Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Unblooming Lilac

I

A young man in a military uniform - broad-shouldered, tall, with deep-set eyes - descended Azabu Katamachi slope in an intensely distinctive long-striding gait. He carried a briefcase in one hand and had a bulging knapsack slung over his right shoulder; both bag and knapsack bore the scrawled name "Asakawa Raita" in thick-brushed, unrestrained characters. Just as his distinctive gait and build suited him perfectly, so too did those hastily written characters mirror his features - creating an impression that might make an attentive observer chuckle involuntarily. He turned left midway down the slope; there spread a quiet middle-class residential area where uniformly styled gates and fences enclosed tree-filled gardens, aged yet modest homes that appeared comfortable to live in—all sharing subtle commonalities that maintained an air of tranquility throughout the neighborhood. Asakawa Raita visited the third house from the bend in the road. Upon passing through the gate with its low wild rose hedge, there stood a Western-style entrance; in one corner where spring sunlight streamed in full force sat a parrot cage.

“Hey, you’re still alive.”
He pressed the doorbell while addressing the parrot, “...If you’re alive like this, everyone must be fine. What do you say—still running the tofu shop?”

The door opened; a middle-aged woman appeared. Pressing a hand to her own chest, she exclaimed, “Oh, Rai-san!”
Raita flipped his right hand in a casual gesture and grinned, pushing his lips upward.
His angular face with slightly downturned eyebrows and eyes held considerable charm even at rest; when he smiled, it transformed completely into the open visage of a mischievous boy.

“Oh, Rai-san!” the woman cried again as if gasping for air, “...you’ve returned? You’re unharmed?”

“Yes, I survived and returned.”

"Oh my, well then—you could've at least sent a telegram! But anyway, please do come in."

"I’m sorry to intrude, but I only have two hours to spare, so please don’t trouble yourself."

"Yes, yes, I understand."

The woman took Raita’s briefcase and turned around to call out.

“Miss Yuri, Mr. Raita has come back!”

A cry of surprise rang out.

And as Raita followed the woman into the hallway, a girl of about eighteen came rushing out from the other side. The white sweater stretched taut across her chest, sun-tanned healthy legs abruptly extending from beneath a short skirt; with high cheekbones, narrow eyes, and a large mouth—hers wasn’t a face that fit conventional beauty standards, yet it possessed a kind of charm that struck any observer as endearing.

“Oh my, you’re alive, Rai-san? Really?”

“Wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.”

“Alright, I’ll let it slide.”
Yuri suddenly extended her hand for a handshake. “...In exchange, marry me.”

“Ah! Has some new rule like that been introduced in tennis lately, Mrs. Yoshimura?”

“There’s no helping it—things will only get worse. Now, this way would be better.”

The room he was shown to was a ten-tatami guest room.
The master of this house was Yoshimura Eisaku, a professor at an agricultural university who since his youth had pursued print collecting as a hobby, possessing particular expertise in copperplate engravings and owning numerous masterpieces renowned within that field.
What hung on the wall was Tsolna’s Seascape with Nude, once famous as part of Marquis M’s collection and the master’s pride—but Raita, utterly indifferent to such things, sat with his back to the painting without granting it so much as a glance.

“So where on earth were you?”
Once the greetings concluded, Mrs. Yoshimura immediately asked, “...We all completely gave up hope after hearing your unit was lost in a suicide attack.”

“Spare me that story—the fact I survived and returned is explanation enough. …Is the Professor out?”

“At the university. He’ll be back by four o’clock,” Yuri answered. She must have perfectly grasped Raita’s feelings; cutting off her mother who was about to press further, she declared brightly: “...You’ll be staying tonight, won’t you? I’ll call Kajii-san and have Yasubee and Hikobe-san invited over. Let’s all raise a toast! Right, Mother?”

“Actually, that won’t work. I have to board the three o’clock train from Ueno. If I were alone it’d be manageable, but there are five of us who’ve arranged to meet.”
Raita curtly refused and turned toward Mrs. Yoshimura. “...I came to confirm everyone’s welfare and hoped to consult the Professor if possible. But since four o’clock won’t do, I’ll have to leave without seeing him this time.”

“That won’t do. Father will be furious.”

“Nah, he’ll come out again soon.”
Raita brushed it off casually. “...By the way, what happened to Mr. Sugiura? He’s still here, isn’t he?”

“Oh, so you didn’t know? He returned to his hometown last February, you know.”

II

“He returned? Went back to Miyagi?”

“There was a report about your unit’s honorable death—yes, roughly a week afterward?” Mrs. Yoshimura tilted her head as she spoke: “...He suddenly announced he was returning to Nagatoro and left as swiftly as a bird taking flight.”

“So that means he’s in Nagatoro now?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Mrs. Yoshimura faltered as if finding the words difficult, “...I think he’s probably at home, though.”

“When you say that—was there something unusual about it?”

“Miss Yuri,” Mrs. Yoshimura looked back at her daughter, “...you go bring the beer. Since he says there’s no time, let’s at least have him wet his throat.”

