Pathway to Japanese Literature

Ota Kenzo, the young district committee secretary, leaned slightly forward over the table with its bent legs and was rapidly writing something on the documents.—The house stood where the rows of buildings along the highway began to thin out, just as expansive rice fields started spreading their view from that point. Several bicycles that had been racing straight down the highway shortly after dusk arrived and stopped before the house. After shoving their bicycles into the dark earthen entryway, the people took towels from their waists and began briskly dusting their hems with sharp snaps while ascending warped stairs that creaked and groaned underfoot. It was a room with an oppressively low ceiling like an attic chamber. Though crudely constructed with straw mats laid over thin rush matting, its dreary simplicity belied ample space that could easily hold ten tatami mats. Through a small open window hung heavy rainy season clouds sagging down to the opposite hilltop, while wind blowing through carried mist-laden dampness with each gust. The scent of fresh soil and sweat-soaked plants brought straight from fields by fifteen or sixteen people sitting in a circle permeated the quivering room air.

(This is an incredible achievement—) Having finally compiled the lawsuit documents to send to the prefectural headquarters' lawyer in N Town, and while writing his third report addressed to the general headquarters in O City since becoming responsible for this T District, Ota's mind raced in all directions—from the footsteps of people climbing the stairs alone, he could instantly identify which village each person hailed from—and finding this outcome surpassing even his expectations, with his earlier anxieties now dispelled, he couldn't help but smirk to himself. Yoneda, Ueda, Kawakami, Kawashimo, Hiranuma—prominent figures from fully ten villages had already assembled. Just three or four villages remained. The long-awaited rain had come pouring down last night—never had he imagined they'd achieve such turnout during this time-critical planting season.

“Whew! Saved at last!” It was Ueda Branch Leader Hiraga Jinbei who made that remark while wiping sweat from his brow, no sooner having taken his seat than he spoke. “How we fretted when it looked like rain but never came! Today we even pressed every last pair of hands into service and got it done. What about Genji’s group?” “Our branch does joint planting,” declared Kawakami Branch Leader Tada Genji in response, squaring his blocky shoulders with an air of superiority. “Just because the rain we’ve been waiting for has come doesn’t mean we’ll go rushing about in a panic. There’s a proper order to these things, I tell you. Today we handled Kurayoshi’s group. Tomorrow it’s Yamamoto’s turn. The collective training of our group isn’t like other branches’, you see.”

“You bastard, talking nonsense!” Jinbei exclaimed, smacking his forehead with an open palm before bursting into laughter. A roar of laughter erupted from all around.

“By the way, everyone—how’s it going?” asked another voice that suddenly lowered its tone somewhat.

“Haven’t you heard a thing about the elections? Seiyukai’s Takagi and Minseito’s Ueda seem to have started scurrying around—” “Don’t listen to that!” Hiraga Jinbei sharply cut off his own words, thrusting his hand into his breast pocket as if searching for something—“Hey everyone, look at this.”

Along with his voice came a thud as a sealed letter fell onto the thin rush mat. When the people sitting in a circle huddled their heads together over it and took turns examining it in sequence, this sealed letter—with its envelope and interior scroll paper both uncommonly elegant, written in splendid calligraphy—proved to be a "Confidential Letter" addressed to Hiraga Jinbei by Ueda Shinsuke, this region's foremost major landowner.— "With autumn elections drawing near, that Ueda bastard went and sent something like this to people! Now listen here—back in the last election when we didn't have no union yet, as y'all know, I worked as Ueda's election clerk. And what'd that bastard go spoutin' then? All this high-falutin' nonsense 'bout makin' laws to recognize topsoil rights, draftin' tenant-first tenancy acts—pah! Nothin' but hot air."

He suddenly reached out and snatched the sealed letter with such force that one might think he would tear it to shreds on the spot, yet in reality carefully folded it in two as if handling something precious before stowing it deep within his breast pocket once more. Though his words denied it, the atmosphere radiating from Jinbei’s demeanor made plain his inner pride at having received a handwritten letter from the region’s foremost powerbroker—a thrill at being able to show everyone “look what I’ve got” that shuddered through his very being.

"As for topsoil rights..." another voice immediately picked up on that phrase from Jinbei’s words and began to speak. "In Tomiyama Village of Ayada County, I hear the union members recently extracted four hundred ryō in fertile soil compensation from the landlord." “Four hundred ryō!” another exclaimed in involuntary surprise. “Is that true? Well now, what in tarnation have they gone and done!” “It’s exactly like pricing subsoil.—Though they say that Sugimura, the secretary of their union over there, is a frightfully capable man.”

“Right right, they do say he’s a damn sharp operator. Four hundred ryō though—that’s something else!”

Several people voiced their admiration in unison and nodded in agreement. While hurriedly writing the last few lines of the urgent report—Damn it!—Ota involuntarily clicked his tongue inwardly. The young Ota heard their praise of Sugimura as sarcasm directed at himself. He was still only twenty-two—this Ota. With his round shaven head broad at the base, slightly plump ruddy cheeks, and large eyes that constantly darted about, he had a boyish face. This explosive youthfulness—marked by childish antics like walking four or five abreast down crowded streets before suddenly darting ahead to execute a perfect somersault and laugh back at his companions—had been his unique pride back in the city, unmatched whether at workplaces or labor union offices. Because of that youth which many had long lost and no longer possessed, he found himself beloved wherever he went, his organizational work often progressing unexpectedly well through this very quality. This was 192X, when dispatching proletarians to rural areas had become an urgent priority for Japan’s proletarian movement—and here he stood, one of those chosen few, having first arrived in this village just two months prior! What he perceived as his greatest obstacle was precisely this youthfulness of his. Everything differed completely from dealing with indecisive single workers at factories or the four or five unemployed men perpetually loafing about union offices. For centuries here had existed lives rooted as if growing unshakably from the earth’s very depths—lives settled with deliberate solidity. Kneeling face-to-face with them, Ota would passionately expound on the wretched hardships of oppressed lives and the sole path to escape. Yet his listeners would simply stare vacantly, showing no trace of emotion. When he detected that fierce protest trembling within those dull eyes—peering cautiously from sleep-crusted sockets—which demanded, “Do you actually understand anything about this life you’re talking about?”, Ota’s fervor instantly withered, leaving him unable to muster the courage to continue speaking. More than anything else, he felt his own raw youthfulness becoming the greatest barrier preventing others from accepting his righteous words. If only I’d grow out my hair! Amidst an earnest yet bitter smile, Ota even found himself contemplating such things. In truth, more than once Ota had overheard the tenant farmers’ muttered criticisms. “Plenty of spirit alright—but still just a wet-behind-the-ears brat!”

“Sensei—”

At that moment came the sound of someone muffling their footsteps yet hurrying up the stairs. Though he had grown somewhat accustomed to it by now, Ota turned around with his entire face revealing the awkwardness of being called "Sensei". "The police—" came the voice, half-trembling.

“The police? “The local police box?” “No, from the town—” The people turned pale and tensed up in an instant. Ota set down his pen and clicked his tongue in irritation. “Shut the hell up, bastard.” Then he slowly stood up and went downstairs.—The Ota who had gone down immediately came back up.

“Alright, Comrades, let’s begin the meeting—it seems everyone’s gathered.” “Sensei, what about the police?” "I sent them back," Ota said nonchalantly. Demonstrating maturity in such situations was something he took no small pride in.

“As for the chairmanship today, let’s have Mr. Saito serve again.” “Comrades, are we agreed?” “Mr. Saito, I’ll leave it to you then.”

The large man who had been sitting in the corner the entire time—listening to people's talk without uttering a word while smiling—slowly stood up. Amidst everyone’s sweat-stained work clothes, this man alone wore neat serge work attire. This was Saito Kenta, Yoneda Village branch chief. Having opened a grocery store under his wife's name along Yoneda Village's prefectural road and cultivating over three chō in this region notorious for cramped cultivation plots per household, he was the union's most affluent member. He too belonged to that arrogant breed of men who absolutely believed the world would unfold precisely according to their own designs and advantage. Being elected meeting chairman went without saying—even the matter of whom the union would nominate as candidates in today's main agenda, the autumn prefectural assembly election, stood already self-evident to him.

