Pathway to Japanese Literature

Thirteenth Night

December 7th.

The coconut palm leaves were swaying in the wind.
The Blue Bird riverbank presented the same familiar scenery as always, yet even within nature’s hushed stillness, an eerie shadow flickered.
When I emerged onto Blue Bird’s tree-lined path, the hint of winter indeed seemed to press upon my heart.
The sky was so clear and blue that not a trace of clouds could be seen; atop the breakwater, a Spanish woman in walking attire strolled along at her usual leisurely pace.
Even that now seemed utterly disconnected from my present self.
On the morning sea, an American warship was anchored at the bay entrance.
Through the mist-veiled atmosphere, as I counted one, two, the thought that this tranquil sea would soon be shrouded in cannon smoke as that day drew near surged up within me, and I suddenly felt my chest tighten.

It was Mabini Street with sparse pedestrian traffic.
When I entered the office gate surrounded by acacia saplings, I encountered my colleague Aikawa just as I was getting out of the car.

“It’s finally getting critical.”

“Yeah,” I tried to smile, but immediately something solemn clenched my chest tight.
A half-formed laugh lingered on my lips.
Since the notice on the entrance bulletin board stated that all employees were to assemble in the cafeteria, Aikawa and I rushed inside to find over thirty colleagues already packed tightly within.
Everyone sat in their chairs with tense faces.
No one spoke a word.

Just then, Branch Manager Nangyū opened the door and entered. He immediately set down the documents he was carrying on the front table, gave a square bow as if about to make a speech, and then said, “Thank you for your hard work,” in an uncharacteristically somber tone. His deliberate attempt to appear composed struck my eyes as awkwardly discordant.

“It seems the situation is growing increasingly critical—though let me clarify, I don’t possess any definitive news that war will break out imminently. Like all of you, I merely follow the daily radio broadcasts and newspapers. Still, we should make preparations so that we do not falter, no matter what unforeseen events may arise.”

Behind me, a chair clattered as General Affairs Section Chief Momoi rose from his seat.
“I heard MacArthur invited his staff to the Manila Hotel last night—they were deep in discussions about something. From what I gathered, it seems Japanese residents are to be interned in prisons.”

Then the Branch Manager blinked anxiously,

“Avoiding war is likely impossible now. What matters most is maintaining composure when facing worst-case scenarios. The Japanese Association and Youth Group have already been making evacuation preparations—though we kept this strictly confidential until today. Had our opponents discovered this, it would’ve not only caused misunderstandings but might have provoked them into unpredictable actions. Out of such caution, we refrained from mentioning any preparations until now—but that necessity appears to have passed.”

The Branch Manager’s face was suffused with determination.
He spread out the documents that had been placed on the table and gave a detailed explanation of the evacuation procedures before stating, “In any case, you must absolutely not expect your property to remain secure. Please each prepare an inventory and submit it to the designated personnel.”
“Orders will first be issued from the consulate to the Consul-General, then from the Consul-General to the Japanese Association, from the Japanese Association to each district head, and from the district heads to the neighborhood groups.”

According to the branch manager’s account, the internment location had apparently been decided as Pasay’s “XX Club.” The procedure was that as soon as orders were received, they would gather at the designated assembly point, be loaded onto trucks from there, and transported to the internment camp. Already, 130 bales of rice, 240 cases of canned goods, 30 bales of charcoal, 5 bales of sugar, other foodstuffs, and even drinking water had been prepared. Indeed, the Branch Manager’s voice had begun to tremble. Everyone exchanged glances as if startled.

“In any case, these are provisional preparations, so even if we reach a state where danger seems unlikely, please avoid all personal actions. If there are those who act recklessly and engage in heroic deeds, it will cause trouble for everyone.”

The meeting ended in less than twenty minutes, and everyone filed into the workplace in silence, but not a single person could settle down to work.
That morning’s newspaper carried diplomatic news stating that Ambassadors Nomura and Kurusu had met with Secretary Hull.
However, the content of the meeting had not been announced.
In the afternoon, Aikawa—who had gone outside the office—returned and immediately reported on Manila’s current situation.
Every store was nearly filled with customers.
Moreover, among our compatriots, there appeared to be those preparing to repatriate to Japan.

Work was cut short in the afternoon, and when I returned to the company housing, Ibuki—the typist who had rushed out upon hearing the sound of a car—

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said, wearing an uncharacteristically serious expression as she opened the car door from the outside.

