Pathway to Japanese Literature

There was still some time before nightfall. But inside the room, it was already dim, having settled into a profound silence. The silence was such that one wouldn’t believe nearly ten men occupied this second floor. A wind had picked up. On nights when all was still, it would sweep over the sea—where even distant howls could be heard—race across the unobstructed plain, and blow straight against this solitary house atop the hill: February’s bitter wind. It battered fiercely, and with residual force slipping through the narrowly opened window’s gap, several posters hung on the wall rustled dryly. The people shivered from the cold, yet while being drawn into hazy, distant thoughts, they listened intently to the wind blowing far away—making the house creak—as if tracking its unseen path.—

No one made any move to stand up and turn on the light. Some leaned against the wall, knees drawn up as if arranged and lying face down on them. Others lay stretched out on their backs, eyes closed. Their postures—each one as motionless as a statue—stood as stark testament to the fierce life they had lived these past thirty-odd days, a life into which they had poured every last ounce of their strength. They were likely too exhausted to even open their mouths—and yet despite that, how did this tense atmosphere come to pervade every corner of the room? In truth, their silent hearts now swelled with a single shared expectation—that all-or-nothing hope into which they had poured every ounce of their present being without regret—to the very verge of bursting. The urge to speak out felt strangely restrained at this moment. Even as they remained like this, time steadily pressed onward. For that final moment, they tightened their grip on the surging anticipation within, suppressing the flood of emotions welling up, simply writhing in restraint. If it had been an expectation that couldn’t be counted on from the start, their minds would have been at ease, and it wouldn’t have been an issue. In truth, at first they had placed significance in the very act of fighting with all their might, and had not necessarily been fixated on its victory or defeat. But midway, the situation had shown an unexpected improvement, and as time pressed onward, it even displayed an unstoppable momentum. It resembled the relentless surge of an incoming high tide. Precisely because it was something everyone had abandoned and disregarded at first, now that there was suddenly a tangible prospect of grasping it in reality, the more fiercely and overwhelmingly did their determination to not let it slip away take hold. The only question was whether that momentum could carry them through to the very end. It was this suffocatingly tense and urgent sensation—the moment just before that question was to be clarified.

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

As one of the men who had been lying face down suddenly raised his head, he finally let out a voice that seemed unable to endure any longer, accompanied by a heavy sigh. Simultaneously, the room suddenly erupted in commotion. The tension broke; they caught their breath in relief. Then, a lively volubility began to seize the people.

“I’d have thought they’d have a result by now,” said a man, 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 it’ll probably be a bit late.” “Right about now, that messenger guy’s probably pedaling like mad on his bicycle, fretting over some good news,” one man said with a laugh.

“Hey, everyone—let’s go!” a man suddenly bellowed in a loud voice, standing up with a rough clatter. It was one of the men who had been lying sprawled out at length in the center of the room until then. Upon standing up, he began swinging his arms vigorously. “Sitting still like this—can we keep staring at each other like idiots forever? C’mon, everyone—let’s go! Not being able to see the final, spectacular scene of the vote count—isn’t that a damn shame?”

“Shall we go?” two or three responded. “That won’t do,” came a young but steady voice restraining them. He was the man in the mouse-gray jacket.

“Why?” “Why? Because we can’t just abandon the office completely.” “Then why don’t we leave one person behind and go?” “Don’t talk such childish nonsense.” “Why do you think we’re keeping this standby position here?” “Sooner or later, we’ll know the results.” “Isn’t it precisely so we can formulate plans based on those results and dash to our respective assigned districts at once?”

“Hmph, spouting such high-and-mighty logic,” he said, flopping back down heavily where he’d been lying. “Just like dangling a feast before us only to say ‘wait your turn.’”

The people all burst into laughter and, as if suddenly remembering his last words, simultaneously looked toward one side of the wall. From the vote-counting venue—the city’s public hall four ri away—the results their messenger had brought back two hours earlier had been tabulated and were now posted there. Shimada Shinsuke: four thousand six hundred eighty-five votes! He is the runner-up. The margin between him and Nakagawa Seiya of the Seiyukai—the lowest-ranked within the elected bracket—was a mere three hundred votes. The question now is what changes have occurred in that margin during the two hours from then until now. Is there even a prospect that this margin has been closed and further surpassed? That is precisely what exists. Not the fleeting illusion conjured by wishful thinking—precisely because there existed ample grounds in reality for it to be fulfilled—their hearts were all the more inexorably driven in a single direction. At the time the report was brought in, several villages still remained in the vote counting. The three villages of Koijima, Soeyama, and Maekawa in Maeda County were among them. These three villages formed the core of the Proletarian Party that had elected Shimada as its representative—in fact, they were the overwhelming stronghold of a Peasant Union that could be called virtually one and the same entity. Kojima’s, Soeyama’s, and Maekawa’s combined number of eligible voters: XX people. Of those, XX are confirmed union members… One of the men who had been lying down suddenly sat up. He searched his pocket and took out a pencil and notebook. He was about to indulge once more in the pleasure of arranging his predictions in writing on the page—for what felt like the umpteenth time since earlier.

The wind that passed over the rooftop drifted off into the distance. Before it came again, there was a brief pause. At that moment, on the road before the house came the heavy scraping sound of something dragging itself along. There was a clattering noise, then footsteps. The instant someone thought "A bicycle!" and strained to listen, the smoothly sliding front door had already opened.

With a shout, four or five people clumped together and rushed down the narrow stairs.—

Brushing aside their hands—which they were practically draping over his shoulders as they all clamored at once—the Kagaoka-clad young man took the lead and came up the stairs. "What was the result?" the man immediately following behind him said. "Tch, putting on airs like that," one of the men who had come up the stairs last muttered under his breath.

“Sugimura?”

The young man searched with his eyes. The youth in the mouse-gray jacket immediately appeared before him. Taking out a scrap of paper from his inner pocket and passing it into his hand, “We lost,” he said in a low voice, just that single word.

When great joy arises from matters fraught with apprehension, people often resort to some artifice. They would typically avoid stating facts plainly, instead disguising them as their opposite to heighten the eventual joy—but here stood a youth not yet twenty who had brought the report, his usually mischievous, darting eyes now fixed. The crowd expected such tricks from him and stared at his eyes and lips, searching for some sign contradicting his terse announcement. Any moment now, they thought, his mask would slip… Yet the young man’s expression stayed unyielding.

