Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The Amur River separating Blagoveshchensk and Heihe gave Japanese people who had grown up gazing only at the sea a feeling akin to looking at the Kanmon Strait between Shimonoseki and Moji. The two cities glared at each other from opposite banks, confronting one another.

The river flowed majestically along the border with a broader expanse than a strait, abundant like the sea.

On the opposite shore lay the only proletarian state on Earth where production was free from exploitation, a new socialist society was being built, and workers could labor for themselves. A young woman with her hair tied back in red cloth walked with a man-like vigorous stride. A red freight car headed toward Pochikaleo. This side of the river was Chinese territory.

The Amur River, embodying endless sea-like abundance and majesty, wound its serpentine course along the border between Siberia and China for two thousand ri, flowing from distant Transbaikal Province and Hulun Lake.

It was early November. Ice floes began to flow. Across the entire river surface, jostling and pushing against each other, the ice floes swarmed away like debris dumped all at once. One day, they abruptly stopped moving. The steamships that had entered winter confinement were sealed in by the ice, like a forgotten single clog left floating on the water.

The paddlewheels at the ship’s sides had stepped into the mud and become unable to move forward or backward, like the Gokō. Across the river that until just four or five days earlier had still been crossed by boat, a carriage pulled by two horses now clattered its wheels vigorously as it raced forward. Chinese people wearing winter coats passed through. The "strait" separating the Soviet city of Blagoveshchensk and the Chinese city of Heihe was filled in from that day onward. Black sleds, cargo carts, and laborers on foot suddenly began gliding freely across the ice with joyous abandon, like livestock released from pens, frequently crossing back and forth between the opposing shores.

“Good day! “Comrades! “Let us hear those speeches!” Chinese, Koreans, and laborers wearing bulky Russian-style winter boots pressed into the city’s clubs, yearning to tread Soviet soil. On November 7th and January 21st, workers crossed the river to visit. On March 8th, women made the crossing. “I’m Japanese. May I go too?” “Permission granted.”

That Japanese man had just turned twenty. He couldn't suppress his desire to go to Moscow. He had lived in Heihe for a year. Over time, he had come to know many faces in Blagoveshchensk too. Along the Amur River emerged Chinese men who made their living by breaking through ice formations to collect welling river water, giving it to parched horses pulling cargo carts. No matter how thirsty they grew, breaking through ice floes for water remained impossible. The Chinese men charged one copper coin each time they let horses drink. To prevent freezing, they constantly stirred and struck the water's surface with long sticks, creating splashing sounds. Among them was an old man with a salt-and-pepper beard dangling icicles.

For customs officers and border guards, this period became the most grueling time of year. They had to be most vigilant.

Those coming from Heihe carried nothing and sought nothing, arriving solely to see the collective farms of the proletarian state, the activities of shock troops, and the demonstrations of young workers. They appeared that way. However, some concealed twenty to thirty pairs of silk stockings beneath their dagua coats. Under their hats, they concealed expensive Tenshi-in cosmetics whose fragrance wafted seven to nine meters ahead. And when they disappeared into one of the city districts and returned tonight, instead of stockings and cosmetics, they concealed ruble notes beneath their clothing. Such individuals existed.

II

Winter in the northern borderlands brought early nights.

The cityscape of Blagoveshchensk, with roofs jutting up like sprouting plants, was already enveloped in electric lights as though prepared for a demonstration by three-thirty.

Darkness was closing in on the outskirts. With a thickness of three to eight shaku (approximately 1-2.5 meters), the ice of the Amur River groaned as it sought to grow thicker still, swelling up from below like tumors breaching the surface. The border guard inside the guardhouse heard the merciless voice of cold—a sound emanating from nowhere. Outside the double-paned window, the frozen surface of the Amur River—rough-textured like weathered stone—shone beneath the starry sky.

The guardhouse had been built approximately one verst (about nine cho) upstream from the boat landing. In summer, high-heeled white women’s shoes, sheer thin silk stockings glowing cherry-pink, and parasols with split bamboo ribs would be secretly brought over by boat from the opposite shore. This was where the current flowed most sluggishly. And due to the opposite bank jutting out thirty meters in a gentle curve, boats cast into the current would naturally be pushed by the flow and drawn to this shore as if sucked in. The geographical conditions were favorable. The Chinese waited until the border guards had settled into sleep and then exploited that natural advantage.