“So it’s finally going to start, I hear?”

“What do you mean?”

Though I gave an evasive reply, when confronted by Ibuki’s piercing gaze, I suddenly grew flustered. “You’ll be fine,” I said hastily before striding across the plaza.

I knew the danger was imminent, yet even so, I hadn't imagined the final crisis would arrive this swiftly.

"Japan-U.S. War!" came a bellowing voice from the garden.
I leapt from my bed and rushed straight to the radio.
The fighting had apparently already begun unfolding across vast areas that very day - December 8th - in the morning.
Everyone was crowded around the radio.
The announcer's tense voice seemed to be shouting something, but interference somewhere left only a storm-like roar clinging to the depths of my ears.

“They’ve done it. Finally.”

When I encountered Ibuki in the hallway, I found myself unable to speak afterward. Urged by the impulse to take one last look at my room, I opened the door to find the office boy Sasao standing behind me. By noon that day, all men were to assemble at the office, leaving only the women behind here. Though we normally exchanged jokes whenever we met, my tongue now stiffened no matter how I tried to speak. Above the bookshelf hung the framed Imperial Portrait. I stood before it and unconsciously performed a deep bow, then removed the frame and cradled it reverently as I descended into the garden.

“What are you going to do?”

With only a fleeting glance tinged with a smile toward Sasao’s calling voice, I once more reverently held up the Imperial Portrait, struck a match, and lit the stacked wooden pieces. Even if it was presumptuous, I believed that burning it with my own hands was the minimal resolve required to face this day. There was no longer a moment’s delay allowed. The fire instantly spread to the frame. The flickering flames, swayed by the wind, burned vividly before my eyes. The final fate was now mere minutes away. However, whatever crisis might be approaching, the mere fact that I had accomplished one task filled me with calm ease. From this point on, I simply wanted to be resolute—I resolved in my heart that no matter what happened, I would not expose any panicked disgrace. I must calmly await what was to come. I had been assigned as the officer in charge of the Pasay internment camp.

Time was passing with terrifying speed. The thought that this was finally my last farewell with Ibuki Hiroko made tears gush forth. To avoid showing them, I walked out past the gate with long strides, whistling while squaring my shoulders.

It was morning, but inside the club designated as the internment camp, it was hushed, and five or six colleagues who shared my role sat on chairs in the hallway.
Since even those working for the same company were mostly strangers to one another, we exchanged business cards and talked about how evacuation orders had likely already been issued to Japanese residents abroad, or how evacuees would soon swarm into this camp—yet all the while, our hearts throbbed with anxiety.

At 9:00 AM, the radio reported from Manila’s streets, storefronts, and offices that Japanese nationals were being arrested one after another.
I tried calling the company housing, but with the phone lines severed, all contact with the office had been completely cut off.
The evacuation order should have been issued long ago, yet no matter how long we waited, not a single person arrived.

Just before noon, a car stopped before the gate. As I scrambled to rush out, my colleague Furumi shouted hoarsely from behind me, “Hey—they’re here!”
I stood rigidly upright, my legs locked stiff.
At the gate’s entrance appeared three Filipino soldiers in khaki uniforms with fixed bayonets.
What we had long anticipated had finally come to pass.
The distance between the gate and entrance spanned roughly a hundred meters.
Beyond the soldiers, I could see two plainclothes men walking ahead of them.

My throat was parched, but I felt a strange calmness and immediately approached the Filipino soldiers walking toward me, striding leisurely as they came.
He was a round-faced young man who looked every bit a college student, but he puffed out his chest to project authority in front of us.
When Furumi greeted them in fluent English, the soldier gave a derisive sneer and...

“We have been commanded to protect Japanese nationals. You may eventually have to relocate somewhere, but for now, we want you to remain in this place.”

The young man looked down at my face with a triumphant air.
When I began explaining in circuitous English that this place had become our internment camp, that all Japanese were complying with the authorities' orders to maintain collective discipline without causing inconvenience, and therefore we wished to remain here if possible, the young man listened with a solemn expression but soon cast a quick glance toward the soldiers behind him and—

“In any case, you should start preparing now so you’re ready to be moved anywhere—maybe even tonight.”

He began to say something more but instead glared sharply at my face. The figure exiting through the gate while arrogantly surveying his surroundings appeared transparently affected to my eyes.

