Pathway to Japanese Literature

When Tokyo’s skies abruptly regained peace with the war’s end, everyone must have breathed a sigh of relief. But for some time afterward, those distant morning and evening sirens still rang like air raid alarms—an unpleasant reminder. One might have thought those sounding them aimed for such illusions, half-mocking in their execution—yet even the sight of occupation forces arriving around the U.S. Embassy with dozens of snaking trucks, soldiers leaping down all at once only to immediately relieve themselves in torrents by the roadside, instilled a peculiar melancholy. Then came the surrender signing on the Missouri’s deck—those sorrowful memories defy words now. Yet looking back on those two or three years of relentless hardship makes one wonder: How did we endure it all? I ate weeds too—times when impatience drove me to pluck pumpkins no bigger than balls. Even with my weak stomach, scarcity transformed my hunger into something feral—a bottomless void. The memory still tempts laughter: one twilight hour on deserted Tameike-dori lay a single sweet potato. A monstrous specimen. Two or three meters ahead lay more. They must have tumbled from some bicycle’s rear carrier. That haul supplemented my supper—but ever since, dusk walks tricked my eyes into seeing sweet potatoes in every horse dropping, sandal-toe nudges becoming irresistible urges.

One day, while descending the gentle slope from the U.S. Embassy toward Shiba Akabune-cho, I found what appeared to be a neatly newspaper-wrapped folded box placed in the shadow of a utility pole near where the former Okura Commercial School once stood. Swallowing my shame to open it, I discovered premium white rice balls packed like sushi inside what turned out to be an elegant container. Even I hesitated for a moment. Whether someone had left it as an act of charity or... I couldn’t decide. Rewrapping it in the newspaper as before, I walked away with a lingering sense of reluctance—but when I glanced back on my return, it was already gone.

Nowadays Akasaka's entertainment district had nearly restored its teahouses and establishments to their former state, but immediately after the war's end, that entire area had been nothing but burned-out fields as far as the eye could see. Here and there stood solitary surviving storehouses, half-destroyed like shogi pieces stood upright on a game board, while rusted corrugated iron shacks dotted the landscape—their pitifully conspicuous war-damaged scenery marked by faded laundry and ragged futons hung out to dry. Even after sunset, the streetlights never fully lit up, and beyond the jeeps slipping by like weasels through the twilight, there was scarcely a soul to be seen. The occasional tram lumbered by like funeral lanterns in a procession—its sluggish passage steeped in desolation.

One day, on my way to Omotecho’s rationed meal ticket restaurant (our family of three had switched to eating out because our staple food rations were often delayed and the neighborhood association’s rotating duty assignments were bothersome), I was approached by a middle-aged woman who asked: “Excuse me… I was wondering if you might know whether there’s a seal engraver around here…” “A seal engraver’s shop? There’s one a bit further ahead near Tameike stop.” “At the three-way intersection by the next stop, there’s a sign for a place called Bunkodo...”

“Thank you very much.” This woman seemed to know nothing about the area at all. I walked a few paces past her before turning around. “Excuse me—are you looking to have a seal made?” “Well... I was hoping to have a personal seal carved.” “Ah, I see.” “Would the engravers here be able to do it immediately?” “Well, if they’re free they might carve it right away... though you may have to wait a day or two.” “Is there some urgency?”

“Well... I am a repatriate, you see…” “Ah, I see…” “The truth is, if I just had a personal seal, the ward office would grant me the rehabilitation funds today, you see.” “In the chaos of repatriation, I ended up losing my seal, you see…” “That must be quite troubling for you.” “If they have a ready-made one, it should meet your needs right away, but why don’t you go and see?” I thought she was a woman I had seen once before at the Omotecho rationed meal ticket restaurant around yesterday, and in the spur of that thought, I ended up letting my tongue slip. To tell the truth, though I was an amateur, I had confidence I could at least carve a simple personal seal.

“Well, if it’s just a personal seal, I could carve one for you right now… I’m not skilled, but I can manage something adequate.” “Oh, thank you very much.” “You are that seal engraver, aren’t you?” “No, no—I’m not a seal engraver—but I can handle a bit of that sort of thing.” “My, how skillful you are…”

“How about this? If you could wait until around noon, I’ll deliver it at that restaurant.” “That would be perfect.”

“By no later than around one o’clock in the afternoon, without fail…” I felt a twinge of regret after saying that. Seals for simple surnames like Tanaka, Yamada, Tsuchii, or Uchida I could carve without any trouble, but names like Saito, Goto, or Endo—with their tangled brushstrokes that only grew more troublesome in smaller script—made me apprehensive. Yet there was no backing out now.

“Excuse me, but may I ask what your surname is?” “I’m Ueda, you see…” “So I should carve ‘Ueda,’ then?”

I felt relieved—since I figured a seal like that wouldn’t even take thirty minutes to carve. Repatriates must’ve been worse off than us disaster victims, after all. For them, those rehabilitation funds were probably the only lifeline left. Judging by her faded clothing, I guessed she was pushing forty.

I parted ways with her, finished breakfast at the restaurant, returned to my dugout shelter, and immediately set to work carving the seal. Since I had no proper seal material on hand, I sawed off the edge of a broken inkstone with a handsaw, rubbed it against a stone to shape it into a small koban form (what seal engravers call a *nibukoban*), and though adjusting the contours took effort, carving it posed no difficulty. After all, this sideline of mine was rooted in the mischievous play of my boyhood.

Once it was done, I wanted to hand it to her as soon as possible to make her happy, so I went to the restaurant earlier than the appointed time—only to find she had arrived before me, perhaps out of her own impatience, and was already waiting there.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” “I believe this should suffice.” I showed her the paper with the traced personal seal and the actual seal. “My, how skillful you are!” “Thank you very much.” “You’ve helped me so much by carving it this quickly.” With a face filled with joy and gratitude, she took out a purse from her obi. “Um, how much should I give you for this?”