“What a waste—giving it to someone who’s leaving right away.”
While glaring at Raita, Yuri stood up. “...What about snacks, Mother?”

“There should be some peanuts.”

As Yuri left, exclaiming “What a waste!” even more emphatically, Mrs. Yoshimura lowered her voice slightly and—

“It was last October when I received a letter from Ms. Fumiko. In it was written that she would soon leave home to embark on a new life, with details to be shared later.”

“What exactly is this ‘new life’?”

“Since there have been no letters after that, I don’t know—I wonder whether she still hasn’t left home, or perhaps she has left and…”

An expression as if struck by visceral pain flashed across his face—that face which usually resembled a mischievous boy’s.
Of course it lasted only an instant; he immediately forced up the corners of his lips in a smile as he met Mrs. Yoshimura’s gaze and said:

“It’s not marriage?”

"—"
Mrs. Yoshimura squinted as she looked back.

“I don’t think that’s the case, though.”

The conversation halted as Yuri brought in the beer.
Raita had been periodically extending his left arm to glance at his wrist—the exact motion of someone checking a wristwatch, though no timepiece adorned his arm. Even when Yuri poured beer with a cheerful “Here you go!” and offered it to him, he again casually stretched out his left hand to inspect his wrist.

“Mrs. Yoshimura, I have a request—could you lend me some old clothes of the Professor’s? Any kind will do.”

“Why? Do you need something?”

“In this uniform I can’t go unnoticed—people keep pestering me about the battlefield. That’s what troubles me most. Please lend me something—anything.”

“I don’t have anything suitable to lend, but well—since your height matches, let’s see if we can find something.”
“Miss Yuri, give me a hand for a moment,” Mrs. Yoshimura said as she stood up.

With the air of someone who had thought of something, Raita took a swig of beer, then stood up and stepped down into the garden.
The front garden, less than a hundred tsubo in size, was entirely covered with brown, withered grass that had shriveled up, but in one part of it there was a newly turned-over patch of soil.
This was a place for growing flowers, and it seemed this year’s bulb plants had already been planted; the blackish, soft, moisture-laden soil, having absorbed ample sunlight, appeared almost as though living and breathing……Raita walked to the far corner of that flower bed, right where it met the wild rose hedge, and stopped.
He kept looking around as if searching for something when suddenly he bent down and picked up what resembled a small wooden sign from among the dried dwarf grasses—its surface, about two inches square and flecked with clinging soil, showed peeling white paint where tiny characters reading “Until the Day We Meet Again” could be discerned.

"Did he uproot and discard it? Or did he take it away?"

Raita muttered softly.
The events of a certain autumn day five years prior were recalled with piercing poignancy. Yet lingering in such reminiscences or wallowing in prolonged sentimentality seemed alien to his nature; he promptly thrust the small sign into the withered grass and, with a wry smile, offered it a respectful bow.

“What are you doing, Rai-san? You’ve made the special beer go flat.”

Yuri’s voice called out from the veranda.

“I was wondering what happened to my Lilac,”
Raita said while returning across the garden.

“Oh, Mr. Sugiura had that uprooted,”
Yuri answered offhandedly.

“But that Lilac never bloomed at all! You planted it expecting spring blossoms, didn’t you? Yet no matter how long we waited, it just kept growing taller without a single flower. It even got nicknamed ‘The Flowerless Lilac’! In the end Mr. Sugiura had it pulled up.”

“Rai-san, try these on for a moment.”

Mrs. Yoshimura called out while spreading two suits on the veranda.

“Everyone’s worn through them all—there’s nothing decent left... How about this one?”

III

The Aomori-bound train that departed Ueno past three in the afternoon was extremely crowded.
Lately, passenger numbers had eased considerably, and expressions like "train inferno" were no longer heard—but that day’s crowding was exceptional, with passengers spilling out even into the doorways.
Through the creakingly packed train car, Raita was charging from the rear to the front.
It truly felt like a charge; with every step came a barrage of angry shouts—"Stop pushing!", "That hurts!", "It’s no good—there’s no room left!"—while elbows jabbed and feet kicked at him.
Yet Raita pressed forward step by step, wearing an unperturbed smile on his thick-skinned face as he repeated phrases like "Sorry, just need to get through" and "Excuse me, my apologies," letting his tenacious persistence and tireless physical strength do the talking.

As he continued this strenuous effort, a child in one train car called out, “You’re being silly, Mister.” When he looked back, a boy of about ten was perched nimbly on the seat’s backrest, looking this way and laughing. With three men jostling together on the seat, he alone seemed to spill out from there. “You’ve gotta move along here,” the boy demonstrated by tapping the seat backrest he was perched on, “...if you hop across these tops, you’ll get through easy.” Raita gave a skeptical wry smile. Then a young man nearby chimed in, “He’s right—it’s faster that way. Everyone does it.” Noticing Raita still held his knapsack, he reached out and added, “...We’ll pass that along for you,” extending his hand. At first he found it hard to believe, but the temptation of what seemed like an amusing idea seized him. “Then I’ll leave it to you.” With that, Raita handed his knapsack to the young man and nimbly climbed onto the seat backrest. This was an extremely rude way to behave. Inserting his shoes just grazing the heads of seated passengers, he leapt from one to the next while stepping on the wooden backrests. He supported himself by gripping the luggage rack with both hands, but being tall, he had to stoop his head. The awkward posture meant his shoes might slip if he wasn’t careful.