In the past, large quantities of alcohol were brought in from this location. It was an era when vodka production was prohibited. The Chinese people filled hollowed containers—specially made of tinplate into corset-like forms that fit snugly against the human torso—with alcohol, strapped them to their bare skin, donned clothing over them, and came ashore from the riverbank with an innocent look. They mixed water with alcohol and peddled it as firewater. Since the capitalist era, they had gotten the lumpen—who convinced themselves that drinking themselves into oblivion was what made them workers—drunk on alcohol. They made them forget their arduous struggles through alcohol. And hiding placer gold dug up from Zeya in their pockets instead, they crossed the river again and took 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. Workplaces competed against one another to boost efficiency. There was no time to produce luxury goods or cosmetics. They were in no position to consider such things. The cold split the air with a creaking, groaning sound.

Vashka threw birch firewood into the pechka and moved to the window to listen intently. Through the double-paned glass, the heavy roofs of Chinese-style houses in Heihe on the opposite shore appeared black in the distance. Everything was frozen masses of snow and ice. Patches of it shone white and glittered. Then came a creaking groan, followed by the sound of an ice-shod horse 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 Transition," raised his head and twisted the switch. The light went out. The guardhouse became pitch black. Conversely, the frigid air and icy nocturnal landscape outside came into clear view through the window. A horse-drawn sled coming across the river came into view. Through an intuition born of his experience as a border guard, Vashka immediately sensed with every nerve that this was not a labor union worker’s sled, but that of smugglers. Taking his gun, he pushed open the door and leaped outside. The moment the door opened, a stabbing cold surged into the hut. Shishikov promptly stood up as well.

“Stop!” “Who’s there?” The Chinese, though oppressed and driven out, still targeted capitalist elements clinging to survival—kulaks and women of low political consciousness—to smuggle in luxury goods. They would take five to eight rubles for a single pair of silk stockings and make their way back. And beyond the national borders, they spread lies that the Soviet Union suffered from material shortages.

On one hand, Chinese boys from Heihe on the opposite shore imitated Pioneer demonstrations against alcohol and religion; yet on the other hand, Vashka bitterly resented how certain Chinese persistently lurked for openings here like sparrows descending to steal grain—scheming both to smuggle goods and illegally export ruble notes. “Stop! Who’s there?” The man on the sled—his winter cap pulled down to cover everything from ears to nose—grasped the danger through sight before sound could convey the border guards’ approach.

“Stop!” “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Vashka advanced across the ice. Shishikov followed him. The distance between them and the sled had now narrowed to six or seven ken. One man held the whip on the driver’s seat, while two others sat behind. There were two horses. The sled seemed to halt briefly. A click of the tongue came from the driver’s seat, and the horses whirled around in the opposite direction. The whip cracked violently against the horse’s rump. “Don’t run!” Vashka immediately dropped to one knee and aimed his rifle. It was permitted to shoot those who disobeyed orders and tried to flee.

A voice cursing in Chinese could be heard from the sled. Vashka pulled the trigger. There was a solid recoil. Someone groaned "Ugh..." Simultaneously, the sled surged forward at breakneck speed. Next, Shishikov fired.

The echoes of the gunshots faded away as if swallowed by the frozen darkness.

“Damn it! We let them get away!”

III

Outside, a Mongolian horse neighed. Wu, the driver, called out in a soothing voice and stopped the horses.

Shuddering violently, the horses shook the harnesses on their backs. It seemed the sled that had just set out had turned back.

From outside, they knocked on the door imploringly. The boy rushed over. The boy unlocked it.

Suddenly, with a thudding commotion, two Chinese men entered, supporting Tagawa—dressed in Chinese clothing—by his shoulders from both sides. “Boss, the Russians got him.”

The Chinese man Wu Qinghui peered out from behind the velvet curtain in the room's entrance with a vulgar face like that of a habitual criminal caught mid-crime, his gaze fixed on Fukazawa. Fukazawa glared at Tagawa slumped between the shoulders of two Chinese men, his face twisted in a grimace.

“What, you’re the one spacing out! It’s not like it’s summer now—getting caught in the border guards’ net. Did you go out of your way to pick the route with the hut and steer the horses that way?”

“Boss, lately the river’s only just frozen—there’s no proper path.” “It’s just like mountain rocks.” “At night, it’s even harder to get through.” “You’re lying! It’s because you’re being lazy and not taking a detour further upstream!” “Boss, you’ve never been there.” “You don’t know how dangerous it is, how hard it is to get through.” “You—those who do nothing know nothing.” When it came to jobs that involved braving danger, I was the superior one. As if wanting to say exactly that, Wu glanced at Fukazawa—who had plopped down into an armchair and was chewing gum—and snickered.

