Pathway to Japanese Literature

Regarding the Great Kantō Earthquake since September 1, I had briefly documented my direct observations of its chaos up to the 6th—when conditions were most intense—under the title "Earthquake Journal" in the November issue [(Volume 10, Issue 3)] of *Shakaishi Kenkyū*. Yet even after the 7th, severe aftershocks persisted repeatedly, leaving society restless with post-disaster anxiety still thick in the air.
My study and other rooms ravaged by clay debris from the collapsed old storehouse remained untouched, and indeed the academic window stayed shuttered.
There was no telling how long this state of affairs would persist.
Therefore, I resolved to detach the entries spanning several more days from *Academic Window Journal*, title them *Post-Earthquake Notes*, and compile them separately as a memento for posterity.

September 7 (Fri)

Today marked the first movement of Tokyo's streetcars since the disaster.
In my neighborhood - a mere nine stops between Ōtsuka Terminal and Kasugachō - one couldn't tell how much convenience pedestrians had gained from this limited service.
Yet because they permitted disaster victims to ride free, even non-victims swarmed aboard until passengers crammed every space - not only around the conductor's platform but clinging like barnacles to the windows' outer edges.
No - it overflowed with riders hanging from the sides.
For someone faint-hearted like myself, boarding appeared utterly unthinkable.
My trusty old bicycle once again proved its worth.

In the afternoon, the water supply finally started flowing.
It seemed to be only the lowest areas, but one could hardly imagine how happy he felt.
Had it been a country without running water from the beginning, one could never have tasted this joy—nor would they have suffered such hardships.

Four nursery workers finally arrived and began clearing away the scattered roof tile fragments and clumps of earth.

Kusakabe Hikota—a cousin of his wife from Kunō in Kitakatsushika District—came all the way by bicycle to visit him, bringing two sho of white rice.
Although there was much talk of large-scale white rice shipments from Osaka and other regions, none had yet reached the markets—with people still relying on barley and unpolished rice for sustenance—this gift was more welcome than anything. (Postscript.)
Hikota was an Imperial University student—a young man seen as full of promise—but after braving the rain that day to visit relatives in Tokyo, he soon fell ill and ultimately passed away at Imperial University Hospital on October 31.
What a tragic turn of events this was.)
Around midnight came an aftershock strong enough to startle everyone.

The night patrols continued unabated.
It was reported in newspaper articles that travel would be prohibited after 9 PM.
As the surviving newspapers Hōchi and Tokyo Nichinichi resumed publication, people gained somewhat accurate information—and though public anxiety gradually subsided, the wartime atmosphere showed no signs of abating.
Neither mail nor local newspapers arrived.
Everything seen and heard consisted solely of pitiful sights, eerie occurrences, and terrifying events; one might say every rustle put people on edge, while groundless rumors that defied belief still showed no sign of abating.

September 8 (Sat)

Today, five nursery workers came and continued yesterday’s work.
The indoor cleaning was mostly completed, allowing me to sit on the tatami mats for the first time.
For the first time, I felt settled in my home.
In truth, I had been restless since the 1st, unable to clean the swirling dust that had blown in, and had been walking across the soiled tatami rooms in my geta.

The nephew from Hisakatamachi working at Fuji Spinning hitched a ride on a warship to Osaka to procure food to supply the workers and other immediate necessities.

September 9 (Sun)

Today again, five nursery workers came.
With a total of fourteen workers over successive days, they finally managed to clean only the house's exterior.
They used some of the clay clods and broken roof tiles to level low areas within the estate grounds, but even so, these materials proved too abundant to fully utilize. Piling them high in a corner of the vacant lot, they created an earthquake memorial mound.
Mr. Abe Masami from Shōnai, Yamagata Prefecture stopped by, having specially come to Tokyo to offer disaster condolences (I shall not record each visit from city residents here).

September 10 (Mon)

The provisional funeral(?) of Her Highness Princess Kan'in no Miya Hiroko—who had perished at the Odawara Imperial Villa during the violent tremors on the 1st—was held at the Toshimaoka Imperial Cemetery before our residence.
Given the circumstances, it proved an exceedingly modest ceremony, with merely five or six accompanying automobiles trailing in procession.
Even neighborhood residents found many faces unrecognizable.
Time and again, the affair remained profoundly heartrending.

September 11 (Tue)

By bicycle, I made visits while touring through the burned ruins to survey the city’s conditions.
Structures resembling makeshift huts had been erected everywhere, with many pitiful people barely managing to shelter themselves from the rain.
While not a few had already begun constructing decent-looking barracks, there still seemed to be corpses buried in the burned ruins, and I frequently encountered places reeking horribly of death.

Ishihara Ikurō, son of Mr. Ishihara Rokurō (proprietor of the Gokō Library in my hometown), visited my residence while coming to Tokyo to check on the safety of his younger brother studying there.
I remain endlessly grateful for Mr. Ishihara’s consistent kindness.
Considering how communications with my hometown had been completely severed today and how my family must surely be worried, I requested him to report the situation exactly as observed.

Starting tonight, shifts were established for taking turns on neighborhood night patrol duties.

September 12 (Wed)

Starting today, the anti-profiteering ordinance was finally enforced in earnest, and in my neighborhood, there were those at shops and stalls who were beaten or kicked by police officers for pricing their goods too high.
It seems that extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures of control.

A certain bearded disaster victim—said to have been employed at the Hakubunkan factory—set up a shop with his wife in front of their gate advertising "social service: one bowl of dumpling stew for five sen," but it appeared not to sell at all.
The husband wore trousers and a single shirt; the wife was clad in just a thin underrobe and a bathing slip.
Generally speaking, there hadn't been a single woman seen wearing makeup or dressed up since the first day.
Even young women of marriageable age found it more practical to tuck up their skirts and go barefoot in tabi socks.

September 13 (Thu)

From our Kyoto residence came my assistant Yamamoto Masuzo, having traveled far to aid in earthquake disaster cleanup efforts. The police and prefectural office had been remarkably reluctant to issue permits, he explained, requiring great effort to obtain them. Finally permitted yesterday on condition of carrying seven days' provisions via the Chūō Line, his journey's hardships had been extraordinary by any measure. He had secured three hundred yen for immediate needs and brought it—truth be told, banks had only tentatively begun reopening since yesterday with strict hundred-yen daily withdrawal limits, making funds difficult to access amid the crowds. This brought me profound relief. More crucially, he carried thirty-odd letters delivered to our Kyoto residence since the quake; having long been without news from any quarter, I felt inexpressible joy. Several thoughtful correspondents had written things like "As regional post offices refuse all Tokyo-bound mail, I've resent this to your Kyoto address for safety"—their consideration evident.