Communication with the office had been severed, leaving us completely in the dark about the outside situation, but it seemed all those who had barricaded themselves in the office with Branch Manager Nangyū had been detained without exception.

When afternoon came, Japanese residents began streaming in by truck and calesa.
They had likely come after hearing rumors.
Those carrying emergency bags, those leading two or three children, those with a single trunk—their numbers gradually increased until the front garden suddenly began bustling, yet nowhere could I find the faces of our company colleagues who should have rightfully been arriving.
Some had injuries on their cheeks; others had trousers torn.
The woman who alighted from the calesa—a heavyset figure shepherding three children—let out a sudden scream and rushed toward me when our eyes met.

"My husband... and my brother..."

In a hoarse voice, she began to sob quietly.
The woman was the proprietress of a barbershop with a store in the backstreets of Escolta.
I silently ushered the children into the room as if shielding them.

Around midnight, the front of the gate—which had been quiet until now—suddenly grew noisy.

When I went out to check, several buses had stopped there, and from inside them, Japanese nationals wearing only shirts while carrying hand luggage came streaming down. Upon inquiry, I learned they had been arrested that morning and confined in Bilibid Prison. None of them had eaten lunch or dinner. They had not been given even a cup of water and were moved over here in the middle of the night as if being herded. Of course, what would happen next was something no one knew.

When I counted, the number of Japanese nationals had exceeded three hundred.
I thought about whether I should accept so many strangers into this internment camp, but when confronted with the immediate reality, such a trivial sense of responsibility had vanished somewhere.
Everyone were immobilized by hunger and mental exhaustion.
Men carrying bundles of three or four bags and trunks on their shoulders formed a silent line, heads hanging low, and staggered through the gate.
It was a long line.
I felt that perhaps Ibuki was among them, but I gradually grew angry at myself for thinking such a thing.
The winter moon illuminated the faces of the evacuees.

The internment camp was now packed to overflowing, both inside and out.
When night fell, the chill of winter still permeated the very air.
I moved only the elderly and children into the rooms, gathered all the men outdoors, assigned cooking duties, and immediately set about preparing the field kitchen.
When the rice was ready, the women all made rice balls together.
The rice balls were one per person.
The residents naturally formed two lines, each receiving a rice ball one by one before turning back.
It took nearly two hours for them to be distributed to everyone.

I selected ten security members and decided to serve as temporary security captain for the night watch.
Lying in the open with a single blanket around my waist, I found the grass had grown damp with night dew before I knew it, and the piercing chill against my skin startled me awake.
When dawn seemed near, a strange droning began echoing from the distant sky.
It gradually spread until it filled the entire sky.

“Planes!”
Everyone sprang to their feet at once.
No sooner had the propellers’ intense roar begun swelling than bombs seemed to drop.
Boom, boom—the relentless terrible sounds kept coming as the earth started trembling violently.

“Imperial Army planes!”

As soon as the shout—"Imperial Army planes!"—rang out, the faces that had been clustered in the darkness all began to stir animatedly. The direction seemed to be San Nicolas Airfield. The garden was filled with people. Frantic air raid sirens began to roar from all directions. What was that sound? Carried by the wind, a fierce reverberation came flowing. The entire city of Manila was seething in uproar. Anti-aircraft fire was being launched incessantly toward the sky like fireworks. The moonlight fell on the residents' shoulders. Everyone stood packed tightly together, rubbing shoulders, and stared fixedly at the southeastern sky. It was 2:00 AM.

In the morning, everyone assembled.
Roll call was conducted with everyone lined up on the tennis court.
The total number had reached five hundred and ten people.
Then the Consul-General arrived, bringing along the new internment camp director.
After the Consul-General’s brief address concluded, the director immediately provided instructions regarding future measures, officially assigning everyone to their respective duties and posts.
At ten o’clock, breakfast was distributed: two rice balls per person, with side dishes consisting of two cans per group of ten.
Before long, four tent huts were erected in four locations around the yard.
At the guardhouse beside the gate, American MPs and Filipino soldiers were crowded.
A report came in that six Japanese women and children were being detained at Pasay Police Station, so after negotiating with the guards, it was decided to send several representatives to handle the handover negotiations.
From morning onward, in the makeshift tent office, the general affairs staff had begun compiling a personnel register.
The cooking team selected over ten people with carpentry experience and decided to make wooden boxes for rice ball distribution.
I was tired from the previous night’s watch, so I slept on the grass for two or three hours in the afternoon.

