Pathway to Japanese Literature

For some reason, my family had been plagued by internal strife caused by stepmothers for generations.
When I say "for generations," I don't actually know anything from before my birth, but my father's time was already like that.
Father lost his birth mother early and came under a stepmother’s care.
This Stepmother had several boys, and Father found staying in our home unbearable, eventually running away.
Father was the eldest son but could not fully inherit his late father's estate.
This was due to the Stepmother's scheming.

That I too ended up following Father's path—what cruel twist of fate was this? I was the eldest son. Stepmother bore two girls. I couldn't stomach watching those sisters being doted on with greater care than I received. The more this ill-natured woman discerned my jealousy toward the girls, the more brazenly she paraded their favored status before me. Though such scenes didn't fill every day, I found no solace remaining at home. Worse still, Father himself began appearing cut from the same cloth as Stepmother in my eyes. With each passing year, my scrutiny of Stepmother sharpened into cynicism, while toward Father it curdled into scornful contempt. Simultaneously, her hatred toward me festered into something venomous and biting. Father trailed obediently in her wake—ever the man swayed by his latter wife's whims. That mistreating me—first wife's eldest—within our household gratified Stepmother so became Father's means of courting her favor through active neglect. Whether he ever recognized this wretched dynamic himself I cannot say, but even as a boy of twelve or thirteen, I perceived his wretched weakness clearly.

Father, even hesitant to keep me in the household out of deference to Stepmother, went so far as to apprentice me to my aunt who was a seamstress.
Even there, I was mistreated by my aunt’s ill-natured husband, but I endured it for over a year before falling ill and returning home.
There’s no telling how much I worried and thought about Father during my time at my aunt’s house.
When I was at home, I didn’t think much of Father, but once I left, I couldn’t help thinking of him morning and night.
Father’s kindness, how he had once cherished me more than anyone, and Father’s state of mind when he had struggled with old debts to relatives in years past—I would recall these from my memory and taste the salt of sentimental tears for Father.
The year at the seamstress’s house was filled with many such sad days.
What concerned me most was my father’s heavy drinking when drunk.

However, even Father—who had shown such concern—urged me to return to the seamstress's house as soon as my health had improved after coming home.
Because I utterly detested my aunt's husband, I told Father I'd rather apprentice at some other shop than go back there.
Before long, I was made an apprentice at a kimono merchant's shop.
But I couldn't last even half a year.
After that, I remained at home for over a year helping with the family business.
At that time, my family ran an inn before Saga Station.
Given our trade, I proved useful around the house.
To be precise, this meant serving as an errand boy—purchasing train tickets for guests, carrying luggage to the station, filling out the overnight guest register each evening to deliver to the police box, along with various other menial duties.

However, since the conflicts between Stepmother and me never ceased day after day, Father simply wouldn't permit me to remain at home.
I too had no desire to forcibly remain at home.
Rather, I wanted to go somewhere else as soon as possible.
However, I hated apprenticeship from the bottom of my heart.
I knew full well that even if I were to enter into apprenticeship, I myself lacked the resolve to endure it for long.
If my age had permitted it, I would have wanted to become a station worker or locomotive engineer.
In that case, I thought there was no reason I couldn’t manage.
I likely would have been able to avoid that stifling feeling of being bound in service at someone else’s household.
However, at that time I was still thirteen, so that wish went unfulfilled.

Whenever I clashed with Stepmother and was scolded by Father, my usual response became to leave home for three or four days at a stretch.
Even Father seemed worried.
That too felt satisfying to me.
And so I spent my days visiting as many distant rural relatives as possible.
Enduring terrible hunger that made my vision swim and threatened to knock me over, I trudged through midsummer midday heat along rice field paths choked with sweltering humidity rising from the paddies, sometimes bathing in streams among groups of unfamiliar village children while moving from one relative's home to another for lodging.
However, at every place I went, they would immediately take one look at my condition and see right through me, never letting me stay more than two days.

“You shouldn’t be wandering about like this. Go on home now—don’t go making your parents worry.”
“Next time you come, make sure to get permission first.”
“Then you can stay as many days as you like,” was what I would routinely be told by elderly relatives.
And so it went—I would receive a paltry allowance only to be driven out from there.

Even complete strangers in town who knew even a little about my real mother would take pity on me when they saw my daily life.

“Oh my… If only your mother were alive, what happiness you’d have! Oyoshi-san was such a beauty, such a kind soul… If only your grandmother were still with us…” At times, an old woman I didn’t know would look at me and say these words with deep emotion.
At such times, overwhelmed by joy yet feeling awkward, I would turn my face away.
My maternal grandmother, though a woman, had been respected in the neighborhood, and I vaguely remember young men and women from town coming to attend her reading and writing lessons.
I was raised in that house until about six years old after Mother’s death.
“Asian race… African race…” I recall my younger self falteringly mimicking the students’ textbook recitations, their words half-remembered in my ears.
I remember how students’ scribbles left black stains on the classroom pillars and walls.
Almost daily I would see misbehaving students made to sit atop stacked desks—sobbing as they held smoking incense sticks—their pitiful forms burned into memory.
Mother’s family home stood before a crumbling old temple near rice fields, down a side street branching from the back alleys.
There, houses of impoverished samurai with sagging eaves stood parched in rows.
Mother’s house had been a small school.
After Grandmother’s death, I was taken in by Father while he traveled.
I was about six then—my first meeting with Father.
That same moment brought my introduction to Stepmother.
Soon after taking me in, Father returned to his hometown Saga and started an inn before the station.

The autumn I resolved to go to Sasebo Shipyard and become a factory worker was when I turned thirteen.
An older friend who had gone from the same town had become a factory worker.
That friend had returned to Saga after a long absence, wearing blue work trousers, a black serge jacket, and a hunting cap.
One day, catching sight of him descending from the train with luggage in hand, I knew immediately it was he.
The stylish manner in which he had draped his watch chain from his trousers' pocket to the belt strap caught my eye considerably.

