Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Shima Kenzaburō The sky above Sunset Hill began to take on color. There was still some time before nightfall. But the room's interior was already dim, sinking into profound stillness. A stillness unimaginable for a second floor housing close to ten men. The wind seemed to have picked up. On nights when all lay still, it was this same cold February wind that would cross over the sea—its distant howl audible even here—race across unobstructed plains, and come lashing directly against this solitary house on the high plateau. Blowing fiercely, its residual force entering through the narrowly opened window's gap caused several posters hung on the wall to rustle dryly. People shivered from the cold, yet drawn into some hazy reverie, they listened intently to the course of the wind that made the house creak as it blew away into the distance.—

No one rose to turn on the lights. Those leaning against the wall, knees drawn up as if in silent agreement and lying face down upon them. Those stretched out on their backs with eyes closed. Their statue-like postures—utterly motionless—seemed to embody the very story of that fierce existence into which they had poured every last reserve of vitality over more than a month. Though they were too spent to even open their mouths, what then of this strained atmosphere that permeated every corner of the room? In truth, their silent hearts now swelled with but one shared expectation—that very expectation into which they had staked everything in this all-or-nothing moment without remorse—threatening to burst. The urge to speak felt oddly restrained now. Even as they remained thus, time pressed steadily onward. For that final moment, they steeled themselves against the frantic energy surging within, clamping down on overflowing emotions as they writhed in anticipation. Had it been an expectation impossible to rely on from the start, they might have remained untroubled. In truth, initially they had found meaning simply in waging the struggle with all their strength, not necessarily fixated on victory or defeat. But midway, the situation had taken an unexpected turn for the better, and as time advanced, it even revealed an unstoppable momentum. It resembled the relentless push of a rising tide. Precisely because it was something all had initially abandoned and ignored, now that reality suddenly offered a chance to grasp it, their determination not to let this slip away grew all the more fierce. The sole question was whether that momentum could carry them through to the very end. That was the feeling—this suffocating, maddening urgency—in the instant just before that question would be answered.

“Damn, this is taking forever. What the hell’s going on?”

When one of the men who had been lying face down suddenly raised his head, he finally released a voice he could no longer contain alongside a thick sigh. Simultaneously, the room abruptly burst into commotion. The tension shattered; they drew breath in relief, then suddenly vibrant volubility began gripping the people.

“I’d think we’d have heard by now,” said one of them, raising his arm to check his watch. “What time are they scheduled to finish counting all the votes?”

“It was supposed to be around four o’clock—but there’ll probably be some delay.”

“Right about now, that messenger guy’s probably pedaling his bike like mad, fidgeting with some good news,” one of them said with a laugh.

"Hey, everyone, let's go," a man suddenly declared in a loud voice, standing up with a violent clatter. It was one of those who had been lying sprawled out at length in the middle of the room until then. When he stood up, he abruptly began swinging his arms. "How long can we just sit here like fools staring at each other's faces?" "Let's all get going!" "What a damn irritation to miss the final act of the vote count!"

“Shall we go?” two or three others chimed in.

"That won't do," a young yet composed voice interjected as if restraining them. It was the man in the mouse-gray jacket.

“Why not?” “Why? Because we can’t just leave the office completely unmanned.” “So then, why don’t we leave one person on watch?” “Don’t spout such childish nonsense. What do you think we’re maintaining this standby position for? We’ll know the results sooner or later. Isn’t this exactly so we can formulate our strategy based on those results and rush off to our respective assigned districts at once?”

“Hmph, talking all high and mighty now,” he grumbled, flopping back down where he’d been lying. “It’s like having a feast dangled before us only to get crumbs.” The men burst into laughter, then as if suddenly remembering his words, turned toward one wall. Posted there was a table compiling results their messenger had brought two hours prior from the vote-counting venue—city hall four ri away. Shimada Shinsuke: 4,685 votes! He remained the runner-up. A mere three hundred votes separated him from Nakagawa Seiya of the Seiyukai Party, the lowest-ranked elected candidate. The critical question was what changes had occurred in that margin during the intervening two hours. Could they close the gap—even surpass it? The possibility existed. Not some wishful fantasy, but a real prospect rooted in concrete grounds—precisely why their minds raced compulsively toward this single hope. When the initial report arrived, several villages still hadn’t been counted. Among them were Kojima, Soeyama, and Maekawa in Maeda County—three villages forming the Proletarian Party’s bedrock that had elected Shimada. More than strongholds, they were essentially synonymous with the poor farmers’ union itself. Kojima’s eligible voters: ×× Soeyama’s: ×× Maekawa’s: ×× Of these, ×× were confirmed union members... One of the prone figures abruptly sat up. He rummaged through his coat, producing a pencil and notebook. For what felt like the hundredth time that day, he prepared to lose himself in arranging hopeful predictions across paper.

The wind passing over the rooftop fell away into the distance. There was a brief lull before it returned. At that moment came the sound of something scraping along the road in front of the house. A metallic clank followed by footsteps rang out. They had barely pricked up their ears at what sounded like a bicycle when the smoothly sliding front door opened.

With a shout, four or five people formed into a single mass and hurried down the narrow staircase.—

Brushing aside hands that were practically on their shoulders as they all spoke at once, the young man in Kakawa clothes led the way up the stairs. "How was it? The results?" the man immediately following behind said. "Tch, putting on airs like that," the last man to climb the stairs muttered.

“Sugimura?” The young man searched with his eyes. The young man in the mouse-gray jacket appeared right before him. Taking out a scrap of paper from his inner pocket and passing it into his hand, “Lost,” he said in a low voice, just a single word. In the face of great joy born of matters fraught with considerable apprehension, some kind of artifice is often employed. There are many such cases where people do not present facts directly as they are, but instead temporarily disguise them as their opposite to make the joy they bring even greater—and all the more so now, for the one who had brought the report was a nineteen-year-old youth whose eyes had always been restlessly active. The people had expected such things from him, and trying to read something entirely opposite from his single uttered word, they stared intently at his eyes and mouth. That facade would begin to unravel at any moment… Yet no matter how much time passed, the young man’s expression remained rigid.

