The Investigation Read online

  I shook my head violently as if to fling off the wet dirt. The wall in front of me swayed like a thin, undulating piece of paper. ‘Even if it’s presented as the truth, a lie is a lie. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’

  He hesitated. ‘What is it that you want to know about Sugiyama Dozan?’

  ‘His life.’

  ‘Not about his death?’

  ‘I need to know about his life to understand his death. Only when I know how he lived will I be able to know why he died.’

  ‘It would be easier to ask your fellow guards about his life. Why are you asking me, of all people?’ Hiranuma seemed anxious to leave as soon as possible.

  ‘Because you’re the one person who really knew him.’

  He studied me carefully. After a long time he replied in a calm voice, ‘He was a poet. He was the most wonderful poet I’ve ever met.’

  Sugiyama Dozan was a poet. But not at first. At the beginning he was quite different. He despised literature and looked down on those, like Hiranuma, who believed they could make something out of words.

  Hiranuma came to Fukuoka Prison in the spring of 1944. With fourteen other men he stepped behind walls that aged him instantly. Exhaustion and fear grew like liver spots on his face, his bones protruded, the heels of his sockless feet cracked and the back of his frost-bitten hands chapped. With dim eyes he gazed at his reality – the barbed wire, the bars and the thick steel doors that blocked his vision. He was puzzled as to why he was here, dragged in by a few lines and a couple of documents – his banned Korean poems, police reports, the prosecutor’s indictment and the judge’s ruling. At Fukuoka he moved slowly, passing through the shadows of the tall watchtower and the cold brick walls. He went into the disinfection room and was doused in white powder. He was given an old prisoner uniform. He wondered whether the person who’d worn it before him had left this place alive. He walked along the long corridor into the musty unknown, his own feet crushing his consciousness. Cell 28, Ward Three. That first night he hunched in a corner like a crumpled piece of paper as despair soaked into his marrow.

  The Korean prisoners were clustered together at the sunny spot below the wall, when they heard a thin, smooth, wind-like whistling. Sugiyama slid the club out of his belt and looked for the source. It was Prisoner 645, standing at the foot of the bare hill. Sugiyama’s steps instinctively quickened into a run.

  ‘645! What are you doing here, all alone?’ Sugiyama’s voice, out of breath, was on edge. He aimed his club at the young man’s neck, ready to break his shoulder.

  645 stopped whistling. ‘Is it a crime to whistle?’ he asked gravely, his voice sinking like sediment.

  This young man was everything Sugiyama derided: a recalcitrant Korean political prisoner who violated the Maintenance of Public Order Act, and an intellectual on top of that. With the tip of his blood-crusted club, Sugiyama pushed the young man’s chin up. ‘Listen carefully. This is Fukuoka Prison and I’m Sugiyama Dozan. You’re behind bars. You can’t whistle. And you certainly can’t write.’

  ‘So what can I do?’

  ‘It would be easier to ask what you can’t do.’

  ‘Then what can’t I do?’

  ‘You can’t do whatever it is you’re trying to do right now!’ Sugiyama’s teeth were set on edge. A flock of black crows flew up noisily into the ashy sky.

  ‘One’s heart can’t be incarcerated or taken away.’ 645’s voice rustled like a leaf in the wind, lustreless, tired and trembling.

  Sugiyama despised the educated. They were arrogant, and clueless. With their puny words they sucked off someone else’s sweat and tears, mumbling nonsensical poems and reciting unintelligible phrases. ‘No lies and exaggerations and sweet talk allowed here. This is Fukuoka Prison, and I’m watching your every move.’ Sugiyama swung, and his club landed heavily on 645’s shoulder; the young man fell to the ground, his shoulder dislocated.

  He looked up at Sugiyama, his face contorted in pain. Sugiyama was struck by the look in the prisoner’s eyes – they were filled with pity, not resentment.

  Back in his office, Sugiyama flipped through the log of confiscated items. 645. Hiranuma Tochu. The log showed that he had an unpublished poetry collection, The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry, thirty additional poems and a total of twenty-eight books. Sugiyama headed to the library. Boxes were lined up on the shelves. Sugiyama opened Hiranuma’s box. He saw faded titles on dirty, well-worn covers; books by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, André Gide, Francis Jammes, Rainer Maria Rilke and some Korean writers. He spotted a bundle of paper shoved into one corner.