At that time, there was not yet any widespread tendency to disparage factory workers from the outset as mere laborers or industrial hands like today.
Far from it, people everywhere spoke of them as machinists or Western-style blacksmiths, regarding their blue work clothes with curiosity and respect.
The factory workers themselves took pride in declaring their profession respectable and noble.
They were celebrated by society to the same degree that airplanes and aviation pioneers are today.
Considering how steam locomotives then occupied the center of public awe and admiration much like airplanes do now, it was no wonder mechanical workers drew such fascination.
Yet everything has its initial phase.
When something becomes attainable by anyone, society ceases to find it novel, ultimately ridiculing even its true worth.
Once subjected to mockery, even the mocked themselves begin to hold their own value in contempt—though by the time my friend returned to our hometown in blue work clothes, factory workers had already lost much esteem in urbanites' eyes, they remained objects of wonder to me.
I approached and greeted him with upturned admiration, convinced he had attained great success upon returning home, then helped carry his luggage all the way to his house with just us two.
He had returned for his late father's memorial service.
His planned stay lasted about a week.
During that time, I visited his house nightly to hear about conditions at Sasebo Shipyard.
He described the gurēn crane that could hoist and transport even the heaviest iron or machinery through the air; dry docks that hauled up warships and merchant vessels like beached whales for repairs; vessels captured during the First Sino-Japanese War; and countless machines left strewn along the shipyard coast with nowhere to store them.

“We go into the warships almost every day to repair machinery, you know,” my friend recounted. “The best part was getting biscuits and bread from the officers when we went to work on them.”

“Oh! I want to become a factory worker too—are the warships really that spacious inside? How wide exactly are they?”

“The Chin’en’s width is about twenty ken,” he said. “That’s wide indeed.”

I imagined how magnificent those factory workers must be, boarding such warships to repair machinery. When I realized this friend had already become one of those admirable workers, I knew I could no longer afford to keep idling about.

“Could someone like me even become a factory worker?”
Considering my flaws in nature and physical frailty that set me apart from ordinary boys, I first asked that question.

“Of course you can!”
“First you apply to become an apprentice worker.”
“Then after three months, you’ll get a daily wage of ten sen.”
“Then every three months after that, you’ll get a raise.”

Hearing this, I wanted to leave as soon as possible.
I even thought of going with him.

"I will definitely go, so please look out for me when the time comes."

“Ah, of course!
But you can’t just leave home, can you?
You’re the eldest son though.
And you’re the only son too.”

“Nah, it’s fine if I’m not at home—in fact, if I go somewhere else, it’d be more convenient for them there.”

I thought that if I went to Sasebo now, Father might worry about me a little. They who treated me as a nuisance while doting only on my sisters would surely come to understand this, I thought. If possible, I wanted to go somewhere even farther than Sasebo and shock Father. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to awaken him from Stepmother's deception or draw out any genuine parental affection from him. I even resolved that if I left home this time, I would ensure I never returned for the rest of my life.

At the end of October that year, I ran away to Sasebo without Father's permission.
The distance from Saga to Sasebo was about twenty ri, but at that time the railway only extended as far as Takeo.
From Takeo there still remained a ten-ri road I had to walk.
I had been somewhat relying on a person acquainted with Father who was doing business there.
I felt that if I just went, something would work out.

“Even Shigeru would surely help me out somehow,” I had also been counting on the friend who had returned to Saga in blue work clothes after a long absence.

When I got off the train at Takeo Station, I was spotted by my uncle who worked in the station’s transport department.
“Where are you going?
Seiroku.”
Having said that, Uncle glared sharply at me.

“To Sasebo.”
I gave no further explanation.
Uncle too asked nothing more.
This uncle was Father’s half-brother from a different mother, and ever since their clash over inheritance distribution years earlier, the brothers had grown to despise each other even more—which was why Uncle deliberately maintained coldness toward me.
In truth, he bore me no hatred.
I understood Uncle’s feelings perfectly.
He not only had a poor relationship with Father but also held considerable animosity toward Stepmother.
I knew full well he was outraged by how Stepmother abused me at home and pitied me deeply; yet despite this, when Uncle spotted me on the platform and offered only that single curt remark before walking away, it wasn’t merely due to work pressures—the moment he saw me, he likely wounded his own hard-won affection by thinking, “Though just a boy, this child has quarreled with his father—my brother—so he might side with his parents and harbor hostility toward me too.”
The truth was that something similar had sprouted within me in that instant.
Even as I cursed Father and Stepmother, seeing this Uncle immediately made me feel he was “Father’s enemy.”
Though I understood Uncle’s affection, an obstinate refusal to reciprocate it dwelled within me.
What an accursed family we were.

The uncle stood by the freight car moving his pencil while watching stevedores unload cargo.
I glanced back at this once more took another distant look at his profile and exited the station.
Then following where people kept walking I emerged onto a long national highway.
Contrary to the desolate journey I had vividly imagined the night before travelers bustled along the highway gleaming under a bright autumn sun.
A woman likely returning home carrying a baby wrapped in a merino kimono with its long sash fluttering elderly couples peddlers with packs factory workers in blue uniforms monks country girls—these figures formed dots of yellow red blue and black along the highway.

“Sir, may I ask you something – is this the right way to Sasebo?”
I asked the old man walking just ahead of me.

“Of course! If you just keep going down this road, you’ll reach a place called Hayaki. From Hayaki to Sasebo, it’s three ri.”
“I’m heading to Sasebo myself. Why don’t you come along with me?” the old man kindly offered.
And so I decided to follow the old man.

“Are you going to Sasebo all by yourself? Are your parents going to Sasebo too?” said the old woman traveling with him.

“No, my home is in Saga, but I’m the only one going to Sasebo—going there to work.”

“Well now, let’s see—how old might you be? My, my, thirteen? Quite big for your age,” said the old woman.

The eight-ri road to Hayaki proved rather long.
We arrived in Arita—a pottery-producing region—around noon.
Along the edges of valley streams came intermittent sounds from waterwheel huts crushing stones.
I walked along the riverbed examining scattered pottery fragments with curiosity.
In town houses stood rows of kiln-ready ceramics shaped like various vessels.
I took lunch at a roadside teahouse with my elderly companions.

