Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Shimaki Kensaku

The young district committee secretary Toshizo Ota leaned slightly forward over a table with buckled legs, rapidly jotting down notes on some documents.—The house stood where the row of houses along the highway began to thin out, just as the view of vast rice fields was starting to unfold from that very spot. Several bicycles that came straight down the highway just as dusk was approaching arrived at the front of the house and stopped. After pushing their bicycles into the dark earthen entryway, the people took the towels from their waists and, while vigorously dusting their hems, ascended the warped stairs that creaked and groaned underfoot.

It was a room with a dreadfully low ceiling, like an attic space. Though sparsely furnished with straw mats laid out and thin rush mats spread over them, the room seemed wide enough to comfortably hold ten tatami mats. Through the small open window hung heavy rainy season clouds that sagged all the way to the opposite hilltop, while the wind blowing in carried a mist-like dampness each time. The scent of fresh soil and sweat from plants—brought straight from the fields by the fifteen or sixteen people sitting in a circle—drifted through the swaying air of the room.

(This was a remarkable result—) Having finally organized 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, Toshizo Ota's nerves were fully engaged. From just the footsteps of people ascending the stairs, he could immediately discern which village each individual hailed from. What exceeded anticipated success results—and even his lingering anxieties from moments before now cleared away—involuntarily made him smirk. Yoneda, Ueda, Kawakami, Kawashimo, Hiranuma—already, prominent individuals from as many as ten villages had gathered. Just three or four more villages. The long-awaited rain had come pouring down last night—he had never imagined they would see such a gathering during this crucial planting season when every moment counted——

“Phew, we’ve made it through this!” Wiping the sweat from his brow and no sooner taking his seat than he spoke was Jinbei Hiraga, branch leader of Ueda. “How anxious we were, thinking it would rain any moment but not a drop falling! Today we even pressed cats into service and got it done! What about Genji’s place?”

“Our branch does cooperative planting,” declared Tada Genji, branch leader of Kawakami, squaring his blocky shoulders arrogantly in response to the voice. “Just because the rain we’ve been waiting for has come doesn’t mean we’ll go rushing about like that. “There’s a proper order to follow, y’know. “Today we did Kurayoshi’s place. “Tomorrow it’s Yamamoto’s place. “Our branch’s group training is different from those other branches, you see.”

“You bastard, you’re full of it!” Jinbei Hiraga smacked his own forehead with a loud slap and burst into laughter. A roar of laughter erupted from those around them. “By the way, everyone—how’s it going?” said another voice that had suddenly lowered its tone. “Haven’t you heard anything about the election? Seiyukai’s Takagi and Minseito’s Ueda have started sneaking around—” “Don’t you listen!” Jinbei Hiraga sharply cut off the words mid-sentence, thrusting his hand into his breast pocket as if searching for something— “Hey everyone, look at this.”

Along with his voice came a plop as a sealed letter landed on the thin rush mat. As the people sitting in a circle crowded their heads together to take turns examining it, the letter—whose envelope and enclosed scroll paper were uncommonly elegant, written in splendid calligraphy—proved to be a "Confidential Letter" addressed to Jinbei Hiraga from Shinsuke Ueda, this region’s foremost major landlord.— “With the Autumn Election drawing near, that Ueda bastard had the gall to send this thing to folks! Look here—back in the last election, since we ain’t had no union yet, I worked as Ueda’s election clerk, like y’all know. And what’d that bastard go spoutin’ off then? ‘I’ll make a law recognizin’ landowner rights!’ ‘I’ll draft tenant-centered tenant laws!’ Just spewin’ whatever selfish nonsense he pleased—hah! Like this trash.”

With a sudden lunge, he snatched up the sealed letter with such force that one might have thought he’d tear it to shreds right then and there—yet in truth, he carefully folded it in two as though handling something precious and tucked it back deep into his breast pocket. Though his words said otherwise, an air of barely concealed pride in having received a handwritten letter from the region’s most influential figure—a thrill at being able to show it off to everyone—was unmistakable in Jinbei’s very demeanor.

“Speaking of landowner rights—” another voice immediately picked up on a phrase from Jinbei’s words and began to speak. “In Tomiyama Village of Ayada County—I hear the union folks there recently got four hundred ryo in sweet soil compensation from the landlord.”

“Four hundred ryo!” another man blurted out in shock. “You don’t say! That’s... what devilry have they gone and done now?” “Same as subsoil prices, ain’t it?—Though they say that Sugimura fella, secretary over there,’s a damn fine operator.” “Aye, a damn fine operator he’s called! Four hundred ryo’s no trifle, nohow you slice it.”

In unison, several voices exclaimed in admiration and nodded in agreement. While hurriedly writing the final few lines of the urgent report—Damn it!—Ota involuntarily clicked his tongue in frustration. The young man heard their praise of Sugimura as sarcasm directed at himself. Ota had just turned twenty-two. With his round shaven head, slightly plump ruddy cheeks, and large eyes that constantly darted about, he bore a boyish face. He would walk shoulder-to-shoulder with four or five others down crowded streets, then suddenly dash ahead—flipping backward with a pop moments later to glance back at his companions and flash them a grin. This irrepressibly vibrant youthfulness, brimming with childish exuberance, had been his unique pride back in the city—whether at workplaces or labor union offices—something none possessed. This very youthfulness—which many had lost and now lacked—made him beloved wherever he went, often causing organizational work to progress unexpectedly smoothly. But this was 192X, when dispatching proletarians to rural areas had become an urgent issue for Japan’s proletarian movement. What had he encountered when arriving in this village two months prior as one such chosen envoy? More than anything, he felt his own raw youth had become an obstacle. Dealing with these farmers differed entirely from handling indecisive unmarried workers or unemployed men loafing about union offices. Here existed lives rooted as deeply as ancient trees—settled existences that had taken centuries to solidify. Kneeling face-to-face with them, Ota would speak passionately about the oppressed’s harsh suffering and their sole path to liberation. Yet his listeners would stare vacantly, unmoved. “Do you even know what that so-called life is truly like?” The protest emerged tentatively yet fiercely from sunken eyes crusted with sleep—their dull light flickering. When Ota perceived this intensity, his fervor withered instantly, leaving him unable to continue. He felt certain his naive youth prevented others from accepting his correct words. If only I grew out my hair! Amidst a bitter smile, Ota found himself entertaining such absurd thoughts. In truth, he’d overheard farmers’ whispers more than once: “He’s got spirit, all right—but still just a greenhorn!”

“Teacher—”

At that moment, someone came running up the stairs—their footsteps muffled yet frantic. Though he’d grown somewhat accustomed to it by now, Ota turned around, his face betraying the lingering awkwardness of being called “Teacher.” “The police—!” came a voice half-trembling. “The police?” “The local station?” “No—the town’s—” All at once, the people turned pale and stiffened. Ota set down his pen and clicked his tongue sharply. “Shut your mouth, you bastard!”

Then he slowly stood up and went downstairs.—The Ota who had gone down soon came back up.

"Well then, gentlemen, let's begin the meeting—it seems everyone has gathered." "Teacher, what about the police officers?"

“[...] sent them back,” Ota said nonchalantly. Demonstrating maturity in such situations was something he took considerable pride in. “For today’s chairmanship, let’s have Mr. Saito handle it again.” “Gentlemen, agreeable?” “Mr. Saito, I’ll ask you to take charge then.”

The large man who had been sitting in the corner all along without uttering a word, listening to people's talk with a smile, slowly stood up. Amidst everyone’s sweat-stained work clothes, this man alone was dressed neatly in a serge atsushi garment. He was Kenta Saito, branch leader of Yoneda Village. Having opened a sundries store under his wife’s name along Yoneda Village’s prefectural road, and cultivating over three chō of land in this region notorious for its cramped farmland per household, he was the union’s wealthiest member. He too belonged to that arrogant breed of men who firmly believed everything in the world would proceed exactly as they planned and unfold to their advantage. Of course being elected as the meeting’s chairman went without saying; even the matter of who the union would put forward as their candidate in the autumn prefectural assembly election—the main purpose of today’s meeting—was already self-evident to him.

Saito took his seat at the chairman’s position, and the people all slid their knees forward in unison, straightening their postures. Ota sat down beside Saito. For a while, the sound of throat-clearing could be heard, and soon the room fell completely silent. Ota, who had raised his face to explain the proposal, abruptly closed his mouth just as he was about to speak. He lowered the hand holding the scrap of paper to his lap and peered ahead with a puzzled look.