  The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry.

  Cautiously, as if he were searching an enemy camp, Sugiyama turned the first page. And with stern eyes he glared at the neat strokes:

  PROLOGUE

  – The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry

  Let me look up to the heavens

  Without a speck of shame

  Until the day I die.

  I was in agony

  Even from the wind rustling among leaves

  I shall love every dying being

  Singing of the stars

  And I shall walk

  On the path given to me.

  Tonight too the stars brush against the wind.

  These average, nondescript sentences pummelled Sugiyama’s temples. How could ten lines make him breathless and dazed? He didn’t realize that reading a single poem was equivalent to getting to know the world inhabited by the writer, expanding his senses beyond the usual five. He stuffed the manuscript back in the box. He wanted to flee – from this man, his writings, this poem. Sugiyama was firm in his belief that writing was a contaminant; it ruined people, concealed weak spirits and unmoored pity, ridiculous optimism and foolish dreams. Writers led an idle life in the name of romance, dazzled by clever lines, infected by anarchism. Poets believed they could change people and the world. Sugiyama straightened his guard cap. He would banish this absurd poem that flickered its evil tongue. He banged the square, long-handled stamp onto the manuscript:

  To Be Incinerated.

  He dipped his dry pen into the inkwell and filled out the incineration log:

  Prologue (The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry) –

  Author: Hiranuma Tochu

  His hand, holding the pen, trembled. His office felt unusually cold. He put his pen down; the young man’s pale face loomed in his memory. Sugiyama hesitated for a moment. There was no need for this to be incinerated right away. He should first interrogate and punish the prisoner who wrote this seditious poem.

  War dragged on. Prisoner 645 was curled up on the floor of his cell. Last summer his life had ended in a single instant, and nightmares had slammed him against the cold floor. He was no longer a university student, a young man agonizing about the times; he wasn’t spending every waking moment reading or taking long walks. Now he was ‘an element of the Korean Independence Movement’ implicated in the ‘Kyoto Korean Student Nationalist Group Incident’.

  On the morning of 14 July 1943 a handful of burly men rushed into Takeda Boarding House. They were Special Higher Police detectives from Shimogamo Police Station in Kyoto. They grabbed Hiranuma’s arms as he was about to step out of the house. The detectives threw him into a holding cell at the station, but did nothing more for two days, as though they enjoyed watching someone go mad behind bars. On the third day Hiranuma was called into the narrow box of an interrogation room. Across from him sat Detective Koroki, who opened the thick file on the desk containing a police surveillance log detailing Hiranuma’s every movement during the preceding year: how many people drank how many bottles of what kind of liquor in which bar on which day, what they discussed and what time he returned home and switched off the lights.

  According to Koroki, Hiranuma’s cousin, Song Mong-gyu, had been arrested with other conspirators four days earlier. Song was the alleged leader of a seditious organization, and Korean students who didn’t even know each other were linked through him. Song had made
the police blacklist for his past enrolment in a Chinese officer school. The exact account of the incident, accomplices, the charge and prison term were arranged in a perfect script. The incident, later known as the Kyoto Korean Student Nationalist Group Incident, occurred when Song and Hiranuma allegedly gathered Korean students in Kyoto and plotted to fight for Korean independence and support Korean culture. The Special Higher Police detectives simply took issue with anything to do with Korea, and Hiranuma happened to be Korean. Koroki tossed a bundle of papers on the desk. Hiranuma recognized the scent wafting from his manuscript of poems – that of a warm tatami room, accidentally spilled ink, dreams that vanished into the ether – and looked down at the bundle before him.

  The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry.

  Scenes from his former life flashed past his eyes: the blue sky outside the windows of a lecture hall, the wind brushing tree branches on a hill, the stars filling the night sky, and the poetry he read, copied down and created.

  ‘Nice lifestyle you’ve got there,’ Koroki spat out. ‘Patriotic young men are dying on battlefields while you scribble poems like a little girl. Translate these into Japanese! Your poems will prove your ideology. The original manuscript will be destroyed.’ He smiled, his face crinkling like Mephistopheles.

