Pathway to Japanese Literature

Seiichi and Kayano stand in the ruins of Urakami Cathedral.

Leaving these children behind As I was dozing off, Kayano—having returned from play at some unnoticed moment—pressed her cold cheek to mine. After a while,

“Ah… Father’s scent…” she said. Leaving this child behind—must I depart from this world so soon! Having forgotten her mother’s scent, she now yearned for even her father’s—stealthily drawing near once she confirmed I was asleep—the poignant tenderness of that childish heart. Does this child know the fate that stole her mother in the fires of war, that barely spared her father’s life only to soon take even that away?

It was said that even a decaying tree shelters small birds within its hollow trunk until its fall, letting them take refuge from wind and rain. Though confined to a sickbed growing heavier by the day—utterly immobile, entirely bedridden—so long as breath still passed through me, to this young child I remained like the shade of a great tree she could rely upon. But when my body at last vanished from this world—when this child returned from visiting my grave—where in this room would they sit? To whom would they speak? What plea would they utter?

Will she drag my futon from the closet, bury her face in what remains of Father’s scent, clench her still-unreplaced molars, and through convulsive sobs, eventually return to the dream home where she plays with both Father and Mother? The setting sun blazed in, and I could almost see the desolate state of this room—now vast and empty—on that day. When I thought of the day I would be gone, I found myself feeling quite unable to die. At least until this child could fasten the buttons of her work pants by herself… if only that much—

Such a cruel fate for parent and child had not gone unanticipated from early on. When I graduated from university and resolved to specialize in radiology—to devote myself to research using radium and X-rays—I already knew in detail how many senior scholars before me had their bodies ravaged by the radiation they handled daily in this field, ultimately losing their lives as sacrifices to science. Thus arose my premonition: that I too might succumb to the same fate. However, it was not an inevitable fate. Regarding radiation disaster prevention, effective methods had gradually been devised thanks to the sacrifices of those esteemed predecessors, and we who were engaged in the work also exercised sufficient caution. Yet during the First European War, there existed precedents where many radiologists—forced to examine too many patients—ended up afflicted and dead from receiving radiation beyond what the body could endure, despite their precautions. Thus I came to think that due to some circumstance, I too might not escape such a fate. This was because, at that time, the Manchurian Incident had just begun, and there was an air of Japan likely plunging into a major war. Therefore, when marrying the mother of this child, I had explained this matter in detail beforehand and established our household with her full consent on all matters.

In Hamburg stands a monument to over a hundred scholars from around the world who became victims of radiation and died as radiation sickness patients in the line of duty; their names are engraved as martyrs of science who fell on the path of truth-seeking. However, being an ordinary person who valued life, I simply preferred living over dying. Rather than dying young and joining the ranks of those scholars, I wished to live even one day longer—to complete as many beloved studies as possible, see my grandchildren’s faces in family life, rest assured that my successor was secure, and achieve a serene passing as a good grandfather in due time. Moreover, knowing that the suffering from radiation sickness caused by atomic radiation was no ordinary affliction—that it brought agony rending living flesh—it was only human nature to wish to avoid contracting it if at all possible. Therefore, I took considerable and meticulous care to prevent radiation sickness. By nature timid and easily startled—so much so that in my school days I couldn’t even perform horizontal bar exercises for fear of falling—that was who I had always been. It went without saying that I feared radiation sickness.

In modern times, X-ray equipment had improved—the emission tubes were well encased in metal, allowing only necessary beams to emerge through a small window, making them far less dangerous; but in earlier days we had used bare tubes that radiated terrifying X-rays in all directions. When this radiation struck an object, it generated and scattered secondary radiation. When these scattered rays hit another object, they emitted further radiation. Thus within the radiology room—beyond the primary radiation from the tube’s focal point—countless secondary scatter rays flew about from every direction, front and back, left and right, like crossfire.

The cell-destroying power of this radiation was remarkable; at a certain dosage, it cured diseases like cancer, but exceeding that amount transformed healthy areas into diseased ones. To prevent the radiation sickness caused in this manner, we always measured radiation doses with precision and took utmost care never to exceed the permissible amount. Therefore, as long as experts handled it, radiation did not cause harm to patients. Radiation is blocked even by heavy metals such as lead; consequently, lead was frequently used for protective purposes. When irradiating a patient’s body, they covered and concealed areas other than those necessary with lead plates or lead-containing rubber sheets. They lined the walls, floor, and ceiling of the radiology room with lead plates to prevent radiation from leaking outside. They placed a lead glass screen in front of the switchboard to protect the technicians. Physicians attending patients donned lead-containing rubber aprons, gloves, boots, and lead glass goggles to formidably shield themselves. However, clad in such lead armor, they could hardly move due to its weight, making full protection unattainable; their backs, upper arms, and thighs typically remained exposed. The primary radiation emitted from the tube could be sufficiently blocked by this method, but it could not prevent secondary scattered radiation coming from behind or the sides. Though the quantity of this secondary scattered radiation was markedly smaller compared to that of the primary radiation, over extended periods it still accumulated to a substantial amount. Even if the amount of radiation received during a single day’s work was small, after working continuously day after day for five or ten years, the body’s tissues would gradually be destroyed, and occupational radiation sickness would arise. These included skin cancer, pernicious anemia, chronic leukemia, pulmonary fibrosis, infertility, and others.

Now, does prolonged work in radiology rooms inevitably lead to radiation sickness? The answer was no—so long as one’s exposure remained below a certain threshold, no matter how many years one worked there, it remained safe. This threshold referred to a daily dose of 0.2 roentgen units when administered consecutively each day. The roentgen unit was a unit that measured the amount of X-rays. In Western countries, out of humanitarian considerations, these regulations were strictly observed: radiology room staff were legally required to work no more than seven hours per day and five days per week, with at least one month of recuperative relocation per year, while also being granted benefits such as special hazard allowances and pensions. In Japan as well, these had been incorporated into the Labor Standards Law, but one could not help feeling there was still much to be done before they were fully implemented.

In my case, needless to say, the war imposed every manner of unreasonable demand equally upon all citizens and myself. This unreasonable burden could not be avoided through any logical means; moreover, it was a duty I had to fulfill gladly as one of the citizens. I, fully aware of its impossibility, summoned every ounce of my strength to manage each day’s unreasonable demands—The young assistants in the department departed one after another for the battlefield, never to return, and as our staff dwindled, I ended up undertaking roles meant for several people. University lectures, lectures at the Temporary Medical School, research under the so-called Science Mobilization Order, tuberculosis prevention group examinations at factories, schools, and guilds, X-ray diagnoses, treatments, radium treatments—each one of these alone would constitute a full role for a single physician or professor. Being ordered to accomplish all this alone made it an immense burden. Though my spirit raced ahead, my flesh lagged weak; try as I might, I could never attain completeness. At that time, the nurses in the department composed a counting song and let me hear it. Among them was this one: “Three years gone, The more I gaze, the dearer he grows—Department Head Professor’s sleepy face”—painfully describing me, haggard from sleeplessness and overwork. “Six years gone, Have to give those rushed lectures—poor students must suffer”—aptly criticizing me, who could no longer deliver thorough, composed lectures. “Ten years gone, At ten years gone, finally kicked the bucket—the wheezy old man’s winter preparations”—In the end, I had collapsed, my body’s vitality utterly spent, frequently succumbing to collapse. After finishing their duties, they would all sing that counting song together while cleaning the equipment. “Five years gone, Always in pitch-black darkrooms, that dear girl’s voice calls out,” or “Eight years gone, Clumsy apron tied loose, indirect radiography ladies”—our classroom life was being sung just as it was.

While I was forced to take on roles meant for several people, the swarming crowds of patients grew ever more overwhelming. Those conscripted laborers—individuals with delicate constitutions who had spent half their lives in commerce or clerical work—were suddenly dragged into factories for grueling labor; patients began appearing one after another due to overwork and deteriorating living conditions. Moreover, many ordinary citizens developed chest ailments from similar hardships, while radiation’s remarkable efficacy becoming common knowledge naturally increased its demand. For these varied reasons, the number of patients visiting my department became staggering—each morning’s arrival revealed waiting rooms and reception areas already choked with crowds that made breathing difficult. When I saw this, weariness and resolve would well up within me simultaneously. After somehow managing to satisfy one patient’s needs and finishing, ah—then came the afternoon’s deluge: hundreds arriving for mass fluoroscopy! By the time we finished, dusk had fallen; treated to a cup of tea by the head nurse, I’d regain my vigor and slip quietly into my laboratory. How many times did my legs give out on those late-night walks home, leaving me slumped on the roadside? Sometimes I’d lean on my wife’s shoulder—she who’d come worried to meet me—and finally reach our gate. There might be egg wine kept warm. ……I was happy.

Given such circumstances, the time I actually spent working in my radiology room must have reached ten hours daily. Radiation far exceeding 0.2 roentgen units per day was penetrating my body. I knew with solar eclipse certainty that continuing this for years would bring terrible radiation sickness. Yet knowing this, I kept working. The state demanded it; no other specialists could replace me—but even when exhausted beyond measure, seeing patients' faces compelled me to treat them. No—the truth was simpler: I loved radiation research with unbearable intensity.

The radiation sickness that had been anticipated and diligently guarded against finally manifested in my body as chronic myeloid leukemia and pernicious anemia. It occurred a full thirteen years after I began my research and a full five years after the unreasonable demands of wartime service. A definitive diagnosis was reached, and well—the prognosis was that I had about three years left to live. It was an inevitable circumstance. That very night, I informed my trusted wife of everything. My wife, who had been listening intently, suppressed the tumult in her breast,

“Whether we live or die, it is all for the glory of the Lord.”

she said.

When we discussed the future of our two young children, “Since this is the work you devoted your life to researching, I’m sure the children will carry on your aspirations.” she said.

At those words, I completely regained my composure. With this, I could work in the laboratory until I collapsed with peace of mind, leaving no lingering concerns.

From the following day, I summoned fresh vigor and threw myself into work at the department. I labored with such intensity that I might have been another person entirely. Was this what it meant to abandon oneself recklessly to a cause? The war grew ever fiercer—successive air raids filled the university hospital with patients until my classroom resembled a field hospital. Each evening, my legs would fail me, muscles seizing as nurses pushed me up staircases. The only one laughing at this spectacle was myself. Students came running to carry the reference books from my hands. Cared for by all, I worked joyfully amid the frenzy.

——And then came the sudden fall of the atomic bomb. I saw its flash from the radium room. In that instant, not only was my present blown away—my past lay obliterated, my future shattered. Before my eyes, my beloved university and students became one mass of flames. The wife to whom I had entrusted our children after my death had to be gathered from our home’s burned ruins as light bones in a bucket. She had died in the kitchen. To my chronic radiation sickness was now added acute radiation sickness from the atomic bomb; combined with injuries to my right side, my body became immobile sooner than anticipated. ——Mercifully, the two children I had sent to an old woman’s mountain home three days earlier survived unscathed.

The vast trove of materials I had spent over a dozen years researching—X-ray experiment photographs, notebooks, charts, all intended for compilation into papers once the war ended—had spewed from my laboratory window as dull red flames for a time, but when seen the next morning, they had already turned to ordinary ash. That I had fallen into despair as if thrust down into hell was only natural. But that despair did not last half a day. That despair did not last even half a day was because I had instantly conceived an entirely new hope. This new hope was...the entirely new disease that had appeared before our eyes—a disease unlike any seen before, one unknown to scholars past or present across the world, an illness for which we had been chosen as medical history’s foremost observers—Atomic Bomb Disease! I will research this new disease! At the moment I resolved myself thus, my heart—which until then had been crushed in darkness—overflowed with bright hope and courage. My scientist’s spirit surged. My bloodied, bandage-wrapped body regained its vitality. I literally stood up from the scorched stone where I had been sitting.

Countless Atomic Bomb Disease patients—various symptoms, successive deaths—the anguish of piling thought upon thought to somehow save them. Never before had I felt a medical scientist’s raison d’être so acutely. Those two months—leaning on my cane with my disabled, injured body, crossing mountains, traversing fields, fording rivers to visit patients. That too finally had to be discontinued when I myself fell into critical condition from Atomic Bomb Disease.

What reached my sickbed during convalescence was the anxious question of whether residences could be built in the atomic wasteland. It was a murmur steeped in people’s unease. From somewhere came whispers that not only would the area remain uninhabitable for seventy-five years, but no plants would ever grow there again. I lay there thinking. I simply couldn’t accept that radioactive particles from the bomb or irradiated ground atoms would persist so long. Such radiation should diminish rapidly. Though this made theoretical sense, being an unprecedented event, we needed concrete tests before drawing conclusions. I wanted to conduct measurements immediately. But all my instruments were gone—not one remained. Even without tools, what could be tested must be tested. I gathered glass fragments from ground zero. Glass changes color under prolonged radiation exposure. I discovered several milk bottles turned pale violet. This discoloration intensified near the hypocenter. From this I deduced significant residual radiation there. Next I observed soil-dwelling creatures—earthworms and ants. High radiation levels should have exterminated such small animals. Yet seven weeks post-blast, ant trails swarmed ground zero. Three months later came earthworms in abundance. If these creatures thrived, I reasoned, radiation couldn’t seriously endanger humans.

In the atomic wasteland, demobilized soldiers had begun clearing the burned ruins and building huts to live in. I visited those huts and examined their health conditions. For about two weeks after the explosion, it had indeed been dangerous, but after that period, there did not seem to be any severe effects. In this way, I did everything I could. However, what proved most invaluable was that fellow scholars from other universities arrived fully equipped to conduct research. Through Dr. Ishikawa and Professor Shinohara’s efforts, accurate results were obtained. The two young children too endured repeated blood tests and provided precious materials.—Thus we swiftly reached the conclusion that habitation in the atomic wasteland posed no hindrance, enabling us to urge citizens sheltering in suburban villages: “Return promptly to the burned ruins and begin reconstruction.”

In this way, the two immediate tasks were completed. The fever still persisted, with many days exceeding thirty-eight degrees, but I could at least walk by leaning on a cane. At that time, I had been observing half a year of mourning for my students and wife who perished in the war’s flames—refusing to cut my hair, shave my beard, or bathe—and thus came to be viewed as an eccentric by many acquaintances. My hut had been built upon the burned ruins where I gathered my wife’s bones. From there, the burned ruins of the university loomed nearby. I lived offering prayers toward them each dawn and dusk. Only the figures of old men scavenging for bones could occasionally be seen.

A temporary school building for the university was opened in Ōmura City.

The commute by train that took two hours was grueling. During lectures, greasy sweat would break out, my breath would grow labored, I couldn’t muster a vigorous voice—I did nothing but inconvenience my students. During lectures, I had to sit down four or five times to catch my breath. It was a hushed lecture. The few surviving students—they bore raw, fresh scars somewhere on their bodies. The right half of my face as I spoke too was covered in scars. Yet it was truly a class that touched the soul. After many colleagues had perished at their podiums and many students had met their end while taking notes, only we now continued further along the path of seeking truth… When we thought of that, we each felt a mission that could not be neglected.

When I returned to the office after lectures, the tension that had been taut throughout my body drained away, and I would stretch out on the chair like a puppet discarded backstage. As I continued attending lectures and faculty meetings, my body’s strength gradually waned until finally, at July’s end, I collapsed at Nagasaki Station. I reached my hut that evening only to become entirely bedridden from that moment onward. From then until today, the illness has progressed steadily. Now I must ask others each time even to fetch manuscript paper. Far from examining patients, I lack strength even to peer through a microscope. Yet fortunately, the very atomic disease I wished to study resided within my own body. The daily progression, relationships between symptoms and pathology, treatment efficacy evaluations—all these I could observe and contemplate with deliberate calm, which proved highly convenient. Under Professor Kageura’s guidance in internal medicine, Dr. Asanaga managed my treatment, but I—both patient and scholar—found genuine pleasure in debating my physician. When Assistant Professor Wakahara of Pathological Anatomy joined us, discussions gained deeper gravity. My blood specimens contained every variety of normal and diseased cells, making them superb teaching aids for students lacking textbooks. Dr. Asanaga prepared extra specimens during blood draws to distribute among his cherished pupils. For me—confined to bed, unable to lecture—this at least served as some small apology to my students.

My skin had the characteristic bluish pallor of leukemia, unpleasant to look at. My legs and arms had thinned to the point where my bones obstructed any further weight loss, so I no longer needed to worry about getting thinner. In my youth when I had been a basketball player, I possessed a robust physique—171 centimeters in height and 71 kilograms in weight—so friends who saw me after a long absence would tear up at first glance.

My entire body withered away, only my abdomen swollen to the point where the skin could stretch no further. It was nothing more than this. I was a blue frog with a bloated belly. The abdominal circumference at navel height measured ninety-one centimeters, equivalent to the size of a belly in the tenth month of pregnancy. This was because my spleen had become enormously enlarged. The spleen is originally about the size smaller than a palm, but it had completely occupied the entire left half of my abdomen with room to spare, sprawling past the navel to the right side. If something were to strike this spleen—already stretched to its limit—from the outside even slightly, it would instantly rupture, causing internal hemorrhage, and I would have to die. It was as if I had a stick of dynamite in my abdomen; I could not let my guard down.

Children tended to cling to their parents. When returning from school, they would want to shout “I’m home!” and leap into my arms. But if they were to leap at me, my spleen would surely have ruptured instantly. This was why the children had been instructed by their attending physician, Dr. Asanaga: “You must not go near your father!” The children faithfully obeyed this instruction, suppressing their desire to draw near, to playfully cling, to hold on tight, to seek affection—always speaking to me from a slight distance. I too wanted to play with these children like any ordinary father—to pick them up, flip them over and pin them down, tickle them until they squealed with delight. However, once children grew accustomed to such behavior, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t suddenly leap at me if I carelessly fell asleep or come tumbling down upon me while roughhousing by the bedside. To prevent this, I deliberately hardened my heart, stacked books around my sickbed, lined up medicine bottles, and built a barrier to keep affection at bay.

It was for this reason that Kayano, upon returning from play, would ascertain I was asleep, steal close, and seek out Father’s scent. I too……savored my child’s scent for the first time in a long while. Speaking of leukemia, one might imagine blood turned pure white flowing coldly through the veins—but within my own vessels, something warm began to course once more. I suddenly wanted to hold this child tightly. Like a parent dog playing with its puppy—nipping anywhere without care, licking, slapping each other, shaking, colliding body against body with abandon—I wanted us to lose all sense of time. If I did that, this child’s breath would catch from joy, laughter piling up until they’d writhe in delight. So what if my spleen ruptures? Let it rupture. If only this child could feel even a moment of a father’s love from me and be happy……. But that was not permitted to me. I must live even a month longer, a day longer, an hour longer, and push back the time when this child becomes an orphan. I must beg for even a minute, a second more of life, so that I may shorten the time this child will spend in loneliness.

Suppressing the love that sometimes surged up like Sakurajima’s volcanic smoke in my chest, I had to deliberately keep my children coldly at bay. When I suppressed it forcefully, it instead surged up even more fiercely—a parental affection akin to steam rising from a bedside brazier’s kettle. If only there were another parent—a mother—this child could let go of her father and cling to her instead. But that mother was gone, with no mementos retaining her scent, not even a single photograph left to remember her face by.

When I again pretended to be asleep, Kayano calmly pressed her cheek close. The cheek gradually grew warm. As if secretly savoring some small treasure she wished to keep hidden, Kayano whispered in a hushed voice— “Father.” That was not her calling to me, but rather the faint leakage of emotions long compressed within this child’s small chest.

Divine Providence

The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. May the Name of the Lord be praised forever! Originally, I was created from nothing by the love of God. The moment I was conceived in my mother’s womb was my creation. From that moment until this very day, everything I have acquired has been bestowed by God. Health, talent, status, wealth, family—none of these were originally my possessions. Therefore, whenever and wherever these things should be taken away, neither do I suffer loss nor gain benefit. There is no particular need to grieve or lament. It is only natural to entrust everything to Divine Providence. And Divine Providence should always be thanked and praised. For God created a single beloved human being, and that was me. God wanted to love me and therefore deigned to create me; there is no creation born of malice in God. God always loves me and continually desires my happiness. Just as what was given stems from the intent of Love’s design, so too does what is taken. All that occurs around me is a manifestation of God’s loving providence. Therefore, no matter what hardships I encounter, I cannot help but praise His holy name.

When the atomic bomb detonated, eight thousand out of ten thousand Catholic believers in Urakami perished. There were two girls’ schools here: Junshin and Jōsei. Both were operated by women’s religious orders, and from the principal down to the teachers, nearly all were nuns. The students of Junshin had been mobilized to factories; in the burning flames, singing hymns all the while, they breathed their last one after another, turning to ash. It was exactly like the holocaust offerings of antiquity—spotless lambs burned upon God’s altar to appease divine will. Ah, the great holocaust offering burned upon the sacred ground of Nagasaki Urakami on the final day of the Second World War!

Singing amidst the flames of the holocaust offering, white lily maidens burned, alas!

The Jōsei Girls’ School met the same fate. There, twenty-seven nuns who were teachers had been called to heaven. That night, I dispatched Mr. Kosasa and others from the classroom to tend to patients, but according to their account, Latin hymns sung in chorus by several voices could be heard rising and falling intermittently by the riverside two hundred meters east of the girls’ school until midnight. When dawn broke, the nuns lay huddled together, cold…… Could it be that these nuns had been the ones singing last night’s hymns? Or was it not rather a host of angels descending to receive their souls that had been singing? Lined up before us were serenely pure faces in death—I could not help but think.

We survivors who witnessed this came to believe the atomic bomb was by no means divine punishment, but rather a manifestation of Divine Providence harboring some profound intent. ――On that same day, I too became a destitute and utterly weakened man left standing in the burned ruins with my two young children in my care―and though I did not know what this signified―I never doubted it was a manifestation of loving Divine Providence. Three years had passed since then―bringing us to today―and my faith from that day was gradually being proven correct.

Through the atomic bomb, the hindrance that had been blocking my right path was removed, and I came to taste true happiness.

The "Death" that would soon visit me was surely also the greatest gift of love from the God of limitless mercy. Therefore, both the mental anguish and physical pain I had to pass through before death—as necessities for God’s glory to be revealed—I resolved to accept them gratefully. Death meant the soul departing its physical shell. It resembled a cicada leaving its empty husk upon the ground to soar into radiant heavens. The earthbound larvae, ignorant of sunlit realms above, might grieve and tremble at this abandoned casing—yet the cicada ascending skyward sang in exultant chorus.…

Legacy At the time of my wife’s death, many friends who could no longer bear to see me continuing such an inconvenient life in every respect urged me to take a new wife, and several concrete marriage proposals were brought to me. At that time, though I was a patient, I still had the capacity to be considered for remarriage since I could give lectures and practice medicine. Moreover, the reality was that having been suddenly bereaved of my wife while raising two young children and holding a demanding public position amidst postwar Japan’s horrific social conditions made survival extraordinarily difficult. From the perspective of daily life, there was certainly a need to take a second wife. In the makeshift huts across Urakami, widows and orphans dwelled in every shelter. They received God’s blessing and each formed new families through auspicious matches. When they remarried, their expressions brightened instantly; men and women each found their proper place, their lives grew disciplined, and their power for reconstruction increased remarkably. Observing this from the sidelines, I came to understand it clearly.

The thought would sometimes surface—if a suitable woman existed, perhaps I should have her come live with us. In daily life, I frequently found myself utterly bewildered—far beyond mere inconvenience or hardship. Each time notices circulated about ration distributions, submission deadlines for official forms, or mandatory community labor assignments, I suffered the humiliation of begging neighboring women to handle these tasks for me. Whenever I compared my children’s grubby appearance in their single threadbare summer kimono—worn day after day without change—to the tidy outfits of remarried neighbors’ children, I would sink into profound contemplation: Wouldn’t it be better to bring in a new mother to care for them properly? Even when sardine rations came through, they always ended up boiled with foraged greens into thin soup—how their faces would light up if I could prepare the fish as vinegared miso salads or crispy tempura instead! The potatoes too—if only I could shape them into those neat cloth-wrapped bundles Kayano loved—what perfect snacks they’d make! Watching Kayano play alone in the ruins—cradling an empty sake bottle she’d wrapped in rags and named “Sasano,” alternately babying it and carrying it piggyback—I agonized: If there were any womanly presence in this hut, she’d craft the child a proper doll... Even I found myself biting my lip at memories of better days—if Sasano had lived, Kayano wouldn’t need such pitiful substitutes. At dusk, bonfires flickered around the huts as women’s animated chatter blended with children’s laughter—a cacophony of rebuilding lives. The very air seemed pregnant with transformation—a valley of tears beginning its metamorphosis into hope’s hillside. Only our hut extinguished its fire after supper—two small bodies pressed against my sickly flanks as we lay freezing in darkness, willing dawn to hasten. Though never voiced aloud, their unceasing thought hung palpable between us: If only Mother were here...

Yet whenever a concrete marriage proposal was brought before me, I would immediately grow irritated and find myself utterly unable to lend an ear. It resembled how one might crave fruit during feverish delirium, yet when the desired object finally materializes before them, all appetite vanishes—leaving only revulsion strong enough to make one shove it away. "Remarriage is permissible," Paul too had taught. "Better still if one can abstain; but if abstaining would bring hardship, then marry." Those joined as husband and wife in this world do not reunite as such in the next. The marital bond is sundered by death's arrival. Consider the woman bereft of seven husbands in succession—when resurrection comes, whose wife shall she be? To this challenge from the Sadducees, Jesus replied: "The children of this age marry and are given in marriage, but those deemed worthy of the age to come neither marry nor are given in marriage."

