Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The red-brick Matsukane Foundry stood beside the embankment that separated the field on the town’s outskirts from the Tamagawa River.

Trucks occasionally raced along the embankment at a lively speed.
An ox cart loaded with manure buckets and fresh vegetables passed by.
White dust swirled up.

On the opposite side of the embankment lay Matsukura, an area dense with foundries, where hammers resounded loudly and engines hummed cheerfully.
Only Matsukane’s red bricks lay sunken like a lifeless corpse.
Not even a wisp of smoke rose from it.

Inside and outside the factory, where iron pipes, trolleys, rails, and other finished and unfinished products lay scattered haphazardly, four or five security police officers patrolled in military step.

“Matsukane Strike Group Banzai!”

Occasionally, trucks on the embankment passed by, showering sarcastic shouts.
The strike group headquarters behind the factory had several union flags planted, raising an unbridled fervor.

“Hey, let’s go air out our shells!”

With that, they clambered up the embankment in a disorderly crowd, swung their arms, puffed out their throats, and burst into labor and revolutionary songs.
They stormed the embankment five or six times a day.

“Down with the capitalists!”

“Down with the bourgeoisie!”

“Workers, arm yourselves――”

Uehara, wearing glasses, and Sugi, his face ruddy, faced each other and exchanged bitter smiles.
They restrained their swords and descended into the shadow of the building.
Only the stubborn, utterly inflexible Old Policeman Ishida remained directly exposed to the demonstrators.

“They’re going at it quite vigorously.”

“Nah, they’ll surely come to break us today or tomorrow—it’s already been a week.”

Sugi peered into the empty factory.

The iron material clamped in the guillotine shear, the discarded hammer, the shovel thrust into the coal pile, the lathe, mold, chain, and other materials and machinery—every position and pose vividly recounted the moment when, a week prior during work hours, negotiations had broken down and they had all resolved to walk out—

“After all, those reformist cadres are rotten—they’re scheming to sell us out for top dollar.”

“Come to think of it, the factory owner here said something like, ‘Honestly, those far-left bastards are easier to deal with—if it’s them, we don’t have to lift a finger. The police’ll come and yank ’em out right away, and we won’t feel a damn thing afterward.’ Ha ha ha.”

“Ha ha ha.”

When the triumphant songs on the embankment had finally subsided, the two stepped out into the sunlight.
After a while, a group of children returning from school occupied the embankment and began imitating the demonstrations.

“Down with the capitalists!”

“Bourgeoi-sie down——”

Once chased away, they hid in the shadow of the embankment.
There, they devised their strategy.

“Anyone who laughs in the middle of it is a traitor!”

The leader declared.

“Listen up! Begin!”

Once the command was issued, earnest, solemn faces popped up in full array atop the embankment.
They sang to the tune of the Warship March.

“The bean shop uncle let out a fart—Toot-a-loo—,”

“The bean shop uncle let out a fart—Toot-a-loo—,”

A truck transporting iron materials raced by, kicking up a fierce cloud of dust.
The children scattered and ran.
A messenger came from the Matsukane main residence.

“They’d like anyone who’s free to come for a moment.”

The tallest Section Chief Taguchi followed along.
"Perhaps I might become ***," he thought to himself while entertaining such notions.

The strike group split into two factions based on their affiliations: the Kantō XX Labor Union affiliated with the Masses Party and the Tokyo Metalworkers Union affiliated with the General Alliance.
The former established their headquarters immediately behind the factory, while the latter set up theirs in two nearby locations.
There were no left-wing efforts at all.

If one were to walk through the town, it would be clear that K Town developed around its foundry and other small- to medium-sized factories—a municipality of working-class townspeople.
Reeling from the global economic depression, with factory closures, bankruptcies, and waves of unemployed workers emerging one after another, a particularly militant mood recently swelled.
This could be seen from the number of disputes that occurred in March, which involved over a dozen factories.
The overlapping demands included: "Reinstate all laid-off workers," "Absolutely oppose dismissals," "Abolish the apprenticeship system and implement an employment system," and so on.