Saito took the chairman’s seat, and the people all slid their knees forward in unison, straightening their postures. Ota sat down next to Saito. A burst of coughing could be heard, and soon the room fell completely silent. Ota, who had abruptly raised his face to begin explaining the proposal, suddenly closed his mouth mid-sentence. He let the hand holding the scrap of paper drop to his lap and peered ahead with a puzzled expression.

When had he come up so silently and sat there? At the top of the stairs, in the dimly lit corner of the wooden-floored area, a man was seated. He knelt with knees neatly aligned in formal seiza posture, both hands resting motionless atop them. His face remained hidden beneath a bowed head—a man none recognized. Though not particularly tall, his unnaturally broad frame gave him an almost deformed appearance that carried something undeniably eerie.

“Hey, you!” “Who exactly are you?” Ota said softly, his voice slightly lifting in tone. “From which village are you exactly?”

When Ota's voice reached his ears, the man seemed to startle for an instant, but immediately pressed his gnarled hands flat against the floorboards and bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the ground. One of the people in the room who had been staring fixedly at the man timidly raising his face said in a low, murmuring voice: “Ah! The Ikeda Village folks!” “Ikeda Village?” someone parroted, and Ota suddenly remembered. There was no branch in Ikeda Village. Three or four years ago, there had apparently been some people who came to listen to the union’s rallies and maintained contact, but now it was said to be a village with no involvement whatsoever. Since it was none other than an election strategy committee, they had pulled out old records and sent notices even to two or three people from Ikeda Village at that time—villages without branches—thinking to have them attend, but could this man be one of them…?

“If you’re from Ikeda Village,” Ota said. “Won’t you please come all the way over here?” “Thank you for coming all this way.” “We’ll begin the meeting now.” Even when addressed thus, the man merely fidgeted and shrank back. "Uh..." he said, "if I could just listen there..." His voice then faded to inaudibility. Repeating the same words two or three times, Ota urged the man. But he still did not attempt to move.

“You, you—everyone here is a comrade, so there’s absolutely no need to hold back.” “Please come all the way over here.” “It’s actually a problem if you stay there all by yourself.”

Finally rising from his seat and moving forward, Ota said with irritation while forcing vigor into his voice. Ota saw this as an excessive reserve stemming from servility—common among tenant farmers. But what was this unyielding stubbornness lurking within his obsequious attitude? With an urge to click his tongue in frustration, Ota surveyed the gathering. The people remained strangely silent. Had Ota paused to observe carefully, he might have noticed within those people movements of their eyes that found nothing strange in such a man’s attitude…….

He couldn't keep attending to him forever—soon Ota returned to his seat and began explaining the proposal. And he vigorously proceeded with the meeting. He felt a heavy oppression, but occasionally he would raise his eyes and glance toward the dimly lit stairway area. The man remained bowed, sitting there with his knees neatly aligned…….

The thoroughfare was fading into dusk amidst a quiet yet somehow life-dense bustle.

By day, the streets lay hushed under the midday sun, scarcely a soul passing through. Then in that brief hour before nightfall, crowds streamed ceaselessly down the little-traveled road. A procession of freight-hauling packhorses returning from town; peddlers hurrying to reach appointed villages before dark; farmers coming back from fields; mothers stopping at the grocery on their way home to hang dried provisions from their arms. Occasionally empty trucks raced past, churning up clouds of parched earth dust—through this Ota pedaled his bicycle toward his village. Covering twelve to twenty-five miles daily on his bicycle counted among his chief routines. Even without pressing business, whether one made village rounds every two or three days meant stark differences for branch operations. Return now and night would bring yet another hamlet discussion meeting awaiting him...

Ota, who had been pedaling, suddenly stopped pressing down on the pedals and stared intently ahead—on the nearly darkened street, he had spotted the figure of a man who looked familiar. Seeing the man walking alone apart from the line of people—his thick bull neck and disproportionately broad shoulders—Ota nodded in recognition before even fully registering his surprise. It was that man. The forgotten memory from that night's meeting about a month prior suddenly revived vividly in Ota. He looked exactly as he had that time. He wore an indigo-striped work jacket with rope wrapped around his waist as a belt, knee-length work pants that ended at mid-shin, his bare legs exposed from the calves down, feet unshod without sandals or tabi socks. In his right hand hung a large-mouthed sake flask holding nearly a liter, its neck bound with rope as he walked briskly ahead.—Ota dismounted his bicycle and, pushing it by the handlebars as he walked, followed discreetly behind. The desire to seize an opportunity to speak had suddenly welled up within him.

The man stopped. It was before Takadaya's shop, which held exclusive rights to sell sake and soy sauce in this village. Bright lamplight spilled across the road, while from a corner of the tavern's earthen-floored area came the raucous voices of men drunkenly laughing over cup sake. Though he had halted before the entrance, the man showed no sign of entering immediately. He lingered outside the threshold, hunched slightly as he peered inside and shuffled about. One hand gripped the flask's neck while the other supported its base, his mouth twitching with unspoken words as half his body stood bathed in the shop's spill of light, rooted to the road. Abruptly he lifted his face and murmured something faint toward the interior. But he quickly resumed his former posture, and a brief silence followed. At length he seemed to recognize someone inside—just as someone within must have noticed him too. Suddenly his face split into an obsequious grin that stretched ear to ear, and he began bobbing his head repeatedly in bows so deep his forehead nearly grazed his knees. In an instant he dropped into a marksman's kneeling stance—one knee raised, the other pressed flat against the dirt—and thrust both hands forward with force. Cradling the flask like some sacred offering in his upturned palms...

The one who stood up from within and revealed half his body there was the clerk. He appeared with a funnel in one hand, dropped it into the flask's mouth, said a word or two to the man, then retreated back inside. Immediately he came out holding a three-gō measure and poured the liquid from it into the tokkuri. The man stood up and bowed deeply again and again, then fumbled through his coin purse, took out a silver coin, and held it out before him. The clerk, however, made no move to take it directly with his own hand. He pulled back once more, received the silver coin with the money tray he had brought, and briskly retreated into the back.

Ota, who had parked his bicycle by the roadside and watched the entire scene unfold without blinking as he leaned against it, shifted his gaze to the man’s retreating figure disappearing into the darkness. Suddenly he took five or six steps chasing after that figure. But immediately he froze stiffly in place. A thought had suddenly occurred to him. When Ota raced his bicycle back to the village, he hurriedly went up to the second floor. Four or five young members of the branch were gathered to write posters for the speech meeting now just three or four days away.

“We had that election strategy committee meeting about a month back—when we decided on the candidates, remember?” The moment he spotted them, Ota launched into speech. “That man who came late and sat over there at the time… They said he was from Ikeda Village. What’s his deal anyway?”

“The man from Ikeda Village?”

When he posed the question, one of them seemed to immediately recall something. “Ah,” he said, suddenly bursting into laughter. “That’s what everyone calls him—the Heike crab.” “Ah, the Heike crab.” Since that night of the meeting, the man had already come and gone to the office two or three times. He had come to help put up posters. Ota had been absent each time. Stealthily muffling his footsteps as he had that previous night, the man would ascend the stairs and timidly glance around the room before immediately lowering his eyes, then press both palms flat against the wooden floorboards in a full prostration of greeting—taking into account both this behavior and the impression from his crimson-red face, the young men called him Heike Crab.

"I just met that man at Takadaya's place—what sort of person is he?" "Sensei, that's someone from Kaminashi-buraku—the one in Ikeda Village." "Kaminashi-buraku?" "That's right—don't you know about Kaminashi-buraku, Sensei?" The young men exchanged meaningful glances, suppressing smirks. "Since there's no union branch there, I don't know much about Ikeda Village..."

“Sensei, this is it,” said one of the young men at that moment.

“This is what Kaminashi-buraku is, Sensei.” “And that man is this too.”

As he spoke, he slowly thrust his arm out before Ota. His thrust-out right hand (seven characters missing in original) was bent perfectly, (four characters missing in original) fluttering as it flickered before Ota’s eyes.… In an instant, the soft smile that had lingered on Ota’s face vanished like a shadow. The blood drained from his flushed cheeks as pallid tension took hold. He rose silently from where he sat. The young man, stunned by this sudden transformation, had barely begun adjusting his posture when an arm shot out—Ota’s thick fingers clamped around his collar like iron pincers. Yanking him close, Ota hurled a shout like a physical blow at the face gaping up at him in shock.