“Hmm... I see,” Sugimura said while looking at the scrap of paper in his hand. Everyone crowded around him, pressing shoulder to shoulder as they peered at what was in his hand. Suddenly, Sugimura let out an emotion-laden cry. “What’s going on here? …Even if losing can’t be helped, Shimada isn’t even the runner-up! Shimada lost to Yamauchi!” “How did that Yamauchi bastard manage to surge ahead like this?” “I’ll read it now,” he said, and began to read.—

After hearing it, they fell silent. The outcome stood in miserably stark contrast to their expectations. Where had the votes from those three villages—meant to decide everything in the end—disappeared? Why had Yamauchi, who'd claimed neutrality toward the two major parties under his Peasant Faction banner, managed to gain momentum despite his initial weakness and ultimately overtake Shimada? They no longer tried to ponder any of it. The fatigue they’d momentarily forgotten came surging back with twice its former intensity. They wanted to halt all functions—thinking, moving, every activity—and sink into a sleep thick as swamp mud just as they were. As if seeking that oblivion, they scanned the room anew. Darkness advanced swiftly as the sun dipped below the horizon. The dimmed room kept its morning-tidied state. Brushes, ink bottles, and papers lay piled on a corner desk; the mimeograph machine, boxed after long disuse, occupied another nook. At the center sat an extinguished brazier, its mound of scrap-paper ashes resembling a miniature volcano. To eyes acclimated to a month’s worth of floor-clogging chaos, the hollowed room’s expanse felt unnervingly desolate. When they saw the red-inked posters scrawled with militant slogans flapping wildly in the wind, their month-long struggle flashed through their minds like newsreel frames. The visceral certainty that all had been wasted effort defied rationalization. Only an inexorable void remained—an unfathomable gloom dragging both mind and body into its depths…

Once again, the sound of the front door opening rang out, and immediately a man came up. A towering man, solidly built in stature.

“Ah, Koizumi,” With a low cry, Sugimura ran toward him.

“What’s going on here?” “What are you doing?” “You haven’t even turned on the lights.”

The light came on, and they exchanged looks laden with complex emotions in the white glare. Koizumi stood there gazing down at his shoulder-height comrades, scrutinizing each face in turn. His chiseled features retained their usual stony composure, yet his eyes glinted with unmistakable agitation. Blood surged visibly into his face. He discerned precisely what emotions gripped his comrades. A razor-edged voice brimming with coercive force erupted from his lips.

“What foolish nonsense are you thinking?” “Nothing’s ended yet!” “It’s only just begun…… You know the work needing done. Everyone—to your posts now.”

He moved straight to the center of the room and continued in a brisk, businesslike tone. “We’ll discuss future communications and meetings, then everyone is to return to their assigned districts.” “Whether we win or lose, the village community meetings and rallies to report the election results will proceed as scheduled.” “The exposé materials based on facts from this election are currently being printed at the prefectural headquarters.” “They should arrive tomorrow afternoon… Then we’ll absolutely hold the demonstration against ××.” “The concrete plans remain largely as we previously agreed.” “The final decision will be made at tonight’s executive committee meeting at headquarters.” “Since we won’t announce the date until the last moment, ensure everyone’s mobilization structure remains tightly organized.”

And he calmly sat down there. This was to hold a few discussions between himself as the executive committee representative and the secretaries of each district.

They sat down after Koizumi and formed a circle. Their faces, which had been dazed until now, seemed to revive as they appeared to regain themselves. They took stock of how they had unwittingly slipped into viewing the struggle over the people's votes solely through the lens of electoral victory or defeat. They saw the situation that had abruptly begun to unfold anew. And within that situation, they became acutely aware of how they must proceed. With obedience born of complete trust, they followed Koizumi's instructions—each expressing their opinions—and decided on what must be done. It was over in a short time. They stood up, pulled up their sagging Western-style trousers, firmly fastened their leather belts, pulled their hats down low, and hurriedly descended the stairs to go outside.

—

The last to remain were Koizumi and Sugimura. “What about tonight?” Koizumi asked as he took out a small, folded piece of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Sugimura.

“Uh-huh, the branch chiefs’ meeting is set to start at nine,” answered Sugimura. As he stuffed the received item into his sock, he peered intently at Koizumi’s face before him—a face he hadn’t seen in a week. When seen this close up, his face—deeply lined as it was—clearly showed vivid traces of fatigue, making it immediately apparent what was causing his mental strain. The two exchanged a few concise words about matters they needed to discuss privately. Feeling something clashing and jostling within him, Sugimura barely managed to suppress it at his throat. On a personal level—though these matters fundamentally belonged not to them but to the organization as a whole—the dissatisfaction and criticism toward the opinions and policies were represented by Koizumi and himself, and he attempted to express this with words forged through intense deliberation. That which had sprouted within Sugimura in an exceedingly vague form until now—now that he was confronted with facts declaring their policy’s clear failure—had abruptly taken definite shape. But on Koizumi’s face, Sugimura saw a cold sternness that forbade giving voice to these thoughts. He did not so much as twitch an eyebrow.

("That bastard’s trying to bulldoze his way through again!") Could it be Koizumi felt no inner conflict whatsoever? The defeat itself wasn’t the issue—it was when its repercussions began veering toward something truly dire…… A baleful notion abruptly took root, swelling rapidly into something monstrous.

Koizumi had already spread open his notebook as if he’d forgotten Sugimura’s very existence and was writing down some notes.

“Well then,” said Sugimura as he stood up, went to the staircase, and glanced briefly toward Koizumi. Something tugged at his heart. When he went downstairs, he found the caretaker youth dead asleep.

Outside was dark, and the wind raged. When he rode his bicycle about half a block and looked back, the house on the hill had just turned off the lights.

He opened the front door and looked at the dirt-floored entryway—so many shoes that there was no place to step. This was unexpected. The hour was late, and he’d assumed today’s gathering would be half-abandoned, but realizing Onishi had managed it so skillfully filled him with gratitude and reassurance. As he pulled his bicycle into the narrow dirt-floored entryway with a clattering noise, footsteps began descending from the second floor. They paused midway, and through the light filtering from above came a voice calling out, “Who’s there?” as if trying to peer down. When he answered “It’s me,” Onishi descended, saying “Ah, Mr. Sugimura.”

“Good work. Is everyone gathered?” As Sugimura tried to climb the stairs, Onishi suddenly leaped at him, firmly seizing his hand. Without a word, he began dragging him insistently back toward the dark entrance. “What’s wrong?” “What’s wrong?” Sugimura asked as he followed along. “Mr. Sugimura... They say we lost,” came a voice low like a whisper, yet frantic in its struggle to suppress emotion.

“We lost. It can’t be helped, so…” “This is bad, Mr. Sugimura,”

“Huh?” Sugimura said, involuntarily jolting.

“The Union’s going to split if this keeps up.” “What do you mean?”

“The guys upstairs are practically boiling over! Lots of them came in half-drunk and rowdy, only to end up completely sulking. That’s what I’m saying—you think you can win some damn election by looking down on us locals? They’re all crowing ‘Serves you right!’ Far from being upset about losing, they’re actually gloating over it. Seething with frustration and having nowhere else to vent, they’ve ended up taking it all out on me alone. Tonight’s meeting will never get off the ground. Maybe you shouldn’t show your face here tonight. I guess pushing Mr. Shimada instead of a local candidate really was a mistake...”

