Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The Amur River separating Blagoveshchensk and Heihe gave a Japanese person who had grown up gazing at the sea the impression of looking at the Kanmon Strait between Shimonoseki and Moji. Two cities glared at each other from the edges of the banks, confronting one another.

The river, with a broader expanse than any strait, flowed richly like the sea, majestically along the border. On the opposite bank existed the only proletarian country on Earth—a land where production was free from exploitation, a new socialist society was being built, and workers could labor for their own sake. A young woman who had tied her hair with a red cloth walked with a lively gait like a man's. A red freight car moved toward Pochikareo. This side of the river was Chinese territory.

The Amur River, bearing endless sea-like richness and majestic grandeur, meandered sinuously for two thousand ri along the border between Siberia and China, flowing from distant Zabaykalsky Krai and Hulun Lake.

It was early November. Ice floes began drifting. Jostling and jostling across the entire river surface, the ice floes swarmed like debris scattered all at once, flowing away. One day, they came to an abrupt halt. The steamship that had wintered over became trapped in the ice like a single geta sandal forgotten on the water. The paddlewheel at the ship's side, sunk into the mud, resembled a carp floundering on land—utterly immobilized. Over that very river where until four or five days prior people had been crossing by boat, a carriage pulled by two horses now raced across with wheels clattering vigorously. A Chinese person in winter clothing passed by.

The "strait" separating the Soviet city of Blagoveshchensk and the Chinese city of Heihe was filled in from that day onward. Black sledges, cargo horse-drawn carriages, and workers on foot slid joyfully across the ice like livestock suddenly released from their pens, freely and frequently crossing from one bank to the other.

“Good day!” “Comrade!” “Let us hear the speeches!” Longing to set foot on Soviet soil, Chinese, Koreans, and workers clad in Russian-style winter boots crowded into the city’s club.

On November 7th and January 21st, the workers would cross the river and go over. On March 8th, the women would go over.

“I’m Japanese. May I go over?” “Very well.” The Japanese man had just passed twenty years of age. He could not suppress his desire to go to Moscow. He had been living in Heihe for a year. Before long, he had come to know many people in Blagoveshchensk as well. Along the Amur River appeared Chinese men who made their business breaking through patches of ice to collect river water welling up from below and giving it to thirsty horses pulling cargo carts. No matter how thirsty they became, they couldn’t break through the ice floes to let the horses drink. Chinese men would take a single copper coin each time and give the horses water to drink. To keep the water from freezing, they constantly stirred and slapped the surface with long poles, splashing and churning it vigorously. He was an old man with a beard streaked with white, icicles dangling from it.

For customs officers and border guards, that time of year was always the most grueling. They could least afford to let their guard down. Those coming from Heihe carried nothing and sought nothing, arriving solely to see the collective farms of the proletarian nation, the activities of the shock troops, and the demonstrations of young workers. That was how it seemed. However, among them were those who hid twenty or thirty pairs of silk stockings beneath their long Chinese coats. Under their hats, they concealed expensive Tenshi-in cosmetics—perfume whose fragrance wafted four or five ken ahead. And when they disappeared into one of the cities and returned tonight, they would hide ruble banknotes beneath their clothes instead of stockings or cosmetics. There were such cases.

II

In the northern border’s winter, night fell early.

With roofs sprouting sharply upward like bamboo shoots, the city of Blagoveshchensk was already enveloped in electric radiance as intense as a political demonstration by three-thirty.

Darkness was closing in on the outskirts. The ice of the Amur River—three to eight shaku thick—groaned as it sought to grow thicker still, swollen boils of water seeping up from the depths to breach the surface. The border guards inside the watchtower heard the merciless sound of cold creeping in from nowhere.

Outside the double-paned window, the Amur River's frozen surface—rough as weathered rock with an unyielding texture—glittered beneath the starry sky.