"You bastard! Try doing that [missing text] again!" "Once more—you bastard—try that [missing text] again—" His voice trembled, hoarse with emotion. He tried to say more but faltered over half-formed words—then suddenly, the arm that had been gripping the collar while shaking violently went slack, all strength seeming to drain away until at last he released his hold. The freed young man staggered drunkenly and collapsed where he stood.

Without so much as a glance at the others staring in bewilderment, roughly descending the stairs, Ota dashed outside.

It was a night of utter darkness. That's right—it was after wandering aimlessly through that pitch-black void for about a hundred meters that he thought of going to consult Hiraga, the standing committee member, to hear his perspective.

Returning late at night and slipping into bed, as he listened to the insect sounds near his pillow in the dead silence, excitement surged through him unbidden. The man called Iwata Kumakichi kept flickering before his eyes and wouldn't leave. The reality he had only ever heard about in stories—a reality he had never once encountered before—now gripped Ota with violent intensity. He could look back on his rash action of grabbing the village youth by the collar and shouting something, but more than anything, he burned with shame at having served over three months as this district's responsible officer while remaining ignorant of such crucial aspects of his jurisdiction. He had been wholly consumed with maintaining existing organizations while tending to neglect unorganized areas—he felt the full weight of his dereliction as an organizer.

As the conflict between left and right wings at the center—taking the form of splits within legal proletarian parties—intensified, with both factions consequently seeking footholds in lower-level organizations, various documents came to be sent directly even to village organizations, and rumors spread of people stealthily infiltrating them. Given these circumstances, Ota’s current position required him to devote all his energy to preventing right-wing forces from penetrating the village organizations, but...

North of Ueta Village—where the district office stood—lay a pass requiring three ri up and down. Beyond it in the opposite basin was Ikeda Village. The Kaminashi-buraku in O Hamlet numbered fewer than fifty households. All of them were tenant farmers subjugated to Fujisawa, the preeminent landlord in the prefecture. Shaded by the mountain pass with poor sunlight and irrigation access, plots of the poorest paddy fields—three to five tan of inferior soil—had been allotted to them. Completely powerless against nature's fury, even slight rainfall or brief drought would immediately take their toll. Chemical fertilizers in abundance were naturally beyond hope, but even if applied, they would hardly have blended with the thoroughly chilled soil. Yields of about six bales per tan were standard in this region, but here, even five bales proved difficult. Moreover, the fact that these atrocious conditions—where tenant rents reached sixty percent and were forcibly imposed due to their status as Burakumin—formed the foundation for all tenant agreements across landlord Fujisawa's lands could not be denied.

"What excellent conditions!" Ota groaned inwardly. The landlords each shared common interests, and the objective conditions had ripened completely—what struck him as strange was how this Burakumin community had remained unorganized until now in a region where farmers' movements thrived so vigorously. Though Ikeda Village itself lacked a branch office, these surrounding lands were by no means beyond the union's sphere of influence.

"I'll do it—right away! Let's seize the autumn problem and start acting immediately!" That evening, when Ota met with permanent member Hiraga Jinbei to hear about Kaminashi-buraku's general situation and declared enthusiastically while slapping his thigh with an open palm, Hiraga's attitude remained oddly dismissive. "You should abandon Kaminashi, Mr. Ota." "What? Why?" "It's been tested—Kaminashi has. How many times do you think we've tried before? Even Mr. Maeda before you, Mr. Shimura too—we've all tried every approach there is. But y'see, when the key people in the community themselves drag their feet like that, there's nothin' to be done. Take that recent rally at Joganji in Ikeda—not a single soul came from Kaminashi then either."

“Why’s that?” “Hahaha…” Jinbei laughed. “You’re still green yet, Mr. Ota. If the landlords find out you went to our rally, they’ll strip you of your land and house that very day. Most tenants there are practically full renters—y’see, everything from their houses and oxen down to the last hoe belongs to the landlord.” Then he muttered as if talking to himself. “It’s crucial you take care not to end up like Mr. Shimura getting your head split open, y’see.”

“Having our heads split open?” Ota demanded. “Will even violent gangs get involved?” “Violent gangs will come swarming too.” Hiraga Jinbei turned away with apparent disinterest and smoked his cigarette. As he silently watched this demeanor, Ota suddenly erupted in anger and shouted with an involuntary raise of his voice.

"I'll do it! No matter what you all say, I'll do it!" Something cold enough to instantly wilt Ota's blazing heart appeared at the corners of Hiraga Jinbei's eyes and mouth. Jinbei snorted through his nose and laughed.

“Mr. Ota.”

“What?” “Are you really okay with destroying the union, eh? If you bring Kaminashi-buraku into the fold, plenty’ll quit from both the district branches and the union itself. Among the leadership, Mr. Saito’s first to oppose it. Kaminashi’s different from other communities, see.”

It did not take long for Ota to learn why Kaminashi-buraku differed from other O hamlets. For instance, in Yokogawa Village which immediately adjoined Ikeda Village, there was also a similar community. However, the majority of its Burakumin members had joined the union, and people went about their daily interactions with them in every corner of life as if they had completely forgotten they were Burakumin. The reason Kaminashi and the Yokogawa community were so strictly distinguished by people lay in the historical accounts of both communities' origins—legends that had been passed down since ancient times. It was said that the Yokogawa community originated when remnants of the defeated Sanada forces fled here and settled during the Osaka Summer Campaign of Genna 1. The community members would say: “If you think it’s a lie, go to Daitokuji Temple in the village and talk to the priest. The documents from that time are preserved, and armor, spears, swords—all are properly stored in the temple, I tell you.” The people of the community took pride in this history of their community, and that pride enabled them to hold their heads high and walk steadfastly straight even before the “ordinary people”. And even the so-called ordinary people yielded before this plausibly proud history. The history of Kaminashi-buraku dates back much further than that of Yokogawa. During the Three Han Campaigns, numerous captives were brought to the mainland. Some of them came to this mountainous region and took up leather tanning as their occupation, and their descendants are said to be the present-day Kaminashi-buraku. “Look! Even our hands are…! …from way back!” Sharp-tongued children would point at the retreating figures of Burakumin community members and say—

Legends too absurd to warrant ridicule were nevertheless vividly shaping people's lived realities through daily practice. Ota found himself recalling once more that youth division member's attitude from days past. The young man had been an exemplary union organizer from impoverished farming stock. He'd fought actual battles against landlords and carried himself with activist pride worthy of his position. Yet even this class-conscious fighter had unconsciously revealed prejudice when pressed—and showed no particular shame about it afterward. The contradiction glared nakedly obvious. Self-evident truth incarnate. Yet this glaring truth remained fundamentally incomprehensible even to his fellow poor farmers.—How then could he excise this poison rooted so deep in their bones? The question consumed Ota's waking hours. A public forum? Useless! Empty lecturing would change nothing! Then what alternative remained? Bring Kaminashi-buraku directly into our union structure—forge class solidarity between poor farmers across caste lines! But wait—the counterargument struck before he'd fully articulated his plan. Stifling summer nights found him tossing sleeplessly until dawn whenever this dilemma gripped him. Shouldn't we prioritize organizing them through Suiheisha first—establish Burakumin identity before merging movements? He wore grooves pacing before this mental crossroads. (This region still lacked any Suiheisha chapter.) Abruptly he remembered Takeda's face—that perpetually smiling Suiheisha comrade from O City whose eyes always carried bottomless sorrow beneath their mirth. What would Takeda say now? That rasping voice would surely slice through pretense: Focus must remain on building Suiheisha first—you risk dissolving Burakumin particularity into generalized class struggle!

"Your thinking seems dangerously close to dissolving the unique characteristics of the Burakumin community into the general mass of poor farmers."—Ota tossed and turned repeatedly. Like carving through wood with a sharp awl, he focused on a single point to organize his thoughts. Gradually, something definitive began taking shape within him. "Takeda's point stands correct," he reasoned, "but my approach doesn't fundamentally conflict with his. Given current conditions here, prioritizing union organization serves two crucial purposes—awakening collective identity among all Burakumin members while dismantling discriminatory attitudes held by poor farmers within our own ranks." This very issue would become the primary obstacle when organizing the Suiheisha—their structure mightn't serve our needs now, potentially creating artificial divisions between groups. What we urgently require is genuine interaction between poor farmers as equals within the same union." He clenched his jaw. "And that's merely one phase in the process... toward building the Suiheisha organization."