Because the lights wouldn’t come on, the internment camp plunged into pitch darkness the moment the sun set. Moreover, as the night deepened, the temperature would plummet. While keeping night watch, I would find myself damp with night dew from my jacket down to my trousers before I knew it. The moon rose late, and even the sight of the star-filled sky glittering in the night was a heart-constricting experience. When midnight came, the rumbling of bus wheels drew near to the gate with a loud clatter. The guards waited for each person to disembark one by one and conducted thorough body searches. They were all wearing only shirts; not a single person carried any belongings. Upon asking, I heard they were people from Okinawa Prefecture who had returned from fishing in Palawan Island. They had been arrested the moment they arrived in Manila—their luggage, along with the entire ship, confiscated by the Fisheries Bureau—and taken to prison with nothing but the clothes on their backs, only to be abruptly transferred to the internment camp late that night. As an emergency measure, I took it upon myself to distribute the remaining rice balls, but with the number of people—originally planned for 350—now swelling to 510, about a hundred or more ended up unable to fit even inside the buildings, spilling out from the tents to sleep on the grass with nothing but blankets pulled over them. In the end, there was nowhere left for those trembling in shirts alone to lie down. They squatted on the grass with their bodies pressed together.

As dawn broke, the thunderous sound of countless hooves poured in from the south to the north—into Manila’s city limits, deeper and deeper into the city.
Could it have lasted nearly twenty minutes?
It appeared to be a cavalry unit on the move.

When morning came and roll call was conducted, the number had increased by eighty again.
Since I brought up the matter of reorganizing the officer structure to Director Motono, a meeting was immediately convened.
Everyone grasped things quickly, and every matter began being resolved one after another.
In the end, they divided everyone into groups of ten to twenty members each, selected one group leader per group, and decided all food distribution would be managed by these leaders.
By now, resupplying provisions from outside had become utterly impossible.
At times like these, no one entertained wild ideas—only ordinary matters proceeded in an entirely matter-of-fact way.
For instance, when someone proposed what measures to take should we face a prolonged siege, food supplies immediately became the primary concern.
The only solution was to calculate our remaining stock and set minimum rations.
After nearly an hour of debate, they settled on one rice ball per person per meal starting that day.

After the meeting concluded, I fell into a deep sleep on my bed—probably around 1:00 AM—but just as I thought barely five or six minutes had passed, a thunderous explosion jolted me awake.
For an instant, it seemed as though both ceiling and walls had been reduced to dust.
Even after waking, the glass door still trembled—in the garden bathed in harsh sunlight, women’s figures fluttered anxiously about, their forms appearing to my freshly opened eyes in vivid hues that dazzled.
When I descended the stairs and stepped out beside the entranceway, the corridor was packed with people all staring up at the southeastern sky.

The dreariness after a nap gnawed at my heart, and staying still felt stiflingly frustrating. When I suddenly looked up, something glinted in the blue sky. Beside it, two or three silver wings traced arcs—enemy or ally, they swirled in a tangled dance before my eyes.

From the front gate and the forest edge not far beyond, several streaks of white smoke rose straight into the sky. With each earth-shaking roar, artillery smoke streaked across my vision. Belatedly, air raid sirens began wailing from every corner of the city. Everyone stood on tiptoe, craning their necks upward. A man ran about shouting, “Those are Japan’s! No—the long-nosed ones are American planes!”

“Look—it’s going down! It’s going down!”

When someone shouted, everyone ducked their heads in unison.
The guards in the courtyard too seemed agitated.
A young American soldier fired his rifle skyward.

One plane climbed straight toward pale white clouds floating in layers, only to vanish instantly into them. Another ascended in a diagonal spiral, trailing faint plumes of smoke from both wingtips.

In the sky, anti-aircraft gun smoke floated like clumps of white cotton, softly billowing and appearing gentle.
I looked at my watch—it was 2:10.
From the direction of Nichols Field, thick black smoke swirled upward in dense coils.
From time to time, a roar like distant thunder echoed from the direction of Cavite naval port.
From the location of McKinley Barracks too, black smoke began rising with ferocious intensity.