“Shut up! Don’t spout nonsense!” Sugimura abruptly bellowed. Startled by his unexpected agitation, Onishi fell silent. But in that darkness, Sugimura’s complexion changed. He had not imagined that the anxiety he feared would become reality so swiftly.

The surroundings fell utterly silent, and even without straining to listen, the clamor of mocking laughter and chatter from upstairs was clearly different from usual. ……Sugimura hesitated. But he immediately regained his composure and, feigning the nonchalance of someone who had just arrived, trotted up the stairs. Behind him, Onishi seemed to whisper something hurriedly in a hushed voice.

“Hey there, sorry ’bout that! Ended up way behind.” As soon as he slid open the shoji, Sugimura said and casually flung his bag there with feigned nonchalance. He put on an air of calm as if nothing had happened, his entire body projecting indifference to all matters—but his facial muscles had stiffened, twisting unnaturally, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The moment he slid open the shoji, the conversation inside came to an abrupt halt. Sugimura sat down there, but no one addressed him. In the cramped room where they sat knee-to-knee facing each other, there hung a silence so suffocating that not a single soul could bring themselves to utter a word. It was a terrible silent hostility. It was a battle of silence where whoever spoke first would lose. —Sugimura lost. "The turnout’s damn good today. ……Let’s skip the formal meeting tonight and just exchange opinions about the election results and discuss future countermeasures." "Well, those who lost—it can’t be helped."

As he spoke while feeling a multitude of piercing gazes stabbing into his entire body, Sugimura—who had until then kept his head bowed—now raised his face for the first time and fixed his eyes on a single point. That the person whose gaze had locked with his was none other than Ishikawa Gozo, sitting almost directly across and boldly facing him without a trace of timidity—! His countenance twisted by the entanglement of victory, contempt, mockery, and hatred had found a strange unity in the exhilaration of vengeance. Sugimura now had to conceal his timidity by starting to chatter incessantly. But not a single person responded to him; however, they began chattering among themselves with their own words and expressions.——

“We’ve ended up wasting our time like fools for a whole damn month.”

The one who let out a thick, affected sigh—Hoo—with a shrug of his shoulders was Yamada Sanji, who served as both the union's political officer and party executive, and had been one of the speakers' corps members in this election.

“Yamada’s got it easy compared to me. He’s always been a slick talker—a man who’d rather give speeches than eat, you know. This time—this very time—he must’ve jawed himself raw till he was good and satisfied. First thing we did was all flash and no substance. Look at me! Look at me! They kept me planted at a desk all day long. Hands made for hoes clutching a brush! Jotting down every last thing in the ledger—meals, labor costs, paper, ink, what’s this and that amount. There I was, cooped up without seeing sunlight for a whole damn month. By day’s end when I’d head home, my legs’d gone stiff as boards. Even when we thought we might pull through, it kept us going—but losing like this? What a goddamn waste.”

Kawakami Naokichi, who had been an election clerk, said that dismissively and flopped down. “Now, now, don’t say that, Kawakami. You should consider it fate that your fine handwriting got you noticed.” “That’s handwriting too good for a peasant, after all.”

“Much obliged for the praise,” Kawakami laughed. “Daily wages ain’t nothin’ but numbers in a ledger—don’t pay a damn penny. We lose elections left and right… Ah hell, should’ve sold out like Tanaka and become one o’ them Seiyukai speakers rakin’ in a fortune.” “If it’s gonna end up like this, then what’s it matter if we turned traitor?!”

In that final reckless remark, beneath its jesting tone lay something unnervingly genuine, and they all wore expressions of people deep in thought. Left completely isolated, Sugimura cast his restless gaze toward a corner of the room. Then, upon seeing something unexpected there, his expression suddenly turned fierce. On the Seto brazier there hung a kettle, and though he had only just now noticed it, submerged within was a large-mouthed, flat-lipped sake flask of three-gō capacity—the kind commonly seen in the countryside. The water hissed steadily as it boiled, and the flask inside clattered dully. The smell of alcohol that struck his nose upon entering the room came not only from what they had brought from outside but also from within. Office-provided teacups lay scattered about, and three or four already quite flushed men sat gathered around the brazier.

“You! What’s the meaning of this?!” The utterly unexpected matter became the catalyst that brought Sugimura and the others into confrontation; only after he had spoken so harshly did he realize his own misstep—but it was too late. The silent hostility, channeled through this trivial incident, had now erupted into open defiance. “How about stopping this drinking in the union office? Yes, you—at least here, we shouldn’t be carrying on so shamelessly with each other.” “We must consider our influence on ordinary union members.” “If there were some office celebration, that would be different.” “But today you’ve all gathered for a meeting, haven’t you?”

“Ah, ah—we know already! What’s the point in you tellin’ us that?”

Resentfully, one of them spat out, jutting his chin forward and even forcing a thin smile. What a petulant display of resentment this was!

Sugimura finally panicked, flustered. It was the shock of coming face-to-face with a docile pet dog suddenly baring its fangs.

“We ain’t gathered here today for no meetin’.” “We’re here for a celebration, so we’re downing drinks, see.”

“A celebration?”

“That’s right,” He smirked, paused for a moment as if to draw out the tension, “It’s a celebration of the Union’s dissolution.” He stated it point-blank and let out a low chuckle. Amid the group’s icy stares, Sugimura turned pale. When had his dear comrades transformed so suddenly into these malice-filled enemies… He had to steady himself, Sugimura thought. He was getting worked up, lashing out in his agitation. There was no need to press the matter further. He would let tonight’s gathering pass. He would avoid mentioning the election and leave things as they were for now… Yet against his will, they came charging in.

“Mr. Sugimura,” Yamada Sanji said at that moment.

Whenever this man—who had been a policeman—had something formal to say, it was his habit to use the "kun" suffix and speak in standard Japanese.

“You suggested we exchange opinions on the election results—but where do you yourself think the cause of this crushing defeat lies?”

“Well, there are various reasons, but…”

“Hmph—there may be various causes,” he said, “but the primary one is [five characters missing], and next comes the masses’ lack of awareness? Same old excuses as ever.” “Mr. Sugimura,” he continued, “you people never stop yammering about self-criticism this and self-criticism that like it’s some mantra. But when push comes to shove, you only ever criticize what doesn’t hurt your own pride.” “You must’ve realized by now what caused this election disaster. You know damn well what it is—you just lack the guts to admit it openly after all your fine words before.” “The root of this defeat lies nowhere else—it’s right there at your starting point.” “It’s in your boneheaded decision to run Shimada Shinsuke as candidate.” “Shimada Shinsuke—sure, he’s some bigwig party executive. But let’s face it—he’s a complete outsider here.” “What ties does Shimada have to this prefecture?” “What connection does he have with local folks?” “Even you must’ve known from day one that fielding someone like him was hopeless.” “That’s why most of us here opposed it from the start.” “We fought tooth and nail to put forward a local candidate—insisted on recommending Mr. Ishikawa Gozo across the whole prefecture as the true veteran of our peasant movement.”