“Excuse me—so sorry,” he kept repeating, bracing himself for angry shouts at any moment. But as the young man had said, this method wasn’t unusual—not a single passenger shouted complaints or voiced objections. And while it was indeed easier and quicker than properly moving through the aisle, Raita suddenly contorted his face as if struck by an open-handed blow, and upon reaching the end of the train car, whirled around. And in a remarkably loud voice,

“Ladies and gentlemen, I must offer an apology. I’ve just acted in a most disorderly manner. There’s someone I absolutely must meet, which led me to abandon all propriety in my methods. This was inexcusable. Please forgive me.”

“Don’t mention it,” a voice called back. “...Ain’t like we got any choice these days—we’re all in this together.”

“Thank you, but excusing ourselves with ‘it can’t be helped’ just because of these times isn’t acceptable.” Raita declared loudly, “That’s no different from stealing because you can’t eat! I’m deeply ashamed—please forgive me.”

Having finished speaking and stepped down into the aisle, just then the knapsack—relayed from passenger to passenger—arrived.
He raised it high above his head, shouted, “Thank you!”, and attempted to move to the next car.
Then from within the crowd jostling at that doorway,

"Captain, over here!" a voice called out.

When he looked over，from the rearmost seats of that car，the five comrades he’d been searching for stood up，layering smiles upon smiles as they waved their hands and called out，**“That was close! If Captain hadn’t shouted like that for us，we might never have met up.”**

“But Captain, that really carried well!”

“Hearing your booming voice after so long—it really cleared the heaviness in my chest!”

“This one actually clapped!”
When Raita approached them, they all eagerly spoke up.
It felt like swallow chicks welcoming their parent bird, filled with joy.

“You’re all here. Good, good.”
Raita casually took a seat that one had cleared for him while surveying each of the five faces in turn.

“I lingered too long at my visit and nearly missed boarding... But you all made it onto this train somehow.”

“Since we firmly believed that if the Captain said he’d board, he’d certainly do so, we felt assured on that point.”

“Good enough—but let’s stop with ‘Captain’ now.” Raita said while loosening the front of the suit borrowed from the Yoshimura household. “...Then I’ll sleep. Wake me in about two hours—we’ll talk after that. I’m counting on you.”
He crossed his arms, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
The five youths fell silent as one—men aged twenty-five to thirty whose clothing, belongings, and sun-tanned yet unconcealably haggard faces all bore the hallmarks of ‘returnees.’
What stood out most was their uniform brightness and vigor—a vitality seemingly radiating from their bond around Raita—...they now pressed close together and fell silent as if guarding his sleep.

IV

Those accustomed to battlefield life think quickly, for they’ve been conditioned to recall decades of the past in an instant.
Raita tried to sleep and closed his eyes, but before drowsiness could set in, countless phantoms swept across the surface of his consciousness like ingrained habit.
……The battlefield memories had already grown distant; when discharged from his original unit and resolved to gather five former subordinates for returning to farm in his Hokkaido hometown, he had severed himself from war’s reality. Now rather it was his prewar life that felt raw and immediate.

At the core of the thoughts now drifting through his mind was the phrase "the unblooming lilac."
In January of Showa 17 (1942), just before departing for the frontlines, he had planted a lilac sapling in his mentor Professor Yoshimura’s garden—one that the nurseryman assured would bloom that very spring......It was then he made his promise with Sugiura Fumiko; “If I return alive,” they vowed together while planting the young tree.
Fumiko was the daughter of Professor Yoshimura’s longtime friend, her family being prominent landowners in Nagatoro—a mountain village in Watari District, Miyagi Prefecture. After graduating from girls’ school, she had immediately moved to Tokyo to attend women’s college while lodging at the professor’s residence in Katamachizaka.
Raita himself had come from Hokkaido during that period to study dairy farming methods at Tokyo Agricultural University, visiting the Katamachizaka house twice weekly for private tutelage under the professor—his naturally cheerful disposition earning him treatment akin to family.
Though acquainted with Fumiko from these visits, her temperament leaned more toward solitude than mere reserve; she seldom joined the lively gatherings on Raita’s visiting days, typically remaining alone in her room absorbed in study.
The Yoshimuras respectfully indulged her preferences, but Raita—with well-meaning boldness—would persistently seek her out and coax her from her seclusion.

“Come on, we’re all playing cards now—studying can wait!”
“The books’ll still be there later.”