By evening’s fading light I reached Hayaki.
There I met Zensaku—a rickshaw puller I’d known casually from before.
This man had worked Saga Station’s grounds transporting our family’s guests years prior.
He’d moved his household to Sasebo three years earlier seeking labor.
Thanks to him I avoided walking those final three ri.
Better still—I’d secured temporary lodging at his home.
Truth was I’d come counting on Father’s acquaintance there,
but reckless youth that I was,
I hadn’t even properly noted their address—
finding them proved impossible.

“If that’s the case, you should’ve sent a letter to Father right away—he must be terribly worried.”
“It’s a cramped house, but I’ll let you stay at my place for now.” After hearing my circumstances, Mr. Zensaku said kindly.
Encountering this person was nothing short of a blessing for me.
Mr. Zensaku’s house was in a rundown area on the outskirts of Sasebo, where dubious little eateries dotted the streets here and there.
In the middle of the town’s narrow road ran two parallel lines of railroad ties.
This was the track for horse-drawn carts transporting coal from mountains two ri away to the naval coal depot.
Coal dust perpetually littered the road.
The wives and children from impoverished households would scavenge it with containers.
I observed Mr. Zensaku’s wife gathering it daily without fail.
Mr. Zensaku had two sons.
Gonpachi, older than me, went each morning to the shipbuilding division for clang-clang work—young laborers hammering off iron rust—returning with twenty sen earned.
The younger brother still attended elementary school.
Three or four days after my arrival came Tenchosetsu, enlivening the town.
When Tenchosetsu ended, I too was to accompany Gonpachi to work at the shipbuilding division.
From town to the Shipbuilding Division gate measured nearly one ri.
We passed through the First Gate into naval station grounds, skirting past red-brick warehouses and mountainous coal piles, emerging at boat sheds along the coast, crossing a square strewn with red-painted boilers—only then reaching the Division’s gate.
There gathered boys my age lined in two rows.
Each carried grimy cloth-wrapped lunches dangling from waists or slung over shoulders.
I lined up at the edge as Gonpachi directed.
Across from us massed adult laborers in formation.

Before long, a labor overseer wearing a corporal's hat—his eyes gleaming blackly—came over. He counted the boys' heads and began selecting those who looked docile or sharp-faced from one end of the line to the other.
The boy who caught the overseer's eye was fortunate.
"I ain't giving tokens to snot-drippers," the overseer said, and the boys all simultaneously sniffed back their running noses.
Then he inspected each boy one by one, finding faces that pleased him before handing out wooden tokens.
Obtaining this token meant twenty sen for a day's labor.
From my very first day, I luckily managed to secure one of these wooden tokens.
I followed Gonpachi and his companions to the coastal worksite.
There lay numerous spoils of war.
Every object that met my eyes made me tilt my head in puzzlement while filling me with awestruck confusion—nothing but incomprehensibly massive iron implements.
There lay two long, large iron pipes.
Gonpachi explained these were pillars from a hundred-ton Guren captured at Port Arthur.
Soon boys began crawling headfirst into a side hole at one end.
I crawled in after Gonpachi.
Both ends formed cylinders about two shaku in diameter that swelled increasingly toward the middle.
Hitting my head repeatedly along the way, I crawled to the midpoint.

“Try to get as close to the middle as you can—it’s wider there, so your body’ll have an easier time,” said Gonpachi.
Over twenty boys stationed themselves inside a cylindrical structure about thirty ken long, each illuminating candles as they began clinking away at the rust with their hammers.
There was no longer anything to hear.
The interior of the pipe grew hazy with iron rust powder and candle soot.

Before long, lunchtime arrived, and they went outside to heave sighs of relief.
Every nostril was pitch-black from having inhaled heaps of iron rust and oil soot.
They all sat on lumber and iron materials, opening their lunchboxes under the noon sun while gazing at the sea.

I kept doing that wretched work daily without complaint; no matter how it might ruin my health, I forced myself to endure it for the sake of defying Father and Stepmother back in my distant hometown.
I never missed a single day.

"Look! I can survive working like this on the road!" I thought with defiant pride, toiling all day inside the suffocating iron pipe that made my hammer clang-clang.

As long as one remains a powerless weakling, no matter where they go, their circumstances will scarcely change. That I had abandoned my hometown to become a laborer in rebellion against Father and Stepmother, thinking I could live independently and joyfully—it had all been fantasy. If only I could have endured back in Father’s home the full measure of hardships I’d suffered since coming to this land—how might he have regarded me as a reliable son then? Because of my half-baked flight into the itinerant life, I was compelled to endure subjugation and persecution from others far exceeding what I’d borne under Father and Stepmother, along with all manner of hardships. Relying on others’ kindness brought mental strain surpassing even the cold treatment I’d received in my own home. For nearly a year, I stayed at the home of Mr. Zensaku the rickshaw driver, commuting daily to the clang-clang work at the shipbuilding division. Though I never failed to pay for my daily meals from each day’s wages, this reserve made everything stifling. Moreover, I had to constantly mind not to upset Gonpachi, their son who was a year or two my senior. Gonpachi had been kind to me in various ways during my first days there. Yet he proved more ignorant than I, stubborn and quick to anger. The more I strove to avoid displeasing him, the more he demanded unreasonable submission. In complete subjugation, I’d had no choice but to obey his every word. Yet his parents seemed wholly unaware of the mental strain I endured for Gonpachi’s sake. This was because Gonpachi bullied me in ways that escaped their notice.

He was shorter than me but had a sturdy build and seemed stronger than I was.
On the way back from work, if I finished early and did not wait for him, he would become extremely displeased.
Yet despite this, when he himself finished early, he would hurry on ahead and go home.
In all sorts of other ways, I was made to endure his tyranny.

One evening, Gonpachi and I returned from work together.
As we walked through town, he began his usual routine of acting like a know-it-all toward me.

“How do you tell engine room sailors apart from regular sailors?”
“You wouldn’t understand this.”
Gonpachi said to me.
Having lived in Sasebo for three or four years, he was quite knowledgeable about various matters.
He boasted to me about knowing such things as how there was no difference in uniform between regular sailors and petty officers third class, how the chevron on the left sleeve of the uniform was a certificate of good conduct, how above petty officer first class came chief petty officer, and then warrant officer.

“Engine room sailors and regular sailors, huh? How do you tell ’em apart?”
“Engine room sailors have wrench insignias on their left sleeves,” I answered.