The watchtower was built approximately one Russian verst (about nine chō) upstream from the landing. In summer, high-heeled white women’s shoes, sheer silk stockings gleaming cherry-pink, and parasols with split bamboo frames were secretly transported by boat from the opposite shore. There, the current was at its slowest. And due to the opposite bank’s shoreline protruding thirty meters outward in a gently curving arc, boats cast into the current would be pushed along by the flow on their own, arriving as though drawn toward this riverbank. The geographical conditions were favorable. The Chinese, having waited for the border guards to fall into deep slumber, made use of these natural advantages.

In the past, much alcohol had been brought in from this point. It was an era when vodka production was prohibited. The Chinese would fill hollow tinplate containers—custom-made corset-like devices that fit snugly against the human torso—with alcohol, strap them to their bare skin, don clothes over them, and come up from the riverbank with feigned innocence. They mixed water with alcohol and sold it as fire liquor. Since the capitalist era, they had gotten the lumpen—those who clung to the delusion that drinking oneself into oblivion was proletarian—drunk on liquor. Through alcohol, they made them forget their arduous struggle. Then, hiding placer gold dug up from Zeya in their pockets instead, they crossed the river again and carried it out of the country.

Now, alcohol was no longer scarce. It was being produced domestically. Now, they were busy implementing the Five-Year Plan. To boost efficiency, workplaces competed against workplaces. They had no time to produce luxury goods or cosmetics. They were in no position to concern themselves with such things. The cold air split with a groaning, creaking sound. Vashka threw birch logs into the pechka stove and pressed close to the window to listen. Through the double-paned window, far in the distance, the roofs of Heihe’s rows of heavy Chinese-style houses appeared black. Everything was nothing but hardened snow and ice. Parts were white and glittered brilliantly.

Again came the creaking groan of straining ice, followed by the sharp clatter of a horse—shod with frost-gripping irons—kicking at the frozen surface. “They’re coming.” “They’re coming again!” Vashka pressed his eyes against the double-paned window and peered outside. Shishikov, who had been reading *The Year of Great Transformation*, raised his head and twisted the switch. The electric light went out. The watchtower was plunged into total darkness. And in contrast, the frigid air and icy nightscape outside became clearly visible in the window.

A horse-drawn sled crossing the river came into view. From an intuition born of his experience as a border guard, Vashka immediately sensed through his nerves that it was not a labor union worker’s sled but a smuggler’s. Grabbing his rifle, he pushed open the door and leapt outside. The moment the door opened, a stinging cold surged into the cabin. Shishikov also stood up.

“Stop! Who’s there?”

The Chinese, though oppressed and driven out, continued targeting capitalist elements clinging to their last breaths, kulaks, and women with underdeveloped class consciousness to smuggle in luxury goods. They would charge five to eight rubles for a single pair of silk stockings and make their way back. And beyond the border, they spread lies alleging material shortages plaguing the Soviet Union. On one hand, there were Chinese boys in Heihe on the opposite shore who imitated the Pioneers’ anti-alcohol and anti-religion demonstrations, staging their own protests. Yet on the other hand, there were inevitably Chinese who—like sparrows swooping to steal grain at every unguarded moment—plotted smuggling operations and the illicit export of ruble banknotes. This duality filled Vashka with resentment.

“Stop! Who’s there?” The man on the sled—his face hidden from ears to nose under a winter cap—had already spotted the danger through narrowed eyes before the shouted commands reached him. “Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!” Vashka crunched forward across the ice. Shishikov followed. Six or seven ken now separated them from the sled. One man gripped reins on the driver’s bench; two more hunched behind. Two horses stood harnessed. The sled seemed to pause. Then came a sharp tongue-click from the driver. The horses pivoted hard. The whip cracked down—a vicious snap against hindquarters.

“Don’t run!” Vashka immediately dropped into a prone position and aimed his rifle. Those who disobeyed orders and fled were fair game to shoot—such were the regulations.

From the sled came shouts of abuse in Chinese. Vashka pulled the trigger. He felt the recoil. A low groan rang out. At the same time, the sled shot forward with flying speed. Next, Shishikov fired.