“No, no—I’ll give this to you as a gift.” “I’m not a seal engraver.” “Just someone who carves seals on a lark…” “Oh, please don’t say that… Here… It’s only a little, but… perhaps for cigarettes…”

She pressed three ten-yen bills into my hands, added about two ration tickets separately, and insisted I accept them. “No, there’s no need for that.”

I initially declined, but given that my current circumstances didn’t allow me to forcefully refuse it, I ultimately decided to accept. It was through carving that woman’s personal seal that it suddenly occurred to me—I noticed my own long-forgotten sideline skill and thought, “Maybe I should try becoming a seal engraver to earn cash…” In my boyhood days, I used to linger daily at the neighborhood seal engraver’s shop, mimicking their carving—a sort of rudimentary apprenticeship. During the Second Sino-Japanese War, while working in journalism and traveling through central and southern China, I often observed Chinese seal engravers setting up street stalls in small towns, tap-tapping away at their carvings on every corner. In Tokyo immediately after the war’s end, I saw seal engravers whose homes had burned down carving cheap seals by the roadside in the scorched ruins—tap-tapping away with bowed heads as they took orders from passersby—and realized this, like shoe shiners, was a common sight in any defeated nation. But never in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined that I, too, would become a seal engraver.

However, in these times when even meager savings were frozen, and withdrawing the limited monthly living expenses required submitting what they called a financial passbook each time with a certificate from the neighborhood association chairman—no matter how much one tightened their belt, the rationed funds would never suffice—so setting aside whether deposits existed or not, turning to quick cash became unavoidable. Even someone like me, who could at least lay claim to being a writer, could no longer maintain such pretenses—the hour had struck. Those with business acumen might exploit this chaos to find countless money-making opportunities everywhere—but for my kind, becoming a seal engraver stood as the pinnacle of inspiration.

So first, I dashed off promotional letters to influential seniors and acquaintances who seemed favorably disposed toward me, stating that I could swiftly handle any type of seal—address seals, bookplates, all orders accepted. About five or six requests came in, but those I carved and delivered without prior orders—relying on existing familiarity—were taken as gifts, ultimately leaving me at a loss for the materials. Such sideline works ought to serve as social gifts—or so I reasoned—but rather than half-heartedly awaiting orders by clinging to my seniors' goodwill, wouldn't it be better to fully commit to becoming a roadside seal engraver taking commissions from strangers? Having deliberated where to set up, I ultimately chose the narrow street along the western fence of the former Navy Ministry. On one side ran the wire mesh fence of a motor pool, through whose passageway—about two ken wide—occupation soldiers streamed without cease. A few shoeshiners sat spaced apart like monkeys. Among others were women selling mufflers and silk embroideries; a fortune teller wearing an armband labeled “FORTUNE TELLER” in English letters, clad in a faded suit and propping up legs that seemed palsied with a cane as he hailed passing GIs; and an old portrait painter. After greeting these veterans to join their ranks, I somehow managed to secure my own spot there. Now, though both the fortune teller and portrait painter were remarkably adept conversationalists, I first paid them due respect. “Fate is your invisible companion.” At times, fate takes root in your mind. At times, it dwells in your heart. Furthermore, at times it awaits you on your path ahead. At other times, it comes chasing persistently from behind with belated haste. Therefore, to constantly foresee these things is to overcome fate, to break through it, to transcend it.” “In other words—it means protecting yourself…”

The Fortune Teller had posted a paper written in both English and Japanese like that on the fence and was attracting the attention of American soldiers. Even the scientifically-minded American soldiers seemed to have an interest in fortune-telling, and the Fortune Teller was doing quite a brisk business. What the American soldiers wanted to know through fortune-telling were mostly trivial matters like “When will I be able to return home…?” or “How is my lover back home living these days…?” At times, fragments of the fortune teller’s words—“Long Life,” “Very Happy,” and such—reached my ears as well.

I hung a cardboard sign from the fence with “STAMP SHOP” in English and “Swift Seal Service” in Japanese characters, then spent the day beneath a quietly radiant Indian summer sky with the patience of an angler waiting for a bite—but on that first day, not a single nibble came.

However, on the second day, an American soldier stopped, approached me, and addressed me.

“Can you make stamp?” “Yeah…” I mimicked the fortune teller and portrait painter by answering “Yeah…” where I should have said “Yes.” As if he were remarkably skilled in conversation… but since I couldn’t understand what came next, I immediately sought help from the old portrait painter. “Can you make a number stamp like this… How long will it take? And what’s the cost?” The old portrait painter had taken on the role of interpreter, so I accepted this inaugural commission as my first order.

The number stamp I received an order for was M-3194—they apparently needed such number stamps for stamping uniforms and other items. I carved them at fifty yen apiece. That day ended with just a single order, but whether that one had served as advertising or not, five or six orders came thudding in the next day. From the day after that onward, they arrived in a deluge. It may sound exaggerated, but I worked like a maniac, carving away relentlessly. Carving seals was no easy task once it reached this scale. You had to pour your whole body’s strength into your arm, then restrain that force while controlling it with meticulous care—it proved unexpectedly exhausting. No doubt this was why they said it aggravated chest ailments. Yet there was comfort in how my pockets swelled with bills each day under those lingering mild Indian summer skies. On such comfortable days, records blared from loudspeakers on the motor pool’s rooftop, their sound permeating every corner of the area. They were intensely lyrical American popular songs. I couldn’t understand the lyrics myself, but the fortune teller taught them to me. “The joy of workers arrives with dusk—” he would say. The other song was apparently called “Don’t Forget, Please,” which in Japanese meant “Don’t forget me…” That’s what it was. “The title’s ‘The Maiden of the Harbor Town,’” the fortune teller explained. He knew everything remarkably well—.