When had he come up so soundlessly and sat there? At the top of the stairs, in the dim corner of the wooden landing, a man sat rigidly. His knees were pressed together in formal seiza posture, hands resting motionless atop them. Though his face remained hidden by his bowed head, this was someone [Ota] had never seen before. The man’s stature—not particularly tall but unnaturally broad, verging on deformed—gave an impression both grotesque and sinister.

“You! Who on earth are you?” Ota said, modulating his voice to a gentler tone. “Which village are you from, exactly?” When Ota’s voice reached his ears, the man seemed to flinch for an instant, but immediately pressed his gnarled hands flat against the wooden floor and bowed so low his forehead nearly touched it in obeisance. One of the people in the room, who had been staring intently at the man cautiously raising his face, muttered in a low voice: “Ah! It’s someone from Ikeda Village!” “Ikeda Village?” Ota parroted back, then 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 Farmers’ Union speech meetings and maintained contact, but now it was said to be a village that had not been approached at all. Since it was none other than the Election Strategy Committee, they had pulled out old records and sent notices to a few people from Ikeda Village who had been involved at that time—thinking to have participants come even from villages without branches—but could this man be one of them…?

“If you’re from Ikeda Village,” Ota said.

“Would you kindly come all the way over here? You’ve come a long way—thank you for your trouble. We’re about to start the meeting.” Even after being addressed, the man only squirmed and kept shrinking back. “Er... If I might just listen here...” he said, his voice trailing off into silence. Repeating his request two or three times, Ota pressed him to move forward. Still the man refused to budge. “You there—you needn’t stand on ceremony with comrades. Come join us properly. Having you stay apart like this only disrupts proceedings.”

Finally standing up from his seat and moving forward, Ota spoke while forcing encouragement into his voice, irritation simmering beneath. Ota saw this as a manifestation of the excessive reserve common among farmers, stemming from servility. But what exactly was this unyielding stubbornness that lurked within such obsequious attitudes—something not even a lever could budge? With an urge to click his tongue in frustration, Ota surveyed the gathering. The people remained strangely silent. Had one stopped to look closely, Ota would have seen among them eyes that found nothing strange in such a man’s attitude……

He couldn’t keep attending to this forever—soon Ota returned to his seat and began explaining the proposal. And he pushed forward vigorously with conducting the meeting. While feeling a heavy oppression, he nevertheless occasionally raised his eyes to steal glances toward the dimly lit stairway area. The man remained sitting there with head still bowed, knees neatly aligned…….

The street lay quiet yet thick with the murmur of daily life as dusk approached. By day it stood hushed at noon, but along the sparsely trafficked road—in that brief hour before nightfall—an unceasing stream of people now flowed. Lines of packhorse carts returning with freight from town; peddlers hastening to reach villages before dark; farmers coming back from fields; mothers stopping at the grocer's on their way home, dangling parcels of dried goods. Occasionally empty trucks raced past, churning up dust from sun-baked earth.—Through this Ota pedaled his bicycle toward his own village. Covering five to ten ri daily—twenty to forty kilometers—on his bicycle formed one of his core routines. Even without pressing business, whether one made rounds through villages every two or three days created stark differences in branch operations. Return now, and come nightfall another hamlet's discussion meeting would await him...

Ota, who had been pedaling along, suddenly stopped pressing down on the pedals and sharply focused his attention ahead.—There on the nearly darkened street, he recognized the figure of a man who looked familiar. Seeing the thick bull neck and unusually broad shoulders of the man walking alone away from the line of people, Ota nodded in realization almost before he could wonder.

It was that man.

The memory of that night at the meeting a month or so ago, which he had forgotten, suddenly revived vividly in Ota. He looked exactly as he had that time. He wore striped work clothes with a rope wrapped around his waist, knee-length work trousers that left his shins completely bare, and his feet were barefoot without even straw sandals or tabi socks. In his right hand hung a large-mouthed sake flask with about a five-gō capacity, its neck tied with rope, as he walked briskly.—Dismounting his bicycle and pushing the handlebars as he walked, Ota followed after him inconspicuously. An interest in wanting to seize a chance to speak suddenly surged up within him.

The man stopped. It was in front of Takadaya’s shop, which held exclusive rights over sake and soy sauce trade in this village. Bright lamplight spilled across the road while boisterous laughter of men drunken on cup sake drifted from a dirt-floored pub corner. Though he had stopped before it, the man made no move to immediately enter. He lingered outside the threshold, bending slightly at the waist as he peered inside and shifted restlessly. Cradling the flask’s neck with one hand and its base with the other—his mouth twitching with unspoken words—he stood exposed to the interior lamplight while remaining planted on the road. Suddenly raising his face, he uttered something faint toward those inside. Yet he promptly resumed his former posture, letting brief moments pass thus. Eventually recognizing someone within—just as that someone must have noticed him in turn—the man abruptly plastered his entire face with an obsequious grin and began bowing so deeply his forehead nearly grazed his knees. In a flash he adopted a stance like one kneeling to fire a rifle—one knee raised, the other pressed flat against earth—and thrust both hands forward with force. As though presenting some sacred offering, he held aloft the flask in both hands…

The one who stood up from within and revealed half his body there was the shop clerk. He appeared with a funnel in one hand, casually inserted it into the sake flask’s mouth, muttered a few words to the man, and retreated inside. Immediately he emerged holding a three-gō measure and poured its contents into the flask. The man stood up and bowed repeatedly until his body nearly folded double, then fumbled in his breast pocket for his coin purse, produced a silver coin, and extended it forward. Yet the clerk refused to take it directly with his hand. Instead he drew back once more, accepted the coin using a money tray he’d brought, then briskly withdrew into the rear.

Having stopped his bicycle on one side of the road and leaned against it without even blinking as he intently watched the entire scene unfold, Ota shifted his gaze to the man’s retreating figure disappearing into the darkness. Suddenly he took five or six steps forward as if to seize that figure—but immediately stood stock-still, frozen in place. A sudden realization struck him.

Ota sped back to the village on his bicycle as though flying and hurriedly went upstairs.

Four or five young members of the branch had gathered to write posters for the rally looming just three or four days away.

“We had an election strategy committee meeting about a month back, remember? You know—when we picked the candidate.”

As soon as he saw them, Ota energetically began to speak.

“There was that man who came late and sat over there at the time... They said he was from Ikeda Village, but who on earth is that?” “The man from Ikeda Village?”

When he asked, one of them seemed to recall immediately, said "Ah," and suddenly burst into laughter. "That's the Heike Crab, everyone." "Ah, the Heike Crab."

After that night of the meeting, the man had already come and gone from the office two or three times. He had come to help put up posters. Ota had been absent each time. Just as he had done that previous evening, he came up the stairs with cautious footsteps trying to muffle their sound, cast a timid glance around the room only to immediately avert his eyes, then pressed both palms flat against the floorboards in a deep bow—taking in both this manner of greeting and the impression from his bright red face, the young men had come to call that man “Heike Crab.”

“I just met that man at Takadaya’s place—what sort of person is he?”

“Teacher, that’s someone from Kanna Village—in Ikeda Village.” “Kanna Village?” “That’s right—don’t you know about Kanna Village, Teacher?” The young men exchanged meaningful glances and stifled smirks. “Since there’s no union in Ikeda Village, I don’t know much about it...” “Teacher—this.” One of the youths thrust out his arm. “Kanna Village is this, Teacher. And that man’s this too.”

As he said this, he slowly thrust his arm out in front of Ota. His thrust-out right hand (seven characters missing in original) was bent precisely, (four characters missing in original) fluttering and flickering before Ota’s eyes.……

In an instant, the soft smile that had been floating on Ota’s face vanished like a shadow. In the blink of an eye, the blood drained from his flushed face, replaced by a pallid tension. He who had been sitting stood up quietly without a sound. The young man, struck in the chest by the momentary bizarre transformation, had just involuntarily tried to adjust his posture when an arm shot out—and in an instant, Ota’s thick fingers clamped tightly around his collar. He yanked him close, and a torrent of curses came crashing down on the face that gaped in astonishment.

