Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Great Earthquake that struck the Kanto region on September 1, 1923 inflicted unprecedented disaster upon Tokyo, Yokohama, and other urban centers.
In time newspapers and magazines would compete to furnish detailed accounts of this catastrophe; numerous comprehensive volumes too would surely follow thereafter. Therefore I resolved to omit all general observations and henceforth record only those matters I directly witnessed or ascertained through personal experience.

On the night of September 1, when flames and smoke shrouded half of Tokyo, at our residence in Koishikawa Higashi-Aoyagicho where tiles had fallen and walls had collapsed.

● Thick clouds of dust swirling densely

September 1 (Sat) Disaster Day 1.
I completed proofreading the September issue of *Social History Studies* the day before yesterday and began editing the October issue yesterday afternoon.
The essay *On the Treasure Implements and Plow Tips of Ezo* had already been completed.
Having decided to rework old drafts to complete *On the People of Ise* on time, I secluded myself in my study from yesterday evening onward to draft another short piece. Working through the night in bed, I finished writing the brief essay titled *The Distinctive Nanugi Personal Names of Kii Province* around four in the morning.
After finally managing to fall asleep, I rose around nine o’clock—leaving as usual the many reference books and manuscripts entrusted by contributors scattered open by my pillow and my bedding still spread out—then visited Mr. M, the dentist next door, after breakfast.

While engrossed in conversation with Mr.M upstairs, we were suddenly struck by that violent earthquake.
Here I must briefly explain: Mr.M’s house had recently been constructed under my supervision through earthquake-resistant measures—installing numerous diagonal braces between pillars despite carpenters’ mockery and reinforcing foundations with steel rods.
Thus I remained convinced collapse was impossible.
Mr.M and I exchanged glances as violent tremors showed no sign of abating.
Roof tiles cascaded and windowpanes shattered simultaneously from all directions.
This false confidence shattered instantly; driven by terror, we fled to the tramway under construction on our street.
Neighbors poured out uniformly from every house.
Yet none of my family members had emerged.
Peering toward houses set back from the road revealed thick dust clouds billowing skyward.
My instantaneous thought—“Fire!”—was dismissed; flames couldn’t spread so rapidly.
Regardless, disaster had struck—staggering through aftershocks into our home revealed my wife and three younger children huddled in our stone storehouse library’s corner.
Our eldest son happened to be away.
Not one bookshelf or chest remained upright in the stone storehouse.
The study built years prior between this new stone storehouse and old earthen warehouse now lay buried—magazine-laden shelves toppled onto perpetually unrolled futons, ancient earthen walls collapsed atop open manuscripts and reference books.
Aftershocks persisted relentlessly.
Only after urging everyone outdoors did I grasp our peril—remaining inside risked entrapment.
Main house roof tiles lay heaped in courtyard mounds.
Old earthen warehouses stood stripped bare of walls and roofs.
Their thick clay masses crushed storage shed roofs beneath eaves.
Those swirling “smoke” clouds proved merely collapse debris.

The dust mercilessly blew into every room left open, making it impossible to walk on the tatami without keeping one’s shoes on.

I conducted a thorough inspection of the structural damage.
As for the main house, only all the roof tiles had been shaken off, with neither collapsed walls nor warped pillars.
This resulted from measures taken sixteen years earlier during its construction—even as carpenters laughed at me—when I meticulously reinforced foundations and braced pillars, beams, and girders together.
That all roof tiles nevertheless fell stemmed from three factors: the steeper pitch meant for rainwater runoff; children loosening their stability by using the roof as a playground; and perhaps most critically, how tightly interlocked components left no flexibility during tremors.

The eaves attached to the main house, the toilet, and the entrance developed some warping, resulting in sliding doors that would not open and storm shutters that were difficult to close in certain areas.
This was due to poor foundation work in these sections.
The back drawing room had been renovated two years prior with reinforced foundation work, and above all, its roof was covered with galvanized iron sheets; thus, there was almost no damage beyond some walls collapsing and books being thrown from shelves.
The tank installed at the kitchen entrance had part of its brick platform collapse, leaning against the shutter compartment and rendering the storm shutters impossible to slide open.
The water supply, along with gas, electricity, and telephone services, all uniformly ceased functioning during the first major tremor.

The bathhouse also sustained some damage, though nothing severe.
The stone storehouse had all its contents thoroughly scattered about, but remained largely intact.
Overall the damage proved relatively minor - most heartening being how neither main house nor back drawing room showed even slight distortion.
Indeed, with all roof tiles fallen away, the main house must have become considerably lighter.
I had thoroughly impressed upon my family that should even a stronger tremor than the first strike come, we would remain safe here with no need to flee.

Originally, my residence was one I had personally supervised the construction of and newly built in Meiji 40 (1907). I had maintained confidence that this house would not collapse unless an earthquake struck that would destroy seventy percent of Tokyo’s houses. However, against fire, we were utterly helpless. There was one old traditional earthen warehouse, but it could not be relied upon at critical moments. Therefore, I built a new stone storehouse to serve as a library. I had routinely instructed my family that this would be the safest place in case of fire. That fact had been deeply ingrained in their minds, so in that critical moment, they all rushed inside together. They had mistaken earthquakes for fires and people for objects. Yet despite nearly everything inside being thrown out and the chests and bookshelves toppling in disarray, that none of us were struck by them and all emerged unscathed could only be called divine protection.

The sole old earthen warehouse proved to be a tremendous nuisance. Because those absurdly thick walls and roof collapsed without restraint, they caused tremendous damage to the surrounding rooms and storage sheds built around them. Chests toppled over; shelf items were hurled about. The items stacked tightly along all four interior walls were scattered chaotically, as if a toy box had been upended.

Injured people rushed by rickshaw to the neighboring Tenryudo Hospital.
However，both the pharmacy and examination room were in complete disarray，with instruments and medicines scattered about，making it impossible even to step inside.
Moreover，as severe aftershocks kept striking frequently，they could not enter the building.
They apparently had no choice but to provide emergency treatment by the roadside before sending them back.