At this, he glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye and stole a look at Ishikawa Gozo’s face beside him. Ishikawa remained motionless as ever, staring fixedly this way. “You dismissed that as opportunism or election-firstism or whatever—how absurd! Where does an election campaign exist that isn’t aimed at winning?” “And in the secretariat meeting, they laid out every last detail in advance, went around persuading each central committee member one by one, forcibly made them support Shimada, and then took control of that day’s central committee to suit their own convenience.” “Do you even have any idea how deeply rooted the peasants’ local-mindedness is?” “No, more than that—how much do you even know about peasants themselves?”

“The hell we do!” Kawakami Naokichi shot back, picking up Yamada’s thread before charging ahead. “To be blunt—and I mean no disrespect sayin’ this to your face, Mr. Sugimura—them secretaries been stickin’ their noses where they don’t belong way too much lately.” “All this ‘Mister Secretary this, Mister Secretary that,’ but what’s a secretary really? Nothin’ but a damn clerk drawin’ wages from the union to push papers around.” “Sure, maybe the bylaws ain’t clear ’bout their duties—but that don’t make it right for these so-called organizers to go meddlin’ in every blessed thing.” “Just ’cause they holed up in Tokyo or Osaka, dropped outta school halfway through, then spent a year or two playin’ country boy—how’s that qualify ’em to understand farmers—”

“Ah, enough with the logic already,” Ishikawa Gozo suddenly interjected, raising his hand in an authoritative gesture to silence them as he finally spoke up. He—who had let his comrades do all the talking without uttering a word himself, observing the scene with a self-satisfied look—stood up at the same moment he spoke.

“I’m headin’ out now.” “Ain’t like there’s any proper meetin’ happenin’ here anyway.” Without so much as a backward glance at Sugimura, he marched resolutely from the room. The move seemed almost rehearsed—a coordinated signal. Those still seated rose as one and trailed after Ishikawa. Was this mere chance? Could the roots of this rebellion stretch further back than he’d imagined? Sugimura stood motionless, staring at their retreating backs as tangled thoughts collided within him.

Why had that region remained the last virgin land? The living conditions of its villagers were no better than elsewhere—this was thought to stem purely from geographical circumstances. The town housing the office lay far distant; reaching it required traversing several ri along a winding mountain pass road. One side fell away in sheer cliffs, while the other dropped into valleys where only the dense treetops far below could be glimpsed. A road running straight would abruptly curve right and left in some five places. Precisely because they knew it intimately and had grown thoroughly accustomed, riders descending those slopes late at night on bicycles would lose themselves in aimless musings—until that instant when failed brakes sent both rider and machine plunging into the valley with sprays of night-invisible dust, tragedies recurring two or three times yearly. These geographical conditions must have fostered a certain resignation among those who kept their office in the town on this side of the pass and labored for the farmers' organization—for indeed, such organizations had come late to this area.

But finally the time came, and one day delegates from three villages in that county visited the town’s union office. After they left, the light on the second floor of the office glowed a deep red late into the night. The people were excited. They had long been aware that they needed to send someone suitable, and today that very need had come pressing in from the other side. Thus did the hoe plunge into virgin soil. But just who was to be sent to this untilled land? There was much work here as well, and hands were desperately few. The only one without a fixed position and still learning the ropes was none other than the still-young Sugimura Junkichi, who had quit school that spring and come to this area. The other comrades had already settled into their respective districts and spent one or two years there. Sugimura or those seasoned comrades? The people found themselves suddenly perplexed at this point. It was clear to everyone that the burden was too heavy for the inexperienced Sugimura. That said, transferring comrades who had grown even slightly accustomed to their posts was something that had to be avoided at all costs—even more so with peasants than with workers. In the end, they settled the debate by deciding to send Sugimura. Thus was granted Sugimura’s wish—youthfully eager yet restrained as he pressed his case.

The next day, he was escorted by five comrades to the foot of the pass and took his radiant first step onto the mountain path—could Sugimura ever forget the pure emotion of that day?

“Thank you for your hard work,” greeted a fortyish man who had introduced himself as the organizer at a gathering of about fifteen people held that noon on the second floor of a modest village tavern. With every pause in his speech came another “Secretary,” “Secretary.” Blushing crimson yet feeling an unbridgeable distance, Sugimura found himself perplexed by this mismatch with his own unsettled expectations. A particular archetype of peasants had formed in his mind. Yet this couldn’t be dismissed as mere presumption—even with his limited experience, it was rooted in actual farmers he’d observed firsthand. What stood before him now wore sleek silk clothes, a thick belt fastened with a watch, white tabi socks—every inch the merchant. His speech flowed in polished standard Japanese. The assumption that everything beyond the pass must be backward had been their own conceit; just across the prefectural border lay Y City, that famed industrial center whose influence weighed heavily on this region.

“How much funding will be provided from the union headquarters?” “In other words—well—regarding your stay here, Secretary,” said the man from before with a probing gaze when they designated the gathering as the First Preparatory Meeting for Establishing the T District Union Branch and began discussing where to set up the office. He was already making cold calculations. Whether the union was truly worth that much could not be known unless they pushed through even this autumn. And until that became clear, they shouldn’t spend a single penny. “Well, about ten yen for my living expenses, I suppose.” “Though communication expenses and such are covered,” added Sugimura. At this, the people fell silent for a time. Even if it was the countryside, setting up an office with that amount was impossible. They then spent over an hour going in circles around the same matter. There was no choice but to have Sugimura stay at one of their houses temporarily, yet everyone resolved to avoid troublesome entanglements as much as possible. “What about A—’s place?” When a name was mentioned, the person being named would fluster and wave their hands before retreating behind pre-prepared excuses. In the end, it was forced upon an elderly owner-farmer’s home. When this was finally settled, some now felt as though they’d suddenly suffered a loss.

