Authors: Jung-myung Lee
The Investigation
PROLOGUE: THINGS LONG GONE FLICKER LIKE FIREFLIES
AS A STRANGER I ARRIVED, AS A STRANGER AGAIN I LEAVE
THINGS THAT POOL IN THE HEART BEFORE TRICKLING DOWN
I SEE THE BACK OF A SAD MAN WALKING ALONE UNDER A METEOR
LET ME LOOK UP TO THE HEAVENS WITHOUT A SPECK OF SHAME UNTIL THE DAY I DIE
HOW DO SENTENCES SAVE THE SOUL?
O MY SORROW, YOU ARE BETTER THAN A WELL-BELOVED
FROM WHERE DOES THE WIND COME AND WHERE DOES IT GO?
THE PRIVATE LIFE OF A BOOK-WORM
THE TRUTH DOES NOT LEAVE FOOTPRINTS
JESUS CHRIST, A HAPPY, SUFFERING MAN
IF SPRING CAME TO MY STAR . . .
THE NAMES OF IMPOVERISHED NEIGHBOURS AND FRANCIS JAMMES, RAINER MARIA RILKE . . .
EXCESSIVE HARDSHIP, EXCESSIVE FATIGUE
THE CHORUS OF THE HEBREW SLAVES
AFTER WINTER PASSES AND SPRING DAWNS ON MY STAR
THINGS LONG GONE FLICKER LIKE FIREFLIES
Life may not have a purpose. But death requires clarity – not to prove that death occurred, but for the benefit of those who survive. This lesson, which I learned this
past winter, made me who I am now. War had whipped me like a sandstorm. Somehow, even as I was worn down, eroded, I grew up, little by little. One might be congratulated for maturing, for the body
becomes stronger and one accumulates experience; but to get here I’d lost so much. I am unable to return to who I’d been before, when I was unaware of the world’s cruelty, the
evil among us or the power inherent in a written line.
The war ended on 15 August 1945. The prisoners were freed, but I’m still here. The only thing that’s changed is that now I am behind bars, my brown guard uniform exchanged for this
red prisoner’s garb. Dark numbers are printed clearly on my chest: D29745. I don’t entirely understand why I’m here. During the war I was stationed as a soldier-guard at Fukuoka
Prison. Now the Americans have classified me as a low-level war criminal. I am incarcerated in the very cell I once patrolled, in this immense prison of tall brick walls, sharp barbed wire, thick
bars and the brick rooms that swallowed the lives of thousands.
Pale sunlight falls on the dark wooden floor, which not long ago was soaked with blood and pus. With a finger, I scrawl down some words in the rectangular patch of light, as though I were
writing on paper. My muscles are firm, my skin is smooth, my blood is red, but my eyes have seen too much brutality. I’m only twenty.
The American military has charged me with the abuse of prisoners. I suppose it’s a logical accusation; even I wouldn’t say I’m innocent. I’ve abused prisoners, sometimes
on purpose, at other times without even realizing it. I’ve yelled at them and beaten them. I have to accept responsibility for that. But I’m guiltier still of something else: the crime
of doing nothing. I didn’t prevent the unnecessary deaths of innocent people. I was silent in the face of the insanity. I closed my ears to the screams of the innocent.
The story I’m about to tell isn’t about me; it’s about the war’s destruction of the human race. This story is about both the people who lacked humanity and the purest of
men. And it’s about a bright star that crossed our dark universe 10,000 years ago. I don’t really know where this story will start or how it will end, or whether I can even finish it. I
will just write it all down. My story is about two people who met at Fukuoka Prison. In my narrow cell I remember their lives behind the tall, firm brick wall, on the sun-soaked yard and under the
shadows of the tall poplars. One prisoner and one guard; one poet and one censor.
AS A STRANGER I ARRIVED, AS A STRANGER AGAIN I LEAVE
The bell clanged, ripping through the dawn air. What happened? Had there been a prison break? I sprang up from the hard bed in the guardroom. It was still dark outside. I
tightened my boot laces as the lights flickered on in the long corridor.
An urgent voice rang out over the crackling speakers. ‘All guards report to your cells and begin roll call. Report anything unusual immediately. The guard on patrol duty for Ward Three,
stand by at the entrance to the main corridor!’
Two guards manned the overnight rounds, which began at exactly 10 p.m. It took an hour and fifty minutes to check each cell on both sides of the long corridor and to inspect the locks. Shift
change was at midnight, two and four in the morning. Sugiyama Dozan, with whom I worked, was a veteran over forty years old. When I’d returned to the guardroom after the 2 a.m. rounds, he was
perched on the bed, tightening his gaiters. He’d left the room without a word, his club fastened to his hip. As he disappeared into the darkness, his back looked indistinct, ghostly. My
eyelids, heavy with fatigue, had tugged me down into the black swamp of sleep – sleep that was now shattered.