Fires More Terrifying Than the Earthquake

I climbed up to the shaded platform on the rooftop—used for cooling off and drying laundry—to survey the area.
Smoke was already rising here and there.
It appeared to number far more than just ten or twenty locations.
These were the fires that inevitably accompany earthquakes.
Fire trucks blared noisily as they raced about.
Yet under current firefighting protocols, their sole lifeline—the water supply—had long been severed.
What would become of us all?
To the west lay the Waseda district.
What appeared visible nearby to the south was said to be Sakuragi-cho.
In Sakuragi-cho lived the surviving family of the late Kobayashi (Shōjirō), a literary scholar.
Mr. Kobayashi had hailed from my hometown and served for many years as director of the Japan Historical Geography Society—an organization we colleagues managed—where he devoted himself diligently to society affairs.
Our house would remain secure for the time being.
Resolving to assess the situation firsthand, I set out while forgetting I hadn’t yet eaten lunch.
Along Otowa Street, collapsed houses stood visible here and there.
The large pottery shop in 1-chome lay mercilessly crushed.
Countless roof tiles had fallen and pillars warped.
In one instance, a blood-soaked woman who appeared dead—likely struck by a collapsed house—was being hauled on a cart by a man resembling her husband.
Sakuragi-cho had already mostly burned to ashes, the flames spreading to Otowa 9-chome’s eastern side and voraciously consuming back alleys.
Propelled by southeasterly winds, the fire front now advanced toward my home.

When I looked at Mr. Kobayashi’s house, the ridge had already burned down, leaving only the wall facing the road. However, fortunately, the Edogawa River supplied water, and the police and firefighters were working vigorously. The absence of gawkers typical of ordinary fire scenes proved advantageous, but amidst everyone being wholly absorbed in their own household damages, these people—though bound by duty—were laboring so devotedly at their tasks without a moment to tend to themselves.

The vast Kuse Hill plateau towering in the east had recently been developed by Hakone Land Company through constructing stone walls and opening roads, awaiting clientele for residential estates. It had now become a temporary refuge where people driven out by the earthquake gathered in crowds. Many household belongings of those displaced by fires were also being transported there.

At Mr. Kobayashi's residence, the widow happened to be away working at Mitsukoshi while their son had gone to Fifth Middle School's opening ceremony and not yet returned, leaving the entire household locked and unattended. However, a certain doctor acquainted with them had rushed over promptly and, cooperating with police officers and neighbors, managed to have much of the belongings carried out already.

The fact that the house had been left vacant might have conversely drawn sympathy. Yet now there was no one guarding them, and since they lay intermingled with other households' items, there was no way to begin sorting through them. I waited for some time to see if anyone would return, but no one appeared.

Before long, a maid from our relatives' house in the neighboring town came to check on us, so I withdrew.

When I climbed up Kuse Hill, the Otowa fire visible below had subsided somewhat. Even without water from the mains, since there was water from the nearby Edogawa River, the firefighting efforts proved relatively effective. On the elevated plateau’s open space, there were some refugees who spread out blankets and straw mats to leisurely eat rice balls, but the majority of the crowd simply stood dazedly. Pointing at the rising columns of smoke, they traded a flurry of conjectures—"That’s the Kanda area," "That’s Banchō," "Hongō," "Shitaya," "Asakusa," "Nihonbashi," no—"Suwachō nearby in the ward is burning fiercely!" Under these circumstances, even a city’s supposedly well-equipped fire department could hardly keep up with responding. And to make matters worse, the water supply had been cut off. The fires may end up burning everything combustible down to the last blade. The fires that follow are more terrifying than the earthquakes themselves.

I have a nephew in Hisakatamachi.
Since it was a shoddily built rental house of flimsy construction, I grew concerned and promptly sent my second son to check on him.
With trains out of service, I had him rush there by bicycle—surprisingly, only minor wall damage was reported, not a single roof tile having fallen.
Brick walls lay collapsed and roof tiles scattered everywhere, but this elevated area’s firm bedrock likely spared it worse destruction.

The rising smoke thickened relentlessly with each passing hour.
In the southeastern sky loomed a pure white mass—neither smoke nor cloud—soaring heavenward like compacted cotton batting.
It resembled nothing so much as photographs of Sakurajima’s eruptions.
Some speculated a volcano had formed nearby.
Others claimed chemicals burned in university or Arsenal fires.
However interpreted, the sight struck terror.

When evening came, I finished a meal that served as both lunch and dinner.
The aftershocks continued unabated.
Rumors spread that a major tremor would strike by midnight, though no one knew their source.
The electricity was out, and in the pitch-dark streets, everyone prepared to sleep outdoors by hauling out storm shutters and paper doors.
The fires from south to east seemed to grow ever fiercer, staining the night clouds crimson across the entire visible sky.
They said the university had burned completely.
They said First Higher School had caught fire too.
They said Juntendo Hospital was lost to flames.
They said the Arsenal fire had already reached Denzuin Temple’s vicinity.
They said Honjo and Fukagawa had been utterly destroyed by fire and tsunami together.
They said Kanda, Nihonbashi, Kyōbashi, Shiba, Asakusa, and Shitaya—all were burning.
They even claimed the Imperial Palace had caught fire at last.
Rumors multiplied until nothing made sense anymore—only that this was calamity beyond measure.
Relatives lived in Fukagawa.
In Honjo too, my wife’s younger sister should still have been staying with her infant child.
Before Denzūin Temple stood the home of Mr. Nishikawa—Ryūji of the Ministry of Education’s Library Bureau.
At that time, they said he’d gone to Kamakura overseeing his son’s convalescent relocation for illness.
Those left behind at his empty house must surely be struggling now.
And if flames had truly spread so far, even my nephew’s home in Hisakatamachi couldn’t afford complacency either.
I worried too for friends in Hongō and Kanda alike.

I couldn't bring myself to remain composed—but as for the roofs of the main house and earthen warehouses, now stripped even of tiles and plaster, what was to be done about them first?
The weather took a turn for the worse.
Someone remarked that rain was sure to fall after the fires.