According to Aikawa, who had made rounds across various parts of the city that morning, Manila’s traffic had nearly ground to a halt. The shops lining the main streets had barely opened even a single sliding door, with not a single pedestrian in sight—the thoroughfares had turned utterly desolate. Every last Japanese-owned store had its doors smashed or windows shattered, laying bare the aftermath of looting.

After the second air raid on Manila, the sentries’ vigilance suddenly tightened.
At the gate, American soldiers also joined in, new machine guns were set up, and their eyes when looking at our compatriots became ingrained with a thorny sharpness.
From this day onward, by order of the camp director, strolling within the grounds was prohibited, and all knives, flashlights, and similar items were confiscated and handed over to the guards.
Since new security guards took over the night watch duties, I was finally relieved from keeping watch at night.
At night, Aikawa, Furumi, and I sneaked into the office and, pressing our foreheads together, twisted the radio’s switch.

On the tennis court, around twenty children aged five to ten or so were playing tag (December 11th).

For the past few days, the children had all been confined to their rooms.
For the first time in days, they were gleefully running about, savoring the evening hour.
The sight of girls in short skirts and boys in shorts mingling as they chased and were chased deepened the pathos even more against the overly vivid colors.
Meanwhile, there was also a boy who kept launching a paper airplane into the sky over and over, utterly absorbed.
The day Manila would transform into a city of war was not far off now.

The sun set early, and no sooner had dusk crept over the lawn than night fell swiftly, leaving not a single light in the desolate chill.
After finishing dinner, everyone scattered to their respective tents, leaving only those on night watch duty behind in the darkness.

Late at night, the alarm sounded twice, and just as the surroundings fell into complete silence, sporadic artillery fire began echoing from afar.

When I opened my eyes, it was morning.
The rain that had been falling intermittently since before dawn finally turned into a steady downpour.
The garden tents began to get wet from a corner of the lawn, the dampness rapidly soaking through the straw mats, and the people resting there, still in thin shirts, shivered against the chill.

Aikawa, who had gone to negotiate with the guardhouse about going out, returned triumphantly.
“Starting tonight, they say the number of sentries will be halved. In Manila proper, only the Philippine Army’s last remaining company is left. Seems like a fierce battle’s been unfolding around Batangas today.”

In the evening, when Aikawa and I visited the women and children’s tent on our ration survey duty, a refined madam around forty came out to receive us.

“How about it—with just one rice ball per person these days, your children must be having a hard time. Aren’t they saying they’re hungry?”

“Well, of course they’re hungry.”

The madam frowned sadly.
“So, every mother here is giving half their portion to the children.”

Her expression was so excessively solemn that both of us were left dumbfounded, unable to utter another word.
We too, with each meal being just one rice ball, quickly grew hungry and became so restless we couldn’t sit still.
The fact that mothers love their children is perhaps the most ordinary truth in this world.
However, we had forgotten that until now.
Rather than having forgotten, it was more that we had lived through it without even noticing.

“That’s admirable—they’re giving half to the children? But then the mothers must be starving.”

When Aikawa directed a sympathetic gaze at her with an air of plausibility, the madam began stroking the hair of the three-year-old girl sleeping against her knee,

“No, I don’t mind at all.”

With that, she quietly averted her eyes.
I immediately thought of my mother back home.
Mother must also be thinking of me.
Now, of all times—the matter of mothers and their children—the strength of a mother’s love fighting hunger with half a meal struck my heart.

When I asked what had happened upon seeing the other women whispering in a corner of the tent, they told me a pregnant woman had suddenly gone into labor that evening.

“Women are truly remarkable. Compared to them, we’re completely irresponsible.”

Beaten by the rain, Aikawa muttered pensively while walking across the grass. We promptly spoke to the camp director, obtained approval from the guards through him, and moved the pregnant woman to the second-floor night duty room. Everyone divided tasks to gather absorbent cotton, gauze, Lysol, candles, hot water, and other necessities, and two women with midwifery experience remained by her side all night.

At night, when ten o’clock came and we were discussing war updates in the downstairs office, a young woman—who had been attending to the pregnant woman and was formerly a teacher at a Japanese elementary school—timidly came down the stairs and reported that a baby girl had been born safely.