My daily earnings ranged between four and five hundred yen on slow days. Not only number stamps but also intricate Western letter stamps with delicate details—I handled them all, and if this boom continued, I might soon open a proper seal shop in town, employing several apprentices to become proprietor of a fine display window. In my daydreams floated visions of an elegant seal engraver’s studio. Somewhere in Tokyo’s streets, I seemed to recall having glimpsed such a trim little workshop. On one side of the glass-paned storefront stood ornamental bamboo thickets; beneath moss-draped stone lanterns crouched low stools while water trickled coolly from bamboo gutters... Beyond the glass, what appeared to be the shopkeeper carved seals silently beneath lamplight... That figure was me. To farm under clear skies and read in rainy weather... While fulfilling seal commissions by day, devoting leisurely hours to my true creative work by night... Here lay life’s unshakable foundation—such was my fantasy—

However, my stamp shop had reached its peak prosperity around Christmas time. After that, it declined rapidly into desolation. What could have happened...? I reflected deeply to ascertain the cause. According to the old portrait painter, Americans were fundamentally fickle by nature. He claimed this very fickleness constituted part of their progressiveness. Even portrait-drawing had apparently been quite popular initially—so inundated with orders they couldn't keep up at one point—but these days people had apparently stopped coming altogether.

“Lately it’s been the opposite—instead of portrait orders, they point their cameras at me, calling me ‘Japanese Santa Claus’ and using my face as a model.” “And then they go and send those photos back home, I tell you.” “When I ask for modeling fees, they just laugh ‘Okay’ and run off,” said the old portrait painter. Indeed, the old painter’s face was buried in a long white beard, and with that grinning face of his topped by a beret, he looked for all the world like a Japanese Santa Claus.

Now, I had finally managed to ascertain why my stamp shop had completely lost its popularity. One day while passing a seal shop in town, I casually peered into its show window—and there they were: samples of rubber number stamps already displayed, specially made for American soldiers. I raised a hand to pinch my nose and sighed inwardly: “I’m done for…” My spirits sank completely. Until now, the stamps I’d made hadn’t been rubber ones but low-quality stone seals. Stone seals take clear impressions with stamp pad ink, but become utterly useless when pressed with stamp ink. Yet the American soldiers didn’t know how to use stamp pads—they’d just dab ink on the stone stamps and slap them down like rubber ones. They kept repeating “Label! Label!” to me—at first I couldn’t grasp their meaning. Then they’d point to the rubber on their shoe heels. Finally I understood—they were asking if I couldn’t make rubber stamps… Though I might’ve been first to meet the soldiers’ demand for number stamps, that was nothing to boast about anymore.

Alright. It wasn’t too late even now. I tried to rally myself with a hoarse inner cry about restarting with rubber stamps, but the real headache was how to get the rubber material. Rubber material was controlled goods—you couldn’t get rations without joining the Rubber Stamp Association. And when it came to rubber stamps, I was a complete greenhorn. Still, arranging metal type numerals as ordered, transferring them to paper molds, pouring molten rubber into them—I wasn’t entirely without confidence I could handle such tasks. What remained was figuring out how to procure black-market rubber material.

I may have appeared inherently entrepreneurial, but in truth possessed no such drive. The street stall seal engraving venture too had been born from mere whim. Had I truly harbored business ambitions, I would have expanded into a full-fledged shop offering typewriter services, mimeograph duplication, express business card printing, and every manner of print work besides. Yet I remained content to enjoy seal carving as nothing more than an amateur pursuit, with no desire to venture further down this path.

But after considering various angles, I concluded it was wiser to somehow persist a while longer as a seal engraver. One day, posing as a seal engraver, I even went around visiting every seal material wholesaler in the Asakusa Toriichimachi area. Since there were various sizes of pre-made number rubber stamps available there, I bought two or three boxes of the first-type ones that came complete from 1 to 0 in their packaging. After returning home, I racked my brains trying every possible approach, but the results proved thoroughly unsatisfactory. If I were to extract only the needed numbers from a complete set of rubber stamps ranging from 1 to 0, I had no choice but to anticipate that the majority would become useless. Then the numbers wouldn’t add up…

One day, I encountered Mr. K from the Culture Department of A News Agency in front of Toranomon’s Kazankai Kaikan Hall.

“It’s been a while…” they exchanged greetings so absurdly familiar their camaraderie verged on farce. After not seeing each other since the war’s end, we might have ducked into one of those cafés together—but there I stood wearing pants with torn knees, clutching a toolbox full of carving tools like some shoeshine boy gone rogue. My resolve crumbled under that image. “Since we’ve crossed paths,” he began, “how about writing five or six pages of essays? Send them my way.” “Any topic’s fine.” “The sooner done.” “Hundred yen per page.” “Twice monthly—five or six sheets each time.”

“Understood.” “Then I’ll get right on it…”

We parted just like that, without ceremony, but at the very moment my stamp shop catering to American soldiers had become utterly desolate, I felt greatly encouraged. When I heard the manuscript fee was a hundred yen per page, I was secretly astonished and wondered if I’d misheard. In pre-war days, this was something I never could have imagined. But when I later found out, a hundred yen per page was already rock bottom for that time. Postwar, having stayed away from the Tonto manuscript market for so long, I’d grown that naive. I could no longer keep up this charade of being a seal engraver. To confess the truth, one might say it was escapism—being unable to endure both literature’s harsh path and postwar hardships—that drove me to this seal engraving venture. But once you’ve made your bread through an occupation, it clings like a leech—not something you can peel off easily. Even though they’d only asked for five or six pages of essays, it would still take days to grasp what to write. And even if I sent off the finished manuscript, the payment wouldn’t come right away. So to tide myself over, I desperately needed cash. But keeping the stamp shop as-is meant dealing with American soldiers—no longer viable. This time, I resolved to pivot entirely toward Japanese clients needing mitome-in seals and stake everything on that. With renewed resolve, I decided to move to a sunlit spot near the family court. Another reason for relocating came one Sunday afternoon when a half-drunk American soldier suddenly grabbed me by the throat. The fortune teller saved me with his smooth English intervention—no real reason behind it beyond being mistaken for an ex-army officer, leading to this half-mocking throttling. What an absurd misjudgment. But apparently common enough. Had this happened when military men held sway, they might’ve called it an honor—now it was just a damned nuisance. Most American soldiers seemed gentlemen, but there were odd ones too. Some made strange gestures while pestering me to arrange women for them—times when I floundered for responses. Yet I too wasn’t entirely blameless for such misunderstandings.