September 14 (Fri)

Heavy rain struck.
The hastily erected, incomplete roofs could not fully prevent it, and with leaks appearing everywhere, we were made to despair.
Around 3:30 p.m., another fairly strong earthquake struck.
I dispatched my second son and Mr. Yamamoto, with lunchboxes, to survey the conditions of the burned ruins.
They bought and brought back picture postcards showing piled-up corpses at the Hifukushō Site.

Today, postal delivery resumed for the first time.
Only items postmarked on the 1st or 2nd were delivered.
After the 3rd, they had stopped accepting mail bound for the disaster areas, so none arrived.

September 15 (Sat)

The downpour continued unabated.
Earthquakes also recurred intermittently.
With Yamamoto’s assistance, I began organizing the library.

September 16 (Sun)

Condolence letters from various regions are beginning to be delivered sporadically.
There are also enthusiastic readers who encourage me to continue 『社会史研究』 even if it’s just four or five pages.
Rain and wind continue unabated.
Today, two carpenters and one gardener came to help, applying emergency repairs to the damaged areas for the time being.
The repairs show no sign of being completed anytime soon.

In the afternoon, as the rain had stopped, I went from Sugamo to the Nippori area to offer my condolences.
The bicycle proved invaluable.

September 17 (Mon)

Two tinsmiths began emergency repairs on the broken roof using whatever old materials were at hand.

Kyoto University’s lectures should have begun long ago.
Having entrusted most emergency repairs to the craftsmen, I had finally planned to depart for Kyoto today, but it was reported that the Tōkaidō Line—which had only just become passable on foot—had become impassable again after the temporary bridge over the Māse River was washed away by heavy rains these past few days.
It was reported that the Sasago Tunnel on the Chūō Line had also collapsed and become blocked.
There was absolutely no way to make the journey.

From around ten o'clock, I went to visit the Historiographical Institute and Anthropology Department at Imperial University that had survived the fires, as well as Ueno Museum.
The museum appeared to have sustained considerable damage, but it could be said that the former two suffered almost no harm at all.
Had the university not even encountered a fire, it would have remained almost completely unharmed.
It was a regrettable outcome.
Generally speaking, Tokyo’s earthquake was not as severe as those in Yokohama, Kamakura, or the Odawara area; even when compared to accounts like the *Ansei Kenmon-shi*, it does not seem to have been as devastating as Edo’s earthquakes of that era.
However, this time it was severely damaged by the calamity of the great fire.
And just as with the horrific scene at the Hifukushō Site, this disaster gave rise to an unprecedented tragedy of historic proportions—one where over thirty thousand people perished in flames, piled upon one another in a single location.
If this had been the old Edo city of yore—if they had not relied so excessively on the water supply for fire prevention—it would not have come to such a state. When I consider this, once again I cannot help but resent modern civilization.

While university staff members largely resided in the Yamanote area—resulting in relatively few disaster victims among them—it was reported that Dr. Wada Hidesato, whom I had long been concerned about, had seen his vast collection of books completely burned, and he was now taking refuge in Nakano.
As there was no work today, I could not personally offer words of condolence (Postscript: Later I heard that Mr. Nakamura Katsumaro had also been burned out of his home—how unfortunate).

In Ueno Park, evacuees' huts now stood everywhere—even on the grassy areas normally off-limits to foot traffic.
The Metropolitan Police Department’s temporary barracks, which were supposed to be constructed, had not yet begun building—only the site had been designated.
From the vantage point, across the burned plains of the low city spread out below, makeshift barracks were gradually coming into view—yet the vast station immediately beneath remained untouched.
Inside the museum, even the office verandas and corridors were packed with pitiable people.
From what I saw, most wore nothing but a single yukata they had on their backs.
They must at least have been receiving food rations somehow, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for how they endured the nights.
As they faced increasingly cold mornings and evenings from there on, how would this all ultimately settle?

I visited the History Department to inquire after the safety of my acquainted members and to ask about Mr. Umehara Sueharu of Kyoto University, who was supposed to have come to Tokyo on the day of the earthquake. At that time, Director Takahashi Kenji was absent, but according to Mr. Gotō Shuichi, just as I had feared, most of Mr. Kurokawa Shinmichi’s family’s generations-old books and manuscripts had burned. What a regrettable outcome. Mr. Umehara did come as scheduled on the 1st, but due to the earthquake, things became unmanageable; particularly because his appearance somewhat resembled that of a Korean, it was too dangerous for him to go outside. After providing him protection, they safely sent him off to Tōhoku on the 3rd—by now, he has likely returned to Kyoto. With this, I felt somewhat relieved and imagined scenes like that lanky man being threatened with bamboo spears by the self-defense groups. It is said that Mr. Oshima Yoshinobu, the new president, had just begun his inaugural address to assembled staff members—his first attendance since assuming office—when that violent shaking struck.

September 18 (Tue)

With only the Shin'etsu Line operational, the train congestion was dreadful; today too I abandoned plans to head west, and instead visited the long-concerning Yokohama and Kamakura areas to offer condolences.
From Ōtsuka Station on the Yamanote Line to Shinagawa, and from Shinagawa onto the Tōkaidō Line—I somehow managed to board the trains, but the crowding was so severe that women, children, and elderly people would have found it utterly impossible to ride.
Every entrance and exit was jam-packed to the brim, with ticket windows still serving as ordinary boarding points in this state of affairs.

I had long been aware of the severity of the earthquake disaster in Yokohama and Kamakura, but witnessing it firsthand revealed devastation far exceeding my imaginings. When I finally transferred trains at Ōfuna and approached Kamakura, I was first shocked to see nearly all the houses around Engakuji Temple collapsed.
Kamakura Station remained unburned but stood as a pitiful sight.
The area before the station lay completely burned as far as the eye could see.
The renowned Tsurugaoka Hachimangū Shrine had also collapsed pitifully, its stone bridges and torii gates crumbled away. Along the main street before its gates, not a single structure remained intact save for the greengrocer at the left corner and one other house.
And they were mostly burned.
Most other shrines and temples too seemed to have been unable to escape collapse.
This historic site with seven hundred years of history—under these circumstances, restoration would not come easily.
Particularly in this remote region, all measures lagged behind Tokyo’s, and even now the food supply did not seem sufficient.
I visited Mr. Nishikawa Ryūji’s temporary lodgings in Nikaidō Valley.
The damage in this area was relatively minor, but Mr. Nishikawa, having only a sick child and a group of women in his care, found himself unable to return home and still received rationed rice while enduring this unforeseen summer retreat.
I visited Gokurakuji Temple.
The main hall’s exterior remained miraculously intact, but inside, the half-height Yakushi Nyorai and its two attendant Bodhisattva wooden statues had been thrown from their Sumeru altar and lay mercilessly shattered—a tragic waste.
The hall enshrining the National Treasure Kuro Jizōson had been crushed, and the principal Bodhisattva statue lay buried beneath—even now, the extent of its damage remained unknown.
Only the priest’s quarters and the small sitting room I had built and attached to them in previous years remained mostly undamaged.
It was said that Chief Priest Ōno Hidenori had been accompanying his hospitalized son at a Yokohama hospital when the earthquake struck. As the building collapsed, he somehow managed to carry out the patient while evading the encroaching flames, ultimately retreating unharmed.
It had been a close call.