“Quit your jokin’! They’re still engine room sailors even without no wrench! When there’s both a wrench and cherry blossom, that’s a third-class petty officer among ’em.”
“Hmph—don’t know squat, do ya? Wrench on the upper arm means second-class petty officer.”
“You’d never manage to tell engine room sailors apart when they ain’t got no markings.”

“Then where do you tell them apart?”

“I can spot ’em straight off.”
“Engine room sailors are scrawny and pasty-faced.”
“Regular sailors got that beefy build with sunburnt skin.”
“Why? ’Cause engine rats breathe nothin’ but coal grit an’ lampblack all day—turns ’em ghost-white, see?”
“Get it now?” Gonpachi said, nostrils flaring.

“Ah yes, you certainly know your navy matters.”
I couldn’t help being impressed by his naval expertise.
He could identify warships by their distant silhouettes, recite torpedo boats’ combat roles, distinguish signal flags on masts, and knew every corner of the shipyard’s operations.

I too found it privately irksome to be constantly subjected to his know-it-all behavior, so I resolved to pose questions to him in areas beyond his knowledge. He had never attended school at all and consequently knew few characters. What's more, he had openly declared his dislike for written characters. I pointed to some lettering on a shop sign—characters he was unlikely to recognize—and tried making him read them. Though it said "Extremely Affordable Stock," he couldn't decipher the words. Then I indicated an eaves sign at a drugstore reading "Stylish Appearance, Superior Quality, Reasonable Prices" and had him attempt that too. He failed to read any of those either. He abruptly fell silent, his expression darkening.

“Just ’cause you know a few letters, don’t go getting all high and mighty.” He glared at me angrily.

“But you’re the one asking things I don’t know either.”

“So what?!” He shoved his chest against mine aggressively.

“Whose house do you think you’re imposing on right now? Who do you think dragged you to the workplace first? Keep mouthing off and you’ll regret it. Get out of my house already. There ain’t no nuisance like you around here. My old lady ain’t just saying that. Get up early in the morning. Hmph. With your measly ten-sen lodging fees, we’re taking a loss here.” Gonpachi thoroughly unloaded everything he wanted to say at me.

When confronted like that, I couldn’t utter a single word in response.

The next day, Gonpachi took advantage of my weakness and thoroughly humiliated me in front of the other workers even at the workplace. Among the young laborers, he was particularly robust and hot-tempered, which allowed him to exert considerable influence; consequently, the other boys would side with him by declaring each of his statements perfectly reasonable.

“Even though you’re imposing on my house and sticking around like this.”
“And I was the one who brought you to this workplace.”
“And you’re just insolent beyond belief.”
“I’d beat the crap outta you right now, but seeing as your country-bumpkin stepmother already drove you out after tormenting you good, I’m holdin’ back ’cause I almost feel sorry for ya.” Gonpachi declared before all the others.

“I’ll do it for ya, if ya want,” one of the sycophants said.

“If you stay in your place, we won’t have to fight. That’d be best.”
“Hey Seikou, you better quit actin’ all high and mighty and get along with Gonpachi-kun.”
“That’d be best,” a boy interjected with an air of reason.
“Well, I want to get along too,” I said, “so I’m doing as I’m told. But if they still call me insolent, there’s nothing to be done.”
“What the hell did you say?”
“Say that again.”
Gonpachi lunged at me.
Everyone held him back.

“Remember this on your way home today. This ain’t gonna end here.” Gonpachi said to me.

In the evening on our way back, he was waiting for me.

“You better run quick,” a comrade warned me. “You might get into some real trouble.”
I had already steeled myself for everything.
I resolved to let him have his way.
Gonpachi, as expected, was waiting for me in the deserted grassland lined with warehouses, accompanied by two or three comrades.
Then he approached me and suddenly grabbed me by the collar.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”
I too summoned every ounce of strength and grappled with him.
The comrades watching nearby flinched slightly at my momentum.
I drove him relentlessly across the grassland until we reached a dug-out depression there, then pushed him down.
For a while we tumbled over each other, then rose to our feet and grappled again.
At that moment, I suddenly noticed the lunchbox I had been gripping tightly in my hand and, swinging it up, struck Gonpachi’s cheek with a solid thud.
Blood streamed across his entire face.
I was shocked at the sight.
Gonpachi too seemed shocked by his own blood.

"Oh no.
This is terrible…"
Though I thought this, I kept my grip on his collar until he let go.
At that moment, a passing sailor intervened.
While Gonpachi was surrounded by his comrades tending to his wound, I dashed away at full speed.
I thought there was no choice but to return early and apologize to Gonpachi’s parents about what had happened.

"I've done something awful."
How should I apologize to Gonpachi's father?
"If things have come to this, they'll never let me stay in that house anymore."
Even as I ran toward home, my mind was in turmoil.

At home, Gonpachi's mother was preparing dinner and waiting for our return.
Because I came rushing in looking utterly distraught, she greeted me with a suspicious look and asked,
My shirt was tattered and torn.

“What happened?”
“Hasn’t my Gonpachi come home yet?”
At this moment, she had no way of knowing who I had fought with.

“What happened to Gonpachi?”
Zensaku’s wife pressed further with growing unease.

“Gonpachi-san will come back later.”
“Auntie, I got into a fight with Gonpachi-san.”
“Please forgive me.”
I said that.
I couldn’t bring myself to say that I’d injured Gonpachi’s head.
Just then, Gonpachi returned a step behind me, accompanied by a single comrade while bandaging his head with a hand towel.
When she saw this, Zensaku’s wife instantly turned pale and flew into a mad rage.

“Oh my, what happened, Seiroku-san? Did you injure Gonpachi’s head?”
“What? How did this happen?”
“Let’s hear your explanation.”
“Well…”
“You should know whose care you’re under right now! How dare you injure Gonpachi’s head!”
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?!” Zensaku’s wife glared, her voice rising to a shout.

“I’m sorry.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Auntie. Please forgive me.”
I apologized profusely.

At that moment, Gonpachi, fired up by how effectively his mother was berating me, suddenly swung up a geta from the dirt floor and struck at me.
I didn't fight back and allowed myself to be hit.
Just then, Mr. Zensaku, Gonpachi’s father, returned.