“That’s right. They say those who do nothing know nothing.”

Tagawa repeated brokenly from between groans. The waist where the bullet had struck throbbed and burned as if on fire.

“Tch! There’s no helping it. You lot—Wu and Guo—set out at dawn! If you don’t pull it off this time and the goods get confiscated, I won’t stand for it!” “Yeah, yeah.” The sled loaded with cargo was dragged from the gate to beside the stable. Tagawa’s blood had fallen onto the sled’s blanket and frozen solid. The Chinese man unloaded the cargo from the cardboard boxes, then with greasy hands carelessly flipped up the blanket. As usual, he was grinning to himself in that peculiar way.

“Eee-eee-yah!” With that rallying cry, another sled came charging in with great force. The reins were pulled tight, stopping the horse just as a stocky young Chinese man—his winter hat’s fur completely frosted over—leapt down from the sled. He had returned after finishing a job. “What now?”

He asked Wu Qinghui, who was rolling up the blanket. “Tagawa got hit,” Wu laughed heartily. “You’re bound to get hit sometimes, ain’t ya? That’s what makes it fun.” “Look here, we’ve done this much!” The young man grabbed a handful of banknote bundles from his pocket as if they were scrap paper and showed them off. And then he mentioned that the ruble exchange rate had fallen again.

“If it falls, let it fall. We just gotta jack up our prices.” “Who cares? It ain’t nothin’ to fuss over.”

Wu Qinghui was, in truth, a man who seemed born to lurk in the shadows and carry out dangerous work furtively. There are things that must not be done. Wu was the sort of man who would lurk in the shadows to defiantly carry out precisely those things that must not be done—and find pleasure in it. Once a pickpocket stole something from the pocket of a man dressed in finery and outwitted him, he would be unable to forget that thrill, repeating it again and again, pilfering away. And he savored the thrill of it. He possessed precisely that pickpocket-like disposition.

For Fukazawa Trading Company, a smuggling operation, a man like Wu Qinghui was also absolutely necessary.

Fukazawa was a man who treated Siberia like a colony, scouring for concessions wherever he went. Ruble notes were prohibited from being taken abroad by Soviet Union law. Therefore, they also could not be brought into the country from abroad. Travelers would exchange yen for rubles at the border when entering, and when exiting abroad, have their rubles exchanged back into yen. This was done at the rate of one ruble to one yen and four sen. However, on one occasion, Fukazawa brought into the country from abroad a large number of banknotes he had acquired at twenty-one sen per ruble. Then when exiting, he had them exchanged at one yen and four sen per ruble and made his getaway with a self-satisfied grin. The one fully swindled was the Soviet Union. He had been using such methods since long ago. During Japan’s military expeditions, he had quickly transformed into a purveyor to the military, selling oil that would cost three yen on the mainland for twelve yen per can. He charged fifteen sen for a single block of tofu. By using Russian carriages, he took a fifty percent cut. He became a brothel proprietor. He purchased forest concessions and then sold them to companies at a markup. When the Japanese military withdrew, the Soviet Union’s economic power was restored throughout Siberia. Socialist construction had begun. Those who sought to profit in Siberia were driven out. Despite this, Fukazawa—who tried to cling to Siberia to the very end—crossed over to this side of the Amur River. He engaged in smuggling firewater. When firewater became ineffective, this time he used luxury goods to lure out the capitalist elements of the Soviet Union.

Cosmetics of various kinds, pearl-studded golden earrings, butterfly-shaped pins, silk stockings, enameled high-heeled shoes—such items that were not bulky but valuable were loaded onto river steamers in Harbin, descended the Songhua River, then from Lahasusu ascended the Amur River until finally being transported to Heihe. Those goods found temporary respite in Fukazawa Trading Company’s warehouse. Then, slowly, through the hands of Chinese men, they slipped across the border and infiltrated Soviet territory.

This held dual significance. It was not merely about reaping the exorbitant profits inherent to smuggling. The flesh-toned, translucent soft silk stockings and the enameled high heels of women’s shoes summoned back bourgeois-era parlors, decadent dances, and the uneasy nightmares of half-awakened sleep. Perfumes extracted from flowers, flesh-toned foundation, and rouge—no larger than a little fingertip yet worth six rubles—stood in stark opposition to the organization of collective farms, workers’ schools, and the activities of shock troops. There had to be a purpose in going through the trouble of bringing them in.