Many friends urged me to remarry for the children’s upbringing. If she were a kind-hearted woman, even as a stepmother, she would likely bestow the same affection as a true mother. Even if my illness was of a hopeless nature, I should still have had at least three years remaining. If I were to establish a new household now and train the stepmother and children to get along well, then even after I was gone, wouldn’t they continue living on peacefully, fondly and harmoniously together? In society, there were plenty of examples where things had worked out well in such a manner.

Considering various aspects both for the children's sake and my own, remarrying appeared to be the wiser course. That I should take a wife promised convenient outcomes in every regard. Yet it was precisely this point—that such a wife would simultaneously become the children's mother—which lodged uneasily in my heart. Setting aside the children's immediate expediency, when contemplating the distant future, I found myself utterly unable to let them welcome a new mother—the reason being—

I have no legacy to leave these two children. I own no assets; the house and land I now inhabit are borrowed from an old woman. The furniture and clothes burned away. What little savings I had were exhausted. After my death, all my two orphans will possess—are memories. Memories alone. Memories of Father and Mother. I want to leave them beautiful memories. I want to leave them noble memories. I want to leave them memories steeped in grace. One father and one mother—these pure parental memories….

Father and Mother

If these children became orphans, who would take them in and raise them? —— Because they were such young children, it was certain they could not live without relying on others. Even then, many friends had offered to look after them going forward, and the uncles had promised they would take them in—so it would be alright. Yet it was true that current assets could not be relied upon to last through next year; even kind individuals could not be guaranteed not to suddenly pass away tomorrow—there was virtually nothing one could depend on with peace of mind. I—who had lost my wife and property in an instant—knew this best.

But in any case, somewhere, they would somehow be taken in and raised by someone. Perhaps they might even be placed in an orphanage.

Orphanage... Ah, a chill ran through me. If these children were put in such a place….

It was said that more than half of the children in orphanages nationwide ran away. More than half would escape only to be caught, confined only to escape again. The term “stray children roundup” had appeared on radio and in newspapers. The word “hunt” was one used for wild beasts. Would there come a day when my Seiichi and Kayano would be treated like wild beasts? Ah! And would they be kept naked to prevent escape? Would they be confined to a room with iron bars? Ah, the coldness of this word “confinement.”

If on that day not only my wife but I too had perished in the atomic fire, Seiichi and Kayano would likely have been confined to that orphanage by now. And both of them would often escape, only to be hunted like wild beasts. Merely imagining it made my whole body tremble.

Compared to this hut in the atomic wasteland, the orphanages had better facilities, were fully staffed, and provided superior salaries. In the dormitories, beds were lined up; study rooms, recreation rooms, lecture halls, kitchens, dining halls, bathhouses—along with modern flush toilets, sunrooms, and infirmaries—were all equipped. Compared to our hut’s single two-tatami room that served all these purposes, it was practically a palace. The clothes were pure cotton and wool donated by LARA, tailored with an impertinently modern flair. As for food, beyond the rations, there were meat cans and jam cans received from LARA, and snacks like chocolate were provided. (LARA = Asian Relief League)

And yet orphans flee—why is that? Moreover, why is it the intelligent ones, the capable ones who escape? According to the orphans themselves, those who remain in the institution are scorned as spineless layabouts—dimwitted idlers. Could it be that strict orphanage discipline drives them to seek freedom on the streets? Yet street orphans live under their own code of honor—they know full well one cannot act entirely unchecked. Or perhaps they chase earnings unavailable in confinement—shoe-shining wages or cigarette-rolling profits that flow more readily the harder they work? That too plays its part. But under black market conditions today, whatever they earn gets devoured by living costs—senior gang members skimming their take, food shared with luckless comrades—their pockets remaining empty through bitter experience. Do they then harbor some congenital wanderlust? No. Until the bomb fell, these had been children of good families—nurtured by parental warmth, addressed as young masters and misses. They were once filial and obedient.

The facilities were good; the salaries were good; the children weren’t bad—did that mean the staff were at fault? —— Among those who willingly undertook orphan care, there could be no evil people. Only those with profound love could feel compelled to wholeheartedly raise children of unknown origin. Orphans brought from stations and markets to the orphanage reeked of garbage bins. Garments stiffened with grime, soil, sweat, and rain; lice writhing; fleas leaping; on skin exposed through tattered fabric—blood oozing from claw marks scratched frantically; flesh covered entirely in scabies. To suddenly cherish such filthy beings required immense courage. No—courage alone fell short. It demanded an affection that simply loved and embraced these children. The staff possessed this very affection. They cut hair, bathed bodies, applied medicine, changed clothes into new ones, gave warm drinks, served meals, placed them in clean rooms—then stayed by their sides day and night, racking their brains over how to bring happiness and raise them into capable adults.

When I thought it through like this, it turned out there were neither bad people nor bad places. Despite all this, why did capable orphans run away? As one of the causes, I wanted to consider that the staff were too kind and applied excessive affection.

The staff thought. What was it that orphans most strongly desired? What were they starving for the most? What was it that they always held close to their hearts? What did we first need to give the orphans? What attitude should we take toward orphans? In what form should this orphanage be operated? What orphans constantly held in their hearts were the images of their parents. What orphans hungered for most was parental love. What orphans desired most strongly must be a father and a mother. If that were the case, then it became clear that what we had to give orphans was parental love. We needed to interact with orphans as fathers and mothers. In other words, this orphanage should have been operated as one large family. The orphanage director became Father, his wife became Mother, and the staff members became uncles, aunts, older brothers, and older sisters according to their age. Thus, these many orphans were true brothers and sisters. They decided this. They had them use those terms accordingly. They enforced this. In time, they would grow accustomed and come to believe it. With that, it would work out...

The staff typically thought this way.

……I see. That orphans starve for parental love remains an undeniable fact. This instinct likely surpasses even physical hunger. "If only Father were alive… If only Mother had survived…"—those children dwell endlessly on these thoughts. They require nothing else. However destitute they might be—even immobilized by grievous wounds—not a day passes without them yearning: if Father were here… if Mother remained… Thus the initial impulse to fulfill this longing constitutes natural human compassion. Up to this point, no falsehood exists. No deception taints this approach.

However, when they took one step beyond this—when the staff became fathers, mothers, older brothers, older sisters—that was where falsehood took root. It was forced. It was this falsehood that constituted the truly significant problem. It was perfectly clear that once-dead parents could not be brought back to this world. In exactly the same way, it was impossible to give them love essentially identical to a father’s love or a mother’s love. It was absolutely impossible—the fatherly love I pour into Kayano is a unique love that exists solely between her and me, a love singular and absolute. It is by no means a universal or general love. The maternal love my wife had poured into Seiichi—a love bestowed by God upon this child’s mother, a bond confined solely between this mother and child—could never be substituted with anyone else. The love between parent and child is entirely personal—by no means a social collective, nor a love possessing universal validity. Already, the love I pour into Seiichi is not the same as what I pour into Kayano; the love Seiichi holds for me as his father differs from what he harbors for his mother.

When I was a university student and lost my mother, I first came to understand the singular depth that existed between her and me. The mere fact of having been conceived within her womb proved an immovable, untransferable bond—a tether that could neither shift nor be replicated. All the more so for me—who grew through her blood, was born at the peril of her life, suckled strength from the fluid spilling from her breast’s swell, and reached adulthood through her meticulous devotion. The love exchanged between my mother and me could never hold universal currency; no substitute affection could ever suffice.

When I returned from the Guangxi Front, my father had already passed away. Standing before the new grave, I felt keenly within my heart the existence of an irreplaceable love that had once bound my father and me. The villagers nearby remarked how the young teacher resembled the old teacher—so thoroughly that hearing only his voice, one might think the old teacher had returned from death. The mere recognition of how completely my father’s constitution and temperament had been passed down to me forced me to acknowledge that no human power could shift even an inch the bond between us.

I had already sent two children—Ikuko and Sasano—to Heaven. The innocence of those bygone days still lingers before my eyes. That child sent off buried in white lilies... When she contracted that deadly disease—though I remained calm enough to examine and treat other children with the same illness—the sight of my own child’s nostrils flaring as she gasped left me unable to grasp stethoscope or syringe, reduced to nothing but frantic helplessness. Such was my single-minded anguish.

As I intently observed Seiichi and Kayano’s behavior in the absence of their mother, I realized my children’s longing for her ran layers deeper than my own heartache in missing my wife. After all, the bond of blood surpasses all else in strength. A married couple lacks blood ties; thus their love cannot equal that between parent and child. I too must soon leave these children behind. To think of this wrenches my heart as though being torn apart. Having lost my parents thus, lost a child, and now finding myself compelled to abandon two young ones as orphans in this transient world—through these experiences I came to understand from every angle the essence of love between father and child, mother and child. It is the attracting force of shared blood, and the repelling force of differing blood. An instinct of blood that no other power can influence. Something utterly fixed and at once remarkably exclusive.

One must deeply discern the essence of “father.”

“I must correctly discern the essence of ‘mother.’”

“Father” is a dignified authority whose position cannot be relinquished to any other person. This authority was given by God to that man. “Mother” is an absolute and singular love that no one else can substitute for. This love was given by God to that woman. I wish for the orphanage staff to first acknowledge this divinely bestowed authority and love of parents. What else could it be but falsehood for others—who do not possess this divinely bestowed authority and love, and who lack even the parents’ mandate—to presumptuously become fathers and mothers? Is there no alternative but to call this forced? If I may be permitted to speak more bluntly, there seem to be voices murmuring “How impolite” from beneath the grass blades.

At many orphanages today, staff members recklessly convinced themselves they could artificially manufacture this divinely bestowed parental love; self-satisfied, they presumptuously became fathers, mothers, older brothers, older sisters, forced orphans to call them “Dad” and “Mom,” and schemed to usurp the “position of parents” through all manner of contrivance.

“Despite never having given birth to them—how dare they presume to be called ‘Mother’!” “Abandoning sick children to nurses while sleeping soundly in the director’s quarters at night—how dare they claim the title of ‘Father’!” “This trespasses against sacred Parents.” “This desecrates absolute Father-love and Mother-love.” “And ultimately—it becomes a demonstration of falsehood for these children.”

A true father and a substitute father are different. No matter how frantically the director might struggle, no matter how learned they were, no matter how deep their affection might be, they could not—and did not—become a true father to the orphans. The love of a biological mother who endured childbirth differed from maternal affection. The memory of my mother of old saying, “There’s nothing today,” while hugging me and pressing her cheek to mine brought more joy than any chocolate given as a snack by the orphanage’s so-called “mother.”

Because staff employed contrivances, orphans mimicked those same contrivances. Orphans swiftly realized that feigning neediness would earn them affection. If being coddled meant securing even one extra biscuit—what a triumph! Told to say “Father,” they mechanically mouthed “Father.” How pitiful—adults believing this charade succeeded! Did they cling to you from their hearts when their lips uttered “Father”? Never! Ordered to say “Mother,” they parroted it by rote. Yet in their small chests, even as they spoke, their true mother’s undimmed smile lingered. Rather—forced to squander their sole gem-like “Mother” on strangers—they seethed with revulsion! If he’s meant to be *my* father, how can he also be *his*? What farce is this “shared father” for a hundred orphans? “Father.” “Daddy.” “Papa.” “Dad-o.” These cries! “Mother.” “Mommy.” “Mama.” “Ma.” These cries!

Though the terms may differ across lands and households, these two voices—“Father” and “Mother”—are the most precious treasure for orphans. This treasure does not wish to be taken by anyone else. Children have bonds binding them to their parents. These bonds do not wish to be defiled by anyone else.

The staff members who usurped that treasure. The staff members who cruelly trampled those bonds. If they were pure-hearted children, shouldn't they have cried? If they were filial children, shouldn't they have revolted? And shouldn't they have resolved to flee the orphanage to protect this treasure and safeguard these bonds? Good children ran away. The sensible ones ran away. That was only natural. —Moreover, the staff had no malice from the start. It was precisely that they acted solely out of a desire for the orphans’ happiness. Even after striving to this extent, when orphans still fled, they concluded that their approach to being “fathers” and “mothers” must still be lacking—and thus redoubled their efforts to perform as “Father” and “Mother.”—

—Should this be called a tragedy wrought by well-intentioned people?

This matter was not limited to orphanages alone.

After I die, Seiichi and Kayano will be taken in by someone. Though this may seem discourteous, I will firmly leave these words here. “No matter who they may be, I shall not permit anyone to stand before these children and call themselves ‘Father’ or ‘Mother’!”

orphans

When I was still attending lectures—this was about two years ago—I often heard voices like these at the station or market:— “Hey, watch your luggage. There! Orphans are coming with their eyes darting around!”

Again,

“Oh my, look at that child.” “That one must be parentless.” “How pitiful.” “Now Ichirou, take this fifty sen and give it to that child...” “Wait.” “Listen—don’t touch their hands or clothes. Keep your distance when handing it over.” “Lice’ll spread—”

Again,

“Tch—this lunch I got up early to make’s already gone bad.” “Summer’s heat makes things rot quick... What a shame to toss it... Ah! Perfect timing.” “Ah, look there—orphans are here.” “Hey! You there—the kid!” “Hey!” “You—the rag-wearing one!” —Yeah, get over here. “Uncle’ll treat you...”

Again, “Hey you—come here.” “Where’re you from?” —Hmm. “No parents?” —Hmm. “When’d your old man die?” —Hmm. “Wasn’t it the bomb? —Hmm.” “Any parts left—head? Legs? Anything?” —Hmm. “Your mom get killed with him too?” “What? Later?” “So—they got burned to death then?” “Oh—right.” “Find their bones?” —Hmm. “What’d you do with ’em?” “—Bury ’em?” “By yourself? —Hmm.”

“It’s a wonder you alone survived—Oh!” “Departure time.” “Now then—let’s get up.” “Well—that wasn’t a bad way to kill time.”

Again, “Hey! Got you now!” “I won’t let you escape this time.” “You’re nothing but trouble.” “—What?” “Does it hurt?” “So what if it does?” “It’s supposed to hurt.” “You think that whining will fool me?” “If I loosen my grip, you’ll bolt.” “Struggle and I’ll bind you. —Why’d you run from the orphanage?” “After all I drilled into you… Well?” “Because you wanted to see your sister?” “……This ‘sister’…?” “Hmm.” “That one?” “She’s properly housed in the girls’ facility.” “You’ve no cause for concern.” “This ‘sister’ talk—it’s not just about seeing her.” “Boys don’t belong at the girls’ orphanage.”

“Tsk—acting all grown-up with those indecent urges already, and you’re just a child…”

Again,

“You there—kindness has its place, but cross that line and you’ll leave us with serious problems later.” “Well now—on a pilgrimage trip like this, giving leftovers from your lunchbox or even ten yen to some homeless child is all very well.” “But must you go handing out business cards and saying ‘Come see me anytime you’re in trouble’?” “What would you do if they actually came calling?” “Imagine that ragged child showing up at your shop when it’s packed with customers...” “When you don’t even know where they’re from...”

―Ah!

After I am gone, will Seiichi and Kayano have such words hurled at them?

——

Smile.

At the eastern edge of Nagasaki City stood a Catholic monastery. It was a Franciscan order bearing the name "Knights of the Holy Mother," founded by Poles. Poles—a nation now orphaned. Yet these monks always wore smiles that transcended tears. It was precisely this serene smile we wished to see grace the faces of orphans. If we could unravel the enigma of this smile, we would obtain the key to solving the orphan problem. ……I thought so.

A band of monks walked the very path trodden by Saint Francis of Assisi—a silent order that faithfully upheld vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience; devoted itself to sacrifice and love; and led lives of prayer and labor. A spotless band separated from the world by a thin wooden fence—unknowing of the world and unknown by it—single-mindedly practiced God’s teachings. A band dedicating everything to the Holy Mother Mary lived for Mary, lived with Mary, lived by Mary, and lived within Mary. People thanked God when rain fell, thanked God when skies cleared, thanked God when winds blew, and thanked God even when water for washing faces froze. Poets praised God when in good health, praised God when teeth ached, praised God when injured. They rejoiced when treated to feasts, rejoiced when hungry, rejoiced when pumpkins were stolen. When playfully clung to by children they smiled; when stones were thrown by youths they smiled; when yelled at by elders they smiled.

This monastery was among the first to begin caring for orphans. Moreover, they began doing so without any preparation, budget, or equipment. This was because the monastery had its building requisitioned by the military toward the war’s end and its monks confined to Mount Aso; though the building was returned and the monks came back after Japan’s defeat, having endured harsh ordeals, the monastery itself lacked a proper preparatory framework. In the midst of this turmoil, mountain ascetics arrived bringing two orphans—children of a fishmonger who had been living in an air-raid shelter in the Atomic Wasteland. Next came a police officer bringing more. The monastery surged with joy as if welcoming honored guests. Among citizens and police alike, it was common knowledge that this monastery embodied a fellowship of love’s apostles. Upon learning how many such children existed in the world, the monks eventually began searching for them themselves—and brought them in whenever found.

As a monastery founded on ascetic poverty, there was naturally no surplus of rooms or food supplies, and they had no budget whatsoever. Yet the monks took in orphans without any plan. They opened their own rooms and moved to corners of storage sheds or similar spaces. They fasted and allocated leftover bread to the orphans' provisions. They entrusted accounting to the Holy Mother Mary.

By chance, I had secluded myself in that monastery at the time to ascertain my place in the postwar world. I had lost everything to the atomic bomb, but in Jesus Christ’s— “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words shall never pass away.” I had come there having found a glimmer of light in these words and seeking to hear those eternal utterances. Mr. Tagawa and Mr. Fukabori, who shared the same circumstances, had also secluded themselves there. The three of us would often gather in a single room and vigorously deliberate. As a result, my faith life had gradually refined itself.

The Polish monks, lacking full understanding of Japanese circumstances, frequently sought counsel from us three who were there regarding orphanage management. We conducted thorough research and undertook practical implementation. And we committed many failures. Yet this remained a task we had to pursue regardless—difficult though it was—and we felt an inkling that an ideal management method might yet be discovered. We later learned that a blueprint identical to what we had devised also existed in America. It was Father Flanagan’s “Boys Town.” Ultimately moved by his attachment to the orphans, Mr. Fukabori became the orphanage director. I served as hygiene advisor and Mr. Tagawa as educational advisor, working together.

What we gained during that time became a precious experience. We learned that the orphan problem was not as simple as common sense would suggest.

Truth

What is to be done with the war orphans? ――This problem’s emergency solution appeared provisionally settled. As public orphanages had been established in each prefecture and private ones had gradually put their facilities in order, the orphans wandering the streets were mostly taken in. Those now wandering the streets are orphans who have escaped the institutions of their own accord―and to borrow the officials’ phrasing, it is not the authorities’ responsibility―.

When it came to bureaucratic work—what had been the original purpose behind creating these orphanages? ——How many orphanages had been conceived purely from the orphans’ perspective and established solely for their true happiness? From what I’d heard in passing, some orphanages appeared to have been built for public order—on the rationale that orphans were seedlings of social evil, and unless swiftly gathered into one place, they risked leaving behind future troubles. Assuming they must have turned delinquent, there were those that from the outset appointed staff members from reformatories as institution workers, and there seemed to be some that had fitted iron bars into the windows. Moreover, among those volunteering to become staff through connections, there were individuals recognized as casualties of modern society’s fierce survival competition—retired and decrepit teachers, the infirm, those deficient in life skills—who appeared to be parasitizing orphans to evade unemployment’s hardships. Or perhaps, seeing how Boys Town had gained popularity in these times, there seemed to be entrepreneurs who started [orphanages] solely to make a name for themselves.

Evidence that such rumors were not entirely groundless began emerging one after another. I have no desire to enumerate them all here. Just one fact should suffice: that a child who escaped from an island orphanage ultimately drowned while attempting to swim across the sea. What could it be that made them want to escape even at the risk of their lives? Let us try to become that orphan who, standing on the shore having resolved in their innocent heart—"Even if I die, I’d rather cross this sea than endure such treatment at the orphanage"—and think as they did.

There are no evil children... I ask that you first accept Father Flanagan’s words as truth. Staff with some experience might object—"No," they’d say, "today’s orphans have grown too worldly. If adults aren’t careful, they’ll be deceived and suffer terribly." Yet it was the adults who erred, corrupting what had been innocent orphans. Having deceived them first, the orphans learned to mimic that deception in turn.

To gaze upon the moon of exile though innocent! There were poets of old who yearned for such imagined bliss, and no few idle souls in modern times came to share their sentimental fancy. But had those very romantics been made to endure this reality, would they have crafted their carefree verses? The orphans are indeed compelled to behold this exilic moon - guiltless yet condemned.

What responsibility could orphans possibly bear for this war? What responsibility could they bear for this defeat? What responsibility could they bear for this inflation? ――They bore no guilt whatsoever. And yet the sacrifices of war were demanded of them. The miseries of defeat were heaped upon them. The terrible consequences of inflation were first unleashed upon them. Because they were weak, because they lacked cunning, because they were alone…

In Japan, there are many who claim to abhor killing and will not even slay a mouse—but were there more people who turned their gaze upon human children wandering the brink of death than those who spared rodents? There are many who claim to love living creatures and keep two cats—but did those people think of homeless human children before they kept cats? The lives of human children treated more carelessly than mice, human children less cherished than cats? —Merely because their parents are gone…

And when they wandered the streets with no home to live in, they were disliked for being eyesores and viewed with cold eyes as nuisances; if they worked, they were chased off for black market dealings; in the end, they were hunted down alongside ruffians, captured, interrogated, and forcibly placed back into orphanages. Given this, how could even the most obedient boys and innocent girls possibly avoid turning bad?

Now, the general public firmly believed that the orphan problem had been solved—so long as orphans were either put into institutions or taken in by relatives, disappearing from the streets altogether. They thought in such simplistic terms: give orphans a house to live in, clothe them, provide them with just enough food to stave off hunger—that alone was sufficient; they must have become happy, and they would surely feel grateful, strive hard, and grow into admirable people. Those who visited an orphanage once or twice only deepened their conviction and rested assured.

When you visited the orphanage, the orphans were indeed cheerfully going about their lives. Bright windows, well-swept corridors, tidied rooms, numerous donated items—books, toys, framed pictures, vases, and more. Neat clothing, rosy cheeks, polished replies. Somewhere, an adorable chorus accompanied by an organ. The sound of a hammer echoed, likely from them working on crafts. In the kitchen, LARA canned goods lined the shelves, and the savory aroma of simmering meat soup filled the air. After baseball ended, high-pitched boisterous voices rang out from children showering in the bathhouse. ……The children sang. The children laughed. They seemed utterly happy—

However，there was one thing I had noticed while observing orphans over time． That was—orphans did not cry openly． Orphans did not cry． They rarely cried． When they cried，they did so hidden in shadows，sniveling quietly． They wept listlessly． They choked back their voices and convulsed with stifled sobs． Poignantly，painfully，regretfully—as if wringing their chests—they cried out to someone beyond reach，ever wary of their surroundings．

Did those children ever cry like that when they had homes, when their mothers were by their side? ——No, they did not. When they were happy in the past, they would cry single-mindedly with all their might in the most visible places, without any hesitation toward others. With abandon, they would open their mouths wide with innocent exuberance, crying at the top of their voices while stomping their feet. At times they would quiet their voices, straining to hear if someone might come to stop them or offer comfort—their mother would be best—and when no sign of anyone emerging could be detected, they would redouble their efforts for greater effect, wailing until their voices gave out.

Children did not cry because they were frightened, in pain, sad, or angry. Even if their reason for beginning to cry lay in such things, once they started crying they were no longer conscious of those reasons—they cried simply to cry. They must have felt a kind of satisfaction through the very act of crying itself. At that age their bodies and minds grew remarkably as metabolism flourished; thus physically and mentally something amorphous began solidifying within them. By crying their hearts out it burst forth and dissipated. The oppressive humidity was something that got utterly swept away by an evening downpour’s tumult. Children cried not because they were cowards but because it constituted one healthy physiological demand. Moreover there remained an expectation—that after crying they would receive gentle consolation from Mother.

Yet orphans had no mother to later gently wipe their tears, wash the dirt from their palms, whisper warm words in their ears, or press a candy into their hand—and so when they cried, they were laughed at by older peers, yelled at by teachers, and lectured by their “so-called father,” forcing them to endure their urge to weep by clenching their back teeth. When orphans were finally compelled to cry, this was no longer the innocent, exuberant physiological crying of a child. It was a cry of despair, as though being dragged into a dark, bottomless swamp.

Those who had no one they could trust from the depths of their hearts cried in this manner. The way of crying of those surrounded by walls of falsehood—the weeping voices of people trapped on small boats enclosed by icebergs! If there had been someone to whom they could have confided their deepest feelings, why would they have chosen to cry in such a wretched way? Was there even one truthful person among the adults standing around them? "Father"—it was nothing more than a label for the Director with his habit of peering over his glasses. "Mother"—a honeyed-voice label for the matron. They forced children to call men who weren’t their fathers "Father," drilling it into them repeatedly—"You must say 'Mother' to women who aren’t your mothers." Wasn’t that itself a falsehood from the very start? Could someone who told one lie claim all else they said was true? And after doing this, they persistently lectured them: “Don’t lie,” “Don’t deceive.”

Can't he just remain Director? Can't she just remain Mrs.? ――Can't he care for them simply as Director? Can't she comfort them simply as Mrs.? ――Stop this charade!

Truth!

This was precisely what the orphans sought. This was precisely what ought first to be given to orphans. Houses, kimonos, white rice, chocolate—all were secondary. The orphans fled orphanages without lingering attachment to comfortable homes, pure wool suits, or rice curry—because they found no “Truth” there. Orphans often used the term “Blue Sky Paradise.” Under blue skies, two or three kindred orphans living an innocent, exuberant communal life—truly, this must have resembled heaven. There was no falsehood there. There lay naked “Truth.” Only another orphan could know an orphan’s heart. Only by dwelling in shared loneliness, shared regret, shared suffering, and shared sorrow could they taste shared happiness. That truthful life—laughing together, crying together, fearing together, laboring together—must have held boundless allure for orphans enduring institutions’ superficially cheerful existence. This was precisely why some children dared death-defying escapes from island orphanages. That child—exhausting strength upon waves while gazing at blue skies—sank beneath waters.