That was his way of speaking.
Even when she clearly showed displeasure, he’d brush it aside with that trademark bold grin of his. Through repeated encounters like this, Fumiko gradually grew accustomed—though never warm—to his intrusions. This dance continued for nearly three years until Raita’s draft notice arrived, when their hearts suddenly fused as if preordained from the start.
When they planted the lilac sapling together, Fumiko wept. As Raita inscribed “The purple resists” on their wooden marker, she added “Until reunion day” through trembling tears.
Raita—who’d always thought her the picture of composure—felt he’d glimpsed Fumiko’s true heart for the first time.

When he decided to return home after demobilization, he first considered Fumiko as the center of his new life. Five years had passed since they pledged their future together, but given the war's harsh reality and her temperament, he believed she would surely be waiting. He felt certain she would be waiting at the house in Katamachizaka too—...but Fumiko was not there. The fact that Raita’s unit had been reported as honorably annihilated at an unspecified location among the Southern Islands was something he first learned upon returning to Japan. As for Fumiko, they said she had returned to her hometown in Miyagi Prefecture following that honorable death report, and after sending a letter stating she would soon leave home to begin a new life, all correspondence from her had ceased.

——Could this new life mean marriage?

Raita’s suspicion was by no means without basis.
The fact that the lilac they had planted together back then had ultimately never bloomed, and that Fumiko had uprooted it when returning home, somehow seemed to symbolize their shared destiny.

——But it was too early to despair.

When Raita pursued his thoughts that far, he abruptly—as was his habit—sat down arrogantly upon that fact.

——Everything would be decided after visiting the Nagatoro house.

And he fell fast asleep.

He was awakened when the train arrived at Mito.
When Raita awoke, the five had peeled summer mandarins and offered them with “Here’s your wake-up.” Raita first took a segment, squeezed its juice into his palm, caught it with both hands and vigorously scrubbed his face, then pulled out a cigarette and took a satisfying drag.

“Where are we... Ah, Mito.”
“With that,” he once again thrust out his left arm and made a motion of checking his wrist. “...Well, we’ve got plenty of time now. I’ll lay out my plan—though I expect the rest of you have already heard about starting a dairy farm from Murano.”

The five thrust themselves forward, straining to catch every word he said.
Raita began to speak in a forceful, rapid-fire manner, skillfully gesturing with a partially eaten summer mandarin in his left hand and a cigarette in his right.

V

“I’ve said it many times—we Japanese must break away from rice agriculture. Rice originates in southern regions and thrives there. Proof? In those areas they reap two effortless harvests yearly without fertilizer or care. Yet Japan boasts itself the Land of Abundant Rice while enduring crop failures every five years despite centuries of research! Read history—famine records litter every page! Growing rice here defies nature! If rice were humanity’s ideal diet, fine—but modern nutritional science exposes its inefficiency. Take bread with butter, cheese, meat, and raw vegetables—65% to 70% becomes nutrients. Compare rice with grilled fish and boiled vegetables—only 45% to 50% gets absorbed! The rest fuels digestion or exits undigested! Absurd! Worse—rice demands heavily seasoned sides. Salt, miso, soy sauce—all strain the digestive system! With such proof, clinging to rice farming through wasted effort is madness!”

Raita swept his hand around toward the passengers crowding the car. His words were quite agitated, yet his drooping brows and eyes remained calm, and his lips constantly bore that unshakable smile of his. He waved his hand toward the passengers once again.

“Japan’s land has shrunk while its population remains this vast—to feed the maximum number with minimal farmland, we must naturally adopt a dairy-based diet that provides sufficient nutrition in small quantities, rather than relying on rice that demands bulk but offers meager substance. Compare two meals: two bowls of rice with three grilled sardines and pickles versus two slices of buttered toast with a bit of cheese and fresh salad greens. Even if their nutritional values were equal, the latter clearly surpasses the former in portion size, cooking effort, and digestibility! This requires deeper analysis, but even a simple consideration makes it obvious agriculture must shift toward dairy farming—...Look there, at those paddies.” Raita pointed out the train window. “...That bleak expanse of ugly, bare mudfields after harvest—this sight plagues the nation for half the year. I’ll adorn these frostbitten mudflats with lush pasture grass! Turn these stinking rice fields into meadows brimming with clover blossoms and fragrance!”

Having said this, he depicted paddies now devoid of rice fields, adorned with greenery and wildflowers, and spoke of the poetry and beauty of new life emerging from this beautified homeland. Though he prefaced it with "This kind of talk isn’t like me," his delivery remained brusque and stiff, yet it clearly sparked pleasant reveries in the five youths, who listened with rapt attention, their eyes alight with yearning.

“With this, I’ve laid out the key points of my vision.”

Raita concluded his speech: “...Now that you’ve fully grasped this vision—persevere without losing heart. The war has ended and the army perished, but the spiritual bond we forged as comrades facing life and death together endures! This wartime-forged unity must become the foundation for everything we do henceforth. Our nation lies fragmented in every sense—the concentrated power to revive it remains dormant because these bonds have been severed! We’ll press forward without loosening this united strength—understood?”