The hands of bourgeois states that feared the construction of a socialist society were in motion there. Behind the Chinese whom the border guards detested, there was ×××. The ruble notes obtained through exchanged goods and smuggled out were funneled into Vladivostok's Korean Bank—the sole location within Soviet territory conducting illicit transactions—at approximately twelve sen each. The Korean Bank then sold these off to fishing companies holding concessions in Kamchatka's fisheries for eighteen to twenty sen per ruble.

Thereupon, the fishing companies paid the Soviet Union cheap ruble notes—equivalent to one-fifth of the normal exchange rate—as concession fees. And so they cozily fattened their pockets and strutted about arrogantly.

Behind the smugglers lurked not only the Harbin bourgeoisie who provided those goods. Capitalism ×× lurked.

How could one sever the roots of these attacks on the Soviets from such fronts!

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

The wind, too, was asleep. The cold grew even more severe. The frozen air inhaled through his nostrils hurt beyond mere coldness.

After about fifteen minutes, the sleigh turned back and returned. Wu, twisting his left arm, lifted it under his chin with his other hand, his forehead deeply furrowed as he came in.

“Back already?”

Tagawa, unable to sleep due to the throbbing pain in his back wound, called out while wanting to ask for water. "Ain't there any firewater left? Tch! I got hit too!" "So you tried sneaking in through that spot after all?" "No, we went way further up. But there were border guards there too." "There's guards everywhere. Keeping watch's only natural." "Hmm, hmm—got myself properly shot up there."

Wu Qinghui let out a voice that sounded almost pleased at having been shot.

The firewater remained in the corner of the cupboard; Wu poured it over his wound. The alcohol seeped into the wound. Then, Wu gritted his teeth and jerked his neck left and right with a stifled groan.

“What cursed luck! Two men wounded in one night!” “You lazy bastards picked the damn guarded path for an easy ride, didn’t ya?” “Move this cargo faster!” “Look! This thrice-damned demand letter’s arrived!”

In the morning, the boss of Fukazawa Trading Company entered the Chinese workers’ room with sleep-crusted eyes. Wu Qinghui and Tagawa lay on their beds, groaning from their wounds while half-dozing. The boss suddenly kicked the oil can used for fetching water beside the stove. “You’ve gotta hurry this cargo!” “Here! This damn demand letter’s come in!”

He waved Kuznetsov's encrypted letter right before Tagawa's face. On it, Latin 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 made a habit of such things. He was hated by everyone.

“Heh heh, you should just take it yourself.”

After the boss left, Wu Qinghui muttered.

Tagawa had often genuinely felt that life across the river was far better than what he'd known in Japan or even northern Manchuria north of the Amur. It defied logic. Walking through the city, seeing Russian youths his own age with faces utterly free of shadows, he'd think this. They strode long and heavy-footed, their gait completely unburdened by worry. Seeing them, he'd think this: Compared to those faces, what of my own circumstances—forced to skulk about like a criminal, forever vigilant!

They didn't need money. They didn't worry about losing jobs. Food and clothes were provided as needed through the purchasing cooperative. We did anything—dangerous things, things we hated—all for money. Even back in Japan, it was the same. Even in Manchuria, the same. Yet they worked not to take money, but to build their own lives. They weren't working for others—they worked for themselves!

Labor students walked companionably with books tucked under their arms. That alone already held him in powerful thrall.

At night，Guo—uninjured—and a young boy stood talking 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 sled with dry grass，whipped the horse，and set off across the river.

“He finally took off!”

Wu Qinghui leaned close to Tagawa’s ear and whispered.

“How do you know that?!” “No matter how you try, no matter what you do—it’s no use. He’s no fool either, you know.” Wu Qinghui laughed—a deep, amused chuckle rising from his gut as though it were something genuinely pleasant.

The next morning, the boss came bustling in to search for Guo. He checked Guo’s belongings. The canvas bag, the torn shoes, the summer hat—not a single one remained.

“Damn!” “Bastard!” “That bastard ran off with a hundred yen’s worth of goods!” The boss pursed his lips.

Wu Qinghui and Tagawa burst into stifled snickering once the boss had disappeared beyond the door.

Three days passed.

Wu Qinghui loaded cargo onto the upright sled while keeping one arm slung around his neck. Perfumes, creams, pins, face powder, oil, hairnets, fan-shaped frosted glass bottles, loofah-shaped bottles. Lantern-shaped bottles. Cardboard boxes containing bottles of every imaginable shape were piled high onto the sled. Wu placed a straw mat over them. Then he put a hemp sack filled with fodder on top of that. His wounded arm still looked raw. Yet he told everyone he was already fine—that it had healed completely.

