Pathway to Japanese Literature

Upon seeing me being brought in, that person said.

“What, you’re back again?
“Good-for-nothing wretch.”

Did I let out a hollow laugh then? That he had spoken to me brought a sense of relief. Returned to a place I didn’t want to return to—I was in such a state of mind.

I was assigned a work seat in the middle. Right behind me were familiar faces from before days. Everyone kept trying to talk to me about one thing or another. They told me we’d surely be put in the same cell too. Even I found myself drawn into a sense of camaraderie, yet my heart couldn’t settle into it. Keeping my miserable feelings intact, I simply kept moving my hands at work...I had been sent back to a place I didn’t want to return to.

The day before—when I heard about being transferred elsewhere, or rather about returning to my original place—I’d thought I didn’t want to go back there. To that atmosphere where everyone ate smaller rice portions than here...I didn’t want to return under that person’s gaze again. I found it utterly repulsive.
But I had been sent back.

At mealtime, seeing the small portions in the box carried by the duty worker distributing rice, I looked on with a sad and resentful feeling.
I told my comrades that where I’d been before had much more.

“Looks like you’re doing this grudgingly,” came the reproachful voice of that person.
Then that person briskly approached where I was.
I pouted, feeling somewhat sulky.

“Hmm, is this all you’ve done?”

That person said in a relaxed tone.
Crouching down beside me and peering into my face,
Because I was so single-mindedly consumed by my resentful feelings,
my work had progressed somewhat.

“Move your hands more diligently.”

Having said that, that person demonstrated it with his own hands.
That person’s hands were large.
Those hands deftly twisted the hemp.
That person was more skillful than I.
I became aware of a heartfelt warmth emanating from him.
I felt his physique close by and was stirred by an effeminate sentiment.

The cell was indeed just as my comrades had said.
I was spared from experiencing the unease of being newly mixed among unfamiliar faces.

That person was one of the guards here and was in charge of Factory Eleven at that time.
I was under that person’s supervision.
Every day I went to the factory and worked at twisting hemp (making the cores for sandal thongs).
When I first appeared before that person and exchanged a few responses, I felt he would be looking after me.
In his demeanor too, there was an attitude directed toward someone newly placed under his supervision.
From our first meeting, I sensed I was being kindly watched.
That person asked me, “Can you read books?” assigned me that role, and from the very first day I read books for my comrades during lunch breaks.
I was a weak-willed man who constantly perceived that person’s concern over me and grew dependent on it.
My work performance remained poor.
There were side thongs and front thongs—more workers handled side thongs, and though I was among them, I failed at it.
This stemmed from my clumsiness, but I also neglected to make sufficient effort.
I had not reciprocated that person’s goodwill.
(But it was because I was fundamentally inept.) About twenty days after entering the prison, I suddenly overheard that person speaking with one of the menial task workers.
“You’re a cold one.”
At that voice I turned around and, seeing the expression on his face as he spoke those words, abruptly felt convinced they concerned me—Ah!
—I thought.
I felt a pang of sorrow.

The next morning when I went to the factory, I noticed my meal box wasn’t in front of my seat cushion and panicked.
One of my comrades called me.
A comrade stood holding a meal box at the factory exit, my meal box placed at his feet.
I immediately sensed I would be transferred elsewhere.
That person neither met my gaze nor looked properly at my panic—just gave it a fleeting glance.
I left that factory while feeling sad.

It was about three days prior.
I finished reading the book I had been reading up to that point and was handed the next one.
When I looked at it, it was what one might call a tragic novel—the sort of popular book I’d seen lining fairground bookstalls years ago, now completely vanished from Tokyo, one could say.
I felt my motivation drain away.
The book I had been reading was a serious biography of Ebara Soroku, a new edition at that.
When I first took that book in hand, I had felt a flicker of surprise.
Coming here, I found it strange to be reading such works alongside those sharing this life, yet my daily reading had become something I looked forward to.
Being prone to excessive self-consciousness, I found myself unable to realistically voice the novel’s tearful scenes or outbursts of laughter, skipping them entirely.
Even the dialogue I read in a flat, lifeless manner.
This time, the book felt like dead weight in my hands.
That person seemed dissatisfied with my reading style when I returned it at the appointed time. “This is a book full of human feeling,” he said. “Read it with that in mind.”
Those words made me turn the blame inward.
My mechanical recitation had indeed been an act of frivolity.
I ended up leaving that factory after reading the book just three times.

