more than they did at the play itself, he had instead felt sad. Now, suddenly recalling this, he sensed they were in a scene quite similar to that one—but for some reason, he did not feel sad at all.
The two were caught by the lantern of the pursuing rickshaw driver who had gone ahead and lain in wait at the row of willows along the canal bank.

To Taro, it was utterly perplexing why his grandmother and mother could not endure lamentation or found terror in Grandfather—who sang with such fervor and grew so passionately drunk for the war’s sake. Rather than that, what made Taro anxious was imagining how Grandfather—who turned jumpy at every telegram from the battlefield—would panic if a notice of death in action were to arrive even tomorrow. Once before, when Hattori and Einosuke were exchanging drinks at a teahouse, Taro had been sent to fetch them, but Einosuke seized Manjuro and—

“I no longer feel alive at all—I just think of Yukio, wanting to forget even for half an hour or an hour—that’s why I’m drowning in drink.”
“I simply can’t bear to stay cooped up in such a gloomy house.”
“As if the wives would make a fuss—why would I be distracted by women at a time like this? …And then they send someone to fetch Taro…”

Einosuke had tears welling up that he had never shown at home and clawed at his chest.

“Women can never comprehend a man’s perspective.”
“At any rate—raising hell with vigor, keeping up the din—awaiting glorious victory is our very last life now.”

Manjuro ordered the geisha to dance.
Three or four beautiful dancing girls drew toy swords and performed a war dance.
As Einosuke watched such things, wasn’t he shedding large, trickling teardrops?

“It couldn’t be helped if the Otsu house collapsed, but they couldn’t stop worrying whether Grandfather could keep up such spending.”

Tai and Oha waited night after night for Einosuke, who came home late and dead drunk, doing nothing but sigh as they anxiously awaited his return.

“We’re taking the wrong path.”
“At a time when anyone would abandon everything…”

Oha, too, was biting her lips.

The two who had been caught by the rickshaw driver—with Oha stubbornly refusing to return home—had the vehicle’s prow turned toward the rural outskirts of town.

“Mother… forgive me…”

When Oha spotted the figure of a rural mother, she collapsed in tears at her knees.

Taro alone was made to ride in a two-man rickshaw and returned to his own home late that same night.

Six

The elementary school students were in their midday break, right in the thick of their playtime.
At an unusual hour, the bell of Ōtemon’s bell tower suddenly began to toll deeply and resonantly, and with that, alarm bells all around began to be struck in unison.

“Is it a fire…?”

“No…”

“There’s no sound of fire engine pumps.”

The group had just quieted down mid-play when—without anyone in particular beginning to speak—

“Russia’s attacking!”

Such a commotion broke out.

At the same time, over two thousand children raised feverish screams—Waaah!
—Waaah!
they surged into commotion.
Those fleeing barefoot, those wailing for parents, those standing frozen and pale—in an instant, the entire playground blazed with desperate shrieks like a school of fish ensnared in a vast net.
In the sky, the alarm bells grew ever more urgent with each passing moment, rising higher and higher, showing no sign of ceasing no matter how long they rang.

At that moment, the teachers who had gathered in the second-floor classroom raised small Hinomaru flags in their hands and began shouting at the top of their voices.

“Quiet! Quiet! Mukden has fallen.”
“Japan’s great victory!”

From windows here and there, these voices were broadcast.
And then, the children’s collective breath—leaping from the precipice of terror to the summit of exaltation—

“Banzai! Banzai…”

A heartrending cry filled sky and earth.
Soon teachers down to janitors all rushed chaotically onto the playground, joining their voices to thunderous Banzai cheers at full volume—not one among them remained without tears streaming down their face.
From the town's far reaches too, identical voices surged up from every direction like a tornado.

Traces of that heavy snow still clung to the distant mountain slopes along the prefectural border like scattered peony petals.—On March 10, 1905, the sky shone with a bright, tranquil light that spread uniformly in all directions.

For Taro, upon now learning of Mukden’s fall, what came to mind before all else was Einosuke’s figure.

"What had become of Grandfather?"

Einosuke’s state in this situation was something Taro simply could not imagine.