The reason was that young Western-dressed women would often come to my stamp shop and say, “Seal engraver, let me stay by your side for a little while…” clinging to me for thirty minutes or even an hour without leaving. They did this to meet American soldiers at appointed times. Or perhaps also to extort money from soldiers they’d grown close with. This area had strict patrols—if young women were seen loitering, they’d immediately be questioned, have their names recorded in notebooks, or even be taken away if things turned sour. That’s why they stayed by my side, pretending to have me carve personal seals for them. The American soldiers who frequently saw these young women near me must have thought I was using the stamp shop as a front while secretly acting as a procurer for pan-pan girls. And so I finally resolved to change locations.

After relocating my shop beside the family court, my dealings with American soldiers almost entirely ceased. Orders for personal seals from Japanese clients came only sporadically.

One day, a homeless-looking man approached and suddenly,

“Old man, carve me a seal,” he says. Looking up, I saw a customer around thirty years old with a blackened face gleaming greasily, covered in grime.

“How much do you charge to carve a personal seal?”

“Hmm… Let’s say thirty yen, cheap for you.” Upon closer inspection, it was a man I recognized—the one who’d been sleeping in structures like chicken coops made from old plywood boards propped up triangularly amid Toranomon’s burned-out ruins. On rainy days, he’d huddle inside that rickety little shelter to sleep. The same man I often spotted in queues at the national pub. “What’s your surname?”

“It’s Saotome.” “It’s a bit unusual, I suppose.” “How do you write ‘Saotome’?” “With the characters for ‘fifth month’ and ‘woman’.”

“Saotome... That’s a lovely name.” “And your given name?” “My given name is Yoshio.” “It’s written as Saotome Yoshio.” He bore a name utterly mismatched to his appearance. I often get these hunches—based on someone’s face or manner—that you’d call this one “Tanaka” or that one “Tsumura” or such. And occasionally those guesses even hit true. But Saotome Yoshio alone had slipped clean through my nets.

From his speech patterns, he seemed to hail from Kansai. “You’re from Kansai?” “Osaka.” “Must be easier for working folks over there, I’d imagine…”

“Well, sure—but since it’s my hometown, it’s a bit awkward for me, you know.” “I can’t go back lookin’ like some homeless bum.” “I see...” During the war, he’d been drafted and sent south; when he returned after surrender, his parents, siblings, wife and children had all vanished without trace. With no leads left to follow, he’d naturally sunk into his present circumstances—or so his story went. It was one of those postwar tragedies you heard everywhere.

“Excuse me, but how much do you make in a day as a scavenger?” “Hmm… Let’s say around two hundred yen.” “At best it’s three hundred yen, but with rainy days and windy days, the average comes to about a hundred and fifty yen.”

Mondays and Wednesdays were days when the occupation forces held drills, and from 1:00 PM onward, soldiers would assemble by company at various squares. Until the captain arrived, the soldiers would smoke cigarettes and chat. The moment they caught sight of the captain, the soldiers would abruptly toss away the cigarettes in their hands and fall into formation. The scavengers would lie in wait for those discarded cigarettes and pounce to collect them. Though half-smoked, they were all quite long. The scavengers called these ‘okahiko’. The long cigarette butts—charcoal-black at one end and white-bodied—were so named because they resembled silkworms in appearance.

"Forward march!" With this command, each platoon marched toward the plaza before the Imperial Palace. Seizing the moment, the scavengers gave chase—Saotome Yoshio was among their ranks. At Miyagi-mae, they found the same haul as described earlier. Where those soldiers—Australian troops—had passed, not a blade of grass would grow; but where American soldiers had passed, violets would bloom—or so those scavengers often said. (They delighted in calling the lipstick-stained cigarette butts discarded by female soldiers “violets”). Among the scavengers were former supply and transport corps lieutenant colonels and the remnants of decrepit officials. Around the General Headquarters (GHQ in the former Ministry of Finance building), silver lighters, cigarette cases, fountain pens, and the like lay scattered in the shrubbery, caked in mud. The soldiers, laden with possessions, kept dumping them out of the windows. For the scavengers, it was their one and only paradise.

“Hey, you—if you’re averaging two hundred yen a day, you don’t have to sleep in those Toranomon burned-out buildings. You could stay at a cheap inn.” “Yeah, Senju’s budget hotels’d let me stay for thirty yen a night—but see, I’ve got this habit of snorin’ like a freight train after dark. So whenever I go there, they turn me away with some polite excuse about botherin’ other guests.” “My snoring’s got a real reputation—it’s something special, you know.” “I don’t notice it myself, but they say I talk in my sleep a lot at night—wake up from war dreams and start bangin’ on the walls and such.”

“Huh, that’s quite a predicament.” I laughed. “Well, in summer at least, sleepin’ outdoors ain’t so bad… Got used to campin’ out in the South during the war.” He claimed it was better to drink a cup of kasutori and sleep rough in the ruins of a burned-out building than pay thirty yen a night at some Minami-Senju budget hotel. Still, I found myself sympathizing with his fondness for drink. “You really like it that much?” “Can’t handle more’n two go at once—but if I don’t take little sips all day long, I’ll run outta steam. What ’bout you, old man…?”

“Well, a bit now and then.” “Alcohol’s been nothing but trouble.” “In times like these, if you don’t make some shoddy profit, you’ll end up ruined by drink.” “First off, your dignity crumbles, I tell ya.” “Like this—just like a beggar…” I secretly felt struck to the core, as if pierced. Even when I thought about getting a haircut and going to the public bath, the money for the barber and bathhouse would end up disappearing into a cup of kasutori. As I grew accustomed to such things, I understood all too well that my life was deteriorating.

“Right then—startin’ tomorrow, I reckon I’ll turn pedicab driver,” he said. “Need a seal for the rental contract, see? So I’m askin’ you, old man—carve me a mitome-in.” They said pedicab drivers could pull in at least a thousand yen a day. “End of the day, humans gotta live by burnin’ through their own strength.” Saotome launched into his octopus philosophy: “Since we survive by eatin’ up our own energy, we’re no different from an octopus chewin’ off its own legs to keep breathin’, eh?”