I was sent to Factory Nine.
And took up weaving work.
Here too, I couldn't manage the job from the outset.
The supervisor here would occasionally strike me with his fist.
The pain made me shrink my neck and throw up my hands in defense each time.
Though I knew how foolish and pathetic I looked, the hurt always made me reflexively repeat that futile gesture.
Once he kicked my shin with his boot.
The supervisor said:
"You're a proper good-for-nothing."
"A wonder you didn't get yourself crushed under trams or motors back in Tokyo."
All I could manage was a feeble laugh.
My mind had grown dense and lumpen, like an imbecile's.
When suffering those painful moments, my eyes must have looked like those of a cowed dog.
(If I'd stayed there indefinitely, I suppose I'd have ended up leaning on this man.)

I lived apart from that person as days passed by.
I had grown to feel glad about having come here.
The former state of things now struck me as strangely repulsive.
My lingering regrets toward that person had also begun to fade.
The work situation had grown even more vexing than before—how long would this painful state persist? Though time marched on, my labor showed not even a semblance of progress, leaving me mired in stagnant torment like a feeble-minded child forced into academic studies. Each day brought nothing but relentless hardship.
Yet still, I found the past detestable and preferred the present.
Since weaving demanded more labor than hemp-twisting, our rice portions here were larger.
Now that I was here, remembering those meager meals from before made my former life seem utterly loathsome.
(At festivals like Tori no Ichi, they sold okoshi rice crackers shaped like Daruma dolls and kettles—our rice here was molded into similar cylindrical forms.)
The portion sizes varied according to work type.
(The men here often remarked, “Today’s rice is packed tight” or “Mine’s packed loose.”) That I now received larger portions than before became my sole joy.
Yet whenever I suddenly recalled my former comrades still eating those small rations in blissful ignorance, an odd discomfort gripped me.
This preference for my current state owed much to those rice portions.
But that wasn’t all.
As days accumulated, my heart transformed thus in all matters.
In short—I was growing accustomed.
Even when the present pained me, the thought of returning—to that place of scant meals beneath that person’s gaze—remained unbearable.
I contemplated different circumstances.
If only they’d make me a cleaning worker…
They said such roles earned first-class rice portions, and I believed even I could handle cleaning work (for creating things lay beyond me).

However, I had been sent back.
I had left that place with a sad heart, only to return reluctantly with another kind of sadness.

It was around the time when there were just a little over ten days left until New Year. I had been admitted in early October, spent about twenty days in Factory 11, was transferred to Factory 9, and then had come back again. I had been in Factory 9 for about fifty days. Fifty days—that was a calculation I made later by counting. The sense that I had been there fifty days was not within me. My living conditions had not yet settled into anything definite (my work had not come together at all), and moreover, I had not yet grown truly accustomed to prison life; on top of that, there was nothing left there to which I felt any attachment. Both in the factory and in my cell, I ended up unable to grow close to my comrades. Upon returning here, I was made to feel that I had indeed returned. Though my familiarity with them had been only about twenty days, mingling once more among my former comrades, I felt considerably more like friends on this side. However, I could not rejoice at having returned, and my feelings remained unsettled. I thought that maybe after a short while I might be transferred somewhere else again. “I wonder if they could assign me to printing or cleaning work,” I would say to my comrades.

(I had some experience with printing.) “You’ll stay here until you’re released.”
“You won’t be going anywhere else anymore,” one of my comrades said.
To this, I felt dissatisfied.
Hearing that, I couldn’t help but feel even more strongly that staying here until my release would be unbearable... My work barely yielded one bundle after an entire day.
The quota was supposedly three bundles and sixteen pairs.
The horizontal strap work was so grueling that almost no one met their quota.
Still, my results were hardly commendable.
There were others like me, and even those below me.
There were simpletons and those akin to them—they were the ones below us.
The guard peered at my face and remarked, “You don’t seem entirely dimwitted after all.” I flinched.
In the factory, a Korean man worked beside me, his output roughly matching mine.
Yet his hands moved with practiced ease.
He glanced at my work and whispered that twisting the strands so tightly would make unraveling them later a pain.
I was all thumbs.
In matters of work, I likely held no more cunning than him.