“You there, take a look at this! Gonpachi’s got his head injured—what kind of ungrateful wretch have we been sheltering? There he is, right here.”
“This freeloader…!” Zensaku’s wife venomously accused me to her husband.
Mr. Zensaku stayed silent, avoiding my gaze as his eyes blazed, then abruptly turned to berate Gonpachi.
“Your own filthy hands started this!”
“Picking fights, eh? A brat like you should get out! If getting hit hurts so damn much, why’d you start shit?!” Mr. Zensaku pummeled his own son again and again.
Seeing this, his mother grew even more protective of her child. “You—
“No need to beat your own flesh and blood so harshly.”
“This is too much….” Zensaku’s wife wrested Gonpachi from her husband’s grip.

“What, you too?!” Mr.Zensaku snarled and began pummeling his wife. I clung to Mr.Zensaku.

“Please forgive me. It’s my fault. It wasn’t Gonpachi-san’s fault—please forgive him!” I apologized repeatedly to Mr.Zensaku.

The neighbors came over.
And then, they dragged Zensaku’s wife away with them.
At last, things settled down.
I did not know what to do.
However, Mr.Zensaku did not say anything to me; instead, in a gentle tone,

“Why don’t you go take a bath now?”
“And try not to get into any more fights from now on.”
That single remark struck me to the core.
I was certain Zensaku’s wife would resent me and spent that night deeply worried.
However, the next morning, as usual, Zensaku’s wife prepared breakfast and sent the two of us off to work.
As if nothing had happened, Zensaku’s wife was kind to me as usual.
And then, as she sent us off, she said.

“Be good to each other.”
“If you fight, you saw how Father gets worked up. Understand?”
With those words, she sent the two of us off.

“Please forgive me for yesterday’s matter, Gonpachi-san.
“It was my fault.”
I said repeatedly.

“Nah, it’s my fault.”
The two of us completely made up over it at that moment.

I could not help but think of my hometown from time to time. On certain days, I found myself strangely worried about Father. Since coming to Sasebo, I had written to Father once. I had informed him that I was staying at Mr. Zensaku’s household. From Father came a letter addressed anew to Mr. Zensaku, earnestly requesting his assistance. A letter had come to me as well in a separate envelope. In it, there was nothing resembling a scolding regarding my having run away from home without permission. It merely said to work hard and become a full-fledged adult as soon as possible. Though my rebellious feelings toward Father and Stepmother allowed me to push through the pains of labor and left me relatively unbothered by the loneliness of life on the road, my longstanding tendency to fret over Father meant that even while working, his visage would immediately surface before my eyes. Whenever I thought of my pathetic self—forced to wander as a low-grade laborer under the open skies because of my foolish father groveling before his wife—I would gnash my teeth and yearn to glare at my hometown’s skies, though in truth, genuine affection for Father still lingered within my heart. Though I had plotted to make Father worry immensely by running away to this Sasebo, when it came to thinking of him, I was by no means inferior to other children. Even when I was apprenticed at my aunt’s tailor shop long ago, how I must have thought of Father and anxiously worried over countless matters unknown to anyone else. I knew well of Father’s good nature. Father was humble toward others. He was not one to willingly engage in even a single dispute, yet various disturbances constantly arose in the family business. Because of this, I could not know how much Father was worried while I was on my journey. Even when walking through town, if I saw a crowd gathered in front of a shop where someone was engaged in a dispute, my thoughts would immediately race to Father back home. Our family’s business was often subjected to various forms of interference by station rickshaw pullers, and on one occasion, those rickshaw pullers came drunkenly picking fights with Father. The inns near the station had the harmful practice of engaging in fierce competition, with both sides using rickshaw pullers to interfere with each other’s businesses. Our family’s business was located right next to the station and had a superior location compared to other inns, so rival innkeepers strove by any means necessary to snatch away even a fraction of the customers that would otherwise be drawn to us.

For this purpose, they invariably made use of station rickshaw pullers.
They would give those rickshaw pullers exorbitant drinking money, sometimes treat them to liquor, and employ various means of appeasement.
Because of this, the station rickshaw pullers would crowd the front of our family’s business with their rickshaws, making it inconvenient for customers to approach, or when bringing passengers from elsewhere, send them to other inns.
In return, there were times when our family’s business would call rickshaw pullers from outside the station grounds whenever customers wanted to hire a rickshaw.
As a result of these matters, relations between the station rickshaw pullers and my family’s business grew increasingly strained.
To be fair, even among the station rickshaw pullers, there were a small number who sided with my family’s business, but those with rough dispositions had effectively all been bought off by other inns.
I often saw Father endlessly restraining himself and trying to appease those rough rickshaw pullers despite their unreasonable arguments.
However, I was constantly on edge, fearing that Father might soon reach his limit and do something drastic.
Because I knew that Father was not someone incapable of such actions.
I had heard that my father had been made to leave home in a state akin to disownment through Stepmother's arrangements during his youth, and that during his wanderings he had mingled with gangs of laborers and navigated through spaces between drawn blades.
After my mother entered his life, he apparently returned to his hometown and started a small business, but following her death, he fell into self-destructive ways again, abandoning me to my grandmother’s care and fleeing to another province to live among rough company.
However, after returning to his hometown and starting an inn in front of the station, he remained devoted to the family business.
No matter how violently the rickshaw pullers barged in or how many times they picked fights, Father would meekly emerge from below.
There was once a night when Father waited with a bare blade for the rickshaw pullers to come barging in, but on that occasion, the matter ended without incident.
Never have I been as worried as I was at that time.
I could not help but worry from time to time whether such incidents were not occurring frequently even in my absence.
In truth, I did not want to send Father any letters at all.
Letters from Father were scarce too.

The hammering work came to a temporary halt, and it was not long before boy laborers became entirely unnecessary.
I could no longer cover that day's food expenses.
Yet I naturally had no intention of telling Father back home.
I thought I couldn't bring myself to tell him now.
And so I found myself forced to attempt adult labor too.
I tried joining crews hauling coal and working as an earthmover in mountain excavations.
But my body couldn't endure it.
Thus I concluded there remained no path for me but to become one of those hut-dwelling laborers I'd long heard about.
Hut-dwelling laborers meant the shipyard's permanent workforce - men who wouldn't go hungry even when extra hands weren't needed.
Since they entered the factories directly to assist regular workers, it was said they could make connections and even find routes to becoming full-fledged workers themselves.
So I consulted Mr.Zensaku about this.