The strike group held out for five long days—though most would capitulate in two or three.

Ultra-Speed!

〈Matsukane Dispute to Be Resolved in 24 Hours〉

Kantō XX Labor Union

K Branch

Leaflets like these were even being posted shamelessly.
The reformists did nothing but stem the radicalization of the masses and compromise with the capitalists.

Section Chief Taguchi returned, wiping away sweat.

“This is troublesome!”
“We’ve got to notify headquarters right away!”
“Uehara-kun, could you go take care of this—”

“What on earth is this about?”
Uehara made his glasses glint.

“Actually, according to someone colluding with Matsukane from the strike group, they’re apparently planning to stage a demonstration around tonight.”

“This is outrageous!”

However, Uehara, Sugi, and the others all wore expressions of doubt.

“The thing is! Since Matsukane will be attempting to remove wooden patterns from the factory starting today, I believe we need to provide ample protection and vigilance on our part—well then, either Uehara-kun or Sugi-kun, please go and handle it.”

At that moment, a truck loaded with a dozen or so gangsters pulled up beside the gate.

二

A blue passenger bus ran along the white highway.
Upon entering K Town, the pungent smell of oil dregs struck the nose.
Shirukoya’s red curtain fluttered.
At the front of the activist hall with its banners and at the corner by the soba shop, the bus came to a stop several times.
Then, kicking up white dust, it continued winding through the town.

At Futamata Crossing, where a signpost read “Traffic Hazard,” the conductor suddenly blared the horn loudly.
Ofuji, a passenger, craned her neck and looked up outside the window.

Several fertilizer carts stuck motionless ahead—the heavily made-up female conductor pressed a handkerchief firmly over her nose.

As if awaiting royalty, people stood clustered along every eave.
Ofuji squinted against the sunset’s glare.
Shading her eyes with one hand to track the spiraling white dust, she watched soot-blackened workers pour from nearby workshops.

Passengers lifted themselves halfway from their seats.

“A fire?”

“Can’t see any smoke.”

“Conductor! What’s happening?”
The old woman demanded.

“I’m not—”
Even the conductor couldn’t say.

“Passengers disembarking, please present your tickets.”

They scrambled to disembark first.
Bunbo lay asleep, limbs stretched out like pulled taffy.
Ofuji lifted him while moving toward where people were talking.

First a motorcycle sped by... a few bicycles... then about thirty policemen came running with swords at their hips...

“We were plenty shocked back then too—right away figured it must be Matsukane!”

Hayashi was a worker at a small factory.
He himself was fairly worked up.
When someone interjected "Matsukane—", Ofuji, in a frenzy, barged into the conversation.

“What on earth happened at Matsukane?”

“Wasn’t pretty. More’n ten folks just got hauled to the hospital—they’d been cut up bad.”

“Huh? Who got hit?”

“Ain’t rightly sure—but someone from your place mixed up in that Matsukane business?”

“Huh?”

Since the strike began, he had not returned home even once—

“We’re the Muratas.”

“Ah, the union—Murata-kun, right?”

The young man knew.
A tall man with a crew cut—

“Then that must be Murata-kun who just stopped by here. That guy’s probably making the rounds agitating at workplaces.”

“Oi, they’re here. Shut it!”

A voice barked for silence.
It was Boss Kurakoshi, the beer-bellied fascist.
He swung his stubby hand—flat as a carpenter’s square—and roared.
Ofuji recoiled in surprise.

“Hey, you lot! What’s all this racket?!”
“Haven’t I told you—no matter what happens, not one step outside during work hours!”
“Oi, back off! Back off!”

“We thought it was a fire and came out to look, but there’s not a wisp of smoke rising, Boss.”

A quick-witted young man said that.

“What the—! You’ve been watching this whole damn time and still got the nerve?!”

Even after driving the workers fully back into the workplace, he kept shouting.

“In this damn depression, giving you lot wages is practically charity! The company ain’t making a single penny! These days, those bastards have forgotten the loyalty we showed raising ’em from pups! Now they’re pulling all this self-serving crap—slacking off, striking—getting whipped up by those pasty-faced union brats! Damn it!”