The cold had already arrived.
My feet that stepped on the treadle in the machine factory developed frostbite.
Swollen with blood and thickened, their appearance gave the impression of elephant’s feet.
When I went to bed at night and warmed up in the futon, the itching grew severe.
“It’s going to get much worse any moment now. It’ll crumble away until the bones show,” one of the menial task workers threatened me.

However，since I had been returned to the hemp factory and made to sit on a zabuton cushion，my frostbitten feet quickly healed．Also，on the day I was returned to the hemp factory，there happened to be the first distribution of tabi socks that winter．Four or five days later，hand baths were brought into the factory．They were meant to protect hands from frostbite．As soon as morning labor began，the menial task workers set about kindling the fires in the two hand baths．We clustered about six to a bucket，immersing hands in the hot water．We switched after five minutes．We did that every morning．Even so，my palms became slightly chapped．

I believe the relocation ceremony for K Shrine's sacred object was indeed held there before year's end.
The warden had not yet been replaced.
We all gathered in the square by the lower factory to hold the ceremony.
(The prison was divided into what everyone called upper and lower sections—all repeat offenders at this prison were sent to the lower factory.
The upper factory housed first-time offenders; this prison contained those experiencing incarceration for the first time.
Such distinctions generally existed.
Factory 11, Factory 9, and Factory 8｟—they primarily handled balloon pasting.
), these three comprising the upper factories.) Within enclosures of sacred ropes stood small shrines enshrining the sacred object—one for each factory.
It was a windy day, and the rustling of bamboo leaves tied with sacred ropes constantly filled the air.
A Shinto priest from K Shrine had come to offer prayers seeking divine protection for all present.
Representatives from each factory came forward to receive their respective small shrines.
When the ceremony ended, they each returned to their factories to install the shrines in their altars.
Our daily labors thereby became rituals performed before the gods.

Whether it was the next day or so after that ceremony had taken place—for indeed I believe it occurred before year’s end while our warden remained unchanged—we prisoners were asked for our thoughts on this relocation ritual we’d attended together down at lower factory square where everyone gathered save those upper factory first-timers who’d never been jailed here before us recidivists sent below—factories eleven nine eight mainly balloon-pasting work up there—anyway within sacred rope barriers stood these small shrines one per factory bamboo leaves rustling windy day priest from K Shrine praying over us each factory sending reps to receive their shrine then taking them back installing altars so our daily labors became sanctified acts before gods—anyway next day maybe they wanted our impressions about all this so I too wrote what that person told me to write:

“Though this inherently inept self has spent two months leading life of restraint yet remains adrift—lacking resolute spirit not even iron bars before these eyes entering vision clearly—in such unreliable state of heart I dwell.”

“Unlike short-term prisoners such as myself I imagine those bearing lengthy sentences complex circumstances must find enduring their years impossible without steadfast spirit thus do I ponder depth of consideration shown by Warden and all toward such folk.”

I penned these fine-sounding phrases.
(Afterwards they’d occasionally let me write more reflections.) One day that person stood watching my still-unimproved work then remarked:
“You’ve got bad eyes.”
“Huh?” I thought.
Suspecting he blamed my slowness on poor vision I frowned saying “No they’re fine.”
Then that person countered:
“But didn’t you write about not seeing iron bars?”
As if finding my phrasing about bars being invisible odd he fixed me with probing look.