Let orphans live in “truth.” Even when it is painful, lonely, or sorrowful, do not let them disguise that pain, loneliness, or sorrow; let them live solely in truth, just as they are.

Orphans are, ultimately, true orphans. To live as orphans is the true path. For orphans, happiness lies in walking this path of truth while holding close the beautiful memories of their parents.

The happiness of orphans is found in a different place than that of children with parents. Discovering that and guiding them to the path of attaining it is the duty of those who care for orphans.

To make parentless children imitate those with parents and forcibly impose false happiness upon them was reckless, unkind, and ultimately cruel. No matter how many actors they gathered to perform this charade, no matter how they covered up or patched things over, the happiness of living at their parents’ knees would never return to the hands of orphans. It was the blue bird that had flown away. It was the blue bird not found even in our home. Would Seiichi and Kayano—not Tyltyl and Mytyl—find the blue bird again in the heavenly garden?

Orphans had given up on this blue bird in this world. Even though they had finally resigned themselves, meddlesome adults painted a white bird’s feathers blue and presented it, saying, “Look, here’s the blue bird!”—and so conflict arose. Orphans would be satisfied if they received the true white bird. If it was a white bird, then they should have given it as a white bird.

The Director was to give love befitting a director, his wife love befitting a wife, the Teacher love befitting a teacher, the Cook love befitting a cook, the Uncle love befitting an uncle, the Aunt love befitting an aunt—in other words, they were to give true love to the orphans from their true positions. They were to pour it forth unreservedly, unhesitatingly, without patching up or embellishing. If each person had loved the orphans “as oneself,” that would have been the best course. No contrivance, technique, or pretense was needed. They were simply to do for the orphans as they would want others to do for themselves.

The First Commandment

I knew there were many orphanage staff who loved orphans “as oneself.” Nevertheless, I also knew that the orphanage’s results were not improving. Why did it not go well?

――

Everyone knew that Father Flanagan’s “Boys Town” was successful. Why did it succeed? ——

Regarding the greatest commandment that humans should keep, Jesus said:

“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.” This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it: “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” He said these things. This First Commandment is what one such as myself must ever practice. Without keeping the First Commandment, one cannot rightly fulfill the Second. If one keeps faith with the First Commandment, the Second will of necessity be fulfilled of itself.

However, there were many social workers who believed they could love their neighbors even without loving the Lord God. There were those who not only failed to love the Lord God but had forgotten Him entirely—or even actively denied His existence—yet undertook projects based on human love. They were convinced that even without God’s grace, they could splendidly carry out the work of love through human strength alone. They expelled God from the boundless fountain of love, seated themselves in His place, and deluded themselves into believing they could pour forth love without restraint. Even those who did not go so far as to outright deny God still believed that caring for orphans—at least—could be accomplished through their own strength without seeking divine assistance. Such people’s such endeavors did not go well.

Why does it not go well? ――This cannot be scientifically explained. That is because it pertains to supernatural grace.

However, that is indeed how things stand. Orphanages without religion, orphanages run by atheists—these have ultimately failed.

Father Flanagan’s Boys Town. There, these greatest commandments—the First and Second—were faithfully observed. They managed that town by loving the Lord God and ascribing all glory and praise to Him. Father Flanagan’s vocation had been to love God in Heaven and work solely for His glory. To fulfill this vocation, it was orphan care that he had happened to embark upon. Caring for orphans was, for him, prayer. It was not that he loved God because he loved orphans; rather, he loved orphans because he loved God. In that town, it was not a man named Flanagan who cared for the orphans. A heart that loved and praised God was caring for the orphans.—

Father Flanagan knew that the world’s praise was not something he deserved to receive, but rather something to be offered entirely to God. Knowing that the gratitude offered by the town’s boys could never rightfully be his to receive, he redirected it anew to God.

Through this town, Father Flanagan had visibly demonstrated both the meticulousness and vastness of God’s love. Having done so, he taught that people must also turn to God and offer love both meticulous and vast. The boys sincerely came to understand that they should love God with all their heart, soul, and mind. In managing this town, Father Flanagan demonstrated the reality that many good neighbors regarded the boys as their own children and poured extraordinary love upon them. Having done so, he also taught the town’s young citizens to love those near them as themselves. The boys nodded sincerely.

In this way, this Boys Town became a town of love centered on God. It became a paradise where supernatural love and natural love, heavenly love and earthly love, harmonized in pleasant accord.

This town of love aligned with the divine will of God, the source of love, and God bestowed limitless grace as recompense. Love poured down from above; love lifted up from below—the flow of love connected directly between God and the boys. When orphans became directly connected to God through love, only then did they cease to be parentless children. ——because He is our Father in Heaven. “I will not leave you as orphans.” This powerful promise of Jesus came to mind.

The salvation of orphans lay in this realm. The white bird of happiness that orphans obtained—this was “God’s love.” There existed no true happiness for orphans outside of this. The light of God’s boundless love showered abundantly upon the orphans. Father Flanagan simply stood beside them, taking care that no ill winds blew upon them.

Birds of the air

Let us hear the words of Jesus Christ.

“Are not five sparrows sold for four sen? Yet not one of them is forgotten before God.” “Even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not: you are of more value than many sparrows.” Who could hear these words and not feel at ease? As long as we entrust them to God, Seiichi and Kayano will surely be safe.

A sparrow not worth a single sen—a tiny creature of no use to anyone—landed in the garden like a leaf slipping from the roof. It glanced warily right and left, unaware that I watched through the glass door, relaxing when it found neither humans nor hawks nearby. After one great yawn, it hopped toward the straw mat, pecked at a dried sweet potato three times, lifted its head to scan the sky, then pecked twice more. Startled by a cloud’s shadow sweeping past, it fluttered up in alarm, dropping the morsel from its beak. Joining its companions, they wheeled hurriedly over the field before returning to perch three abreast on the clothesline pole. Chirping back and forth, they huddled close until the largest was nudged sideways in defeat. One fled with a shrill *chun!* The remaining two yawned in unison, stretched a leg to preen their feathers, then crouched down, eyes shut tight, puffing up like downy balls for a doze.—Not a single flutter of its feet or twitch of its wings escaped His notice; God watched over it with a steadfast loving gaze. He never forgot. For God Himself had created that single sparrow out of love. In other words, it was precisely because He was their true and great Parent.

If even sparrows were thus cared for, how much more so Seiichi and Kayano—children of man who surpass sparrows—would He ever forget them? Could God’s loving gaze ever turn away, even for an instant? God knew even the number of this child’s hairs. And no wonder—for He had lovingly created each and every one of those hairs……. Even Seiichi himself did not know exactly how many thousands or hundreds of hairs grew on his own head. That was because Seiichi did not create his own hair……. I, their father, did not know that number either. I was not the creator……. The only person who remembered the number of stitches in a sweater was the woman who had lovingly knitted it. The child wearing it did not know; nor did the father who received it. ――Who, then, felt the deepest attachment to this sweater? Was it the one who asked for it to be made? Was it the one wearing it? Or the one who made it? ――It was the one who made it.

Who loved Seiichi the most? Would it be Seiichi himself? Would it be I, the father? Or could it be God the Creator? Seiichi himself did not know the number of hairs on his own head. As for me, I had not even counted his cavities, let alone his hairs. I, who declared with both words and thoughts that I loved Seiichi, in reality possessed nothing but such imperfect love. Even I, who loved these children most on earth, could only do so much—. And yet compare this to the delicacy, depth, and immensity of God’s love—a love that had bound unforgettable affection to each and every strand of their hair! Truly, after my passing, the one to whom I could safely entrust them was God—our Father in Heaven. And God had been holding these children from the very beginning—without needing us to newly entrust them or make requests.

Looking back, am I not myself—who believed these children absolutely relied on me—in truth an unreliable person? Was I not myself a weak person who could not live even a single second without relying on our Heavenly Father? When I was healthy, the very notion that I was raising these children through my own strength was utterly absurd from the start. It was not by my power that the children grew.

It was God who used me to raise the children. I was nothing more than a tool used at the tip of His hand, according to His divine will. For example, when a doctor administers an injection to relieve abdominal pain, is it truly the doctor who performs the work? Or is it the syringe? Again, when a drowning person is saved by a fisherman throwing a rope, is it truly the fisherman who has saved them? Is it the rope? Would there be a patient who thanks the syringe while feigning ignorance toward the doctor? When rescued onto a ship, would there be a castaway who venerates the rope as their life’s savior while turning their back on the fisherman? ……If the syringe breaks, the doctor will consider oral medication or some other treatment to relieve the patient’s abdominal pain. If the rope doesn’t reach, the fisherman will throw over a lifebuoy, a wooden crate—anything that floats. If there were nothing to throw, he would leap into the sea with a splash and surely save them. Even without a syringe, one can rest assured as long as there is a doctor. Even without a rope, as long as there is a fisherman nearby, the castaway will be saved.

I was a syringe. Even if I break and die, since the God who used me remains as He is, He will heal this child’s suffering through some other means. I was nothing more than a rope. Even if I finally sink beneath the waves, since the God who cast me here remains as He is, He will surely lift this child from raging waters—What could there possibly be to fear? “Therefore, do not fear.”

This was the ultimate assurance. Having heard this, there could be none left brooding anxiously, trembling fearfully, entertaining such thoughts.

“Do not fear; Father is protecting you. “Do not worry; Father is by your side.” God whispers thus. “Seiichi is a precious child created by Father.” “Kayano too is a child born of Father’s love.” “It’s all right, it’s all right.” “Now, be cheerful!”

But still…

Our Father in Heaven is something supernatural; something religious; something invisible; something whose voice cannot be heard. He may provide comfort to the soul—but can He also produce and distribute the necessities of real life: what we eat today, what we wear today—these material things? To this question, Jesus stated clearly: "Look at the birds of the sky—they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of far greater worth than these? Which of you, by being anxious, can add a single hour to his life? And why do you worry about clothing? Observe how the lilies of the field grow—they neither toil nor spin. Yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If God so clothes the grass of the field, which exists today and tomorrow is cast into the furnace, will He not much more clothe you? O you of little faith! Therefore do not worry, saying 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For all these things the Gentiles seek—and your Heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you. Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow—for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient unto the day is its own trouble."

The Power of God and the Power of Humans

The garments of King Solomon, said to have gathered all worldly splendor unto himself, must indeed have exhausted artificial beauty and attained the pinnacle of refinement—yet still they could not surpass the lilies blooming in the field. King Solomon’s splendid robes were wrought by human hands, while the lilies’ beauty was God’s own work. How meager is human power!

Humans who fret and worry while relying on that meager power—they are truly those of little faith. What good is it to rely on human power that cannot even create a single lily flower? That humans cannot live without eating, cannot go without drinking, cannot endure being naked—the Heavenly Father knew all these things well. And He would surely provide. Humans needed only first seek the coming of His kingdom. They needed only exert their strength so that God’s will might be done on earth as it was in Heaven. If they acted in a manner deemed good by God, that alone was sufficient. If they did so, then all things—food to eat, drink to drink, and clothes to wear—would surely be provided.

If one looks to Saint Francis of Assisi, they will know these words of Jesus to be true. Francis distributed all his private property to his neighbors in need, became destitute, devoted himself to praising God, prayed for His kingdom, and wandered about singing while intoxicated with divine love. In the end, he neither hungered nor thirsted, never caught cold, and lived out a peaceful life. There is no need to cite saints from Italy’s distant past—even in our own country today, visit any monastery and you will witness living examples of this truth before your eyes.

The tragedy of our age was one that arrogant humanity itself orchestrated—denying God’s existence, refusing to rely on His power, and deluding itself that human strength alone could perfectly accomplish all things. This self-authored tragedy had been initially decided to conclude with a happy ending; however, since none of the humans cast in its roles were angels, unscripted performances erupted in droves, the plot rolled into unexpectedly violent and brutal directions, and now—reaching a point where unity and harmony could not be achieved through the materialist directors’ verbal guidance alone—there remained no path to resolution save advancing the storyline through reckless abandon with violence, threats, and conspiracies, such that carelessness might bring down the curtain with a truly dreadful catastrophe: the looming collective suicide of all humankind involved in this production.

To avoid this catastrophe and bring about a happy ending, we had to dismiss the materialist directors; leaving matters to that director in red would only lead all of humanity to suffer terribly. If the director’s mind was slightly lacking or had gone somewhat awry, then even if he bore no malice, the stage would descend into chaos. People in red clothes might harbor malice, but I did not wish to believe they were conducting such large-scale human experimentation. They had become directors driven by a lofty and beautiful ideal to bring about a utopia for humanity. They were extremely zealous. They were very pure-hearted. But to their shame, they harbored a strange prejudice of denying God’s existence. They did not acknowledge the God who created the universe—the same God who created them. Despite having a father in reality, they refused to acknowledge him and even boasted of being fatherless—one could not help but diagnose them as slightly lacking in intelligence. We had to dismiss these people in red clothes and appoint a director endowed with sound judgment. A person of sound judgment is one who believes in two realities: that which is created and the Creator. Those who acknowledged only the material world were inadequate, and those who denied the material world as a shadow of the mind and acknowledged only the spiritual world were also inadequate. Neither could be said to possess sound judgment.

Merely chanting “Lord, Lord” with one’s mouth and doing nothing oneself—food, drink, and clothing would not be provided. Only when one prayed to the Lord and strove for His will to be done on earth and for His kingdom to come would they be provided for the first time. It was necessary to pray to God; it was also necessary to exert human effort. One must not lean too far toward either one. To exert human effort and await divine will—that was not the way. One should pray to God while exerting human effort.

This must be the path for my two children to live. Lean on God. How can one love God and be loved by Him? ――Cling. Cling as an infant clings to their mother! I want to teach my two children this. To cling―is this not the very attitude that requires loving God completely, believing in Him utterly, and relying on Him absolutely? Only by clinging tightly to God can one truly lean on Him. ――If you press your face so close and push insistently like that, wouldn’t it tickle? Giggling―oh my, getting snot all over Father’s kimono―. Long ago, Kayano often used to do such things. In my heart, a surge of affection for this child welled up…….

The neighbor’s son, even when he happened to come to my house—perhaps thinking I was a university professor—sat at a distance, stiffened up, and piled on deliberately difficult words in formalized speech, so I too gradually grew cold and found myself forced to reply with things like, “Ah, is that so? I’ll consider it eventually.” Since God is the Heavenly Father, He must feel a similar sentiment. What must God feel toward believers who stiffly recite formal prayer texts and conduct rituals with solemnity on one hand, yet once the rites conclude and they shift even a step into worldly business, sweep all thought of Him from their minds—who declare, “Faith is faith, business is business; we must keep public and private distinct…”? Such people invariably confine God to some fixed inner sanctum of a temple, where He sits in pompous grandeur, granting favors only to those who come to worship and plead at this temple—while peering through the latticework with sharp, gleaming eyes, lying in wait to unleash divine punishment should He catch humans committing any misdeed. That is why they put on an act of solemn reverence and prostrate themselves only when standing before God, but once they distance themselves from the temple or close its doors—determining that His gaze cannot reach them—they act willfully as they please.

Our Father God was not that kind of deity. He did not seclude Himself in the inner sanctum of any fixed temple. He existed everywhere. He was here as well. He was always present. He was now here. Even after I died, He would remain right beside Kayano. Seiichi was embraced by God. He was always embraced. Even when the two of them became grandmothers and grandfathers, they would be embraced. God did not act high and mighty. Having no competitors, He needed no such posturing—nor was He inclined to it by nature.

God does not exist to mete out divine punishment upon humanity. He never takes His eyes off humanity—all to bring them happiness. God wants to give humanity everything and is all but bursting to do so. Even if humanity does not go out of its way to ask, He is already generously providing all that is needed. If one clings and pleads all the more, He will provide without limit. Like an infant—if one asks patiently and repeatedly until receiving—He will surely grant it.

Jesus Christ was fond of children. He would always lift children onto His lap and cherish them. To adults in the prime of their discernment, “Those who do not receive the kingdom of God as little children will never enter it.” He taught. To enter heaven, to become citizens of God’s kingdom, all must become like infants. To be loved by God, discernment is unnecessary. Much wisdom is unnecessary. Scholarship is unnecessary. Experience is unnecessary, donations are unnecessary—all one needs is the innocent exuberance of a child. The two children are still young. They are now citizens of God’s kingdom as they are. They believe in God with complete innocent exuberance and love Him. As they grow older, all they need do is continue to hold fast to this innocent faith exactly as it is.

“Which among you, when that child asks for bread, would give a stone? Or when asking for a fish, would give a snake? If you then, evil though you are, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!” Therefore, as long as one clings to God, all will be well.

The Lost Sheep If these children continued throughout their lives to obey God’s will and first sought His kingdom and righteousness, God would surely give them all they needed and ultimately guide them to eternal happiness; thus, there was no need to worry. However, in some unforeseen moment, they might disobey God’s commandments and turn their backs on Him—there was no guarantee such a time would not come. What would happen then? Would God too forsake them? No.

No. Even if one commits any sin, God does not abandon them yet. He waits patiently until they repent of that sin, reform from the heart, resolve never to commit it again, and seek courage to fight against sin as they return to Him. He waits until the very moment earthly life ends. Yet if one ultimately dies unrepentant, all becomes lost. Then comes the hell of complete abandonment. Once fallen into hell, there is no salvation. Hell is a single despairing reality where souls eternally isolated from God dwell.

“Which of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the lost one until he finds it?” And when he finds it, he rejoices and places it on his shoulder, returns home, calls together his friends and neighbors, and says, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost sheep!’ “I tell you, in this way, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

The shepherds in Israel’s fields who listened to Jesus’s words must have nodded to one another in understanding. For every shepherd there had personally lived through such an incident. Within a large flock of sheep, there are always some wayward ones—disobeying the guidance of the Lord Shepherd’s horn, deceived by flowers, lured by water, heedlessly straying into perilous thorny thickets. The good shepherd leaves behind the flock and braves dangerous paths to pursue this lost sheep and save it. The joy of that shepherd upon safely rescuing it resonates even in our own hearts. In His command to His friends—“Rejoice with Me”—Jesus’s words perfectly capture that scene. They say Heaven rejoices greatly when even one sinner repents.

“For not even the perishing of one of these little ones is the will of your Father in heaven.” For even a single soul to fall into hell is not God’s desire. Even if one, in a moment of confusion, fails to keep God’s commandments and willfully steps onto the path of evil, God will surely pull them back, lift them up, and restore them to the flock of righteous citizens of His kingdom.

Prescription “When it’s the freeloader’s third cup, you quietly serve…” “Wahaha…” “Wahahaha…” The classroom was a whirl of young voices rejoicing— But among them were three or four students looking down. —orphans taken in by others.

“Everyone.” “What did your mother give you for a snack yesterday?” “Here!” “Here, Teacher!” “Here!” A forest of small hands raised high— But here and there, that forest had gaps. Girls and boys with bowed heads. “Why aren’t you raising your hand? “Ah… That’s right. You don’t have a mother—”

Essay time— The topic written large on the blackboard—『My Home』. Students scurried their pencils across the page, occasionally lifting their faces to gaze out the window—the brightness of their expressions. Some must have been writing about the breakfast table in their happy homes that morning. —two or three children, just chewing the ends of their pencils, eyes cast down, who had yet to write a single character on the page.

The day of the physical examination— “My goodness! Didn’t I tell you so insistently yesterday?” “I told you to wear clean underwear…” “Then what’s this dirty underwear?” “Did you forget about hygiene?” “Even without your mother, there must be someone to care for you, no? —Hmm?” “—Why don’t you ask?” “—Why are you silent?” “Don’t be contrary now.—If it’s difficult for you to ask yourself, the school will send a letter—”

Field trip—

“The rolled omelet is good… but… what I really want on a field trip is pickled plums… Mom would’ve known…” “Mom would’ve known…”

On the road—

“Oh, you’re doing well, eh?” “Heading home from school?” “Uh-huh.” “There, there.” “You were lucky to be taken in by a good home.” “Lately, the crackdown on war orphans has gotten quite strict—they’re sending them straight to internment camps the moment they’re found.” “Do you ever meet up with your old companions?” “Uh-huh.” “You don’t?” “Nuh-uh.” “You’d better avoid associating with them as much as possible.” “Because it would cause trouble for the current home.” “In any case, you must study hard!” “Then become a full-fledged adult and repay your debt of gratitude—that’s what you must do.” “Right.”

Evening— “If you do that, I’ll go home and tell my mom on you.”

On a little finger with its nail torn off, even something that would normally be harmless throbs with pain at the slightest touch. There is pain, but the little finger has no reason to resent what touched it. The fingernail has come off; because what protected the fingertip is gone, it hurts when touched. The external thing that touched it bears no sin, nor is the little finger at fault. As a result of this single disaster of losing its nail, even a slight touch makes it throb with pain. The little finger resents nothing, hates nothing; it simply endures the pain as pain. It must not envy or resent the other fingers that still have nails. Moreover, that I alone must endure such pain merely because of my disaster—this rankles. If only all nine other fingers would have their nails torn off... Were I to curse like that, that itself would be committing an unforgivable sin.

—Those who have never experienced suffering are innocent. Those who have never had bitter experiences are inconsiderate. Those without wounds in their hearts are insensitive. Because they are insensitive themselves, they fail to notice that sensitive people are right beside them. And thus they innocently touch upon the wounds in others’ hearts. They inconsiderately provoke the pain in others’ hearts. Moreover, since they touch the wound unknowingly, remain unaware of causing pain, and act with innocent exuberance, they bear no guilt. They bear no guilt, yet the one subjected to it suffers terribly—live-in dependent, burden, stepchild, brought-along child, contrarian, slowpoke, caretaking, debt of gratitude, respectable person… To those who speak them, these are just ordinary words used without a second thought. But for the orphan who hears them…

If orphans choose to walk the path of true orphans, then whether they will it or not, painful words will reach their ears, and cold treatment will meet their eyes. They cannot cover their ears; they cannot close their eyes and walk. While listening to painful words and facing cold treatment, they have no choice but to walk the uncompromising path.

As Seiichi and Kayano walk this path, might they not come to harbor resentment, hatred, envy, jealousy, or curses? —This is what I now secretly fear in my heart. If that happens, their path will veer sideways into hell— If only these children would drink down the bitter cup given them with honest acceptance! If only they wouldn’t covet the sweet cups in others’ hands! If only they could celebrate others’ happiness with innocent joy rather than envy those who sip from sweetness! —And if they could go further still—if they could drain this bitter cup with the same radiant joy as those who smile while drinking sweet ones—how glorious that would be! Should they reach that realm, even I would find contentment.

To drain the bitter cup of fate one has received was something anyone could achieve if they reached a state of “resignation.” However, drinking the bitter cup with great joy could not be achieved through resignation alone. This was a state of mind attainable only through belief in God’s providence. Both sweet cups and bitter cups were supreme gifts given through God’s loving providence. The reason this bitter cup had been given to me now was because precisely this bitter cup was necessary for my true happiness—thus God had deliberately given it. The reason the sweet cup had been given to him now was because, for him at this moment, the sweet cup was necessary for his happiness—thus God had deliberately given it. God, desiring to keep each human He created with His own hands in a state of true happiness, prescribed a cocktail suited to the time and place. He compounded and dispensed the medicine—I knew well the struggle of formulating prescriptions, for I was a doctor. To patients with stomach pain, one administered bitter gentian root powder. To heal the patient’s stomach, one had to administer bitter medicine. A doctor did not think, “Though their stomach is ailing, bitter medicine seems too pitiful—let’s instead have them eat plenty of sweet red bean soup.” For patients with colds who developed coughs and phlegm, one administered sweet Senega syrup and had them suck on cough-suppressing bonbons. For this patient, sweet things were necessary now. If someone forced this patient to drink it down while reciting “good medicine is bitter” or some such saying—what would happen? For the patient, bitter medicines and sweet medicines alike were prescribed equally—suited to their body at that time—to cure their illness. Would a patient rejoice and thank the doctor because the medicine was sweet? Or grieve and resent the doctor because it was bitter? Since God was all-knowing and all-powerful, He likely did not agonize over prescriptions; but even if He determined them effortlessly—being perfect in love—there was absolutely no mistake in His prescription.

For Seiichi, living his entire life as an orphan will be the best path. Indeed, God discerns this. Because He is all-knowing. For Kayano, living her entire life as an orphan will be more glorious than a lifetime spent as a child with parents. Because God has foreseen this, through His great love, He makes them orphans.

“Seiichi,” “The bitter cup you drink—that is God’s loving prescription.” “Kayano.” “That cup must be bitter.” “It’s bitter, but it’s medicine given by God.” “If you drink it, there will surely be eternal happiness.” “Let us thank God for having received that bitter cup.”

Kite flying

Ascend to heaven, won’t you? Like an organ resounding.

The kite’s dancing, you see. Ascend to heaven, won’t you? Note Ascend... I want to ascend. Rustling……………it seems. Flap………………kite It’s dancing, you see… Because it’s dancing.

Perfect Happiness

The path of true orphans was lonely. The true path of orphans was hard. To walk this path was painful, sorrowful, and difficult. This path was dark, narrow, steep, strewn with stones, scarce in flowers; it led to an impasse, and traversing it only led to another impasse. Those standing by the roadside were cold as withered trees, unreliable, aloof, often stretching out branches to obstruct. …Hand in hand walked two young ones—the brother fourteen, the sister eight.