“Hmm… I see,” Sugimura said while looking at the scrap of paper in his hand. Everyone crowded around him, shoulders rubbing together as they peered at what he held. Suddenly, Sugimura let out a shout charged with emotion. “What’s this? Even if losing was inevitable—Shimada’s not even runner-up! Shimada lost to Yamauchi.” “How did Yamauchi manage to pull ahead like this?” Then, declaring “I’ll read it,” he began to read—

When they finished listening, they stifled their voices. The outcome diverged miserably from their expectations. What had become of the votes from those three villages that were supposed to decide the outcome? How had Yamauchi—who had positioned himself as neutral between the two major parties while calling himself part of the peasant faction—managed to gradually gain momentum as the count neared its end despite his initially weak standing, ultimately surpassing Shimada? They no longer attempted to consider any of these questions. The exhaustion they had forgotten suddenly assailed them with twice its previous force. They wanted to cease all functions—thinking, moving, every activity—and simply let themselves sink into a quagmire of sleep. As if seeking that place, they looked around the room again. Once the sun set, darkness crept in with swift feet. The darkened interior remained exactly as left after being tidied that morning. Brushes, ink bottles, and papers lay gathered on a corner desk; the mimeograph sat boxed in its corner after years of disuse. In the center stood an extinguished firepot, its mound of wastepaper ashes towering high. To eyes accustomed to a month's impassable clutter, the empty room's spaciousness felt unnaturally desolate. When they saw posters—vehement words slashed in red ink—flapping noisily in the wind, their month-long struggle flashed through their minds instantaneously. The visceral realization that all efforts had been futile transcended rational thought.

What remained was only an overwhelming sense of collapse—dragging mind and body into an unknowable darkness—against which there could be no resistance……

Once more came the sound of the front door opening, and immediately a man came up. He was a man so tall one had to look up, with a solidly built frame.

“Ah, Koizumi,”

Sugimura shouted in a low voice and ran toward him. “What’s wrong?” “What are you doing?” “You haven’t even turned on the light.” The light came on, and they exchanged looks filled with complex emotions within the white glare. Koizumi stood there, looking down at comrades whose heads reached his shoulder level, gazing intently at each in turn. His face—deeply carved like sculpture—maintained its usual immutable calm, while the gleam in his eyes betrayed uncontainable excitement. Blood visibly rushed to his face. He had discerned exactly what emotions gripped his comrades. A sharp voice brimming with authority escaped his lips.

“What foolish things are you thinking about?!” “Not a single thing has ended yet.” “It’s only just begun… You know the work that needs doing. Everyone, get to your posts immediately.” He walked straight to the center of the room and continued in a brisk, businesslike tone: “We’ll coordinate future communications and meetings—then everyone returns to their assigned districts.” “Whether we win or lose, the village assemblies and rallies to report election results will proceed as scheduled.” “The exposé materials based on facts from this campaign are already being printed at prefectural headquarters.” “They should arrive tomorrow afternoon… And we will absolutely hold the anti-×× demonstration.” “The concrete plan remains largely as we previously agreed.” “The final decision will be made at tonight’s standing committee meeting at headquarters.” “We won’t announce the date until the last moment—so all of you must keep your mobilization structures firmly organized.”

And he quietly sat down there. This was in order to have a few discussions between himself, as the representative of the Standing Committee, and the secretaries of each district.

They followed Koizumi's lead and sat down to form a circle. The faces that had been blank until now seemed to revive, appearing to have regained their sense of self. They reexamined themselves—how their perspective on the struggle surrounding popular votes had unwittingly slipped into a mindset fixated solely on electoral victory. They saw the situation that had abruptly begun unfolding anew. And within that situation, they became acutely conscious of how they must act. With obedience born of absolute trust in what they had devoted themselves to, they followed Koizumi's directions, each voiced their opinions, and resolved what needed doing. It concluded in brief time. They stood up, hitched up their sagging Western trousers and fastened leather belts firmly, pulled hats low over brows, then hurried down the stairs to exit outside.

—

The last ones remaining were Koizumi and Sugimura.

“What about tonight?” Koizumi asked as he took out a small folded paper from his inner pocket and handed it to Sugimura. “Yeah, the branch chiefs’ meeting is scheduled to start at nine,” Sugimura replied, stuffing what he’d received into his sock while scrutinizing Koizumi’s face—now directly before him for the first time in a week. Seen this close up, his deeply lined face indeed bore vivid traces of fatigue, and one could immediately discern what was causing his mental strain. The two men exchanged a few concise words about matters they needed to discuss among themselves alone. Feeling something jostling, bustling, and surging within him, Sugimura barely managed to suppress it at his throat. On a personal level, he tried to articulate through clenched words the dissatisfaction and criticism toward the opinions and policies represented by Koizumi and himself—though these were fundamentally not theirs alone, but belonged to the organization as a whole. That which had until now germinated within Sugimura in an exceedingly vague form—now, upon witnessing facts that spoke of this policy’s evident failure—had abruptly taken on a clear shape. But in Koizumi's face, Sugimura saw something coldly resolute that would not permit giving that form as words to hurl. He did not so much as twitch a single eyebrow. (He’s trying to force it through again!) Was Koizumi truly feeling no internal conflict within himself? The defeat itself was not the problem; it was when its repercussions began taking on a terrifying direction...

Suddenly an ominous thought sprouted and rapidly swelled into something immense. Koizumi spread open his notebook as if he had already forgotten Sugimura’s presence and began writing memoranda.

“Well then,” Sugimura said as he stood up, walked to the stairs, and glanced briefly toward Koizumi. Something tugged at his heart. When he went downstairs, he found the caretaker youth fast asleep in complete disarray. Outside was dark, and the wind raged. He rode his bicycle about half a block and looked back; the house on the hill had just turned off its light.

He opened the front door and looked at the earthen floor—so many shoes there was no place to step. This surprised him. The hour was late, and he had thought today’s gathering would be half-abandoned, but realizing Onishi had managed things skillfully filled him with a grateful sense of reliability. As he pulled the bicycle into the narrow earthen area with a clattering noise, there came the sound of someone descending from the second floor. The person stopped halfway down, peering through the light leaking from above as if asking, “Who’s there?” When he replied, “It’s me,” Onishi came down exclaiming, “Ah, Mr. Sugimura!”

“You’ve had a long day—is everyone gathered?” Sugimura started to climb the stairs when Onishi suddenly lunged at him, firmly seizing his hand. Without a word, he began dragging him back toward the darkened entrance. “What’s wrong?” “What’s wrong?” Sugimura asked as he followed along.

“Mr. Sugimura… They say we lost,” came the voice—low like a whisper, yet frantic with the effort to choke down emotion.

“We lost. Nothing to be done about that, so...” “This is bad, Mr. Sugimura.” “Huh?” Sugimura said, jolting involuntarily despite himself. “The union’s gonna split if this goes wrong.” “What do you mean—” “They’re boiling mad upstairs! Half of them showed up drunk out of their minds, completely sullen. This ain’t just grumbling—they’re hurling every insult imaginable: ‘Think you can win elections sneering at us locals? Serves you right!’ They’re not even sorry we lost—taking downright pleasure in it! All that pent-up rage with nowhere left to go, so now they’re ganging up on me alone. Tonight’s meeting won’t settle anything. You’d best not show your face here, sir. Guess we messed up bad, Mr. Sugimura—pushing Mr. Shimada instead of a local candidate...”

“Shut up! “Enough of your nonsense!” Sugimura suddenly shouted. Startled by his unexpected agitation, Onishi fell silent.