Before Ota's eyes, growing slightly drowsy, the familiar second floor of O City's Suiheisha office floated hazily into view. There stood his own figure, having grabbed Takeda and launched into an animated recounting of the struggles in organizing Kaminashi-buraku, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Ota's lips curved into an involuntary smile. "Alright, decided."—And with that, free of all cares, he sank into deep sleep with a robust snore.

Ota had waited a long time for the day Iwata Kumakichi would come to visit. He had unfailingly sent all union documents and newspapers, and had never neglected to send notices for the branch meetings held every ten days, yet Kumakichi had not appeared since then. However, Ota made no move to visit them himself. He had deemed it still too early. He had judged it would prove counterproductive should he come to be regarded with strange looks and put the Burakumin community members on their guard.

One day shortly after autumn began, when Kumakichi came to visit, Ota was alone in the office. “Those with business, proceed to the second floor. However, spies are not welcome.” Large characters bearing these words were pasted on the unmanned first-floor wall, and visitors typically ascended without guidance—but when Ota realized it was Iwata Kumakichi now creaking up those warped stairs, he involuntarily let out an “Ah.”

"Is this about business?" The words escaped before Ota could stop them, and he immediately berated himself inwardly—Idiot! What a blundering thing to say. Were you telling him to leave if he had no business here?

Kumakichi, who had sat down in the plank-floored area as usual, however, upon hearing Ota's words, seemed pleased.

“I’m headin’ to town now, so I thought maybe you had some business at the union office there or somethin’,” he said.

“That’s perfect timing—exactly perfect timing!” Ota said with genuine delight. It sprang from his determination not to let a single shred of Kumakichi’s goodwill go to waste. Ota was now tensing his entire body as if facing a lover and working his mind meticulously.

“I actually have some documents that need to reach headquarters by the end of today.” “Well then, take those along for me.” “But there’s no need to hurry off right away—why don’t you warm yourself by the fire a bit.” “It’s quite chilly today, after all.”

After saying this, a considerable amount of time passed before Kumakichi, moving cautiously, approached the large Seto brazier where Ota was adding charcoal. Having placed the brazier between them, Ota sat facing Kumakichi for the first time. Intently, Ota now observed this man's peculiar appearance before his very eyes. The abnormal protrusion of his cheekbones first drew attention. The crown of his head was slightly pointed, his forehead alarmingly narrow. It was an ugly boar-like neck that seemed sunken into his thick chest, but his eyes—those golden-pot eyes—indeed appeared just as the mischievous children had whispered while pointing behind his back (five characters missing in original).

“The newspapers and printed materials we’ve been sending from the union must’ve reached you, I suppose? Are you reading through them?” “We been gettin’ ’em every time sure enough—but I can’t make head nor tail of them square letters,” Kumakichi replied sheepishly, his sunburned reddish face flushing deeper still. Narrowing one eye and twisting his mouth into a laugh, that laughter held something so vulgar it made your skin crawl.

“How did you come to know about the union?”

“When my old man was still kickin’, there was this big fuss ’bout signin’ up with the union, see.” “Plus I get day work up at the Kawakami masters’ place.” “Them tenant farmers there joined up and wrangled their tribute down, see—and I caught two-three of them speech meetin’s myself.” “When I head to Ikeda Village this time, I can swing by your place, right?”

"But Sensei, even if you were to come, we ain't got no decent place for you to rest..." said Kumakichi with a suddenly flustered, troubled expression. To Kumakichi, who was making to leave saying it was getting late, Ota entrusted documents for delivery to the union headquarters in N City, and while repeating "Do come again" over and over, he saw him out to the entranceway.—

Three nights later, having timed his visit for when field work ended, Ota made his way to Kaminashi-buraku. He'd long known where Kumakichi's house stood through prior inquiry. The dwelling occupied a spot dim even at noon—backed by a mountain pass, fronted by mixed woods. A textbook thatched hovel with pillars and rafters half-rotted, listing sideways. Best not look like I came specially, Ota thought. He paused briefly at the entrance, considering how Kumakichi might receive him. His pulse quickened inexplicably—"Evening," he announced while stepping inside to find Kumakichi cross-legged on a straw mat laid over the dim earthen floor, engrossed in night work. Closer inspection revealed thin boards—two or three shaku long, six or seven sun wide—laid across the front bench as he diligently planed them. "Since I came as far as Yokokawa anyway," Ota said with forced nonchalance, edging closer. "Ah!" Kumakichi cried out at once, rising with a clatter to brush wood shavings from his lap as he greeted Ota—appearing composed, nowhere near as flustered as Ota had expected.

“Must’ve been rough comin’ through the dark on that bad road.” “Sensei, come on up here and have a rest before you go—Otoyo, you bring some embers over here and put ’em in this brazier.” “It’s gotten awful cold out there, I tell ya.” She was likely his sister—Ota only now realized—this fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl who had been crouching by the hearth in a corner of the dirt-floored entryway, poking at flickering red flames with a stick. When thus addressed, she wordlessly stood up and brought several embers in a fire shovel to deposit into the brazier before Ota. The not yet fully burned firewood smoldered greasily, emitting blue smoke.

"Well now, take a look at this, Sensei." Kumakichi bundled the several thin planks he'd planed thus far with rope, leaned them against the wall there, and moved closer to the brazier. "It don't amount to much, but I sometimes go to town for geta tooth work, so I keep these things ready." "Even red oak and magnolia boards like these can't be had at today's prices 'less I beg Yoshisa the carpenter for cheap scraps." "If I ain't insertin' geta teeth or such, I got nothin' to live on, see." "I do get day jobs at the masters' place now'n then—they let me have table scraps then—but that don't earn a penny neither. What with my tenant farmin' just three tan's worth..."

Kumakichi stopped mid-sentence and suddenly looked up. The flames from the burning firewood stained his rough-hewn profile crimson. He held his hands over the brazier and stared directly into Ota's face. Eyes devoid of any wariness narrowed into a smile. When their gazes locked with mechanical precision, Ota found himself flustered against his will. This was what he had yearned for from the depths of his heart. Yet its abrupt arrival left him panicked—Immediately, shame washed over him. Hadn't he been the one building walls through needless wariness? The man across the fire remained perpetually unguarded, hands perpetually outstretched! But what of that obstinate defiance Kumakichi had shown during their first meeting? That must have been instinctive resistance—a backlash against the hostility radiating from everyone present that day...

“Oooh... oooh... oooh,” suddenly at that moment, an ominous moaning voice could be heard. It was seeping through from behind the closed fusuma.

Kumakichi hurriedly stood up. He slid open the fusuma and leaned his upper body inside, “Ah, Pa... you awake now, huh? "Kumakichi’s right here, so rest easy—ah, there there," he said in a tone one might use with a child, then immediately returned to step down into the dirt-floored entryway. He took what appeared to be a sake flask that had been soaking in hot water from the pot on the hearth and disappeared again behind the fusuma. The fusuma had been left open about a foot. When Ota peered through the gap without really meaning to look, he saw on the bed—apparently long left untouched—an old man who appeared over sixty, his upper body raised with Kumakichi’s help. Though portly, his sagging flesh with its unnatural sheen, the purplish-red complexion, and slackness around the eyes and mouth made it clear at a glance he was a chronic invalid. Kumakichi poured sake from the flask into the teacup by the pillow, then placed his own hand over the old man’s trembling one to help him drink. The sound of lips smacking as he drank carried clearly through the fusuma.

“Ah, Sensei, did you see that?!” Kumakichi let out a deep sigh as he returned to his seat. “Because of that, no matter what I do each day, I need shiny coins.” “That’s the root of all my troubles, I tell ya.” “If it were just Otoyo and me, we could manage with potatoes and beans...”