The gunshot’s echo faded away as though swallowed by the frozen darkness.

“Damn it! They got away!” “They got away!”

III

A Mongolian horse neighed outside.

Wu, the driver, called out in a soothing voice and stopped the horse. The horse shuddered violently, shaking the harness on its back. It seemed the sled that had just set out moments ago had turned back.

From outside came pleading knocks at the door. The boy dashed over. He unlocked it.

Suddenly, with a thudding commotion, two Chinese men entered, supporting Tagawa—dressed in Chinese clothes—by both shoulders.

“Boss, Tagawa got hit by the Russians.”

The Chinese man Wu Qinghui peered out from behind the velvet curtain at the room’s entrance with the debased look of a habitual criminal, fixing his gaze on Fukazawa. Fukazawa glared at Tagawa, who hung between the shoulders of two Chinese men, his face contorted in pain.

“What? You’re spacing out!” “It’s not like it’s summer now! Getting caught in their patrol net—did you deliberately steer toward where their hut stands?”

“Lately, Boss, the river’s just frozen over—there’s no path.” “It’s like mountain rock.” “At night, it’s even harder to get through.” “You’re lying! It’s ’cause you took the lazy way instead of detouring further upstream.” “Boss, you’ve never been there.” “You don’t know how dangerous it is, how hard it is to get through.” “You do nothing and know nothing.”

“When it comes to work that involves slipping through danger, I’m the one who’s better at it.” As if wanting to say exactly that, Wu glanced sidelong at Fukazawa—who had plopped into an armchair and was chewing gum—and gave a mocking grin.

“That’s right. They say you do nothing and know nothing.” Tagawa repeated in a groaning voice, his words broken between labored breaths. The waist where the bullet had struck throbbed and burned as though fire had been lit. “Tch! Nothing can be done, I guess. You bastards—Wu and Guo, the two of you—set out at dawn! If you don’t pull it off this time and the cargo gets confiscated, I won’t stand for it!” “Right…” The sled loaded with cargo was pulled from the gate to beside the stable. On the sled’s blanket, Tagawa’s blood had fallen and frozen solid. The Chinese man unloaded the cargo of cardboard boxes, then carelessly flipped up the blanket with his greasy hands. As usual, he was grinning slyly to himself.

With a “Hee-yah!” shout, another sled came charging in with great momentum. As the reins were pulled and the horse came to a stop, a young, stocky Chinese man—his fur winter cap frosted over—leapt down. He had finished a job and returned. “What do you want to do?”

[Guo] asked Wu Qinghui, who was rolling up the blanket. “Tagawa’s the one who got hit,” Wu said with a cheerful laugh. “You’re bound to take a hit sometimes—ain’t that how it goes? Ain’t this where the thrill’s at?” “Look, we’ve done this much!”

The young man grabbed a handful of banknote bundles from his pocket as if they were scraps of paper. And then, he mentioned that the ruble exchange rate had dropped again. “Let it drop—we’ll just hike our prices.” “What’s it matter? We don’t give a damn.” Wu Qinghui was truly a man who seemed born to lurk in shadows and skulk through dangerous work. There are things one must never do. Wu was precisely the sort who’d slink through darkness to flout those prohibitions, savoring their twisted thrill. Once a pickpocket filches some dandy’s pocket watch and leaves him red-faced, that addictive rush sticks—he’ll swipe again and again. And he’d relish that delicious mischief. He had that very pickpocket spirit coursing through him.

For Fukazawa Yoko, the smuggler, a man like Wu Qinghui was absolutely indispensable.

Fukazawa was a man who considered Siberia his colony and scoured it for concessions.