But there in the darkness, Sugimura's face changed color. He had never imagined the anxiety he feared would materialize with such terrifying speed. The surroundings fell utterly silent—without needing to strain their ears—as the jeering laughter from upstairs rang out unmistakably different from usual. ……Sugimura hesitated. But he quickly regained himself and climbed the stairs with feigned nonchalance, as though he'd just arrived. Behind him came what sounded like Onishi whispering something urgent under his breath.

“Sorry about that—completely lost track of time!” The moment Sugimura slid open the shoji screen he spoke these words, deliberately letting his bag drop with careless force. He affected perfect composure through every fiber of his being—the very picture of someone unbothered by trivial matters—yet couldn’t stop his facial muscles from stiffening into an unnatural grimace. The instant the screen opened, all conversation inside died. Sugimura took his seat unacknowledged. In that cramped room where knees nearly touched across tatami mats, silence congealed into something unendurable—a dreadful wordless hostility. This became a contest of wills where breaking the silence meant defeat. —Sugimura broke first.

“What an unexpectedly fine turnout today... Let’s not bother with formal meeting procedures tonight—just exchange opinions about the election results and discuss future countermeasures among ourselves, shall we? “As for the losers—well, nothing to be done about that now.” As he spoke—Sugimura feeling his body pricked by countless sharp gazes—the organizer raised his face for the first time from its bowed position and fixed his eyes on a single point. The one meeting his gaze was none other than Ishikawa Gozo, seated almost directly opposite, staring straight at him without a shred of timidity! That face—twisted by a tangle of triumph, scorn, mockery and loathing—had found uncanny cohesion in revenge’s sweet satisfaction. Sugimura now had no choice but to bury his own timidity beneath an unstoppable torrent of chatter. Yet none responded; instead, they began chattering away among themselves with their own words and expressions.—

“We’ve gone and wasted a whole month frittering our time away like fools.” The one who exhaled a heavy, performative sigh through his shoulders was Yamada Sanji—the union’s political officer who also served as a party executive and had been one of the orator corps members in this election.

“Yamada’s still got it easy.” “He’s a man born with a silver tongue who loves giving speeches more than eating.” “This time—this very time—I’ve talked till I’m good and satisfied.” “First off, the work they’ve got me doin’ is all showy-like—” “—Look at me! Me!” “Made to sit at a desk all day long.” “Hands meant for hoes forced to hold brushes!” “Meal costs this much, labor fees that much, paper here, ink there—just scribblin’ numbers in the ledger.” “And none of it worth a damn—a whole month wasted.” “Every night comin’ home, legs numb as sticks.” “Even when I thought we might pull through if I kept at it—losing like this makes it all pointless.”

Kawakami Naokichi, who had been the election clerk, said this dismissively and flopped down. “Now now, don’t talk like that, Kawakami. You should consider it fate that your fine handwriting got noticed.” “Such fine handwriting is wasted on a farmer, after all.” “Well, aren’t I the lucky one to get such praise,” Kawakami laughed. “The daily allowance’s just on paper—doesn’t amount to a single penny—and we go and lose the election... Ahh, I should’ve become a Seiyukai orator like Tanaka and raked in the cash.” “If it’s gonna end up like this, even if I turn traitor, what of it?!”

In that final reckless line, there was something oddly genuine beneath its jesting, leaving everyone with thoughtful expressions. Left completely alone, Sugimura shifted his aimless gaze to a corner of the room. Then, upon seeing something unexpected there, his expression suddenly turned fierce. On the Seto ware brazier hung a kettle - though he only now noticed it - with a large-mouthed three-go sake flask of the sort common in rural areas submerged inside. The water roared as it boiled violently, the flask within gurgling with low rumbles. The alcoholic stench that had assaulted his nostrils upon entering came not just from external sources but internal ones too. The office's teacups lay scattered about, three or four thoroughly flushed men gathered around the brazier.

“You! What’s the meaning of this?!” An utterly unexpected matter became the catalyst that brought the people and Sugimura into conversation; after he had spoken so vehemently, Sugimura came to reflect on his own misfortune in this—but it was too late. The silent hostility had now, through this trivial chance occurrence as its medium, become openly apparent. “How about you stop drinking in the union office? Hmm? You—here of all places, we shouldn’t be engaging in such slovenly behavior.” “We also have to consider the impact on regular union members.” “If there were some celebration in the office, that would be a different matter.” “But today everyone gathered for a meeting, didn’t they?”

“Aw, come off it—we know that already! No need for you to tell us.” One of them spat out venomously. He thrust out his chin, letting a thin smirk creep across his face. What a wretched show of sulking defiance! Sugimura at last grew flustered and panicked. It was the shock of seeing a tame house dog suddenly bare its fangs.

“We didn’t gather here today for any meeting,” “We came for a celebration—that’s why we’re having a drink.” “A celebration?” “Damn right,” He smirked slyly, paused for effect, and—

“It’s the union dissolution celebration.” He blurted out, then chuckled softly.

Amidst the group's cold stares, Sugimura turned pale. When had his beloved comrades transformed into these malice-filled enemies... He had to stay calm, Sugimura thought. He was getting worked up and on the verge of lashing out. There was no need to pursue this matter any further. He would call off tonight's gathering.

He would avoid mentioning the election and leave things as they were for now—there was no other choice... Yet contrary to his resolve, they came charging in.

“Mr. Sugimura,” Yamada Sanji said at that moment. When making formal remarks, this man—who had once been a policeman—would adopt a “Mr.” form of address and switch to standard Japanese; it was his habit. “You proposed we discuss the election results earlier, but where do you yourself believe the root cause of this crushing defeat lies?”

“Well, there are various causes, but…” “Hmph. Various causes—first being [missing text], then the masses’ lack of awareness.” “Same old tune.” “Mr. Sugimura, you lot go on about self-criticism like a broken record, yet only ever critique what doesn’t sting.” “The reason for this election disaster—you all know it full well by now. But you’re too spineless to admit it openly after all your fine words.” “The defeat’s root lies nowhere else—it’s in the very foundation.” “In your decision to field Shimada Shinsuke as candidate.” “Shimada might be some bigwig party executive to you, but he’s a complete outsider here—ain’t he?” “What ties does he have to this prefecture?” “What connection to the locals?” “We knew from the start backing such a man meant certain loss.” “That’s why most of us here opposed it.” “We fought tooth and nail to put forward one of our own—recommended Mr. Ishikawa Gozo as candidate, him being the veteran of the peasant movement not just here but across the whole prefecture.” There, he shot a sidelong glance at Ishikawa Gozo beside him. Ishikawa sat motionless, gaze fixed their way. “Then you lot called it opportunism or vote-chasing—what rot! Since when do election campaigns not aim to win?” “At the secretaries’ meeting you orchestrated everything—cornered each Central Committee member till they fell in line for Shimada. Hijacked that day’s committee to suit your ends!” “Do you have any inkling how deep local pride runs in farmers?” “No—scratch that—how much do you really know about peasants at all?”