“Are you going out alone?” Tagawa asked. “Hmm... Wanna come too? “Want me t’take ya along?”

Wu Qinghui snorted through his nostrils and gathered his belongings. He would crawl away to the other side of the river.

“I still can’t get up.”

When evening came, Wu set out without waiting for night to deepen.

Tagawa was lying on the bed. “Be careful.”

Wu said as he left.

“Yeah.”

An hour later, the boss burst into the Chinese room. The boss once again searched around Wu’s bedding area like he had with Guo Jinzai, plucked up a torn undergarment infested with lice that had been rolled up and left there, and clicked his tongue. “Tch! “You can’t let your guard down for even a second! “You there! Tagawa! “Lying here, you should’ve known what Wu was up to!”

Tagawa clutched the blanket and pretended to be asleep. And then, after the boss had left, he burst out laughing cheerfully. However, a few days later, the boss brought another Chinese man. He took a deposit. And then, he had them load the goods resting in the warehouse onto another sled.

IV

The frozen Amur River broke apart with a thunderous roar, and spring arrived as ice floes were swept away by the turbid current. The leisurely whistle of a river steamer resounded across the riverbank. Meltwater seeped up from the banks, threatening to overflow. Sailboats, steamships, boats, oar-propelled craft—all these vessels bathed in the warm spring sunlight traveled up and down the river. From Heihe to Blagoveshchensk, it was no longer possible to cross without boarding a boat. However, the border guards could not afford to be careless. Every night, Chinese boats would take advantage of the darkness to creep into areas beyond the customs wharf. The boats moved darkly. They rowed upstream through the fog-laden current. After ascending three or four blocks upstream, they would watch for an opening and—like gamecocks darting at their opponents’ throats—turn their bows, then come swimming back downstream toward shore swift as arrows. And upon clambering up the riverbank, they concealed their respective goods beneath their clothes and inside their boots before disappearing toward the village.

They were bringing in goods that had just been transported from Harbin. The border guards could not afford to overlook this.

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—how and where they had been hidden—scattered down around their feet. A boy had thirty-seven bottles of cosmetics. They shot those who fled. Just when it seemed to have ceased temporarily, they would again seize moments when the border guards let their guard down and creep in under cover of darkness.

They came even in May. They came even in June. They came even in July. “Damn it! Those bastards are so damn persistent—I’m about to cave!”

Vashka remained vigilant during the white nights when darkness barely lingered. The air held a crisp chill. Watching the Amur River's muddy current swirl past, he found satisfaction in pacing heavily across the bank with long strides.

When August came, the smugglers—what had become of them?—abruptly vanished without a single one being discovered. "But if we let our guard down now," the border guard thought, "they'll come thundering back when we least expect it!"

One day.

The sun had set, yet the surroundings still appeared pale. From the most strategically advantageous point on the opposite bank—jutting out thirty meters into the river—three boats formed a line and came flowing toward this shore as though drawn by suction. Vashka saw this. He concealed himself and lay in wait. The boats drifted ashore like arrows. While laughing and chattering in Chinese, six or seven young men clambered up noisily. Vashka’s heart pounded from the tension.

“Stop!” He leapt out from the shadow of the hut with a bayoneted rifle.

The young men stopped. And then, “What’s this about, Comrade!” They addressed him with undue familiarity. At the club stood two familiar faces— men from the Chinese labor union. “Hey!” Vashka jerked to a halt. “Good evening, Comrade! There’s an event at the club tonight, isn’t there? May we go?” “Ah, that’s fine.”

The young men passed by the guard hut, laughing cheerfully. Vashka stood there blankly for a while, puzzled. What happened to the smugglers?

But before long, Vashka’s bewilderment was resolved. It became clear that the black market trading of ruble notes conducted by the Chosen Bank had been prohibited. The exchange places where smugglers could convert the ruble notes they had taken out of the country into gold coins had vanished.

Japanese bourgeois newspapers had noisily taken up the issue, siding with the Chosen Bank and fishing companies. "That’s right! We should’ve banned black market ruble trading way earlier!" "If we’d clamped down on this from the start—those reactionaries trying to drag us back to feudal times with their perfumes and silk stockings—they wouldn’t have gotten a damn thing!" "And those bourgeois leeches trying to suck dry our proletarian state? Couldn’t have laid a finger on anything!" he thought.

“Thoroughly! We must dig them out by the roots now while we can!”