“If you become a hut-dwelling laborer, you’ll pick up all sorts of bad habits. If your father back home were to think I’d put you into such a place, I’d never hear the end of it—but what’s to be done?” said Mr.Zensaku.
However, ever since my fight with Gonpachi, Mrs.Zensaku had not thought well of me, and Mr.Zensaku, aware of my restlessness, did not try to force me to stay.

One day, I went to plead at a hut nestled in the hillside valley. There stood three thatch-roofed shacks hastily erected from raw timber. They were divided into three factions: Iwasaki-gumi, Hirano-gumi, and Yamada-gumi. I entered the nearest one marked Hirano-gumi. All laborers had departed for work; not a soul remained indoors. Only the foreman and his wife occupied the dwelling. A plump young wife with rosy cheeks and charming demeanor—clad in a tube-sleeved work coat—greeted me kindly. The foreman too seemed decent-natured; when I explained my situation, both master and mistress took pity on me.

“My, you came all alone despite having parents.”
“Your folks must be quite...” the wife said musingly.

“Well, if that’s how it is, I’ll let you stay. You can come.”
“Officially, we don’t take kids like you into the huts, but I’ll make an exception,” the foreman said.
I was happy.
I moved in that very evening.
That night, I bowed and greeted each of the about ten laborers one by one.

“What a quiet-looking kid,” they each said among other comments.
Since all the men seemed kind and sincere, I felt somewhat relieved.
They arranged logs cut into sections as wooden pillows and slept two to a futon, their heads at opposite ends.
In the three-tatami room beyond the shoji screen slept a couple.
I too needed to share someone’s futon.

“Come into mine,” said a kindly-looking old man from the dim wall side. Without hesitation, I was allowed in.
I stretched my legs out freely and slept more comfortably than I ever had with Gonpachi up until last night.

“Go on, stretch your legs out more.
Don’t hold back—stretch ’em proper.
Wouldn’t want you catching a chill now,” Grandpa kept saying.
Even as he spoke these words, Grandpa was already snoring.

From the next morning onward, I woke up with everyone and followed the foreman to the Shipbuilding Department.

“Today I have brought a replacement laborer with me, so I humbly ask for your consideration,” the foreman said to the officer standing in front of the office.

“Ah, I see.”
The officer nodded.

There, the laborers of Iwasaki-gumi, Hirano-gumi, and Yamada-gumi lined up separately.
The officer checked the number of personnel and then wordlessly withdrew into the office.
With that, the formalities were settled.

From that day on, I was assigned to assist in the carpentry workshop.
This was because the old man who had slept in the same futon with me the previous night had requested the foreman to arrange it.
It was the most carefree job.
The old man had been working as an assistant laborer in the carpentry workshop for a long time and knew better than any of the workers where everything was located or how many zelkova boards were stored in which numbered shed.
When it came to matters of the carpentry workshop, he was such a reliable man that it was said you only needed to ask him to understand anything.
The old man introduced me to the carpentry workshop workers as if I were his own grandson.
Thanks to this, I quickly became close with all the workers.
There was no significant work to speak of.
When wood shavings piled up, I would stuff them into bamboo baskets and take them outside to discard; when workers had marked logs of various sizes with ink lines, I would carry them to the sawmill to have them cut; and when lunchtime came, I would portion out the bubbling water from the kettle into small buckets and deliver them to each of the workers’ meal areas—that was all there was to it.
If I had done exactly as he said, there would have been no mistakes.
When I went to the sawmill, there were various unusual machines.
I could not look upon a single one of these machines without marveling—the planing machines smoothing boards; rough-cutting machines for large zelkova logs; sharp ribbon saws stretched between upper and lower wheels spinning at tremendous speeds; waterwheel-like rotating circular saws; or devices more ingenious than humans sharpening each sawtooth one by one with emery stones.
I had not yet developed the capacity to perceive how much human labor and skill were being subjected to contempt due to such ingenious machines.
At that time, I still lacked any ability to grasp how these newfangled production machines—which ought to have brought happiness—had become capitalist monopolies that made social life wretched while oppressing multitudes.
I could only stand before these wondrous machines and marvel with a child’s heart.

In the carpentry workshop, I was doted on by everyone.

“Don’t you want to become a factory worker? What kind of worker do you aim to be? Become a carpenter.” One day, the Foreman told me this. To be honest, I didn’t like carpentry. Though I worked daily as a helper in the carpentry workshop, I had no intention of becoming a carpenter myself. Unlike ironworking—which left you blackened and carried more danger—for some reason, I preferred ironwork. Becoming an ironworker covered in grime seemed properly worker-like to me. Above all, I wanted to swing a hammer. My preference for ironworking or mechanics had no profound reason. Having grown up near the station back home, I’d daily watch steam locomotive engineers at work, visit the engine shed’s repair shop to see workers assemble machinery, observe them vigorously filing against vises, and admire their spirited postures as they swung long-handled hammers—through such sights, I came to love those trades. Carpentry struck me as utterly ordinary. The work of ironworkers and mechanics felt exotic somehow—that’s why I simply liked it.

“I want to become an ironworker or a mechanic,” I told the Foreman.

“I see. If you dislike carpentry, there’s nothing to be done about it. But becoming a carpenter would be better for you, I tell you. Carpentry work can be done in town, and it can also be done in one’s own home,” the Foreman told me earnestly.
I often went to play at the Foreman’s house.
The couple lived alone, keeping a modest household.
Because they had no children, the landlady was particularly kind to me.
She would mend my clothes and such.
On my days off, I also did various tasks for them.

“Since I want to become an ironworker, please assign me to help at the ironworks rather than assisting in the carpentry workshop. I want to apply to become a factory worker after learning even a little about ironworking first,” I pleaded with the foreman.

“Then I’ll arrange it that way, so endure a little longer,” the foreman said.