  Hiranuma gazed at the dry pen, black ink and his mother tongue. The poor-quality government-issue paper was waiting for something to be written on it. But writing his poems in Japanese was to trample on his own soul. At the same time, he was starving to write something, anything. Like a famished young man grabbing a spoon, he snatched the pen and dipped it in ink:

  EASILY COMPOSED POEM

  Night rain whispers outside the window

  Of a six-mat tatami room in a foreign country,

  Though I know a poet follows a sad calling

  I write down a line of poetry,

  With the tuition envelope sent

  Imparting the warm scent of sweat and love

  I hold a notebook under my arm

  And go to a lecture by an old professor.

  When I think about it

  I lost

  One, two, all my childhood friends.

  What do I wish for?

  That I alone sink?

  They say life is difficult

  But it is embarrassing

  That this poem is so easily composed.

  A six-mat tatami room in a foreign country.

  Night rain whispers outside the window,

  Turning on the light to drive away a sliver of darkness

  My final self waits for morning, a new epoch.

  I offer a small hand to myself

  The first handshake of tears and solace.

  After they were translated, Hiranuma’s poems were burned. He was sent to a solitary cell in the prosecutor’s office. On 22 February 1944 the prosecutor indicted him and his cousin as leaders of the incident. The trial began on 31 March, with Judge Ishii Heiyo of the Second Criminal Investigation Department at the Kyoto Regional Court presiding. Judge Ishii found the prisoners guilty of violating Clause V of the Maintenance of Public Order Act, which stated: ‘Individuals who organize an association with the purpose of changing the forms of state, support such an association, or consult, instigate or propagandize to implement such a purpose, or act in order to carry out said purpose, will be subject to a sentence of no less than one year, but no greater than ten years.’ Hiranuma received a sentence of two years. His release date was 30 November 1945, taking into account the 261 days he spent in detention prior to his conviction. He was no longer free, but he hadn’t ever known how it felt to be free; no Korean was free. Hiranuma stepped into Fukuoka Prison, counting the remaining days of his sentence.

  Sugiyama opened the door to the interrogation room. He approached Prisoner 645 stiffly, wanting to appear rock-solid, and sat down across from him. 645’s lips were dry and cracked, as though they’d been salted. His thin, wrinkled red prisoner uniform, its collar threadbare, looked like a piece of dirty, cast-away cloth.

  ‘645! You brought this in with you.’ Sugiyama tossed a leather-bound book onto the desk. Its title, The Complete New Testament and Psalms, was embossed in gold on the black leather cover.

  With trembling hands, Prisoner 645 grabbed the book and inhaled its scent of leather.

  Sugiyama snapped, ‘This was allowed in only because it’s in Japanese!’

  645 flipped through the book like a starving child. The thin pages of the Bible fluttered. He found the page he was looking for and read feverishly:

  Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

  Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

  Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.

  Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

  Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.

  Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.

  Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.

  Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

  – MATTHEW 5:3–10

  He was a different person when he lifted his head; he was no longer haggard or nervous. His gaze was peaceful. Who had consoled him? What had brought him peace?

  Sugiyama took his hand off the club by his waist. ‘Unbelievably foolish. Believing in God in times like these . . .’

  ‘It’s better than not believing in anything.’

  Sugiyama shook his head. In his mind, God was merely an excuse. The powerful killed and launched wars in His name and the weak closed their eyes to injustice, telling themselves it was God’s way. ‘I would think it’s better to believe in yourself before God.’

  ‘I believe in God in order to believe in myself.’

  ‘So you’re not seditious. You’re just stupid.’

  ‘If believing in God is stupid, then you are, too. You believe in God, just like me.’

  Sugiyama was suddenly afraid that he might tumble into the darkness of 645’s eyes. ‘I’ve never believed in God. Not for one second!’ He slammed his club onto the table, shattering the dry air.

  645 flinched, but forged on. ‘You hate God as much as I love Him. Or maybe you actually hate Him more than that. We each love or hate God in our own ways. If He didn’t exist there would be no reason for you to hate Him.’