It is not through faith that this loneliness disappears. Nor does suffering disappear. Nor are pain and sorrow taken away. The loneliness continues forever. Suffering remains unrelentingly painful. Pain and sorrow are, after all, pain and sorrow. Religion is not opium. The purpose of faith is not to eliminate physical pain or the sorrows of human emotion. It is not piety’s reward. Because God is love, there are times when He eradicates the suffering of those who suffer. There are many miracles where illnesses that cannot be cured by medical power are instantly healed through prayer. It is something God occasionally performs to make humans acknowledge His existence and know that He is love. It would be a minor adjustment to the natural order. To believe in God in order to have earthly sufferings and worries eliminated is immature faith. One must not enter a life of faith with the mindset of asking a doctor, “Please give me a morphine injection because my stomach hurts.” The true life of faith still ascends to even greater heights.

People were born seeking perfect happiness. Since they did not know where that happiness lay, they arbitrarily made their own assumptions and set out to search. Some, believing their happiness lay in wealth, hoarded money. Some, believing their happiness lay in power, strove for career advancement. Others, believing it could be found through academic knowledge, remained in university laboratories. There were many others. In my youth, I too used my physical strength and, as my position rose, pursued happiness by leveraging that status. As it was a time of great development, I would show my face in any department that seemed promising. And in the end, I did not find perfect happiness. In the midst of this, I experienced the atomic bomb and came to realize that perfect happiness could only be attained through religion. Perfect happiness was unity with God. — I am now happy. And I pray that my two children may also come to share this state of mind.

Religion is the path humans take toward God. Therefore, obligations to God must first and foremost be fulfilled.

Let God’s glory be manifested!

This is my foremost wish, and it is the wish that my two children must never forget. To carry out this wish—that itself is the realm of perfect happiness. When lonely, I give thanks for that loneliness as a manifestation of divine providence and feel it fully; when in pain, I gratefully acknowledge that very pain as a necessary expression of providence and let it ache within me. Then, while dwelling in this loneliness and pain, I consider how to manifest God’s glory—praying and doing all I can. That is entirely different from the deviant psychology of deriving pleasure from inflicting pain and injury upon one’s own body. For those leading a true life of faith do the same even in times of joy. That is to say, in times of joy—since that joy is a manifestation of divine providence—I give thanks for it as it is and feel it joyfully; then, while dwelling in that joy, I consider how to manifest God’s glory—praying and doing all I can. In other words—whether through what society terms pleasure or smooth times or adversity or failure or pain or health or illness—one’s attitude of “working for God’s glory” remains completely unaffected. Since working for the glory of God is the path to perfect happiness, illness, pain, failure, and adversity have no bearing on my happiness. When ill, I offer my illness for the glory of God. If there is pain, I offer that pain for the glory of God. In adversity, I work in adversity for the glory of God. At such times, while I have physical or mental pain, I supernaturally feel perfect happiness.

As an orphan, the physical path this child follows is filled with hardships. The path of the soul this child advances along in unity with God is filled with happiness. No matter how oppressed, scorned, humiliated, or tormented that young flesh may be, the soul, being directly bound to God’s love, remains at peace and in happiness.

Jesus said this in the Sermon on the Mount.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

—Cry! My children.

Those who mourn Is the reason those who lost mothers feel unhappy not because there remains no one to comfort them? —What was the true nature of happiness adults recall from childhood? Was it trivial play? If mere trivial play, adults too pursue it eagerly. Was it teatime sweets? Adults dine at cafés and restaurants, eating finer things. Was it lacking responsibilities? Many adults idle about wearing cheerless faces. Was it harmonious family life? Adults maintain tranquil households. Yet adults bereft of mothers feel a hollowness in their hearts. They harbor a helplessness distinct from losing fathers.

The happiness of childhood always seems connected to one’s mother. Moreover, it seems related to how she would comfort them after they cried.

To gently embrace my shoulders, bring her mouth close to my ear, and comfort me by truly entering a child’s heart—it was always my mother who did this. Just believing that my mother—who would comfort me—was there in our home, was there by my side, meant there was no longer any worry. There was no fear. There was neither loneliness nor suffering. During times of illness, I understood this especially well. When I opened my eyes at midnight—dizzy from fever, the shaded lamp swaying like some monstrous thing, my body feeling as though it were sliding into the earth’s depths along with the bed—even as my head throbbed near to splitting, there sat my mother’s figure, never closing her eyes. Though her form remained indistinct, only the white of her old-fashioned collar visible to me, that alone brought comfort enough to close my eyes once more. Then, she quietly replaced the ice bag on my forehead and asked, “How does that feel?” “Are you feeling okay?” “It’ll be dawn soon, you know? Once morning comes, you’ll surely feel better,” she whispered. Just hearing that made me feel as if my fever were subsiding.

When my mother was here—that was happiness. It was happiness because when I cried—she would comfort me.

Even as an adult, there are things I want to cry about every day. I want to cry out at the top of my voice with all my might. I want to stamp my feet and cry. I want to cry until my voice gives out, letting tears, snot, and drool flow unchecked. Such urges surge up abruptly. When irritated, when mocked, when what’s mine is taken, when my stomach aches… However, adults do not cry. Even if you cry, there’s no one to comfort, soothe, or stop you—so it’s pointless. They know it will only result in wasted effort and exhaustion. Instead of being comforted, they are laughed at by a crowd. No one cries to be laughed at.

If one cries, their chest clears as though welcoming the moon in a sky cleared by an evening shower. If one cries when they should, nothing accumulates in their chest. The reason children retain their innocent cheerfulness is that they frequently cry and cleanse their chests. Those without mothers do not cry in cathartic release. Because they do not cry, spiderwebs remain in their chests. It accumulates day after day. In their chests, something unbearably pent-up solidifies—that becomes the seed of misfortune.

If there were someone who, even as an adult, could weep unreservedly—as one does before one’s true mother… If there were someone who would comfort me wholeheartedly—exactly as a true mother would… Ah, how happy one could become? “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” This Comforter is God.

Those directly connected to God through love could always cling to Him and weep to their heart’s content. When weeping thus, to be comforted by God—that very happiness! Even having lost one’s earthly mother, being with God—the true loving parent surpassing all mothers—enabled weeping as freely as in childhood. Could it not be that those of true faith, regardless of circumstance, wore carefree childlike expressions precisely because they periodically wept profoundly, received divine comfort, and tasted boundless happiness?

The Least of These

Passing before Nagasaki’s Ōura Cathedral and ascending southward along the stone-paved path, one emerged onto the hillside where the harbor’s blue expanse spread below in a single glance, involuntarily drawing a deep breath. Shadows of camphor trees lay scattered across the path, their evergreen branches forever swayed by the harbor breeze. Few people passed through there. Above and below the path stood European residences from early Meiji years, encircled by tropical and subtropical plantings. Having aged through decades, their peeling paint and rusting surfaces settled into serene decay, red tropical orchids occasionally placed in windows. Through attic windows and over roofs with square brick chimneys of elegant form, the timeless port lay near. There Dutch ships had once sailed in with full-spread sails. There too had the gaudy prows of Chinese vessels mirrored in waves. There the Russian fleet had anchored in solid formation. There great warships—Tosa, Nagato, Musashi—had been launched. Not one such warship remained visible; by defeat’s hour, vessels gaping with cavernous holes had been towed into port one after another—now occupation forces’ ships lay moored in multitude, spotless national flags fluttering. The ferocity with which ships mirrored in this harbor’s waters changed—the world’s unforeseeable movements had been beautifully recorded there.

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Proceeding seven hundred meters along the stone-paved path brought one to a beautiful three-story French-style brick monastery. It was a Jesuit monastery for children. They had crossed over to Japan—it was said over seventy years had passed since they began their work of prayer, labor, and education there. Now there were only Japanese nuns remaining.

Let us listen to the song drifting from the third-floor window.

“Mother Mary, you put your hands together and pray for us every day…” Was the singing girl three years old, or at most four? Her tongue still seemed unaccustomed to forming words. Several young children appeared to be playing games in rhythm with the song. The gentle voices of nuns; gleeful laughter ringing out. Then—when loud wails erupted from the next room’s window—came the hurried patter of a nun’s footsteps: “Oh dear, did you wet yourself?”

In the adjacent room, a catechism lesson seemed to have begun: an exchange of questions and answers between older children and a nun.

“What kind of being is God?” “Yes, God is the infinitely perfect spirit who created all things in heaven and earth and governs them.” “Then, what is that spirit?”

In a different girl’s voice, “Yes, the spirit is something imperceptible to the five senses but endowed with wisdom and will.” “Does God specially govern people?” “Yes, God specially governs all matters pertaining to human life, health, clothing, food, shelter—indeed, everything concerning both the spiritual soul and physical body.” “This is called Divine Providence.”

“Yes, all events in this world are not caused by uncontrollable fate, but are guided by Divine Providence.” “Then, since God specially cares for people, why doesn’t He remove misfortunes?” asked the child. “Because misfortunes become trials, atonement for sins, warnings, and the foundation for future happiness.” “Why does misfortune become happiness in the world to come?” The orphan’s question was earnest.

“Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven.” “—These are the concluding words of Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount.” “Blessed are ye—rejoice and leap for joy!” “How great your reward in heaven will be!” One could almost see the children listening with shining eyes.

There, the third floor housed Maria Garden caring for orphans; the second floor contained Shin’ai Academy with its girls’ middle school and high school; and the first floor was the kindergarten. From there, taking the mountain path upward and proceeding another five hundred meters brought one to the monastery’s annex. That place was called Mountain House, where they nursed frail and sickly orphans. Black-habited nuns were milking cows. Others cut fodder from the mountains. In the vegetable fields, figures in black habits used hoes. There was also an elderly nun cheerfully washing diapers. They all maintained silence while laboring earnestly with bright expressions. The earnestness of their labor astonished even Urakami’s farm women. For these nuns—milking cows, cutting fodder, tilling fields, washing diapers—this was prayer itself. There were those who spent their entire lives in silent care of cows. There were those who did nothing but laundry day after day. They wore neat black habits and hung large silver crosses around their necks... Sweating profusely.

They were people who had parted from parents and siblings, abandoned all possessions, renounced worldly splendor and pleasures, and pledged lifelong vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Having discarded the names they were called in the transient world, they now possessed only spiritual names like Teresa, Catherine, and Coleta. Though they worked so intensely there, they received not a single sen in reward. They received thanks from no one. They considered it only natural not to be thanked.

Jesus said, “Even if he has done what was commanded, does the master thank that servant? I think not. So likewise ye, when ye shall have done all those things which are commanded you, say: We are unprofitable servants. Say: ‘We have only done what we ought to have done,’” He instructed. Because they considered themselves unprofitable servants, they did not seek gratitude. Day after day, they cheerfully washed diapers.

What the nuns were doing was not known to the world. The only thing known to the world was that no orphans escaped from Maria Garden. And why was it that no children ran away from Maria Garden? It was wondered about with curiosity. They did not teach this secret to anyone. They did not preach to society, declaring that all care of orphans must be done in this manner. It was because they faithfully adhered to Jesus’s words.

“Do not be called teachers, for your Teacher is one—that is, Christ.” “The greatest among you must become your servant.” “Those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Everything was guided by Christ. All aspects of the orphanage’s guidance were directed by God. The nuns simply worked as servants. They worked silently with absolute obedience.

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” This was the word of God. All deeds done for the least of these were done directly for God. When one of the least asked for a cup of water, hurrying to draw it and give them drink was in truth offering a cup of water to God. When orphans became the object of good works, they became God. It was not only done toward orphans—they were doing the same thing toward God. In the nuns’ eyes, the young orphans appeared as God—as the infant Jesus Christ. Those who served orphans were none other than those who served God.

Who was the servant who served the infant Jesus? — It was the Virgin Saint Mary. She was Saint Mary—the Mother of God and she who remained a virgin throughout her life.

At the time of the Annunciation—that is, when an angel appeared to the Virgin Mary and announced that she would conceive through the Holy Spirit and bear the Son of God—Mary responded with profound humility and absolute faith, "I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be done unto me according to your word," she answered. Such words could not come from just anyone. Soon after visiting her cousin Elizabeth, when she was congratulated by her,

“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices exceedingly in God my Savior, for He has looked upon the lowliness of His servant……” she sang this hymn of praise. When the moon was full, she gave birth to the Son of God, Jesus Christ, in a cave outside Bethlehem where livestock were kept during their journey, wrapped Him in cloth, and laid Him in a manger. She remains a perfect model of holy poverty. Then, when she went to present Him at the temple in Jerusalem, she heard from the elderly Simeon a prophecy concerning Jesus’s entire life and was told that a sword would pierce Mary’s soul as well. She had been informed of the sad fate that Jesus would predecease her at thirty-three years of age. And she kept it close within her heart, alone.

Having been informed by an angel that King Herod was seeking Jesus’s life, she fled to Egypt under cover of night. One can imagine how terribly difficult this escape must have been—fleeing with a nursing infant in her arms.

Because King Herod had died, they returned and came to live in Nazareth. The diligent and poor carpenter Joseph had been protecting the holy mother and child as a foster father. In this house in Nazareth, how greatly did Mary love and raise Jesus? The Bible simply records, “The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was upon him”—but one can imagine that Mary, nurturing him with tender love and not a single illness left unattended, raised him into a splendid boy without a single flaw.

Could it be that the young nuns of the Infant Jesus Society were attempting to emulate the Virgin Mary, who had served the infant Jesus? Saint Mary was the greatest among humankind. She was not God. She was human. Though human, she had been the only one chosen from among the multitudes across time and space to become the Mother of God; born exempt from original sin, she had committed not a single minor sin throughout her life, and after death, not only her soul but even her body had been taken up into heaven—she was the greatest among saints. The manner in which this splendid mother had devoted her heart with meticulous care and poured deep love into raising Jesus was of such noble extremity that merely contemplating it filled one with awe. ——The nuns, following in the holy example of Saint Mary, must have been serving the orphans by regarding them as the infant Jesus. ——On this orphan’s face, true happiness was clearly visible.

Serving orphans

A heart that serves God—that very heart must be the heart of those who interact with orphans. “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me. … Whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.”

This was the word of God. Orphanages were not charitable institutions. They were palaces of prayer serving God. To wake a bedwetting orphan at midnight, carry them on one’s back through cold corridors to the toilet—this equated to serving before God’s presence in prayer. To give instruction before orphans equated to sitting before God’s presence reciting prayers. The joy of finally finding an orphan in town had to mirror the Virgin Mary’s joy when, amid crowds returning from Jerusalem, she lost the infant Jesus and after three days of searching found Him in the temple.

A volunteer applicant came to the orphanage’s reception desk, “I wish to devote my entire life to the salvation of pitiful orphans.” “I wish to devote my entire life to the salvation of pitiful orphans,” they said. Their words were utterly presumptuous. By what evidence could they claim that staff held a higher position than orphans and possessed the ability to save them? If they truly possessed such confidence, they should have been able to manage splendidly on their own at home through their own efforts, without going out of their way to seek employment at an orphanage operated by others. It was precisely such people who could not become self-reliant in modern society yet flaunted only their dreamlike ideals. They could not even save themselves—what did they think they were doing trying to save others?

If they were recommended to become ministers, they would become ministers and fulfill their responsibilities splendidly. If they needed vast wealth, they could enter the business world and amass it. If they devoted themselves to academia, they would become doctors; if they worked in civil engineering, they would build large dams. If they possessed such ability, then it might be acceptable enough for them to say, “I will save orphans.” From among the orphans would emerge ministers; wealthy individuals would emerge; doctors would be nurtured; great artists were certain to appear. For unemployed individuals who couldn’t even support themselves to presume to “save” such a noble future was audacious.

Even if one were a prominent figure, they would have no right to approach orphans with an air of superiority. Admittedly, orphans wear tattered clothes, are covered in grime, and appear pitiable—seemingly worthy of pity, scorn, and condescension—but their wretched state stems not from any fault of their own, unlike adult vagrants. Until that single bomb destroyed their homes and parents, they had belonged to proper families. Among them were likely grandchildren of professors. Children of inventors as well. Younger siblings of artists too. Though made homeless orphans through one fateful night, their essence remained undiminished in the slightest. They differed fundamentally from stray dogs.

Bringing in stray dogs and keeping them is an entirely different matter. Therefore, the care of orphans naturally differs. They have no right to impose arbitrary education as they see fit. Among the staff, there seem to be some who consider it a great success if orphans can at least become fully independent adults and achieve self-sufficiency. There also seem to be those who think that if they can mold the orphans into human beings who merely avoid causing trouble to society, then that would already count as a passable outcome. Since their own stature is at best that level—

There are two ways to cultivate trees. One is creating bonsai. Bonsai—with neatly trimmed branches, made to bloom beautiful flowers, displayed in entryways to receive brief admiration from others. Indeed, orphanages seem to have an abundance of this approach. They create petty individuals—well-mannered, somewhat clever, perfectly suited to be domestic servants—and those who create them take pride in this.

Planting cedars in the mountains was entirely different from this. They did not come close every day to fussily trim small branches with shears. They simply trimmed away the undesirable undergrowth to improve airflow， then entrusted the rest to sunlight， rain， and nutrients in the soil， keeping a watchful eye from afar. After several decades， when those who had planted them died without leaving their names， they became towering cedars that all people equally looked up to and served society widely.

Even cedars destined to serve the realm, when placed in a bonsai master’s hands, became mere compact spectacles. The ones to be feared were the bonsai educators. A heart that served God, a heart that nurtured the infant Jesus—truly solemn hearts these were. May they be by the orphans’ side with this heart.

Dove Companions

Those who truly know the hearts of orphans are orphans themselves. Those who cry with orphans and laugh with orphans are orphans. Therefore, is it not fellow orphans themselves who should encourage, help, and properly nurture orphans to grow strong? ——

Orphans were lonely. They were helpless, pained, sad, weak. That was because they were all alone. That was because they had been separated.

If orphans who share the same heart connect with one another, join hands, and form a single fellowship, would not another great power be born? Through the power of this fellowship, would each one not grow upright and strong?

Look at the hemp plants. If only one hemp plant is grown, even a slight wind will blow it over, and as it lies fallen, the tip will stretch upward, resulting in the entire plant becoming bent. When densely planted in a hemp field, even if a strong wind blows, they help and support one another, swaying but never falling. Even if one tries to grow crooked, the surrounding plants growing straight prevent it from bending. Ultimately, they all become straight and beautiful hemp plants. If they linger, they will be shaded by the surrounding hemp plants and unable to receive sunlight, so they will rapidly stretch upward to avoid falling behind.

It’s a well-worn analogy, but a single hemp plant breaks easily, while a bundle remains unbroken.

Since war orphans were unique in their circumstances, I believed they required education tailored to their specific needs. Using identical teaching materials as children with parents would never work properly. Of course, there was no need for completely separate schools or such arrangements. It sufficed to provide special education only in particular distinctive aspects. For materials—biographies of great figures from all eras and regions who rose from orphanhood to live uprightly and strongly; stories of orphans living rightly and beautifully; factual records about war orphans’ current lives worldwide—they could have teachers narrate these, conduct group readings, watch film adaptations, or even adapt and perform the works themselves. They might have someone properly explain the relationships between God, parents, self, and society; research the most righteous path for living as orphans; enter into a life of faith to attain true happiness; and participate together in religious observances. They could confide their innermost worries to one another, comfort each other over them, consider solutions, lend hands and wisdom where needed, and strive to encourage cheerful perseverance. They might share their future hopes with one another, lend mutual strength to achieve these hopes, and combine their efforts. If those who shared the same tears joined hands firmly from childhood and advanced together, there would be immeasurable benefits when they entered society—for in any enterprise under heaven, none could succeed alone; one must always maintain communication and cooperation with many companions. Moreover, they could visit orphans who—unfortunately lured by society’s sins into errant paths—had been placed in reformatories or prisons; comfort and care for them; and consider ways to assist their rehabilitation after release. It would also be wise to ask specialists about why orphans fell into vice and take those lessons as cautions. Furthermore, by incorporating suitable entertainment to dispel gloomy expressions—striving always to remain bright and cheerful without bitterness or resentment—this too would be advisable. They might find suitable jobs to secure school funds, engage in cooperative work, or carry out practical welfare association activities.

Such fellowships were to be created within schools. Several school leagues would form a federation. Fellows throughout Japan maintained mutual contact through a single organization. When that happened, it would become something quite powerful. The number of war orphans was, after all, vast— In Urakami’s atomic wasteland, the numbers were particularly high, but looking nationwide—not just children who had lost both parents, but including those who had lost one—didn’t they account for twenty percent of all children? Within the scope of my research, that had indeed been the case. Twenty percent of the total—it could not be a number that might be left unaddressed.

The orphans in orphanages were separate from this fellowship. For they had already received specialized education—. Those who became members here were the war orphans concealed within households and the children attending regular schools. That a multitude of children—accounting for one-fifth of all—had until now been left unaddressed by schools must not be casually overlooked. Just today, Seiichi returned from school and asked gloomily, “Did our sugar ration arrive?” When I answered, “Our neighborhood’s turn seems to be tomorrow,” he recounted: “During last period, the teacher said—‘Everyone hurry home! There’s been a sugar ration today after so long—I’m sure your mothers are making tasty snacks for you right now.’ ‘Maybe sweet red bean soup?’ ‘Or chestnut paste?’ ‘Try using your noses,’ he told us.”

A teacher who knew nothing—or rather made no effort to consider how postwar schools teemed with motherless children—and who naively fired live rounds in his innocent attempt to delight students. Were this fellowship to form and take action, teachers would gain deeper understanding and likely cease their needless cruelty. They might even embark on research to properly guide war orphans.

There was another major problem. It involved making public officials and members of society fully recognize the existence of orphans hidden in households. This required creating both an institution and opportunities to voice opinions about distributing supplies sent to war orphans. Take LARA supplies at that time—they were given only to institutionalized orphans, while household orphans were forgotten. This likely stemmed from the preconception that household orphans were privileged, but comparing the lives of those in atomic wasteland barracks near me with those in institutions’ well-equipped facilities would have made one realize LARA supplies needed richer allocation to household orphans. Without tatami mats, they slept crowded together on wooden floors. Since the single summer garment they wore daily had to serve through winter too, they went nearly naked in summer. Their food consisted solely of meager rations. For toys, there were only wood scraps carpenters discarded when building houses. Spiritually speaking, the loneliness and neglect were no different for any orphan. These children had been kept isolated—no avenues to voice grievances, no way to unite their voices—as if gagged in solitary confinement. Moreover, officials—as seen in recent wage disputes—had a tendency not to give unless asked, leaving them utterly neglected. Through this fellowship’s power, household orphans would be able to demand fair distribution of supplies sent to orphans.

Regarding the current distribution of LARA supplies and Red Cross gifts, the orphans’ statements appeared to be completely silenced. They distributed them carelessly like scattering mochi from a rooftop, following exactly what had been decided by the upper committees, paying no heed to the actual disparities in the children’s living conditions. If these orphan peers had formed a solid self-governing organization, actively cooperated, and vigorously voiced necessary opinions, wouldn’t it have become possible to achieve a far more reality-based, proper distribution?

The number of war orphans was about twenty percent, but this figure was expected to cast a profound light and shadow over national reconstruction. If so many children were to become twisted individuals, cursing the homeland, resenting their neighbors, and leading self-destructive lives... the future of the homeland would be utterly bleak. Conversely, if this many children were to rightly understand their place, perceive the behest of their deceased parents, strive for national reconstruction to fulfill this will, give thanks to their neighbors, and live strongly and righteously… how brightly would the future of the world shine?

War orphans now stood at this crossroads. This crossroads would become—when broadly considered—the very juncture determining humanity’s weal and woe.

For war orphans were not Japan’s alone—they existed in vast numbers across the entire world except South America. Therefore, I believed this fellowship of orphans was inherently suited to forge global connections. Even if ethnicities differed and nationalities varied, children’s yearning for their parents remained unchanged. Orphans of victorious nations and those of defeated nations shared identical sorrow in parental loss. Though hardships might vary slightly, true war orphans walked a single path. —Thus this fellowship could transcend borders and, regardless of skin color, unite as one across the world. Were war orphans worldwide to coalesce and rise up to brighten tomorrow’s world—what magnificent deeds might they accomplish?

—I held one great expectation for this orphan fellowship. This was because I believed that fellowship itself would likely become the most powerful driving force in preventing war.

Up until now, boys’ organizations across East and West alike had carried the stench of military nurseries. Yet this fellowship of orphans would become an organization yearning for “peace.” It would grow into a movement centered on a spiritual rejection of all violence. “Preserve peace!” “Avert war!” This had to stand as the foremost slogan raised by their fellowship.

For there is no one but war orphans who have so acutely experienced the calamities, suffering, and futility of war. For there should be no war orphans who would wish to start another war. For they not only abhor war themselves but also know that if another war were to occur, the many children now living happily with their parents would have to endure the same hardships they did, fear this possibility, and wish to somehow prevent it.

Is there anyone who would not heed the pure cries of war orphans—those burdened with suffering alone though bearing no responsibility for the war? Who could remain untouched in spirit? The War Orphans Alliance will assuredly become a central pillar of the peace movement.

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When Seiichi graduated from Omura Normal School Affiliated Elementary School, he was given a dove by the school. After handing me his diploma and report card, he took the dove out of the basket and showed it to me with a smile. He seemed happier about receiving the dove than about getting all top marks, stroking the now-tame bird’s head and laughing quietly to himself.

Coo-coo. Coo-coo.

When I heard it cooing just outside my hospital room in the stillness of night, I would feel deeply: Ah, peace had truly come. In this atomic wasteland, every last tree had been blown down, leaving the land featureless, which was why no doves had come there until then. It remained a completely devastated battlefield.