Ofuji was glad that the husband had fortunately not been injured.
However, Murata did not return home that night either.
A messenger came and took away a change of clothes.
At that time, the messenger mentioned that Tetsu-chan had been injured in the head and hospitalized.
The next day when she went to visit him at hospital ward bed,Tetsu-chan was moving energetically with white bandage wrapped around his head.
On contrary,the mother lay there with head propped up high like birthing pillow,groaning as she slept.

“You have a fever, Granny.”

“Fever or not, I’m lying here ’cause I can’t bear how maddening it is just thinking about it! Yesterday during the riot, Tetsu was right at the front. Then they beat him down with wooden-soled sandals—he didn’t even resist! The others jabbed at heads with their bayonets. Then they drew them—drew them proper! Wasn’t just me—everyone saw!”

The old woman covered her eyes with her bony hand.

“Last night, this guy who’s always lurking around here came by, saying he wanted to check on us or some such nonsense. I gave him an earful and chased him off—told him we’ve got no business with the likes of ＊＊-hi here!”

Ofuji was surprised by the old woman’s vigor.

III

The Countermeasure Council resolved to indict XX along with XX, XX, and others.

In the middle of the night, she woke to the sound of an alarm bell.
Bunbo had already slipped from Ofuji’s arm and lay slumped on the tatami like a flour sack.
Because she had dozed off while breastfeeding, Ofuji’s chest was completely exposed.
The alarm bell continued ringing in fits and starts.

Murakami did not return home tonight either.
The bedding laid out in preparation for him remained untouched.
Ever since the strike began, he had been staying almost entirely at headquarters—despite the rice chest steadily becoming emptier by the day and there being not a single yen of income—and as she restlessly dwelled on these thoughts, the alarm bell eventually fell silent; none of the neighbors stirred anywhere.

Morning came.
The communal well's pump clanged; sparks from a bonfire crackled through the air.
It was morning—she thought as she sat up per routine—but everything felt unnervingly different.
That's right—with him gone, there was no point rising this early—

This was what the strike had wrought—Ofuji reflected.
Yet she found herself unable to hate it.

The next day, “the cops” came.

“You’re Murata’s wife, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There’s something I need to ask you. Come with me.”

When she went to the police station and looked inside, she froze. Her husband Murata and over a dozen Matsukane workers had been crammed into the holding cells.

“When did Murata stop coming home?”

“Yes—since the Matsukane strike began—it must be over ten days now—”

“So he didn’t return home even once during that time?”

After they’d finished grilling her with questions,

“We’ll make Murata choke down prison slop for two or three years. You’d better go see his face while you still can.”

Why?
For what purpose?
Ofuji went out to Tetsu-chan’s place to ask about the situation.
Four or five union members were gathered in discussion.

“Madam, you know about last night’s fire, don’t you?”

A young man called Gen-chan said that.
Tetsu-chan was darting around putting up denunciation posters and wasn’t at home.
After extinguishing last night’s fire, the strike group marched through the town carrying pumps in a demonstration.
And then near the factory, they sparked another major clash, and a good number were hauled off.
According to those who returned early this morning, the police seem to be indicting several of them on some charge.
Gen-chan said that.

In these two major clashes, the Matsukane strike group suffered eleven casualties.
Seven of them were indicted and transferred to U Prison.
Murata Tomekichi was of course among them.

IV

Around this time, an organization had sent a message addressed to the strike group headquarters concerning the Matsukane casualties and their families.

Next came a leaflet from this organization explaining its activities and duties.
This group bore an absurdly long and cumbersome name.

The leaflet consisted of mimeographed sheets fastened with a clip, its back cover bearing an illustration of a disheveled housewife clutching a nursing infant.
This image strangely captivated Ofuji.
Yet before she could even properly take hold of it and read through, union executive Kimura had already snatched it away.

Kimura went around collecting each and every leaflet that fellow executive Tetsu-chan had already distributed to all union members.