“Since the Principal will now address you, everyone must first enter the classroom quietly—Quietly, quietly! Form orderly lines and reassemble on the playground.”
“Hold hands firmly with those in your group and enter the classroom without haste.”
“Japan has won, you see.”
“General Kuropatkin has raised the white flag and surrendered.—Everyone must calm down without fail.”

Even as they uttered these words in attempts to soothe, the teachers’ very voices trembled.
The uproar from the swarm of children—who had raced in an instant between the precipices of chaos and elation—showed no sign of abating easily.
From one edge of that turbulence,

“Class A, Second Year—Taro Otsu! Taro Otsu!... Answer in a loud voice, please!”

Someone called out.
When Taro let go of his friend’s hand and went out, the rickshaw puller—who had been guided by the janitor to meet him—had immediately received permission to leave early and was told to hurry back home.

“The Great Victory at Mukden—And Our Forces’ Casualties: Countless—The Number Still Unaccounted For.”

Upon learning of this report, Taro’s grandfather Einosuke—

“Did we win?!”

At the very moment he laughed, he collapsed from heart paralysis.

Taro did not know what Oha’s illness was, but when the cherry blossoms bloomed, she returned from some countryside with a pale face.
Even before that, Taro had,

“Where has Mother gone?”

He had often asked his grandmother, but Tai—

“There’s no reason for you to worry about such things—please don’t ask. She’ll be back soon…”

and only clouded her face.

At the Otsu household, relatives commuted daily to the town office’s revenue section to settle residual affairs, and Oha—having finally regained her health—began making daily visits herself with document bundles in hand. After all arrangements to relinquish the five-needle pine estate were settled, it was decided that funds could be obtained to secure a new residence.
Amid rumors that smoke from the Baltic Fleet had been sighted offshore, the town remained caught in a darkly swirling whirlpool of unease, and even at the Otsu household, moving was out of the question.

“When I heard the sad news about Grandfather, I immediately began preparing to return home, but due to certain circumstances, it has been decided that I will remain here for the time being and continue my duties. My workplace is what they call the communications office at the President’s Mansion, and my job involves handling various telegrams. With the Russo-Japanese peace negotiations reportedly set to be announced soon, we were bustling with such vigor that we had forgotten everything else. You too, with that in mind, must apply yourself diligently to your studies.”

Every time Taro received such letters from Hiroo, he would read them aloud in a loud voice to his grandmother Tai.

“No matter where he lived—if only he’d think of it as being for the country—I’d find peace.”

Lately Tai had grown fragile with tears at even slight things.

With news of the great victory in the Japan Sea arriving soon, people’s euphoria reached its ultimate peak, showing no sign of abating,

“Mediation has come from the American President—it seems the war will finally end!”

A cheer was raised.

At Taro’s house as well, they decided to secure a plot of land in Oha’s family mulberry fields and relocate a portion of the old house, promptly beginning preparations for the move.
And honoring Einosuke’s final wishes, they donated the ancient double-flowered cherry tree—now sprouting fresh buds—to the elementary school’s grounds.
The old tree lay across three connected carts and, accompanied by the rousing rhythm of workmen’s chants, was transported to its new location—a journey of merely fifteen or sixteen *chō* that took two full days.
The ancient tree bearing young buds appeared to quiver with vitality in the bright May light each time it was pulled by the oxcart—propelled forward with poles—along its path.
Around when the cherry tree was relocated, Oha began teaching in the music department at the same elementary school.

Oha wore a long purple hakama and commuted to school with Taro every morning.
Taro realized that the gloomy complexion that had until now been discernible in his mother had vanished without a trace—she now appeared so youthful one could scarcely believe she was a mother—

“Surrounded by sea on all sides

“Our Yamato, our Akitsushima…”

While singing such songs, she found renewed vigor.
Taro breathed in the morning air as he walked to school hand in hand with his mother, matching his steps to hers—refreshingly, like water.

“To defend against external enemies—”

When Oha sang,

“On land, cannon blossoms; at sea, warships—”

Taro shouted in a loud voice. The path from the new house—descending into town over a small hill of bamboo groves and grassy slopes—proved ideal for chorus singing. Yet Mother now refrained from being first to mention “America,” and whenever Taro carelessly let it slip, she would reveal a faint unease too ambiguous to call sadness—so the phantom of the father he’d never met instead folded itself deep within his chest, sharp-edged and aching.