“Old Man B— played a clever hand, didn’t he? Putting up that union clerk means even if you skim a little here and there, cold hard cash’ll come in every month like clockwork.” Sugimura would never forget those words uttered by one of them—

What a momentous period those three years must have been. To call them "momentous" would be no exaggeration whatsoever—whether viewed through society's lens or Sugimura's personal experience. In their complexity, richness, and profound significance, those three years eclipsed all twenty years of Sugimura's prior existence. To live with one's entire being—what sublime intensity! The organization that held its first preparatory meeting that autumn had blossomed by the following spring into eight official branches boasting over seven hundred members. The successful abolition of the wheat tax—still lingering in parts of the region—proved pivotal to this growth. With explosive speed, the organization expanded until by autumn a year later, this late-blooming district had utterly surpassed its older counterparts in influence. Now equipped with an independent office and Sugimura himself a salaried secretary recognized for his organizing talents—one could easily imagine his pride—but what truly fueled such rapid development? Primarily, the momentum of the times. While Sugimura's own considerable efforts certainly contributed, he long remained oblivious to how the very contradictions driving the organization's growth also sowed seeds of opposition—a realization that would come too late to this young idealist. To Sugimura, accustomed to northeastern peasants enmeshed in semi-isolated subsistence economies, this region's agrarian life proved astonishing. Each morning he awoke to vegetable-laden carts rumbling ceaselessly along Y City's arterial road. Flower gardens now occupied field corners while sun-drenched slopes burgeoned with newly planted orchards. Farmers increasingly apprenticed second and third sons as nursery gardeners. When M—Spinning opened its Y City branch factory, many promptly became labor recruiters scouring neighboring districts for factory girls. Speculative frenzies periodically swept through villages like sudden storms—first Java sparrows, then rabbits, then edible frogs gripped collective imagination. Farmers moved with feverish eyes, stealing moments from fieldwork to loiter and deal—slipping hands under sleeves to clasp fingers, exchanging sly grins as they muttered: "This'll do," "Just a bit more," "Bought," "Sold."

They would come like a tempest, snatch away the farmers’ money to who knows where, then sweep off like a storm. Many had spent several years of their youth in urban life, and such farmers appeared at least somewhat removed from the rustic dullness and ignorance typically associated with peasants. They possessed the knowledge to comprehend the stock market sections in newspapers and would critique the politicians of the day.—The rapid development of the union organization could be said to lie in the intersection of these various phenomena. In their demands for rent reduction, they maintained an unyielding stance and did not yield an inch. The joint storage of rent to prevent betrayal was unnecessary for them; after joining the union—no, it could be said they joined precisely for that purpose—they immediately sold their rent for cash and invested it in those aforementioned speculative schemes. Ever since the union gained momentum, the price of cultivation rights—transferred between tenant farmers or obtained from landlords as compensation—had risen sharply while land prices themselves fell. Farmers who had rushed to mediators to broker land deals began appearing at local meeting spots here and there.—

With such vast organizational manpower, could there be any other place so devoid of “memories of night harvests”? Could there be any other 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 the secretaries amounted to nothing more than company clerks. They openly called them clerks—clerks. They covered these two salaries with their union dues.—Things remained manageable as long as that sufficed. But when the complete powerlessness of individual lawyers and secretaries became exposed, and a movement arose from below to resolve issues through genuine organizational strength—with Sugimura spearheading this momentum—they inevitably clashed with the union’s upper echelons at every turn. Now Sugimura himself—the very man who had nurtured them—came to understand for the first time just how tenacious was the faction led by Ishikawa Gozo, who hung a certain life insurance company’s agency sign before his house.

It was precisely amid such circumstances that the national election was scheduled to take place. People were swept into a new whirlpool of excitement. The village suddenly saw an increase in so-called "politicians," and there emerged those who would address prominent officials from their region familiarly as "Mr." and claim to have "had a drink" with them. Two years earlier, the Proletarian Party, which had been established primarily by the union, naturally had to field its own candidate. Whether to field a local candidate or bring someone from outside became the main point of debate. Sugimura’s district, except for a small number of opponents, recommended Ishikawa Gozo to the Central Committee. And it was a sufficiently powerful statement. Central Committee members were elected roughly in proportion to the organization’s membership numbers, and committee members elected from this district constituted a majority. Sugimura immediately fell into a dilemma. No matter what, he could not bring himself to support Ishikawa Gozo. This was his own independent opinion, and the organization that Koizumi and Sugimura had joined that spring had issued directives regarding the election; remaining faithful to those directives made supporting Ishikawa all the more impossible. Moreover, on this day when the lower organizations supporting Sugimura were not yet fully formed, to confront Ishikawa head-on carried the risk of causing the organization’s collapse. After much back-and-forth, they ultimately decided to bring in Shimada Shinsuke, a central committee member of the union, from outside the prefecture and nominate him. It was not that they failed to acknowledge the peasants’ intense regional consciousness; rather, they deemed it appropriate both to actively overcome it rather than yield and to avoid internal conflicts among influential figures within the prefecture.

Sugimura carried out his first maneuver worthy of a politician. To defeat the Ishikawa faction at the Central Committee. And he defeated them.

Throughout the entire election campaign, the sabotage by Ishikawa and his supporters—sometimes covert, sometimes overt—surpassed expectations in its ferocity. Lecture halls that were supposed to have been rented remained unsecured; posters meant to be pasted up were nowhere to be seen even after supposedly being placed throughout the village. The rumor that some election staffers had secretly frequented the opposition’s campaign office hardly seemed mere baseless gossip—there were ample reasons to believe votes we’d counted on might disappear without trace and it wouldn’t have been surprising.

“Onishi, it’s already late today. Why don’t you stay over? Come on, it’s fine, right?”

In the bleak room after everyone had left, sitting facing each other, Sugimura said. Lately, the young Onishi had been coming steadily to the office to assist Sugimura with his work, and tonight, for some reason, Sugimura felt a keen reluctance to send him home like this.

“Since I didn’t tell them at home, I should head back after all.” “I see. Then why don’t we talk a bit more?” He placed the grilled rice cakes that Onishi had brought on the brazier’s wire grill, and while waiting for them to roast, he stared intently at Onishi’s youthful, energetic face, finding it reassuring. Then, suddenly, what he wanted to say welled up within him. He had tried to speak to Koizumi but, pressed by his sternness, had been unable to voice it, and it had remained pent up in his chest until now.

“You probably heard… what they were saying downstairs,” he said with a slightly embarrassed look. “It’s simply that what had to come sooner or later has arrived.” “So I’m not the least bit surprised.” “The election was just one trigger—even without it, something would have happened soon enough for some reason or another.” “After all, any organization, once it has developed to a certain extent, must inevitably go through this process once.” “The issue lies in how to overcome it—how to prevent internal conflicts from remaining mere conflicts and instead use them as stepping stones for progress. I understand that, but—”

Sugimura pressed his hand to his forehead and bowed his head, his words to Onishi transforming into a low mutter directed at himself. “Can I successfully ride out this wave? I’m anxious about that—it’s shameful to admit, but to be honest, I don’t have full confidence in myself regarding it. I had become so distracted by the increasing number of members, carried away by it, that I’d lost sight of what was essential. It seems I myself had been unconsciously swept up by the petty bourgeois elements that had come to permeate the union. And by the time I noticed, the contradictions had already reached a point where they couldn’t be resolved without drastic measures. Even my sudden efforts to firmly gather you young folks around me—though one might rightly mock them as last-minute measures—…”

“Mr. Sugimura, that’s neither your responsibility nor your fault alone.” Onishi, who had been silent until then, spoke up. This was a different Onishi from the one who had intercepted Sugimura downstairs earlier—his round face now bore a composed smile, appearing to have completely regained his calm. “You’re making things difficult by thinking you have to shoulder absolutely everything alone.” “That’s just too much hardship for you.” “……It’s not your personal problem—it’s an organizational one, I think.”