Ruble banknotes were prohibited from being taken abroad under Soviet Union law. Therefore, bringing them from abroad into the country was also prohibited. Travelers exchanged yen for rubles at the border, and when leaving the country, had their rubles exchanged back into yen. It was exchanged at a rate of 1 ruble to 1 yen and 40 sen. However, one time, Fukazawa took many banknotes he had acquired at 1 ruble and 21 sen and brought them from abroad into the country. And when exiting, he exchanged them at 1 yen and 40 sen and escaped smugly. The one who ended up swallowing the loss was the Soviet Union. He had been using such methods since long ago. Back when Japan was dispatching troops, he swiftly reinvented himself as a government-contracted merchant, selling oil at twelve yen per can—three times the domestic price of three yen. He charged fifteen sen for a single block of tofu. Using Russian carriages, he took a fifty percent cut. He became a brothel owner. He purchased timber rights and sold them to companies at a markup.

When the Japanese military withdrew, the Soviet Union’s economic power was restored even in Siberia. Socialist construction began. Those attempting to profit in Siberia were expelled. Even so, Fukazawa tried desperately to cling to Siberia—crossing over to this side of the Amur River. He turned to vodka smuggling. When vodka became untenable, he next baited capitalist elements within the Soviet Union with luxury goods.

Cosmetics, pearl-studded golden earrings, butterfly-shaped pins, silk stockings, enameled high-heeled shoes—such high-value, low-bulk items were loaded onto river steamers in Harbin, carried down the Songhua River, then from Lahosusi ascended the Amur River to Heihe. Those goods temporarily took rest within Fukazawa Yoko’s warehouse. Then, methodically, by the hands of the Chinese, they passed through the border and sneaked into Soviet territory.

This had a dual significance. It was not merely about reaping the exorbitant profits inherent to smuggling. The flesh-toned, translucent soft silk stockings and enamel-coated high heels of women’s shoes summoned back bourgeois-era parlors, decadent dances, and the unsettling nightmares of troubled awakenings. Perfumes extracted from flowers, flesh-toned face powders, and rouge no larger than a fingertip priced at six rubles stood diametrically opposed to the organization of collective farms, workers’ schools, and shock troop activities. Going out of their way to bring that in had to carry meaning. The hands of bourgeois nations trembling at socialist society’s construction were at work there. Behind the Chinese smugglers detested by the border guards lay XXX.

The ruble banknotes—exchanged for goods and smuggled out at around twelve sen each—were absorbed into Vladivostok’s Korean Bank, the sole location within Soviet territory engaged in such illegal trade. The Korean Bank then sold them to fishing companies holding Kamchatka fishing rights at eighteen to twenty sen per ruble.

Therefore, the fishing companies paid lease fees to the Soviet Union using ruble banknotes priced at one-fifth the standard rate. And they cozily lined their pockets and swaggered about. Behind the smugglers stood not only the Harbin bourgeoisie who supplied their goods. Capitalism’s ×× lurked. How could they sever the roots of these assaults on the Soviet Union from this flank?!

Wu Qinghui pulled out the sleigh with Guo Jincai after timing that hour before dawn when even border guards began dozing off. The sleigh creaked its runners against trampled snow and set out.

The wind lay sleeping. The cold grew even more intense. The frozen air inhaled through nostrils transcended mere cold to become painful. After about fifteen minutes, the sleigh turned back and returned.

Wu, twisting his left arm and cradling it under his chin with his other hand, entered with his forehead gathered into fine wrinkles.

“Back already?” Tagawa, unable to sleep from the pain in the injured back, called out while hoping someone would give him water. “Is there any vodka left?” “Tch!” “They got me too!” “So you tried getting in through that spot after all?” “No—we went much further up. But there were border guards there too.” “There are border guards anywhere. It’s only natural they’d be on watch.” “Hmm, hmm. We got nailed good.”

Wu Qinghui let out a sound as though being shot amused him. The vodka remained in the corner of the cupboard. Wu poured it over his wound. The alcohol seared into the wound. Then he gritted his teeth, let out a strained “Nghh,” and shook his head violently from side to side.

“What rotten luck! Two men injured in a single night!” “You bastards took shortcuts—picking routes crawling with soldiers!” “This cargo needs moving fast.” “Look! This damn urgent letter came!”