“The hell we do!” Kawakami Naokichi snapped harshly in response to Yamada’s words, then immediately continued. “To be honest—and I feel bad saying this right to your face, Mr. Sugimura—those secretaries have been overstepping far too much lately.” “You’re called ‘Teacher’ this and ‘Teacher’ that, but secretaries are ultimately just union clerks—clerks who get their pay from the union and handle paperwork.” “It’s bad enough they didn’t clearly define secretaries’ duties in the bylaws, but for them to stick their noses into everything under the pretense of being organizers is one huge mistake.” “Living in Tokyo or Osaka, dropping out of school midway, spending a year or two in the countryside—how could they possibly understand farmers—”

“Ah, enough with the excuses already,” Ishikawa Gozo suddenly interjected, magnanimously raising his hand in a restraining gesture as he spoke for the first time. Having let his comrades have their say while he himself watched the scene smugly without uttering a word, he stood up the moment he finished speaking.

“I’m headin’ out already.” “Ain’t no proper meetin’ happenin’ here anyhow.” Without so much as a glance toward Sugimura, he strode out of the room. The move resembled some prearranged signal. Those remaining rose in unison and trailed after Ishikawa.

Was this merely a coincidence? Was there not some remote cause behind how this had come to pass? Sugimura stood blankly watching their retreating backs, feeling a swarm of complex thoughts seething within him all at once.

Why had that region remained preserved as the last virgin land? The living conditions of the villagers there were in no way more blessed than elsewhere; it was thought to be primarily due to geographical circumstances. It lay far removed from the town housing the office; reaching it required ascending and descending several ri along a winding mountain pass road. One side was a sheer cliff face, while the other was a ravine where only the densely wooded treetops could be seen far below. The straight-running road had about five places where it suddenly curved sharply left and right. It was precisely because they knew every inch of that road through hard-won familiarity that riders descending the slope by bicycle late at night would paradoxically become prone to losing themselves in aimless reveries; in the blink of an instant when brakes would fail to catch, there would occur tragedies—invisible clouds of dust rising in the darkness as both bicycle and rider plunged into the valley floor—happening two or three times a year. It was likely these geographical conditions that instilled a somewhat detached sentiment even in those who maintained an office in the town on this side of the pass and worked to organize local farmers—they had remained entirely unconnected to such organizations until quite late.

But finally the time came, and one day volunteers from three villages in that county visited the town’s union office. After they left, the lamplight on the second floor of the office continued to glow a deep red late into that night. People were excited. They had long been aware that someone suitable needed to be sent; that very matter had now actively come forward from the other side today. Thus the hoe is driven into virgin soil. But who in the world had they sent to this uncultivated land? Even there, work was abundant and manpower was extremely scarce. The only person currently without a fixed position and learning the job was young Sugimura Junkichi, who had left school that spring and come to this area. The other comrades had already been settled in their respective districts for a year or two. Sugimura or those veteran comrades? People found themselves abruptly perplexed at this point. That the burden was too heavy for the inexperienced Sugimura was clear to everyone’s eyes. However, transferring comrades who had become even somewhat accustomed to that land was something that had to be avoided as much as possible—even more so with farmers than with workers. In the end, they decided to send Sugimura, bringing the debate to a close. Sugimura, youthfully eager yet reserved in asserting himself, had his wish accepted—that was how it came to be.

The next day, having been seen off by five comrades to the foot of the mountain pass, would Sugimura ever forget that day's purest emotion when he took his shining first step toward the mountain pass road?

“Thank you for your efforts this time,” said a fortyish man who had proclaimed himself the organizer, greeting the gathering of about fifteen people held that noon on the second floor of a modest village pub. At every pause in his speech, he interjected Teacher, calling out the title repeatedly. Blushing crimson with embarrassment, Sugimura found himself perplexed by this unapproachable quality he sensed and his own unsettled emotions. A certain archetype of farmer had taken shape in his mind. But it could not be dismissed as mere presumption, for even with his limited experience, it was grounded in the actual farmers he had observed and heard about. What now lay before his eyes was a man wearing sleek silk garments, a thick waistband with a watch wrapped around it, and white tabi socks—the very image of a merchant. He also skillfully used standard Japanese. The assumption that everything must be backward beyond the mountain pass was merely a self-satisfied notion held by those on this side, for just across the prefectural border lay City Y of the neighboring prefecture—renowned as an industrial hub—whose significance to this region was profound.

“How much funding will be provided from the union headquarters?” “In other words—regarding the Teacher’s expenses for staying here,” said the man with a probing look when they designated the gathering as the First Preparatory Meeting for Establishing T County Union Branch and began discussing office locations. He was already calculating coldly. Whether the union truly held such value couldn’t be known until autumn had come and gone. And until that became clear, not a single penny should be disbursed. “Well, my living expenses would be about ten yen.” “In addition to that, communication expenses will be covered,” said Sugimura. The people fell completely silent. Even in the countryside, establishing an office with that budget was impossible. They spent over an hour going in circles about the matter. Having Sugimura stay with one of them temporarily became unavoidable, yet everyone privately resolved to avoid troublesome involvement as much as possible. “What about A―’s place?” When named, each designee would wave frantic hands before their face, hiding behind pre-prepared excuses. It was finally forced upon an old self-cultivating farmer’s household. Once settled, some now abruptly felt they’d been cheated.

“Old man B― pulled off a smart move, keeping that union clerk at his house. No matter how little he skims each month, that cash comes in right on schedule.” Sugimura never forgot those words spoken by one person.—

What a truly grand period those three years must have been. It would be no exaggeration to crown those years with the word "great." Whether viewed from society's perspective or Sugimura's personal one. In their complexity, richness, and depth of meaning, those three years surpassed all of Sugimura's experiences from his previous two decades. Undoubtedly, living with one’s entire being was truly this magnificent? The organization that held its first preparatory meeting that autumn had grown by the following spring into eight official branches with over seven hundred members. The success in abolishing the wheat tax—still lingering in parts of this region at the time—became a crucial momentum for their development. The organization expanded rapidly until that autumn a full year later, when the belatedly participating district completely surpassed the older districts in influence. Now possessing an independent office, with Sugimura having become a salaried secretary and his talent as an organizer being recognized—his pride in this was evident—but what exactly had caused such rapid development? Above all else, it was the momentum of the times. While Sugimura's own efforts were undoubtedly considerable, young Sugimura long remained unaware that the very contradictions driving the organization's growth could also give rise to opposing forces. To Sugimura's eyes—accustomed to Tohoku farmers living in a semi-closed natural economy—the agrarian life of this region proved astonishing. Each morning, Sugimura awoke to the sound of vegetable-laden carts endlessly traversing the main road leading to Y City. Some cultivated ornamental flowers in enclosed field corners, while fruit trees had become markedly common on sunny hillsides in recent years. Farmers gradually began training their second and third sons as nurserymen. When M Spinning's branch factory opened in Y City, many promptly became recruiters for female workers and ventured into neighboring areas seeking girls. Speculative crazes would periodically sweep through the villages as if from nowhere. First Java sparrows became all the rage; when that fever subsided came rabbits, then edible frogs took off. The farmers developed feverish eyes, stealing time from paddy work to loiter about—whenever they met someone, they'd slip hands into sleeves to grip fingers, exchange glances, and grin knowingly. Was this enough? No—a bit more. Hmm, bought. Alright, sold—they'd mutter such things.