As night had grown late, I spent the night at Gokurakuji Temple.

September 19 (Wed)

The earthquake damage in Atsugi Town—which I had first surveyed at July's end—proved most severe; having heard it had since suffered fires too, I wished to both check on those who had assisted me then and conduct an inspection. But with Mairi River crossings being arduous and roads between Atsugi-Hiratsuka severely cracked—likely impassable even by automobile—I abandoned the plan and promptly returned to Yokohama.

Yokohama's devastation far surpassed Tokyo's.
While inspecting charred ruins here and there, I first sought Mr. Horita Shōsuke at the municipal office's temporary headquarters but found him absent.
Diverting course, I visited Mr. Fukazawa Keikichi in Nishitobe Town.
He had previously served as secretary of the Japan Historical Geography Society and later long tenured as professor at Jingu Kogakukan before abandoning academia for business ventures—last year erecting an imposing mansion here.
Yet even this new residence could not escape complete collapse in this earthquake disaster.

At that time, Mr. Fukazawa had gone to Kawasaki for a company directors’ meeting and was absent.
Beside the collapsed gate stood a makeshift barrack of about six tatami mats where his wife lived with their seven children.
That none had sustained injuries and they had escaped fire damage was fortunate beyond measure—though this reprieve would surely prove temporary. Yet faced with such utter deprivation, so starkly contrasting with their former life of golden towers and jade pavilions, I found myself unable to suppress rising tears.
Yet this plight was not Mr. Fukazawa’s alone.
All disaster victims, whether known or unknown, shared this wretched state.
No—countless others suffered circumstances severalfold worse.
“Mrs., I realize this must be terribly trying,” I said, “but consider how many people today—those wanting nothing in their fine homes—deliberately seek cramped lodgings in so-called ‘tent villages’ along coasts or mountaintops to savor some novel experience.”
“You’ve gained this opportunity to taste such conditions without even seeking it.”
“Please endure with that perspective.”

This had not been said with any intent to mock, but upon later reflection, I couldn't help but wryly smile at what meaning the other party might have truly taken from it.

Makeshift barracks and structures resembling Sanka huts—with charred zinc sheets propped against them—had mostly been completed, but seen from Tokyo, they lagged considerably behind.
Along the main streets of the Tobe Line and in front of stations—places with heavy foot traffic—numerous stalls selling food, drinks, and daily necessities had sprung up.
Vegetables were cheap, with a sign stating thirty eggplants for ten sen.
Indeed, the vegetables had suffered no damage from the earthquake, and moreover, demand had greatly diminished.

The Shinagawa-bound train remained packed like sardines.

Both yesterday and today, every conversation among passengers in the trains concerned nothing but the disaster.
Each tale proved more pitiful than the last.
A gentleman who appeared to be a merchant of considerable standing boarded from Kamakura, carrying his fifteen- or sixteen-year-old daughter—who bore the airs of a young lady—with a bandaged leg.
I learned he had operated an extensive drapery shop in Nihonbashi; while his main store had naturally burned to ashes, his Tokyo-based family and staff had mercifully escaped unharmed. Yet their Kamakura villa had collapsed, killing two and injuring six among relatives who had been staying there.
Having somehow secured lodgings in Tokyo, he wished to retrieve the survivors, but the train congestion made this impossible. Now he had finally begun personally bringing them back one by one each day.

"If I were to ask, 'How about repairing your collapsed villa again and returning there?' you would answer: 'Absolutely not—I've learned my lesson thoroughly. And being burned out like this, how could I possibly have such luxury?'"
Exactly so—it is precisely when each person maintains this resolve that the path to prospering from disaster can truly open.
However, temples collapse, towns burn, and with even Kamakura's foremost patron—a wealthy gentleman—leaving his villa unrestored, the region's recovery can hardly be an easy matter.
It was disheartening to think that historic Kamakura itself might finally be reduced to ruins by this earthquake.

September 20 (Thu)

Today，no matter what，I had to make my journey to Kyoto．With both the Chūō Line and Tōkaidō Line still impassable，I was forced to take a long detour via the Shin’etsu Line connecting to the Chūō Line．From Otsuka to Tabata，Tabata to Omiya，Omiya to Takasaki，Takasaki to Shinojiri，and Shinojiri to Nagoya—with each transfer，the crowding grew increasingly extraordinary．Particularly toward Nagoya，there were no second-class cars；the train was packed with evacuees until movement became nearly impossible，windows still serving as entryways．Still，compared to those early days when people clambered onto roofs or hung from windows，I judged conditions had grown incomparably more manageable．

At stations here and there, there were still distributions of relief supplies managed by youth groups.
Yet among these were not a few ill-mannered disaster victims(?) who made unbearable remarks about this aid, while many ordinary passengers openly pocketed relief items—a sight that left me bitterly disheartened.
I found myself sharing the train with that woman displaced by the fires—the one who had run a small sweets shop in Fukagawa after her husband's death years prior, raising two young children—now journeying with those same children to seek refuge with Osaka relatives.
Even I—wearing my stand-collar suit, wrapped gaiters, and rubber-soled tabi, carrying only a mountaineering pack—struggled to board and alight; how much more pitiable were these people hauling multiple large cloth bundles.
Unable to remain a bystander, I tried securing seats and assisting them through the crowds, but lost them amid the chaos of transferring at Takasaki Station.
Anxious whether they had boarded safely, I reached Nagoya only to discover we had by chance reunited in the same compartment.
What an extraordinary twist of fate.
Looking closer, I saw both children had lost their hats in the commotion.
Still, I counted it fortunate they had made it aboard unharmed, and quietly wished them luck on their journey ahead.