The father, who had been bedridden with paralysis for years, hadn't gone a day without alcohol since falling ill. They still had to fix proper meals sometimes, but with no decent side work to speak of, every path to cash income stayed shut tight. "Those ten- and twenty-sen coins keep callin' me day and night," Kumakichi laughed hollowly. What started as two go of sake nightly had dwindled to less than one. "Folks said he wouldn't last three years—now it's five. Next they'll claim seven." His voice dropped to a rasp. "Seems wicked to say it... but I'm prayin' for my old man to die quick. Even if he lives on, I can't even let 'im drink his favorite sake proper—that's why."

That night, late into the hours, Ota descended the mountain pass. His heart kept leaping incessantly. Whistling, he rode his bicycle down the slope without pause—his chest overflowing with things he wanted to say, all while thinking how good it would be if someone came by the union office...

One late night about a week later, Ota visited Kumakichi’s house once again. This time he had truly been making rounds through numerous villages since morning, and without settling somewhere to catch his breath, he couldn’t muster the energy for the remaining five ri back to his own village. Are they already asleep? Half-doubting, he stopped by to check—the entrance door stood half-open. When he called out and stepped inside, Kumakichi sat hunched motionless in the dimness before a fading firebrand.

“Ah, Sensei? My, my, coming so late...” He raised his pensive face and offered a faint smile. “You’re still up? I thought you’d already be asleep. But hey, good thing I stopped by.” “Yeah, I was thinkin’ of goin’ to bed,” he said, “but there’s this worry gnawin’ at me. Today that Tiger Matsumoto—y’know, the master actin’ as Fujisawa’s estate manager—he came at me again about payin’ the interest on the loan. And with this year’s harvest comin’ up soon, gotta cough up the annual tribute again...”

“Kumakichi,” Ota said in a calm yet pressing voice. “I’ve been thinkin’ since t’other day—how ’bout we try holdin’ a meetin’ just with trusted folks from the Burakumin community? We got the annual tribute to hash out, debts to wrangle—all manner of things need jawin’ over.” “Then I’ve got somethin’ I wanna say at it, though.” “Ah, that’s grand, Sensei!” Kumakichi thrust forward on one knee but just as quick slumped back into brooding stillness.

“But Sensei...” “The Burakumin folks just get plain scared whenever the union’s mentioned, see.” “Three years back, the masters gave us a proper fright—my old man was one of ’em caught up in that business then.”

"No, it's not like we have to keep going on about the union or anything." "You don’t have to join the union right away or anything." "And there’s no need to gather specifically for that purpose." "If there’s ever a regular gathering of the Burakumin folks, I could just go there and talk when it happens." Kumakichi didn’t answer and simply fell into deep thought. "Ah, I’m starving!"

After a while, Ota spoke in a tone of heartfelt disappointment yet with a laugh—

“The udon shops must’ve closed by now. Hey Kumakichi, you got anything to eat?” “I’ll leave the coins here!”

Kumakichi suddenly raised his face but immediately hung his head again.

“There’s nothin’.” “There’s some leftover cold broad bean rice, but broad bean rice is—” His voice carried a timid-sounding, strangely cold tone. “Ah, that’s fine, that’s perfectly fine Kumakichi! Just give me a bowl of whatever you’ve got.” After hesitating for a while, Kumakichi stood up and went to the kitchen, where he made rustling noises in the darkness before returning with a rice tub in one hand and a red-lacquered tray bearing a bowl and chopsticks in the other. Wordlessly and brusquely, he shoved it in front of Ota. When Ota lifted the lid of the rice tub, there was a clump of broad bean rice that had settled lopsidedly at the bottom. Ota heaped the broad bean rice into a bowl and then devoured it hurriedly.

“Ah! This is nice and salty—delicious! I love broad beans!” “Only had udon at noon and nothing since—I’m starving, absolutely starving!”

The moment he casually looked up, Ota felt a strange sensation and had to place both chopsticks and bowl back on the tray exactly as they were. With hands on his knees, Kumakichi stared intently at Ota eating his meal. An extraordinary expression stirred across Kumakichi's face. There was something there pressing in with force—the atmosphere of barely restrained emotion could be directly perceived in the slightly strained sound of his breathing.

“Ah Sensei! You ate our food! You ate our food!” Suddenly Kumakichi raised his voice and shouted. His voice trembled with excitement yet also quivered with joy. He abruptly stood up. Having stood up, he opened the sliding door to the room where his father lay sleeping, peered inside, and kept shouting— “Father! Father! You asleep? Eh? The farmers’ union Sensei—he ate our food! He ate our bean rice!”

Pressing himself so close against Ota—who stood dumbfounded, staring blankly—that their bodies nearly touched, he plopped down right there. "Sensei, I..." Suddenly he said in a solemn, lowered voice. "At first, I thought it was a joke." "When Sensei said you'd eat our food, I thought you were mocking our home." "I couldn't've dreamed Sensei'd eat our food—see, the fifteenth last month marked seven years since Ma died, so I scraped together what I could and called the priest from the landlord's temple." "Thinking to have three sutras recited, I wrapped an offering matching what's usual in society." "But when the priest came over, what sutras did he even recite?" "He quit before even thirty minutes had passed." "Reciting three sutras should take a good half day, but since I'm uneducated, I couldn't even bring myself to argue about that." "That time, Sensei—what galled me was how that damn priest just glared sideways at the sweets I'd specially bought from town, didn't touch 'em, didn't drink tea neither, just went flapping the hem of his robes like he was escaping and scurried off home." "If I told you how bitter I felt then—"

Suddenly everything fell silent. Kumakichi and Ota sat facing each other without speaking, staring fixedly at the fading embers that emitted their last wisps of smoke. "Sensei, I was so happy—" Abruptly Kumakichi's voice grew thick, and he sniffed. Kumakichi began to cry.

When could that first humiliating experience—one that Iwata Kumakichi, now thirty years old, could still clearly recall—have been?

He had not yet entered elementary school but was thought to be around seven years old. One day, for some errand—yes, made to carry his father’s high-toothed geta and hiyori-geta (fair-weather clogs) that had been prepared during fieldwork, he threaded a cord through their straps, slung them over his shoulder, and set out for the home of the previous Matsumoto, who was then serving as estate manager for landlord Fujisawa. Fujisawa was an absentee landlord, and all tenant lands in the hamlet were under Matsumoto’s control. Matsumoto was of course one of the "ordinary people," and his house was in the neighboring village.

After entering through the back door, placing the footwear he had brought on the kitchen’s dirt floor, and tightly clutching the ten-sen coin the maid had handed him as he tried to leave, Kumakichi unfortunately found himself caught by Matsumoto’s two “young masters”—boys around twelve or thirteen and seven or eight years old—who had just returned from playing.

“Kumakichi,” said the older one, tapping the dragonfly-catching rod he held against the ground, “Got a question for you.” “Answer it.” “What’s a four-legged thing that’s even less than human by one hair? Know what that is, Kumakichi?” “Dunno!”

Without hesitation, Kumakichi answered briskly. "Dunno! A monkey maybe?" "Then I'll ask ya. "What's all mixed up in there?!"

Kumakichi remained silent. The older boy snorted, then exchanged a glance with the younger one and laughed. "Dunno, eh? Dunno, eh?—Then I'll teach ya—[missing text] what's all scrambled in there—" He raised his hand and jabbed his index finger straight at Kumakichi's forehead as he barked. "You lot!" "You lot—[missing text]!" Flushing crimson clear to his ears, Kumakichi bolted without looking back—tripped over stones, fell hard, scraped both kneecaps raw, limped-run fleeing—while a torrent of vicious curses chased after him from behind——

“[missing text] you lot [missing text]! [missing text] not even one thing you lot [missing text]!” Running frantically, Kumakichi remembered how his father had always told him—Don’t you ever play with children from outside the community.—

But such paternal admonitions held no power over Kumakichi once he began attending elementary school. At school, like it or not, he had to mingle with children from other hamlets. In the school classroom, the seats for children from Kaminai hamlet had been separate from the others' from the very beginning. It had likely been that way since the school's establishment; the teachers never questioned it, and the parents regarded it as natural. What Kumakichi first experienced there had been nothing more than mild. When he left that school after three years, Kumakichi was no longer easily startled; even in his child's mind, he had come to deeply accept that this was simply how the world worked. The mental armor against humiliation governing Burakumin lives had already hardened within him as a child. Eyes glaring upward to pierce others' intentions; vulgar ingratiating smiles warping mouths into ugly shapes.