Peace—doves. Doves uphold decorum. Doves reject violence. Moreover, carrier pigeons possess astonishing courage. The sky spanning hundreds of kilometers that a single dove traverses alone—a vast firmament assailed by sudden winds, torrential rains, fierce birds, and lightning. Enduring all dangers, they do not falter until reaching their destination. Doves—true courage. Doves—endurance. As I pondered these things, I found myself wanting to choose doves as the symbol for this orphan alliance. “Doves Fellowship (The Doves-League)”

—How about this name?

Words Spoken to My Child

“Should you start with the sardine?” “Or begin with the radish?” “No—start with the finest things first!”

Because I don’t know when I’ll die…

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"When you travel, stay at first-class inns! You’ll understand a town’s finest qualities. It’s also good to stay at cheap lodgings. You’ll come to know its worst aspects. If you choose friends, pick the best among them! And include the worst person too! They learn."

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I want to plant cherry trees and grow pumpkins. Is it that cherry blossoms cannot turn into pumpkins, I wonder? ＊　　　　　　　＊

It’s unsettling when seeds I didn’t plant sprout. If the seeds I sowed don’t sprout, I can’t rest easy.—It feels like I killed them, doesn’t it? ＊　　　　　　　＊

Lying in bed like this meant living with vertical things seen sideways, but even the upright world I occasionally sat up to gaze upon held its beauty.

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Brandishing red shears and swaggering about—and yet they’re convinced they’re in the right, you see. Yet there are those who go out of their way to imitate red shears and swaggering, believing them to be new truths… Heh heh heh.

＊　　　　　　　＊ Being overestimated felt like being hoisted up in celebration. I couldn’t stop worrying about when they’d let me drop. ＊　　　　　　　＊ Don’t chase fame! A name is just a candy to be sucked on for a minute in someone’s parlor. ＊　　　　　　　＊ When a candle shortens, does it mean it’ll snuff out any moment? Some grew so fixated on this they couldn’t work. No matter how you fret, it won’t stretch your lifespan—

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When I was reading a book, visitors who came to see me invariably said, “You must be bored.” Is it that Japanese people only read books when they’re bored?

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The thing I want most—time.

That time—so precious, precious beyond bearing—is embezzled by well-meaning visitors.

＊　　　　　　　＊ When I find a newspaper with my photo in the toilet, I think it’s punishment for making a name for myself. ＊　　　　　　　＊

Ah, did it work? What a fat rat. It had such an intelligent face, yet... to think it would be deceived by a feast and meet its end—

＊　　　　　　　＊ Do not engage in matters with no chance of becoming first-rate! If you start something, do it until you become first-rate!

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“Don’t go making an ‘Ah!’ sound every time something like the lights go out!” “As for your father here, when the atomic bomb fell, I was so ‘calmly composed’ I nearly lost my legs!”

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What should be saved is not money. Time and effort.

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Science is falling in love with truth.

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Plum blossoms, narcissus, Kanran orchids—flowers that bloom despite the cold carry a noble fragrance. Flowers that bloom in easy seasons seem to do nothing but catch people’s eyes.

＊　　　　　　　＊ A resolution is not something to make only once in a lifetime. There are people who make new resolutions every New Year’s Day, but that’s just a ritual.

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Pioneers passed away after enduring endless hardships. Those who would reap the rewards waited in the wings.

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Physical pain is such a trivial thing. If you endure it, you can bear it; when you die, it stops. The pain of the soul cannot be healed by one’s own strength alone. Moreover, it doesn’t disappear even if you die. ＊　　　　　　　＊

The spiritual pain of saints who do not sin must be profound indeed! ＊　　　　　　　＊

During confession, I keep recalling the same kinds of sins—but could it be that there are flaws in places I haven’t noticed? ＊　　　　　　　＊ I cannot bring myself to settle accounts with just the single phrase “Thank you,” so… I shall consider myself indebted to your kindness. ＊　　　　　　　＊ It takes considerable spiritual training to truly accept the charity of others.

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Lying here like this, I can’t get into mischief—but neither do I accomplish anything good.

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Reconstruction doesn’t mean building cathedrals or houses. We must rebuild our faith—

First Journey

A letter arrived from the Sisters of Junshin Monastery addressed to Seiichi and Kayano—an invitation stating they would make celebratory clothes for the children’s school entrance and requesting them to come before classes began. At the girls’ school run by this monastery, the mother of these children had long served as a teacher, so among the Sisters there were some who had been her former students. From a young age, these children were often taken by their mother to visit the monastery to play and were doted on by the Sisters. At the time of the atomic calamity, this monastery and the girls’ school both collapsed and burned down. Mother Magdalena, the abbess, was crushed beneath a large pillar and appeared to be in imminent danger from the approaching flames, but passersby rescued her, and she led many injured nuns to relocate to Kiba, a Catholic settlement in the mountains. We too went to that settlement and opened a relief station, continuing to care for the nuns. In the valley they built makeshift huts, establishing a monastery of complete poverty indistinguishable from Saint Clare of Assisi and her followers. The scene of injured nuns praying while nursing one another was beautiful. As winter approached, through God’s grace this impoverished monastery acquired a decommissioned military facility in Ōmura City—two hours by train from Nagasaki—and resolved to rebuild its girls’ school. The nuns, still convalescing with unsteady legs, moved to Ōmura with bright hope.

We had built a hut in the atomic wasteland and were living there in summer clothes, shivering in the exposed wind, when the Sisters unexpectedly visited and gave clothes made from blankets to the children. Kayano adored the red flower embroidery on the collar. Seiichi was delighted with his jacket buttons—fastening and unfastening them repeatedly. They were Santas of that wilderness…… By now Junshin Monastery had grown into a large organization called Junshin Academy—encompassing not only kindergarten through high school but also establishing a university-level theology department. Yet those kind Sisters never forgot us even as society tried to erase our existence; knowing these children entering middle school and elementary school would have no mother to sew them new clothes—they went out of their way to invite us.

I decided to let the two of them make the journey alone. That train was Sasebo-bound and extremely crowded. Even for adults, it was said to be a matter of life and death. Articles about injuries and deaths frequently appeared in the newspapers. Moreover, there was a long tunnel along the way. As this tunnel lay on a watershed, its midpoint formed a mountain pass with steep slopes descending in both directions. The train painstakingly climbed the steep slope. It would often finally exhaust its strength and come to a standstill inside the tunnel. The tunnel’s length must have been over one kilometer. Confined within it—and with the windows shattered—the train car filled with thick black smoke. Their breath choked. They were packed so tightly they couldn’t move. They could think only of death—death upon death.

Somehow, sending just the two young children alone felt terribly uncertain. If something were to happen... After all the effort of raising them alone as their father this far—I found myself thinking. Yet the two of them, upon reading the Sisters’ letter, were overjoyed. They had been grumbling about having to attend the entrance ceremony in tattered clothes when the Sisters said they would provide new ones. If they went, the dear Sisters would lovingly care for them. They would surely play the piano for them. They would make delicious Western sweets for them... The two were frolicking about as if heading to a fairyland.

Since they’re looking forward to it this much, I’ll let them go. After all, from now on they are brother and sister who must always hold hands and endure the world’s harshness to survive. The sister will rely on her brother; he will help his sister; she will depend on none but him; he will first lend her his hand—believing that while a single hemp stalk may snap, two bound together will not break—they must gather their courage as one. At this new beginning called school entrance, there can be no better opportunity for these young two to solidify trust and affection between them.

“We’re off.” The two of them went out holding hands.

“Kayano, don’t go scampering about.”

I shouted from bed. However, the two of them had already started running, and there was no reply.

I took out my rosary and, fingering the beads, prayed to the Holy Mother for peace on their first journey. Is it because I am their parent that I become so anxious even over such a brief journey? Is it because my faith is lacking?

It suddenly came back to me—the rumor that the 7 AM upbound train was crowded with shoppers and sometimes left passengers stranded. In that case, I should have had them take the 8 AM one. If they were to jostle at that narrow entrance, Kayano would be crushed instantly without a moment’s resistance. Even if they weren’t crushed, they might drop their geta between the platform and the train car, or their small bodies might tumble into the gap. If they couldn’t fully board and ended up hanging on as the train departed… what if at Ōhashi’s high iron bridge—? Oh…

But Seiichi was no fool. If he saw boarding looked impossible, he would take the next train. If he couldn’t make even that basic judgment, then even if today went smoothly, he would fail someday. Wasn’t I letting them travel precisely to train them in making such judgments? Wouldn’t the money get stolen? Wouldn’t the lunchbox get stolen? Since Kayano was sharp-eyed, even while her brother bought the tickets, she must have been keeping proper watch. But what if street performers came there…? Would street performers even come this early in the morning?

The train whistle blew. I checked the clock. 7:15 AM—right on schedule. There had been no accident then. If the crowd had been large enough to leave passengers behind, it should have been delayed by one or three minutes. It was fine.—But even if a child or two got injured, the departure wouldn’t be delayed. If they were injured, someone from the station would arrive by train in fifteen minutes—only if no emergency report came within those fifteen minutes could I finally feel at ease. The upbound train passed beyond the hill with its steady, indifferent rumble. Were the two of them inside that train, I wondered? Had they managed to get seats alright? Or were they being crushed in the vestibule? Separated by an unfamiliar man, was Kayano crying out, "Brother! Brother!"? Still, as long as they were aboard, it was a relief. If Kayano had been pushed onto the tracks and had her leg severed—left bloodied… Did Seiichi remember how to stop the bleeding from a leg wound? You pressed firmly with your fingers at the base of the thigh. —They would take her to the stationmaster’s office. Hospital? Ah, there was no hospital nearby. Would they put her on a train to the university hospital?

It’s far—if only they make it in time—

Fifteen minutes—that would make it seven thirty. At seven thirty, would Seiichi come rushing in, shouting “It’s terrible!”? Seven minutes to go. I would continue praying the rosary. However, a leg amputation would merely leave one disabled—but a torso injury—— No—that’s not possible. It would be just the tip of the foot. Five minutes left. The train’s rumble could no longer be heard. It must have arrived at Michinoo Station. Contrary to my fears, the two might be gazing at the cherry blossoms around Michinoo Station from that train window, murmuring things like “How pretty.” Even though their father was fretting so much, they were off leisurely viewing cherry blossoms— At that station, the azaleas had bloomed splendidly. The yellow kerria blossoms too had blanketed the ground beneath the rows of cherry trees. Long ago, there had been a time when my wife carried Seiichi on her back to view blossoms in that area. On the return, it was that river embankment where she picked the daylilies. Warm sunlight had shone as Seiichi crawled about on the young grass…

Footsteps! Someone rushed through the gate with force. They had come. I shuddered. "Seiichi?" ——

“Newspapew!”

With a rustle, the newspaper flew into the shoji screen, bringing with it the smell of ink.

Ah, thank goodness. I checked the clock. 7:32. It’s safe now. There were no injuries at departure. So after all—the two had really ridden on while leisurely viewing cherry blossoms from the window.

I picked up the newspaper. Large bold type leapt out at the eye—Express Train Collision! Where was it? Osaka. The article even included a photo of the scene. What an unpleasant article it was. There was no need for them to go out of their way to include such a photo today of all days. Many of the dead were children. They must have boarded in such high spirits… Was the cause brake failure? The train carrying Seiichi and the others must have passed through the tunnel by now and be descending that slope. That slope was dangerous. If the brakes were to fail there, what on earth would they do about it? Wouldn’t it go plunging straight into Ōmura Bay? I beg you, National Railways. The neighbor worked at a locomotive repair factory, and from what I’d heard, the way the trains had been deteriorating lately was just terrible. The materials had deteriorated with age, and there were reportedly many parts beyond repair. "They were apparently making do with those parts somehow," said the neighbor, "but knowing the true state of things, I couldn’t bring myself to ride the trains." If I had remembered this sooner, I wouldn’t have let them go. Which is more important—clothes or children’s lives?

At times like this, having a visitor would allow me to talk and distract myself—yet these people, as if driven by either goodwill or malice, only ever come when I’m in the middle of writing, making me forget the well-formed sentences in my head. But today of all days, not a single soul appears. “O you of little faith— Why did you doubt?” These are the words with which Jesus rebuked Peter. There was a time when Jesus gave loaves of bread and fish to a crowd of about ten thousand in Bethsaida—enough for them to eat their fill and still have leftovers. This great crowd had gathered to have their illnesses healed by Jesus and listen to His teachings, but as dusk fell, they found themselves with nothing to eat and nowhere to stay, utterly at a loss. Jesus saw this, took pity, took the five loaves and two fish that were there, looked up to heaven and blessed them, then broke and distributed them. As He broke them, the bread and fish multiplied until all these people had eaten their fill, leaving twelve baskets of scraps. Witnessing this miracle before their very eyes, the crowd became all the more certain that Jesus was the Messiah and resolved to follow Him wherever He went. Yet in their hearts lay an impure expectation—that they could obtain bread without labor—and they believed the work of salvation meant eliminating worldly suffering and granting prosperous lives. Therefore, Jesus withdrew from the crowd, went up a mountain to pray, and had only His disciples board a boat to row out to sea. At midnight, an adverse wind arose, and the small boat began to drift out to sea. Around three in the morning, Jesus descended from the mountain, walked on the lake, and went toward the boat. The disciples in the boat spotted a figure walking on the water and, in great commotion, cried out in fear, “A ghost has come!” Jesus immediately called out,

“It’s all right! It is I!”

At the sound of that cherished voice, they all grew calm. The guileless Peter abruptly conceived an idea—

“Lord… Is it really you, Lord? If it truly is you, then as proof, please grant me too the power to walk on water—I will come out to meet you there,” he said.

“Very well.” “Come!” said Jesus. Peter nimbly jumped down onto the water. Walking on the waves posed no difficulty for him. The waves kept surging toward him, but where his soles met the water, it hardened like glass—not only did he not sink, he remained completely dry. Peter was overjoyed. He came near Jesus.

Suddenly, when he looked up, an enormous wave was looming over Peter with such force that it seemed ready to swallow him whole. This is dangerous! Peter thought. The moment he thought that, the water beneath his feet gave way, and with a squelch, Peter’s body began to sink. “Lord, Lord, help me!” As Peter shouted, he reached out his hand. Jesus immediately took that hand and pulled him up onto the water, “You of little faith. Why did you doubt?”

he rebuked. Peter pouted. He realized with painful clarity that faith—something so fragile—could shatter from nothing more than a fleeting moment of doubt. His clothes were soaked through, and his bones rattled. Why do I keep messing up like this? The more he thought about it, the sadder he became. He vowed in his heart never to doubt again. The waves were as hard as glass beneath his soles. Another of Jesus’s words that he had heard before came back to him. It was said that if one were to command a mountain to move with faith even as small as a mustard seed, the mountain would move. Faith is a matter of relying completely and entrusting oneself entirely, like the heart of an infant in its mother’s bosom.

When the two climbed into the boat, the sea, which had been raging and battering the small vessel, suddenly fell completely calm.

The disciples prostrated themselves before Jesus, “Thou art truly the Son of God.”

they said. Was it not Peter who began to sink? If he doubted—even for a moment—he sank. If one believed they would not sink, they did not sink. Would it not still be the same now? I should have completely entrusted my two children to God. There was nothing to doubt. And yet, here I was, consumed by all this needless worrying. It was because my faith was not firm; God was surely protecting the two children. And yet—would the train derail? I wondered. The moment I harbored these thoughts—now, it might truly derail. No, no—I mustn’t doubt. It was all right. If I left everything to Him, it would be all right. I continued praying the rosary.

……

The following evening. “I’m home!” came a loud voice. “I’m home,” came a small voice. When I heard the lively footsteps racing through the garden, the heavy weight that had been pressing down on me vanished in an instant. I collapsed limply to my knees. The two children who came and sat before me looked as though they had just returned from a journey around the world. Both wore brand-new clothes tailored with loving care by the nuns and beamed with joy. “Stand up.” “Now spread your arms out to the sides,” I said, and the two children exchanged glances, laughed, and stood side by side. The sleeves were long, hiding the backs of their hands.

Entrance Ceremony

April 1. Kayano woke at three o’clock, was disappointed to find it still dark outside, and climbed back into bed. I had also been unable to sleep. Even so, I must have dozed off, for I missed four o’clock and was awakened by the five o’clock factory whistle. I strained my ears to listen, but it didn’t seem to be raining. Would it be nice weather like yesterday? At five-thirty, the morning Angelus bell rang from the Cathedral. Kayano, who usually would not respond until called multiple times, was already awake this morning,

“Bro! Bro! You’ll be late!” she called out as she woke Seiichi. Seiichi got up and helped Kayano into her clothes. The sweater had been knitted by Tatsu-nee and Fujie-nee. The work pants had been kindly provided by Ms. Toizumi. The socks had been lovingly made by an aunt from Mother’s Alliance. The handkerchief came from an unnamed sister in Tokyo, the school backpack from Tomiko-nee, the notebook from Teacher Matsuyama, the shoes from an aunt in Izumo… Through these gifts from those who cherished her, Kayano could attend her entrance ceremony properly. Even without a mother and with an ailing father, God was nurturing this young child through kind-hearted souls. As she wriggled into her school backpack while Seiichi fumbled with the sweater hooks，her exasperated brother snapped，＂If you keep squirming，I can’t get you dressed！＂ Propped on my pillow，I gazed up at this lively scene and smiled.

—How they had grown. They had started going to school. That day she had still been five. She had once boasted to neighborhood children, “My mommy died too!”— This child who had known nothing had now come to learn letters. The work pants she had worn that day now reached only her knees. And they were completely worn through. Those had been the sole memento sewn by Mother’s hands. They could no longer be worn. The last vestiges of Mother’s love that had once enveloped every limb of this child’s body had now vanished entirely. The clothes she now wore with her brother’s help were all made by others’ hands— Would she henceforth live swathed only in the love of strangers? ——Though children might grow nurtured by many affections, even without parents—in the end, it remained but the love of those unbound by blood...

I want to envelop this child in my love alone and nurture her. I don’t want to leave her in anyone else’s care. I do not want any woman’s hands other than my wife’s to touch this child she left behind. Yet even as I steeled my heart with such resolve, here I lay bedridden, unable to sew even a single button for them—the bitterness! How pitiful! This child’s mother had taught sewing and handicrafts at a girls’ school, so every piece of clothing for our family—from undergarments and socks all the way to overcoats—was handmade by her. The overcoat she had meticulously knitted from wool was exhibited every time there was a show, so I would spend the entire time sneezing. These children had grown up wearing nothing but garments imbued with their mother’s love—in every stitch of the woolen knitwear, in every seam of the pockets. If she were alive now, perhaps poverty would have prevented us from acquiring such fine things—but even then, she would never have let them wear that patchwork-like clothing: sweaters chosen by some older sister’s taste, work pants picked by some aunt’s preference… That person would have adorned the joy of entrance day with simple, unified things characteristic of her taste……

There was nothing to be done, even as I thought of it. Now, all I could do was have them wear all the kindness bestowed by those who gave these gifts and let their generosity be met with joy.

The two children went to attend Mass at the Cathedral, amicably bickering all the while. After they left, all was hushed, and within the narrow room lingered the faint scent of a child. I too offered morning prayers while lying on my back. The glass window of Kodai grew brighter. The white Madonna statue stood crisply outlined against the backlight. In the Cathedral’s wooden-floored hall, the small siblings sat lined up—what might they be praying for before the Holy Eucharist? Seiichi’s boyishly high voice and Kayano’s halting voice, here and there supplementing the prayers with memorized phrases, seemed to reach my ears. Last night, they must have woken up frequently from excitement, so perhaps they were letting out little yawns now and then while praying. The God who loves children would surely permit even that as acceptable.

It will take sixteen years for Kayano to graduate from university. That path would by no means be an easy one. Whether she becomes a scientist, painter, musician, nun, or homemaker—I neither demand nor insist upon any course—but whatever she may be, I pray she remains ever close to God.

The sparrows from the eaves also seemed to have descended into the garden. The cheerful chatter of sparrows circled the small hut. Before long, Kayano came running along the stone-paved path, her wooden clogs clattering. Seiichi returned home late, singing as he went. The morning sun began to stream in. The meal Aunt had carefully prepared was steaming on the table. Uncle also stopped chopping firewood and took his seat. “Wow, sea bream!”

Seeing the large grilled sea bream on the plate with its tail arched stiffly upward, Kayano’s eyes sparkled. “Why are you making such a feast this morning?” Kayano asked deliberately, wanting someone to say it. In that regard, Aunt wasn’t one to miss a trick. “It’s your school entrance celebration.”

“Giggling,” Kayano puffed up her chest. But she was so overjoyed she could hardly contain herself and could only manage a single bowl of rice. The sea bream had mostly been devoured by her brother. She had barely started eating her rice and was about to put on her school backpack when her brother scolded her. The socks with red stripes also seemed to preoccupy her. Repeatedly bringing her hand to touch them, she found they would sag loosely each time.

All those passing through the gate one after another with cheerful voices were first graders.

“Everyone’s a good child, decorate with flowers, everyone’s a good child…” Having already memorized it, they passed through shouting at the top of their lungs. “Best friends together, everyone’s a good child!”

I could only pray it would be so. Aunt sipped her tea. “I shall accompany her,” she said. I remained silent, thinking. Since last night, I had contemplated having Seiichi serve as escort. Though only fourteen, he was a middle school student—her sole blood relation. With the father among the parents bedridden here, the brother’s attendance became natural. Should I die, Kayano would depend on this brother alone. They might someday dwell apart in foreign lands—even on opposite ends of the earth—yet these two bound by blood must sustain each other. Today marked Kayano’s academic commencement. On this meaningful day, how fitting for her to pass through the gate hand-in-hand with her brother.

“Let’s have Seiichi accompany her.”

I said. Seiichi seemed to startle, opening his eyes wide to look at me. I continued. “Seiichi is a middle school student. You must do everything by yourself. From now on, you’ll be looking after Kayano in place of your father. Now, you two—hold hands and go together nicely.” Aunt blinked rapidly. The two put on their brand-new shoes. The canvas shoes seemed slightly too big, but their oversize appeared to bring Kayano joy. I had someone open all the shoji screens so I could see the gate clearly.

“I’m off, Father!” “Have a good day.”

The two small children headed toward the gate. Outside the gate, first graders passed through one after another. It was lively. It looked like a line of sparrows. Then, Kayano abruptly stopped. Seiichi pulled at her hand. She didn’t move. She remained motionless, staring at the group of entering students passing outside the gate. She didn’t burst into tears. She didn’t thrash about either. Like a calf frightened by something, she planted her feet and stood rigidly. The little brother was utterly at a loss, kept trying to coax her. It was having no effect. She stood as rigid as a carved wooden doll, not budging an inch. Finally, her brother too began to tear up.

——Why? Until just now she had been so elated about starting school... Her clothes were new, her shoes freshly unwrapped, her school backpack of fine quality, even a handkerchief with her name neatly written in hiragana—what could possibly be lacking? As the start of school drew near, the stream of passing children swelled momentarily. Being children of the impoverished atomic wasteland, few were properly dressed. Yet... They were all being led by their mothers! Chatting happily with their mothers as they walked!

——That was it. Kayano had been made to abruptly recall a fact she had forgotten.

I instinctively pulled the blanket over my head.……

Ah—from the very moment of her departure, must this child already be exposed to such a cold wind… After a while, the school bell rang out from the upper school building. For this very moment—the moment of hearing that bell—Kayano had waited half a year with her heart swelling in anticipation… I quietly peeked my face out from under the blanket. Everything around me was blurred, the gate area appearing hazy as if viewed through rain-streaked glass. Kayano still stood frozen there. Seiichi seemed to want to say he was helpless, merely stretching upward to peer toward the school. I could no longer contain the emotions surging within my chest,

“Hurry up! You’ll be late!” he shouted. Kayano flinched. Without even glancing at her brother’s outstretched hand, she dashed off, her school backpack bouncing on her back.

Though I regretted having raised my voice so harshly on what should have been a joyous occasion, at that moment there had been no other way for me to endure than to shout like that. After some time passed, a single group quietly heading to school went by the gate where the stream of people had already vanished. It was a boy being led by a female student. On the female student’s face were keloid scars from atomic burns that anyone could recognize at a glance. The boy appeared to have a slight disability in one leg.

If there were a father at home, Though all other first graders had returned, Kayano alone still hadn't come back. What could have happened? Since it was only her third week since starting school, there should have been no reason yet for her to stay behind for special matters. If she'd been injured—with the school being right there—surely someone would have come to notify us.

After about twenty minutes had passed, at the gate, “I’m home!” came the usual energetic voice. But today of all days, she didn’t come rushing in. Wondering what was wrong, I raised my head from the pillow and looked through the glass. Kayano entered the garden. Holding something in both hands, staring intently at it, she approached with shuffling steps, slowly and quietly. She was advancing with extreme caution. If she had come back from school in that state, it must have taken her twenty minutes. Normally it wouldn’t have taken even three minutes—it was right there—but...

When I saw that she had finally reached my sickroom and placed what she had been carrying in both hands on the engawa, it was the bowl from her school lunch. Kayano stepped up onto the engawa, lifted the bowl again with both hands, and entered the sickroom still wearing her school backpack. Her eyes remained fixed on the bowl. Her expression, her entire body—both were completely tense. Just two or three steps away, she approached me with shuffling steps, cautiously ensuring the bowl wouldn’t sway. I stretched out my hand. The moment she safely placed the bowl into my outstretched hand, a large breath escaped from Kayano’s nose. She must have been holding her breath all this time. She raised her face, looked at me, and smiled brightly.

“Well… When I was leaving through the gate, some second-year students pushed me, and I spilled it.” She said with evident regret. When I looked into the bowl, there was barely two mouthfuls of pineapple juice left that hadn’t spilled.

“Today’s school lunch—when I tried just a bite, it was so delicious… Come now, Father, have some! It’s really good!”