When I climbed Fujimizaka slope, newspaper notices had already been posted on the wooden fences near Otsuka Nakamachi Station. The notices reported that the Naigai Building in Marunouchi had collapsed with over two hundred men and women trapped beneath it; that Hakubunkan’s printing factory had fallen, killing more than seventy workers; that both the Metropolitan Police Department and Imperial Theater had burned completely; and that Yokohama was facing even greater tragedies—every horrifying detail laid bare. Along the tram tracks stood several streetcars abandoned during the power outage, having become makeshift shelters for the time being—all packed full. The entire tram route was blanketed with residents from both sides of the street. Among them were people hauling out luggage, some even carrying cooking utensils.

● Nighttime Situation Inspection

The regular carpenter came.
In any case, for the roofs of the main house, earthen warehouse, and study alone, by stripping off all available floor coverings and gathering old straw mats, we managed to prepare temporary measures to at least prevent rain leaks.
This brought some immediate relief.
While inspecting the situation, I went out lightly dressed to visit acquaintances.
First and foremost, concerned about what had become of Mr. Kobayashi whose vacant home had burned down, I went to Sakuragi-cho to check.
The fire had fortunately been extinguished, having burned no more than about thirty houses.
Amid the scorched ruins, people could be seen here and there standing with bitter resentment, but Mr. Kobayashi’s family was nowhere to be found.
When I visited Mr. Kobayashi’s relatives in Kohinata Daicho, it was said that the widow had returned on foot from Mitsukoshi while detouring here and there to avoid the fires, but since her son’s whereabouts remained unknown after he had left for school, she had worriedly gone to inquire at her sister’s home in Yotsuya where she had married into.
I just hope they managed to evacuate safely.

Next, I visited my nephew’s house in Hisakatamachi.
Indeed, the houses sustained little damage, and the rumors that fires had reached as far as Denzūin Temple proved to be complete lies; there seemed no immediate danger of spreading flames.
However, my nephew who had left that morning still had not returned by nightfall.
My nephew worked at the Fuji Spinning Company in Nihonbashi.
And that area must have been especially devastated by fire.
I worried there might have been some mishap, but for now nothing could be done.

I visited Mr. Nishikawa’s residence in front of Denzūin Temple.
The rumors of fires in this area proved false; the conflagration at the Arsenal seemed to have burned itself out and nearly subsided.
Upon learning his house stood empty, Mr. Nishikawa and his wife had lined up chairs to take refuge before their gate.
He explained he’d returned briefly from Kamakura on business only to meet this turmoil.
Though anxious about Kamakura, he said trains remained suspended and neither phones nor telegraphs functioned—leaving him utterly ignorant of conditions there.

From the top of Tomizaka, I turned left to Omotecho and visited Mr. Fujita (Kisuke), the publisher of my *Social History Studies*. Along the way, a volunteer had loaded several four-to barrels filled with fresh water onto a cart and was going around calling out, “Those needing drinking water—bring your kettles!” Elderly and frail men and women swarmed about, receiving water while expressing thanks for the kindness. I too gratefully accepted a cupful to quench my thirst. Tokyo’s citizens were troubled by the power outage but found themselves most pressed by the severed water supply. At this point there is something I must record: My residence had originally contained two wells. One was shallow with clear but meager water volume; the other deep with abundant yet murky flow. Years earlier I had filled the shallow one and kept the deep well reserved for emergencies. Two years prior I modified this deep well by installing a pump and tank system designed for firefighting and water distribution—preparations now proving their worth. When water service ceased, we immediately installed a filtration system. By configuring a siphon from the tank that dripped water downward while replenishing it equally from above, we achieved uninterrupted automatic production of clear filtered water. With neighbors now coming to collect water alongside our own needs, a single filtering crock proved insufficient. We prepared another filtering bucket until five households’ needs were met without shortage. Even when piped water exists, wells remain indestructible.

Mr. Fujita’s residence had fortunately sustained only minor damage, with some walls having fallen. However, the September issue of the magazine—whose final proofreading had been completed just two or three days prior—must have had its printing plates collapse before the printing could be finished. I was concerned about the damage to the Shueisha Ichigaya factory, which served as the printing plant. Mr. Fujita, being a ward council member, had been summoned to an emergency assembly and was absent.

Along the road leading to Sasugaya-cho Station, the damage was particularly severe, with row upon row of collapsed houses lining the right side. The vicinity of Atomi Women’s School also had many collapsed houses. In Maruyama-Fukuyamachi, several carts loaded with evacuees’ belongings were lined up. When I climbed the slope and emerged into Hongo Nishikatamachi, here—as might be expected of an area on the plateau—the damage was surprisingly slight. Just to be thorough, I visited Mr. Takashi Takahashi (Ministry of Education Books Bureau appointee) and found him inside a mosquito net, snoring loudly. However, his family members were laying out blankets in the garden, preparing to sleep outdoors. When I visited Mr. Fujita Juntaro (director of the Japan Historical Geography Society) in Higashikatamachi, his residence too had already locked its gate, and not a sound could be heard. Not wishing to startle my neighbor Professor Hagino (Yoshiyuki), I simply observed the undisturbed exterior of his residence and took my leave.

I then turned toward Hongo’s main street and went to see the First Higher School that was said to have burned down, but this too turned out to be nothing more than a rumor. Inside the gate, disaster victims had gathered. When I went to the guardhouse to inquire about the situation, a student called out, “Aren’t you Professor Kida?” Upon closer inspection, this was Dr. Hara Katsurō (Dean of Kyoto University’s Faculty of Letters)’s son standing guard.

The greater part of the Imperial University had already been mercilessly reduced to ashes.
When I inquired with the guards, they said both the Law and Literature faculties had been completely destroyed, with even the library’s book repository burned down.
What a pitiful state of affairs this was.
There should have been many volumes here that money could never replace.
Yet upon hearing that the Historiographical Institute was safe, I couldn’t help but cheer “Banzai!” for the National History Department.