"A life of discipline," I had written.
In the warden’s address, we had heard phrases like “being in a state of disciplinary confinement”—that was what I had borrowed.
Yet in writing those words, I hadn’t truly felt any inclination to restrain myself.
(To discipline oneself—I couldn’t sustain that till the end.) The line about iron bars failing to register clearly in my vision had sprung from genuine sensation.
This cell remained antiquated—a crude iron-barred enclosure.
It still carried the aura of a dungeon.
A cage.
Yet dwelling there, no sense of strangeness unsettled me.
(This communal existence must have numbed me.) I’d written of inherent ineptitude, but what real awareness did I possess of my own inadequacy?
Adrift in self-ignorance—unmoored and faltering—that was my mental state.
Two months into my sentence, penal servitude had finally revealed its true harshness.
I’d never imagined such torment.
—My time in detention lasted but a single night.
The next morning brought immediate sentencing before I departed.
Hearing my account of returning from court, a long-term cellmate remarked,
“The workshop sounds brutal.”
When I dismissed him with a glance, he added, “You’re still running on nerves,” and as I prepared to leave, urged, “Look after yourself.”
His words washed over me unheard.
Now I understood that hardship’s true shape.
In my mind’s eye, I’d been resolute enough—but...

I had harbored fantasies about life there—solitary confinement, labor, reading, moral cultivation… I had pinned such hopes on them, but—
But such things were quickly shattered, and I quickly succumbed.
(Even after finishing factory work and returning to my cell, I still had to work—this disappointed me.) At times I felt motivated to at least apply myself diligently, but my work remained as pitiful as previously described, such resolve quickly crumbled, and I took the path of least resistance.
The days were nothing but painful.
Painful, painful... There was something within me that kept saying this incessantly.
And still, my heart would entertain such thoughts.
If I had done that back then, if I had done this… I wouldn’t have had to endure such hardship, and so on.
Though I had been reduced to this plight and brought to such circumstances, within me there existed not the slightest resentment.
I did not think about my own family members either.
I never agonized over the people I had inconvenienced through this affair either.
Yet, I would sometimes think that my current suffering was punishment for being a bad son.
(My deceased mother had endured constant hardship.) When I considered my own nature, it seemed only natural that I would end up in such circumstances.
My body and soul trembled from the cold, and I found myself envious of those being released.

The New Year was a good one.
I believe the factory had closed at noon on the 30th, and we each returned to our cells.
We cleaned our cells and waited for the new year.
Hearing that during New Year's we could stay in our cells without working at all, I had waited with joy.
In the hemp factory, those who hadn't completed their quotas had to keep working even after returning to their cells until bedtime.
Even on days off from labor, they had to work in their cells.
The quotas were so difficult that nearly everyone was subjected to them.
But during New Year's, we didn't have to do that.

The hemp workbenches in the cells were removed from the cells and stored inside the factory.
We had been liberated from hard labor and would spend a few days being able to relax during that time.
It was that fleeting pleasure that had been awaited all along.
The New Year was nearly here—once it passed, long hard days would continue again—but before that, the New Year was nearly here. With this thought, my tearful face in the factory cellblock sought comfort; the heart of this idler sought solace.
The New Year was a good New Year.
The New Year's feast was overly lavish.
The mochi had been grilled on an iron plate.
On New Year’s Day, the side dishes were abundant, and everyone became so full that they exchanged glances.
They also ate things like mandarins.
The sweet bean-filled mochi we ate for dinner on the third day was irresistible.
The bean paste was sweet, the mochi freshly made and soft, and the sensation of biting into them was irresistible.
There was something about how delicious those sweet bean-filled mochi were that I could never quite forget afterward.
One afternoon after we had bathed, the guard on duty in our cellblock said to us, “You’ve got it good,” and remarked that we were in a carefree position during our break.
After bathing, my body was warm and my spirits high; with this warmed body, there was no work to do—just reading. From that happiness, I smirked and said, “Thanks to you.”
Those words had come out of my mouth.
The guard glanced at me and let out a wry smile.
It was a scornful look.
I, who usually maintained a solemn expression, must have struck him as amusing when I spoke in such a familiar manner.
In another cell block, there was someone who would be released in about seven days.
To me, he seemed utterly enviable.

The circumstances of someone who could soon be released yet was experiencing the New Year here seemed profoundly enviable to me.
I thought the enjoyment of that New Year must have been exceptional.
It must have been experienced with particular joy in his situation.
Thinking about what lay ahead after what had passed, there was no lingering gloom in his heart.
I envied the mental composure I lacked, harboring such idler-like, carefree feelings of envy.