They would come like a storm, snatch away the farmers’ money to who knows where, and then depart like a storm.

Many had spent several years of their youth in city life, and such farmers appeared superficially removed from the foolishness and ignorance typically associated with peasants. They possessed knowledge to comprehend stock market columns in newspapers and would debate contemporary political figures.—It could be said that the union organization's rapid development stemmed from this convergence of phenomena. In their demands for tenant fee reductions, they stood unyielding without retreating a single step. The joint storage of tenant fees to prevent betrayal proved unnecessary for them—indeed, one might say they joined the union precisely to immediately convert those fees into cash and pour them into the aforementioned speculative schemes. After the union gained influence—as cultivation rights transferred between tenant farmers or obtained from landlords as compensation saw prices skyrocket while land values plummeted—farmers who'd rushed to become land transaction brokers began appearing at gathering spots throughout the region.——

Could there be another place with such vast organizational membership yet so utterly lacking in "memories of night harvesting"? Could there be another place where collective labor and mass mobilization during auctions proved so utterly ineffective? The resolution of disputes with landlords was entirely entrusted to lawyers and secretaries—in their view, these lawyers were literally "retained attorneys," while secretaries amounted to nothing more than company clerks. They openly repeated: "Clerks, clerks." They covered the monthly salaries with their union dues to employ these two—as long as matters ended there, things remained manageable. But when the utter powerlessness of individual lawyers and secretaries became exposed, and momentum arose from below in the union to resolve issues through genuine organizational strength—with Sugimura taking the lead in this movement—they inevitably clashed with the union's upper echelons over every matter. And Sugimura himself, who had nurtured them, now learned for the first time just how tenacious was the force led by Ishikawa Gozo—the man who hung a certain life insurance company agency sign before his house.

It was at precisely such a juncture that the national election came to be held. The people were swept into a fresh whirlpool of excitement. The village abruptly swelled with self-styled "politicians"—men who addressed prominent officials from the region as "Mister" and boasted of having "shared drinks" with them. The Proletarian Party, established two years prior with the union as its core, naturally found itself compelled to field a candidate. The central debate became whether to nominate a local figure or import one from elsewhere. Sugimura's affiliated district, save for a handful of dissenters, put forward Ishikawa Gozo's name to the Central Committee. This endorsement carried formidable weight. Central Committee members were elected proportionally to organizational membership numbers, and representatives from this district comprised the majority. Sugimura immediately found himself trapped in a dilemma. Supporting Ishikawa Gozo proved utterly impossible. This reflected his personal conviction, yet also stemmed from directives issued by the organization Koizumi and he had joined that spring—adherence to these guidelines rendered backing Ishikawa doubly unthinkable. Moreover, with lower-tier organizations supporting Sugimura still inadequately consolidated that day, direct confrontation with Ishikawa risked organizational disintegration. After protracted negotiations, they resolved to recruit Shimada Shinsuke—a central union official from outside the prefecture—as their candidate. This decision arose not from ignorance of the farmers' entrenched localism, but rather from strategic necessity: to actively overcome that parochialism while avoiding internal clashes among prefectural powerbrokers. Sugimura executed his first authentically political stratagem. To crush the Ishikawa faction in the Central Committee. And crush them he did.

Throughout the entire election campaign, Ishikawa and his supporters' sabotage—sometimes covert, sometimes overt—exceeded expectations in its intensity. Venues that were supposed to have been booked remained unsecured, and posters that should have been pasted were nowhere to be found in the villages—not a single one. The rumor that some of our election clerks had secretly frequented the opposition's election office hardly seemed mere baseless gossip—indeed, it felt all too plausible that the votes we had counted on had vanished somewhere, for there were many reasons to consider this outcome not entirely unexpected.

“Onishi, it’s late already—why don’t you stay over? Come on, it’d be fine.”

In the bleak room after everyone had left, Sugimura sat facing Onishi across from him. Lately the young man had been coming daily to assist with office work, and tonight Sugimura felt an intense reluctance to let him leave like this. "I didn't tell anyone at home I'd stay out," Onishi said. "I should really go back." "I see," Sugimura replied. "Then stay a bit longer to talk." He placed the rice crackers Onishi had brought onto the brazier's metal grill. Waiting for them to roast, he gazed intently at the youth's vigorous face that somehow felt reassuring. Then words he'd long wanted to say surged suddenly in his chest. These were thoughts he'd tried expressing to Koizumi before—pressed down by that man's severity until they'd congealed unspoken within him.

“You must’ve heard them…what they were saying downstairs,” he said with a slightly abashed look. “It’s just that what had to come sooner or later has arrived.” “That’s why I’m not surprised at all.” “The election merely served as a trigger—even without it, something would’ve inevitably happened before long due to some motive.” “In reality, every organization must go through this process once it’s developed to a certain extent.” “The question lies in how to overcome it—how to turn internal conflict into a foothold for development rather than letting it remain mere opposition. I understand that, but—”

Sugimura pressed his hand to his forehead and looked down, his words meant for Onishi transforming into a low mutter directed at himself. "Can I ride out this wave? I’m anxious about that—it’s shameful to admit, but to tell the truth, I don’t have full confidence in handling it. I had become so dazzled by the growing membership numbers, carried away by elation, that I’d lost sight of what truly mattered. In effect, I myself had unwittingly been dragged along by the petit-bourgeois elements flooding through the union’s interior. And by the time I noticed, that contradiction had already become something that couldn’t be resolved without drastic measures. Even my sudden efforts to firmly gather you young folks around me could rightly be laughed at as nothing but stopgap measures, though..."

“Mr. Sugimura, this is neither your responsibility nor your fault at all,” said Onishi, who had been silent until then. He now appeared completely different from when he had confronted Sugimura downstairs earlier—his round face holding a smile, seeming to have fully regained his composure. “You’re making things so difficult by thinking you have to shoulder everything alone.” “Then you’re taking on far too much hardship.” “……It’s not your personal problem—I think it’s an organizational issue.”