Sugimura involuntarily jerked his head up. The words this young man had casually uttered possessed a sharpness that pierced Sugimura's vulnerability. He listened to what came next with bated breath. "If it's necessary, then there's no choice—we'll have to resort to drastic measures or whatever it takes." When matters took clear form and he realized that neither this nor that was permissible any longer, Onishi seemed to grow calm instead. "But whether we can overcome this or not—I don't think you need to worry as if the union were about to collapse any moment now, Mr. Sugimura. If it's something we won't know until we try, then worrying about it now is pointless... And in my opinion, even if there's a split, I doubt many will follow someone like Ishikawa. Even if they do follow him, it'll only be temporary." Why that was so—he moved on without explaining the basis for it. But there existed a certainty there—workers believing in their fellow workers. "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 good anymore... and that our current organization is mistaken in that regard. Even cultivating fighters in the youth division has been handled solely from that narrow perspective. Take our study group with you right now—it's truly beneficial, sure. But when a slightly better youth emerges through such efforts, they immediately get promoted to office secretaries. I just can't agree with how things have been done up till now. First off, if you quit farming and come to town, you'll grow distant from the villagers, which would be a real problem in times like these, you know. After all, unless we cling stubbornly to the village and unite with everyone..."

He paused there, chopped the sword beans, and brought them to his mouth. Did he himself even realize how much power those words, uttered so calmly and casually, had exerted upon Sugimura? Sugimura was nearly overwhelmed by emotion. Without anyone noticing, Onishi had grown into such a man. Wasn't this final opinion of his precisely the same issue that Sugimura had just debated with Koizumi the other day?

That’s right—there’s no mistaking it. A secretary-centered, office-centered peasant movement was no good anymore. From now on——

As emotions surged and his next words caught in his throat, Onishi suddenly seemed to hit upon an idea, smiled faintly, and began speaking about something entirely different. “Mr. Sugimura, you should get some rest too.” “You’ve grown quite weak.” “After all, right after last autumn’s busy season came the election.” “We haven’t had a moment to catch our breath.” “You ought to forget everything and rest.” “This current matter isn’t so urgent it can’t wait—even if it were, panicking wouldn’t solve anything. Mr. Sugimura—D-onsen—it’s a good place. You should go there once. It’s only fifteen yen a month.”

Not answering that, Sugimura gazed intently into Onishi’s eyes and said earnestly.

“From now on, it’s you all—you all must carry out the real peasant movement.” “You’ve got to rebuild it from the ground up again!” After a brief pause, he lowered his voice melancholically. “But the spring conference will surely be fraught with disputes.” “If only it goes well—”

And he could do nothing to stop himself from sliding helplessly into this uncharacteristic sentimentality.

Even after Onishi had left, Sugimura remained awake for some time. He sat blankly, letting disordered thoughts swarm chaotically through his mind. Onishi had spoken optimistically, but within him tangled the fate of the organization he was responsible for, its immediate problems, and his self-reflection as an organizer. He thought the problem lay in how each peasant stratum's influence varied within the organization. He felt one phase of the organizational movement had reached its precise end. In other words, elements that could be called rich peasant tenants had inevitably held overwhelming power during a certain period—especially the early stages—but that era was now concluding. They had reached their inherent limits. If conflict arose between poor peasant elements and them, Sugimura believed such opposition shouldn't be avoided—even if it weakened the union numerically. And it was true that currently, poor peasant elements lacked strength within the union. Regardless of numbers, they held no real organizational power. Sugimura considered the absurdity of village social hierarchies persisting unchanged within this proletarian organization. His thoughts extended to the vast masses of poor peasants outside the organization. These were peasants lacking energy to challenge tenant rents directly, or those unable to pay dues and remain in permanent organizations. Confronting this vast stratum rendered current organizational methods impotent. An entirely new form of struggle was essential—a time to prioritize demands beyond tenant rents previously neglected. Sugimura reflected on China's peasant movement he'd recently read about, certain it contained crucial insights. Yet facing this problem's magnitude, he couldn't avoid examining his own capabilities as an organizer. With his entire being, he became convinced this was work worth staking his life on without regret. But when weighing his actual achievements across three years—how meager they seemed. Perhaps discovering Onishi and a few other youths remained his greatest accomplishment after all.

The reason Sugimura was somewhat respected among his comrades was not due to any superiority in his abilities as an organizer, but merely because a certain measure of respect was accorded to his attitude of disregarding and eradicating his personal life before work. All things gentle—all that was lighthearted or carefree—these he rejected; only the harsh and fierce were welcomed. That he spurned alcohol, tobacco, and rich foods was not solely for health or thrift. When secretaries held meetings and stayed overnight at the town office, Sugimura would sometimes notice that the comrades who should have been sleeping beside him had vanished at some point. He knew where they went. Yet Sugimura had never once followed after such comrades. Only once had he turned his steps toward that brightly lit part of town on a certain night. But when it struck him that the money in his pocket—what was meant to be spent there—came from the sale of the farmers’ rice, Sugimura fled back to the office as if escaping. Every drop of blood, every shred of vitality—all for the work—he tried saying aloud.

He tried saying it out loud. However, in Sugimura’s attitude of this sort, one could sense something obsessive and constrained—akin to his pursuit of such ideals—and his overly cautious fastidiousness, which prevented him from becoming thoroughly bold in all matters, might well have been proof that even as an organizer, he remained but a small vessel.— Even though his head was burning up, there was a hollow corner somewhere that seemed to gape open listlessly. The familiar desk and bookshelves he knew so well, the haphazardly stacked mountains of documents—everything felt strangely parched and lifeless. It must be that his body had weakened somewhat after all. Suddenly, his resolve slackened; fatigue washed over him for the umpteenth time; and still in his disheveled state with his jacket removed, Sugimura lay down on the bedding in the corner of the room and fell into a deep sleep.

What should have naturally come after defeat arrived surprisingly early. Three days later that afternoon, Sugimura went to attend an election report rally in a certain village. After finishing his speech there and stepping onto the road to head to another village, five men lying in wait ambushed Sugimura and took him away. At the scene, Sugimura had been alone, but within two or three days, half the secretaries had disappeared, leaving both the prefectural headquarters and regional offices completely vacant.

With a heavy clang, the thick door shut, followed by the grating of iron against iron. Listening to the fading footsteps, Sugimura collapsed in the center of the room and drifted into a fitful sleep for several hours.

The rural detention center held few inmates and had lax regulations.