New Year's passed.
Before long, my heart took up residence here once again.
Having returned once more, I found I could avoid fixating on that person.
Because there was nothing cold in that person’s demeanor.
As the days passed, I once again felt that person’s heart envelop me.
Before long, I found myself relying on that person once again.
I felt this person was indeed a good person.
I came to think it was good that I had been sent back here—that I had been returned under that person’s care.

That person was probably not much past thirty. He might have been younger than expected. Yet his modestly authoritative demeanor made him appear older.

In the factory, when he removed his cap and I saw his closely cropped head for the first time, I was slightly startled by that buzzcut.
When a nearsighted person removes their glasses, their face may be reappraised, but to eyes accustomed to always seeing him in his uniform cap, his short-haired head now appeared strikingly new.
I immediately associated him with Kumagai Renshōbō.
He had thick beard stubble and a warrior-like countenance.
Moreover, I came up with such literary similes on the spot—that when he removed his cap, his expression held the shame of a Komusō monk doffing his woven sedge hood.
At that moment, he showed a bashful expression.
I thought that this person might be younger than he appeared.

There, every aspect of our daily lives was governed by various commands.
Our day—from waking until sleeping.
Even factory matters were carried out under that person’s commands.
Yet that person never delivered orders in that brusque manner.
For instance during meals,the guard in charge of Factory Nine would bellow “Chow time!” like chickens raising a battle cry—
he’d shout with absurd volume—but that person would simply say quietly,“Meal time.”
Everything followed that pattern.
And this suited him—through it all we sensed an unassuming warmth.

"He'll be promoted to section chief soon"—that's what my comrades were saying about him.
My entire existence here depended on that person.
Had he not shown me kindness, I would have spent all those agonizing days in utter desolation.
A weakling by nature, stubborn in disposition, inherently unlikable—yet despite being trapped in this constrained communal life, I managed to live through those days like a proper human being solely because I dwelled within the shelter of his heart.
I had truly been saved.
Without being able to rely on him, my bonds with fellow prisoners would have grown even more tenuous.
Everything would have passed by devoid of any warmth or connection.

When I left there and went to Factory 9 that time, that person only glanced at me with cold eyes. And to that, I was confounded, but... ...When I returned once more under his supervision, that person turned his heart toward me again. And before long, I found myself relying on that person’s heart once again. And that continued until the end. There was one person living an ordinary life who took pity on someone as inept as me.

There, I was called by another name.
My designation number was "750".
On the collar of my clothes, on the edge of the hand towel I used, and on the lid of the meal box—that number could be seen.
Before long, I came to think of it as my own name.
That person often called me simply "No.50".
I liked how that person's voice sounded when calling me No.50.
Because affection always resonated in that voice.
Moreover, no one had ever called me that way before.
There was something pleasing about the number "No.50".
When spoken aloud, it became a name naturally filled with emotion.
It carried the resonance of a nickname.
And my heart received it as such.
"750"—this number wasn't given to me alone.
But in my memories, beneath that person's voice exists only my face and heart.
The memory of being called by that voice—this alone remains within me.
This alone compels me to record those vanished days.

About twice a month, “the bookseller” (a well-mannered old man) visited the factory, carrying a box containing the catalog of books that prisoners were allowed to read. We paged through the catalog and chose books we wanted to read. Then we showed the catalog card to the guard, who filled in both our cell number and designation number in the designated column on the back of that card. After three or four days, the books were delivered to the cell block. In first-class, second-class, third-class, and fourth-class order, we left our seats to view the catalog. When I heard the voice call out—“Fourth-class prisoners reading books, step forward”—I sheepishly came out.

“Oh, No.50’s shown up.”
“Can’t even do your job right.”

That person noticed me and glared with that look in his eyes.
When I presented the card before him, that person—fountain pen at the ready—
“What’s your cell?” he said with a serious face.

Again.