“Isn’t it natural we should rescue our union’s casualties with our own hands? Aren’t we tending to the families as best we can? It’s these bastards scheming that makes police oppression against us grow harsher!”
“Comrades, you must stay thoroughly vigilant against wolves wearing sheep’s masks!”

Wherever Kimura went, he said the same thing.
However, when the organization sent over young organizers to deliver supplies to prisoners and assist families, he spouted nonsensical revolutionary rhetoric while—
“In the end, it’s a matter of class-based solidarity. Let’s cooperate with each other!” he said.

However, as Organizer Matsueda visited individual families and union members, she uncovered the same corrupt officials’ true nature everywhere.

“Did the rice we sent from the association reach your home?”

There were many households that answered, “No.”

“No, we haven’t received anything like that at our house.”
There was even a housewife who answered curtly and dismissively.
Her eyes glinting with malnutrition never ceased their light as her hands continued threading wire through tags without a moment’s rest.
She was doing piecework together with a white-haired old woman whose back hunched like a drawn bow.
The old woman’s hands seemed crippled, grasping the tags with fingers curled like talons clutching prey.—

When she went around to Ofuji’s house, Ofuji was baring her emaciated chest to nurse Bunbo.
Just like the woman in that illustration, Ofuji’s hair stood disheveled, devoid of any oil.

“You’re the ones who sent that thin notebook like a calendar, right? Well, Mr. Kimura from the union took it away, though—”

After her husband was sent to pretrial detention, she received a share of ashtrays and pots that the strike group had made and went out peddling.
When she managed to sell her goods well and make some profit, she could even send sweet rice cakes to her husband in pretrial detention—but when she stood at people’s doorsteps with her child strapped to her back and carrying cast-iron goods so heavy she could barely manage them all, being treated like a beggar or vagrant, a bitter sense of humiliation welled up from the depths of her heart.—

“Why don’t you carry needles and thread? That’d give you a much better chance of selling. Things like ashtrays and pots aren’t exactly hot items, you know. Next time you come around, bring some toilet paper or the like—if it’s Manila hemp, I’ll buy some off you at my place.”

Probably well-meaning idlers—there were indeed some among them who offered such advice.
As she was asked, Ofuji related such matters to Matsueda.

Matsueda herself was not only an organizer for the association but also—family to one of the victims of the second White Terror that had swept the nation in 1929.
However, her own hardships were not so severe.
After coming to K, she had starkly witnessed how wretched the lives of the daily struggle victims’ families were.

In one household, there was no rice to fill the child’s lunchbox.
Having no choice, they sent the child off to school with an empty lunchbox.

Out of desperate hope against all odds, they even shamefacedly went to cling to the sleeves of the prefectural office under the guidance of corrupt union officials.
But those bastards didn’t hand over a single grain of rice.

Despite this, the rice sent by the association had not reached anyone’s hands.

Kimura, somewhat flustered, evaded Matsueda’s questioning.

“I’ve told the families repeatedly to come collect that, but they’re all too reluctant and no one’s shown up yet.”

When Matsueda visited the families with relief funds for the second time, they refused with thoroughly perplexed expressions.

“Because we’ve been strictly instructed by the union—we can’t accept money from you.”

The money they wanted so badly they could practically grab it with their own hands—they had to refuse it. Their cheeks stiffened unnaturally as they gently averted their eyes from the cash.

“If there was such talk from the union, it must be some sort of mistake.”
“I’ll look into it thoroughly myself.”
“This money will absolutely not cause you any trouble.”
“This comes from workers and farmers in Tokyo and other regions—people always oppressed by capitalists and police during their strikes and tenant disputes—who told our association, ‘The families in K must be struggling too; please deliver this.’ A heartfelt gift from those who care for you like family, no matter how far apart—”

When Matsueda said this to them, they thought, “That makes sense.”
In the hearts of those who had nearly resigned themselves to believing their plunge into inhumanly harsh lives was misfortune unique to them alone, this kindled a warm hope.