I could not help but feel outraged at the considerable number of heartless passengers even amidst such crowding. In the entrance of the train compartment I rode between Shinojiri and Nagoya sat two mustached gentlemen in Western suits who had closed the door from inside, placed a large bag there, and settled comfortably upon it—allowing no one to pass through. At every station stop, people crowding in from outside pushed and pounded on the door to no avail—it remained stubbornly immovable. Unable to bear watching this any longer, I cautioned them, but those fellows paid no more heed than horses' ears to the east wind, not uttering a single word in reply. Passengers boarding and alighting had no choice but to clamber entirely through the windows. The pitiable state of the women and children defied description. If only I were a bit younger now, I thought—though truthfully I lacked the vigor for throwing punches anymore. As for my fellow passengers, since this didn't directly concern them, not one lifted a hand to intervene—they merely cursed this inhumanity in unison. And through it all, those mustached gentlemen remained utterly unperturbed even as they were reviled. Where law cannot reach, I concluded, society still requires iron-fisted measures.

There was a group of five or six individuals acting with brazen disregard—a man styled like a political activist in a judo uniform and kogura hakama; a heavyset youth wearing a noble-weave summer kimono with a brocade heko obi carelessly tied about his waist, a gold watch glinting at his side; and others sporting various outlandish appearances—all loudly spouting grandiose claims. These must be what newspapers refer to as delinquent youths. Without courtesy—nay, with outright arrogance—they accepted relief supplies while disparaging the girls and female students working devotedly nearby. “Hey Sis! Quit gawpin’ elsewhere!” “That one’s limp as a loofah.” “These Patriotic Women’s Association dames swan about in their crest-emblazoned robes like they own the place.” Such became these evacuees’ retort to the women’s heartfelt sympathy. What an appalling spectacle. And most regrettably, not one among our fellow passengers lifted a hand to strike them.

There was a debater holding forth about distinguishing disaster victims from the poor. I found it utterly distasteful how they employed language practically demanding gratitude from us evacuees for their relief provisions. We had not fallen into this situation through any crime or personal failing. The essential argument ran that since we had merely happened to suffer a disaster someone else might have borne instead, those fortunate enough to have avoided calamity ought naturally to surrender half their possessions to us. [(Refer to *Shakaishi Kenkyū* Volume 10, Issue 3, page 84, “Yohakuroku” [Marginalia])] Regardless of this theory’s validity, I considered it a matter requiring consideration by the general populace—particularly policymakers and members of the propertied classes.

The train was severely delayed; what should have taken just over twenty hours according to the timetable ended up consuming approximately twenty-four hours, but it somehow arrived safely in Kyoto by evening on the twenty-first.

From this point onward until my return to Tokyo on October 7 to handle cleanup matters, there were no entries related to the earthquake disaster. In Kyoto, I found myself compelled to recount my firsthand experiences everywhere to satisfy people’s eager curiosity; at times, I proactively shared them myself—it amounted to nothing more than repeating the same accounts endlessly. During this period, I was startled to discover how many irresponsible statements I had heard from those who claimed direct experience of the events. After all, people from the Kansai region remained carefree by nature. While it was commendable that they had initially been galvanized by the deluge of newspaper extras into displaying profound sympathy, those not personally caught in the maelstrom could hardly sustain such heightened concern indefinitely. By late September, I had already received an invitation from a certain association proposing a pleasure boat excursion on Lake Biwa. To this invitation I responded that, given present circumstances—with close relatives still adrift in evacuation centers unable to secure stable shelter, and even my own family continuing to dwell in a dilapidated house that could not even keep out the rain—I found myself incapable of entertaining such leisurely pursuits. I record this reply here.

October 7 (Sun)

Last night, I had business in Osaka, so immediately after arriving, I took the 8:50 PM Tōkaidō Line express from Umeda Station to return to Tokyo.
This was for handling post-disaster matters.
Though dreading the two foot transfers en route, my reasons for choosing the Tōkaidō Line lay both in being thoroughly worn out by the recent Shinojiri detour and wanting to survey the line's damage.
From Osaka onward, both second and third-class compartments were already packed to capacity with stranded passengers.
Progress remained normal until Numazu, but beyond that point, damaged tracks and numerous makeshift repairs made our advance excruciatingly slow.
Among my fellow travelers were many disaster evacuees returning to the capital, others visiting affected relatives and acquaintances, and still more disaster-site tourists—all exchanging harrowing accounts.
Even within these train-bound observations lay abundant reference material regarding emergency preparedness, post-calamity management, and future ideological concerns.
Among them were some quite radical expressions that laid bare disaster victims' psychology without reservation.

In Kansai newspapers, the damage around Numazu and Mishima had initially been reported as catastrophic, but upon arriving, I could scarcely see any traces of earthquake damage around Numazu.
It was only when passing east of Gotemba that collapsed houses and landslides gradually began to come into view.
At Koyama (Suruga Station), the destruction of the Fuji Spinning Mill laid bare the extremity of the devastation.
The train advanced at an excruciatingly slow pace, gliding along the temporarily repaired rails.
Passengers were let off near Tani Signal Station and made to transfer on foot through the rain.
Even boys, youths, and old women from nearby rural villages were going out to carry luggage.
It was all thanks to the earthquake that temporary side jobs had become available.
On the tracks, soldiers strained their voices to manage the crowds, while on bridges and inside tunnels they made people march in two lines; yet passengers lacking discipline would seize the slightest opening to cut ahead.
There was no room for negligence—or anything of the sort.
There were tunnels that had collapsed and others buried with soil until their entrances were no longer visible.
Passing through the hastily made road turned muddy by rain, the transfer at the temporary station beyond Sakawa River’s iron bridge was again arduous.
The train car was even narrower than the previous one, and the crowd surged forward with each person vying to secure a better seat.
The wretched state of the women, elderly, and children was beyond description.
The principles of “the strong devouring the weak” and “survival of the fittest” were laid bare here without reserve, with only physical strength being acknowledged.
A chaotic society is nothing but a barbaric society.
A sage emerges and creates the path humans should follow, and by walking it societal peace is first maintained.
Moreover, a single morning’s chaos instantly drags it back to its former barbaric era.

Landslides were becoming increasingly frequent.
Along the railway tracks, most telegraph and telephone poles had fallen over, their wires pitilessly severed.
In the spaces between these fallen poles, military engineers conducted temporary repairs by stringing cables.
I must express profound gratitude for this devoted labor undertaken for the nation.