“You bastard—try doing that thing you just did again!” “Again, you bastard—that thing you just did—”

His voice trembled hoarsely. He tried to say something more, stammering a few words—but then the arm that had been gripping the collar while trembling violently suddenly went limp, all strength seeming to drain away, and before he knew it, he had released his hold. The released young man staggered unsteadily and collapsed right there.

Without so much as a glance at the others who were staring in bewilderment, he clattered down the stairs—Ota dashed outside.

It was a pitch-dark night. That's right—he should go talk to Jinbei Hiraga, the standing committee member. This thought came to him only after he had wandered aimlessly through the pitch-black darkness for about a block.

Returning late at night and slipping into bed, he listened to the insects chirping near his pillow in the dead silence as excitement welled up within him once more. The man called Kumakichi Iwata kept flickering before his eyes and would not fade. The reality he had only ever heard about in stories—a reality he had never once collided with until now—savagely tightened its grip on Ota. He could reflect on his rash action of grabbing the village youth by the collar and shouting something, but what shamed him most was that even after over three months as this district’s responsible officer, there remained critical gaps in his knowledge about his own jurisdiction. He had been preoccupied solely with maintaining established organizations and tended to neglect unorganized areas—the weight of his responsibility as an organizer pressed upon him. As the conflict between left and right wings at the center—taking the form of a split within the legal proletarian parties—intensified, both factions began seeking footholds in lower-level organizations. Consequently, various documents were sent directly even to village organizations, and rumors circulated about people secretly infiltrating them. Given Ota’s current position, there existed circumstances requiring him to devote all his energy to protecting the village organizations from right-wing infiltration—and yet……

About two ri north of Ueda Village, where the district office was located—crossing a mountain pass requiring three ri of ascent and descent—lay Ikeda Village’s basin containing Kanna Village: a hamlet of fewer than fifty households. All were tenant farmers subjugated to Fujisawa, counted among the prefecture’s most formidable landlords. Assigned land in a pass’s shadow where sunlight faltered and irrigation proved futile—three to five tan of inferior paddies with wretched soil. Against nature’s madness they stood defenseless; even modest rains or brief droughts struck them mercilessly. Chemical fertilizers lay beyond imagination—had they somehow acquired them, the gelid earth would have rejected such nourishment. While six bales per tan marked this region’s standard yield, here five bales strained their efforts. Sixty percent tenant fees—these vile terms extorted through their Burakumin status—formed the bedrock of Fujisawa’s leasing practices across all his lands: an irrefutable truth.

Perfect conditions! Ota groaned. The landlords acted individually yet uniformly—hadn't the objective conditions fully ripened? What seemed strange was how this village had remained unorganized until now, despite this region's vigorous farmers' movement. Though Ikeda Village lacked a branch office, that entire area wasn't entirely beyond the union's reach.

“I’ll do it—right now! Let’s grab hold of this autumn issue and start pushing immediately!” That evening, when Ota met standing committee member Jinbei Hiraga to hear about Kanna Village’s general situation and made this enthusiastic declaration while slapping his thigh with an open palm—Hiraga’s attitude proved strangely cold. “You’d best abandon Kanna, Mr. Ota.”

“What? Why’s that?” “It’s already been tried—Kanna." “How many times d’you think we’ve tested that before?” “Even Mr. Maeda before you, and Mr. Shimura—they all tried every approach they could.” “But y’see, when the very people in Kanna themselves drag their feet like that, there ain’t nothin’ to be done.” “Take that recent rally at Joganji in Ikeda—not a single soul came from Kanna then, y’see.” “Why is that?”

“Ha ha ha…” laughed Jinbei. “Mr. Ota, you’re still so green.” “Let that landlord catch wind you went to our rally—they’ll strip your land and roof same day, mark me.” “Most tenants there are full-bound—oxen, hoes, even their piss pots belong to the master.” Then he muttered like a man talking to his tobacco smoke: “Best watch your skull don’t get split like Mr. Shimura’s neither.”

“Get your head split open?” Ota challenged sharply. “Gangsters’ll show up or somethin’?” “Gangsters’ll come out too, y’know.”

Jinbei Hiraga turned away with apparent disinterest and puffed on his cigarette. As he silently watched that demeanor, Ota suddenly flared up and involuntarily raised his voice in a shout. "I'll do it! No matter what you all say, I'll do it!" Something cold enough to instantly wither Ota's fervent heart manifested around Jinbei Hiraga's eyes and mouth, and Jinbei snorted through his nose before laughing.

“Mr. Ota.” “What?” “You fine with wreckin’ the Farmers’ Union, eh? Bring Kanna into it—whole slew’ll quit from our branch an’ th’ union itself. First off ’mong th’ execs opposin’ this’d be Mr. Saito.” “‘Cause Kanna ain’t like other villages.”

―The reason why Kanna Village differed from other O-villages was something Ota came to understand before long. For example, in Yokokawa Village—which lay adjacent to Ikeda Village—there existed a similar hamlet. Yet most of its Burakumin residents had joined the Farmers’ Union, and people interacted with them in every aspect of daily life as if they had utterly forgotten they belonged to a discriminated community. The reason why this hamlet and Kanna were so strictly distinguished by people lay in the histories of their origins—histories that had been passed down since ancient times. ―It was said that Yokokawa’s hamlet originated from remnants of the Sanada forces who, having been defeated in battle during the Summer Siege of Osaka in Genna 1 [1615], fled and settled in this land. The people of the hamlet would say: “If you think it’s a lie, go to Daitoku-ji Temple in our village and ask the priest.” “The writings from that time remain preserved—armor, spears, swords all properly stored at the temple—see?” The people of the hamlet took pride in this history of theirs—pride that let them hold their heads high and walk straight even before “ordinary people.” And even these so-called ordinary people conceded before this plausible, proud history. ―Kanna Village’s history stretched back far beyond Yokokawa’s. During the Three Han Conquests [legendary 3rd century campaign], multitudes of captives were brought inland. Some came to these mountain lands and took up leather-tanning as their trade—their descendants being today’s Kanna Village. “Look! Even our hands…! …—see?”

Malicious children would point at the retreating figures of the hamlet people and say such things—

A laughable, insubstantial legend—and yet in reality, it was vividly nurturing and shaping the emotional fabric of people’s lives. Ota once again recalled the attitude of that youth division member from days past. The young man was an outstanding union activist from a tenant farming background. He had actually participated in struggles and possessed knowledge befitting a youth fighter. Yet even if inadvertently, he had displayed such attitudes, and even when challenged, showed no particular shame about his current position. Everything was all too clear. It went without saying. This all-too-clear reality remained beyond even those tenant farmers who could be called comrades—beyond their minds’ provisional understanding.—“Then what must be done?” Ota continued pondering. “To root out what’s seeped so stubbornly into their very way of life?” “Roundtable discussions?” “Useless—what would mere lip-service preaching accomplish?!” “Then what should I do?” “Bring Kanna Village into the union’s organization! Bring them in and unite both sides firmly as impoverished farmers!” “But wait”—the doubt that should have naturally arisen immediately gripped him. On stifling summer nights, lying awake with these unresolved thoughts made sleep elusive. “Rather than bringing Kanna into the Farmers’ Union first, shouldn’t we organize them as Burakumin—as Suiheisha comrades?” He paced endlessly before this dilemma. (The Suiheisha had no organization here yet.) Immediately he recalled Takeda—his Suiheisha comrade from O City—whose perpetually faint smile concealed profound sorrow beneath. What would he say? He’d speak in that calm, weathered voice of his: “Exactly—it must be done that way. We must prioritize building the Suiheisha organization.”

“Your thinking seems dangerously close to dissolving the Burakumin’s unique characteristics into the general mass of impoverished farmers, you know.”――Ota tossed and turned repeatedly. He tried to organize his thoughts by drilling into a single point of focus like a sharp awl gouging through matter. Gradually, one definitive conclusion began taking shape within his mind. "What Takeda says is undoubtedly correct, but my thinking doesn't oppose his opinion in any way. Given this region's current conditions, the Farmers' Union organization takes precedence in crucial aspects—that is, awakening the entire community to their identity as Burakumin, and another equally urgent matter: breaking down discriminatory notions held by impoverished farmers within the union toward Burakumin members." "And this would become the foremost obstacle even when organizing the Suiheisha—the Suiheisha’s organization couldn’t necessarily aid that purpose in this situation; rather, it risked creating mechanical opposition between the two groups. What we need now more than anything is close contact between impoverished farmers as comrades within the same union—this is essential." "And that too forms part of the process." "...toward organizing the Suiheisha..." As drowsiness crept over him, the familiar second floor of O City’s Suiheisha office materialized hazily before Toshizo Ota’s eyes. There he stood—gripping Takeda while triumphantly holding forth about the tribulations of organizing Kanna Village. Ota’s lips curved into an involuntary smile. “Alright, settled.”――With that final thought unburdening his mind, he sank into deep sleep, his healthy snores filling the room.