“Well, since you’ve gone to such lengths…”

“Please give my regards to those people—”

“The day will surely come when we can repay their kindness—”

Saying this, they all accepted willingly.

During this period, the conflict between Matsueda and the moderate faction executives grew increasingly overt.
From the association, another experienced comrade was sent.
Nakajima, too, was family to a victim.
Matsueda came to take charge of tasks such as delivering items to the prison and maintaining contact with union members.

The comrades in prison also initially maintained a considerably rigid attitude.
They had been misled by the executives’ claims that having dealings with such leftist organizations would exert a considerable negative influence on the course of the strike.
Even when the association tried to send a lawyer under its affiliation and brought a counsel selection notice, they hesitated at first.—

“For now, we’ll check with the executives.”

And when she went to hear their response the next time, they flatly refused.

However, as long as she knew the families’ living conditions and had requests for money and goods that they could not possibly fulfill, and as long as she had tasks related to prison supplies that even the families wouldn’t know how to handle, Matsueda’s presence was by no means unnecessary.

On the contrary, they had even come to feel a personal fondness for Matsueda, who frequently visited them and sent letters detailing external circumstances and their families’ well-being.

“They themselves act as revolutionary workers, yet—”

Matsueda found this contradiction utterly exasperating.
Bound by formal and semi-traditional union relations and deceived—they had now sunk to being mere lackey unions for capitalist landlords! Shatter the shells of these right-wing and moderate factions!

Just before the first trial, flyers for the "Strike Progress Report Rally" were scattered throughout the town.

At a street corner, she happened to meet Kimura.
Adjusting his black bow tie, he emerged from the soba shop.
Due to the rice issue, interference with families, and numerous other unpleasant matters, Kimura first made a troubled face.
Out of caution not to be caught off guard by Matsueda, he purposefully said “Oh!” with feigned nonchalance.

“You, won’t you give us a supporting speech? I’m begging you here!”
“That’s fine, right?”

“Yes.”
Matsueda smiled ambiguously and asked casually.
“So you’re holding a demonstration? Where’s the location?”

“That hasn’t been decided yet,” she skillfully evaded.

“Well, give it your all with the agitating.”
“There are roughly six venues.”
“We’ll be waiting at headquarters!”

“If possible, infiltrate the demonstrations and directly agitate the masses”—that was the instruction Matsueda had received from the Captain.
Every workers’ gathering must be seized as an opportunity for our agitation-propaganda—that’s why Matsueda had agreed to give the speech.

However, layer upon layer of sabers did not allow her to stand at all.
Everywhere—canceled, canceled.
Later, the Dara-kan executives used this as prime material for spreading demagoguery.

“Look! Wherever ultra-leftists squirm, see how oppression intensifies!”
“They, the ultra-leftists, will only grow more isolated from the masses this way!”

That said, this rally was not at all in vain for Matsueda and her comrades. It became an opportunity to connect them—who had been isolated by the Dara-kan executives—with a fine comrade: Tetsu-chan, who had been in the leadership as an executive yet retained his proletarian soul.

V

By April-May 1930, the surge of strikes and workers’ abrupt leftist radicalization manifested as a sweeping shift toward militant disputes across industries—Western Moss, City Tram, Kanebo, Hoshi Pharmaceutical, Kishiwada Spinning, and others.
And the million unemployed teeming through the streets—

The "radicalization" of the masses—impossible to halt even by the extensive bourgeois mobilization front stretching from the Kokusui-kai to right and left social democrats.
The interest in the left wing, rising abnormally—
There, they had to deliver swift, shadow-to-shadow crackdowns to weaken the left wing’s organizational power—

These circumstances, reported daily by the bourgeois newspapers—Matsueda’s eyes and ears were plunged into extraordinary tension.
The organizational strength of the left wing paled in comparison to the masses’ growing interest; yet they must not waste themselves in futile teeth-gnashing frustration.

First, we must steadily build from our assigned positions!

Matsueda, while suppressing the emotions welling up inside her, was trying to write a calm report to the Captain.
The three-tatami room on the back second floor of the mochi sweets shop.
A desk pushed against the window.