Our day ended with us returning from factory to cells through iron-barred corridors.
The men of Factory Eleven belonged to Cell Block Fifteen—ten cramped chambers numbered one through ten.
We marched back in reverse order starting from Cell Ten’s occupants.
Guards lowered heavy padlocks as each group entered their assigned cells.
Those from Cell One always came last.
When their lock clicked shut,
inspections crawled through Cells Two and Three like clockwork.

That person stood securing Cell One’s barred door when he paused mid-latch,
counted heads,
and growled through clenched teeth:
“Hn—still one missing.”
Who?
From changing rooms down hall came frantic footsteps—
prisoner fumbling uniform belt,
sprinting through last wisps of daylight.

“Oh, No.50.”
“Good-for-nothing.”

Saying this, that person pushed me—who was hurriedly entering the cell with a hasty “Oh, right…”—deliberately from behind and closed the barred door.

Again.

Once again，we finished work at the factory.

In the changing room, we would take off our work clothes and become naked, each of us undergoing an inspection.

As I waited my turn for the inspection, my bare buttocks were lightly struck, and when I turned around, that person was silently laughing.
And that person who was on the factory side closed the partition door between the factory and there.
As he tried to close the partition door, he saw me standing there naked and trembling.
—I was happy.

There were times when thoughts surged intensely—painful, painful, I hate it, I hate it—but even in such moments, whenever I encountered that person’s kindness and warmth, I always felt my heart soften.
A sense of guilt welled up, and I resolved to endure.
The figures of comrades who seemed even lonelier and more helpless than myself came into view.
And I thought about my own nature—always relying on others—and my past.
The winds of the world always felt warm to me, and I could never escape from this childlike heart.

The cold was severe.
I trembled in body and spirit.
The palm had chapped cracks.
A chapped fissure had formed at the base of the middle finger on my left palm, and it ached.
Grimacing at the open wound, I showed it to my comrades and said, “When I twist hemp strands here during work, the fibers catch and sting.”
The comrades frowned and nodded in sympathy.
The gaping crack looked agonizing to behold.
Though the pain wasn’t truly so sharp—even I could see how gruesome it appeared—I contorted my face in exaggerated distress.
I wielded this injury as justification for my sluggish work pace, even displaying the chapped hand to that person.
“Seems like it’s festering.”
That person studied my face with pitying eyes, pressed a finger against the inflamed area, and muttered, “This rotten part here—should I just slice it off for you?”
I managed a feeble smile.
As winter deepened, frostbite cases emerged.
Men worked on with fingers crumbling beneath bloodstained bandages, crimson seeping through the gauze as they labored.
I obtained ointment and worked it into my cracked skin.

However, my heart settled into life here.
The days became familiar in all sorts of ways.
I no longer thought about wanting to be transferred elsewhere.
I had come to want to spend my time in this factory until I got out.
When I was in Factory 9, I never experienced feelings of closeness, and strangely never managed to settle in—yet here, both the awareness of being protected by that person made me bolder, and the atmosphere here held something easily familiar even to someone like me.
First-time offenders were first put into this hemp factory.
There were also many short-term prisoners here.
When I first came to a place like this and found myself among many different faces, here did not feel so unpleasant or suspicious.
Everyone shared the same heart that entrusted their current unfree circumstances... I too could exchange light banter with a feeling of closeness.
I had grown accustomed to the eighth-class rice, no longer felt unsatisfied with my meals, and my envy for larger portions had begun to fade.
But I would say things like this to my comrades:
“I’d like to try eating first-class rice just once.”

――When it came to meals, there was this incident.
Breakfast and dinner were miso soup and pickles.
(Was it two days a week? In the evenings, a side dish was also served.)
We called this “two dishes” and would say things like “Today’s two dishes” or “Tomorrow’s two dishes,” finding enjoyment in it.) The tableware consisted of Seto-ware items—a rice bowl, teacup, soup bowl (which doubled as a dish for side dishes), and a plate for pickles.
I would transfer some rice from the communal bowl to a teacup, drink over half of the miso soup while eating that portion, then pour all the remaining rice into the soup bowl with its leftover broth. Letting the grains gradually soak up the liquid before eating them—a method that occasionally made me cough—...that was how I ate.
Doing this made me feel like I’d gotten a little extra.
Once I tried it, I kept doing it ever after.
One time, that person came up beside me and glanced over.
“Hey—what happened to your soup?…Did you gulp it all down?”
“It’s under here,” I said in a small voice, face reddening as I pointed at the rice in the soup bowl with my chopsticks.
That person fell silent for a moment before saying,
“Eat properly.”
Without showing even a trace of scorn.
I gave a slight nod.
From then on, I ate properly.