The area before the university was packed with disaster victims. Pushing through them to reach the crossroads at Hongo Sanchome, I found nothing but flames stretching toward the Hongo-za Theater—only a few shops like Nagashima Grocery Store at the corner remained intact. Even had water been available, the firefighters could never have coped under such conditions. The conflagration was said to have consumed everything mercilessly, merging Shitaya, Kanda, and Asakusa into one continuous inferno. Though concerned about Mr. Wada Hidematsu's residence in Yushima—the Historiographical Institute official renowned among our circle as a bibliophile—I saw no possible way to approach it. In Asakusa there were Mr. Kurokawa Masamichi and the venerable Ōtsuki Joden, along with the famous Asakuraya bookstore. I worried what had become of those vast collections.

Returning to Masagocho and arriving at Kasuga-cho Station, I found that a tent relief station had already been set up here.
On my way there, the tram road I hadn’t thought particularly noteworthy was already lined with fire-displaced refugees streaming in an unbroken line from Hongo toward the rural areas.
Those shouldering bundles; those leading children by the hand; those carrying elders on their backs; young women in their prime with calves exposed, wearing split-toe socks but barefoot—each sight differed wildly, yet every one was a pitiable spectacle.

Wondering whether Mr. Kobayashi’s child had been successfully located, I stopped by again on my way back.
The widow had already returned and, together with relatives and neighbors, was camping out on a small grassy vacant lot in Koishikawa Daichō, laying out door planks and spreading blankets.
The child had indeed gone to play at his sister’s place in Yotsuya after the Fifth Middle School’s opening ceremony and had been caught in the earthquake there, making it impossible to return.
This was first and foremost a relief.

When I returned home, the neighborhood people were uniformly camping out along the tram line, in front of the Toshimaoka Imperial Mausoleum gate, and within Gokoku-ji Temple’s precincts. Not a few people from distant areas who had been driven out by fires were taking refuge there with their belongings. The family members at home had also come out to the gate and were staying awake waiting for my return. I insistently urged them that the house was safe and made them sleep indoors. However, the psychology of crowds being a frightening thing, the two younger ones—their curiosity also piqued—absolutely insisted on sleeping outdoors. I brought out several folding screens and covered them with blankets to set up protection against the night dew.

The sky stretching southeast remained bright red.
Evacuees continued ceaselessly throughout the night from Fujimizaka slope toward Zoshigaya.

●Arson Vigilance

September 2 (Sun) Disaster Day 2.
Throughout the night, powerful tremors came again and again, and despite my resolve, I found myself leaping up time after time.

Night had dawned, but the fires continued unabated. Wordlessly, rumors spread that these fires stemmed not just from the earthquake disaster but also from malcontents' sabotage. At every street corner, fire prevention notices and arson vigilance posters had been posted. Finally, notices bearing the name "○○" appeared, stating: "Rumors exist of lawless elements attempting arson; all citizens must maintain strict vigilance and actively assist in arrests." The citizens' agitation reached its peak. Without anyone taking command, they each armed themselves with clubs and bamboo spears to patrol. Of course, I was among them. Some even brought out dangerous items like daggers and unsheathed spears. They guarded every intersection and interrogated each passerby. People's eyes widened at seemingly credible rumors—in one place a burly man carrying a bomb had been apprehended; elsewhere a woman holding a gasoline bottle was bound; an arsonist had been caught red-handed. Beware milk deliverers—their cans might hold gasoline; never lower your guard against reservist-uniformed evacuees; relief squad armbands could disguise malefactors; even women and children weren't safe—anyone beyond our acquaintances must be treated as arson suspects. Particularly in our Higashiaoyagi-cho area—with the Ōtsuka Powder Magazine weapons depot behind us—rumors of saboteurs plotting to blow it up further heightened tensions. Someone raised an alarm about suspicious figures infiltrating the thicket on the powder magazine's cliff across the vacant lot. People gathered in crowds clutching weapons. Mounted military police galloped about chaotically. The commotion defied description. Two police officers—one uniformed, one plainclothes—led a bound young man down an alley toward Ōtsuka Police Station, unclear whether he was a looter or other criminal. Seeing this, the crowd immediately branded him an arsonist and swung clubs to intercept him midroute. Detainees streamed continuously down the same road. In Gokoku-ji Temple's cedar grove, several officers protected a group of seven or eight people.

They had brought brown rice balls from somewhere and were distributing them with bare hands. “We’re eating this ourselves,” they said, “so you’ll have to make do with it.” Their consideration was striking.
They gratefully accepted them, cramming the loose grains into their mouths with unwashed hands.
Eventually they were led to the police station.
The rash ones promptly deemed even these people troublemakers and swung their clubs without restraint.
The station’s entrance became encircled by the mob.
I thought it must have been grueling work for the officers to safeguard them and bring them through unharmed.

Given the precarious security situation, I had kept my home’s back gate firmly closed since daytime.
In the evening, there was someone violently knocking on it.
There was someone shouting loudly, “○○ set fire to Mr. Kida’s house!”
Just as my wife—who had been boiling barley tea—was about to go open the door, twenty or thirty neighborhood residents had already broken through without waiting and barged in.
“There! Someone took fire up to the roof!”
“They went that way!”
“They went this way!” They searched from the rooftop to under the floorboards but found no one.
When we thoroughly inquired into the circumstances, it turned out that someone had seen sparks rising from the kitchen chimney and rushed over.

In truth, because the gas had been cut off since the previous day, and as we were using firewood each time to boil drinking water at home, we had prepared water in advance to extinguish any fires in the event of an earthquake. In the evening, when a fairly strong tremor struck, my wife doused it with water as planned and put it out, but upon checking later, the water remained somewhat lukewarm. Yet there being no need to relight the wet firewood now, she ended up gathering whatever old newspapers were at hand and burning them. It became clear they had mistaken the few sparks that rose—owing to their hyper-sensitive state—for arson. Given the circumstances, this was the height of imprudence; I offered apologies and thanked them for their efforts, hurriedly hammering the broken gate door back into place, and with that could finally ease my anxious heart.