As one crossed over the mountain and reached Yamakita Station，the damage became increasingly severe.
Matsuda Station was completely destroyed，and most nearby houses had also suffered devastation.
However，upon reaching the coast at Kōzu，the damage proved relatively slight.
The area around Ninomiya Station was somewhat severely affected，with many collapsed and half-collapsed houses；yet between Ninomiya and Ōiso such ruins became rare again，and few tombstones lay overturned.
The vicinity of Ōiso showed moderate destruction—the station building had collapsed，and its foundation had subsided.
Proceeding slightly eastward from Ōiso Station，the wreckage of an overturned train still remained untouched along tracks’ northern side.
Not only its cargo，but every detachable component from carriages themselves seemed stripped bare.

The area around Hiratsuka Station suffered the most severe earthquake damage: Sagami Spinning’s factory had completely collapsed, leaving only a portion of its warehouse, while Kanto Spinning’s factory had been utterly destroyed.
It was said that from here to Atsugi Town, the earthquake damage had been most severe, with Atsugi Town particularly having been completely destroyed by fire.
The trip I made at the end of last July to stay overnight and tour nearby historical sites became my first and final survey of former Atsugi Town.
Mr. Fujino and Mr. Suzuki, who had assisted me then; Kokuya and Wakamatsuya, which had refused my lodging request citing full occupancy; along with Shinkuraya that had finally accommodated me—all must have met complete destruction.
Yet through this disaster, Principal Nakayama [Maikichi] Ebina—who had aided me during my previous visit—notified me that seven tombs containing rare underground burial chambers had been exposed near Kokubu.
This stood as an archaeologically vital discovery—proof that fortune manifests through unexpected means.

In a pine grove just before Hiratsuka, a blackboard had been erected and makeshift benches were set up.
The elementary school had collapsed, so they had set up a makeshift open-air school.
Even under such circumstances, education must not be neglected—this I felt profoundly grateful for.

The earthquake had caused Banyū River’s iron bridge to collapse, and the temporary bridge that had finally been built was washed away by a flood—there was still a footpath connection.
Amidst the recent rainfall, we trudged through mud as thick as if we’d stepped into a pot of red bean soup, finally reaching Kawahigashi Temporary Station on the river’s eastern bank.

This time, as the train car was moving somewhat more slowly, there wasn’t the same level of crowding as before; nevertheless, there were still no small number of bold gentlemen leaping through the windows with their mud-caked boots.
The conductor was walking through [the train], announcing in a raised voice, “Third-class passengers, please board the third-class compartments.”
The sense of calamity grew increasingly palpable as the train approached the east.

In Yokohama, in the twenty days since I last saw it, hastily built makeshift barracks had significantly increased in number.
However, many were mere shacks akin to those of nomadic Sanka, making full recovery appear far from straightforward.
Due to the disaster being more severe than in Tokyo and public attention being concentrated on the capital while comparatively neglecting other areas, everything appeared to be lagging behind.

I arrived in Tokyo at 3:45 PM.
The express train that should normally take twelve hours and forty minutes from Osaka had taken approximately nineteen hours.
When I returned home, both the roof with its fallen tiles and the earthen storehouse with collapsed walls still remained in their initial state of emergency repairs.

October 8 (Mon)

While attending to visits from friends and various essential tasks related to post-disaster cleanup, I went around observing the mood of recovery in the burned ruins.
First, I went from Banchō to Marunouchi.
Beginning with the residences of Count Ii and Baron Mitsui, even the grand mansions of wealthy magnates retained none of their imposing authority in the face of such a massive conflagration.
The Yūshūkan in Kudan had fortunately escaped disaster, but appeared to have suffered considerable damage.
I thought it remarkable how many had come to see it lately.

When I reached the moatside, the remnants of the burned Metropolitan Police Department’s large building had now been demolished, leaving only mountains of piled brick fragments. Around there, street stalls were densely packed, drawing in customers. The Naigai Building—destroyed during construction work and having crushed many people—was not easily removable due to its steel reinforcement. Workers tapped away with stone chisels at the large round pillars lying toppled in piles, exposing several iron bolts embedded within; they then burned through these to create fragments of two or three feet each—only then could they finally be carted away. Beneath those towering piles of debris, it is said that the corpses of twenty-odd people still remain buried exactly as they were—even now, nearly fifty days later—never having been retrieved. What an unspeakable tragedy.

I turned to observe the tent village before the Imperial Palace.
It conjured images of either a massive caravan encampment or a nomadic settlement tracking water and pasture.
From those canvas shelters, charming children came and went.
The time appeared to be nearing lunch distribution, as an extended queue of people holding buckets and baskets kept forming.
Within that silence, the wretchedness of circumstances grew ever more tangible.

In stark contrast to that stillness, the barrack village in Hibiya Park was thriving quite vigorously.
Not only were people bustlingly setting up shops in their temporary dwellings, but there were also a great many pre-existing street vendor stalls—among which eateries were the most numerous.
For humans, the stomach comes first.
In addition to barbers and geta clog repairers, everything seemed to be available there, leaving nothing lacking.
The sound of explosions frequently resounded with terrifying force.
Combat engineers were destroying the remnants of the burned large buildings.

October 10 (Wed)

Today, I had business to attend to and went to Marunouchi.
Due to the inadequate restoration of public transportation and persistent congestion even where streetcars had barely resumed service, bicycles still proved indispensable.
Passing through the burned ruins of Iidamachi and arriving at Kudanshita and Ushigafuchi, a rope had been stretched across the road to block passage.
It was apparently to blast the Commercial University.
Turning and ascending Kudanzaka, onlookers with no apparent purpose were gathering at the cliff's edge, even as police officers tried to shoo them away.
Busy as I was, I had in truth become one of that crowd, there to pay my last respects to none other than the Commercial University.
Soon, a thick column of smoke—akin to a towering cumulonimbus cloud in reddish-brown hues—swirled upward, and with a thunderous roar, the explosion's shockwave rumbled through the ground.
Two blasts, then three—the red brick remnants were demolished without trace.
This grand edifice—the foremost institution for commercial education that had for many years produced countless outstanding talents for our business world—now stood without even a shadow of its former self.
I thought that "inexpressible emotion" must be the phrase one uses at such a time.

October 17 (Wed)

Around the 12th, craftsmen finally began arriving and commenced repairs in earnest.
They began with this straightforward approach: first removing the remaining earth from the collapsed earthen storehouse to leave it completely bare, then stretching iron mesh and coating it with concrete to solidify.
From the 13th onward, gas service was restored.
Meal preparation became more convenient.