It rained heavily throughout the night.
In the rain, the sound of artillery echoed from afar.
In the darkness, the four of us in the same room tried to sleep leaning against chairs, but when mosquitoes appeared and made sleep impossible, we lit mosquito-repellent incense and shared memories of life back home.
Around the time dawn began whitening the windowpane, I was jolted awake by Aikawa and Furumi’s explosive laughter just as I had started dozing off,

“What is it?”

When I asked, they said it was about today’s birth celebration.
“While I was asleep, Filipino guards came over, and while we were standing around talking, someone mentioned the girl had been born. Then one of them said, ‘Hey, why don’t we all have a celebration together?’”

“See? Filipinos have this easygoing side that works out—so when we asked if they’d go get us two or three pigs, they just said ‘Sure’ right away. Tonight we’ll finally get a proper feast after ages.”

Aikawa apparently managed to talk to the guards successfully in his usual manner.
With everyone in high spirits over this development, around ten o’clock, American surveillance officers arrived with two soldiers and went from room to room throughout the internment camp, methodically inspecting each tent to confiscate every last item—radio sets, the few remaining blades, flashlights, cameras, and the like.
With this, they could no longer listen to the radio, and all contact with the outside world was completely severed.
Now, only the hope that they could eat pork at noon remained.
Everyone had lost the energy to think of anything else, so they kept checking the clock and swallowing their saliva when suddenly the air raid siren began to wail.
Those who had been in the kitchen also rushed out and gathered in the corridor.
Even after midnight passed, the air raid siren continued to wail at intervals.

At 12:40—the thunderous roar of relentless continuous bombings resounded ceaselessly from both Nichols Airfield and McKinley Fortress.
Next, the anti-aircraft guns began their blind firing.
Outside the gate erupted into chaos, and the dozen or so sentries standing in the garden began desperately aiming their muzzles toward the internment camp—ready to open fire immediately should anyone move.

Across the thickly clouded post-rain sky, a formation of seventeen planes flew calmly toward Nichols.
Trails of anti-aircraft smoke streamed across the sky, chasing after them in scattered bursts.
After some time passed, another nine planes glided smoothly toward McKinley, leaving a thunderous roar in their wake as they passed over our heads when—

“Smoke!”

One of the men squatting in the grassland shouted.

In the area of Nichols, where rows of houses lined the streets, gray-black smoke billowed relentlessly high into the sky.
It gradually spread larger until it filled the entire southern sky.

That day, they ultimately saw nothing resembling enemy planes.
Each time people exchanged glances, they overflowed with emotion—without anyone taking lead, they shook hands and embraced one another.
As they gazed at the sky, confidence surged vigorously from the depths of their hollowed stomachs.
Manila’s airspace now belonged to us.
This feeling—of being unable to voice it—sank deep into every heart.
Imperial military planes crisscrossed Manila’s skies with effortless mastery, leisurely forming and dissolving their formations.
They finally managed to eat their lunch—a single piece of pork—at three in the afternoon.
During the meal came a warning from the camp director: with guards at peak tension, everyone must immediately enter rooms or tents when alarms sounded, absolutely avoiding movement or noise.
Afterward, staff members circulated through indoor and outdoor tents to announce that smoking would be prohibited after dark.
Not one person remained in the garden.
By six o’clock, silence descended until even faint noises disappeared.

“Hey, what happened to the typists?”

I whispered into Aikawa’s ear,

“Well, I was just getting concerned myself—given that they still haven’t shown up by now, there might be something wrong.”

In the dark night sky, not a trace of starlight could be seen.
In the middle of the night, the baby on the second floor began crying.
It seemed everyone had been roused awake by those convulsive wails.
The cries stabbed through the darkness with piercing sharpness, showing no sign of ceasing.
The exhausted nurse came down the stairs clutching the crying child.
In the pitch-black corridor, she paced back and forth, muffling her footsteps.

They decided to recruit volunteers from each group to clean inside the internment camp, but with too many applicants, twenty would be chosen by lottery.
Outside the fence, two or three small buses could be seen racing away, churning up clouds of sandy dust.
As I listened to their engines fade, I felt an abrupt yearning for fresh outdoor air.
Today marked the tenth day we had been sealed inside this internment camp.

Shortly past noon, a major named Mac from the U.S. Army unit arrived.
He gathered the representatives in the front garden and read aloud the military orders in a stern manner.