Ota had been waiting a long time for the day Kumakichi Iwata would come to visit. He had been sending all union documents and newspapers without fail, and had not forgotten to issue invitations for the once-every-ten-days branch meetings. But Kumakichi had not shown his face since then. However, Ota did not attempt to take the initiative and visit himself. He thought it was still too early. If he were to be met with suspicious stares and make the villagers wary, he thought it would only backfire.

One day, not long after autumn had begun, when Kumakichi came to visit, Toshizo Ota was alone in the office. “Those with business, proceed to the second floor.” “Spies not welcome.” The words were posted in large characters on the deserted first-floor wall. Though visitors typically climbed upstairs unannounced, when Ota realized it was Kumakichi Iwata now creaking up those warped steps, he involuntarily gasped—“Ah!”

“Did you have some business here?” were the first words out of his mouth—and immediately Ota cursed himself inwardly: You idiot! What a clumsy thing to say! What—you’re telling me to leave if I don’t have business here?

Kumakichi, who had sat down on the wooden floor area as usual, however, looked pleased upon hearing those words from Ota. "I'm heading into town now, you see, so I thought maybe there was some business at the union office there," said Kumakichi. "Perfect timing—exactly perfect timing!" Ota said with genuine delight. It came from a resolve to not waste even a speck of Kumakichi's goodwill. Ota now tensed his entire body as if facing a lover, working his mind with meticulous care.

“I just happened to have some documents I needed to deliver to headquarters by today.” “Well then, take these along with you.” “But hey, there’s no need to rush like that, you see. Warm yourself by the fire a bit before you go.” “It’s quite cold today, you see.”

After saying this, a considerable time passed before Kumakichi—moving hesitantly—approached the large Seto ware brazier where Ota was adding charcoal. With the brazier between them, Ota sat facing Kumakichi for the first time. Now, fixedly, Ota observed this man’s strikingly unusual features before his very eyes. The abnormal protrusion of his cheekbones was the first thing to catch one’s eye. The crown of his head tapered slightly, his forehead terribly narrow. His was an ugly boar’s neck that appeared sunken into his thick, protruding chest, but the eyes—those golden jar-like eyeballs indeed looked exactly as mischievous children would point out and say (five characters missing in original)—.

“You’ve been receiving the newspapers and pamphlets from the union, haven’t you? Are you reading them?” “I get ’em every time they come, sure enough, but I can’t make heads or tails of them square letters.” Kumakichi smiled sheepishly, his sun-baked red face flushing deeper. He narrowed one eye and twisted his mouth into a grin that held a vulgar rawness unsettling enough to make one shiver. “How did you come to know about the union?” “When my old man was still hearty, there was this big ruckus ’bout joining up. And I’ve been doing day labor over at the masters’ place up in Kawakami. Them tenant farmers there joined the union and wrangled their rent down proper-like—why, I’ve sat through two-three of their speech meetings myself.”

“Next time I go to Ikeda Village, maybe I could stop by your place.”

“Teacher, even if you were to come visit, I’ve got no proper place for you to sit and rest, you see…” said Kumakichi suddenly with a flustered and bewildered expression. As Kumakichi made to leave, saying it was getting late, Ota entrusted him with documents to deliver to the union headquarters in N City and, repeating “Come visit again” over and over, saw him out to the entrance.—

On the third night after that, having judged the time when the fieldwork had ended, Ota set out for Kanna Village. He had long known where Kumakichi’s house stood from prior inquiries. The dwelling occupied a spot dim even at midday—backed by a mountain pass and fronted by a mixed grove. It was a typical thatched-roof hovel, its pillars and rafters rotting away as the structure leaned perilously to one side. It would be bad to appear like I went out of my way to visit, Ota thought. He hesitated momentarily, considering how Kumakichi might receive him. His heart began pounding inexplicably.—“Evening,” he called out as he entered, finding Kumakichi cross-legged on a straw mat in the dim earthen-floored area, absorbed in night work. Closer inspection revealed him planing a thin board—two or three shaku long and six or seven sun wide—laid across the workbench. “I happened to come as far as Yokokawa,” Ota said with forced casualness, edging nearer. “Ah!” Kumakichi exclaimed, springing up to brush wood shavings from his knees as he welcomed Ota—appearing far more composed than the younger man had anticipated.

“It must’ve been tough comin’ here in the dark with the road so bad.” “Teacher, c’mon now, sit yourself down here and have a rest before ya go—Otoyo, fetch some embers from there and put ’em in this brazier, will ya?” “It’s gotten awful cold out, I tell ya.” Probably his sister—though he only now noticed her—a girl of fourteen or fifteen who had been crouching by the hearth in a corner of the earthen-floored area, poking at flickering red flames with a stick, silently stood up when addressed and carried 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 these, Teacher,” said Kumakichi, bundling the several thin planks he had planed down by then with a rope and leaning them against the wall there before moving closer to the brazier himself. “It ain’t much, but since I sometimes go into town to replace geta teeth, I keep these things prepared.” “Even red oak and magnolia planks like these ain’t free these days, so I’m askin’ Yoshi the carpenter to get ’em cheap for me.” “If I don’t do odd jobs like replacin’ geta teeth, I ain’t got no way to earn even a single penny, you see…” “I sometimes get hired to go work at the masters’ place, and when I do they’ll toss me some scraps to eat, but it don’t earn me even a penny, I tell ya. As a tenant farmer I’m only workin’ three tan of land—”

Having said that far, Kumakichi suddenly raised his face. The flames of burning firewood dyed his roughly hewn profile crimson. Holding both hands over the brazier, he gazed directly into Ota’s face. Eyes retaining not a shred of wariness narrowed into a smile. When their gazes met squarely, Ota found himself flustered. This was what he had been yearning for from his heart’s depths. Only its unexpected earliness made him falter. —Instantly shame washed over him. Wasn’t it he—not Kumakichi—who’d been maintaining distance through foolish wariness? The other had always stood open-handed, waiting to clasp his! But what of that stubborn defiance shown on their first meeting? That must have been instinctive recoil against the hostility radiating from everyone present that day……

“Oooh, oooh, oooh,” suddenly at that moment, an ominous groaning voice could be heard. It was leaking from behind the closed sliding door. Kumakichi stood up in a fluster. He opened the sliding door and leaned his upper body inside,

“Ah, Father—you’re awake now?” “Kumakichi’s right here, so rest easy—ah, there now,” he said in a tone one might use with a child before immediately returning to step down into the earthen-floored area. He grabbed what appeared to be a sake flask soaking in hot water atop the hearth kettle and disappeared behind the sliding door once more. The sliding door had been left open about a foot. Peering involuntarily through the gap, Toshizo Ota saw an old man who appeared over sixty—propped halfway up with Kumakichi’s assistance—lying on what seemed a long-unfolded futon. Though his frame remained robust and well-nourished, the sagging flesh of his reddish-purple face with its strange luster and the slackness around his eyes and mouth made clear at a glance that this was someone long bedridden by illness. Kumakichi poured sake from the flask into a teacup by the pillow and, steadying the old man’s trembling hand with his own, helped him drink. The sound of him slurping while licking his lips carried clearly through to their side of the sliding door.

“Ah, Teacher, you saw that, didn’t you!” Kumakichi said with a heavy 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 get by eatin’ potatoes and beans…” His father, who had been bedridden with paralysis for a long time now, had not been able to give up alcohol for even a single day since falling ill. Occasionally he had to prepare something to put in his mouth, but there were no promising side jobs to speak of, and all avenues for cash income had been closed off. “Whether I’m asleep or awake, ten-sen coins and twenty-sen coins keep beckoning me over and over, I tell ya,” Kumakichi laughed. The nightly two go of sake that had initially been given had now decreased to less than one go. “They said he’d die by the third year, but now it’s the fifth—next they’ll be saying seven years, I tell ya.” “It might seem unfilial, but I’m prayin’ for my father to die soon.” “Even if he lives on, I can’t even let him drink his favorite sake anymore,” Kumakichi said, his voice dropping.