To backtrack slightly in the narrative: during daytime hours, someone had started spreading rumors that houses targeted for arson were marked with chalk symbols at their fronts. When I considered what had been said, there was a circle drawn in white chalk on the electric pole in front of my gate. My neighbor Mr. M promptly wiped it away with a rag. As for the extremely alarming rumors that had been repeated by everyone since that morning, I had not believed them from the start. Even regarding these chalk marks, I had suspected they might be a prank by someone trying to stir up panic. Yet when told they were found here and there—as the saying goes, “repeated claims melt metal”—I could not help growing half-convinced despite myself. I had been harboring fears that my house too had been targeted when the commotion of the back gate being smashed occurred. For a moment, I was startled into thinking it might be true, but upon learning the cause, I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. (Postscript: Later, I heard that those white chalk marks had been made by Seiketsu-sha to mark their regular clients. This is what breeds groundless suspicion.)

As night fell, security grew increasingly stringent.
The flames of the great fire scorching the sky continued unabated.
The townspeople were camping out on the train tracks and in the plaza before Gokoku-ji Temple just as they had the previous night.
Columns of cavalry frequently passed through the pitch-dark roads devoid of electric lights.
At every street corner stood soldiers with fixed bayonets.
Martial law had been declared in the afternoon.

The procession of evacuees, streaming ceaselessly since the previous night, showed no sign of diminishing even after dark. From Fujimizakaue to in front of Gokoku-ji Temple, five guard posts were established along the street in front of my house over a span of more than two blocks. They kept coming to warn us that ○○ had entered the Hayachichō area with about fifty people and that we must remain vigilant. Voices reporting that the Metropolitan Police Department had issued a thirty-minute traffic suspension order were relayed in succession. Exhausted evacuees and cars blaring their horns as they rushed forward were all brought to a halt at once. Even a detective from a certain police station was detained, with vigilantes demanding proof from uniformed patrol officers making their rounds.

“I have urgent business and need to return to the station, but they absolutely won’t let me through here,” he said. In front of the People’s Police, police identification badges held no authority whatsoever.

“What kind of proof is an item?” they challenged. “If someone stole it, anyone could have it!”

A man came dashing by on a bicycle, brandishing a lantern marked with red stripes and announcing, “The fire from Matsuzakaya has now reached Hongō 3-chōme! Everyone, please prepare to evacuate!” Hearing this, those quick to act began gathering their household belongings. There were also those who had evacuated women and children to acquaintances in rural areas. Dr. H’s son and others had already evacuated from Hisakatamachi to in front of Gokoku-ji Temple, having gathered their household belongings.

Newspaper extras were posted one after another on utility poles and wooden fences. All were filled with terrifying reports—among them dramatic accounts of ○○ charging into a certain place with two hundred drawn swords. Rumors and falsehoods reached a fever pitch; the public was thrown into turmoil, with no one able to discern truth from fiction.

(Postscript.
It later became clear that both the thirty-minute traffic suspension order and the warning that the fire had reached Hongō 3-chōme were all lies.
Of course, the claims about ○○ charging in with drawn swords were also lies.)

Thus, maintaining extreme vigilance throughout the night, the uneasy night ended as dawn broke amidst fearful trepidation.

Regarding this vigilance, even just what occurred in front of my house involved quite a few bizarre episodes.
The aforementioned detention of the detective certainly ranks among the most remarkable of these episodes, but I shall also record two or three others here as amusing anecdotes for posterity.

From the direction of Otowa came a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl wailing as she made her way toward Fujimizaka.
“I’m trying to return to Tsujimachi, yet they thrust bamboo spears at me and try to kill me!” she cried.
Pitifully, her crying could be heard until she reached the slope.

A student came to request a certificate from the neighboring Tenryudo Hospital.
“When trying to return to Hongo, I was stopped at checkpoints along the way—it was too dangerous to pass through.”
“Every time they saw my canned goods or soda bottles, they’d check even the contents—‘Is this explosives? Flammable liquid?’—it was unbearable.”
In response, Tenryudo issued a certificate stating that this person was their friend, of good character, and warranted no suspicion.
As for that certificate, I do not know how much efficacy it truly had.

There was a student, said to be from Gunma Prefecture, who had been detained on the grounds that his speech was unclear during questioning.
The man himself had been left speechless and, resigned to the impossibility of passing safely through the checkpoints ahead, ended up spending the night packed like sardines in Mr. ○’s outdoor encampment to his right.

Among the passersby, some proved surprisingly resilient.
Given that their opponents were numerous and in an agitated state—a perilous situation indeed—the astute ones made it their priority to respond with utmost compliance to the interrogations and pass through safely. However, there were not a few cases where others displayed a how-dare-you attitude, unexpectedly sparking disputes.
Generally speaking, the vigilante group I was part of remained remarkably mild-mannered compared to others, and our language stayed polite.
However, for those who had already been thoroughly roughed up at other checkpoints and become utterly agitated, this approach proved ineffective.

“State your affiliation.”

“I’m a reservist,” he declared. “Take a look at this.”

He pointed to his medal. This attitude roused the young members’ anger.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a medal.”

“What’s a medal?”

“This was bestowed by His Majesty the Emperor for military service.”

“Even if someone stole that thing, they could just pin it on.”
“What does that matter in this situation?”

With each harsh word met by another, the situation grew increasingly perilous.
From behind came voices shouting, “He’s getting cocky! Take him down!”
We barely managed to mediate and settle things peacefully, though there was a moment when we were left anxiously wondering how it might turn out.
Moreover, this was but one example.

● Worry About Food Supplies

Yesterday, being completely preoccupied with the unprecedented disaster and rushing about until late at night to inspect the situation and check on friends, I had failed to notice it until then—but once I calmed down a little, what began to worry me was the issue of food supplies.
Today, when all transportation systems had been severed—today, when no one knew when they might resume—would the citizens of Tokyo not soon find themselves besieged by starvation?
First checking my home regardless of the situation, I found only about three sho of white rice.
When I promptly went to the rice shop to buy some, they had retained only a three-day supply for their own household use—last night even the unpolished rice had all been requisitioned by the police.
Indeed, Nishiaoyagi-cho Elementary School had become a shelter already housing disaster victims.
Gokoku-ji Temple’s precincts too had gathered numerous evacuees.
There could be no way rice shops in this area would have surplus stock.
I sent my third son by bicycle to a distant rice shop and finally managed to obtain about two sho of white rice and three sho of barley.
This would sustain our six-member family for roughly four days.
Furthermore, I had them buy and gather whatever they could find—somen noodles, canned goods, stuffed bread.
Upon closer inspection, I discovered approximately one to of powdered white rice purchased as chicken feed.
I also noticed a fair amount of flour and potatoes sent from my wife’s family in Saitama Prefecture.
Even if driven to eat that in desperation, there would be no immediate fear of starvation.
As long as we filtered it, the well water flowed plentifully.
We had a modest supply of candles, and having bought about two sho of kerosene, the lamp long abandoned in the storage room’s corner proved its worth.
With this, we could finally feel at least temporarily secure—or so it seemed.