“I’ve understood perfectly.”
The oldest-seeming among the five—a stocky, hairy youth—slapped his knee and said, “...Though what we need here’s a drink for the toast.”

“This one’s always at it—any pretext for a pre-victory drink. Just days back he was spouting ‘Might get good dreams tonight—let’s toast to that!’”
“But when you claimed we could drink a bit tonight so wanted a pre-celebration round—that really floored me.”

Raita laughed while lowering his handbag and pulled out a bottle of beer from within. He had taken the second unopened bottle served at the house in Katamachizaka. “Wow, this is like magic!” The hairy youth suddenly thrust out both hands. “...But it’s real, right Captain? Surely when you open it—” “Use that trick of yours to pop the cap—there’s only one bottle, so we’ll pass it around.” Raita said this as he handed over the bottle, adding, “...and we’ve got snacks too.”

And when he spread the bag of peanuts there, they all clapped in unison with a patter.
The hairy youth bared his large front teeth—splendid as a horse’s—and clamped them onto the beer bottle’s metal cap.

VI

Past midnight, Raita parted with the five and disembarked at a small station called Watari.
They set out straight for Asakawa Farm from there; should the ferry be delayed, he might still catch up with them—such was their arrangement, that they should proceed ahead if circumstances allowed.

He asked the station attendant about lodging, but was told that given the times and the late hour, places likely wouldn’t open. When he inquired about Nagatoro, he learned it was less than an hour’s walk away. However, setting out immediately for a first visit would mean arriving far too early. With no other options, he decided to take a nap on a bench in the waiting room.

He was accustomed to such situations, but even so, the northern cold proved quite severe. Yet he managed to sleep surprisingly well, and when he awoke, the world beyond the glass window had already begun to pale faintly with dawn light, and passengers boarding the first train were starting to gather here and there.
...He thought about washing his face, but since there seemed to be no washroom, he took his handbag and left the station.
The town seemed to lie some distance away. A road lined with rows of low-roofed, desolate houses stretched westward, its surface frozen and glazed with frost. Beyond it loomed the rugged ridges of the Abukuma Mountain Range, their slopes mottled with red withered grasslands and pine forests lying bleakly under the faint light of predawn.

From the place name Nagatoro—which suggested riverside scenery—he had imagined a mountain stream’s banks, but after inquiring directions twice and finally arriving, the spot proved to be an elevated plateau climbed on tiptoe over two chō upward from the national highway into the mountain’s embrace. Beyond a narrow stream one could step across, there was nothing resembling a proper river—it felt utterly like a remote mountain dwelling.
He had heard the Sugiura residence was a prominent household in the area, but its estate proved grander than anticipated—the whitewashed earthen walls encircling the property appeared to span one chō square, within which towering ancient cedars formed an entire forest.
Upon entering the gate studded with centuries-old decorative nails, there lay a meticulously maintained front garden, with a samurai-style main entrance featuring a stepping-board and a side entrance standing side by side. Raita went to the main entrance and stood there.

A drawn-out “Hmm…” was heard, and soon an elderly man with white hair wearing hakama—the kind you’d want to call Sanda-yu in the old style—emerged.
"What formidable formality," Raita thought as he stated his name and expressed his desire to meet the master.
The elderly man withdrew once and returned. "Your business," he said in barely audible words.

"My business cannot be discussed without meeting him."

"In that case, he says he cannot meet with you."

“I see,” Raita nodded. “...Then please inform him I have something to discuss regarding Ms. Fumiko. And also that I’m connected to Professor Yoshimura of Katamachizaka.”

The elderly man returned after some time.

"I regret to inform you that the master is currently occupied and finds himself unable to grant you an audience."

“But that’s absurd!” He began to protest but stopped short, realizing arguments would prove futile. Turning to the elderly man, he asked: “Then just tell me this—is Ms. Fumiko here now?”

“No, she does not reside here.”

“Where has she gone? Was she married off, or…?”

“I cannot answer such questions.”

“I want to ask—no, I *have* to ask—so tell me, where is Ms. Fumiko?”

“I cannot give a reply. Please take your leave.”

“Well, if that’s how it is.” Raita crouched down and untied his shoelaces. “...I’ll trouble you no further and meet the master directly.”

After taking off his shoes, he stepped up into the entrance.
The elderly man stood dumbfounded, looking as though he wanted to ask what on earth Raita was doing. But when Raita attempted to proceed further inside, he startled and moved to block his path.
But he strode down that corridor to its end, stepped out onto the wide veranda and turned right, passed before several rooms, and found in a ten-tatami space a middle-aged man who appeared to be the master of the house.
Clad in a dark tsumugi kimono with matching patterned hakama, he sat with an air of composure—his sharply arched eyebrows, a short-trimmed mustache half gone to white, and a countenance that suggested considerable irascibility.
Raita gave a slight bow while standing in the corridor.

“I am Asakawa Raita, whom the intermediary just informed you about. Though it was stated you were too busy to meet, I too am pressed for time. I must apologize for the rudeness, but I will trouble you now.”