Sugimura involuntarily jerked his head up. The young man’s casually spoken words possessed a sharpness that struck Sugimura’s vulnerable point. He listened to the next words with bated breath. “If it’s necessary—if there’s no other way—then we’ll do it. Even drastic measures.” When matters took clear form and he realized that neither this nor that could be permitted any longer, he instead seemed to have become calm. “But whether we can overcome it or not—I don’t think you need to worry like this, Mr. Sugimura, as if the union is about to collapse.” “If it’s something we won’t know until we try, worrying about it now is pointless…… And in my view, even if there’s a split, I doubt many would actually follow someone like Ishikawa.” “Even if they follow him, it’ll only be temporary.” He did not explain why this was so or provide any basis for it. But there existed the firm certainty that workers trusted their fellow laborers. “And Mr. Sugimura—it’s bad of me to say this in front of you—but I feel that a peasant movement centered around office secretaries is no longer viable… I believe our current organization is mistaken in that regard.” “The youth division’s fighter training has only been conducted from that same perspective too—like Mr. Sugimura, take our current study group here—it’s truly beneficial, mind you—but whenever a slightly better youth emerges through such efforts, they immediately get promoted to office secretaries. I simply can’t agree with this approach we’ve been using until now.” “First of all, if someone quits farming and comes to the city, they’ll grow distant from the villagers—which would be problematic in times like these.” “After all, unless we cling persistently to the village and stay connected with everyone……”

He rested there, packed some chopped broad beans into his mouth. Did he himself truly grasp how forcefully those casually spoken, matter-of-fact words had struck Sugimura? Sugimura nearly staggered from the intensity of his emotion. When had Onishi grown into someone like this? Wasn’t this final opinion of his precisely what Sugimura had debated with Koizumi mere days earlier?

“That’s right—that’s exactly it. “A peasant movement centered around secretaries and offices is no longer viable. “From now on—” As emotions surged and his next words caught in his throat, Onishi suddenly seemed to think of something—smiling faintly, he began speaking of an entirely different matter. “You should get some rest too, Mr. Sugimura. “Since your body has weakened considerably. “After all, right after last autumn’s busy period came the election. “You haven’t had a moment to catch your breath. “You should forget everything and get some rest. “Even this current matter isn’t all that urgent—and even if it were urgent, panicking wouldn’t help a bit—Mr. Sugimura, D-onsen—that’s a good place. You should go there once. It only costs fifteen yen a month.”

Without answering this, Sugimura stared fixedly into Onishi’s eyes and said earnestly. “From now on, no matter what, it’s you all—you all must carry out the true peasant movement.” “You’ve got to forge it anew from below!” After a brief pause, he lowered his voice in a melancholy tone. “The spring conference will no doubt be fraught with disputes. I hope it goes well, but—” And he found himself helplessly sliding deeper into a sentimentality that felt alien to his very being.

Even after Onishi had left, Sugimura remained awake for some time. He sat blankly, letting various thoughts swarm and overflow chaotically in his head. Onishi had spoken optimistically, but within him tangled thoughts about the fate of the organization he was responsible for, the various problems it currently faced, and reflections on his own capabilities as an organizer. He thought the issue lay in the varying degrees of influence each stratum of farmers held within their respective organizational layers. He felt that the organizational movement had come exactly to the end of one stage. In other words, it was inevitable that elements one might call wealthy tenant farmers would hold overwhelming power within the organization during a certain period—particularly its early stages—but that period now appeared to be drawing to a close. They had reached their own limits. Sugimura thought that if conflict arose between the poor peasant elements and them, such conflict should not be avoided—even if it resulted in the union’s numerical strength becoming diminished—and that this was simply inevitable. And it was an undeniable fact that the poor peasant elements currently lacked strength within the union. Regardless of their numerical size, they held no real power within the organization. Sugimura thought about the strangeness of how the varying weight of their social status in the villages was being carried over unchanged even into proletarian organizations. From there, his thoughts extended to the vast numbers of poor peasants outside the organization. It concerned those poor peasants who lacked the energy to rise up directly over tenant fee issues, and those who, even if they did rise up, could not pay membership fees or be maintained in a permanent organization. When addressing that vast stratum, their current organization and approach to demands alone proved powerless. An entirely new form of struggle was absolutely necessary, and now was the time when demands beyond tenant fees—which had been overlooked until now—must be prioritized. Sugimura had recently read about peasant movements in China and considered them; he thought there must certainly be many insights precisely within those. However, when matters had progressed that far—in the face of their gravity and difficulty—he could not help but reflect on his own capabilities as an organizer. He became wholeheartedly convinced that it was precisely in this work that he would stake his life without regret. But what of the meagerness of the work he had actually accomplished during those three years? Discovering Onishi and two or three other youths may well have been his greatest achievement in the end.

The reason Sugimura was somewhat respected among his comrades lay not in any superior ability as an organizer but merely in the fact that a certain level of respect was paid to his attitude of disregarding and eradicating his personal life before work. All harmonious things—anything frivolous or marked by carefree ease—were rejected by him; only what was harsh and fierce found acceptance. That he spurned alcohol, tobacco, and rich foods wasn’t solely for health or financial reasons. When secretaries’ meetings required overnight stays at the town office, Sugimura had several times noticed how comrades meant to be sleeping beside him would vanish at some point. He knew where they went. Yet Sugimura had never once followed such comrades. Only once had he turned his steps toward that brightly lit town on a certain night. But when realizing the money in his pocket—funds meant for that purpose—came from rice sold by tenant farmers, Sugimura fled back to the office as if escaping. “Every drop of blood, every fragment of vitality—all for the work.” He tried voicing it aloud. Yet in this attitude of Sugimura’s one sensed something as obsessive and constrained as what he pursued—a timid scrupulousness that couldn’t grow bold in any matter might ultimately have proven that even as an organizer, he remained confined to small capacities.

His mind burned fiercely, yet somewhere within him yawned a hollow corner that left him feeling oddly vacant. The familiar desk and bookshelves he knew so well, the haphazard stacks of documents—everything felt strangely parched and lifeless. It must be that his body had weakened somewhat. Suddenly his tension eased, the umpteenth wave of fatigue struck, and still in his jacketless state, Sugimura lay down on the bed in the corner of the room and fell fast asleep.

What should have naturally followed defeat arrived with unexpected swiftness. Three days later that afternoon, Sugimura attended an election report speech rally in a village. When he finished speaking there and stepped onto the road to head for another village, five gentlemen lying in wait took him away somewhere. Though Sugimura had been alone at the scene, within two or three days half the secretaries vanished, leaving both prefectural headquarters and regional offices utterly deserted.