“The ironworks are dangerous, best steer clear.”
“Ain’t saying it’s bad work, but carpentry’s cleaner and easier on you besides.”
“Just keep your head down in the carpentry shop—I’ll sweet-talk the foreman proper-like. Get you wages from the start as a proper apprentice worker. Only a bit longer now, Seikō.”
“Foreman-san’s got a soft spot for you too.”
“C’mon now, do like I say.”
“That’s the way,” Grandpa kept insisting, blocking my path to becoming an ironworker.
Still I burned with love for the ironworks.
How splendid it’d be, I thought, to swing a hammer proper-like someday.
The coal smoke choking lungs daily? The men carted off bleeding every shift? Such matters barely grazed my mind then.
I’d been stone blind.

I had stayed in the shed for roughly over a year and slept in the same bed as Grandpa every night. Grandpa spoke to me with genuine concern about my affairs, admonishing me on various matters.

“What do you think you’re doing becoming some factory worker? You’ll only ruin your own soul. You’re at a crucial time right now—you’d best think careful-like. You don’t understand a damn thing—I’ll make sure to tell you proper. I ain’t saying nothing bad—you’d best hurry back home—listen to your folks and stay put. Bein’ bullied by your parents ain’t nothin’. That ain’t nothin’. In this world—there’s what they call capitalists who torment folks even worse—cool as you please—suckin’ the lifeblood outta workers like us. This here shipyard’s run by the honorable Imperial Navy—so they still treat us workers decent enough—but once you become a factory worker proper—you ain’t treated like no human bein’ at all. Now you listen real good—you get that? They’ve got it all calculated proper—how many workers’ll die buildin’ a single ship—they say. Die—and all you get is three hundred yen—the family left behind gets it—they say twenty workers die buildin’ each ship on average—all factored into shipbuildin’ costs—no different from expendable goods—what good’s three hundred yen once you’re dead? It’s one precious life that can’t be replaced—from the moment they lay a ship’s keel—it’s set in stone someone among hundreds of workers’ll end up joinin’ them twenty corpses—you say you like ironworkin’—but even you ain’t gonna escape bein’ counted among them twenty if you become a proper ironworker.”

“You’d best think real careful about it.”
“Don’t go ruinin’ your soul now.”
“Y’get that, Seikō?”
“You’d best hurry back home.”
Grandpa would keep saying these things even at night after we’d gone to bed.
I would sometimes mend Grandpa’s work clothes for him.
Grandpa would take ten or even twenty minutes just to thread a needle.
And his repairs always came out clumsy.

“Grandpa, let me sew that for you,” I said.

“As if you could do that!”
“Well, if you say so, I’ll leave it to you,” Grandpa said and handed me the needle along with everything.
To me, that much needlework was nothing.

“Well now, how’d you get so handy?”
“Damn good!”
“Even girls can’t match this,” Grandpa said admiringly.

“I served three years as an apprentice at a tailor’s, Grandpa. Shall I make you an undershirt or even Western clothes?” I said, whereupon Grandpa widened his eyes and scrutinized me intently with evident surprise.
After that, I had Grandpa buy Kishu flannel and made shirts and underpants for him.

“What skillful hands you have! I’ll treasure the clothes you’ve made for me, Seikō.” Grandpa beamed with delight.

It was the spring of my third year after running away from home when my stepmother from back home deliberately came to see me. By that time, I had already become a shipyard worker in the shipbuilding division, so I had long since left the shed and was living in a boarding house. Since I was now earning over thirty sen in daily wages, I could somehow manage to be independent. However, the daily work was grueling. Handling iron plates heavier than hammers was my daily task. Most shipyard work was performed outdoors beneath open skies—in winter we were exposed to biting winds, in summer scorched by blazing suns; such was our daily lot. The agony of being made to enter the narrowest parts of a ship’s hull to perform riveting work—how many times greater was this occupational endurance than the patience required when suffering cold treatment from my stepmother and father back home?

The stepmother who had come to visit said.

"My, you've grown sturdy and have been applying yourself, haven't you."
"Just how much in monthly wages have you started receiving now?"
"Make sure to study hard and make something of yourself."
"Father has been looking forward to that too."
"I too shall wait, looking forward to your success."
Stepmother affected the air of a true mother with a saccharine voice and uttered all manner of transparent remarks.
As I listened to this, I squirmed with unbearable irritation.
Yet I couldn't help feeling a pride as if boasting about my Stepmother—that even someone like me had such a mother back home—in front of the boarding house residents.
She was quite dressed up in formal attire, so much so that at a glance she appeared young and beautiful enough to be mistaken for someone in her thirties.
Ruby-inlaid rings and solid gold bands adorned both her fingers, and she had even inserted a small lady's pocket watch into her obi.
Whether it was how she wore her black crepe haori or how well-suited her elaborate marumage hairstyle was, she had dressed up so extravagantly that even I barely recognized her—like some proper lady from who-knows-where.
"Stepmother. I went through so much hardship running away from home because of you..." I thought, yet encountering her like this on my journey inevitably stirred feelings of nostalgia I couldn't deny.

Even if she wasn't my real mother, merely having such a beautifully dressed woman by my side didn't feel entirely disagreeable—though in a self-deprecating sense, I also felt a peculiar swelling of pride.
The next day, having obtained permission from the factory superintendent, I took Stepmother to tour the workshops.
A youth clad in oil-stained work clothes led forward while guiding a lady-like woman in black crepe kimono with an elaborate chignon hairstyle—a sight that made numerous laborers gape in astonishment.
Some among them showered their trademark vulgar shouts.
I flushed slightly with embarrassment.
Stepmother remained utterly unperturbed, hiking up her kimono hem to reveal the gaudy lining of her underrobe as she trailed behind me.

My fellow workers had never even imagined that someone like me could have such an impressive mother.
Amidst the prevailing notion that those who become factory workers were all impoverished parentless souls, it was only natural they found it unexpected to see me accompanying this noblewoman-like stepmother on a factory tour.
I too, at least during this time, did my best to suppress within myself the unpleasant awareness of her being Stepmother.
To think this way was because I had to confront the contradiction between my petty vanity in this situation and the hollow pride of having such an impressive mother.