In the morning, Fukazawa Yoko—the old man—entered the Chinese room with sleep-crusted eyes. Wu Qinghui and Tagawa lay on their beds groaning from wound pain while drifting in and out of consciousness. The old man suddenly kicked the water-fetching petroleum can beside the pechka stove. “Hurry up with this cargo! This! An urgent letter came!”

He waved Kuznetsov’s coded letter over Tagawa’s head. In it, alphabet letters and Arabic numerals were arranged like bent nails—each character fragmented, one by one, totaling about thirty in all. Kuznetsov was a kulak living in a northern village on the opposite bank. He would buy up breadcrumbs and cheese, then sell them to workers at inflated prices. He was a man who habitually engaged in such practices. He was universally loathed by everyone.

“Heh heh. Let him take it himself then.”

After the old man left, Wu Qinghui muttered.

There were many times when Tagawa genuinely felt that life beyond the river was far better than what he had known in Japan or even on the northern banks of northern Manchuria’s rivers. It defied logic. When walking through town and seeing Russian youths his own age with faces utterly devoid of shadows—that was when the thought struck him. They strode along with long steps, plodding heavily yet completely carefree. It was this sight that made him think it. Compared to those faces—what of my own circumstances, forced to skulk about like a criminal, constantly wary of prying eyes!

They didn’t need to have money. They didn’t have to worry about losing their jobs. They were provided with all the food and clothing they needed from the purchasing cooperative. We did anything—dangerous things, things we didn’t even care for—just to get money. Even in the mainland, it was the same. Even in Manchuria, it was the same. However, they worked not to take money, but to build their own lives. They weren’t working for others—they were working for themselves!

Labor students walk companionably, books tucked under their arms. That alone now holds him in rapt fascination.

When night came, Guo—uninjured—and the young boy had a standing conversation in the shadow of the door. The warehouse key clattered from a coat onto the ice. Before long, they covered the cardboard boxes loaded onto the sleigh with hay, whipped the horse, and set off toward the far side of the river.

“He’s finally gone!”

Wu Qinghui leaned close to Tagawa’s ear and whispered. “How’d you figure that out?!” “Try this, try that—doesn’t matter how you slice it. Guy ain’t no fool.” Wu Qinghui snickered—a low, gratifying chuckle that rumbled up from his gut.

The next morning, the old man bustled in frantically to search for Guo. He checked Guo’s belongings. The canvas bag, the torn shoes, the summer hat—not a single item remained.

“Damn it! “Bastard! “He made off with a hundred yen’s worth of goods!” The old man pursed his lips. Wu Qinghui and Tagawa burst into stifled laughter the moment the old man disappeared beyond the door.

Three days passed.

Wu Qinghui loaded cargo onto the standing sleigh while keeping one arm slung around his neck. Perfumes, creams, pins, liquid face powder, oil, hairnets, ground-glass fan-shaped bottles, loofah-shaped bottles. Lantern-shaped bottle. Cardboard boxes filled with bottles of every conceivable shape were loaded onto the sleigh until it was completely packed. Wu placed a reed mat over them. Then he put a hemp sack stuffed with fodder on top. The injured arm still throbbed. But he told everyone it was fine now—completely healed.

“Are you going out alone?”

Tagawa asked. “Hmm, you want to come too?” “Shall I take you along then?” Wu Qinghui snorted through his nostrils and gathered his own belongings. He would crawl off to the far side of the river.

“I still can’t get up.”

When evening came, Wu departed without waiting for the night to deepen.

Tagawa was lying on the bed.

“Watch yourself.”

Wu said as he left. “Yeah.”

After an hour, the old man came rushing into the Chinese room. The old man once again searched around Wu’s bed area just as he had with Guo Jincai’s case, plucked up a single torn undergarment infested with lice that had been rolled up and tossed there, and clicked his tongue. “Tch! Not a moment’s carelessness allowed! You bastard—hey, Tagawa! Lying there, you should’ve known what Wu was up to!”