With a clang came the sound of a thick door closing, followed by the scrape of iron against iron. Listening to the fading footsteps, Sugimura collapsed in the center of the room and lay down, drifting into a drowsy haze of sleep that lasted hours. The rural detention center held few inmates and maintained loose rules. When he awoke from a brief sleep—ah, right, I was brought here—he realized anew, and gauging the sun’s angle through the small window, it seemed nearly dusk already. Several months prior, when he had come here and looked at the familiar graffiti on the wall, visions of past, present, and future had raced through his mind like a revolving lantern. No matter how many times he came, each experience remained distinct, and it seemed one could never grow fully accustomed. However, as time passed and the dim lamplight began to illuminate the cell after he finished his evening meal, his mood gradually settled into calmness. Sugimura laughed bitterly at being able to take the rest Onishi had mentioned in such an absurd place. He felt—even as he burned with shame at feeling it—the guilty ease of being temporarily freed from his burdensome duties through this arrest.

About ten days had passed in this drowsy haze.

But then—immediately—Sugimura was struck down by an unforeseen shock.

One day, Sugimura was transferred to the town’s main police station. After being led to the building with detention cells and made to stand waiting in a corner of the corridor, a man was brought out from a cell as belongings inspection commenced. Thinking "They’re sending someone else in my place," I glanced over and saw a kimono-clad figure whose bearded face was unmistakably Koizumi. He had noticed long before; with each furtive glance our way, his eyes spoke volumes.

“I need to use the restroom,” Koizumi said at that moment, and before one could process his words, he was already walking with the practiced ease of someone familiar with such situations toward the toilet—in Sugimura’s direction. Sensing something in the resilient, sharp movements of his physique, Sugimura instantly braced himself mentally—and as they passed each other, “It’s a Communist hunt.” he said in a low voice, just a single phrase. It was a low but piercing voice. No sooner had it struck him than violent palpitations seized his chest. They did not easily subside even after he had entered the room. He remained dazed for a while in utterly disoriented panic, then suddenly wanted to burst into derisive laughter. A laugh that mocked himself. Ignorance is bliss, they say—yet how peacefully he had spent these past ten days. Unaware that a terrifying trap had been steadily prepared during that very time. From the moment of his arrest until this very instant, Sugimura had considered the nature of his situation in an extremely simplistic manner. He had regarded it merely as a preliminary arrest to prevent post-election mass movements. It had been far too self-evident, and he hadn’t even thought to reexamine it. But what about Koizumi’s last remark? Any other person who heard that could have remained unperturbed. But there was a reason only Koizumi and Sugimura could not remain calm. The matters contained grave implications.

Suddenly realizing something, Sugimura turned pale. It was not simple terror but an emotion laden with complexity. And even were he now granted freedom to speak of it, when Sugimura considered how this matter's nature made it impossible to discuss with anyone, he found himself unable to bear it. He trembled until his teeth would not meet, rose restlessly to his feet, and moved to stand by the doorway. He desperately longed to see human faces, thinking this might bring some ease to his mind.

Peering through the iron bars into the cell beyond, he was struck by yet another new surprise. Leaning against the wall near the doorway—wasn’t this person gazing outward as if yearning for something also a union member? He was neither an executive nor anything of the sort, but someone familiar from daily interactions. For what reason had he been brought here? That went without saying—had they really extended their reach that far?—as absurdity and indignation welled up together in his chest. Yet the joy of discovering an unexpected face was immense, and his heart leaped with anticipation that he might hear what he so wished to know—unable to contain himself, he rapped his knuckles against the cell door.

The man approached straight to the door and seemed to recognize Sugimura. His expression tensed; he glanced back into the cell and said something. There was a stir of movement, and immediately two or three people stood up. He wasn't alone! They were all familiar faces. Words rose to Sugimura's throat, but he restrained them, wary of being overheard. Instead, he threw a smile into which he compressed every ounce of affection.

What had been answered in return? The several pairs of eyes staring fixedly at Sugimura without blinking showed not a single crease at their corners. Their gazes only grew harsher and more unrelenting. Mouths remained tightly sealed, never relaxing—only twisting within their rigid lines. On faces still clad in field work clothes they'd likely been arrested wearing, beards and hair growing wild over utterly haggard features, there now clearly lay nothing but piercing accusatory stares. Sugimura suddenly felt as if he'd been slapped.

Suddenly, one of them bared his yellow, poorly aligned teeth along with the gums. “Tch!” He clicked his tongue sharply, raised his hand, formed a fist and shook it in the air, then gripped the iron bars once more and stared at him as if to devour him— In truth, hatred, resentment, and fury had seized these people. For a long time, they had not known why they had been brought here. They had finally come to know it today at noon. At first, people had said they would be released in two or three days, and they themselves had believed it too—but when those days stretched to ten or twenty without any interrogation taking place, their anxiety and impatience gradually grew into something immense. What was worst of all was that they were people who, from the moment they were born, had scarcely known a day when they hadn't moved their hands and feet. They had always found both joy and suffering in working with their entire bodies; sitting and thinking was something that had never suited them.

For the first two or three days, they huddled together whispering about something. But looking back, they knew all too well the lives they had each led—merely walking a monotonous straight path day after day for ten years. The topics quickly ran dry. When seen from a distance, the soil became unbearably nostalgic; whenever they looked at the clear blue sky, they thought of spring planting, their hearts burning with anxiety over delayed cultivation.—After several days passed in this manner, their bodies and minds began slipping into some deranged state. In their heads, which had lost objects to contemplate, a dark hole-like void had opened; in their limbs, which lacked objects to act upon, elasticity rapidly drained away. Some were acutely aware of this, while others, unaware themselves, revealed it through clouded eyes that wandered aimlessly or through oddly stiff movements that clung unnaturally. In broad daylight, they would stare at blank walls and giggle to themselves, or frantically rub their noses and chins with their sleeves; at night, those who would suddenly shout and leap upright were gradually increasing in number.—

When that was finally brought out today and they were subjected to intense interrogation with harsh words, they could only stare fixedly at their interrogator's face. They had barely realized the matter concerned Sugimura, but the affair—presumed to be his doing and for which they too were now being pursued—struck them as utterly irrelevant and superfluous. No matter what they were asked, they merely bowed their heads meaninglessly, forgetting their interrogator, and stammered out complaints against Sugimura while pleading their case. As they were leaving the room, one of them timidly asked. “Could you let us out tomorrow?” The gentleman who had been questioned opened his mouth wide in a booming laugh and said. “You’ll be here till year’s end!” “Stay until your legs rot for all I care!”

Having returned in a frenzy, they found themselves unable to stand for some time, their legs trembling uncontrollably. The momentary brush with outside air—having their initial hope of release crushed just as it began—made the pressure of lost freedom bear down with double force, driving their minds to near madness. As they gradually regained their composure, their fury burned toward a single individual—the one responsible for plunging them into this wretched state. Where could that bastard be? Why the hell do we have to suffer like this because of that bastard?!