“I have nothing to discuss,” the master said with a cold glance. “...Particularly given such impertinent conduct, I must refuse.”

“I need to see Ms. Fumiko—no, I must see her! That’s completely separate from your opinions on the matter. Please tell me where Ms. Fumiko is!”

“Who precisely are you? By what authority do you make these presumptuous demands? What concern is my daughter to you?”

“Let me say just one thing—I am the man who promised a future with Ms. Fumiko five years ago.”

VII

The area around Mr. Sugiura’s temples turned ashen, and his right cheek twitched spasmodically.
True to his seemingly short-tempered nature, Mr. Sugiura unleashed a fury that his age and status could not restrain.

“Do you mean to insult another man’s daughter? Are you declaring to my face that Fumiko is such a wanton girl?”

“A promise of marriage is not wanton—that is your prejudice. There’s no purpose in challenging your bias here. What I must clarify is that Ms. Fumiko has reached an age where she requires no guardian’s consent to wed; consequently, you possess no legal right to impede her marriage.”

“Very well, attempt it then.”
Mr. Sugiura wore a strange cold smile. “...I possess neither the inclination nor need to warp Fumiko’s will. And even were Fumiko to harbor such will herself—whether present circumstances would permit its realization remains... Enough of this absurdity—begone.”

“If I can just learn Ms. Fumiko’s whereabouts, I will leave.”

“Is Genkichi not here?”
Mr. Sugiura suddenly shouted in a voice that rang clear and penetrating—one seemingly trained through Noh recitation or similar discipline.
Sanda-yu, who had gone to the entrance earlier, must have alerted them—three sturdy-looking young men who appeared to be farmhands came down the corridor.
“Have this person leave.”
Hearing Mr. Sugiura’s shrill voice and observing the three youths’ demeanor, Raita understood exactly what would transpire.

“Please don’t worry.”
He flipped his right hand in a dismissive gesture, raising his drooping brows and eyes with a wry smile. “...I’ll be leaving now. No need for further trouble. My apologies for the intrusion.”

“Leave without complaining.”
One of the young men said this while shoving Raita’s back; Raita turned around.
He was a man with swollen cheeks, sparse eyebrows, and a vulgar face—his compact build so rugged it bordered on ugliness. Without a word, Raita headed toward the entrance.

Exiting the gate of the Sugiura residence and heading toward the national highway, he was tormented by indescribable anxiety and unease.

While talking with his five comrades on the train—filled with passion and conviction for realizing his ideal—he had believed that no matter how difficult the circumstances, he would surely reclaim Fumiko with his own hands.
For Fumiko had always been at the heart of his plans to realize this ideal.
Yet upon visiting the Sugiura household, he learned the difficulty was unexpectedly greater; the circumstances appeared more complex than anticipated. While it seemed certain she wasn’t at home, he couldn’t even determine whether she had married. Moreover, Mr. Sugiura had stated something to the effect of: "Even if Fumiko had such intentions, it’s doubtful whether they’d currently be permitted."
In essence—beyond the fact that Mr. Sugiura felt ashamed before society of her actions, not wanting anyone to know what she had done or where she was—Raita could learn nothing else.

“I must look like some flunk-out student right now,” Raita muttered while descending the gentle slope. “...Hey Captain—what happened to that fighting spirit from the train? Gonna throw in the towel here? No—let’s get some food in this belly first.”

At the fork in the road stood a large walnut tree. Spotting a gushing well to its right, he first washed his face, then sat down on grass bathed in the morning sun’s warmth and opened his knapsack.
He took out the sandwiches—black mixed-grain bread stuffed with salad—and the bundle of rice balls prepared by the Yoshimura household, then ate them while sipping water from the gushing well, forcing it into his mouth despite his lack of appetite.
…Just as he finally finished his third sandwich, a man descended from the road above. When Raita glanced casually, it was the Sugiura family farmhand he had just parted from—the same youth who had shoved him. “Hoh,” Raita looked toward him.
The man, seemingly unaware, had a small cloth bundle tied around his neck, crossed his arms, and hurriedly turned left down the road.

“...I see.”
Raita smirked—that mischievous brat-like smile of his.

“……It’d be fine to just give a little thanks.”

After muttering this, he briskly closed his knapsack, stood up, climbed back to the road, and pursued the young man’s trail.... The farmhand—his compact frame hunched forward—was hurrying toward the national highway. Just before a small cutting in the path where thicket grew on the left and what might have been a shrine stood on the right, there lay a damp, mossy square encircled by cedar trees. There, Raita caught up.

“Ah you there—wait a moment.”
“……”
The man twisted only his head toward him.

“My apologies for earlier.”
As he said this and approached, Raita threw his knapsack into the bushes, grabbed the man’s collar with one hand, and struck his cheek with a thud.

“What are you doing?”
The man seemed dumbfounded—not merely startled but wholly thunderstruck. Instinctively shielding his face while writhing, he cried out again: “Wh-what are you doing?”