In the spring of his seventeenth year, when he could no longer suppress the seething energy he felt both within himself and in the world around him, Kumakichi left home one day with a man from town. He entered the slaughterhouse in N City—located about forty kilometers from the Burakumin community—as an apprentice butcher. His build—sturdier than most with its robust lateral frame—though he was seventeen, made not a single observer think him still awaiting inspection; he kept pace with full-fledged butchers without faltering. He quickly became proficient at peeling the hides from four-legged animals, sawing through bones, and dividing the meat. He would climb onto the creature felled by a single blow with his dirt-caked feet, stomping and stomping, then catch the gushing lukewarm blood in a Seto ware vessel and gulp it down in one breath. When he laughed raucously while cursing, the area around his mouth—stained with fresh blood—seemed to split wide open. At night, reeking of gore just as he was, he would appear at the neighborhood bar, scorch his guts with shochu, and pick fights.

Two years after passing his inspection, he began serving as acting head butcher. One day, a pure white breeding bull that had been dragged into the slaughterhouse proved to be an obstinate creature that refused to die easily. Even getting it out of the shed was no easy task, and once dragged out, it kept turning back toward its owner as if pleading for help, letting out a long, trailing cry, tears streaming from its large, pale blue eyes. Indeed, Kumakichi saw the bull weeping. Eventually, Kumakichi delivered a listless axe strike to the forehead of the bull—now bound and toppled onto its side—but though he had never missed before, his aim faltered this time alone, the axe veering away from the vital spot. The bull let out a rending scream, thrashing its upper body upward, only to collapse again with a heavy thud. Kumakichi’s eyes flashed bloodshot; his second strike landed with unerring precision. —That day, Kumakichi remained listless from morning till night, the bull’s scream and the jarring feedback from the axe’s blade grinding in his head like gravel caught in gears, never ceasing their grating. That night after lying down, he was plagued by nightmares and moaned in his sleep.

――At dawn after that night, when word of his mother’s sudden death came, Kumakichi returned to the community and never again tried to go back to N City.

After returning to the community, Kumakichi seemed as though his personality had completely changed. Since his father became bedridden with a stroke, that in particular became noticeable. His violent outbursts vanished into shadow; he grew taciturn, abstained from alcohol, and labored with patient endurance. He single-handedly cultivated over three tan of poor-quality fields yielding four bales per tan. When several rainy days persisted in a month, he would shoulder his geta repairman’s box, cross the mountain pass, and walk through town rhythmically tapping a drum like those carried by street performers. During the busy farming season, he inevitably had to spend several days providing labor at estate manager Matsumoto’s fields—a near-unpaid service according to age-old custom. And during that time, little by little, his debt and the remaining annual rent accumulated.

The momentum to hold meetings in the Burakumin community gradually matured.

One day, when Ota visited Kumakichi, Kumakichi welcomed him with a beaming smile.

“Ah—you’ve come at just the right time, Sensei,” he said. “The folks in our community are gettin’ fired up—more and more of ’em want to invite Sensei to come speak now.” “Last night too—Shota came by sayin’ he’d lend his own house for the meetin’.” “That leaflet’s effectiveness is something else.” Ota remembered the leaflet he had handed to Kumakichi about ten days prior. “What’re you on about, Sensei?” Kumakichi laughed. “There ain’t a single soul in our community who can read the letters on that scrap of paper.” “The reason Sensei’s popularity’s been growing is ’cause word spread like wildfire through the community that he ate our food and slept bundled up in our futon.” “But…” he suddenly lowered his voice.

“Only thing worryin’ me is old man Matsumoto’s startin’ to cotton on ’bout what’s ’tween Sensei an’ me.”

Four or five days ago in the evening, Ota was resting at a certain "preparation place" along the prefectural road connecting Ikeda Village and Yokokawa Village, having a bowl of udon to fill his stomach. The man who had entered the tatami room, arranged three or four small dishes on the low dining table, and appeared already quite drunk was a large fellow around forty years old. He would occasionally look up to observe Ota’s demeanor, but suddenly snorted a laugh and began shouting while violently slamming the bottom of his empty sake bottle against the low dining table.—“Old man! Another round—the hot stuff, c’mon—”

“Hey, old man!” The man grabbed the shop owner who had brought the refilled sake bottle and began talking. Even as he spoke, his eyes—which kept stealing furtive glances at Ota’s profile from the side—burned with unconcealable hostility. “Hey, old man! You’re listening too, aren’t you? Those damn farmers’ union bastards are sneaking around Ikeda again and again without learning a damn thing, they say? Even after getting their asses handed to them three years ago, they still haven’t learned a damn thing, huh? But hey, old man! What the hell can those greenhorns even do? What’s so fearsome about those farmers’ union bastards anyway? As long as Matsumoto’s eyes remain black, those union bastards will never set foot in this Ikeda! Old man! Mark my words—as long as Matsumoto’s eyes remain black, you hear?!”

Though drunk, his fiery fighting spirit pressed right up against Ota’s chest across several tatami mats. He had called him a greenhorn. The conviction backed by his years of rich life experience pressed down with shameless vigor, and Ota—feeling the ferocity of the struggle he had withstood—grew excited. Now he recalled that evening’s events.

“Now now, do take your time and stay today. Got somethin’ real tasty here.”

From the pot on the charcoal stove set on the earthen floor, white steam had been rising since earlier. “What’s that?” “It’s horse! Horse meat, I tell ya! Shota’s horse died, see—there’s a rule sayin’ dead horses gotta be burned—but seemed a waste not to, so we all split it up bit by bit. This here’s meat from a proper household, so it’s damn tasty! But Sensei, this here’s a secret, you know.” He lowered his voice as he uttered the final phrase; Kumakichi laughed slyly. It was meat from a horse that had died of sickness. Ota shuddered. But he quickly composed his expression, and soon he and Kumakichi gathered around the pot that had been set there.

“Ah—this here’s damn tasty! I ain’t had horse meat much before—” He tossed several pieces of the foamy, foul-smelling meat into his mouth.

When he returned to the office in the evening and had been there awhile, he suddenly received a visit from five or six union members. It wasn’t unusual for union members to drop by casually, but the fact that district leaders like Saito Kenta and Hiraga Jinbei had all gathered here together lent an ominous air to their visit, and Ota instantly sensed something was afoot. “Mr. Ota, is it true you’re bringing the Kaminai community into the union?” Saito Kenta, who always spoke with measured composure, adopted an oddly interrogative tone the moment he took his seat. He had narrowly lost that September’s prefectural assembly election, yet his prestige still loomed over the entire union.

“That hasn’t been decided yet—the discussion hasn’t progressed that far. But is bringing Kaminai into the union wrong?” “Considering the union’s overall development, you must understand that incorporating Kaminai immediately requires serious deliberation.” “You’ve only just arrived here and don’t yet know the union’s history,” he continued. “There was previously similar discussion about Kaminai.” “But we abandoned the plan when members threatened to quit over their inclusion.” “We exhausted every method to persuade the members, but logic alone has its limits.” “Those with underdeveloped consciousness can’t be reformed overnight.” “Since this differs fundamentally from labor unions, I must insist you exercise extreme caution in this matter.”

Ota bit his lip. He cursed them as damn beasts in his gut, something savage he'd nearly forgotten rearing its head and threatening to blaze up fiercely. What nonsense were you spouting under the masses' name? Weren't you all precisely the ones exploiting that low mass consciousness as convenient pretext to oppose Kaminai's admission? But wait—when the entire Burakumin community rises without exception, confronting you with "Here lies our power—what will you do about this?", what exactly could you do in response...?

“There’s no way I’d decide that without bringing it up at headquarters or district meetings—whether to organize through the Suiheisha or the union—I’ve been thinking through different approaches regarding that too, and will discuss it properly with everyone when the time comes.”

Ota said in a quiet tone. He turned to face the forty-year-old man with a composure sufficient to subdue them all. The six months in the farmers' union had already instilled that much in the young man. It was the morning before Ota was scheduled to attend and speak at tomorrow evening's tanomoshiko mutual aid gathering of the Burakumin community. At this meeting—this gathering—fifteen or sixteen people would assemble.