As repair methods gradually took shape, I entrusted everything to our regular master builder and departed for Kyoto on the 3:50 PM train from Ueno.
Having learned my lesson from the previous ordeal of traveling via the Tōkaidō Line on foot, I once again chose the route taken during my westward journey in September.
Ueno Station had at least reopened.
Though passenger crowding was less severe than before—with our scheduled transfers at Shinoi and Nagoya supposed to bring us to Kyoto before 1 PM tomorrow—boarding and alighting at each station still consumed considerable time.
The Nagoya-bound train that should have departed Shinoi at 11:50 PM didn't arrive until around 1 AM.
Tonight I had no choice but to spend the night here.
Overflow passengers from the small country station's waiting room slept outdoors on platforms and under eaves through the chilly night.
Along with two fellow travelers, I finally roused the inn called Matsuya near the station and secured lodging.
The three of us shared an eight-tatami room.
In the neighboring room stayed what appeared to be a couple of itinerant performers, whose endless chatter made sleep nearly impossible.

October 18 (Thu)

When morning came, the mountain country’s dawn felt refreshing indeed. When I tried to wash my face first thing, there was no water in the washroom. The innkeeper remained unperturbed. “There’s a bucket there, so please go wash at the well,” she said. I accepted this too as one of the disaster’s curious diversions and obediently complied with the instruction to attend to my needs. I took the first morning train to Nagoya and arrived in Kyoto at ten o’clock that night. The journey between Tokyo and Kyoto essentially required thirty hours.

I couldn’t afford to remain in this post-disaster mindset forever.

On November 18, when I returned to Tokyo for the second time, the repairs that should have been completed during my absence had not progressed at all, leaving everything exactly as it had been when serving as an evacuation site; this too was something I had to endure at this juncture. At any rate, the Tōkaidō Line had finally been fully restored through to Tokyo—though travel east of Gotemba still required slow progress, it had become far more convenient. The open-air school in Hiratsuka’s pine grove was still operating, though likely not for much longer. Though mere barrack structures, Tokyo’s main thoroughfares were now mostly lined with houses. One could indeed say the first glimmers of recovery had become visible. My documentation concerning the earthquake disaster also reached its conclusion here. To leave some record for posterity, I will add a few omitted observations and reflections to this journal before bringing this “Postscript” to a close.

★Differences in Sentiment Across a Single Mountain Range

Usui Pass lies between central Honshu and the Kanto region. While this single mountain range having created marked differences in customs and public sentiment since antiquity need hardly be mentioned, even regarding this earthquake disaster, disparities in perception appeared markedly pronounced. Though Gunma Prefecture suffered relatively little quake damage, post-disaster tensions remained thickly palpable—no fewer disgraceful incidents having occurred there, such as the notorious Korean massacre episode. Yet cross but a single step into Nagano Prefecture, and the atmosphere seemed altogether more relaxed. This was something I had dimly perceived during my September 20 westward journey too, but when purchasing a Nagano newspaper at Shinoi Station during my October trip west, I found an amusing account written with evident relish: during a recent matsutake hunt hosted by the governor at a certain locale, the county chief—in his eagerness to demonstrate loyalty—had planted copious mushrooms in glaringly obvious spots, only for this artifice to be ultimately exposed. Such lightheartedness remained entirely absent in Kanto. Those deeming themselves worthy citizens of a great nation must not linger disheartened over such trifling losses nor mope indefinitely.

★To call being overwhelmed by a collapsed house an extravagant complaint!

What’s done cannot be helped.
For a time, they might have shed tears of sympathy as though it were their own concern, but whether this inability to dwell endlessly on such matters is what makes a great nation’s people truly great, I cannot say—yet those who actually experienced the devastation seemed scarcely able to adopt such a leisurely frame of mind.
This is an account of what I saw and heard aboard the train during my return to Tokyo on October 7.
In the second-class compartment after transferring at the Māse River temporary station following a foot connection, two fashionable gentlemen were talking somberly about that earthquake disaster.
As one man frowned and spoke of being utterly overwhelmed by the collapse of his home, another responded with an expression of genuine sympathy etched across his face.
It seemed I had grown indignant at how their expressions and demeanor struck me as somewhat pretentious, but the middle-aged man who had been listening silently nearby—perhaps spurred on by a reckless drunken impulse—suddenly bellowed.

“What the hell! You’re overwhelmed just because your house collapsed?! Don’t talk such nonsense! If your house collapsed, why not just dig it out? We lost not only our houses and belongings but even our people to the fires!”

Faced with this, even these fashionable gentlemen—who seemed more overwhelmed than when their own houses had collapsed—truly fell silent.

Once unleashed, this fiery outburst would not be quelled even by his targets’ silence.

“What’s a house?!
“What’s household goods?!
“People matter!
“We’ve even lost people to the flames!
“Fools who died saving belongings instead of lives!
“I survived by ditching everything I’d carried out!
“And another thing!
“Precious luggage on seats while precious people stand—bastards lounging like kings even in this packed train?!”

The edge of his criticism turned toward a different target.
The person who had been glared at quickly placed their luggage on their lap.
What this person said was correct.
However, this person also seemed to assume that all houses that had burned down or collapsed belonged to others.

★Third-class passengers to third-class compartments; urine and feces to the toilets

This too was from the same time.
The train car we transferred into at Māse River was somewhat more spacious compared to the previous one, but even so, people stood in the aisle to the point where one could not pass through.

From the train window, the conductor walked along loudly warning, “Third-class passengers, please board the third-class compartments.”
On this 38th day since the earthquake disaster, this warning was still necessary.
That too was only natural.
After the disaster, social order had collapsed so thoroughly that even when people dangled from train windows or rode atop roofs, nothing could be done about it.
Of course, there was no distinction between second and third class; if anyone dared to assert their right to a second-class ticket, that would have caused an uproar.
“What the hell!
“Don’t you act all high and mighty just because you’re second-class passengers!”
“What’s this about second or third class existing at a time like this?”
“We were driven out by the fires!”
“If you’ve got money to spare for second-class fares, then donate it to disaster victims!” he roared.
That sentiment was not easily dispelled.

Upon returning to Tokyo, what first caught attention was public notice posters plastered on trains and police boxes.
“Urine and feces go to toilets! Trash to bins! Wastewater to gutters!”—so boldly proclaimed these notices.
The imperial capital had become a scorched plain; its residents now regarded their city with wilderness-like detachment.
Rebuilding this capital must begin by mending this desolate spirit.

The true paradise lasted only seven days.

This too was a story from fellow disaster victims during the shared ride on October 7 when returning to the capital.