“If you fall into the sea—resolve to sink straight to the bottom! Once your feet hit that seabed—thud!—kick up hard! That’s how you float back up… With that spirit—starting tomorrow—I’ll stomp those pedals full force and kick my way up!”

He had graduated from a commercial school and, until just before being drafted into the military, had worked as an accounting clerk at a certain company—or so he claimed. Given this background, he stated that his plan was to take the certified public accountant examination under the revised law and, upon obtaining the qualification, join a company. He, too, had ordinary hopes— The next day, the man pedaling a two-seater pedicab with two hulking American soldiers aboard down Kasumigaseki Avenue, straining at the pedals—that was him.

Just like Mr. Saotome Yoshio, I too went through no small hardship for alcohol. I could remain indifferent to tobacco, but for alcohol I ran all over town. Each month, the deficit from cafeteria meals drove me to frantically buy ration tickets on the black market and scramble for substitute foods. Even now when I recall them, both the lines at gruel canteens and those at national pubs are as repulsive as a nightmare. The so-called national pubs—where town bosses, local bigwigs, and beverage industry union heads put on bureaucratic airs and played at being officials—profoundly insulted the city’s devoted drinkers. While I keenly felt such profound humiliation, I would still—even when losing the lottery—chase after each day’s national pubs east and west like a cursed man possessed by vengeful spirits, never learning my lesson.

One day, when a national pub unexpectedly opened in the burned-out ruins of a building in Shibatamura-cho, I joined the queue. That day was particularly chaotic with line-cutting, and the air grew murderous. One of the young men in the line—who looked like a no-good ruffian—banged the mouth of an empty beer bottle, one that had only been used as a trumpet, then jabbed it into his opponent’s neck before fleeing. The stabbed man, drenched in blood, was taken to the nearest clinic—but after witnessing that, even I began avoiding that particular pub. Generally speaking, the Shinbashi area had a bad reputation.

I was truly terrible at the national pub lotteries, so whenever there was a place where I could drink without such draws, I'd venture out without begrudging the travel costs however high. I journeyed as far west as Hanno and Hachioji, and east to Mito-Suikaido in Ibaraki. My lottery luck proved so wretched that I began queuing at pubs with crisp, unsoiled bills reserved solely for alcohol money—as if praying to the gods themselves. When paper money ran short, I'd cleanse silver coins under washroom faucets to purify them. Still there were times when, failing the draw, I couldn't even secure a single cup of chū. The lottery method at the pub behind the Imperial Theater used a deep brush-holder-like tube stuffed with split chopsticks—you won by pulling one with a red-tipped end. After endless losses, I developed a technique: stealthily pinching three chopsticks mid-draw, lifting them just enough to spot any red marks before deftly releasing the duds. Once this method grew polished, I never missed again. Through my own skin I learned how supposedly upright men gradually master cunning and stratagems. I remember rushing from Akasaka Tameike to Nakano Miyazono-cho's pub only to trudge home through dusk's burned ruins, autumn wind slicing through me after another failed draw... My eldest—bless him—once nobly accompanied me to Gotanda's queues so his luckless father might drink. Thanks to him I managed two cups that day, thinking... deeply... what a filial son he'd become.

Having heard that the small shack-like barrack of a café called *Yukari* in Akasaka Fukugichō served moonshine out back, I entered one evening—only for the proprietress to greet me with an exclamation of “Oh my, what a rare visitor!” Upon closer inspection, this woman turned out to be the very same person who had once asked me about the whereabouts of a seal engraver when we passed each other on the ruined streets of Sannō-shita. “Ah—you’re the one from that time…” I blurted out without thinking.

“Well, I’m ever so grateful for your help back then.” “Thanks to your help, I’ve finally managed to open this little shop after all that time.” “Thank you ever so much for coming…” “What a fine establishment—today, not knowing you were the proprietress here, I rushed in after hearing I could get a drink…” “Oh, it’s nothing at all—please, do come in. It’s such a cramped little place, but…” The shop had black tea and meager cakes. When abruptly told to come upstairs—since drinking in the backroom would indeed be less awkward than at the front counter—I took the hint and slipped through the curtain into the lone tearoom, where a master craftsman-like figure in his fifties sat cross-legged by the tea table, drinking. I promptly had someone pour me a cup of moonshine. A sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl was preparing dinner in the narrow kitchen. A twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy came in through the back door but left again right away. There was no sign of anyone resembling the master.

“You mentioned where your residence was, didn’t you?” “That’s right—it was Nagatachō, wasn’t it?”

“It’s near Tameike Station.” “I’m at the base of the Prime Minister’s Official Residence in Nagatachō.”

“It’s been quite some time since then.” “You mentioned your business wasn’t as a seal engraver—well, I’ve kept the personal seal you carved for me safe and sound.” “I suppose you could call this a seal-related fate between us…” she quipped with a laugh. “It all started when I carved your personal seal—that’s what suddenly gave me the idea, and now I’ve ended up practically running a seal engraving business.” “I carve personal seals, location seals—anything you need.”

“Oh my, is that so?” she said, turning to the master-like customer. “This gentleman here is quite dexterous—he carves seals, you know.” “Mr. Inoue, why don’t you have something carved?” “It’s cheaper and more advantageous than commissioning town seal engravers, you know.”

“Oh?” “Then I’ll have you carve it,” said the master, taking a notebook from his shirt pocket and beginning to write something with a pencil. “I want you to carve something like this,” he said, tearing a page from his notebook and thrusting it at me. When I looked, it read: “Tokyo-to, Minato-ku, Azabu Naka-no-cho 2-358, Copper and Iron Sheet Metal Work Contractor, Inoue Tokuhei.” He wanted it carved with a width of six bu (approximately 0.7 inches) and a length of about one sun five bu (approximately 1.8 inches). When he asked how much it would cost, I replied that I carved them for about twenty percent less than town seal engravers, whereupon he grabbed a wad of bills from his inner pocket, pulled out two 100-yen notes, and thrust them forward, saying to take this as a deposit for now. Though he showed generosity, when I declined by saying payment could wait until the seal was finished, the proprietress remarked from the side, “He’s a very strict one, this gentleman.”