“It is recognized that the location of this internment camp and Manila’s geographical details are fully known to the Japanese military.”
“Therefore, Japanese paratroopers or soldiers of the Fifth Unit may come seeking protection here.”
“In such cases, you must promptly notify the authorities and surrender them.”
“Should any concealment be discovered, the highest-ranking officials of this camp down to all leadership shall be sentenced to death.”

After ordering this to be posted on the bulletin board, he promptly withdrew, but when three o'clock arrived, another young major came. This man had coarse features yet was remarkably affable—a stark contrast to the previous major.

“I served as a U.S. military chaplain during the First World War,” he began chattering away. “Having been deployed numerous times myself—and having endured separations from my wife and children—I fully sympathize with your position.”

“Therefore, as immediate recreation, I’ve prepared to deliver five hundred books.”
“Not just books—magazines, gramophones, records too. No—in fact, if needed, we can arrange doctors and missionaries as well. Furthermore, I’ll strive to distribute mosquito nets, medicines, and food supplies.”

Everyone thought the promises were too good to be true, but after that, there was no further news.
Not a single cloud marred the calm, clear day.
The autumn back home kept coming to mind.

Two Japanese nationals were delivered from Muntinlupa Prison.
From their account, it became clear that all the Japanese representatives were in Muntinlupa.
Branch Manager Nangyū was there, and all the other section chiefs were there as well.
When I asked about the typists,

“Well...” they said uneasily, their eyes widening with anxiety. “The women are in a separate cellblock, so we don’t know the details.” However, through the information conveyed by these two individuals, it became clear that Japanese forces had already landed in Borneo and were attacking Hawaii and Hong Kong. “At Muntinlupa, we met evacuees from Legaspi too, and according to their account, Japanese forces’ advance unit had carried out a landing, occupied the coastal areas, and were awaiting the arrival of follow-up forces.”

No sooner had the sky turned threatening in the afternoon than a booming sound reverberated from the layered clouds.
The planes were nowhere to be seen, but just like the previous day, the ferocious sound of bombings could be heard from the directions of Nichols and McKinley.
The reason the alarm hadn’t sounded might have been that the planes’ arrival was too swift.
Frantically, anti-aircraft guns were fired from all directions, but the planes’ roar was swallowed whole into the thick, impenetrable clouds.

Perhaps because the sky was overcast, whenever I stayed still alone, a bleak desolation would spread throughout my chest. Every compatriot here likely harbored deep within their hearts the resolve to be ready to die at any time. Yet despite this, in our cramped existence, day by day, only self-contained emotions—as if one’s heart had clamped shut—grew more conspicuous. When I thought this shadow-like thing clung to our lives, a sluggish irritation welled up inside me. Today too I discussed this matter with Aikawa, just the two of us.

“It’s because all heroic elements have vanished from our lives. Here, we’re crushed under the weight of just wanting to survive each day unharmed—what flickers in our gaze is always the guards’ expressions. While our compatriots back home have hearts pounding with heroic fervor, we have to smother our surging emotions to stay alive. Even when driven by the urge to slap those guards’ faces senseless, we frantically pacify ourselves. Repeating this dozens of times a day warps us into some misshapen mold before we know it.”

On Aikawa’s face, as he spoke in fits and starts, a look of exhaustion had become visible. For us now, even considering fighting to death might constitute unimaginable happiness. Only while gazing at the sky would a noble sentiment—one connecting to our homeland’s fervor—brush against my heart. Yet when this too vanished in an instant, whatever surged forward within me would be severed midway through its course. Come to think of it, over these ten-plus days, I’d grown unable to see anything but ugliness in these women’s slackened faces—faces that had abandoned perfume and powder. A woman’s beauty springs from trusting men and leaning utterly upon them. But within this dreary existence, they must prop up their solitary selves like insects while cowering from every shadow. At night when visiting the toilet, I’d sometimes feel damp diapers hung drying in corridors brush chill against my cheek. Within that shuddering chill lay raw reality taking firm root.

Around four in the afternoon, a bus arrived at the gate, and forty-two women and children transferred from the club’s internment camp filed out one after another.
In the dim light, their faces and figures were indistinct, but all the women with their hair tied back wore expressions that looked the same.

As I watched a man whose face was covered in a thick beard take a small child from what was likely his wife—a woman standing dejectedly holding a small furoshiki-wrapped bundle—and cheerfully play with them, tears came welling up in a rush.

(Unfinished)