VIII

“I’m not doing anything.”
Raita dragged the man into the bushes with a scraping sound. “...I have some questions for you. Keep quiet.”

“You said you weren’t going to do anything, but then you hit me this hard!”

“What are you saying—that I won’t do anything more than this?”
He delivered two more open-handed strikes while twisting the man’s right arm upward. “...But if you don’t answer honestly, I can’t promise what’ll happen. Let me make this clear—I just returned from the frontlines. Don’t forget I’m still plenty rough around the edges. Now—where’s Ms. Fumiko?”

The man writhed desperately to escape Raita’s grip, exerting considerable brute strength in the struggle. Raita used this against him, skillfully sweeping his legs out before twisting him down and straddling his body. He then tightened his grip around the man’s neck. The man groaned. On Raita's lips hovered that thickly audacious smile of his. The man gave a heavy nod.

"I’ll... tell... The young lady... it’s painful."

“If you talk, I’ll make it easier on you—there!”

“The young lady—” wheezed the young man, his constricted throat rasping.

“She announced she’d become a Western-style nun and entered Yamazawa Monastery.”
“Where is this Yamazawa?”

“It’s about two ri south from here. They say they evacuated from Sendai, so there were a whole lot of nuns there.”
“Oh, I was the one who accompanied the young lady at that time.”

“Were you told not to speak of this to anyone?”

“The master was furious, saying that sending a Christian nun from the household was a disgrace to the family name—that she was no longer a Sugiura, that he was severing the parent-child bond.”

Raita released his grip and helped the young man up.

“Got it. Thanks.”
He tapped the young man’s shoulder and flashed an innocent, open grin.

“Sorry for being rough, but consider that payback for shoving my back earlier. Well then, I’ll be off.”

Still seemingly in pain—one hand rubbing his struck cheek, the other massaging his throat—the young man watched him leave as if drained of spirit. Raita scooped up his knapsack and broke into a wide-stridged run toward the national highway.

He wanted to stomp the earth with all his might, raise his fist, and roar. That Fumiko hadn't married—this alone sufficed to restore his vigor. Whatever reasons she had for entering that convent and becoming a nun, he felt certain seeing her would overturn that resolve—But did he truly possess such confidence? He posed this challenge to himself, yet no anxiety or doubt arose now; he trudged south along the highway with lumbering steps.

When he entered the village called Yamazawa, he immediately found the convent.
It was located in a hamlet called Akamatsu, about ten cho west up from the national highway, and consisted of three crude yet sturdy buildings—clearly hastily constructed using old materials brought in from elsewhere.
Raita entered the gate, strode up the steeply ascending path to the entrance, and requested guidance at a counter resembling a reception desk.
The surroundings were hushed; perhaps the wind had risen, for the sound of pine branches rustling near the back mountain rang out with crystalline clarity.

“Please come in.” Emerging was a middle-aged Japanese nun. “...I will call her now, so please wait for a moment.”

When she showed him into a roughly three-tsubo reception room, the nun closed the creaking door and left.
The room had wooden walls on three sides, with no decorations save for an image of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Christ. In the center stood a large rectangular table surrounded by seven roughly hewn wooden chairs.

He went to stand by the window and looked outside. An irrepressible feeling surged up in his chest—that they could finally meet now struck him as some wondrous stroke of fortune when faced with the reality of it.
Even aboard the ship when dispatched southward, even while enduring fierce bombardments in battlefield trenches, and even during his postwar journey home—Is she alive?
Might we never meet again?
Such doubts had tormented him.
Even after learning she was safe at the Azabu residence, the repeated reversals required to reach this point had weighed heavily on his mind—and this from someone not easily shaken.
Now he would finally meet her; she was already here within this very building, having surely been notified of his arrival.
That's right—she'll be here soon... Raita drew a deep breath as if pressing down his rising emotions.

At that moment, the door opened.
Raita spun around as if propelled. Led by the nun from earlier, Fumiko entered wearing an unfamiliar habit.

“Visiting hours are limited to thirty minutes,” said the nun, “...and we request you keep this door open.”
And she left without a sound.

Nine

The two of them sat facing each other across the table.
Raita looked at Fumiko with devouring eyes; she wore something over her head resembling either a hat or veil, but after casting a fleeting glance his way, immediately averted her gaze.
She had grown completely thin—her once-plump cheeks now waxen pale, her oblong face grown gaunter still, the haggardness stark around her eyes—all seeming irrefutable proof of what suffering she had endured.

“I’ve returned,” Raita said quietly. “...And now I’ll return to Hokkaido to start that dairy farm operation we once discussed. Please complete the procedures immediately and come with me.”

“...I cannot go,” Fumiko answered in a dry, hoarse voice, as though something were lodged in her throat— “I beg you… Please forget about me.”

“Look at my eyes,” Raita commanded, slamming both hands on the table and thrusting his upper body forward. “...And I’ll hear your reasons. That much right I do have.”