That night, late into the hours, Ota descended the mountain pass road. His heart would not stop leaping. He whistled and sped downhill on his bicycle in one breath—his chest overflowing with things he wanted to say, all while thinking how nice it would be if someone would come visit the office...

One late night about a week later, Ota visited Kumakichi’s house again. This time, having genuinely made rounds through numerous villages since morning, he couldn’t muster the energy to travel the remaining five ri back to his own village without first settling down somewhere for a smoke break. Is he already asleep? He had stopped by half in doubt to check, but found the entrance door left half-open. When [he] called out and entered, Kumakichi sat hunched over alone in the dim light before the dying embers of a split-wood fire.

“Ah, Teacher… To come so late at night,” he said, raising his pensive face and offering a faint smile.

“You were still up? I thought you’d already gone to bed, but... well, glad I stopped by.” “Well... I was thinkin’ of goin’ to bed, but I got worries gnawin’ at me... Today that Tiger Matsumoto—y’know, the master actin’ as Fujisawa’s land agent—he came down hard on me again ’bout payin’ the interest on the money I borrowed... And with harvest time comin’ right up now, gotta cough up the rent again too...” “Kumakichi,” Ota said in a calm yet pressing voice. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout somethin’ since t’other day... How ’bout we try holdin’ a meetin’ just once with folks close to the village? There’s all sorts o’ things to discuss—rent matters, debts an’ such.” “Then I’ve got somethin’ I’d like to bring up there.”

“Ah, that’s a grand idea, Teacher!” Kumakichi thrust forward one knee in eagerness, yet almost at once his bearing shifted back to brooding pensiveness.

“But, Teacher...” “The village folks are just plain terrified of the union, I tell ya.” “Three years back, the landlords threatened us real harsh—my old man was one o’ them back then.” “No, no—we don’t have to keep goin’ on about the union.” “You don’t have to get ’em to join right away.” “And they don’t need to gather special-like just for that neither.” “If there’s ever a village gatherin’, I could just go talk then—that’d do, I reckon...”

Kumakichi did not answer; he simply sank into deep thought.

“Ah, I’m starving!”

After a while, Ota spoke in a tone that seemed truly disappointed yet laughed all the same. "The udon shops must've closed by now. Kumakichi, you got anything to eat?" "I'll just take my portion and go." Kumakichi jerked his head up only to let it droop again. "There's nothin'... Just some leftover cold bean rice—bean rice's all—" It came out in an oddly cold tone laced with timidity.

“Ah, that’s fine, that’s perfectly fine, Kumakichi. Just give me a bowl of it.” After appearing to hesitate for some time, Kumakichi stood up and went to the kitchen. In the darkness, he rustled around making noises until finally returning with a rice tub in one hand and a red-lacquered tray bearing a bowl and chopsticks in the other. Without a word, he brusquely shoved it in front of Ota. When Ota lifted the lid of the rice tub, he found bean rice mixed with broad beans clumped together at the bottom. Ota heaped the bean rice into a bowl and hurriedly devoured it.

“Ah! This is salty and delicious! I love broad beans.” “Since I only had udon for lunch today and haven’t eaten anything since, I’m so hungry—so hungry!”

The moment Ota casually raised his face without thinking, he sensed something uncanny and had to set down both his chopsticks and bowl directly on the tray. With hands on his knees, Ota sat eating when Kumakichi's face—locked in an intense stare—contorted with an extraordinary expression. There was something fiercely pressing in that gaze. An aura of barely restrained emotion hovered palpably within the sound of his labored breathing—

“Ah, Teacher—you ate my home’s meal! You ate my home’s meal!”

Suddenly, Kumakichi raised his voice and shouted. His voice trembled with excitement, yet at the same time quivered with something like joy. He abruptly stood up. Having stood up, he slid open the fusuma door to his father’s bedroom, peered inside, and kept shouting: ——

“Father! Father! Are you asleep? Ah—the Farmers’ Union teacher! He ate my home’s meal! He ate my home’s bean rice!”

Ota, taken aback and dazed, found Kumakichi pressing his own body against Ota’s as if to cling to him, then plopping down heavily right there. “Teacher, I…”

Suddenly, he said solemnly in a lowered voice.

“At first, I thought it was a joke.” “When Teacher said he’d eat my home’s meal, I thought Teacher was makin’ fun of us.” “Teacher—I never thought you’d eat my home’s meal... See, the fifteenth of last month was seven years since my ma died—I went through all sorts o’ trouble to get the landlord’s temple priest to come.” “I’d hoped he’d chant three sutras, so I wrapped an offering just like anyone else would.” “But when that priest came, what sutra did he even chant?” “He didn’t even last thirty minutes before quitting.” “Chanting three sutras should take a good half day, ’cause... but I’m uneducated, so I couldn’t even argue ’bout that.” “And y’know what galled me most then, Teacher—that damn priest just glared sideways at the sweets I’d gone all the way to town to buy, didn’t touch ’em, didn’t drink tea neither, just flapped his priestly robes noisily like he was fleein’ and scurried off!” “And how damn furious I was then—”

Suddenly everything fell silent. Kumakichi and Ota sat facing each other wordlessly, their eyes fixed on the smoldering fire that emitted its last tendrils of smoke. “Teacher—I was so happy—”

Abruptly, Kumakichi’s voice grew thick, and he sniffled. Kumakichi burst into tears.

What could have been the first humiliating experience that Kumakichi Iwata, now thirty years old, could still vividly recall?

He had not yet entered elementary school but was thought to be around seven years old. One day, for some errand—yes, his father had him carry the repaired work clogs with their teeth reset and the fair-weather clogs—he threaded a cord through their thongs, slung them over his shoulder, and set off for the home of the then Matsumoto, who served as agent for Landlord Fujisawa. Fujisawa was an absentee landlord, and all the tenant land in the village was under Matsumoto’s control. Matsumoto was, of course, one of the "ordinary people," and his house was in the neighboring village.

Having entered through the back door, placed the footwear he had brought in the kitchen’s earthen-floored area, and tried to return home clutching tight in his palm the single ten-sen coin the maid had handed him, Kumakichi was unfortunately caught by Matsumoto’s two “young masters”—one twelve or thirteen and the other seven or eight years old—who had just returned from playing.

“Kumakichi,” said the older one, tapping the dragonfly-catching rod in his hand against the ground. “Got a question for ya.” “Go on, answer,” he said. “What’s got four legs but one less hair’n a human? You know it, don’tcha, Kumakichi?” “Don’t know!” Kumakichi answered straight off. “S’pose it’s a monkey.” “Then I’ll ask ya.” “What’s all mixed up in here?!” Kumakichi stayed silent. The older boy snorted—Hmph!—and traded looks with the younger one before bustin’ out laughin’.

“Don’t know, do ya? Don’t know, do ya? Then I’ll teach ya—what’s all mixed up here is...” He raised his hand and stabbed his index finger sharply against Kumakichi’s forehead as he declared. “Ya lot! You lot—you filthy scum!” Flushing crimson from head to toe, Kumakichi ran out without looking back—tripped over a stone and fell—scraped his kneecap—limped onward in his flight—and from behind him came pursuing in quick succession a barrage of vicious shouts—

“Filthy scum like you lot—! You ain’t even worth a single [missing term]!”

While running in a frenzy, Kumakichi recalled how his father had always warned him: "Don't you ever play with children from outside our village."――

However, such admonitions from his father no longer held any power over Kumakichi once he began attending elementary school. For at school, whether he liked it or not, he had to mingle with children from other hamlets. In the school classrooms, the seats for Kanna Village children had been segregated from those of others from the very beginning. It had likely been this way since the school's establishment—the teachers never questioned it, and parents accepted it as natural. What Kumakichi first experienced there had been nothing more than trifling. When he left that school after three years, Kumakichi could no longer be easily shocked; even in his child's mind, he had deeply absorbed the understanding that this was simply how the world worked. The mindset toward humiliation that would govern a Burakumin's entire life had already taken root within him as a child. Their sharp upward glances pierced through people's hearts; their vulgar ingratiating smiles grotesquely twisted their mouths.