“Mother, that’s the floating dry dock.”
I explained each detail in that manner.
She stared wide-eyed with apparent curiosity.

“My…”
She could do nothing but marvel.
Just then from the stone-walled shore came two divers attempting to submerge to the dry dock’s bottom—their heads encased in grotesque armor-like helmets, bodies swallowed by billowing diving suits, feet weighed down by boots shaped like toilet bowls.
Other divers had already plunged into the water and were working while blowing out vigorous breaths.
The whale-shaped torpedo boat was gradually being lifted by that floating dry dock.
The dock rose precisely by the volume of seawater expelled thunderously from the A-pump.
Spring sunlight made the sea glitter fiercely.

Furthermore, I also took along and showed her my daily workplace—the shipyard. I gave a brief explanation of the first hull under assembly, its frame attached to the central keel. It was shaped exactly like the mask worn by kenjutsu practitioners. Over that framework they would lay iron plates, and the workers would rivet them using long-handled hammers.

Furthermore, I also showed her the interior of the machine factory. There, numerous lathes and shaper machines, boring machines and shearing machines were lined up in a long row, each cutting into iron or brass. The leather belts, like ribbons, streamed from the shafts to the machines, fluttering like rain. In the next building, several large steamship engines were being assembled while finishing workers in oil-smeared blue uniforms skillfully wielded long files.

“My, you’ve really shown me such rare things. Women like us would never get to see sights like these in our entire lives,” Stepmother said cheerfully after finishing the tour.

She left by train the next day.

In that same autumn when Stepmother had come to see me, Father showed up out of nowhere.
When I returned from the factory and looked in, he was drinking with the boarding house owner.
Father’s face looked so strangely different that I almost wondered who he was.
Somehow, I found myself being more curt with Father than I had been when meeting Stepmother.
In that single moment, an indescribable feeling welled up in my chest.
Father seemed that way too.
I even felt tears welling up slightly, but held them back.

“Father has arrived.”
“Come now, you should join us here as well,” said the boarding house owner couple, unaware of my inner turmoil.

“I had business in Nagasaki, so I just dropped by while I was at it.”
“You’ve been keeping well, haven’t you?” Father said.

“Uh…,” was all I could manage to say.
I had no real intention of being curt to Father, but in the boarding house owner’s presence, I restrained my words and averted my eyes.

When night fell, parent and child left the inn and went into town. As we walked, we spoke in fragments. Father talked about things like encountering a thief at a Nagasaki inn.

“I had my sash stolen—but the police said they’ve got a general idea where it is, so it should turn up soon. I was relieved that the pocket watch I intended to give you was safe. Here, I’ll give this to you; you can keep it,” Father said as we walked, handing me a silver-cased pocket watch. I felt an agonizing urge to push it back while saying I didn’t need it, yet humbly accepted with a “Thank you very much.”

Being shown such affection from Father now of all times made me feel that accepting it calmly would render meaningless all the hardships I'd endured since running away.
Yet in truth, I couldn't help feeling both deeply pitiful toward Father who had come to see me and tearfully grateful from the bottom of my heart.
As our conversation continued, I came to understand that Father hadn't gone to Nagasaki on business at all—some unpleasantness must have arisen between him and Stepmother, and he'd likely left home without knowing where to go, partly to distract himself and partly from wanting to see me after so long. This realization of Father's circumstances made me feel all the more sentimental.

My Stepmother’s single-minded focus on accumulating secret savings over many years had long been known among our relatives. Consequently, Father would often discover inexplicable discrepancies in the shop’s accounts. He had overlooked minor matters before, but this time he apparently could no longer tolerate it and had stirred up a dispute; yet my clever Stepmother must have skillfully talked her way out of it.

“It’s all such a bother still,” Father said to me.
Father’s complaints of that sort seemed somewhat intended to gain my favor.
To have half-heartedly compromised with that stepmother while being constantly betrayed by her, all while making his only eldest son endure hardships on the road—this must have darkened his own heart in various ways, filled him with lonely anxiety, and even brought him to feel ashamed before society.

Thinking that, I became filled with the desire to care for Father.

“Well? If there’s anything you want, go ahead and say so.”
“Since it’ll be getting cold soon, I’ll buy you two or three knitted shirts.”
Father said this when we arrived in front of Kanshōba.

“I have shirts already. I don’t need any.”
For some reason, I didn’t want to let Father buy anything.

“How about this? Wouldn’t it be good if I gave those lodgers you’re staying with now some hand towels or tobacco from me?”

“There’s no need to do such a thing.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll give them towels then,” Father said, and bought towels at a shop in Kanshōba.
Then he arbitrarily picked out Scotch knit shirts, a hunting cap, ankle boots, and such, and bought them for me.

Beyond Kanshōba stood a restaurant.
Father led me inside.
And then he ordered an array of Western dishes.
Father drank beer heartily.
Since the billiard table in the other room happened to be free, Father suggested that he and I try playing a game.
I reluctantly agreed, and parent and child enthusiastically played a clumsy game that made the waiter laugh.

The next day, I went to Mr. Zensaku’s house accompanied by Father.
There, Father expressed his deep gratitude to Mr. Zensaku’s family for taking care of me.

To me, Father was after all a father who truly possessed genuine affection—a father-like father.
I could finally see again, after so long, the kind and gentle father filled with warmth that I remembered from my childhood.
My rebellious feelings toward Father had temporarily vanished somewhere, replaced by an overwhelming surge of genuine affection.
I felt somehow sorrowful about parting with Father.
Father stayed for two nights before departing.

"If you keep wandering forever, it'll trouble my mind. You'll need to start considering coming home to take my place someday," Father said as we parted.
I kept silent in response.

"As if I'd ever go back..."
Though I thought this, I still pitied Father.
Truthfully, I could no longer muster any inclination to return home and assist with Father's family business.
It wasn't that I wished to deliberately worry or burden Father further, but I had already firmly sworn to join a certain group of ideologically driven itinerant laborers and share in their future actions.
They were awakened worker comrades.
I was one of them.
I no longer had time to look back longingly at Father or hometown.

The following year, I dashed off to Kansai to join certain comrades.
The events that followed shall be related at another time.

(Taishō 8, September)