When Kumakichi thought about going to Ota’s place that evening to discuss various matters, he found himself feeling somehow eager since morning. He was about to head out to retrieve the repaired rice huller from the neighboring village when the mailman arrived just then with a single letter.

“Where’s this comin’ from?” Kumakichi stared hard at the big printed letters on the envelope’s back, but none of it made any sense to him. “Ain’t no mistake bringin’ this here to me, right?” “From the court,” the mail carrier tossed back over his shoulder as he walked away. *The court?*

When he opened the envelope and looked inside, there appeared four or five sheets of ruled paper fastened together. The characters, arranged as neatly as if printed, were such that not a single one could be deciphered.

“Ah, never mind—I’ll go ask Sensei properly tonight. Otoyo, put this away over there.” When Kumakichi returned in the afternoon with the rice huller loaded on a handcart and came into view, Otoyo—who had been standing idly at the gate—hurriedly ran over. “Brother, someone from town left something without showin’ themselves.” When he saw what Otoyo carefully took out from the fold of her kimono, it was indeed another written note on ruled paper.

“What kind of people from town?” “They wore Western-style suits and had grown beards.” “There were as many as four of them.” “Those people went and put up wooden signs around our rice fields before leaving.” “Signs? “What’s that about, I wonder.” “Ah, never mind—by evening everything’ll be clear. Just put that note away with this morning’s letter.” “Fine weather today—we’ll cut one tan before sunset. Otoyo, you lend a hand too.”

The two of them thrust sickles at their waists and went out to the ridges of their tenant fields. The rice plants, whose harvesting had been delayed due to lack of hands, were fully ripe to the point of bursting, their grains rustling with a whispering sound. Along the ridges stood brand-new wooden signs. As she watched Kumakichi’s profile—his eyes fixed suspiciously on the pitch-black characters written across the sign—Otoyo spoke up as if suddenly remembering something. “Brother.” “What?” “Those people who put up the signs this morning told me not to enter the rice fields.”

“Can’t enter the rice fields?” Stakes had been driven at the four corners of the paddy, ropes stretched taut around them. Kumakichi shifted his gaze from the posted notice to the ropes and stood silent for a moment, then spoke in a voice thick with anger. “What idiotic nonsense they spoutin’? Sayin’ we can’t enter our own fields—since when does such foolery exist? We’ll ask the union’s Sensei an’ sort this proper. Come—let’s get reapin’ quick.”

But when Kumakichi stepped over the rope and placed one foot into the field, he appeared to freeze momentarily there. He couldn’t comprehend why, yet felt something within him that made him hesitate. Feeling Otoyo’s gaze fixed intently on him as if she had read his feelings, Kumakichi raised his voice even more fiercely, as if in anger. “Hey, Otoyo! Quit dawdling and get moving!” “What are you fooling around for?”

The rain had stopped two days prior, and though yesterday and today had been unseasonably warm Indian summer-like days rather hot for late autumn, the dew that had collected at the bases of the leaves still hadn’t dried up. The sickle touched the sufficiently moistened stems and cut cleanly. The rice ear tips—when cut and lifted in a left hand to examine—hung heavily despite their unevenness.

They finished their work before sunset. Because he had planned to go to Ota’s place, he was eating his evening meal a little early when three men slinked in through the entrance without any notice.

“Kumakichi, you here?”

Immediately recognizable by his voice, it was Genzo, a menial worker from estate manager Matsumoto’s household. Standing next to him was Okamoto the land broker, who traveled from village to village mediating land sales and similar matters. This man too was considered one of Matsumoto’s underlings. With a start, Kumakichi—having adjusted his posture—peered through the gloom of the earthen-floored entryway. There, standing quite apart from the two men with hands tucked in the sleeves of his tanzen coat, was indeed Master Matsumoto.

“We’ll be taking seats here.”

Taking the hand towel from his waist, dusting it off, and then sitting down there,

“Kumakichi, you’ve gone and done somethin’ terrible,” Genzo said in an oddly calm, somber voice. “Huh? What’re you talkin’ about?” “Well now, Kumakichi—you’ve got yourself an awful bold streak, ain’t ya?” Okamoto said in a mocking tone, amused by Kumakichi’s bewildered expression. A thin, nasty chill lurked beneath that voice.

“Kumakichi.”

“Well?” “You’re going to prison.” “You’re going to penal servitude.” “You get that?” It was Genzo who had suddenly launched into a berating tirade from the outset. “Hey, Kumakichi! “Why’d you enter the field they said not to enter?” “Why’d you break the law that says you can’t enter rice fields?” “Master Matsumoto says he’s taking back your land.” “Didn’t you see that thick-ass sign on the ridge?” “I can’t read them damn characters on that sign.”

“Ignorance of the law excuses no one, as they say.” “Ha ha ha...” Okamoto laughed, throwing his head back.

Kumakichi raised his face and looked squarely at the two men. He pushed away the tray before him and unintentionally shuffled forward on his knees. He now seemed to have finally grasped, albeit dimly, what the situation entailed. Unconcealable emotional turmoil appeared on his face. But immediately he calmed down and, even with a smile, said quietly.

“I don’t know anything. But the farmers’ union’s Sensei will make sure everything’s handled properly. I’m fixin’ to go see the union’s Sensei now.” He now once again stubbornly asserted his conviction—the very one he had repeated to Otoyo numerous times even this very day. “That farmers’ union’s Sensei, huh?” they exchanged meaningful glances and burst out laughing.

“Kumakichi.” Matsumoto, who had been standing silently until then, now gravely broke his silence for the first time and took a step forward. “You ungrateful bastard, huh? You forget that it’s all thanks to Master Fujisawa you get three meals a day and a roof over your head, then go dragging those farmers’ union bastards into this village for your audacious nonsense—what can some greenhorn from the farmers’ union possibly do?!” “Kumakichi, remember this well—this beggar hamlet of Kannazuki only stands thanks to Master Fujisawa.” “We can’t let even a single bastard who defies Master Fujisawa remain.” “Kumakichi, your land will be confiscated by the end of this autumn.” “It’s not just the land—this house too.” “From the lands to the houses to the last hoe and plow—is there even a speck of dust here that doesn’t belong to the master?” “We can’t keep you in our village anymore—go be a beggar somewhere else for all I care.”

Kumakichi remained bowed. His broad shoulders heaved in great waves. "Better a convict than a beggar," Genzo immediately parroted Matsumoto's words. "The sight of you in that red kimono (missing text)—what a spectacle for the whole world to see!"

The three of them laughed loudly in unison. At the final words, Kumakichi—who until then had been sitting properly with his knees neatly together—instantly adjusted his posture. He raised his face. As the three men instinctively tried to rise against the ominous aura closing in, Kumakichi—having already snatched one of the iron fire-pokers from the nearby brazier—was already up on one knee. Instantly, a shout of “Agh!” rang out, and Genzo—who had been blocking the way at the forefront—covered his face with both hands and collapsed face-down onto the dirt floor.

With the remaining fire-poker gripped in his right hand, Kumakichi rose to his feet in a fierce stance.

“Kumakichi! Is Iwata Kumakichi here?”

At that very moment, a voice called out from the front entrance, followed by the sound of leather shoes approaching. The clank of a sword rang out, and the one who entered was a familiar face—the village police officer. “Ah, Master Matsumoto is also here,” he said suddenly with a smile. “Kumakichi, come along with me to the substation for a bit.” “There are a few things I want to ask you.”

Around the time when the public trial date was approaching for Iwata Kumakichi—detained on charges of obstruction of official duties and assault—Ota Kenzo found himself inside N City Police Station’s holding cell. Having remained completely unaware of the calamity that had befallen Kumakichi, Ota had woken up that morning in high spirits, certain that today was the long-awaited day for the Kannazuki hamlet meeting, only to be abruptly taken from the union office to N City Police Station and detained there. The suspicion had been that Kumakichi’s crime was instigated by Ota. At least that was the ostensible reason.—Among his countless experiences of detention life until now, never before had he been cast into such intense agitation and confusion as during this time. The various causes behind his first significant setback since beginning rural organizing work—no minor one at that—were now being gravely pondered.