I forced my tired eyes open and sprinted down the main corridor leading to the guard offices. Big dogs were barking in the darkness beyond the red-brick walls. The spotlight from the watchtower
sliced through the night like a sharp blade. The urgent shouts of the guards outside reached my ears. On either side of the narrow corridor prisoners looked out through the bars of their cells,
bleary eyes ripe with annoyance and resentment. The guards threw open the cell doors to conduct the roll call. Voices calling out prisoner numbers and the prisoners’ responses swirled with
the alarm. I ran, chased by the thudding of my own boots. I skidded to a stop in the main corridor of Ward Three. What I saw made me want to escape into a dream. It was worse than a nightmare.
Reddish-black blood was splattered on the main corridor, making a sunburst pattern. It was still falling from the second-floor railing. The body was hanging naked from a rope wrapped around a
crossbeam on the ceiling. His arms were open at his sides and tied to the railing. Blood dripped from the left side of his chest, down his stomach and thigh, and hung for a moment on the tip of his
big toe before falling to the ground. His head was bowed. He was staring down at me. Sugiyama Dozan.
Goosebumps pricked my body. Death was something I’d never thought about; it wasn’t a becoming topic for a nineteen-year-old. Although I was in uniform, I was still only a boy. I
gagged a few times and wiped my wet eyes. Other guards were milling around in confusion, unable to decide whether to leave the corpse hanging over the main corridor or cut it down. I approached
again and shone my torch on his face. His lips had been sealed. Seven neat, delicate stitches led from the lower to the upper lip and back. I forced myself to lock my rattling knees.
Head guard Maeda arrived, and the blood drained from his face. He stuttered an urgent order: ‘Take the body down, cover it and move it to the infirmary!’
Several guards ran up to the second floor to undo the knot and eased the corpse slowly to the ground. Two others brought a stretcher and quickly disappeared with the body.
‘Who’s the alternate patrol?’ Maeda asked, looking around.
I stiffened to attention. ‘Watanabe Yuichi! Patrol on duty.’
Maeda threw me a sharp glance and shouted at me. Overwhelmed by the sour odour of vomit and the bright searchlight slicing the darkness, I couldn’t hear anything other than the siren from
the outer watchtower and the barking of the guard dogs.
The guard who had been searching the building entrance ran back in. ‘About half a foot of snow fell overnight, but there isn’t a single footprint anywhere; nobody has entered or left
this building.’
That much was obvious. There were no puddles of melted snow or wet footprints around the crime scene. Where did the murderer come from? Where did he go?
A senior guard tapped me on the shoulder. I came to my senses. He relayed Maeda’s order to gather Sugiyama’s belongings and prepare an incident report. I ran up the stairs to the
second floor. Flung to the ground next to the railing was his uniform. Sugiyama always had every button fastened. The uniform was his skin; without the uniform he was nothing. Now the arms and legs
were inside out, the buttons were missing. I noticed that his uniform top didn’t have any cuts in it. The murderer had taken off his uniform before hanging him. Only then had he driven a
long, steel stake into Sugiyama’s heart. His trousers, with worn, baggy knees, had been tossed carelessly aside, but crisp pleats still ran down the middle of each leg. Sugiyama had stitched
his pockets closed to ensure that he didn’t slide his hand into them; the neat needlework was the secret to his composed gait.
I reached into the inner pocket of the uniform top and trembled like a boy reaching into a warm bird’s nest. My fingertips touched something like a baby bird’s feather – a
piece of coarse paper folded twice over. I unfolded it. The words, nestled together to create small villages, whispered to me:
G
OOD
N
IGHT
As a stranger I arrived,
As a stranger again I leave.
May was kind to me
With many bunches of flowers.
The girl spoke of love,
Her mother even of marriage,
Now the world is bleak,
The path covered by snow.
I cannot choose the time
Of my departure;
I must find my own way
In this darkness.
With a shadow cast by the moonlight
As my travelling companion
I’ll search for animal tracks
On the white fields.
Why should I linger, waiting
Until I am driven out?
Let stray dogs howl
Outside their master’s house;
Love loves to wander
God has made her so
From one to the other.
Dear love, good night!
I will not disturb you in your dreaming,
It would be a pity to disturb your rest;
You shall not hear my footsteps
Softly, softly shut the door!
On my way out I’ll write
‘Good Night’ on the gate,
So that you may see
That I have thought of you.
Each line exuded grief and despair, and an intense love; each stanza recalled a sad man walking away on a snow-covered night road. I examined the note carefully – the spot of ink that had
spread where the pen had stopped, hesitating; the shape of the clumsy, rapid or slow strokes; the small changes of indentation from pen pressing against paper. Did he write this poem or did he
simply copy someone else’s? If this hand wasn’t his, whose was it? Did someone plant this note, and why was this poem in Sugiyama’s inner pocket?