And by the time that winter had apparently passed, my life there had moved beyond its peak phase—the days settled into fixed patterns, and my mind calmed into something almost leisurely (my sentence being eight months, I had already passed its halfway point). As for work, I came to manage about one and a half bundles of hemp per day.
It wasn’t stellar performance, but my work settled into that level.
In any case, with such results, permission had effectively been granted for me to continue as I was.
Moreover, by that time, the role of reading books had once again become my duty.
Through the labor of book reading compensating somewhat for my work performance—that person had arranged things in such a way out of consideration.
And since Factory 11 had many short-term prisoners and frequent turnover, even someone like me had become an old-timer there.
My seat in the factory was in the next-to-last row, in the corner.
And this spot was quite far from the guard’s seat, allowing us to talk; it was warmer than the front areas and a good place to be.
In that spot, we chatted about all sorts of things.

When a newcomer arrived, we would observe their unfamiliar, uncertain demeanor from our seats at the back and sometimes pass judgment with a sort of senior-like air.
And as months passed, whenever we spotted that person exchanging smiles with fellow inmates on some occasion, we would look on with thoughts like, "Hah, they’ve gotten used to things—looking lively now."
Sitting in the back row of the factory and watching the backs of my comrades diligently working, I would sometimes think that we had a sort of feeling akin to being upperclassmen at school.
In any case, those in the back seats chattered all the more.

I too had acquired someone to talk to.
It was No.710.
After becoming neighbors in the factory, we grew close.
We somehow clicked.
His sentence was three years with two years still remaining.
He too had been in Tokyo.
He was a construction worker.
But having once fallen from scaffolding and injured his leg, he’d apparently taken leave from that work.
He’d slashed his estranged wife.
When he fell from the scaffolding he’d also hit his head—he said come early spring his mind would go bad.
Small-framed and pale-skinned when naked, tattoos stood out starkly against his flesh.
Of quiet and gloomy temperament yet sincere toward others.
“No.50’s a quiet one,” he said.
Perhaps I did look quiet outwardly.
By nature I couldn’t invite others’ affection—even slight interactions went awkwardly—yet with him speaking gently without scorn, I too conversed guilelessly.
We often talked about food.

He told me there was a shop across Senju Bridge selling buns as big as iron helmets.
Those buns captured my imagination.
We talked as if making promises to visit them one day after our release.
When becoming free again crossed my mind,
I pictured myself tucking those buns into my coat and taking leisurely walks.

We often exchanged such jokes—playful banter akin to adults engaging in make-believe.

“Good morning.”
“I bought some natto this morning.”

“Is that so?”
“That’s mighty kind of you.”
“If there’s natto in the morning soup, an Edokko won’t complain.”

“And if there were some eggplant mustard pickles too.”

“Now you’re getting extravagant.”

Again.

“I ain’t coming by home tomorrow on my day off.
There ain’t much, but I’ll treat you to dolphin miso stew.”

I had eaten dolphin miso stew there for the first time on one of my days off from labor, and it was delicious.

Again.
On major festival days, after the moral instructor’s talk during moral instruction sessions, they would play Naniwa-bushi storytelling records for us to listen to.
After lunch, they also gave us sweet bean-filled mochi.

“Tomorrow, let’s go listen to some Naniwa-bushi storytelling together.”

“Yeah, why don’t we grab some sweet bean-filled mochi on the way back?”

With that, we laughed together.

We were strictly prohibited from talking—an offense punishable by disciplinary action—but by eluding the guard’s eyes, we managed to enjoy chatting quite a bit.
Engrossed in conversation, when I suddenly looked up, I would sometimes meet that person’s gaze fixed on us from the guard’s seat and involuntarily lower my eyes.
“No.50’s being carefree, huh.”
With that kind of expression on his face.
――I was carefree.