After being driven out by the fires, they were first taken into relief shelters where several families sharing their plight lived together; their only possessions being the clothes on their backs, with no future plans yet established, having nothing to do but search for missing relatives, idling together every day—it was a time when they spent about a week living on identical rationed provisions.
During this period, there was absolutely no class distinction or discrimination among people.
Strangers who had never met before became close; those who had been wealthy and those who lived hand-to-mouth, scholars and laborers, strong individuals and frail ones, nobility and commoners, old and young—all interacted without the slightest barrier, engaging in beautiful exchanges of mutual sympathy.
I thought, "This is precisely what an ideal heaven would be."

However, some were taken in by relatives.
They found acquaintances to move in with.
The sorrow of those left behind could not help but arise there.

There was a clothing distribution. In that place began a clandestine struggle to secure even slightly better items. Among those who had companions appeared visitors bearing gifts. The others could not help but feel envy and resentment toward this. Humanity's base nature gradually manifested itself in this manner. Thus did the true heaven vanish without notice. For humans to truly abolish distinctions of nobility and commonality, wealth and poverty, and enjoy equal lives, they would have had to return to a primitive age where none possessed property whatsoever; receive uniform provisions of food and clothing from some unknown source without labor; eliminate all opportunities for wise men to use their wisdom, virtuous men their virtue, or diligent men their diligence; have everyone live in idleness; and ensure that even those who worked out of curiosity received no reward for their labor. And I had indeed experienced precisely this during the first week following the disaster. And so on.

This person did not appear to have studied socialism in any depth, yet the aforementioned impressions he derived from his experience must be taken into account as highly valuable references.

★Various Advertisements

Among the advertisements that appeared in newspapers related to the earthquake fires were various noteworthy examples.
The three great temples—Kanei-ji in Ueno, Sensō-ji in Asakusa, and Zōjō-ji in Shiba—had jointly advertised that they had somehow remained unburned.
Advertisements declaring "We didn't burn down" resembled those proclaiming "We didn't die"—an utterly preposterous notion under normal circumstances, but in this situation, they likely served as timely messages meant to reassure others.
However, their remaining intact wasn't simply a matter of avoiding fire—they emphasized having survived alongside the Imperial Palace.
In truth, many others had also escaped destruction—Sugamo Prison, Ichigaya Prison, and various profiteering establishments here and there.
Yet they made no mention of having been spared alongside those.

The main shop of Nekoirasu, frequently used for suicides and murders, advertised that they had instead fallen victim to spreading fires.
However, this was not merely incidental fire damage—they specified that flames from a neighboring house's blaze had caused it.
This sort of advertisement would rarely appear even in ordinary fires, but under these circumstances, I found myself sympathizing with their unfortunate collateral damage.
Even had they burned down directly from the earthquake, a fire source remains a fire source—spread fires are undeniably spread fires.
Yet seeing such blunt disclosure made one consider: isn't the hand that directly strikes more detestable than the person who orders the blow? Isn't Nekoirasu poison itself more hateful than those who administer it?
No—there might even be those who find the very sellers of that Nekoirasu poison most detestable of all.

★Just Give Me One Free

Next to my house there was a small antique shop called I.
The owner said:
“Today too, someone came to buy a hammer.”
“When I lowered the price for what seemed like a disaster victim, he responded: ‘It’s certainly cheap enough, but truthfully I’m a disaster victim with no money—look how many you have here! Just give me one for free.’ That was his approach.”
“Since these are goods for sale, I can’t just give them away for free,” I humbly explained, only for him to snap, “But your place didn’t burn down, did it?” It’s impossible to conduct business with any peace of mind like this.’
“There was a person who came from Osaka to sell miscellaneous goods; when they laid out their wares by the roadside, they sold out immediately, but I heard that quite a number of people left without paying.”

Dr. N, whom I had noted in my September 3 disaster journal, had been away on a house call to Hakone when the earthquake struck; during his absence, his home collapsed and burned down, forcing him to take refuge at a neighboring Mr. W’s residence.
When he visited my house on October 14 and shared his account, he mentioned that possessions had recently begun disappearing frequently everywhere.
There were those who would take things without regard for others watching, making it perilous, he said.

As argued by the person in the marginal notes of the previous issue who had discussed distinguishing between the poor and disaster victims, there must have been those who held the belief that people actually spared from calamity should remove one of their two garments and give it to disaster victims.
Moreover, there must also have been those who exploited this situation and resolved to act selfishly.
As it grew increasingly colder—with bedding and clothing becoming scarce, no work available, or even those refusing available work—I could not help worrying about when these people would begin shivering from the cold.
What’s more, they were gathering in crowds.

★The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Disaster Victims

The misfortunes wrought by the earthquake disaster went without saying, but there must have been many who gained unexpected fortune through the calamity.
In earlier times, there existed an unsavory character named Kinokuniya Bunzaemon who amassed great wealth by hoarding lumber during Edo's great fires.
Were this today, he might well have been sent to prison under the Anti-Profiteering Ordinance.

However, these matters concern those who escaped calamity, but even among fellow disaster victims themselves, there must undoubtedly have been quite marked disparities in fortune. Those who died or were injured were a separate matter. Among the survivors, the most pitiable were those who, having lived idly off their wealth and unaccustomed to labor, lost all their property in an instant. People such as those who borrowed others' land to build rental houses and lived off the rent would likely have been the most extreme among these. Yet public sympathy toward them seemed relatively lacking. This was because there were many unscrupulous landlords, so even when there were those among them who conducted themselves admirably and deserved respect, they still ended up being lumped together with the rest. In contrast, those who rented homes from others—even if they had not possessed enough property to suffer significant losses when their houses burned or collapsed—still equally partook in society's sympathy as fully fire-destroyed or collapsed disaster victims. And landlords who had lost nearly all their property were viewed with such cold indifference that it almost seemed like schadenfreude; security deposits were mercilessly reclaimed, unpaid rents written off, insurance payouts appearing unattainable—and if the property had been leased land, tenants would freely commence construction on the burned ruins, leaving the original landlords completely cast aside. Even if they sought legal protection against this, society would side with the tenants out of sympathy for "the circumstances," branding them as heartless villains. There were even those who grumbled that this was exactly what it felt like to be trampled and kicked.

After the Ansei Earthquake, numerous woodblock prints emerged that contrasted the fortunes and misfortunes brought by the disaster.
Among them were unscrupulous individuals who reveled in the earthquake, declaring things like, “If this is how it’s going to be, then let it happen anytime!”
And I have personally witnessed that there are no small number of similar instances regarding this earthquake disaster as well.

There was a certain salaried worker who claimed his damages amounted to merely breaking about three bowls; he had his September rent halved by the landlord, received food rations at home for several days according to family size, and took part daily in distributing relief supplies arriving from various sources at his workplace.