When he awoke from a brief sleep—Ah, right—I was brought here—the realization struck him anew. Checking the sun’s angle through the small window, he saw it must already be nearing dusk. Months earlier, he had come here as well, and as he looked at the familiar graffiti on the walls, visions of past, present, and future raced through his mind like a zoetrope’s flickering images. No matter how many times he came, it was each time anew, and he felt that one could never grow completely accustomed. However, as time passed and evening fell—after he had finished dinner and the dim light began to fill the room—his emotions settled into a steady calm. In this absurd place, he could take the rest Onishi had mentioned—Sugimura laughed. He felt a certain ease at being temporarily freed from his pressing, difficult duties due to having been arrested—even as he was ashamed that such a feeling had arisen within him at all.

In a drowsy haze, about ten days had slipped by. But immediately, Sugimura was struck down by an unforeseen shock.

One day, Sugimura was transferred to the town's main police station. Led to the building housing detention cells and made to stand waiting in a corner of the corridor, he saw a man being brought out from a cell as guards began inspecting his belongings. "So they're taking someone else in my place," I thought—and when I stole a glance, there stood Koizumi in kimono, his face covered in stubble yet unmistakable. He had noticed me long before; his eyes kept darting fleeting looks my way, charged with unspoken meaning.

“Need the restroom,” Koizumi announced at that moment, and no sooner had he spoken than he was already striding briskly toward the toilet—toward where Sugimura stood—with the air of one long accustomed to such situations. Sensing something in Koizumi’s resilient, vigorous movements, he instinctively braced himself—and as they passed each other, “It’s a Communist hunt.” he said in a low voice, just a single word. It was a low yet sharp voice. The moment he jolted with realization, violent palpitations already surged through him. It did not easily subside even after entering the room. He remained dazed for a while in bewilderment that had robbed him of all composure, but suddenly wanted to burst out laughing—a scornful laugh directed at himself. It was a laugh—a self-mocking one. Even with the saying “ignorance is bliss,” how peacefully he had spent these past ten days. Unaware that a terrifying trap had been steadily prepared all the while. From the moment he had been arrested until now, Sugimura had considered the nature of the matter in an extremely simple way. He had considered it nothing more than a preliminary detention to prevent mass movements after the election. It was all too self-evident, and he had not even attempted to reconsider it. But now, Koizumi’s single utterance? Anyone else who heard it might have remained unperturbed. But Koizumi and Sugimura alone had reason to be unable to remain unperturbed. The matter contained elements of grave significance.

Suddenly realizing something, Sugimura turned pale. It was not simple terror but an emotion fraught 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 tell anyone at all, he found it unbearable. He trembled until his teeth chattered beyond control, rose restlessly to his feet, and walked over to the doorway. He desperately wanted to see a human face, thinking this might bring some relief to his mind.

Peering through the iron bars into the cell across from him, he was struck by a fresh wave of astonishment. Leaning against the wall near the doorway—wasn't this person too gazing outward with that same look of desperate longing—one of the union members? The man was no executive, but someone he'd known by sight for years. For what reason had they dragged him here? The answer seemed obvious—had they really extended their reach this far?—as absurdity and outrage surged together through his chest. Yet his joy at finding an unexpected familiar face overwhelmed him, and his heart—lifted by the hope he might finally learn what he yearned to know—could not be restrained. He rapped briskly on the cell door.

The person on the other side came straight up to the door and seemed to recognize Sugimura. His expression tensed up; he glanced back into the cell and said something. There was a stir of movement, and immediately two or three others stood up. He wasn’t alone! They were all familiar faces. Sugimura swallowed the words that had risen to his throat, mindful of those outside, and instead offered a smile into which he poured every ounce of affection he possessed. What had been offered in response?

Several pairs of eyes stared fixedly at Sugimura without blinking, not a single wrinkle forming at their corners. It only grew harsher and more unrelenting. The corners of their mouths never relaxed—no matter how much time passed, they remained tightly clenched, twisting all the while. There were those still in their work clothes, likely taken straight from the fields—and on those haggard faces, where beards and hair grew unchecked, what had gradually risen into sharp relief was nothing but an accusatory glare that pierced through a person. Sugimura felt as if he had been suddenly slapped.

Suddenly, one of them bared his yellowed teeth and gums—crooked and jagged. “Tch!” He clicked his tongue sharply, raised a fist to shake at the air, then gripped the iron bars again as if to crush them, glaring through with devouring eyes— In truth, these men were consumed by hatred and bitter rage. They had long been ignorant of why they’d been taken here. Only at noon today had they finally learned. At first they’d believed—as others told them—they’d be freed in two or three days. But when those days stretched to ten, then twenty without a single interrogation, their anxiety swelled into something monstrous. Worst of all were their very bones—men who since birth had scarce known a day without laboring hands and feet. Days idle enough to count on one hand. Their lives had been carved from whole-body toil where joy and suffering intertwined; sitting idle to ponder was alien as snow in August. For two or three days they’d huddled whispering. But looking back? Their lives were worn paths—ten years walked like ten days on a single dirt road. Talk soon dried up. Distance made fields ache dear; clear skies taunted with planting delays till their minds burned.—Days passed until flesh and spirit slipped their gears. Minds starved of purpose gaped like dark pits; limbs denied work turned slack as old rope. Some felt this keenly—others showed it through clouded eyes straying nowhere or limbs moving thick as tar. By daylight they’d snicker at blank walls or scrub chins raw with sleeves; nights brought shouters leaping up till their numbers grew.—

When they were taken out for the first time today and subjected to relentless questioning with harsh words, they could do nothing but stare fixedly at their interrogator's face. They had barely grasped that the matter concerned Sugimura, but this affair—presumed to have been committed by Sugimura himself, for which even they were now being hounded—struck them as utterly irrelevant and needless. No matter what they were asked, they merely bowed their heads vacantly, forgetting their questioner as they muttered grievances against Sugimura and pleaded their innocence. As they were leaving the room, one of them timidly asked: “Will you let us out tomorrow?” The interrogator who had been addressed threw back his head with a bark of laughter and declared: “You’ll be here till year’s end!” “Rot here till your legs fall off for all I care!”

Having returned in a frenzy, their legs trembled so violently they couldn't stand for some time. Even a brief moment exposed to outside air—their initial hope of release dashed—made the pressure of lost freedom bear down twice as hard, pushing their minds to the brink of madness. As they gradually regained composure, their fury burned toward a single individual—the one who'd plunged them into this wretched state. Where was that bastard hiding? Why did we have to suffer like this because of him?!

And now, that very Sugimura suddenly appeared before them.