Tagawa clutched the blanket and pretended to be asleep. And then, after the old man left, he laughed cheerfully out loud. But a few days later, the old man brought another Chinese man. He took a security deposit. And he had the goods resting in the warehouse loaded onto another sleigh.

IV

The frozen Amur River broke apart with a thunderous roar, and spring arrived as ice floes were swept away by the turbid current and began to move.

The tranquil steam whistle of a river steamer resounded across the riverbank. Meltwater seeped up from the bank, threatening to overflow. Sailboats, motor steamers, boats, oar-propelled vessels—all these bathed in the warm spring sunlight as they traveled up and down.

From Heihe to Blagoveshchensk, one could no longer cross without boarding a boat. However, the border guards could not afford to let their guard down. Every night, Chinese boats would steal in under cover of darkness to spots other than the customs dock. The boats were dark. They rowed upstream through mist-covered currents. After advancing three or four chō upstream, they would wait for an opening—then like gamecocks nimbly swooping at their opponents' necks—turn their prows around and came swimming toward us while riding the current like arrows. Once they had clambered up onto the riverbank, they concealed their goods beneath clothes and inside boots before disappearing toward the village.

They were bringing in goods that had just been transported from Harbin.

The border guards couldn’t let it slide. They came up completely empty-handed, wearing nothing but their clothes. They looked like mere workers or peasants. However, when their coats were stripped off, fifty pairs of socks—though where and how they had been hidden was a mystery—scattered around their feet. A boy carried thirty-seven bottles of cosmetics. They shot those who fled.

Just when it seemed to have temporarily ceased, they would seize moments when the border guards let their guard down and creep back under cover of darkness. They came even in May. They came even in June. They came even in July. “Damn it! I’m about to lose my patience with their damn persistence!”

Vashka kept watch during the white nights when darkness barely fell. The air held a cool edge. Striding heavily along the Amur's turbid flow, pacing its banks—this rhythm brought him grim satisfaction.

When August arrived, the smugglers—what had become of them?—abruptly ceased to be detected; not a single one was discovered anymore. "But if we let our guard down now, they'll come charging back in with a thunderous rush any moment!" the border guard thought.

One day. The sun had set, yet the surroundings still appeared white. From the most geographically advantageous point on the opposite shore—jutting out thirty meters—three boats formed a line and came flowing toward this bank as though drawn in by suction. Vashka saw this. He hid himself and lay in wait. The boats shot toward the shore like arrows. Laughing and chatting in Chinese, six or seven young men scrambled up noisily. Vashka’s heart pounded from a kind of tension.

“Halt!” He leaped out from the shadow of the hut, holding a bayonet-fixed rifle.

The young men stopped. And then, “What’s the matter?” “Comrade!” He addressed him with presumptuous familiarity. At the club, there were two men he recognized. They were men from the Chinese labor union. “Hey!” Vashka jerked to a halt. “Good evening, Comrade!” “There’s an event at the club, isn’t there?” “May I go?”

“Ah, very well.” The young men passed by the guard hut, laughing cheerfully. Vashka stood there dumbfounded for a while, puzzling over what had just happened. What had become of the smugglers?

However, before long, Vashka’s question was answered. It became clear that the black market exchange of rubles conducted by the Korean Bank had been prohibited. The place where smugglers could exchange the ruble banknotes they had taken abroad for gold coins had vanished.

Japanese bourgeois newspapers had hysterically sensationalized the issue while siding with the Korean Bank and fishing companies. But “That’s right—they should have banned the black market trade of ruble banknotes much earlier! If they had clamped down on this sooner, those reactionaries trying to revive feudal-era sentiments by wearing perfume and silk stockings wouldn’t have gotten their hands on anything! Those bourgeois bastards trying to prey on the proletarian state couldn’t have laid a finger on anything!” he thought.

“We must dig them out root and branch now while we still can!”