“That strictness of yours—I’ve taken a liking to it.” “Proprietress, go ahead and pour the seal engraver another cup,” said the master. I found myself overwhelmed by the prosperity of construction-related craftsmen. Though I enjoy it, I can’t handle more than two cups—and besides, I’m not one to sit around drinking at length in a place like this. Just then, two regular-looking customers came in through the back door—so I bid them farewell and took my leave. Then, the proprietress came chasing after me.

“I’d like to visit your place once, though…” she said. “You’re welcome to come, but it’s a horrible tin-covered dugout shelter.” She was different from how she had been when we first met in Sannō-shita. I found myself utterly intoxicated by the café owner’s skillful handling of people, as befitted her role. What business could she possibly have wanting to visit my place, I wondered, feeling strange that she’d gone out of her way to chase after me and say such a thing. The married woman had said she wanted to visit me at some point, and I was foolish enough to accept her proposal—though truth be told, I felt confined by the fear that she might come while I was away.

However, just when I thought it impossible, she appeared two days later. Seeing the shelter wrapped in scorched tin sheets, she must have been shocked by its wretchedness beyond expectation—wearing a jacket over cropped work pants in the fashionable style, its hem cut short like a haori. "Well now... It's nothing much, but please..." I happened to be carving the tinworker's seal—an order arranged through her mediation—and showed it to her. "I'll handle getting you all the seal orders you need from now on," she said.

“I’ll recommend you to everyone who comes to my shop.” “We can handle rubber stamps too.” “Well, about that rubber stamp…” “That tinplate worker you mentioned is actually a roofer, you know.” “In the tin roof business, there’s so much work these days that things are booming.” “They don’t bat an eye at paying five hundred or six hundred yen for seals, so don’t go saying weak things like undercutting town engravers by twenty percent—charge them the proper rate.” “I’ll get you around five hundred yen.” “Shall I have them pay six hundred yen?”

“There’s also the matter of future dealings.” “If I set prices too high, I’ll stop getting future orders.” “Oh, and there’s something I’d like to ask of you.” “Could you carve a small ‘Yukari’ in hiragana for me…?” “That’s easy enough…”

“However, there’s a bit of a fussy request about it,” she said with a laugh, explaining the use of the hiragana seal *‘Yukari’*. She was selling homemade hand-rolled cigarettes to customers in the back of her shop, and her idea was to stamp each one with a *‘Yukari’* seal to make them resemble the state-monopoly *‘Hikari’* brand. This way, she explained, the *‘Yukari’* would resemble *‘Hikari’* while also promoting her shop. I couldn’t help but laugh at the idea.

“Could you craft ‘Yukari’ in a small, precise style matching ‘Hikari’s typeface, I wonder?” “I’ll begin crafting it immediately.”

On the surface she ran a café, privately sold moonshine liquor, and on top of that, even crafted hand-rolled cigarettes. “Otherwise this mother and two children couldn’t keep eating,” she said. “Your husband…” “I don’t have a husband.” “I did have one, but we separated, you know.”

Hearing that, something suddenly occurred to me. I wondered if what those regulars had been talking about in the line at the Roppongi National Pub some time ago was referring to this proprietress… Though I couldn’t grasp the full context of the story, a fragment of gossip about a certain repatriate couple reached my ears—how the husband worked at an occupation forces-affiliated automobile factory in Yokohama, took a mistress, and grew neglectful of his wife and children until she finally brought up divorce; how they now lived separately while she ran a café… I secretly wondered if this proprietress was that very woman.

“Well, this is a separate matter, but I heard… that you used to work at the court… I overheard such talk at the Sannō-shita diner.” I felt somewhat taken aback, but it occurred to me that seven or eight years prior—when I had worked as a contract writer for *Hōritsu Shinpō*, a weekly magazine, covering courtroom trials—I had taken notes daily from the press gallery on what seemed like major cases. Someone who had glimpsed my profile from the public gallery during those days must have occasionally spoken of it at the Sannō-shita diner. The world seems vast yet is small…

“I understand. I’ve never worked at a court, but I did frequent courtrooms for over two years.”

“Then you’re well acquainted with court matters, aren’t you? The truth is, I came today hoping you might teach me about such things. Since hiring a lawyer costs quite a sum, I’d ask you to lend me your wisdom instead.” “Well… I know little of consequence myself, but if it helps, I could inquire through a lawyer acquaintance.” “My husband and I live apart in practice, yet remain legally entangled. I’ve been pondering how best to resolve this.”

“If it’s that sort of matter, you can bring it to family court now—they’ll handle it for free. Go to the family court’s reception desk and explain your situation. A judge will meet with you. Lay out the circumstances and state your claims—divorce petition, consolation money, future child support. They’ll summon the other party, have both sides discuss things, then the judge will give a ruling.” “That’s excellent advice to receive.”

When I heard her confiding, it aligned roughly with what those regulars had been discussing in the queue at the Roppongi National Pub some time back—so that’s how it was…

She had been the daughter of a small inn in Fengtian, and seventeen or eighteen years prior, she had entered into a consensual marriage without a matchmaker. Her husband was originally a mechanic, a man raised on the continent with a penchant for heavy drinking. Even after repatriating to mainland Japan following the war’s end, he never missed a day of drinking expensive black-market liquor—a habit that had sorely troubled her. In Dalian their income had been ample enough that liquor expenses posed no hardship, but after repatriating to mainland Japan following defeat, she was driven to despair by his insistence on drinking despite their near-destitution. When they moved into Aoyama Repatriate Dormitory, she hit upon the idea of starting a stall selling *imagawayaki* sweet pancakes in the vacant lot out front—a venture that unexpectedly thrived. She managed to prepare winter clothes for the children and even acquired a couple of bedding sets. But exploiting the stall’s success, her husband began pocketing earnings to fund his drinking sprees until matters grew unmanageable—just as the lot was abruptly sold off, forcing eviction. But just in time, he secured employment at an occupation forces-affiliated automobile repair shop in Yokohama. No sooner had she felt grateful for this reprieve than he took a mistress, neglecting even basic support for his wife and children from his monthly salary of over ten thousand yen before ceasing visits altogether. So she borrowed capital from her prospering brother in Nagoya to take over the current tin-roofed café in Fukuyoshi-cho, managing at last to sustain herself—all while bitterly decrying his cruelty in saddling her with two children yet not sending a single penny.