  Sugiyama didn’t want to get tangled in showy sophistry. ‘Maybe that’s true. God may exist. But not here. Because this is Fukuoka Prison. If God existed here, then He’s not loving. He’s cold and cruel. Because He let you live. Here, staying alive is a curse.’

  ‘No matter where you are, no matter which side you’re on, being alive is a blessing.’

  Sugiyama gave him a sharp look. ‘Don’t yammer about death to me. Even I don’t know about death, and I spent my life with an arm around it.’

  ‘I’m not talking about death, I’m talking about life.’

  Sugiyama’s eyes burned red. The young man’s calm stare and the guard’s heated gaze met in the air, tussling silently. ‘I read a poem of yours. Since you said the poem was the road to understanding your truth, I figured the quickest route would be to read it. But you lied. There was nothing to be found in your poem. It was the weak, emotional drivel of an immature girl.’

  The young man’s brow furrowed.

  Sugiyama felt triumphant, believing that he’d hurt Prisoner 645’s pride. But the lump of emotion he’d sensed when he read ‘Prologue’ remained steadfast. Feigning calm, he said, ‘I did think of one thing when I read your poem.’

  Prisoner 645 looked up at him.

  Sugiyama hesitated a moment. ‘You don’t need to believe in something like God.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Because He’s already in your heart. But Sugiyama swallowed the words. He didn’t want the prisoner to know that he’d been moved by a silly poem.

 
; His cap pressed low over his eyes, Sugiyama walked down among the narrow bookshelves. The dark quiet seeped into his body. He heard a low whisper. He stopped and listened, but the sound disappeared. Was he hearing things? As he aged, his own body was attacking itself. His eyes dimmed, his ears heard phantom sounds, his joints creaked, his skin sagged and his bones were unable to hold up his weight. That was Sugiyama’s current stage of life. He’d lived so roughly that his body was deteriorating quickly.

  He found himself standing in front of the shelf holding box 645. He looked down and was startled to find his hands already holding the box. This is what happens when you get older, he thought to himself. Your body doesn’t listen to you any more. The manuscript he’d stuffed back in the box was still there. Sugiyama drew in a sharp breath, promising himself that he wouldn’t be shaken by sentimental feelings, no matter what. He collapsed into his chair and turned the thin page with his stubby fingers:

  NIGHT SEEN ON MY RETURN

  I return to my small room as though returning from the world and turn out the light. Leaving the light on is ever so exhausting as it is the extension of day –

  Now I should open the window to air out my room, but when I look outside it is dark like the inside of the room, like the world, and the path I took through the rain is still wet.

  Without any way to wash myself of the day’s pent-up anger I quietly close my eyes and a sound flows through my heart; ideology ripens on its own like a crab apple.

  Sugiyama’s voice, hoarse from yelling and swearing, was reading the poem out loud reverently as though in prayer. He was afraid he would be weakened by the beauty of the words and their warm consolation, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the poem. His life had been one long wearisome struggle; he deserved some relief, even briefly. Some men went around with their pasts pinned to their chests like medals, gloating about the number of men they killed or maimed in battle; to him, the past wasn’t something to be proud of. His life had been wind-swept and precarious, like a winter river topped with thin ice. He’d been born into stench, into the dust. Soon after birth he was abandoned at a fish market on the Kobe coast. A few merchants at the market looked after him. By the time he was seven, he was cleaning fish; by the time he was twelve he was out on a boat. His hard work helped him mature physically faster than his peers and his strength soon became his sole asset. When he was fifteen a group of Kobe riff-raffs picked a fight with him. He shattered noses and cheekbones and arms. When five more thugs came after him, he sent them packing with broken teeth and shattered wrists. The merchants began to avoid him and the captains didn’t want him on their boats; the fish market spat him out. The gang had threatened the merchants and captains, forcing them to cut their ties with him out of revenge. Sugiyama had nowhere to go. He ended up joining the very gang that had been the cause of his problems. Life in the back alleys wasn’t always bad. The rules made sense to him. If you didn’t eat, you would be eaten; whatever you didn’t steal, you would lose. His fists were precise and efficient. Soon a modifier followed his name: he was Sugiyama the Dog, Sugiyama the Butcher.