Babysitting.

Through the glass, I caught a glimpse of the babysitter. The one carrying a baby wearing a red pointed hat was unexpectedly Seiichi. In high spirits, he walked around the garden while bouncing the baby on his back, all the while practicing English in a loud voice. “I yam Tam Brown.” “I yam Ennamerican boy…” The baby on his back seemed to belong to a nearby farmer’s wife. Because the farm work was busy, she had probably asked Seiichi to help out for a bit.

Something welled up in my chest. If the world were as it should be—he being the son of a university professor—one would never ask him to help with babysitting, yet... Yet Seiichi himself remained utterly unburdened, cheerfully bouncing the baby while shouting at the top of his voice. His newly learned English seemed to bring him pure delight. "She is Mary Brown." "She is my sister…"

As I watched that scene, my heart gradually began to engage in self-reflection. That I had immediately thought, "If the world were as it should be..." proved I still clung to vestiges of privileged-class consciousness. What inherent difference could exist between farmers' children and professors' children as human beings? If assessing societal value, would not a farmer laboring to prepare soil for wheat hold greater worth than a bedridden former professor? What possible objection could there be to a farmer entrusting my child with babysitting?

Our family had fallen to rock bottom. I was only causing trouble for society. I had not done a single thing to be of use to society. Therefore, this child could no longer be considered the son of a respectable family. It was only natural that he got hired for babysitting. Cutting grass for goat fodder, helping to pick beans, selling flowers, clearing away tiles—all while earning his own school fees to continue studying: such was his station now. I found it cruel. I also found it heartrendingly sweet. However, this was the path that had been placed before this child.

It is I who remain immature—still clinging to notions of family status and former class, worrying over such things. That child doesn’t get hung up on such matters—perhaps he’s simply babysitting so cheerfully in that way because the baby is cute.

Even so, when I think about how this small child—utterly innocent—must grow up enduring such hardships, my heart cannot help but be unsettled.

Stained Glass

Both Kayano and Seiichi liked drawing. I too had liked drawing since childhood. However, having grown up in a village along the Hikawa River deep in the mountains of Izumo, there were no proper models to follow nor any paints. I possessed an old inkstone and brush. With no ink available, I would diligently grind charcoal to draw. The lines I drew remained faint, and fine charcoal dust would float up after the strokes dried. For colors, I went to the stream to collect colored stones, grinding them for pigment. These stones resembled hardened clay, displaying hues of red, vermilion, yellow, pale green, and ochre—all somewhat whitish yet exuding a subdued elegance. I would painstakingly search through river pebbles to gather them in quantity. Both my father’s and mother’s lineages had produced generations skilled in painting and sculpture. Yet my father declared painters to be drunken idlers doomed to poverty, confiscating my brush with orders never to pursue art. This occurred just before I entered elementary school. I abandoned painting then and became a doctor to follow my father’s path. Still, even now I retain lingering attachments to art. At times I wonder—might it have been better had I specialized in painting rather than medicine? The fervor I once showed descending snowy banks at New Year’s to seek colored stones and paint picture kites never manifested in my medical career. Though I spent years merely appreciating art, lately in my sickbed’s idleness I’ve taken to sketching what lies before me. Completely self-taught without formal instruction, I find delight in this revival of childhood artistic sensibility.

Lately, I had been reading biographies of painters and came to realize their lives were as solemn and arduous as those of scientists; I now understood that what my father had said—that painters were drunkards and layabouts—referred only to unskilled ones. Thus I resolved not to take Kayano and the others’ paintbrushes or anything of that sort.

Today was Sunday; due to the rain, she couldn’t go out to play and no friends came over, so Kayano sat at her desk, moving her crayons busily. From where I lay, I could only see the underside of her desk and had no view of what she was drawing, but like a paper theater show, the characters in her pictures began talking and their backgrounds unfolded with explanations, so I could grasp the general idea. However, because both the characters and backgrounds didn’t appear unless each was drawn one by one, it was time-consuming. As she labored over it, her vision would shift—a cherry-blossom viewing turning into a seaside outing; the plot forgotten so that a trip meant to fetch honey from Uncle Motomoto’s house became a detour to Teraida for summer oranges instead; a sister drawn clumsily would age into a grandmother, leaving the story’s threads hopelessly tangled; backgrounds overrun by crayon grass-green leaping too eagerly across the page left no room for flowers to bloom; a sandal would vanish from one foot.

“Kayano’s wearing a ribbon… a sailor uniform… Where should I go… Put on shoes… Hmm, right—to Goto… To Satsuyo-neechan’s place… I’ll go by boat.” “Big Brother Seiichi will also go.” “Yes, put on the middle school cap… Yes, fasten the buttons… Huh?” “Big Brother shrank smaller than Kayano… Oh! The sea’s rough, and over there’s Sado… Where’s Sado?” “Father.” “Beyond Goto, right?” “…Beyond Goto—as far as you can see—farther and farther still—it’s all ocean.” “Blue! Blue sea!” “Yes—this color!” “Sparrows—sing! Sing!—the day already darkens.” “Call! Call everyone!—the stars are out… and the moon too!” “Such a huge moon rose from the sea!” “From the sea far beyond—far beyond!” “Big Brother and I saw it together.” “A round! Round moon!” “The waves boomed… booooomed…” “Goto was lonely at night—”

The two children went to Goto the year before last. It was an island where old dreams seemed preserved intact. Each morning upon waking, the children would lead the cows up to pasture. The calf would hop ahead, only to startle at its own footsteps and dash back to its mother. Upon reaching the pasture, they untied the cows’ nose ropes. Situated atop the island’s central heights, this pasture drew children leading cows from all directions. The cows gathered with their kind, while the children clustered together, discussing yesterday’s events since their parting at dusk as though they were grand affairs. Even cows appeared to have preferences—their groupings remained fixed. The children did likewise. Some groups sat beneath camellia trees; others straddled fieldstones singing; still others roamed searching for skylark and pheasant nests. They all pulled steamed sweet potatoes from their pockets, plucked nearby cogon grass leaves, licked the leaves’ salt, and ate. The ceaseless sea breeze left those leaves briny. When the sun climbed high, they left the cows grazing and descended to the beach. There too, playthings abounded. Poking a turban shell into a sea squirt made it shrivel like a cigarette clenched in teeth—a particular delight. At sunset they returned to the pasture to bid farewell to the sun. It sank over distant seas in what they called the Shanghai direction. The sea blazed crimson. A little one fretted whether boats offshore might catch fire. When dusk fell, each child called their cow.

The cows distinguished their voices clearly and returned. Because the cows knew the paths better, if one held onto the rope, they would take the lead and bring them to the cowshed.――

Kayano recalled that and finished drawing another sheet. On the third sheet, she took the crayon in hand and swept it boldly across without hesitation. This time, it appeared to be a house. A red roof formed, walls rose up, windows opened in the walls, an electric light hung down, a chimney stood atop the roof, and smoke from cooking rice billowed thickly upward. “...In the parlor sits Kayano. “...Kayano... Oh?”

Suddenly taking up the black crayon, she vigorously scribbled all over it, “Blackout, blackout…” Upon reflection, it seemed Kayano’s countenance had strayed quite drastically from her intentions.

＊　　　　　　　＊

At that moment, Uncle brought over a medieval church art collection and showed it to them. Though a reproduction of color plates, it was printed remarkably well, with the stained glass possessing a vividness as if one were viewing the real thing through light. The greatness of the Middle Ages had recently begun to be reappraised. Unadorned faith was expressed directly in the church decorations. I was looking at an image of Saint Mary. It seemed somehow like the window of a rural French cathedral. The creator’s name was unknown. It might have been a nameless glass artisan who dedicated their life to decorating the cathedral of that small town. It did not seem to be the work of one who had inherited an orthodox artistic tradition. An unbalanced composition, a bold color scheme, a clumsy use of iron frames—it was truly an amateurish piece of work. The thickness of Mary’s hands—they were completely those of a hardworking girl’s hands. These strong-looking legs could surely crush the head of the devil’s serpent with a single stomp, yet they too were the legs of a hardworking girl. And the size of these eyes! What can one say! They were practically bursting out of her face! ——But what impression did this Saint Mary as a whole give me? ――Truly, I bowed my head in awe. What divine splendor! What radiant purity! This was indeed the form of God’s Holy Mother. Staring at this intently, one truly began to feel as though standing before the Holy Mother.

Eternal happiness and a yearning for the sublime welled up spontaneously within his chest.

"Why can’t I?!"

On a whim, I too took up a pencil and attempted to make a copy. I thought I had drawn it quite faithfully, but when I compared the two, mine was merely a woman. It could never become the Holy Mother—a perpetual virgin. I tried drawing another one. Still, I couldn’t do it. I could only render women reeking of vulgarity. I simply couldn’t capture these eyes. They were clumsily large and wide-open eyes, with no particular technique applied, yet they were eyes gazing upon eternity. They were eyes gazing upon God. It was the Holy Mother who abided with God. Though still young, Kayano seemed to have taken a liking to this painting.

“Who’s this?” “Saint Mary.” “Where is she?” “In the cathedral window?” “Where?” “They’re from France. Look, there used to be some in the old Urakami Cathedral too, didn’t there?” “Do you remember?” “In that large cathedral.” “…You know, above the main altar—look, those very high windows—swallows would often fly and perch there, didn’t they?” “During Holy Mass, when the morning sun streamed in—since that window faced east—it would flare brightly, and there she’d appear: the Virgin Mary being raised to heaven.” “With her hands folded like this over her chest, looking upward, trailing that long blue robe, riding on a pink cloud, surrounded by angels—you see?—ascending into the blue sky—that’s how she was being raised to heaven, wasn’t she?—”

“Oh, right… We all went there together, didn’t we…”

For a while, she fell silent, lost in memories. Before long,

“Why did they draw Saint Mary on the window?” “To please God.” “Did Lord God truly rejoice?” “He truly did rejoice.” “Yes… That’s good then.” Kayano stared intently at the stained glass once more, then began to sing Ave Maria in halting Latin. This too must have been a hymn drawn forth by the power of faith that some nameless artisan had poured into this painting hundreds of years ago. And Kayano too must have been singing out of a single-hearted desire to please God. True faith was such a simple thing. I too murmured along with Kayano’s voice.

I must have fallen into a pleasant sleep—when I opened my eyes, there was no one by my pillow, the rain seemed to have stopped, and evening sunlight streamed brightly through the shoji. On the lower glass panel of that shoji, there was a drawing. Was it a girl? Or perhaps an angel, given the wings sprouting from its shoulders. Wearing a flower crown on her head, she smiled innocently. The top was a red jacket with two buttons, and the skirt had pink pleats. Beneath her feet were only stone walls and steps—a scene that resembled a bombed-out site—yet already a tulip of unthinkable size was blooming. In the sky, people swimming sideways could also be seen. In the corner, something resembling a year number was scribbled; upon reading it, it said 1234—likely her practicing the numbers she had just begun learning at school. The crayons' translucency instead created an intriguing effect.

The painter had completed this stained glass, but when the rain stopped and friends came to invite them out, they apparently left without signing it. ――Kagome, Kagome

The bird in the cage When, oh when will you come out?

On a moonlit night—

In the neighboring garden, they were playing noisily. It was better for them to die.

The deaths of those two children had been tormenting my conscience more and more acutely lately. At that time I had even thought I had done something good for them—but now when I considered my own children’s lives，I found myself unbearably troubled. Though their condition had indeed been severe enough that death was inevitable，what haunted me was how utterly devoid I had been of any true desire from my heart’s depths to save them.

On the fourth or fifth day after being hit by the atomic bomb, people who had until then been thought unharmed and safe developed acute radiation sickness and died one after another, vomiting blood. Among the patients under my care, there were two children. One was a girl of four. Her father had been killed in the war, and she had been raised solely by her mother, but when the atomic bomb fell, that mother had shielded the child with her own body; pinned beneath a collapsing pillar, her head was crushed, and she died. The child had been rescued without sustaining a single scratch. Calling “Mom, Mom,” she had cried and searched all night on the dirt floor of the ward, but from the sixth day onward, she suddenly weakened, passed bloody stool, and developed a fever. I examined her and immediately determined the prognosis: this was beyond saving. And I thought that for this girl, death would instead bring her own happiness. An orphan with neither father nor mother—and only four years old at that. She would have to live out her days as a burden to society, leading a life devoid of warmth. To be taken to heaven without ever knowing the world’s suffering and meet deceased parents in paradise would be far happier. Her mother, solely to save this child, had shielded her under her belly just before the pillar collapsed, sacrificing herself—but was that painstakingly prolonged life truly a happy one? It would be better for her to quickly follow her mother to heaven.—Since I thought this way, I only gave perfunctory treatment and didn’t invest myself much. The girl died four days later.

The other was a five-year-old boy. He was an illegitimate child. After his father had been drafted into military service, it was discovered—only after the child’s birth—that there had been such a woman; a dispute arose, severance money was paid, and the child was taken in and raised by his father’s family. Though blood relatives and bearing no responsibility for the child, they doted on him and raised him safely—yet he would inevitably become a source of future discord. When the father returned demobilized, this child would surely prove an obstacle to remarrying and starting anew. The boy had been inside a shallow air-raid shelter when the atomic bomb fell, escaping physical injury—but on the fifth day, he developed a fever, soon followed by small red-bean-colored hemorrhagic spots beneath his skin, showing the dreadful symptoms of acute radiation sickness. I examined him and judged he could not be saved. And in my heart I thought: If this child were to die now, he would be spared a harsh life; his demobilized father could build a new family unhindered; the relatives would be relieved—all parties satisfied most auspiciously. Thus I gave only symptomatic treatment, expending no special effort. The boy died five days later in agony. He left this world never having known his father’s or mother’s face.

When the two children, wrapped in straw mats with their small feet protruding two by two from the edges, were carried away on shoulder poles to be buried in the mountains, I felt an inexplicable sorrow—yet at the same time, a sense of relief. With this, I thought both of them could go to heaven without much suffering and were happy.

However, lately, that feeling which arose at that time has come to weigh on my mind incessantly. At that time, because those children's parents were absent, I—a stranger—indulged in such imaginings and even took a kind of grim satisfaction in their deaths. As for the girl, neither her father nor mother remained in this world. As for the boy, though both his father and mother still lived in this world, they were not at his side because theirs had not been a legitimate union. In any case—at that time—would those fathers and mothers have wanted their children to die? Would they have celebrated it? Would they have thought, "It would be better for you to die—for your own good"? ——

Changing perspectives: suppose that on that day, both I and my wife had died, leaving Seiichi and Kayano behind—and that they too were now suffering from acute radiation sickness, on the verge of death. Surrounded by others, they would say: “Ah, even if these children were to live, they’d inevitably face twice the hardship in this world. So for them to develop radiation sickness and die following their parents would be their happiness.” “Yes, exactly—even if they were to live long, they wouldn’t become anyone of significance, so in the end, it’s preferable for parent and child to die together like this.” “Well, there’s not much medicine left anyway, and if they’re going to die regardless, giving them injections would be like throwing it away. You should stop, Doctor.” “Well, let’s do that then.” “In any case, given how things look, the prognosis was absolutely determined to be poor.…”

If my soul were to overhear such a conversation, what on earth would I do? Would I return to my body, become a ghost, rush to that place, and punish every last one of these people?

No—it wasn’t just at that time. In the days to come, when Seiichi and Kayano contracted a serious illness, wouldn’t the people around them suddenly entertain such thoughts? And wouldn’t they neglect their nursing and treatment? When I thought of that, I felt pity, grew preemptively angry, and became increasingly irritated. And so, the memory of those two children of others—whom I coldly treated and left to die—came back to me all the more vividly.

The eldest son

During the busy end of the school year, Vice Principal Kataoka of Junshin Academy came and asked where we had decided Seiichi would attend middle school. When I replied that we were still undecided between several options, he declared categorically: “Then choose Kaisei Middle School.” “Why?” When I pressed him, he spent twenty minutes meticulously detailing Kaisei’s advantages—faculty qualifications, campus facilities, educational philosophy, even their entrance exam patterns—having thoroughly researched and compared every school in Nagasaki. Since my illness had prevented me from conducting such investigations myself, I acquiesced immediately. To my chagrin, I hadn’t even registered the application deadline. Upon checking, only five days remained. Vice Principal Kataoka—anticipating this very oversight—had carved time from his year-end duties to ride the train from Omura specifically to alert me.

Seiichi had passed the entrance exam and been admitted, but in my illness-ridden state where nothing went smoothly, I saw in the newspaper that a full set of school supplies would cost two thousand yen. How could I come up with such a large sum as two thousand yen? My head on the pillow did nothing but ache. “I don’t need anything else,” Seiichi said, “so please just give me a new regulation-style hat.” A hat, a hat—I’d heard even a hat cost several hundred yen. Notebooks, textbooks, dictionaries, and then shoes. Shoes were terrifying.

Vice Principal Tanigawa of Seibo no Kishi Junior High arrived. Every time Tanigawa visited, he would call out “Seiichi! Hey, Seiichi!” and search for him before I could. Today too, upon hearing that voice, Seiichi came running from behind the house. His forehead glistened with sweat. He had apparently been chopping firewood. “Seiichi, show me your head.”

“Seiichi, let me see your head,” said Vice Principal Tanigawa. Seiichi thrust out his head with a grin. Vice Principal Tanigawa took out a student cap from the cloth bundle.

“Well, maybe it won’t fit—when did that head of yours get so big?”

When he tried putting it on, it sat perched just atop his head, leaving a gap of seven centimeters all the way to his ears.

“Ah ha ha ha! What a blunder this was!” “My, how you’ve grown.” “Now then, let me borrow that string—I’ll take your measure….” “Hmm, quite large indeed. Should I compare it with my own head?” “……Oh my, this is startling.” “Why, it’s the same size as my head!” “Ah ha ha ha ha!” Vice Principal Tanigawa laughed boisterously. Yet I could not overlook the glimmer that flashed in his eyes. ——Tanigawa’s eldest son Nobuharu had been Seiichi’s age. Our houses stood adjacent in those days, and when our firstborns arrived, we two young fathers would cradle those heralds of a boundless future in our unsteady arms while our wives prepared supper. Standing at the gate, we would speak of radiant tomorrows with hearts swelling like sails. The boys contracted measles in tandem, suffered stomachaches in unison, caught colds together—coughing relentlessly as they matured with matching trails of green mucus glistening beneath their noses. They attended Mass side by side. At Christmastide, we fathers played Santa Claus for one another’s households. Hand in hand they trod the path to school each dawn. Both fathers had pinned soaring hopes upon these firstborn sons.

The atomic bomb took Mr. Tanigawa’s wife and three children in an instant. When Mr. Tanigawa managed to make his way there from his workplace in the suburbs, he found Nobuharu and his third son Naoshi sitting dazedly in the elementary school’s air-raid shelter. Taking his two children with him, Mr. Tanigawa came to my first-aid station. The third son had sustained a head injury, so I treated it, but since Nobuharu was unharmed and well, we felt relieved and, clasping hands, expressed gratitude to each other that at least our eldest sons had survived. This must have been what it meant for we mortals to have no way of knowing. Nobuharu had already received a lethal dose of radiation throughout his entire body in that instant. There was an incubation period of several days before the atomic bomb disease manifested. During the incubation period, while the terrible destruction of the body’s cells had already begun, no symptoms yet manifested outwardly. Because the two children were well, Mr. Tanigawa went down a three-ri road to visit relatives. It was there that the atomic bomb disease suddenly manifested throughout Nobuharu’s entire body. The parents could not witness their child’s suffering, it is said. However, the firm faith this child had held transformed all physical suffering into a beautiful bouquet, adorning his final moments. Tanigawa saw the sacred final moments of his own child and immediately came to understand true faith.—

That was when Nobuharu had been in fourth grade. After that, Mr. Tanigawa began wanting to see Seiichi frequently. Yet he once confided in me that meeting him made him so sorrowful afterward, he would think it better not to have met at all. Somehow it seemed he had transferred onto Seiichi all the expectations once meant for Nobuharu.

There are those who mock others for "speculating on how old a dead child would be," but such words can only come from the cold lips of those who have never lost their own children. If they were alive，that child would be entering middle school—thinking this，one finds themselves stepping into a hat shop to pick up a new cap……

Mr. Kataoka’s eldest son had also been around the same age. And he too had died on that day. Though Mr. Kataoka no longer had a child who would enter middle school, he had investigated every school as if pondering where his son might have gone had he lived. And it seemed he had transferred those same expectations to Seiichi. At times, I find myself thinking that perhaps the expectations and affection Mr. Kataoka and Mr. Tanigawa hold for Seiichi surpass even my own as a father.

Does love for a child only deepen after losing one? Does filial devotion truly grow stronger only when parted from parents? Humility.

Seiichi’s Christian name is Yakobo Kizaemon, isn’t it? Saint Yakobo Kizaemon was one of the Twenty-Six Martyrs of Japan, martyred on February 5, 1597, at Nishizaka in Nagasaki. Though called the Twenty-Six Martyrs, few in Japan know of them, but since Catholic churches worldwide hold a festival for them every February 5th, they are rather famous abroad. They might well be the most widely known Japanese figures throughout history. For it was through the brave deeds of those twenty-six martyrs that Europeans came to recognize the Japanese as a courageous people.

As for Saint Yakobo Kizaemon, it was known that he had been born in Bizen, joined the Jesuits, and served as a doorkeeper at their church, and that he had been sixty-four years old at his death—the eldest among the twenty-six martyrs—but beyond this, nothing else was known. He could not have been socially renowned at all during his lifetime. Why was it that such an old man had been elevated to sainthood—the highest human honor—and was being commemorated through festivals by people of goodwill across the world!

—It was on December 8, the first year of Keichō [1596], that Hideyoshi issued the order for the mass execution of Christians throughout Japan. December 8th remains an unforgettable day for Japan. Both marked moments when Japan severed ties with civilized nations and withdrew into a shell of isolation. Now resolved to martyrdom, the Kirishitan prepared themselves. At that time, many prominent cultural figures counted themselves among their ranks. Ishida Mitsunari, Konishi Yukinaga, Takayama Ukon—these men. Though later historians maligned them for their Christianity, they commanded great respect as virtuous individuals in their day. The merchant class of Keihan region too held many believers. These individuals not only occupied esteemed social positions but fervently devoted themselves to church works—pouring private wealth into poor relief and standing at the forefront of missionary efforts. When execution rumors spread, they immediately set about preparing for death. They divided estates, dismissed retainers, settled affairs, composed death poems, and arrayed themselves in ceremonial white robes to await the imperial envoy’s arrival—a flurry of activity. Some even hosted farewell banquets.

The Japanese people revere dying in full bloom. They had always hoped that people would praise them—"How fitting for those people! A samurai-like honorable end," "A splendid demise," "An admirable death"—and yearned daily for such acclaim. To be praised by others, to leave their names in history... This too was a cherished desire in the hearts of the Kirishitan of that time. However, due to various circumstances, the mass execution was not carried out, and it was decided that only twenty-six people would be killed. Of those twenty-six individuals, aside from six Westerners including Father Pedro Bautista—who had been prominent in charitable works at the time—the remaining twenty Japanese were every last one of them obscure individuals unknown to society. Not a single one among them has their birthplace, full name, and age all fully ascertained. Their personal histories, too, are scarcely known. Among them are even those whose Christian names alone are known, their secular names lost to time.

These people had long correctly believed in God’s teachings and, always within their own capabilities, strived on the small but earnest path to perfect virtue. Those around them acknowledged they were believers without a single fault to be found, yet they neither performed grand acts of charity enough to astonish society, nor donated hundreds of ryō to the church, nor took on prominent roles during church events—in other words, they were not seen as particularly significant in human eyes. Even they themselves had resolved to face martyrdom when rumors spread of all Kirishitan being sentenced to death, yet as weak individuals, they doubted whether they could endure such terrible torments to the end and prayed for God’s special assistance. Far from thinking of the glory of sainthood, they had no confidence that they could achieve a spectacular death that would draw people’s attention. They were but weak people who could only face God and pray, “Save us.”

However, those who are elevated to sainthood had been clearly seen in God’s eyes. They were people who had stored up hidden treasures in Heaven. They were people who continually performed good deeds unnoticed by others. The words of Jesus: “Take care not to perform your righteous deeds before others to be seen by them. Otherwise you shall receive no reward before your Father who is in heaven. Therefore, when you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in synagogues and streets to be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have already received their reward. When you give alms, let not your left hand know what your right hand does—that your alms may be done in secret. Then your Father who sees in secret shall reward you.”

But this must be applicable here. Both Mitsunari and Yukinaga had tooted their own horns. That’s precisely why they were lavished with praise by society while still living. Since they’d already claimed their reward through that, they would receive nothing from God. Why was it wrong for those renowned Kirishitan to clamor so loudly about attaining martyrdom’s glory? Because it ultimately revealed nothing but vanity. Any person naturally wishes to make their death beautiful—that’s human sentiment. But specifically craving to leave behind a sterling reputation in people’s mouths for generations—that becomes vanity. Vanity muddies the human heart. A muddied heart cannot encounter God. Jesus said, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” It might appear a minor misstep... Yet it strays from the path of perfect virtue.

Another thing I found puzzling was why God had chosen such lowly individuals over great scholars and prominent figures. This too was something Jesus had clearly addressed. “Father, Lord of Heaven and Earth, I praise You.” “For You have hidden these things from scholars and sages and revealed them to little ones.” “Yes, Father, for such was Your gracious will.” The essence of God’s teachings is perhaps better understood by those without learning—isn’t that so? If one possesses human wisdom, perhaps it instead clouds their vision, making it difficult to grasp faith properly.