And now, that very Sugimura had suddenly appeared before them. In a completely withered state, Sugimura returned to his original spot. He crouched there and remained completely still for some time. An indescribable loneliness welled up from deep within. It was something he had never experienced before. Nothing struck down the present Sugimura as much as those gazes of theirs. One could face all kinds of difficulties with courage. That courage, however, did not depend solely on Sugimura's physical body. It stemmed from a great existence that supported Sugimura himself. Sugimura now witnessed before his very eyes the collapse of that pillar. He considered its cause and saw that half of it lay on their side. Yet he came to think it was unavoidable to some degree no matter what.—He had once recalled a novel he read long ago. It was by a Russian author, depicting peasants who bound and dragged out a rural organizer who had worked among them for their sake. Regarding the numerous new trials he would likely still have to undergo, Sugimura could not help but think.

One month had passed. The four or five people in the opposite cell had apparently been interrogated twice during that time. Sugimura tried to read something from their faces as they returned, but it was impossible. Eventually, they disappeared one day (likely having been released), and the next day Sugimura was summoned.

Led into the room, he looked up from below at the sharp-eyed suited man who had sat down across the desk, feeling somewhat resigned. The fact—that single fact which had kept him awake through many a sleepless night—now became clear to him, unreasonably so... "Took you long enough," he said. Sugimura silently nodded. However, he couldn’t suddenly recall where he had seen that round face with its thick beard.

“Holding up?” “Yes, I’m fine.” The bearded man introduced himself as Uchida, opened a red leather briefcase and searched for something inside, then took out a sheet of paper, spread it open, and suddenly thrust it before Sugimura. And he gazed intently into Sugimura’s eyes, remaining silent. He was determined not to miss even the slightest shadow of a shifting expression on Sugimura’s face. “Well? Surprised? We already know this much.”

He must have thought he'd succeeded in stealing their nerve. There, for the first time, he grinned slyly and brought a cigarette to his lips. Sugimura looked at the paper spread before him. It measured about two sheets of Mino paper. A rectangle occupied the center, bearing an organization's department names alongside parenthesized personal names. This rectangle connected through numerous lines to surrounding circles and squares, each similarly marked with department titles and individuals' names. The man silently jabbed a finger at one underlined in red; there Sugimura saw his own name alongside Koizumi's.

“Well? Has everyone talked?” “Well...” he hesitated briefly before saying, “I’d like to think it over a bit first.” He snorted. “Iron discipline, huh? — That’s just as well. But you were quite thorough with your cleanup. I’m impressed.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” “Don’t play dumb!” he shouted for the first time there, slamming the desk for effect.

"I thought maybe at least one document would turn up," he mused. But what did he find? It was as clean as if someone had swept everything away. They'd thoroughly [...] even to the last of the legal publications—to hell with them. They'd been prepared after all. "—But whatever," Uchida blustered, "we don't need any of that evidence crap anyway." "What's the point now?" He snorted derisively. Sugimura—who had asked "Huh? What do you mean?" while genuinely struggling to comprehend earlier—now grasped everything in these fleeting moments.[...] He nearly wept from unguarded emotion.

“Well? Going to talk now?” he asked again.

"I don't want to talk today," he answered firmly this time. "Very well, have it your way.—Then let's proceed with a test of endurance."

"Very well—a test of endurance or whatever it may be—" Sugimura felt like declaring proudly. The tension in his heart eased, and at first he drifted in a sensation as unreal as a dream—but gradually, courage surging from the pit of his stomach filled him completely. The anguish and fatigue of this past month had been swept away in mere moments. He felt fortified with energy that made him want to meet whatever came head-on.

But even so—whose work could it be? Sugimura recalled the faces of familiar young men—Onishi perhaps? Or Kimura? On the morning of his arrest day, Sugimura had received a single document—one requiring immediate disposal after reading. Yet upon reading it, he found contents worth memorizing somehow for future reference. Though he should have destroyed it at once, with his campaign speech imminent, he slipped it into an envelope, stashed it away somewhere, and left home. This rare carelessness stemmed from intending to return after concluding that speech venue's event. Initially detained under what seemed routine arrest procedures, he gave it little thought—until learning their investigation's true nature turned that prior negligence into an unrelenting tormentor day and night thereafter. The mere notion froze every drop of blood in Sugimura's veins—the office must have been ransacked by now—if that fell into others' hands!

Trembling with anxiety, he wished for the earliest possible interrogation for that very reason. And now he knew that everything had been resolved more advantageously than he could ever have imagined. Which of the youths could it be? He thought about it again.

There must have been only the briefest of gaps between his arrest and the office being ransacked. It had been the youths' swift action exploiting that brief window. Even so, he had never revealed being part of an organization unknown to them, let alone instructed them about handling such situations. All the more for that, the emotion overwhelmed him—he couldn't suppress the hot tide surging up from within. ——

“Fine then. Go home today.”

Uchida's voice severed Sugimura's recollection. When Uchida stood, he too rose. The now-standing Uchida appeared deep in thought but said "Wait," went to the adjacent room, and returned bearing a cloth-wrapped bundle. He thudded its considerable bulk onto the desk,

“You know Onishi, right?” he asked. When that name—now occupying his mind with unparalleled significance—was suddenly mentioned, Sugimura jolted involuntarily. He raised his face with resolve. Seemingly oblivious to this, Uchida continued speaking while beginning to untie the furoshiki bundle himself.

“Special treatment,” he said. “It’s a care package from Onishi.” “Care packages aren’t allowed yet—but I’ll make an exception.” When he unwrapped the bundle inside were a lined kimono undergarment, laundered knit shirt tabi socks papers and atop them another small parcel containing hard candies and paper sack of brown sugar puffs. “I’ll partake gratefully,” he said sitting back down putting candy his mouth crushing impatiently against stubborn wrapper noisy crunching sound when checked bag recognized snack shop front office familiar spot they frequented after study meetings ended knew meant Onishi safe still needed know status Koizumi only aware shared predicament tried ask Uchida voice reached throat stifled urge.

Sugimura changed clothes inside the room, placed what he had been wearing until then in the corner there, and stepped out into the corridor to return to his cell.

All the corridor windows were thrown open, and a refreshing breeze flowed through with a rustling sound. Before he knew it, it was already the end of April. Right below the window was a bustling road, and in the spring sunlight, the sight of people dressed in fresh attire coming and going was beautiful. The lost freedom struck his heart once more. Right before his eyes, a large poster was pasted to the utility pole. Because it was pasted at an angle, both the characters reading “Grand Lecture Meeting for the Denouncement of Red Ideology” and even the lineup of speakers’ faces beside them were clearly visible. Alongside two or three notable figures from Tokyo were mixed in the names of Ishikawa and two others. In a normal year, May Day posters would already be up in place of those by now, Sugimura thought fleetingly. The fact that such things were being posted openly seemed to speak of the organization’s fate thereafter, but even as he looked at them and reflected on his current self, he did not feel that everything had ended. Rather, the opposite feeling—that he had only just begun—was stronger. Sugimura had been continuously envisioning Onishi and the others as clearly as if they stood before him since earlier. Urged on, he descended the stairs leading to the dark room.

(June 1935 · Chūō Kōron)