A person named No.780 came to sit behind me.
He was involved in political activities—it was said his subordinate had committed some violent act that got him charged with a crime.
He was a portly man past fifty, and a decent sort.
He too was from Tokyo.
A magnanimous soul.
Even in this place, he remained exactly as he’d always been.
Whenever he overheard No.710 and me talking behind him, he’d say, “No.50, come visit once you’re out.
I’ll treat you to Monami in Ginza.”
He said this to me.

There was someone called No.735.
He was young.
He was a young man who still retained a boyish face yet carried a manly air.
I was drawn to him and often found myself watching his figure.
He gave the impression of a purebred Japanese dog.
He always had a lively face, and no sense of baseness could be detected.
His work performance was also excellent.

No.780 and this young man shared the same cell.
The two were close companions.
Though their age difference suggested parent and child, one frequently saw them together in such configurations.
Their paired figures could be spotted in bathhouse lines.
During moral instruction sessions too, they always sat side by side.
They kept each other company even at spring sports festivals.
Watching them like this—imagining No.780’s avuncular sentiments—I observed with envy.
The guileless youth likely held no such deliberate awareness toward this father figure.
Yet for someone like No.780—as senior—the youth must’ve appeared endearing; from his position, he couldn’t help but feel pitying regret toward him.

When No.735’s work performance improved, allowing him to advance to third grade and move to a cell housing only third-grade inmates, No.780 said:
“No.735 was a good man—what a waste.”
Then he told the third-grade menial workers:
“Please tell them No.780 says he’s grateful for all their help.”

While looking at No.735, I wondered what this man had done, struck by his manliness.
And I thought it must have been theft after all.
Staring at that young, innocent-looking face, I couldn’t believe he had committed that crime—it seemed so ill-fitting.
I felt sadness.

In my early days, I had thought that once I reached the point where only a month or two remained until my release date, things would finally be settled and easier—but when that time actually came, it turned out not to be so at all. Disliking my current circumstances, the feeling of finding each day painful persisted right up until my release. Among my cellmates was an elderly man who was released that March, but until the day before his release, he kept trembling and saying, "No, no." In front of comrades who still had to remain there for a long time, the elderly man’s behavior felt distasteful. I couldn’t bring myself to believe in the feelings that elderly man—who was said to have committed crimes like forgery of private documents—harbored toward that person, and I disliked him. I watched the elderly man’s gestures with the feeling that he was putting on an act.

“Someone like you must already be unfazed by it, huh?”

“Ha ha, I guess that’s how it is,” he said with a look that seemed to invite such thoughts from me.

“On the contrary, it’s painful, I tell you.
“I want to get out even a single day sooner, I tell you.”

When I found myself nearing release, I came to think his words weren’t entirely lies.
Yet to me, people like him and myself—so devoid of fortitude—still struck me as contemptible.

On a day when only about twenty days remained, No.780 said to me laughingly.

“Did you manage to cultivate yourself?”

“I’m no good.
I’ve still got homesickness clinging to me—something like an arrow of longing for home.”

……I didn’t want to utter words like calling myself an egoist without any self-reflection. But still—rather than an egoist—there was no other way. I was nothing more than a simple fool who could easily say “I’m sorry” without a shred of remorse and would keep wiping my face. In any case, when it came to my own past, I couldn’t say—nor did I want to say—that anything had served any purpose. But even someone like me had memories. That was all.

Just before my release, that person said to me.

“In the end, you never wrote home.”
“…And no letters came from your home either.”
And he said.

“What was your charge again?”

“It’s theft.”

“You’re such an idiot.”

After being released, I wrote in the postcard to the chaplain,

“Please give my regards to Mr. Officer in charge of Factory 11,” I wrote.
That was because I had heard such things.
—A cellmate of mine, on the day before his release, had expressed his gratitude to that person and asked for his name—whereupon that person reportedly said this.
Sending letters to guards was prohibited, but if one were to send a letter to the chaplain or such, it was permissible to add something like, “Please also give my regards to Mr. Officer in charge of Factory 11.”
I did remember that.