When the twenty-six Christians were captured, they immediately gave thanks to God and rejoiced that their lowly selves had been counted among the martyrs. This was because Jesus, “Blessed are those who endure persecution for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people curse you, persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for great is your reward in heaven.”

because He had said this. They truly rejoiced. And until death’s moment, they maintained gentleness, humility, peace of soul, fortitude, and endurance. Truly, they were chosen people. They were imprisoned, then on January 3 of the following year at Kyoto’s Ichijō no Tsuji, had their ears severed and were paraded through the capital’s streets. The blood flowing from their severed ears froze. On the seventh day, they were paraded through Osaka; on the eighth day, departing Sakai, they walked over two hundred *ri* along snow-covered roads to Nagasaki. Clad in a single unlined robe with ropes tied about their waists, barefoot and treading on ice… The youngest among them was Ludovico, twelve years old and a fourth grader. Next came Antonio, thirteen years old. Not one collapsed or fell behind along the way, and they finally reached Nagasaki on February 5. They passed along that road beside our house in the early afternoon. They passed by the university across the way, followed the harbor’s edge, and arrived at Nishizaka by evening. As sunset reddened the execution ground, they died upon crosses, pierced by spears. They were smiling. When the spear pierced his chest, Ludovico cried “Heaven! Heaven!” as his fingertips twitched and trembled. Old Jacob Kizaemon apparently passed without uttering a word, quietly. From beginning to end, he had always shunned drawing others’ eyes.

In the second year of Bunkyū (1862), an official celebration of Japan’s Twenty-Six Martyrs was held at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, and the Pope issued an edict that churches around the world should observe this feast annually on February 5. As the saying goes, “the darkest place is under the candlestick”—only the Japanese remained unaware. On the seventh day after Seiichi was born, when he was to receive baptism, I chose this Saint Jacob Kizaemon from among many saints to be his baptismal patron saint. I hoped he would live his whole life following that old man’s example.

“Humility!”

The spirit that guided this old man’s entire life was this very principle. Do not presume to lead, do not put on airs, do not chase renown, do not crave popularity, do not fret over worldly opinions—always perform good works in hiddenness!

We must not forget the words of Jesus.

“All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Vigor. “When I gave greens to the chicks, Father, there was a huge fight.” “If they were hungry, they should’ve just eaten right away—but instead of sharing, they fought to take it all for themselves. Pecking at each other, chasing around, snatching and pulling at the greens until they trampled them and made them too dirty to eat.” “They’re so silly, those chicks.”

Seiichi returned from the chick coop and reported. "Why do you think they had such a big fight?" I asked. "There weren't enough greens—I only gave them one stalk even though there are three of them." "Then how do we stop them from fighting?" "If we give them plenty, that should work."

“If you knew that, you should’ve done it.” “I knew that, but there wasn’t any.” “If there wasn’t any, what would you do?” “We can give them substitute food like chickweed or horsetail.” “But lately, since every household in the neighborhood is raising goats, even those substitutes aren’t available.” “Then, what should be done?” “Well…” “If we open the door and let them out, that would be fine, but they’ll ruin the neighbor’s field, so we can’t do that either…” Seiichi seemed to have no good ideas.

“That aside—now then, the doves?” “They’re doing well.” “That dove group, you know—”

“Hmm.” “About the work of the boys’ league to prevent war—let’s consider that alongside this chick greens problem—” “What’s the connection?” “Who starts wars? They do it because there aren’t enough greens. If you give enough food, there’ll be no war.—Humans are much the same. Though populations grow large, when essential supplies run short, class struggles erupt within nations, and wars break out between them. ‘With our dove group, let’s prevent war!’—it’s fine to shout that, but mere shouting without eradicating war’s root causes achieves nothing.”

“That’s true.” “It has long been said that the Japanese people like war, but do people who inherently enjoy war even exist? No one would want to be killed so carelessly. Nor would anyone wish to suddenly kill someone they hold no direct grudge against upon first meeting. War occurs when multitudes lose themselves in frenzy and slaughter one another by a general’s orders in the nation’s name. How can we claim individual murder is a grave sin while deeming collective slaughter blameless? I believe when Japanese samurai drank sake before departing for war and after returning, it served less to numb their fear of death than to dull their conscience-stricken hearts over having taken lives. The Japanese people dislike war. But since opening our borders, national circumstances compelled endless warfare until foreigners came to perceive us as war-loving. These unavoidable circumstances stemmed from inhabiting volcanic islands jutting from the sea—lands lacking resources to sustain our population adequately. Japan’s history is a history of war. From Emperor Jimmu to the atomic bomb, those with strong arms were exalted. How has it ultimately fared for our people, reared under such beliefs? Exactly as you see here. It has come to pass precisely as Jesus said: ‘Put your sword back into its sheath, for all who take up the sword shall perish by the sword.’ Now, reflecting on two thousand years of history—what fundamental error did our people commit unknowingly?”

“Well…?” “——” “They failed to discover and create new resources through cultural power.” “They simply strove to obtain scarce natural resources through military force—that’s what it was.” “Take another careful look at history while thinking it through.” “……”

“Instead of adopting peaceful, productive methods to enrich life through creative ingenuity, they sought to steal resources others had developed to live an easy life.” “They chose violent, destructive methods.—” “But since Japan is a country without resources, isn’t it unavoidable?” “A country without resources?” “It’s because they don’t create that they don’t have.” “Japanese people are quick to say America is a country with resources.” “Then, does America have trees where airplanes grow?” “Does America have a lake where television sets are caught like fish?” “Huh?” “If you dig up some mountain, do cars come pouring out endlessly?” —”

“No way!” “America wasn’t a country with resources from the start either.” “They created resources from within the human mind.” “And the Japanese?”

“But Japan doesn’t have the raw materials to make such machines—” “They just imitate foreigners’ inventions and discoveries, then complain about lacking raw materials or whatnot.” “Why not invent something new using the raw materials we have in Japan?” “I see.”

“By the way, present-day Japan is like an overcrowded chicken coop.” “Crowded together like an overflowing mass in a narrow land, they vie violently over scant resources.” “It seems there are those who handle the goods imported through foreign goodwill as carelessly as chicks trampling greens and rendering them inedible.” “How can we save them?” “The answer is simple.” “To provide the bare minimum required for subsistence.” “But those things are insufficient.” “They’ve even exhausted all substitutes.” “Even emigrating part of the population abroad has not yet been permitted.” “Moreover, the population keeps increasing every day.” Thus arose calls for population control. “They limit the population according to the quantity of resources available.” “This involves two methods: one that kills off a certain number of the currently living population above a set limit, and another that prevents children from being born beyond a certain number.” “Even if we say ‘kill,’ it does not mean execution. If they refrain from implementing social relief measures, weaker people who lose the survival competition will naturally die—thus society as a whole indirectly starves them to death through this collective force.” “If there had been no food rationing, such a state of affairs would certainly have arisen—but this is something only done by some immature societies.” “There are indeed intellectuals who seriously argue that preventing children from being born is less cruel than this method, but in any case, it is undoubtedly murder in a respectable guise.”

“Murder? So then, the population control argument is actually a theory encouraging murder, isn’t it?” “Exactly—it’s a sin. For God has commanded, ‘Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth!’...because He has commanded it.” “Even though life has become this difficult, isn’t it unreasonable to still say, ‘Be fruitful and multiply’?” “It may seem impossible, does it not? However, the all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good God would never impose the impossible.” “But isn’t the impossible actually happening right now?”

“Are you saying the responsibility lies with God?” “God can’t be responsible, but—” “Would the all-loving God command ‘Fill the earth’ without first preparing what humans need to survive? He would not issue such a careless command. Even if humanity multiplies enough to fill the earth, the provisions needed to survive must have been properly prepared. Could it be that humanity simply hasn’t discovered it yet? It must have been hidden somewhere. Humanity has been too indolent to reach the point of extracting and utilizing that. Man has been endowed with wisdom and free will from the beginning. And God has also commanded, ‘You shall eat bread by the sweat of your brow.’ Has humanity thus far properly exerted this wisdom, free will, and sweat of their brows?”

“I think they’ve exerted them quite well.” “Because they’ve built up today’s civilized society, completely different from the animal kingdom.” “—the utilization of fire, machinery, stone, wood, copper, iron, aluminum; employing steam, electric currents, radio waves—” “And then increasing food production through cultivating paddies and fields… and so on—”

“That’s right. “That’s certainly true. “However, among these cases, there are quite a few where they use natural resources exactly as found. “Coal, oil, fish, metals, cotton, wool, milk, beef… Human ingenuity has barely touched these. “They dig up coal to burn; catch fish indiscriminately; cut down mountain trees to build houses; start fires; gather fruit-bearing grasses and edible leaves to plant in fields. “They live lives scarcely different from animals lacking wisdom that survive by instinct alone. “It’s like a thoughtless son idly consuming his parents’ inheritance. “Then when they exhaust everything around them, they go next door trying to seize by force. “Such people are wild beasts. “They’re quick to bare their teeth and slap the word ‘struggle’ onto trivial matters. “What then does it mean to be human? “Where did they misplace their wisdom?” I couldn’t help wanting to ask anew.

“When you say they applied their wisdom to create new resources, what are some examples? For example—” “Nitrogen fixation from the air—synthetic resins—nylon—certain radio waves like wireless telegraphy waves—shortwaves—ultrashortwaves—X-rays. Ultrasonic waves—dynamite—electric current—soap—pencils—paper—aspirin—engines—ah, airplanes—” “Jeep—tractor—bulldozer—chewing gum…”

“Chewing gum?” “Hmm, I see.” “Artificial lemon water—saccharin—artificial butter…” “Oh my—Seiichi, you’re only mentioning food and drinks.”

“I still know more.” “The biggest one—” “Oh?—What is it?” “Atomic power!”

“That’s it!” The two fell silent, overwhelmed by their own words. The atomic field surrounding the hut lay profoundly still in broad daylight. The wind blew freely through the hut, yet outside there was no sound of wind. There were no trees or grasses for the wind to rustle. It was a barren expanse.

He looked out through the glass once again. What an incredible force that was! Even now, I still marvel at it. With just a single blast, this vast town had been transformed into a barren expanse.

“The atomic bomb that exploded here has many stories to tell.” I began speaking quietly. “This recent war had competition for resources as one of its primary causes.” “The total quantity of natural resources available for use had become roughly understood.” “For instance—how much oil remains globally? How much coal? Iron? Aluminum?” “Arable land?” “...With this understanding, predictions could be made—how many years until this or that resource disappears, how many years of mining would deplete others...” “For our nation—for our nation alone to survive and maintain civilized life—we absolutely had to secure those resources now.” “While peaceful acquisition through trade would be preferable, this premature ethno-nationalist selfishness—which trumpeted superficial justifications like righteousness while believing our nation would perish unless we achieved our goals through force—is what I believe started the war.” “Yet when war actually began, it consumed resources beyond all expectations. Instead of gaining resources—look—we lost everything: aluminum for lunchboxes vanished, kitchen frying pans disappeared, coal ran out, electricity failed—and finally, even money was gone.” “This too, as I said initially, became the final consequence of our nation’s tradition—rejecting the slow path of enriching life through cultural power and choosing instead the shortcut of military force.” “By the war’s end, we Japanese had sunk into what’s called grinding poverty—utter despair.” Then came the atomic bomb’s detonation—a blinding flash and thunderous roar.

The atomic bomb revealed to humanity the existence of entirely new resources. There lay a profound moral obligation. Oil would become scarce. The bottom of coal reserves had come into view. Would human civilization not also end with the depletion of power sources? Before the future path of human survival loomed the black rock of despair. —That atomic bomb had blown away that rock. Through the hole blasted open by the atomic bomb, humanity saw the light of a new world shining forth. If they entered and searched through this hole, they could extract endless new power—draw out endless new materials—and with this bright hope welling in their hearts, humanity saw light. All things are composed of atoms. Everywhere teemed with atoms. Within these atoms, God had concealed such a marvelous power since the creation of heaven and earth. Moreover, He had also bestowed upon humanity the wisdom to discover it, extract it, and utilize it. If only they applied their wisdom, they could undoubtedly discover many more sources of power and materials yet.

All creation was created by God to serve humanity. To leave unused what had been specifically prepared for human use was negligence on humanity’s part—unforgivable negligence. They had been commanded: “Work with sweat upon your brow!” Yet where were the multitudes of humanity sweating and laboring? Were they not sweating from their legs? Were they not sweating from their arms? They claimed labor was sacred—this was well enough—but when speaking of labor, the masses considered physical toil primary. They rolled up their sleeves and swaggered about, rallying others to devalue those who sweated with their minds. But how keenly this must have struck them during that leveling of burned ruins—hundreds of Japanese laborers straining with straw baskets at their arms, shoulders and legs in sluggish work—when suddenly a bulldozer arrived and finished the task in an instant.

If physical strength is valued, then bears are superior to humans. If shoulder strength is valued, humans cannot rival cows. When running, they lose to horses; their noses cannot match a dog’s keenness. What makes humans truly human lies in possessing wisdom and free will. To those endowed with wisdom and free will, how utterly foreign must sound the dictatorship of those who value only manual labor? For humans to live as humans ought means using this wisdom and free will rightly according to God’s divine intent.

The age of negligence had passed—when humanity, like animals driven solely by instinct, had recklessly plundered natural resources. That single flash and roar of the atomic bomb roused humanity from its slumber. Now had come the era when humanity would properly employ its granted wisdom and free will to successively unearth hidden resources. The time had arrived for wisdom to triumph and physical strength to retreat to its rightful station. It was a good age when humans could live as humans ought. Seiichi and his generation would dwell in that era.

“How enviable.” “So then—the atomic bomb was humanity’s great wake-up call from its slumber.”

Scientists and Religion

“Religion is the path of people who serve God.” “God is truth.” “Therefore we might say religion serves truth.” “Meanwhile, scientists pursue truth through scientific methods.” “That means they strive to correctly perceive what flows from God.” “Both religion and science share truth as their goal.” “They point in the same direction.” “They are not opposed.” “There’s nothing unnatural about scientists having religion—indeed, one could argue true scientists must possess proper faith.” “In fact, most great modern scholars were genuine believers.”

“But it’s also said that modern science advanced because scientists quarreled with the church and made it retreat.”

“That’s empty propaganda peddled by those opposed to the Church.” “It’s not scientists making those claims, but cultural critics who’ve never held a test tube.” “There were scientists who rebelled against God—their hypotheses drew attention briefly, but were later proven wrong and faded away.” “Darwinian evolutionary theory is a prime example.” “No civilized nation today accepts evolution as truth.” “Though I hear some in Japan still believe humans descended from apes…”

“Isn’t it said that the Church teaches the Sun revolves around the Earth?” “Even elementary school students these days know that the Earth revolves around the Sun.”

“That question comes up often, doesn’t it? In the universe, countless celestial bodies exhibit orderly motion. Just what point in the universe should serve as the basis for describing each celestial body’s movement? Any point could serve as your reference frame, couldn’t it? If you take Earth as your base point, the Sun would revolve around Earth; if you take the Sun as your cosmic reference, Earth would revolve around the Sun. Choose the North Pole as your axis, and both Sun and Earth appear to move. There’s no need for geocentrism and heliocentrism to feud so bitterly. We simply use the heliocentric model for convenience—it makes calculations easier.”

“So scientifically speaking, both the heliocentric and geocentric theories are truths?” “Both are hypotheses. Human wisdom is imperfect. God’s wisdom is perfect. The imperfect cannot fully illuminate the perfect. Science strains human intellect to its limits in exploring God’s wisdom. Yet it can only reach approximations of truth. Therefore, what science clarifies remains hypothetical. Approximation points may exist infinitely. Hence science offers multiple hypotheses for each problem. The one seeming nearest truth becomes common sense among ordinary people.”

“But—it’s generally said that truth is revealed through science.”

“That’s what scientific laypeople say.” “And they fundamentally misunderstand the definition of truth.” “Truth is eternal.” “Scientific theories transform with the ages.” “The geocentric theory had its vogue, then the heliocentric theory rose to prominence—then both became equally acceptable…” “Or consider light—first the particle theory was upheld as correct, then the wave theory took precedence… Lately it appears both might hold validity… Yet now we’ve come to suspect both could be mistaken…” “These days, atomic theory has gained considerable traction—but—”

“Is the atom also a hypothesis?” “It’s a hypothesis,” “We use that concept because it currently provides the most convenient explanation—that’s why it’s in fashion now.” “But scientists specializing in this field are beginning to think they’ll have to revise our understanding of atoms.” “Then is it untrue that electrons orbit the atomic nucleus?” “True or false?” “That’s beyond science’s power to determine.” “Yet as atomic research advances, different theories will replace today’s prevailing views.” “That constitutes scientific progress.” “But truth itself remains unmoved from eternity.” “There exists no such thing as progress there.”

“So you’re saying science cannot grasp the truth?” “Science seeks truth. It cannot probe it. It merely seeks. It cannot master it, I tell you.” “Then there’s no meaning in pursuing science, is there?”

“What nonsense! Of course it holds profound meaning! Conduct scientific experiments yourself—their significance becomes clear. Through honest experimentation by your own hands, you’ll discover the exhilaration of pursuing truth. Though science’s power cannot seize truth itself—cannot perceive God’s essence directly—we may still behold His works: the beautiful order, just laws, and ingenious mechanisms through which the all-knowing, all-powerful God sustains and governs creation. Isn’t that alone cause for boundless gratitude? You see—merely observing this order reveals how meticulously God pours His love into securing humanity’s welfare.” “Humans cannot physically embrace the sun,” he continued, “yet we discern its workings. When you learn that daylight’s brilliance, warmth’s comfort, and plants’ growth all stem from solar radiation reaching Earth—then you grasp how vital this star remains to our happiness.” “Primitive peoples of limited wisdom worshipped the sun itself—named it Lord Sun Disc or Sun Deity—venerating crimson orbs as sacred embodiments. Though unable to clasp its form, understanding its functions stirred profound thankfulness.” His voice softened reverently. “But those who know the true God recognize these rays blessing Earth originate not from the sun alone—rather from the living God above who ordains its very operation.” “Thus our praise ascends not to celestial fire,” he concluded firmly, “but to its Divine Master.”

“Is faith absolutely necessary when doing science?” “It is absolutely necessary.”

“Why?” “Faith means being illuminated by the light of truth. A life of faith is one that advances along the right path under this illumination—like a ship moving safely toward its destination port through dark seas, guided by a lighthouse’s beam.” “To receive this light of faith is to accept grace bestowed by God; it cannot be achieved through human effort alone. Now, scientists search for truth in night’s darkness. Those without proper faith—those who deny God—wear black blindfolds. They fail to notice the light truth itself shines upon them, groping in wrong directions until their toil proves futile.” “But those with faith walk bathed in God’s direct light—truth itself—allowing them to advance straight toward truth. Even faithless scientists might stumble toward it by chance... but such certainty eludes them.”

“So does simply having faith make your research more efficient?” “You need proper faith. “Not just any faith will do. “And you must always stay humble. “We must conduct experiments reverently—as if granted the privilege to observe part of the Creator’s works. “In essence, we scientists experimenting in laboratories and monks praying in monasteries share the same pursuit. “Experiments are prayer!”

The Word of God “I hear Jesus performed a miracle to multiply bread.” “If only Jesus would graciously appear here now and multiply this bread for us—I’d be so happy.” “The people who received bread from Jesus thought that way too—that’s why He was displeased.” “Jesus Christ, being a God of love, mercifully healed the sick, raised the dead, and multiplied bread to satisfy multitudes’ hunger out of compassion for those suffering before Him—yet this was done to demonstrate He was the true God; saving humanity from worldly physical suffering was not His primary purpose.” “What Jesus desired was for humanity to pray for eternal life.” “His primary purpose was to grant eternal salvation.—Do you remember?” “When Jesus fasted forty days in the wilderness and felt hunger, the devil approached Him, pointed to nearby stones, and said: ‘If You are omnipotent, why not turn these into bread and eat?’” Then Jesus declared: ‘Man shall not live by bread alone,’ ‘but by every word from God’s mouth,’ and drove the devil away.” “Of course people need food to live.” “But one cannot lead a proper life by food alone.” “One must keep all words from God’s mouth.” “When hungry, Jesus clearly stated this:” “We are now hungry.” “Yet what we seek must not be bread alone.”

“But everyone’s just saying ‘Bread, bread’.” “It can’t be helped—it’s human wretchedness. No matter how much the church strives to spread God’s Word, crowds pass right by its doors and head to the black market. For now, we must first fill stomachs enough that people can calmly listen to God’s Word. In other words, we must provide what’s needed to keep bodies healthy. To phrase it formally—it means saving humanity from material poverty. This is necessary for people to hear God’s Word. These recent thefts—they too stem from scarcity driving desperate crimes. And those family suicides from poverty... Suicide damns souls eternally, but had they possessed means, they’d never have chosen such damnable deaths.—Whose duty is it to provide life’s necessities for the people?”

“That would be the government.”

“I see—the government handles direct rationing.” “But if we consider more fundamentally…” “It must be the producers.”

“Yes.” “It must be the producers.” “But if we consider more fundamentally…” “……”

“Ah, I see—scientists.” “Scientists who steer wisdom toward righteous paths, make discoveries and inventions, and bring new things and new energy into human life.”

“Exactly.” “It is the duty of scientists to lift humanity out of material poverty.” “When people are no longer poor, they can save labor and time.” “They can use this saved time and labor in accordance with the Word of God.” “In other words, they can go to church and engage in God’s work—though to tell the truth, this is actually the reverse.” “True human life consists first of listening to the Word of God; scrambling for food comes second.” When Jesus visited Lazarus’ house in Bethany and spoke there, Martha busied herself preparing a feast for Him and His companions in the kitchen, while Mary sat listening at His side. Martha grew indignant and appealed to Jesus: “Lord, here I am laboring alone while my sister idles in the parlor.” “Please come tell her to help me.” “Do you know what Jesus replied?—‘Martha, Martha—you fret over many things.’” “‘But only one thing matters.’” “‘Mary has chosen what cannot be taken from her—do not disturb her.’” “The one necessity is hearing God’s Word.” “Those who bustle about kitchens fretting over food attend to secondary matters.” “Yet modern people fixate so on their flesh that when urged to first listen for God’s Word, they either stop their ears, turn away—or bare fangs to attack.” “Thus we must accept it: while churches proclaim God’s Word, scientists must labor to enrich human life.”

“But you see, Father. When science flourishes and material life becomes abundant, people become fixated solely on the value of things, and religion is said to decline.” “Such a perspective does exist. However, that is when religion is not the true religion and scientific achievements are misused by human free will. Look at America and Western Europe. Christianity is flourishing. In particular, a place like South America, where life is affluent, is something wonderful. But consider the misery of the people in Eastern Europe who persecute Christianity. When the nation becomes poor, the anti-Christian Communist Party gains strength. Therefore, for the Communist Party to thrive, it becomes necessary to keep the people impoverished. Through various means such as strikes and demonstrations attacking government offices, they are campaigning to keep the people impoverished and prevent the nation from becoming prosperous. You’ve given this considerable thought. To counter this, it is necessary to employ Christian neighborly love by providing food, clothing, housing, and new jobs to the impoverished people being lured into the clutches of the Communist Party while also preaching the Word of God. In other words, the work of scientists is the foundational labor for building God’s Kingdom, isn’t it?”

“How much time and labor can people save through the power of science?”

“Hmm… In times when science was undeveloped, people had to do everything through human labor. That’s why slaves were used. These slaves would go on errands for their masters, chop firewood, cook meals, catch fish… they took care of everything. But now we have telephones, telegraphs, and postal services. The use of slaves is no longer needed. There are electric heaters; there is gas. You can cook by turning a switch or snapping a lighter. There’s no need for slaves to go to the mountains to chop firewood, split and dry that firewood, or clink flintstones to spark a fire. Thanks to whaling ships and refrigeration systems, whales from the South Seas can be eaten there. In this way, it is said that the lifestyle of modern Americans is equivalent to each person utilizing the manpower of eighty individuals. In other words, through the power of science, in America today, eighty times the population’s worth of human time and labor are being saved and freed up. How about that?”

“Wow! That’s incredible!” “Seiichi just made this tea for me, but how many minutes do you think it took?” “Well, I had to draw water from the well, pour it into the kettle, light the hibachi, frantically fan it while waiting for it to boil…”

“What if the scientific equipment had remained undestroyed? —” “Just turn the faucet and flip the switch on the electric heater, and you’re done.” “You see, some minutes would be saved.” “For every single task—this.” “It adds up to something substantial.” “I want to at least eliminate the wasted time Aunt spends standing in line at the distribution center and her leg fatigue.—So then, once humans are freed from material poverty and can obtain what they need to sustain their physical lives as they wish, what do you suppose they would do?”

“After eating their fill, wrapping themselves in warm futons, and listening to radio music, wouldn’t they just end up falling asleep?” “There may well be such people—but we needn’t concern ourselves with such foolish idlers.” “Let’s consider serious people.” “If they no longer have to worry about physical matters—?” “In the end, there’s no other way but to contemplate the soul.” “That’s how it would be, don’t you think? —What is the soul? “What is the happiness of the soul?” “Where does the soul come from?” “What role does the soul play during one’s lifetime?” “In what way must it be preserved?” “When we die, where does the soul go?” “…In the end, it all comes down to the question of God.” “If each and every person comes to think deeply about this problem, the world will become beautiful, you see.”

“I do wish we could create such a world soon.” “To that end, first we scientists must strive with all our might.”

Doctors

The talk about wanting to become a doctor like Father was one thing, but if your reason for becoming one was to do good by saving the lives of dying patients, then your expectations would be dashed. When Father was young and had just become a doctor, he held patients' lives in his hands and grew conceited enough to believe he could freely save or kill them as he pleased. When he took on critically ill patients abandoned by private practitioners, successfully treated them with radium, and was thanked by those discharged, he gained confidence in his skills and became quite arrogant. However, when treatments failed and patients died, he would become convinced he had committed a grave failure and grow utterly dejected. In other words, I convinced myself that whether patients lived or died depended on whether my skills succeeded or failed.