The sound of the engine from the nearby factory continued for a while.
Matsueda picked up the sealed postcard that had been placed on the edge of the desk.
—It was a prison letter from her husband.
The three letters she had sent every week arrived all at once, forwarded about three days after the date of the last postmark.

For about a month now, Matsueda had not sent a single communication nor made any visits or supply deliveries, and it seemed the prisoners were feeling considerable impatience toward her.

“Though you now have nothing but public duties—” came the tone, laced with considerable sarcasm.

She had to convey to those in prison what Matsueda’s current feelings were toward her work—even knowing full well such a letter would likely be suppressed.

Matsueda of the past had been a full-fledged prison supply wife.
She had devoted herself wholeheartedly to prison supply activities—not just for any victim, but first and foremost for her husband.
However, once she broke free from a state where she was constantly protected by the association as a family member and began proactively engaging in its work—these feelings were gradually dispelled.

Ever since she had confronted the proletariat’s unyielding solidarity—their tenacious comradely love—through direct experience, Matsueda found her former self—who had been consumed entirely by personal feelings—utterly pitiable.

Lift your gaze!
Are there not hundreds and thousands of white terror victims waiting for the warm hand of rescue!

Someday, through the thick prison walls, the time would come when he too would understand this feeling.
——

“Comrade, you still have blood relatives making regular supply deliveries and devoted association comrades handling book shipments.—Surely you can endure Matsueda having missed visits for a month due to work obligations.”
“Still, I’ve neglected my visits too long.”
“Once I finish this report today, I’ll write that cheerful letter—it’s been ages!”

At the staircase, someone called Matsueda’s name.

“Oh, Ms. Ofuji! You could’ve just come up quietly without saying anything.”

She had been sent by Tetsu-chan.
Preparatory meeting regarding tomorrow’s trial—Matsueda glanced over the piece of paper before gathering Bunbo onto her lap.

“Good boy.”

Though newly walking, the child remained frail and prone to dizziness.
Bunbo slapped Matsueda’s mouth and nose with gleeful smacks.

“You mustn’t pull Auntie’s hair now—come to Mama.”

Ofuji sympathetically reached out her hand.

“That’s good, Bunbo.”
“—And Tetsu-chan’s mother remains well, I trust?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“For this next trial, let’s rally Tetsu-chan’s mother, Aunt Sekiguchi, and all the union families to storm the courtroom.”

Nakajima had returned.
Her complexion was sallow.
Her husband, released from prison and bedridden, had not been doing well lately.—“I’ve just made the rounds to the union members’ homes, but the results weren’t very good.
We still can’t gauge how many people we can mobilize for tomorrow’s trial.
Take Yamazaki—that balding old man and his wife—they’re dead set against it! When the old man says, ‘If Kimura and Tetsu-chan are going, then I’ll go too,’ his wife shoves him aside and storms forward, yelling, ‘You fool! What nonsense are you spouting? Our household won’t set foot in such a place!’”
“I won’t go, not a chance!”
“What a performance!”

“Oh, that wife! When it comes to her—!”
Ofuji laughed.

“Well, she’s their representative now.”

“Oh right! But she certainly knows how to make a scene.”

The courtroom battle the following day indeed ended in failure.
Union members, a handful of family members, and Matsueda’s group—merely sixty people with legal spectator passes—filled the hushed courtroom gallery under sabre escort.
However, the defendants were trending toward acquittal—

From the Taishūtō Party came eminent lawyers.
Ofuji gazed at the bald, assertive-looking lawyer and found him reassuring.

Unlike during prison visits when she could only glimpse him from the chest up, today she saw her husband from head to toe in his entirety. Tomekichi had not been weakened at all.

“Murata Tomekichi!”

His name was called.
“Bunbo—it’s Papa,” Ofuji hoisted the boy up sharply.
A shaved head—the tall figure’s back—then her vision blurred, and tears plopped onto her apron.