There were even brazen individuals who, though not disaster victims themselves, received relief supplies by posing as such or skimmed off portions while managing distributions, thereby causing problems.
The world is indeed varied.

★Crackdown on Price Gouging

The fact that there were so many unscrupulous merchants taking advantage of others' disaster to unjustly raise prices and greedily profit from this opportunity was detestable beyond measure.
When the earthquake struck and cut off electricity, I went to buy kerosene at a nearby oil shop called W that evening of the first day, only to find they had immediately more than doubled their prices, selling one sho at one yen.
As this was too expensive, I had them sell to me at another shop where they were offering it at fifty sen per sho.

At a greengrocer not far from there, they promptly raised prices to 1 yen per kan of potatoes and 10 sen for three eggplants.
According to later newspaper reports, a certain master merchant in the neighborhood—outraged by this—began selling seventeen eggplants for ten sen, prompting that shop to immediately lower their price to twelve eggplants for ten sen. However, they reportedly faced a boycott sanction from their regular customers.

The above were merely two facts I had directly experienced, yet the brazen reality that such unscrupulous individuals were not few among our citizens could not be ignored.
The government, taking this into account, promptly issued the Anti-Profiteering Ordinance, and it appeared that the Metropolitan Police Department had particularly instructed each police station—by November, when some semblance of order had begun to emerge, police officers in my neighborhood went around checking each and every selling price.
While their duty to protect the people was truly commendable, their enforcement methods proved exceedingly thorough.
In front of my house, a woman selling pears was offering them at seven sen each or twenty sen for three.
Though I thought the price somewhat high, given the circumstances, I purchased them without particular dissatisfaction at my house. However, the patrolling police officer deemed it too expensive and proceeded to beat the woman and trample her goods.
The woman, weeping, promptly closed her shop and went home.
At the neighboring rice shop, Kawagoe potatoes were being sold at sixty sen per kan.
It was said to be ten sen cheaper than the public market.
However, even that was deemed expensive and led to him being yelled at.
The potatoes had been divided into mounds each weighing one kan, but when they tried weighing one mound, it unfortunately came up twenty me short.
Given the bulk handling, one potato might have rolled elsewhere—so he pleaded to weigh another mound, but when the officer refused and launched into a violent assault of strikes, kicks, and blows, even bystanders who tried to intervene could not escape sharing the same bitter fate.
That rice shop proprietor and the arbitrator alike, both being reservists, had been devoting themselves wholeheartedly to neighborhood affairs since the first day as public-spirited individuals.
All the bystanders developed antipathy toward the police officer.
There were those who said to beat him to a pulp.
There were even those who went so far as to vehemently argue that self-defense groups were necessary not only against thieves and arson but also against police brutality.
In times of chaos, perhaps such measures had been necessary to keep up.
The police officers of the Edo period—town magistrates’ deputies, informants, and the like—administered exceedingly violent sanctions.

★Yamagata Aritomo and Ōkuma Shigenobu

In the cemetery of Gokokuji Temple before my residence, there had come to be many tombs of prominent figures recently.
Among them, those of Lord Yamagata and Marquis Ōkuma particularly drew the most attention.
Now then, this great earthquake.
Amidst the numerous tombstones that had fallen like pillows laid side by side, Marquis Ōkuma’s suffered most severely—from the stone lanterns to the jeweled fences, scarcely anything remained intact.
Yet Lord Yamagata’s tomb showed almost no damage whatsoever, with only his wife’s having turned slightly toward his.
A certain cynic remarked, “For all his faults, Lord Yamagata was one who sincerely devoted himself to the nation, while Marquis Ōkuma’s grandiose posturing prevailed.”
That truth had manifested itself here.
This employed the same rhetoric as those who declared this earthquake disaster to be divine retribution.

★Miracles and Strange Coincidences

Near my house there was a stonemason. In front of the stonemason’s shop lay piled stones as usual, among which stood two granite pillars erected side by side; during the first tremor, they fell radiating outward toward the road. At that very moment, a tofu seller passing through with his load became caught between these two radially fallen pillars—emerging without so much as a scratch—while the two tofu buckets suspended from his carrying pole were mercilessly crushed by the collapsed pillars. Had this man been an ordinary devotee of Gokokuji Temple’s Kannon-sama, this incident would have promptly found its way into the Kannon Miracles Record.

★A Lone Wooden House in the Burnt Wilderness

My wife’s aunt’s husband operated a trading company dealing in oil, sulfuric acid, and similar goods in Fukagawa Ward’s Tomikawachō.
Naturally, as part of the completely burned-out areas of Fukagawa and Honjo, their home and other buildings were entirely consumed by flames—the family barely escaped with their lives in the clothes they wore, and it wasn’t until the fourth day that they confirmed everyone’s safety. Not only their residence but every house in all four directions had burned to ashes, transforming the surroundings into a desolate expanse of scorched earth as far as the eye could see. Yet amidst this devastation—how could it be?—only a single two-story wooden office building, painted with oil paint, remained standing unscathed.
Moreover, they had taken no firefighting measures whatsoever.
This must be what is called divine protection.

At this residence, they had preemptively moved out household materials using four carts in anticipation of the fire spreading.
Before reaching safe ground, the flames spread with unexpected speed; pressed by the panicking crowd fleeing in confusion, they abandoned the carts.
Naturally assuming everything had burned along with that scorched wasteland, they resigned themselves to the loss—yet days later, one cart was discovered far from its original location.
Thieves had dragged it away, taken only valuables, and left it behind.
Thanks to this, there were quite a few items that met their immediate clothing needs.
Truly, bless those thieves.

★An Unexpected Family Gathering

Mr. Miyazaki Eiga—former principal of Toyoyama Middle School who had long served as secretary for our Japan Historical Geography Society colleagues, and who now resided as an honored priest at a large temple in Sado—had his wife come to Tokyo from around the summer break period with four women: their eldest daughter Eiko, her mother, and the daughter of his brother in Osaka.
It was at that very moment that the great earthquake struck.
The Kyōbashi area where they had been temporarily lodging was, of course, burned to ashes.
We had been speculating with Mr. Omori (Kin’gorō), the society office’s resident director, about whether everyone was safe or where they might have evacuated—but with no means to investigate, our worries continued until the morning of the fifth, when his wife suddenly appeared at the office.
Just then the older brother arrived from Osaka concerned for his mother’s and daughter’s safety.
Almost simultaneously, Mr. Eiga too had come all the way from Sado, and in what seemed a prearranged coincidence, they rejoiced over everyone’s safety.
And so they all lived happily ever after.