In a thoroughly withered state, Sugimura returned to where he had been before. He crouched there and remained motionless for some time. An indescribable desolation welled up from deep within. It was something he had never experienced before. Nothing could have crushed the present Sugimura more completely than those gazes of theirs. He could face all manner of hardships with courage. Yet that courage did not depend solely on Sugimura's physical body. It sprang from a greater force that sustained Sugimura himself. Now he witnessed with his own eyes how that pillar was crumbling. He pondered the cause and recognized half of it lay on their side. But he had come to believe this was unavoidable to some degree—no matter what one did.—He suddenly remembered a novel he had read long ago. Written by a Russian author, it depicted peasants who had bound and dragged out a rural organizer working among them for their own sake. Sugimura could not help dwelling on the many new trials that likely still lay ahead.

One month had passed. The four or five men in the cell across appeared to have been interrogated twice during that period. Sugimura tried to read something from their faces when they returned, but found it impossible. Then one day they vanished—presumably released—and the following day Sugimura was summoned.

Guided into the room, he looked up from below at the sharp-eyed man in Western clothes seated across the desk with a somewhat despondent mood. The fact that there had been so many nights without sleep over that single matter now became undeniably clear… “Took your time,” he said. Sugimura silently nodded. However, he could not suddenly recall where he had seen that thick-bearded round face.

“Feeling alright?” “Yes, I’m fine.” The bearded man introduced himself as Uchida, opened a red leather briefcase and searched for something, then took out a sheet of paper, spread it out, and suddenly thrust it before Sugimura. He stared intently into Sugimura’s eyes and remained silent. It was a show of resolve not to miss even the faintest shadow of emotion crossing Sugimura’s face. “Well? Surprised? We’ve already got this much on you.” He must have thought he’d shaken Sugimura’s nerve. There, for the first time, he grinned 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. The rectangle connected via numerous lines to surrounding circles and squares, each similarly inscribed with organizational and individual names. The man silently pointed at one entry underlined in red, where Sugimura saw his own name alongside Koizumi’s.

“Well? Have they all talked?” “Well…” He hesitated slightly before continuing, “I’ll give it some thought first.”

“Hmph,” he snorted. “Iron discipline—that’s just fine. “But you were thorough in your preparations. “Impressive.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb!” he shouted for the first time, slamming his hand on the desk with a thud. “I thought at least one document with my name might turn up.” “But you know what?” “It’s all been swept clean.” “They’ve even scrubbed every last legal publication, damn them.” “You were ready for this, eh?” “But whatever—who needs evidence anyway?” “Too late now.” He blustered, letting out a derisive laugh.

“Huh? What do you mean?” he asked. At that time, Sugimura had genuinely struggled to comprehend what the man was saying, but in these few moments, he understood everything—overwhelmed by emotion that held nothing back, he felt like he could cry. “Well? Going to talk?” he asked again.

“I don’t want to talk today,” he answered firmly this time. “Is that so? Fine then—let’s make it a battle of endurance.” Very well—an endurance contest or whatever—Sugimura felt like replying defiantly. His tightly strung heart slackened. At first he drifted in a sensation like falsehood or dreaming, but gradually courage welling from the pit of his being filled him completely.

The anguish and fatigue of this past month had been swept away in a very brief span of time. Whatever may come, he now felt a surge of vigor to meet it head-on with his whole body. Even so, whose work could this be? Was it Onishi? Or Kimura? Sugimura recalled the faces of the familiar young men. On the morning of the day he was arrested, Sugimura had received a document. It was a document that had to be disposed of shortly after being read. However, he read it and saw in the document contents that he wanted to somehow commit to memory by writing them down. He should have disposed of it immediately, but with the rally time approaching, he placed it in an envelope, stored it away somewhere, and left the house. The reason he had committed such an unusual lapse in caution was that he had intended to return home once he finished the rally there. For a while after being arrested, he likely hadn’t given it much thought, having dismissed his detention as a routine matter. But as soon as he learned the true nature of their investigation, what tormented him ceaselessly day and night was the unforgivable carelessness of that earlier day. Just the thought of that made every drop of blood in Sugimura’s body freeze. The office must have been ransacked by now. If that fell into their hands!

Trembling with anxiety, he now wished for his interrogation to come as soon as possible 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 have been? He thought about it again. There must have been only a slight gap between when he was arrested and when the office was ransacked. It had been the youths’ swift action, taking advantage of that brief window. Still, he had never revealed himself to be part of an organization unknown to the youths, much less entrusted them with handling such situations. All the more because of this, the emotion swelled powerfully, and he could no longer suppress the hot tide rising within him. ——

“Fine, go home today.”

Uchida's voice snapped Sugimura out of his recollection. Because Uchida stood up, he also stood up. Uchida, who had risen to his feet, seemed to ponder something. "Wait a moment," he said before going to the next room and returning with a cloth-wrapped bundle. He set down a rather bulky object on the desk with a thud,

“You know Onishi, right?”

he asked. That name, which now occupied his mind with incomparable magnitude, was suddenly brought up, and Sugimura involuntarily flinched. He raised his face with resolute resolve. Seeming completely oblivious to this, Uchida continued speaking while starting to untie the cloth-wrapped bundle halfway.

“Special treatment for you.” “It’s Onishi’s care package.” “Care packages? It’s not the time to allow such things yet, but I’ll arrange it for you.”

When he opened the bundle, there lay a lined kimono undergarment, a laundered knit shirt, split-toe socks, some papers and such; atop these was another small package containing a paper bag of hard candies and karintō. “Thank you for the treat.” After declining, he sat back down, and Sugimura put a candy in his mouth. The candy wrapper tore frustratingly as he impatiently bit into it with a crunch. When he looked at the bag, it was from the cheap sweets shop in front of their office. It was the store they’d often stop by after finishing their study group meetings.

Onishi's safety had now been confirmed. There was one more thing he wanted to know - news of Koizumi, about whom he knew nothing beyond sharing his own imprisoned status. He tried to ask Uchida, his voice rising to his throat, but choked it back down. Inside the room, he changed clothes and left his previous garments in the corner before Sugimura stepped into the corridor to return to his cell.

The corridor windows were all thrown open, and a refreshing wind rushed through with a rustling sound.

Before they knew it, April was already nearing its end. Right below the window was a bustling road, and in the spring sun, the sight of people in their fresh spring attire coming and going was beautiful.

The lost freedom surged intensely in his chest once more. A large poster was pasted on the utility pole right before his eyes. Tilted at an angle, he could clearly make out the characters reading "Grand Rally for Denouncing Red Ideology" and even discern the lineup of speakers' faces printed alongside them. Among two or three distinguished figures from Tokyo were mixed the names of Ishikawa and two others. In a normal year, Sugimura fleetingly thought, May Day posters would have replaced those by now. That such materials could be openly displayed seemed to speak volumes about the organization's fate thereafter, yet even as he observed them and reflected on his current self, he didn't feel everything had ended. If anything, the opposite sensation—that he'd barely taken his first step—grew stronger within him. Since earlier, Sugimura had been vividly envisioning Onishi and the others as if they stood there before him. Urged onward, he descended the stairs leading to the dark room.

(June 1935 · Chūō Kōron)