“I’ll make you eat stinking meals for two or three years!” What the detective had said when she was first hauled to the police station began weighing on her mind. Anxiety about their livelihood pressed upon the chest—so at first, Tomekichi’s words didn’t reach her ears. Suddenly, everyone roared.

“That’s right!”
“That’s right!”
“There it is!”

After a while, when that subsided, Tomekichi’s voice was saying this.

“Even if the factory wall was broken after we held the demonstration, that’s not work we did. The factory must have had their hired gangsters do it to pin the blame on us!”

After the trial concluded, Ofuji was able to meet Tomekichi in the waiting room.
A guard stood nearby.

“Did baldie come along too?”

Tomekichi was looking only toward Bunbo.
Though she wanted to discuss future matters during this opportunity—
“Ofuji, are our chickens doing well?”

“Chickens?” Ofuji asked in return.

“That’s right.”

What was he talking about? This man—well—yet somehow she found herself speaking in the same casual tone she always used with her husband.

“My, you’re forgetful! See? Both of them got snatched by the landlord’s thieving dog right before the strike started, didn’t they? If we still had them, they’d be laying eggs by now.”

They spoke of nothing else.

Even when she wiped and wiped, the tears kept coming. Unaware that Matsueda was standing there, she was about to head outside when Matsueda gently tapped her shoulder.

“Come now, we must stay stronger together.”

It was an uncharacteristically strong tone for Matsueda.

“Don’t worry! He’ll be acquitted!”

Six

After Nakajima was arrested, Matsueda urgently changed her residence. This time, it was the second floor of a rice shop. Because she was in contact with Tetsu-chan, she gained a clear understanding of the strike group’s leadership and their situation.

The strike group was thoroughly exhausted. Workers who declared, "Even if my wages get cut in half, I still want to work," began emerging one after another.

“Ain’t no helpin’ it. For us workers, laborin’s life itself,” Tetsu-chan said.

Hands used to hammers—the factory’s clangor, its oily stench—cutting machines, lathes, trolleys—they ached with nostalgia for everything their callused paws had handled.
That yearning—

“It’s downright lumpen at core, but steer it proper proletarian-wise? Could make somethin’ grand—”

Cheap colored-paper banana leaves plastered the walls of this dime-a-dish Western eatery.
Tetsu-chan’s bandages were off now.
He hunched forward, noisily sucking down chow mein noodles.
First time they’d jawed this easy-like.

“I’ve been a foundry worker since I was twelve—strictly speaking, this whole year was supposed to mark the new era. Heh, heh-heh. My old lady’s still banking on that—it’s ridiculous! No matter how much I tell her times ain’t like that anymore, she just doesn’t get it.”—

Late as it was, the entire strike group had become convinced that a resolution would come within this week—if not today or tomorrow.

They had to urgently establish their measures during this critical period—Matsueda and the others walked through narrow back alleys, discussing various strategies.

Covering the lamp with a black cloth and muffling her sounds, Matsueda worked through the night until dawn.

Seven

On both sides of the embankment, the Matsukane, Matsuki, and other factories loomed darkly in utter stillness.
Matsueda lingered back and forth at the foot of the bridge, clutching a bundle of leaflets.
Around the time the ox cart with its lantern lit had finished crossing the bridge to this side, Tetsu-chan abruptly emerged from its shadow.

“Just the leaflets?”
“And the dentan’s ready too?”

“Ah, the dentan’s ready too.”

“They’ve decided to start negotiations upstairs at K Police Station by tomorrow! It’s good our preparations moved quickly—”

Tetsu-chan nimbly darted across the bridge.

Taking advantage of the strike group’s decline and growing complacency, they had confirmed that not a single guard was present—the hole in Matsukane’s wall, large enough for a person to slip through, still remained from that incident.
Tetsu-chan slipped through there.
He made his way toward the courtyard where unfinished castings stretched out their hands with eerie menace.

After observing the situation from the far side of the bridge for a while, Matsueda turned back and took the opposite path.

“Dig in deep and hold fast.”

She muttered each word with deliberate force.