However, as he gradually gained experience, this confidence began to waver. There were times when patients whom doctors had given up on as beyond saving would unexpectedly make full recoveries, and patients whom they had confidently vowed to cure would abruptly die. As he accumulated more experience as a doctor and honed his skills, he gradually came to clearly realize that he did not possess the power to decide whether patients lived or died. Even though I had diagnosed this patient as dying, they did not die and recovered. Or patients whom other private practitioners had given up on as beyond saving would recover. Such cases were instances where the prognosis made by doctors was incorrect. They recovered because they were meant to recover. Even after exhausting every possible means, when patients died, it was because they were meant to die, not due to any failure on the doctor’s part. For doctors to claim they saved a patient’s life or that their treatment failed and caused death is nothing but arrogance. It should be called presumptuous overreach.

God had said, “Which of you by being anxious can add a single cubit to his lifespan?” No matter how much one devised, wasn’t it clearly stated that by human power, one could not extend their lifespan even a single cubit? Not even a single sparrow would fall to the ground unless it was by God’s divine will. As for the precious life of humans—this was by God’s divine will who created it. Doctors’ power could not prevail against it.

Then for what purpose do doctors attend to their patients? One might want to ask. The work of doctors is to suffer together with their patients and to rejoice together with them. If a patient suffered from abdominal pain, the doctor suffered alongside them, earnestly considering how this suffering might be alleviated. When a patient teetered on the brink of death in distress, the doctor too grew anxious, racking their brains to somehow wrest them from death’s grasp. When the patient’s fever broke and they breathed a sigh of relief, the doctor too breathed a sigh of relief. When the patient finally regained their health and offered a word of thanks—*Thanks be to God*—the doctor too returned the thanks with a *Thanks be to God*.……

The more experience he gained as a doctor, the less confidence he had in his skills, until eventually he became like an infant’s mother, anxiously fretting every time he faced a patient. When examining elderly patients, he felt as if examining his own parent; when injecting peers, as if injecting his sibling; when operating on children, as if operating on his own child—it became the same feeling as watching his own blood relative suffer from illness. And then, forgetting everything else, he would restlessly pace about in anxious uncertainty—rereading medical texts, shaking test tubes, scrutinizing X-ray films, selecting injection medications…

As a doctor, Father managed to persevere through nothing more than that. If the work had been merely exerting wisdom and applying honed skills alone, it would have been easy—but doctors do not simply repair bodies. Not only did they have to suffer with patients in their hearts, but their very bodies resonated with their patients’ pain, forcing them to endure agony through their own flesh.

Realizing that ultimately it was God’s divine will that determined a patient’s fate, from then on examining patients became transformed into prayer. Administering injections became prayer, conducting X-rays became prayer—he now performed every task while praying for God’s blessing over his patients.

Specialty According to Teacher Ikeda, who oversees Seiichi’s studies, my son seems determined to follow my path and specialize in atomic medicine—but why has he formed such an aspiration? If he simply settled on this because atomic science has become a popular topic in recent newspapers and magazines, without understanding the broader academic landscape, I would call that rather hasty. This is the field I staked my life researching. The very fact that one would risk their life for it should reveal how profoundly compelling this work truly is. At present, I believe there are scarcely any other disciplines as fascinating as this. Therefore, Seiichi has more than sufficient reason to dedicate his life to this research—work worth pursuing no matter what sacrifices it demands. In this world, many unfortunate souls cling to occupations ill-suited to their nature merely to survive, spending their entire lives in joyless drudgery akin to sucking on a dry towel. I refuse to squander this unrepeatable life in such a manner. The mere thought of trudging unwillingly to work each morning repulses me. By contrast, what immense happiness lies in devoting one’s entire being to beloved work—even with meager income and great sacrifices! Though I now lie confined to bed, should my health improve enough to walk even slightly, I would return at once to that cherished laboratory of mine. Once, I spoke these words to a young man: “The hunger to work surpasses the hunger to eat—the craving to labor outweighs the craving to feed oneself. Choose such work as your specialty.”

However, there was one matter I needed to contemplate. This meant the scientific community never stood still. Science as a whole advanced steadily. When observed closely, certain fields among many might suddenly surface and make striking progress. Some age-old problems were gradually nearing complete solutions. A discipline like atomic science had first emerged fifty years prior and recently achieved dazzling breakthroughs that seized public attention. Discoveries such as penicillin and streptomycin had only come to light in recent times. From this point onward, astonishing new fields would undoubtedly spring forth. This was the work being pursued even now by one or three scientists laboring quietly in some modest laboratory.

Seiichi will graduate from university and decide on his specialty ten years from now. What will become of atomic science ten years from now? And when concluding a lifetime of research some fifty years later, to what degree will atomic science retain its academic allure? When I first began studying atomic science, this field still lacked general recognition in Japan, forcing researchers into significant hardship. Each year saw only a handful of scholars dedicating themselves to this discipline—so few they could be counted on one hand. This is why even I, now considered an established figure in Japan's atomic medicine community, feel we've fallen completely behind when measured against America's recent advancements in this field. To start pursuing atomic medicine now would be akin to joining yesterday's marathon race today.

It was often said that the Japanese excelled at imitating foreigners. In the scientific community too, there remained this tendency to chase after prevailing trends. Papers frequently contained what we called replication studies or supplementary notes. A replication study meant repeating experiments others had first conducted. A supplementary note meant merely plugging minor gaps in largely completed research by others. Great endeavors like inventions and discoveries could never be achieved through such imitative thinking. Wasn't even this current enthusiasm among junior high and high school students to study atomic science rooted in that same imitative mentality?

Shouldn’t young people dare to dream more impossible dreams? Things that ordinary people firmly believe are utterly beyond reach. For instance: methods to dam the Bering Strait; ways to exterminate every last rat; drugs that erase anger; concrete endlessly softened and reshaped; fireproof fuels; wound-mending adhesives; atmospheric electricity harnessed; soles hardened like shoe leather for barefoot walking; techniques to instantly reproduce three-dimensional objects—though photographs flatten reality into two dimensions—perhaps calling this “shatai”... Wouldn’t aspiring to such inventions be far more fitting for young people?

Flying through the sky—the dreams of people from long ago had now been realized. Traversing beneath the sea, transmitting voices across vast distances, showing their working selves to people across the world—eating ice in summer, undergoing surgery without pain, exterminating lice, preventing plagues... These things we now perform in our daily lives without any surprise or hesitation were treasured dreams that people of old had longed for yet could never attain. Young scientists must hold fast to dreams. And not just any dream—a single one. Let them embrace a grand and challenging dream—one so immense they cannot know whether it will be realized within their lifetime. And let them dedicate their lives to that single dream.

Atomic science already seems too antiquated to be called a dream worthy for young people to hold.

Scientists Miners who unearthed gemstones led lives diametrically opposed to those who adorned themselves with jewels. Under bright chandeliers—where noblewomen danced intoxicated by fine wine and joyous music—who had discovered those glittering stones? Where? How? Laborers entered gaping mine shafts in uninhabited African mountains, headlamps guiding them to tunnel ends where they swung pickaxes. They poured sharp-eyed scrutiny into every pebble while digging through fresh soil with full strength. The will to unearth beauty; faith in inevitable discovery; perseverance refusing cessation; stamina for relentless digging—they might have died without ever finding gems. Many predecessors perished mid-quest within those mines. Yet successors clambered over literal corpses to grasp inherited pickaxes. Ignorant of who might use their unearthed jewels—or how—they kept digging while praying: “Let these never become instruments of sin.”

――Scientists are laborers who produce civilization. In laboratories where no one watches, they exert their mental and physical strength to diligently uncover civilization. However, they pray that these inventions and discoveries unearthed in this way will not be used for sin. Cultural life, civilized society. When humanity lives in bright, cheerful convenience, scientists—poor and suffering—produce cultural assets with sweat streaming down their chests, the tips of their noses, and their palms.

Many modern people who flaunted their cultured lives were merely consumers of culture. They sank deep into sofas, sipped cocoa or lemon squash, and listened to Tchaikovsky flowing from an electric phonograph—yet the money used to buy these furnishings for their cultured lives had merely been earned by servicing cultural assets from right to left... Producers had no connection with consumer life, and consumers did not know the hardships of productive life.

＊　　　　　　　＊ A white lily bloomed in the garden, and they placed it by my pillow. In this third year of the atomic wasteland, flowers finally began blooming normally again. They had bloomed last year too, but grotesquely. The beauty and preciousness of lilies seen after so long— What a magnificent work of God! Truly, they surpassed even King Solomon in all his glory. How lovely—how utterly lovely—lilies are. Were one to create flowers, let them be lilies. Let them be white lilies. Every visitor praised these lilies.

On the third day, a group of schoolgirls presented a bundle of lilies. How many flowers were there? At first glance, they numbered no fewer than twenty. They tossed them in heaps into a large vase. They were no longer flowers. It was a single glowing mass. Rather than beautiful, it was dazzling. I couldn't even praise them—I was overwhelmed. I couldn't keep gazing—I was intoxicated. A friend came to visit; before even opening the entrance door, I heard him murmur, "Oh, there are lilies here." And the moment he stepped inside, he whispered, "What a lovely fragrance."

The scientific community of a nation stood precisely like this. How truly pitiful it was when merely one or two scientists became praised spectacles—admired curiosities turned into society’s passing topics. In lands teeming with hundreds upon thousands of exceptional scientists—nations that had borne multiple Nobel laureates—no single researcher stood conspicuous. Yet those realms overflowed with science’s fragrance. Its perfume permeated even beyond their borders.

The Purpose of Life

A tadpole grows legs, its tail shortens, and eventually becomes a frog. There are neither distinguished frogs nor foolish frogs—all are the same. Born completely equal, they become completely equal frogs. Yet these frogs cannot establish a social system. Many frogs of equal strength gather together, doing nothing but clamoring noisily all night long. If all humans had equal abilities, could such a convenient society have been formed? If all of humanity were uniformly at the prime minister's caliber? If all of humanity were uniformly trusting souls? In either case, they would merely gather and make a racket without accomplishing anything. Is it not precisely because human innate abilities are unequal that social systems function well?

While it might indeed have been convenient for human society’s smooth functioning that people were born with differing innate qualities—wasn’t this a loss for those born less intelligent, physically weak, or into poverty? If one accepted that God had lovingly created each individual—did this mean His love came in greater and lesser measures? Was there not unfairness in divine love? While geniuses effortlessly made grand discoveries to worldly acclaim—dullards could not even enter advanced schools despite endless study.

Even if one were intelligent and physically robust, should their household struggle daily to subsist, they could not cultivate their talents and would inevitably wither away in the mountains.

Humans are first created when they come to dwell in their mother’s womb; before that, they are nothing at all. There is no such thing as a previous life. If there were such a thing as previous lives, one might accept that inherent fortune or misfortune at birth manifests from karmic causality—but since no previous lives exist, the differences in human innate conditions are not the individual’s responsibility, but are entirely determined by God’s divine will. Why does God permit such unfairness?

——

When Jesus and His disciples approached the Temple in Jerusalem, they found a man blind from birth sitting there, begging for alms. The disciples turned to Jesus and asked, “Was this man born blind because of someone’s sin—his own sin or his parents’ sin?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned. He was born blind so that God’s works might be displayed in him.”

He answered and graciously performed a miracle to make his eyes see. What society commonly perceives as misfortunes—illness, poverty… these are all so that God’s glorious works may be manifested through them in time. If such people simply maintain pure hearts, God’s works will surely manifest in time. It is not only those born into misfortune—even though the innate circumstances each person has received differ, God’s works will surely manifest upon them in time. The diversity of innate circumstances exists so that God’s works may manifest in various forms. Each and every human being is completely equal as those upon whom God’s glorious works shall manifest.

For humans to achieve success and become great politicians, great scholars, or wealthy individuals—these are not life’s purpose in God’s eyes. That is life’s purpose as seen through the eyes of those who do not know God. The true purpose of life is “to know God, to love God, to serve God, and finally to attain heavenly happiness.”

To achieve this purpose, innate differences were completely irrelevant. Even those who were blind could fully achieve this purpose. People of limited ability and geniuses could equally achieve it. It could not be said that one could not know God because they were poor. If one spent their life without knowing God, then no matter how great a general they became or how many nations they conquered, they could not be said to have achieved life’s purpose. If one knew God but did not love Him and became a friend of the devil, then no matter how great a thinker they became or how their name remained in history, they were someone who had not achieved life’s purpose. Even if one loudly professed “God, God” with their mouth, those whose daily lives served the devil could not achieve life’s purpose.

Neither Seiichi nor Kayano possessed any genius-like qualities. They had been granted only ordinary talents. Moreover, the household was not wealthy. Yet God’s works would surely manifest through them. Anticipate this, he urged them, and live on loving God with pure hearts. Never lose sight of life’s true purpose. ——

Vocation After death comes judgment from God. What will matter then isn’t “what you did” in life—it’s “how you did it.” No one asks “Whose child were you?” They ask “How did you serve your parents as their child?” They don’t ask “What was your job?” at all—only “How faithfully did you work?” When you reach heaven—whether you were noble or commoner, wise or foolish, strong or weak—all such distinctions vanish.

Even after entering heaven, employees do not bow before executives. Those who worked diligently and properly as employees would likely be seated in higher positions than executives who had been somewhat negligent. And they would likely not even consider whether they had been executives or employees. The arrogance of executives lasts only until death, the self-importance of professors only while they live, the distinctions between millionaires' wives and tenement landladies exist solely in this world—in the next world, there are no ministers or clerks, captains or cooks, princesses or nurses, principals or janitors, grand champions or the disabled, politicians or craftsmen. In God's eyes, He does not consider the type of occupation, the level of wages, outward appearances, popularity, social status, or scale of work. Instead, He examines whether each individual chose an occupation that fully utilized their given talents, whether they remained faithful to that occupation, and whether they manifested His glory. Based on this evaluation, the honor bestowed upon souls is determined.

In this world, there are often men who play the hero, grandly declaring, “I need no money, no honor, no degrees, no life,” yet remain poor while doing nothing—but there are even more lazy people who cannot earn money, attain honorable positions, or even bring themselves to study, yet act high and mighty with nothing but empty words. The person who can say “I don’t need money” must actually hold great wealth in their hands. The person who says “I don’t need a degree” must have already published research papers worthy of a degree.

In God’s eyes, degrees, honors, and wealth hold no meaning; no occupation carries inherent significance. Whether one be a minister or professor, janitor or security guard—it makes no difference whatsoever. The essential truth remains: so long as each person embraces an occupation that fully employs their bestowed talents—loving God, serving God, and manifesting His glory—any vocation becomes acceptable. Even one whose sole work involves patrolling rice field embankments while shouting “Hoi! Hoi!” to chase sparrows—if such a person dedicates their life to this humble task for their village’s benefit—will receive full marks in life’s ledger through divine judgment. A man endowed with ministerial potential who attains only vice-ministerial rank due to scholarly negligence would merit ninety points before God. Thus in heaven’s hierarchy, the sparrow-chaser ascends above the vice-minister. This precedence isn’t established posthumously—the sparrow-chaser already occupies the higher position while both yet live. No individual’s worth should derive from their occupation. Human value is measured solely by how completely they actualize their granted abilities. To illustrate: were a bank president’s failed investments to burden depositors, a meticulous clerk who never errs in counting straw sandals would hold greater merit.

Being intelligent is nothing to boast about at all. That is not something to boast about, for it is God who has given that person those talents to exercise for the sake of all human society—it is not their own achievement. Even if one becomes an intelligent doctor, professor, or minister, that is not their own achievement. That too is nothing more than a position necessary for human society. And because in that position must be placed a person suited to it.

Eternal Life

We are living. The year, month, and day we are born; the year, month, and day we die. In other words, we live in time. When keeping a diary, one writes entries like: April 29th - wake at 5:30, Mass at 6:00, church sports day from 8:30... This is life in time.

Yet even as we live within time, we are also living eternal life. Eternity does not mean time stretching on infinitely. Eternity differs in nature from time. Eternity is the experience of a direct relationship between myself and God. In other words, doing good that aligns with God’s will is to live eternally; doing evil that defies God’s will is to die eternally. To put it gently, eternity is being recorded in God’s ledger with ◎ and × marks.

Yet within our lives, there are many things neither marked with ◎ nor × in God’s ledger—matters that are neither good nor evil. For instance: sleeping at night, walking roads, eating meals, gazing at clouds, breathing, scratching an itch, sneezing, watching baseball, listening to the radio… Such acts might linger in diaries but leave no mark in God’s ledger. In God’s ledger, they remain blank. Time will cease on the Last Day. The afterlife is no mere extension of this world’s time. Human diaries—what we call history—will vanish without trace alongside the world’s end. Temporal life too will conclude. Only eternal life’s record endures.

When you die and stand before God, if the record of your life shown to you were blank……you would not know for what purpose you were born human. There must be many such people. Because even things considered good by society will not be recorded as good in God’s ledger if done for one’s own sake. Studying seriously—this is not a bad thing. However, if you study to become an honor student and be praised, or to pass exams and obtain a license so you can make a living, then it has no relation to God and thus cannot be considered good. Toiling diligently to grow rice, pulling carts, mining coal—no matter how hard you work if it is merely to feed yourself, this is life in time and not eternal life. Even if one donates large sums of money to orphanages or treats many patients free of charge, if these acts are done to make their name known to the world and have people call them a philanthropist or apostle of love, they will not be recorded as good in God’s ledger. It remains blank in God’s ledger. Many heroes, great figures, artists, religious leaders, politicians, beauties, and scholars have left their names in history—but how many of them have truly been recorded as “good” in God’s ledger? Since many of those people likely dedicated their lives for their own honor, they have merely lived in time—though grandly inscribed in human history, they will vanish without a trace along with the end of the world and time.

This lifetime is a workplace for storing up treasures in heaven. Day after day, hour after hour, moment after moment—while living in time, we must devise ways to live eternally. We must accumulate small eternal treasures. We must constantly perform small good deeds and have them recorded as “good, good” in God’s ledger. ——Then, how can small treasures be created? Whether the deeds one does become treasures or not is determined by the intention with which one does them. “For God’s glory alone!”

To act with this resolve becomes eternal, for it establishes a direct relationship with God. No matter how small the act—whether picking up a stray straw, clearing a pebble from the path, or trimming overgrown nails—if done solely for God’s glory, He regards it as good. Even when sleeping at night, if you resolve to rest in order to heal today’s fatigue and rise tomorrow with renewed strength to labor for God’s glory alone, this too shall be counted as good. Those neutral acts I mentioned earlier—eating meals, breathing, sneezing—when performed for God’s glory alone, transform into eternal merits. Always endeavor to do only what brings glory to God. Refrain from what does not bring glory to God. If you persist in maintaining this resolve, you shall attain eternal life.

And what is most grateful is that this way of life can be practiced by anyone, no matter their circumstances. God is truly fair. If work that benefits society and the nation must be done to be deemed good by God, then a patient like your father would have to despair completely in this regard. Not only can I be of no use to society or the nation, but I only become a burden. However, when it comes to doing things for God’s glory, there are countless tasks even a patient can perform. And I feel the significance of being alive. There is no room for feelings of despair or wishing for an early death to arise.

For God’s glory alone!

There are countless things to do. How enjoyable life is—.

Flesh and Blood I had known since my student days that bone pain was one of the characteristic symptoms of myeloid leukemia patients, but now that I myself was experiencing it firsthand, I could no longer describe this symptom with such clinical detachment as I did in those days. Medical textbooks truly lacked compassion. The very act of reducing this pain to written words was itself heartless. The pain in my bones was truly an indescribable, unpleasant sensation. If it had been severe enough to make me break into a clammy sweat and groan in agony, there would at least have been some sense of challenge. If it had resembled neuralgia—something that contorted one’s face so dramatically—then I could have spoken of it to others. It neither clearly hurt nor didn’t hurt—unable to pinpoint where—a vague, lingering pain resided deep within my entire body. Even when I lay perfectly still, my bones themselves generated pain. If touched, they throb dully. A mere tap would have made me leap up. The most painful were the tibia, then the sternum; the rest were more or less similar, but since the ribs lay just beneath a thin layer of skin, they throbbed dully whenever anything brushed against them. I once had a body that weighed 71 kilograms and had been toned through sports, but lately I had grown so thin that you could count my bones, making even the weight of the futon resonate through them.

Another source of ache was my abdomen. My spleen had expanded aggressively, pressing against my stomach, intestines, and heart so that little food stayed down, my bowels moved poorly, and I suffered shortness of breath. It resembled a woman in her tenth month of pregnancy breathing with her shoulders. Whereas pregnancy concludes happily with a baby’s birth, my spleen showed no signs of shrinking. The blood circulation in both legs had deteriorated, bringing mild spasms.

——And so I groaned. When they rubbed me, it provided some relief. This rubbing method was tricky. If they rubbed too strongly, it affected the bones. It had to be done gently. I thought I should just do it myself if it was so troublesome, but my abdomen had bulged out like a wooden fish drum, making my body unbendable and my hands unreachable. When adults rubbed me, it instead became painful. Thus when visitors came, I couldn't inadvertently groan. Only children were suited for the task of rubbing. Both Seiichi's and Kayano's hands had soft flesh, supple core bones, and weak strength—making them most suitable for rubbing. When my two children rubbed me, it felt as if I were rubbing myself with my own hands at will.—Could this be what they call flesh and blood?

As they continued rubbing me, before I knew it, the pain faded from my mind and I drifted into a pleasant sleep. After dinner, the children were the first to fall asleep. Their rubbing hands gradually began pausing intermittently, then stopped altogether, until finally a small weight settled onto my legs and I heard peaceful breathing.

Severed Branch The climbing roses by the gate bloomed so profusely that their branches drooped. These were branches they had received from the seminary in the spring following the war’s devastation and placed in the still-unrebuilt ruins where no house yet stood. By the third spring, it had already grown into a lush thicket, and now, everyone passing by the gate would think “How lovely,” delighting their hearts as they passed. The people living in this atomic wasteland seemed to have finally found the leisure to appreciate flowers. From now on, they would plant flowers at every household. They wanted to quickly clear away the roof tiles and turn this place into a village blooming with flowers.

Kayano cut off a branch and placed it in the vase by my pillow for me. In the morning, the bud had swelled; by noon, it began to open, and by evening, it had blossomed into a fresh deep red. By then, the next bud had swelled as if a pencil tip had been dipped in crimson. Thus, one after another, flowers bloomed by the pillow. When observed closely, the leaves too grew larger. A branch of the climbing rose in the vase continued to grow just like its parent plant by the gate, blooming beautiful flowers that attract insects in order to bear fruit.

As I gazed upon this severed branch，there showed no indication it would wither pitifully within four or five days. It overflowed with raw vitality. It brimmed with unyielding hope. Indeed，it labored vigorously without pause. The stem diligently drew water from the vase. The young leaves' cells multiplied ceaselessly. Within each swelling bud，tremendous force concentrated on crafting crimson pigment. Yet since Kayano’s own hand had snapped this branch，no matter how grandly its leaves expanded，five days marked its utmost limit. Even were it to bloom，withering before fruition remained its certain fate. Still—the climbing rose halted not its growth. Flower after flower it brought forth，persisting without end.

“Even the wild grass that exists today and tomorrow will be cast into the furnace—if God has adorned them thus, do not worry about tomorrow.”

Nyokodo

April 30, 1948; I completed this book at Nyokodo. The hill over there was Urakami Cathedral. The red-brick cathedral had crumbled, its southern wall standing perilously upright. A group of believers were creating a flowerbed in its front garden. The new wooden cathedral had been completed for over a year and had already settled into the landscape. In front of it, one level down, the wooden walls of the community center—whose completion had just been celebrated the day before—were gleaming. At the entrance of the community center, about a hundred boys had gathered for Catholic catechism practice.

The area where the town once stood transformed into a vast wheat field, with makeshift shelters dotting the expanse where the wheat began to take on a faint yellow tinge. The wheat harvest would soon begin.

The Nyokodo where I slept was a two-tatami single-room house. Beside my bed lay only one tatami mat—that became Seiichi and Kayano's dwelling. This had been made possible through the kindness of Father Nakata, Father Nakajima, and Elder Fukahori from the church, built by members of the Catholic Carpenters' Union under Mr. Yamada's guidance. For God's glory alone I had entered this house with joy. To my ailing body far from home on life's journey, the Urakami villagers' love—each treating me as themselves—moved me profoundly; I named this house Nyokodo ["Love-Thy-Neighbor Hut"] and offered ceaseless prayers of gratitude.

Children of the Ruins — Drawn by Nagai Takashi

A father afflicted with a fatal illness, two young would-be orphans—these were the residents of Nyokodo. Where was the correct path for these three people to live on? —I had searched for it through suffering, agony, thought, prayer, and striving. What I had thought, what the children had done, what I had told the children, and what I had written down for them to read later since they likely wouldn’t understand now—I wrote all of that exactly as it was in this book.

This was a record of my home. It was not public. It might not have been a way of thinking or living accepted by society at large. However, I secretly thought that the souls of those parents of orphans—those who had passed away in an instant, leaving their beloved children behind in the burned ruins—might perhaps resonate with it. If there were souls that resonated, this book would serve as a voice for those deceased people. From where I lay, I saw Seiichi carrying roof tile fragments in a basket to discard them, while Kayano arranged rose flowers on shards of Arita-ware and played house alone. When this brother and sister grew up, how would they critique my thoughts? In fifty years, they would be far older than I was then, so perhaps the two of them would gather to open this book and say something like, “Father’s ideas were rather youthful back then,” clattering their dentures as they talked.