Once we had secured food and lighting, worries about money began to arise. We had nearly 100 yen on hand but still hadn’t paid the daily wages for the construction workers. All the banks we dealt with had suspended payments. Since I had transferred last month’s salary from Kyoto via bank transfer—which combined with other funds totaled 500 yen—I had submitted a withdrawal request on the 31st, but this too seemed unlikely to become accessible anytime soon. When it rains, it pours—the family’s five postal savings passbooks, including those entrusted to us by others, had been submitted for inspection on the 30th of last month and were no longer in our possession. Even though emergency withdrawals were available, we couldn’t access them. I even began to worry that those passbooks might have burned along with the Savings Bureau’s ledgers, leaving us permanently unable to withdraw the funds. Oh well—if we did reach a dead end, we would deal with it then.

In the afternoon, my nephew from Hisakatamachi came. Not only had his workplace in Nihonbashi burned down, but the Oshiage Factory had also been completely destroyed; he explained he had been occupied since last night with relief cooking and other tasks. First and foremost, I was relieved that he was safe. He said that since the Kawasaki Factory seemed severely damaged too, he needed to go there now but lacked transportation—could I lend him a bicycle? I provided one of the two we had.

● Long-Awaited News from Yokohama

September 3rd (Monday) – Disaster Day 3.
The earthquake had struck Yokohama and the Shōnan region more violently than Tokyo, causing severe building collapses—reports mentioned grave misfortunes involving imperial family members and the passing of elderly Marquis Matsukata [(Masayoshi)] (Postscript: this later proved false). Yokohama City Hall had collapsed, crushing many including the mayor beneath it; courthouses crumbled during trials, burying judges, prosecutors, lawyers, and spectators alike; subsequent fires annihilated Yokohama, Kamakura, and Odawara; Hiratsuka and Atsugi suffered worst of all; Hakone and Atami vanished without trace—these horrifying accounts filled yesterday’s and today’s newspaper extras.

Yokohama, Kamakura—I had many acquaintances in these areas. Dr. N, whom I’d entrusted with matters, should have reached Hakone on the 31st. Anxiety over their fates gnawed at me, but facts remained elusive. Mr. Nishikawa Ryuji had left for Kamakura yesterday—no trains ran, cars proved useless—yet visiting his empty home offered no clue whether he’d arrived safely.

As I agonized, Mr. Kosugi Mijiro materialized unexpectedly. Employed at a Yokohama firm, he’d cheated death and walked through the night to reach Tokyo. His account chilled me: most buildings collapsed there, his workplace included, but he’d dived under a table unscathed—flames engulfed the ruins moments after he crawled free.

What miraculous fortune! Yet what of Hotta Shōsuke—scholar and Japan Historical Geography Society member compiling Yokohama’s history at that doomed city hall? Of Mr. Ono Hidetoshi, chief priest at Kamakura’s Kakuen-ji Temple? And Fukazawa Keikichi—former Society director whose grand mansion rose there last year?

Kamakura, Odawara, Hakone—each name bred fresh dread. With communications severed and no means to investigate, Kosugi’s testimony only deepened my unease. Yet helplessness prevailed—there was nothing to be done.

The fires in Tokyo still had not ceased even by the morning of the third day.
It was said that the edge of Shitaya Pond, where the fire had once been contained, was now burning fiercely.
If the fire were to spread to the Iwasaki residence, even the remaining parts of Hongo that had miraculously survived would likely not be saved.
Now came the fear that even the Koishikawa area might not survive—and with it, a sense of dread swelled anew.
Fortunately, in the afternoon, upon receiving word that the fires across the entire city had been extinguished, I was finally able to feel at ease.
The fires had continued burning for approximately fifty hours since the initial outbreak.

Aftershocks continued to strike without respite.
Many people had been resolved to sleep outdoors again that night, but as rain began falling in the evening, they had gradually withdrawn indoors before they knew it.
Nevertheless, they kept the storm shutters at the entrance wide open, set up bedding near the edge, and never neglected their readiness to rush out at any moment.

When night fell, columns of soldiers from the Takasaki and Utsunomiya Regiments passed through the street in front.
Police reinforcements from Gunma and Tochigi entered.
With public order in the capital now sufficiently maintained, anxiety finally began to subside.
However, vigilante group activities continued unabated.

● Joyful Tidings (Part 1)