Ota was released on the evening two days before Kumakichi's public trial. Everything came crashing down upon him all at once. Though it had been barely two months in detention, he remained as agitated as if experiencing it for the first time. Kumakichi's arrest tormented him above all else. The union had naturally treated him as a movement martyr—sending care packages, dispatching headquarters staff for occasional visits to bolster his spirits—but with no organization in his home village itself, their efforts seemed unavoidably inadequate. "What's his condition?" When Ota asked the union's legal advisor handling the case, the man replied, "Hmm—no matter when I see him, he stays sullen and barely utters a proper word." "Might've gone clean off his rocker for all I know—just keeps darting his eyes about no matter what you say, nothing but 'uh-huh' this and 'uh-huh' that." Then he added, "Was he always that sort to begin with? "Can't imagine getting hauled in would turn a man gutless," he laughed. The vivid image of Kumakichi's face flashed through Ota's mind—plunged into some sudden trap, half-maddened by unfamiliar confinement yet still unable to regain composure. He felt something akin to a wild beast ill-suited to cages stirring within him, his eyes growing hot unbidden.

“At first, he kept asking about you nonstop. I had no idea how to respond—it really wore me down.” “You haven’t told him the truth?”

“Well, I told him you were sick—though it might seem trivial, I couldn’t quite tell him the full truth. After all, he seemed absolutely convinced you’d come rescue him any moment. To him, you’ve become something greater than the police or anything else. ‘The farmers’ union’s Sensei knows everything about it,’ he kept insisting. I think that’s why he hardly listens to what we say. Though originally—these days he doesn’t bring it up much anymore.”

The day after his release happened to be a Sunday, so all opportunity to visit the prison for a meeting before the public trial had been completely lost.—

Fujisawa had continued filing lawsuits demanding eviction from the house and challenging Kumakichi, but as for his elderly father and sister who had been left behind, it was said that people of the Burakumin community took turns stealing moments from Matsumoto’s strict surveillance to care for them morning and night. If only there were a good organizer now—solidifying the entire hamlet through this incident would be a morning’s work—Ota lamented the passive attitude the headquarters had taken toward Kannazuki during his absence, then gathered the headquarters’ secretaries and held discussions late into the night.

The public trial of Iwata Kumakichi was held on Monday afternoon. Ota sat in a corner of the gallery alongside people from Kannazuki hamlet who had specially crossed the mountain pass to attend. He appeared to be wrestling with his body—legs swollen from early-stage beriberi, frame straining under labored breath. After Ota's group arrived, villagers from other settlements began trickling in until, by the trial's commencement, this cramped courtroom gallery in the provincial city stood packed full.

It was mid-December—a cloudy day chilling to the bone, with rain or snow threatening to fall at any moment from the leaden sky.

The old-fashioned chandelier was already lit, imbuing the space with a stillness reminiscent of twilight's approach. As time advanced, the thickening oppressive atmosphere abruptly shattered when the public courtroom's left entrance swung open. This doorway connected through a corridor to a holding area for prisoners transported from the jail.—Flanked by two officers on either side, a stocky man appeared wearing handcuffs and a conical sedge hat. His washed-out indigo-striped kimono—its sleeves and hem absurdly short—gave observers the comical impression of an overgrown child. When they removed the handcuffs from his thick wrists and took off the hat, he stood dazed in place. His mouth hung half-open as he lifted his face squintingly toward the light, neither comprehending what lay before him nor seeming aware of where he'd been brought. Prodded forward, he moved to the front and sat on the designated chair. He kept peering suspiciously about his surroundings, repeatedly stretching upward to glance back at the gallery behind him. ——Ota saw Kumakichi's face for the first time in months. The ruddiness had faded from his complexion, his cheeks now slightly hollowed. To Ota's eyes, his entire frame seemed diminished in both breadth and stature—as though physically compacted.

The front doors opened. First entered the judge, then the prosecutor appeared, each taking their appointed seats. “Stand...” ordered the judge. Kumakichi rose sluggishly. The prosecutor stood to outline the indictment’s facts. With that concluded, the judge commenced questioning in routine fashion. He started with address and personal history before advancing to criminal particulars. The bench found itself rephrasing each query repeatedly. Kumakichi answered with “Uh-huh” or “Nuh-uh,” bobbing or shaking his head each time. When examination reached his trespass into posted-forbidden fields to harvest rice,

“I can’t read square characters at all,” he repeated the same words several times in a low voice. A faint laugh rose from a corner of the gallery.

“So then Sakaguchi Gengo, Okamoto, and Matsumoto—these three men came to visit you, is that right?” said the judge. “What did Sakaguchi say to you at that time?” Kumakichi remained bowed down and kept silent.

“Sakaguchi must have said something to you at that time. Tell us exactly what you remember him saying.”

The judge repeated in a gentle tone.

Kumakichi remained silent. The bowed figure from behind seemed to be deep in thought. Just as the judge leaned his upper body slightly forward to prompt his response again, Kumakichi let out a loud shout-like voice.

“Ah, Your Honor!” It was a voice exhaled with a deep sigh—high-pitched yet heavy and sinking as if pleading something. He straightened his bowed head and stretched his upper body upright. Now he seemed to have come to his senses and regained self-awareness for the first time. He appeared to have realized where he had been taken and what fate awaited him—and who the four people sitting on the elevated platform were. Something in the judge’s questioning had stirred an emotion long confined in his deepest recesses. With astonishing vigor, he surveyed his surroundings anew. Immediately he straightened himself forward and looked directly at the judge’s face. Then he began shouting.

“What in the world have I done?! “Your Honor, please hear me out! “The paddy I’m workin’ for Mr. Fujisawa—even in our hamlet, it’s the sorriest plot there is. “We cleared it on a sorta high spot at the mountain pass’s foot—water don’t reach proper. When heavy rains come, sandy torrents rush down from the hills above and wash all the good soil clean away. That there’s a worthless field if ever there was one. “But ever since they let me work that land, I’ve poured my soul into it! “Heaped compost to build up every inch of fertile soil, built embankments upslope to hold against the rains. “At long last, it yields four bales now. “But Your Honor! How much tribute d’you think they demand from four bales? “Not one koku less! “Your Honor! “D’you reckon I can keep goin’ like this?! “Could maybe get five bales—but that’d need more chemical fertilizer. “And for that I gotta take on debt! “So I asked Mr. Fujisawa to lower the tribute and begged help from the union’s advisor—what’s wrong with that?”

Ota and the union members involuntarily rose to their feet but immediately sat back down. A murmur rose and faded, leaving a silence like still water in its wake. Through this hush, Kumakichi’s voice reverberated across the ceiling and four walls. Amidst his jumbled words, a strange order was maintained. “This year I asked estate manager Matsumoto and had four fertilizer sacks sent my way." "The debt papers keep gettin’ padded thicker’n thicker, and I know full well the interest keeps pilin’ up—but I just wanted to squeeze out a bit more real earnings. Money’s power is a fearsome thing." “This year’s rice harvest was so damn good, I’m tellin’ ya!” “Cut a stalk and grab it like this—even compared to regular years, the damn weight’s different.” "--Even my own field [three characters missing]--what nonsense!" “That rice [six characters missing]—what nonsense!”

The judge raised his hand and said something to stop him. But that only served to provoke the defendant’s passion and had no other effect. “What did that bastard Gengo say to me? Your Honor just heard it now, didn’t you?” “That bastard Gengo had the nerve to say [five characters missing] to me, that’s what!” “[six characters missing] wearing red clothes—what a sight that must be!’ he sneered, that’s what.” “So I split that bastard’s head open with a fire iron.” “If only the police station master hadn’t shown up then, I would’ve [five characters missing] that bastard Gengo for sure—”

“Your Honor! “Your Honor!” “Let me out of here!” “Get me outta here right now! This instant!” “I ain’t done nothin’ so terrible as to deserve this!” “I can’t stop worryin’ ’bout my sick old pa laid up in bed!” “And I can’t stop worryin’ ’bout my young sister Otoyo!” “……Your Honor!” “Your Honor!” “Get me outta here right this very moment—”

Suddenly, Iwata Kumakichi sprang up with a violent motion, roughly shoved aside the witness stand before him, stepped forward, and seized the edge of the interrogation stand. Stretching up, stretching up, he continued to shout. People stood up. The court guards who hurriedly rushed over restrained both his arms and pinned him down by piling on top of him, yet even after that—from beneath his labored breath—he continued shouting.

(February 1935, Kaizo)