In the spring of his seventeenth year, when he could no longer suppress the surging force swelling both within him and the world outside, Kumakichi left home one day with a man from town. He entered the slaughterhouse in N City, located nearly forty kilometers away from Kanna Village, as an apprentice butcher. Though seventeen, his frame—broader and sturdier than most—left none suspecting he still awaited official examination. He kept pace with full-fledged butchers without faltering. He quickly became proficient in peeling hides from four-legged animals, sawing bones, and splitting meat. After delivering a blow that felled the beasts, he would step onto their bodies with his shod feet, stomping repeatedly, then catch the gushing lukewarm blood in a Seto-ware vessel and drink it in one gulp. When he let out a loud, sneering laugh, the area around his mouth—still smeared with fresh blood—seemed to split wide open. At night, he would appear at the neighborhood bar just as he was, reeking of blood, sear his guts with shochu, and brawl.

After two years had passed since he cleared the examination, he came to serve as acting head butcher.

One day, a pure white breeding bull dragged into the slaughterhouse proved obstinate in its final moments. Even pulling it from the shed proved difficult, and once dragged out, it kept turning back toward its owner with drawn-out cries that seemed to beg for rescue, tears streaming from its large pale blue eyes. Kumakichi had indeed seen the bull weeping. When the four-legged beast lay bound and knocked over sideways, Kumakichi delivered a half-hearted axe blow to its forehead—though never before had his hands wavered like this—the blade missing its mark. The bull let out a rending scream, heaving its upper body upward before collapsing again with a thud. Kumakichi's eyes flared bloodshot, his second strike showing no such hesitation. That day Kumakichi remained listless from dawn till dusk, the bull's scream and the jarring shock from the axe handle grinding in his skull like gravel trapped between gears. That night he suffered nightmares. At dawn came word of his mother's sudden death in the village—and having returned there, Kumakichi never again attempted to go back to N City.

After returning to the village, Kumakichi appeared as though his personality had completely changed. Since his father had taken to his bed with a stroke, this change had become particularly noticeable. His violent outbursts vanished; he became taciturn, stopped drinking, and worked with patient endurance. He single-handedly cultivated over three tan of poor fields that yielded four bales per tan. When rainy days continued through part of a month, he would shoulder his geta repair box, cross the mountain pass, and walk around town beating a drum in the steady rhythm used by monkey handlers. During the busy farming season, he inevitably had to spend several days providing labor at Land Agent Matsumoto’s tenant fields—by longstanding custom nearly unpaid work.—And during those periods, bit by bit, his debts and each year’s remaining tenant fees accumulated.

The momentum to hold a village meeting gradually grew.

One day, when Ota visited Kumakichi, Kumakichi welcomed him with a beaming smile. “Ah, you’ve come at just the right time, Teacher!” he said. “The folks in the village—they’ve been gettin’ more fired up by the day. Lots of ’em now sayin’ they wanna call Teacher over and hear what you gotta say.” “Last night too—Shota came by ’n’ said he’d offer up his own house for the meetin’.”

“The effect of that flyer is truly remarkable.”

Ota recalled the flyer he had handed to Kumakichi about ten days earlier. “What’re you sayin’, Teacher?” Kumakichi laughed. “In this whole village, there ain’t a soul who can read the letters on that scrap o’ paper.” “Teacher’s popularity started risin’ ’cause you ate my home’s rice ’n’ slept rolled up in my home’s futon—that spread like wildfire through the village folks.” "But still..." he suddenly lowered his voice.

“The only thing worrying me is that Matsumoto’s old man seems to have started suspecting something about Teacher and me.”

Four or five days earlier in the evening, Toshizo Ota was resting at a certain "rest stop" along the prefectural road connecting Ikeda Village and Yokokawa Village, fortifying himself with a bowl of udon. The large man around forty who had entered the tatami room—having arranged three or four small dishes on the low dining table—already appeared thoroughly drunk. He would occasionally glance up to observe Ota’s demeanor, but suddenly snorted with laughter and began shouting while violently slamming his emptied sake bottle against the low table’s surface.—“Old man! Another round! And make it the hot stuff—”

“Hey, old man!” The man grabbed the shop owner who had brought over the refilled sake bottle and began talking. Even as he spoke, his eyes—stealthily stealing glances at Ota’s profile from time to time—burned with unconcealable fierce hostility. “Hey, old man! You’re listening to this too, ain’t ya? Ain’t they sayin’ those Farmers’ Union bastards are creepin’ back around Ikeda again like they never learned their lesson? Three years back they got a harsh lesson, but not a lick of sense’s been knocked into ’em! But hey, old man! What could those greenhorns possibly accomplish? What’s so fearsome ’bout your Farmers’ Union and such? As long as Matsumoto draws breath, we’ll never let your union nonsense into this Ikeda! Old man! Listen well—as long as Matsumoto draws breath—”

Though drunk, that fiery fighting spirit of his pressed directly against Ota’s chest across several tatami mats. He called him a greenhorn.

The conviction he possessed—backed by years of abundant life experience—came pressing down with brazen ferocity. Though Ota managed to hold his ground against it, he felt the struggle’s intensity and grew excited. Now he recalled that evening. “Now now, do take your time today.” “Got somethin’ real tasty today, see.” From the pot placed on the charcoal stove in the dirt-floored entryway, white steam had been rising since earlier.

“What’s that?” “Horse! It’s horse meat, I tell ya! Shota’s horse up an’ died, see—there’s a rule sayin’ you gotta burn dead horses, but seemed such a waste we all split it bit by bit. Well, this here’s prime meat—damn tasty, I tell ya. But Teacher—” he dropped his voice “—this here’s a secret, see.” Kumakichi uttered the last phrase in a hushed voice and laughed slyly. It was meat from a horse that had died of illness. Ota shuddered. But he quickly composed his expression and soon joined Kumakichi around the pot that had been placed there.

“Ahh, this here’s damn good—ain’t had horse meat much before, though—” He tossed several pieces of the foamy, pungent meat into his mouth. When evening came and he’d been back at the office awhile, five or six union members suddenly paid him a visit. Union members dropping by wasn’t anything strange of course, but this group—led by Kenta Saito and Jinbei Hiraga—consisted entirely of district executives. Their manner carried an ominous weight, and Ota immediately sensed something was brewing.

“Mr. Ota, is it true you’re bringing Kanna Village into the union?” Kenta Saito—who typically spoke with measured composure—assumed an oddly accusatory tone the moment he settled into his seat. Though he had narrowly lost that September’s prefectural assembly election, his influence still loomed over the entire union. “Nothing’s been formally decided yet—the matter hasn’t advanced that far—but is there some problem with bringing Kanna into the union?”

“If we consider the development of the union as a whole—you must realize that bringing Kanna into the union right now requires considerable deliberation.” “You’ve only just arrived here and don’t yet know the union’s recent history,” he continued. “There was such talk about Kanna once before.” “However, when we tried to bring Kanna into the union, members emerged who said they’d quit—so we stopped.” “We tried every way to persuade the union members, but there are limits to relying solely on logical arguments.” “Union members with low consciousness aren’t something you can reform overnight.” “Since this differs considerably from labor unions, I must ask you to exercise extreme caution in considering that aspect.”

Ota bit his lip. Cursing "You bastard!" in his gut, he felt something crude he'd nearly forgotten rear its head, threatening to flare up violently. What were you saying, hiding behind the name of the masses? Wasn't it precisely you all who were exploiting that low consciousness—no, using it as an excuse—to block Kanna's admission to the union? —But wait. When this entire community rises up as one, demanding "Here's our strength—what will you do with it?", what exactly could any of you do then...?

“I can’t possibly decide that without bringing it up at headquarters or district meetings—whether to organize them through the Suiheisha or through the union. I’ve been considering various approaches regarding that as well, and I intend to discuss it thoroughly with everyone in due time.”

Ota said in a calm tone. His demeanor remained unflappable—enough to turn forty-year-old men around and keep them all in check. The six months in the Farmers’ Union had already given that much to the young man. It was the morning of the day before tomorrow evening’s meeting of the village’s mutual aid association—where Ota was scheduled to come and speak. At the mutual aid association, fifteen or sixteen people would gather.