September 4th (Tuesday) – Disaster Day 4.
Reports of Honjo and Fukagawa’s complete destruction had been circulating incessantly since Disaster Day 1.
There were even accounts claiming tens of thousands had perished together in flames at the Honjo Clothing Depot ruins.
Rumors swirled wildly—that every bridge over the Ōkawa River had burned away, rendering passage impossible—yet even within the imperial capital itself, truth remained elusive until this morning brought clarity.
On the night of the second at nine o’clock, my wife’s third younger brother arrived by bicycle from her family home in distant Saitama Prefecture—a twenty-*ri* journey—to check on us.
While this brought temporary relief upon learning Saitama had suffered relatively light damage, anxiety gripped us anew over the complete lack of news regarding her aunt’s entire household in Fukagawa and her younger sister visiting relatives in Honjo.
Given the late hour, we lodged him overnight and sent him to assess the situation on the morning of the third, but dusk fell without his return.
Then around ten o’clock arrived my wife’s immediate younger brother, also by bicycle.
He recounted being stopped roughly fifty times between Oji and our house by vigilante inspections that forced them from their vehicle.
Ominous rumors of violence had already reached us in abundance.
I grew concerned that some mishap might have befallen my brother-in-law during his Fukagawa errand.
He finally returned on the fourth morning.
His account revealed impassably dangerous conditions had forced an overnight stay in Ushigome.
Through his report we first grasped both Koto’s devastation and our aunt’s plight.
Honjo and Fukagawa lay utterly destroyed as rumored, corpses still littering every corner.
Venturing through this hellscape to her aunt’s residence, he found every neighboring building reduced to ashes—save one bizarrely intact wooden two-story office where her eldest son had appeared, enabling them to locate the family’s refuge before returning.
At their Fukagawa home, fires erupted everywhere with the initial quake; resigned to spreading flames, they loaded four carts with vital documents and possessions before fleeing eastward along Onagigawa Canal.
The uncle, returning anxiously by bicycle from an outing, found flames spreading faster than imagined; engulfed in tsunami-like crowds of evacuees, he abandoned both cart and bicycle in the human tide.
Amidst chaos they lost sight of their third and fourth sons; those remaining barely entrusted themselves to a passing boat that still sheltered them now, anchored beyond Kameido at Tatekawa Rokubashi Bridge.
The two missing sons’ whereabouts remained unknown even then.

Upon learning of this unexpected development, I promptly had my wife’s immediate younger brother—who had arrived later—and my second son take emergency changes of clothes, blankets, various sundries, canned goods, rice, and other items to deliver relief. Afterward, the two people we had been worrying about suddenly appeared. “Has Father come here?” they asked. “Your father has been searching for you desperately,” we told them. “Return home immediately.” We made them change their shirts and sent them off with fresh clothes and canned provisions. This at least confirmed those two were safe. However, there remained concerns about the aunt’s eldest daughter—my wife’s cousin—who had married into a family in Asakusa; her third daughter, who had been staying there until recently, had also been forced to flee the fires, leaving her whereabouts still unknown. The fate of my wife’s sister, who had been visiting Honjo, likewise remained uncertain. I waited for my second son’s return, praying they too might be safe.

When night fell, electric lights came on for the first time.
Due to power shortages, households were restricted to one light each for the time being—yet one could scarcely fathom how much more cheerful people’s spirits became even so.
At that moment, my second son and his group returned.
According to their report, they had detoured through Asakusa on their return to check my cousin’s house, where among the scorched ruins was a note stating all had evacuated to my wife’s family home.
This brought yet another increase in relief.

● Joyful Tidings (Part 2)

September 5th (Wednesday) – Disaster Day 5.

Since Day 1, I had been continuously called out for night watch duties—coupled with consecutive nights of sleep deprivation and the area around my house being extremely perilous—so until yesterday I had refrained from venturing far. Now that order had been largely restored, security measures were not as stringent as before; moreover, having received joyful news, last night I was finally able to sleep soundly.
Thanks to this, today I gradually began to feel more at ease.
In the morning, I went to pay a visit to the Ministry of Education’s temporary office at the Higher Normal School.
The Ministry of Education was completely burned down by flying embers from the French Embassy, leaving only one earthen warehouse.

From Kyoto University came clerk Mr. Sumio Kakuta checking on us after his long journey.
Only then did we first learn of Kyoto’s situation.
There, they had been thrown into great commotion by frequent special newspaper editions reporting on the disaster.
At Kyoto University’s Faculty of Letters—besides myself—both Professors Suzuki and Kuriya (Shiragawa) along with clerk Mr. Naoshi Itsuno were supposed to have come to the disaster area; I was asked whether their whereabouts were known.
However, I remained entirely unaware.
Furthermore, Mr. Sueji Umehara of archaeology should have arrived in Tokyo on the first—yet his location too remained unknown to me.

A messenger arrived with a letter from my wife’s sister, whom we had been worried about. According to it, she had been staying with relatives in Honjo with her young daughter for some days when she encountered the Great Earthquake. Driven out by the fires wearing only the clothes on their backs, she had carried her young daughter—clad in nothing but a single undergarment—and narrowly escaping the flames time and again, they had finally managed to return to their home in Yatsuzuka, Kita-Adachi District. What joyful news this was! With this, I finally understood that all my family members were safe, at any rate. Here, alongside the articles of joyful tidings, I wish to add one more account. This should be called not so much a miracle as a fortuitous coincidence. Mr. Miyazaki Eiga—a former principal of Toyoyama Middle School who long served as a director of our Japan Historical Geography Society and holds a literary doctorate—had now returned to Sado to reside as the priest of a temple. His eldest daughter had long been studying in Tokyo, and this time the daughter of his Osaka-based brother—that is, Mr. Miyazaki’s niece—also came to study at a Tokyo school. Thus, arrangements were made for these two girls and their grandmother to rent a suitable house in Tokyo starting with September’s new term. Recently, Mr. Miyazaki’s wife had come to the capital accompanied by their third daughter, taking temporary refuge at the home of an acquaintance in Kyōbashi until they could secure rental housing.

Now, this Great Earthquake.
The house in Kyōbashi was no exception—they were burned out.
Their safety remained unknown; though we speculated endlessly, we lacked the means to inquire, and days passed fruitlessly—until this morning, when Mrs. Miyazaki suddenly appeared at the society’s office.
Around the same time, Mr. Miyazaki Eiga rushed from Sado, concerned about his family’s safety.
From Osaka, his brother also rushed over.
The clan gathered in the same place at once and congratulated one another on their safety.
This too was auspicious.

In the evening, accompanied by my second son, I walked around Gokoku-ji Temple grounds. Every one of the recently installed notable lanterns before the Kannon Hall had completely toppled over. That the cemetery’s grave markers were either leaning precariously or had collapsed entirely went without saying. Among them stood the family grave of Mr. Marui Keijiro. This gentleman now serves at the distant Taiwan Governor-General’s Office, but he was the one who succeeded me in establishing what is now Toyoyama Middle School within these temple grounds. During his tenure there, he lost both his wife and two children simultaneously—their three spirits now dwell here. The grave markers were old-style five-ring pagodas that had crumbled like all the others, but being a manageable size, I worked with my second son to stack them back into place.