“In that case, if you bring it to family court, your argument will surely be accepted.”

When she heard the court would handle matters without charge, she seemed relieved. "It was truly worth consulting you today." "Now listen—keep this in mind... Regarding your husband." "There's no guarantee he won't tell the judge you've taken a lover." "Courtrooms often turn into mudslinging contests where both sides solemnly air truths and falsehoods—"

“In such cases, there are plenty who’d stand witness for me.” “When folk stray from the path or overstep, they must reckon with it later… That much holds true.” “Even if he wears a face showing no remorse, deep down he knows his wrongs.” “One day your husband will come back to your side.” “Even now when his mistress vexes him, he slinks round to my place.” “But I won’t have him.” “I chase him off proper.”

“That still has a pulse, then.” “So after all, he doesn’t have any real intention of parting ways with you, does he?” Being told this, she let her uncontainable joy drift like a faint evening glow around her beautiful brows. “But he’s even had a child with that mistress now.” “The fact that a child was born doesn’t necessarily become an absolute condition for you to lose your husband, you know.” “I’m not just saying this to flatter or console you—it’s better not to dwell on it too much.”

Once she had finished revealing her own circumstances, she now turned to questioning me about mine. Things like asking if I had a spouse, or about my family—she must have been inquiring out of pity upon seeing my lonely, desolate state. So I told her how my wife had left me over twenty years ago due to these very circumstances, and that our two children were staying at a disaster victims’ shelter. “All alone—you must be so lonely.” “Perhaps I should find you a suitable conversation partner?”

“Thank you. Once drained of vigor like this, there’s simply no remedy. Everything has passed.” “Forgive my asking—how old might you be?”

“I’ll be seventy soon.” “Oh my, you look quite young!”

She resolved to present her circumstances to the family court and departed that day. Three days later on Monday morning, I met her in front of the family court as promised. That day she seemed to be in an unresolved state of mind, merely wanting to survey the family court’s general workings. It was only natural for a woman alone to feel apprehensive coming to such a place for the first time. Incidentally, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays had been designated for continuing hearings of existing petitioners. Since new petitioners were assigned to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, this day was not one when new petitions could be accepted.

So, thinking it heartless to make her go all the way here today for nothing, I invited her to accompany me immediately to Civil Division Courtroom 9 in the neighboring district court. In family courts, all public observation was prohibited, but in district court civil divisions, even divorce cases remained open to spectators. All cases handled here were principal suits, and as ever, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays still saw many complex divorce cases being heard.

“It should prove instructive—let us observe the proceedings briefly.”

At that very moment, a divorce lawsuit involving consolation money was under proceedings there—a young bride had married into a household with a mother-in-law and sisters-in-law but found no joy in it… Then one of the mother-in-law’s garments went missing… When they consulted a fortune teller, they were told someone in the house had stolen it. They concluded it must have been the bride, so the young bride was framed. Resentful over this injustice, she returned to her parents’ home and never came back. However, a gynecologist discovered the bride was pregnant. Then the husband declared she must have conceived through adultery while away and refused to acknowledge responsibility. The bride’s side grew increasingly indignant, attaching a doctor’s certification to file a lawsuit demanding divorce alongside consolation money for violation of chastity and defamation. It was decided the fortune teller would appear as a witness at the next hearing, and with that, the court adjourned for the day.

She teared up repeatedly during the hearing. After leaving the courtroom, they took the elevator down and walked through the criminal division’s corridor when, in the very next courtroom, the trial of a female murder suspect had just begun—so once again, I invited her to observe for about thirty minutes. The husband, a company employee who had taken a mistress and came home late every night, had driven his wife to frustration. One evening at dusk, she wandered out to the station and saw her husband emerging from the ticket gate with his mistress. The wife hid herself, but when her husband entered a public telephone booth and his mistress lingered outside, she approached the woman—not entirely a stranger—and spoke to her. And while the husband was making a call, she lured the mistress to a nearby dark vacant lot with cunning words. As seething jealousy filled her chest to bursting, she undid her obi cord and flung its thin string at the mistress’s neck from behind. The cord coiled around her neck like a snake, and the moment the mistress cried “Huh?,” the wife pounced on her, pinned her down, and strangled her to death with the twisted cord… such was the incident.

Even there, she listened intently while tearing up and blew her nose with a handkerchief.

“Shall we go?” she said. “Today, thanks to you showing me such an instructive scene… I can well understand how that wife came to want to kill the mistress,” she said.

Winter arrived as the third postwar year-end drew near. The closing year compelled reflection on time’s passage, as it always does. Winter’s severity in the burned-out fields seeped deep into our bones, abandoned to the whispers of senile pampas grass swaying in decay. Yet even this place had once been a bourgeois lane of tranquil mansions where nameplates of notable figures stood scattered before the war’s devastation. Looking further back through memory’s lens—this entire quarter had been the estate of Marquis N, former lord of Saga Domain. What now serves as the Prime Minister’s cliffside residence was once his Western-style manor referred to as “the palace.” After the Great Kantō Earthquake of Taishō 12 [1923], the feudal lord’s main residence relocated to Shibuya. Through some tenuous connection—a maternal relative having served among Marquis N’s retinue—I once lodged in a retainers’ row house encircling the main estate and briefly attended school in Kanda. Fifty years had already slipped by since then— Now I find no pleasure in reminiscing. For my recollections merely stoke fury at self-loathing, regret, society’s contempt, and fate’s cruel manipulations.