When he thought about going to Ota’s place in the evening for various discussions, Kumakichi found himself feeling strangely eager since morning. He was about to go retrieve the repaired rice huller and take it to the neighboring village when just then, the mailman arrived carrying a sealed letter.

“Where’d this come from?”

Kumakichi stared intently at the large printed characters on the back of the envelope, yet their meaning utterly eluded him. "This wasn’t sent to us by mistake, was it?"

“From the court,” snapped the mailman as he walked away. “Court?”

When he cut open the envelope and looked inside, there appeared four or five sheets of bound ruled paper. The characters were written with such uniform precision they might as well have been printed, yet not a single one could be deciphered. “Ah well, I’ll go ask Teacher about it proper tonight. Otoyo, you hang onto this here.” In the early afternoon, Kumakichi was returning with the rice huller loaded onto a handcart when Otoyo, who had been standing blankly at the gate, hurriedly rushed over to him.

“Brother, someone from town left this without showin’ themselves.” When he saw what Otoyo carefully pulled from her breast pocket, sure enough, it was another written note on ruled paper. “What kinda person from town?”

“They were wearin’ Western clothes and had beards.” “There were about four of ’em.” “Those people, well… they went and put up a wooden sign at our rice field before leavin’, though.”

“A sign?” “What could it be? Ah well.” “Ah well, by evening we’ll all know everything for sure. Just keep that note with this morning’s letter.” “It’s fine weather today—we’ll harvest one ridge by sunset. Otoyo, you lend a hand too.”

The two of them, sickles at their waists, went out to the edge of their tenant field. The rice plants, whose harvesting had been delayed due to a lack of hands, were now fully ripe to the point of bursting, rustling as they swayed. Along the ridge stood a brand-new wooden signpost. As she watched Kumakichi’s profile—his eyes fixed in suspicious scrutiny on the jet-black characters written across the signpost—Otoyo spoke up suddenly as if remembering something.

“Brother.”

“What is it?” “The people who put up this sign this morning… they told me not to set foot in the rice field.” “They’re sayin’ we can’t set foot in the rice field?”

At all four corners of the rice field, stakes had been driven, and ropes had been strung around. Kumakichi shifted his gaze from the signpost to the rope and stood silent and motionless for a while, but soon he spoke in a voice charged with anger. “That’s idiotic! What kinda nonsense are they spoutin’?” “They’re sayin’ I can’t enter my own rice field? What kinda nonsense is that?!” “If we ask the Teacher from the union, they’ll all get it straight. C’mon, let’s get to harvestin’ quick.”

But when he stepped over the rope and put one foot into the rice field, Kumakichi appeared to stand frozen there for an instant. Without understanding why, he simply felt within his heart something that made him hesitate. Feeling Otoyo’s gaze fixed on him as though she had read his emotions, Kumakichi raised his voice even more violently. “Hey, Otoyo, hurry up already! What’re you dawdlin’ around for?”

The rain had stopped two days prior, and yesterday and today had brought unseasonably warm late autumn days—almost hot—yet the dew that had collected at the base of the leaves still hadn’t dried up. Touching the adequately moistened stems, the sickle showed its pleasant cutting edge. When he cut them and lifted them in his left hand to examine, the tips of the rice ears hung down heavily and unevenly. They finished their work before sunset.

Since he had planned to go to Ota’s place, he was eating dinner a bit early in the evening when three men slipped in unannounced through the entrance. “Kumakichi, you here?”

The voice was immediately recognizable—it was Genzo, a servant from land agent Matsumoto’s household. Standing next to him was Okamoto, a land broker who traveled from village to village mediating land sales and such. This man too was considered one of Matsumoto’s underlings. Startled, Kumakichi Iwata adjusted his posture and peered into the dimness of the earthen floor. Standing quite some distance from the two men, in a tanzen coat with hands tucked into his sleeves, was indeed their master, Matsumoto.

“Hey, mind if I take a seat here?” He took the hand towel from his waist, brushed off the dust, and settled himself down.

“Kumakichi… you’ve gone and done it now,” Genzo said in an unnervingly calm, somber voice. “Huh? What’re you talkin’ about?” “Kumakichi, you’ve got some real nerve, eh?” said Okamoto in a mocking tone, seeming amused by Kumakichi’s bewildered appearance. A faintly sinister chill lurked within that voice.

“Kumakichi.”

“Oh?” “You’re goin’ to prison. “You’re goin’ to hard labor. “Got it?” It was Genzo who’d barked at him so sudden-like from the start. “Hey Kumakichi! “Why’d you go into a field you ain’t allowed? “Why’d you break the law ’bout field entry? “Master Matsumoto says he’s takin’ back your land. “Didn’t you see the damn signpost on the ridge? Thick as your arm, that thing.” “I can’t read no fancy sign letters.”

“Ignorance of the law excuses no one—that’s what they say.” “Ha ha ha…” Okamoto threw back his head and laughed. Kumakichi looked up and stared hard at the two men. He shoved away his meal tray and instinctively shuffled forward on his knees. Now he seemed to faintly grasp what this situation entailed. Uncontrollable agitation showed plain on his face. But he quickly steadied himself and spoke calmly, even managing a faint smile. “I don’t know nothin’. But the Teacher from the Farmers’ Union’ll set things straight. I’m thinkin’ of headin’ over to the Teacher’s place right now.”

He now doggedly asserted once more the conviction he had repeated time and again to Otoyo earlier that day.

“That Teacher from the Farmers’ Union, huh?” The two men exchanged meaningful looks and burst into loud laughter.

“Kumakichi.”

Matsumoto, who had been standing silently until then, for the first time gravely opened his mouth and took a step forward. "You ungrateful bastard, huh? You’ve forgotten how it’s all thanks to the master that you get three meals a day and a roof over your head, then gone and dragged those Farmers’ Union bastards into this village for your grand schemes—what’s that greenhorn from the union gonna do about it?! Kumakichi, mark my words—this beggar village of Kanna only stands at all thanks to the master. We can’t let a single bastard who defies the master stay in this village! Kumakichi, your land’s getting taken back come autumn. Not only the land—this house too. From the land to the house to the very hoes—is there even a single speck of dust here that doesn’t belong to the master? Since you can’t stay in this village anymore, you might as well go somewhere and become a beggar, I tell you."

Kumakichi remained motionlessly bowed. His broad shoulders heaved like great waves.

“Rather than begging, you’ll be a convict first,” Genzo immediately seized on Matsumoto’s words. “What a show for the whole world—you in your red rags (six characters missing)!” The three men roared with laughter in unison.

At the final remark, Kumakichi Iwata—who until then had been sitting properly with his knees aligned—abruptly adjusted his posture. He raised his face. The moment the three men reflexively tried to straighten their bodies against the oppressive aura closing in around them, Kumakichi—who had already wrenched one of the iron fire tongs from the nearby brazier—was already rising onto one knee. At once came a scream of "Agh!", and Genzo—who had been blocking the way at the forefront—fell face-down onto the dirt floor, hands covering his face.

With the remaining fire tong gripped in his right hand, Kumakichi rose to his feet in an imposing stance.

“Kumakichi! Is Kumakichi Iwata here?” Just then came a voice from outside accompanied by footsteps. The clatter of a sword scabbard sounded as the familiar officer from the village police substation entered. “Ah, Master Matsumoto is here too?” he suddenly smiled obsequiously. “Kumakichi, come along to the substation with me.” “There are some matters I need to inquire about.” As the day approached for Kumakichi Iwata’s public trial—he having been detained on charges of obstructing official duties and assault—Toshizo Ota sat in N City Police Station’s detention cell. This Ota, who remained entirely unaware of the incident that had befallen Kumakichi, had risen that morning eager for the long-promised Kanna Village meeting scheduled that day, only to be abruptly taken from the union office to N City Police Station and detained on the spot. The suspicion held that Kumakichi’s crime had been instigated by Ota. At least this served as the ostensible reason.—Among his countless experiences of detention up to now, never before had he been cast into such violent agitation and confusion. For the first time since beginning rural organizing work, he deeply contemplated the various causes behind this substantial setback.

Ota was released on the evening two days before Kumakichi’s trial.