As I passed through the cemetery and was about to exit toward Zoshigaya, vigilantes wielding those familiar clubs came searching, claiming a suspicious person had fled here. Before long, the sound of a whistle could be heard from the thicket in the distance. Twenty to thirty vigilantes wielding clubs appeared from nowhere, surrounding a young man and interrogating him. It seemed the young man had been found sleeping in exhaustion within that thicket. However, he was neither suspicious nor anything of the sort—merely a neighbor—and as someone in the crowd recognized him, he was safely released. Such was the climate of paranoia today. Caution was still required when moving about.

● Scenes of Horror Beyond Imagination

September 6th (Thursday) – Disaster Day 6.

As things gradually calmed down, I visited relatives while touring the disaster's aftermath by bicycle.
First, I emerged onto Hongō via the Otsuka Line tramway and surveyed the scene from Yushima Tenjin's precincts. The entire Yushima plateau stretched before me—and beyond it, from south to west, Shitaya, Asakusa, Kanda, Nihonbashi, Kyōbashi, even Honjo and Fukagawa across the river—an ochre expanse of scorched fields as far as the eye could see. Almost nothing remained to obstruct the view save nonflammable debris, save for Sensō-ji Temple's precincts that had miraculously survived the flames. Its grounds appeared verdant, far closer than I had ever imagined in ordinary times.

I turned back and emerged from the scorched ruins of Yushima to Kanda Myojin Shrine. Even today, six days after the disaster, lingering flames still rose here and there. The great Reiun-in Temple of Yushima had burned down. The site of Dr. Wada Hidematsu’s residence within the precincts could no longer be discerned—along with his vast collection of books, everything must have turned to ashes. The Sacred Hall too had burned down. Shōheikō had vanished without a trace. From Sudachō through Yanagihara to Ryōgoku Bridge, then east along the tramway, people streamed through the barren ruins in an unbroken flow. Their path was blocked by the collapsed Koto Bridge, forcing them to cross a temporary bridge in single file. With waiting proving impractical, they headed north along Ōyokogawa-suji, turned east at the second surviving bridge, crossed Tenjin Bridge into Kameido Town, where they finally glimpsed a townhouse spared by the flames. From there, heading south along Yokojikengawa River toward Tatekawa-suji, the fire’s reach was seen to have partially crossed to the eastern bank. Six days after ignition, charred corpses still littered every path we traversed—this required no elaboration.

I visited the family of my wife’s aunt who were taking refuge in a boat temporarily moored near Rokkyo. The boat also held another evacuated family, while the aunt’s family—alongside their maid—were huddled together under a makeshift reed roof in a space slightly larger than two tatami mats. A pet dog had followed their trail and now lay sprawled on land. As this day was for organizing scorched remains, all male members were absent.

After offering appropriate condolences, I proceeded to observe the temporary crematorium in Ōshima-machi’s outskirts. Five hundred corpses that had been piled into two mounds since last night still burned fiercely. When I went to Tomikawacho’s scorched ruins, there indeed stood a single wooden office building—almost completely undamaged amidst endless scorched fields—what a miracle it was. The structure faced Onagigawa River with Daifuku Bridge immediately adjacent. This bridge had collapsed during the earthquake and obstructed the current, causing burned ships and bloated corpses from western areas to accumulate until the water’s surface became nearly invisible. By rough estimate, there were about two hundred corpses. Most lay naked with hair burned to stubble—a sight more heartrending than other charred bodies we had encountered—truly beyond imagination. Such devastation defies comprehension unless witnessed firsthand.

On the return path, I passed Iyo Bridge and once again reached Ryōgoku Bridge. Corpses floated adrift upstream and downstream of Iyo Bridge; those pulled ashore at Ryōgoku Bridge’s western end—their number beyond counting. At those corpses of Ryōgoku—whether by the work of some compassionate soul—lay paper slips inscribed with prayers for the dead offered to each one. This evoked the *Hekizan Diary*’s account of how, during Kyoto’s tens of thousands of famine deaths in Kanshō 2 [1461], a monk in northern Kyoto placed small wooden stupas upon every corpse. The recollection struck me as inexpressibly heartrending.

Overwhelmed by devastation far beyond imagination—unable to muster the will to visit the Honjo Clothing Depot site where tens of thousands of charred corpses still lay as they had fallen—I instead headed from Kanda to Marunouchi and returned home in the evening.

As detailed records of the damage in this area will eventually be made public, I will omit them all.

As consequence for repeatedly drinking milk and soda on my feet and hastily eating soba along the inspection route, I immediately began suffering from diarrhea upon returning home.
I feared it might worsen.

During my absence, Mr. Nakagawa Kiyoto, clerk at Imperial University, and Mr. Hotta Shōsuke, head of Yokohama City History Compilation, came to visit.
Mr. Hotta had felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding before noon that day and gone outside the city hall; having been outdoors when the chaos erupted, he had fortunately remained unharmed.
However, not only had Yokohama's temporary residence burned down, but in the city hall fire—the years of collected materials for the municipal history, the compiler's research results, and the vast borrowed historical documents—all had been consumed by flames. This marked an irreparable loss for both Yokohama City and academia.
The greater part of Yokohama's past history had thus been permanently interred by this earthquake-triggered conflagration.
Reflecting on how Kyoto's many great fires since the Heian period had similarly obliterated historical materials and obscured truths—I couldn't help but think this must have been precisely how it was.

The frequency of earthquakes decreased.
Their shaking weakened.
The public atmosphere gradually calmed down.
Disaster victims also began setting up street stalls and peddling goods, starting to formulate plans for their livelihoods.
On September 7th, the water supply was restored and trains began running.
I, too, cannot remain solely absorbed in the earthquake disaster forever.
This “Disaster Diary” will first conclude with the aforementioned six days; hereafter, I shall briefly summarize only the essential points of related events and intend to publish them in the next issue [(*Social History Studies*, Volume 10, Issue 4)].