“Hello…” came the greeting one day as the year drew to a close, from a man dressed in workman’s livery who appeared at the doorway.

“Why, I’m from the Chin Mochiya shop in Fukuyoshi-cho, you see…” “At home, I’ve got no business with the Chin Mochiya shop—” I answered curtly. “No, actually—I was hoping you might let me have that pine log lying behind your home. What do you say?” “Pine log… Oh, that one… Hmm, let me see…” “Actually, I came to ask if you’d let me have it for firewood—please hand it over.” “Ah, leaving it neglected like that is such a waste.” “If mushrooms start sprouting on it, it won’t be any good for firewood at all.” “How about it…”

Being told this, I too came to realize he wasn’t an entirely unwelcome customer, and my responses couldn’t remain too brusque. The so-called pine logs were sections of old pines that had proudly displayed their century-old greenery on the cliffside near the official residence—trees burned to death during the air raid on the night of May 25, 1945. After the war ended, laborers felled them all, discarding a portion behind my dugout hut as leftover refuse. Trunk sections of red and black pine—each seven or eight *sun* in diameter and less than one *ken* in length—lay scattered about, seven in total. From the moment I received them, I’d been at a loss over what to do with those leftover logs. One day, I borrowed a coarse-toothed saw and tried my hand at woodcutting, but even if I’d turned them into firewood, there’d have been no one wanting it. Deeming it foolish to waste energy on an empty stomach, I simply left them lying there as they were.

“How much would you be willing to part with it for?” asked the Chin Mochiya worker, peering intently at my face with a knowing smile. “Pardon my presumption, but I hear sir’s rather partial to this sort of thing… How’s about—there’s two bottles of ration whiskey at my place—not that I’d have any use for such—so what say we swap ’em? Or if you’d rather, I could throw in two slabs of ceremonial mochi besides.”

Though it was infuriating how he pretended to know—from who knows where he’d heard it—even about my drinking habits, I found myself wavering when considering that two bottles of whiskey at year’s end were as treasured as tiger cubs.

“Just take it away.” It wasn’t something that required hard deliberation. “Well, that settles it…” said the Chin Mochiya worker, who promptly went to fetch his handcart and returned with two bottles of whiskey and two slabs of ceremonial mochi. He was a surprisingly honest fellow—like a duck arriving with its own garnish. That such serendipity would entwine itself into my day was something I hadn’t remotely anticipated until moments prior. I arranged the whiskey atop my apple-crate desk and—truth be told—brought my hands together in prayer. This was nothing short of miraculous, I thought. Though I remain half-doubting God’s existence even now, I realized wanting to believe isn’t something one must forbid oneself. These chance encounters visit me from time to time...

When I encountered such things, I couldn't help but feel life was utterly fickle as water. It was the interplay of good coincidence and bad. No matter how meticulous the plan, whether it would succeed or fail couldn't be known until the lid was lifted. This must be because outcomes differed depending on whether that thing called coincidence favored the circumstances. So it was that with this, I was finally prepared to usher in New Year's Eve.

Cold inn lamp; alone unsleeping What stirs the traveler’s spirit to grow so desolate? In my hometown tonight, thoughts span a thousand miles. Frosted temples tomorrow morn—yet another year. Indeed, this New Year’s Eve poem struck true to my heart whenever I murmured it on any year’s end. I murmured this poem while sipping whiskey by the hearth. In one glass of whiskey, only one glass’s illusions unfolded. When living in solitude for a long time, one naturally develops the habit of talking to oneself. As drunkenness took hold, all manner of recollections and fantasies began to unfold in my mind.

To conjure up the past, there’s nothing like trying to sing the popular songs of that era—*“When the Sino-Japanese negotiations broke down…”* Humming this song brought back winters from my childhood when frostbite itched unbearably. *“Beneath the crimson sunset’s glow… My friend lies under a stone at the field’s edge…”* These lines summoned the melancholy of the Russo-Japanese War and fragmented memories of field hospital life… *“We’ll return victorious!”* we’d sung so boldly… No—no… *“Behold the eastern sea’s skies opening…”* No—no more—I couldn’t bear it… *“Spring has come, spring has come—but where has it come?”*… Murmuring this resurrected those days of struggling to raise my four- and three-year-olds—a spontaneous sorrow welling up… *“Hand in hand along country paths… Mountain temple bells toll; let’s return with crows…”* Singing this made my pitiful past self—a widower clutching his children through winter nights—rise so vividly it choked me… Their songs… Four winters steeped in memory…

Under whiskey’s intoxication, fantasies and recollections began unfolding ever more wildly. The candle flame atop the apple-crate desk swayed quietly up and down. Gazing at it, he found himself imagining his own wake—surely soon to come. An ominous association, yet he reasoned that since this decisive event was inevitable anyway, it might be wise to start familiarizing himself with such scenes through advance rehearsal. “O Death,” came the thought, “deign to arrive whenever you please… whether by cerebral hemorrhage or heart failure…” Well then—time to compose a funeral eulogy… A mock farewell ceremony…

“—You were no genius, yet you lived out sixty-five long years. You tested through your own flesh how much poverty could be endured. You were also one who tested how far one might live through isolation and loneliness. Had you died in your twenties, you would have ended a mere laborer. Had you died around thirty, you would have remained a pitiful literary youth. Had you died near forty, you might have been called a promising new writer worthy of regret. Had you died around fifty, they would have said you perished in anguish—abandoned by your wife while clutching two children. Had you died when the war ended, you would have been said to collapse from malnutrition. Yet you endured meager meals and outright hunger to survive until today. Your life was truly unblessed, but now your two children have come of age. Might we say your mission is fulfilled? With this, close your eyes. End of eulogy—”

Gong... From afar came the toll of the New Year’s Eve temple bell—Gong... And again, Gong.... Ah—I was still alive… And so, in wretched solitude, I passed this New Year’s Eve night with gulp after gulp of solitary drink—though truth be told, it was to smother the urge to howl over a lifetime’s worth of regrets….

(March 1952)