Everything came pressing down on him all at once. Though his detention had lasted barely over two months, he was as agitated as if this were his first experience. He was most concerned about Kumakichi, who had been arrested. Of course, the union had been treating him as a martyr of their movement—sending care packages, with headquarters staff reportedly visiting occasionally to encourage him—but it seemed unavoidable that their efforts remained insufficient since his home village itself lacked any organizational structure.

“How is he doing?” When he inquired with the union’s legal advisor in charge of the case, the man replied, “Well… Every time I meet him, he’s sullen and barely says a word.” “Might’ve gotten himself all shaken up—restlessly looking around like that, no matter what you say to him, he just keeps muttering ‘Hmm... hmm...’,” he said. “Was he always that sort of man?” “It’s not as if being hauled off turned him into a hollow shell,” he laughed. The sudden pitfall Kumakichi had plunged into and his face—still half-agitated by unfamiliar living conditions without regaining composure—vividly rose in Ota’s mind; sensing something akin to a wild animal unaccustomed to its cage, his eyes grew hot.

“At first he kept asking about you nonstop.” “I was at my wit’s end trying to come up with a reply.” “Haven’t you told him the truth?” “Well, I told him you were sick—though it’s nothing serious, I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell him everything.” “After all, he seemed absolutely convinced you’d come save him any moment now.” “More than the police or anything else, you’ve become someone larger-than-life in his eyes.” “He kept insisting that ‘The Teacher from the Farmers’ Union would know all about it,’ and wouldn’t hear otherwise.” “I expect that’s why he pays little mind to what we say.” “Though mind you—he’s stopped going on about it lately.”

The day after his release happened to be a Sunday, so any chance to visit the prison for a meeting before the trial had been completely lost.— Fujisawa had kept filing lawsuits demanding eviction from the house and challenging Kumakichi, but for the elderly father and sister left behind, it was said that people from the village took turns slipping past Matsumoto’s strict surveillance to care for them morning and night.

If only there were a good organizer now—we could use this incident to solidify Kanna Village in no time at all—Ota lamented over how union headquarters had maintained their passive stance toward Kanna during his detention. That night he gathered branch secretaries for discussions lasting late into evening. Kumakichi Iwata’s public trial commenced Monday afternoon. Ota sat wedged between villagers from Kanna who’d crossed mountain passes specifically for this hearing. His legs puffed with beriberi’s early swellings made him appear burdened by a body constantly gasping for air. Latecomers from neighboring villages trickled in after Ota’s group until by opening arguments this small-town courtroom’s gallery strained at capacity.

It was mid-December - an overcast day with a penetrating cold that threatened to unleash rain or snow at any moment. The antique chandelier was already lit, casting a stillness reminiscent of the hour before dusk over the room.

As time pressed on, the increasingly oppressive atmosphere was suddenly shattered when the courtroom’s left entrance swung open to both sides. The entrance connected via a corridor to a holding area for detainees transported from the prison.—Guarded on either side by two officials, a man in handcuffs and woven hat appeared there in a stocky figure. His washed-out lined kimono with bold vertical stripes and straight cut—its sleeves and hem both comically short—gave the spectators a comical impression reminiscent of an oversized child. The handcuffs were removed from his sturdy wrists, and the moment his woven hat was taken off, he stood there blankly. His mouth half-open, he squinted as he raised his face—not taking in what lay before his eyes, seeming unaware of where he had now been brought. Urged along, he went to the front, sat down on the chair there, looked around restlessly with a bewildered air—shifting his gaze this way and that—and kept stretching up to peer at the gallery behind him.

—It had been months since Ota had last seen Kumakichi’s face. The ruddiness had faded somewhat from his cheeks, leaving them slightly hollowed. His entire body seemed to have shrunk slightly both in width and height, Ota thought.

The front doors opened, and the judge appeared, followed by the prosecutor; each took their designated seats.

“Stand…” said the judge. Kumakichi sluggishly stood up. The prosecutor rose and succinctly stated the facts of the indictment. When this concluded, the judge began his questioning in customary fashion. He started by asking about address and full name, moved to past history, then finally proceeded to the crime’s details. The judge had to break down each question multiple ways and repeat them endlessly. Kumakichi would mutter “Uh-huh” or “Nuh-uh,” each time nodding up and down or shaking his head side to side. Despite the no-trespassing notice, when the questioning reached the circumstances of his entering the field and cutting rice,

“I can’t read square characters at all, I tell ya,” he repeated the same phrase over and over in a low voice. From a corner of the gallery, a faint laugh rose.

“So Sakaguchi Gengo, Okamoto, and Matsumoto—these three came to visit you there, is that right?” said the judge. “What did Sakaguchi say to you at that time?”

Kumakichi remained silent, his head still bowed. "Sakaguchi must have said something to you then. Go ahead and tell us exactly what he said as you remember it."

The judge repeated in a gentle tone.

Kumakichi remained silent. His hunched back suggested he was deep in thought. The moment the judge leaned forward slightly to prompt his testimony once more, Kumakichi let out a booming shout. "Oh, your honor!"

It was a voice that sounded as if exhaled with a deep sigh—high-pitched yet heavy and sinking, as though pleading for something. He straightened his head that had been hanging down and pulled his upper body upright. For the first time, he seemed to return to his senses and regain himself. He now appeared to understand where he had been brought and what awaited him—and who the four people seated on the elevated platform were. Something in the judge’s questioning had roused an emotion long buried deep within him. With startling ferocity, he scanned his surroundings anew. Immediately he turned straight forward and fixed his gaze directly on the judge’s face. Then he began to shout.

“What in God’s name have I done?!” “Your Honor—just hear me out!” “That paddy I’m workin’ under Mr. Fujisawa’s lease—it’s got the sorriest yield in our whole settlement.” “We cleared it up on that high ground by the mountain pass—water don’t reach proper there. When rains come heavy, sandy runoff from them hills carries off what good soil there was—makes it worthless as tits on a boar.” “But since they let me work that land—I’ve poured my soul into it.” “Dug in compost till my hands bled—built up embankments against floods—enriched every inch that’d take it.” “Finally squeezed four bales out that cursed dirt.” “But how much rent they demand on four bales?!” “A full koku—not one grain less!” “Your Honor!” “You think that math adds up?!” “Could maybe get five bales—but that means buyin’ more chemical fertilizer.” “Which means goin’ deeper into hock.” “So I asked Mr. Fujisawa for relief—begged help from our Union teacher—what’s criminal ’bout that?”

Ota and the union members involuntarily rose to their feet but immediately sat back down. A murmur rose and faded away, leaving behind a silence like stilled water. Through this hush, Kumakichi’s voice reverberated across the ceiling and the four surrounding walls. Within his jumbled words, a strange order was preserved. “This year I asked Land Agent Matsumoto to have four sacks of fertilizer delivered to my place as well. The debt certificates keep piling up by that much, and I know the interest keeps adding on, but I just wanna get even a bit more income, see?—Money’s power sure is something. This year’s rice grew so splendidly! Even if I cut a single stalk and hold it like this, the weight’s different from any other year! —Even my field… what’s the meaning of this?! Even that rice… What’s the meaning of this?!”

The judge raised his hand and uttered something to stop him. However, that served no purpose other than igniting the defendant’s passion. “Didn’t you officials just hear what that bastard Gengo said to me?! “That bastard Gengo said… to me, I tell ya!” “That bastard said, ‘What a fine spectacle you must’ve made in those red clothes!’ and sneered mockingly, I tell ya!” “So I split that bastard’s head open with a fire iron.” “If even the police station’s Mr. Master had come then, I’da [...] that bastard Gengo for sure—”

“Your Honor!” “Your Honor of the authorities!” “Let me outta here!” “Get me outta here right now! Right this instant!” “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong that’s plain to see!” “I can’t stop worryin’ ’bout my sick father lyin’ in bed!” “And I can’t stop worryin’ ’bout my young sister Otoyo!” “…Your Honor!” “Your Honor!” “Let me outta here right this instant—”

Suddenly, Kumakichi Iwata made a motion as if leaping up, violently pushed aside the witness stand before him, stepped forward, and reached out to clutch the edge of the interrogation platform. Straining upward, straining upward, he kept screaming. The people stood up. The flustered court guards who had rushed over restrained both his arms and forced him down in a piling heap, yet even after being pinned beneath them, he kept screaming from beneath his labored breath.

(February 1935 · Kaizo)