Fumiko remained silent for a time, stubbornly keeping her face down and holding herself so rigidly still that it was impossible to tell whether she was even breathing.
Raita thrust out his left arm, making the familiar motion of checking his watch as he declared, “They said thirty minutes for visiting hours. But let me make this clear—I won’t budge from here for two hours or even three until I’m satisfied. Understood?”
With that, he stared intently at Fumiko’s face.

“...I will tell you.” After a somewhat long while, she quietly began to speak, still keeping her face lowered.

“...There were many things I cannot simply explain about my decision to enter here. But the most crucial matter was the notification that your unit had suffered an Honorable Death.”

“That point has now been resolved.”

“I lost all hope to live at that time—to speak truthfully, until then I had never imagined someone like you could be so close to myself. Even when thinking you might have been killed in action after being summoned away, I did not feel unbearable pain or sorrow... But when I heard the news of your Honorable Death—when I realized I would never see you again, that we could absolutely never meet—I—”
The words she had begun to speak broke off under the violence of her racking sobs.

“Will you permit me to speak this way?” said Fumiko at last while suppressing tears, still keeping her face lowered. “...My heart and emotions died at that moment. Before and after that event—the person called Fumiko became entirely different. I even lost the will to keep living.”
“Moreover, when I see the current world’s state—filled with vice and falsehood, becoming irredeemably defiled—I found myself utterly unable to muster the confidence to stand among society and live. Nor do I possess that strength now—I simply do not possess it.”

“Understood,” Raita impatiently seized Fumiko’s trailing words, glancing once more at his left wrist before thrusting his upper body forward again. “...One cause behind your lost hope—my return—should have resolved that matter. The next issue being present-day Japan brimming with falsehoods and vice, becoming irredeemably defiled. Hence your wish to abandon society and live purely within convent walls... That’s your position, yes? Good—now let me speak.”
He swept one hand through the air. “...Japan’s territory has shrunk nearly to its Meiji Restoration dimensions. The causes aren’t simple, but we bear responsibility—for slaughtering compatriots, losing land, amassing colossal foreign debts... We’re bequeathing this ruined homeland to our children. For fifty years—a hundred even—our descendants must suffer on this suffocatingly cramped land, struggling with national reconstruction and ancestral debts they never incurred!”

Raita tightly pursed his lips and fell silent for a moment, as though suppressing something welling up inside.

“Even if we list ten thousand reasons and causes that brought us to this point, it doesn’t lighten our responsibility one bit. The least we can do is act for the children we’re forcing into such hardships—we must leave behind whatever we can manage for them. ...When you consider how our guiltless children and grandchildren will have to endure lives of bitter struggle, we shouldn’t have time to live for ourselves alone. At least, that’s what I believe.”

Raita adopted his lumbering posture again. “...Fumiko, stand up. If you lack the strength to live, I’ll lend you my hand. You need only follow me—go and complete the procedures now.”

Fumiko did not raise her face or move. Raita said, “We don’t have time. Hurry up,” and took his knapsack from the floor.
But still Fumiko did not move... At that moment, a voice came from the window behind Raita: “How long do you intend to continue this debate?”
When Raita turned around, Mr. Sugiura had come and was standing outside the window.
Behind Mr. Sugiura, the figure of the same farmhand from earlier was also visible.

“I’ve heard your theories here,” Mr. Sugiura said without a smile, his face taut with irritation. “...There’s nothing more to say. You came barging into my house uninvited—why don’t you use that hand of yours now?”

Raita strode to the window.

“Stay silent. I’ll handle my own matters.”
Saying this, he roughly shut the window.
At that moment, Raita remained unaware that Mr. Sugiura’s half-white mustache had twisted and a faint smile had flickered across his face.
He returned to the front of the table again.

“We’re leaving. Take off that thing you’re wearing.” His voice held overwhelming force.

“Take it off.”

...

Fumiko removed the veil with unsteady hands.
She quietly raised her face—lips trembling, eyes pooling with tears.

“We have a train to catch. Fortunately your father is here—we’ll have him handle the procedures and luggage. That works, yes?”

“...I must return home.”
Folding the veil with quiet motions yet now gazing up at Raita with resolute eyes, Fumiko added: “...For I wish to bring that lilac tree with us.”

“Oh—so that was brought to Nagatoro.”

“Because its refusal to bloom seemed too cruel.”

“Lilacs belong in cold climates. Once we reach Hokkaido, I’ll make them flower.”

Twenty minutes later—taking the arm of Fumiko, who had changed into a plain dress—Raita strode out through the convent gate.
As they were starting down the slope, he suddenly extended his left arm to check his watch but abruptly shouted "Hey!" and shook that arm.

"Damn it—I don't regret having my wristwatch stolen, but even after a week I still can't shake this habit. My brain must be wired pretty simply."

Fumiko's bright laughter hid away into the pine forest along with the receding footsteps.

Bathed in the early spring sun that had finally reached its zenith, the song of bush warblers moving from budding branch to budding branch among the larch trees could be heard.