The Investigation (29 page)

‘You burned only paper. You didn’t ruin anything. The words are more vivid than ever.’

I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my uniform. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He helped me up this time, and I followed his clanking shackles. We went down the stairs through the
gaping hole in the ground. I lifted my lamp. The room was empty, but still fragrant with the smell of paper. Dong-ju paced, dragging his shackles. He stopped and picked up a page from a book.
Somehow it had been spared. He held it gingerly, as though he were cradling a bird with an injured wing. ‘
The Sorrows of Young Werther
.’

My heart began to pound. Young Werther’s story began on 4 May 1771 –
How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the heart of man!
– and ended with
a letter he sent to Charlotte on 22 December:
They are loaded – the clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte, Charlotte! farewell, farewell!

When I’d read it before, these lines hadn’t meant a thing to me. But now I understood Werther; we were the same. Werther thought of his beloved Charlotte playing the piano, just as I
listened to Midori.

Dong-ju reread those lines a couple of times, before carefully folding the piece of paper and placing it in his pocket. ‘There are so many books I want to read. It worries me that
I’m getting slower. Even a few pages into a story, I can’t remember what preceded it. I can’t seem to make a connection. I don’t quite remember the meaning of some words,
and I can’t decipher long sentences. Words and phrases get mixed up and plots get tangled.’

‘That’s normal,’ I said, trying to brush aside his worries. ‘I sometimes think that Tolstoy wrote
The Brothers Karamazov
and André Gide wrote
The Red and the Black
. A man’s memory isn’t perfect. We have the ability to remember, but also an ability to forget.’

Dong-ju looked around. Perhaps he was thinking about his own incinerated poems, pieces of him that perished without ever having touched another being. ‘Once, Sugiyama asked me why Koreans
talked so much. He wanted to know what we talked about during our breaks.’

I’d always wondered about that, too.

Dong-ju glanced at me. ‘They talk about Jean Valjean, Jammes, Shakespeare.’

I must have misheard him. Was it possible? ‘How? Most of them don’t even know how to read.’

‘The men who went to solitary were literate, but they weren’t reading just for themselves. In one week they would memorize as much of a book as possible. They’d go back to
their cells and tell their friends what they’d memorized. And the men who heard the stories remembered them. A few pages or a chapter or a poem at a time.’

Dong-ju smiled.

‘Cell 113 has Jammes’s book of poetry, Cell 115 has
Les Misérables
, Cell 119 has
The Count of Monte Cristo
. Our breaks were the marketplace for tales. Men
would take turns telling others what they remembered. The men who heard those stories would repeat them. They shared and gave each other hope this way.’

So books were still alive, having laid down roots in someone’s heart. They were living and breathing inside this brutal prison.

Ten prisoners were assigned to transform the underground library into a bomb shelter. They built reinforcing beams and laid thick planks against the walls. The space quadrupled
in size in a mere three days, so that it could comfortably shelter the forty-odd guards working in the central facilities.

Air raids continued daily. Death became even more commonplace. When the siren went off, we ran down to the basement. I would crouch against the dirt wall, imagining what was happening above
ground. But the prisoners who actually built the bomb shelter were not only unprotected; they weren’t even told what to do in the air raids. They would hear everything – the propeller
approaching in prelude to death, the wail of the siren, the explosions – without any means of escape. They could only pray that the bombs would fall elsewhere. Even as I waited out the
bombings, I felt a deep shame; we’d left these men to die while we’d scurried into safety.

One day, while we were hunkered in the bomb shelter, we heard a loud explosion. The light bulb overhead flickered. Dirt rained down on us, but we all survived. We left the shelter, and my fellow
guards were laughing and talking, thrilled to be alive, as though we were boys returning home after a game of hide-and-seek. I pushed through them and sprinted up to Ward Three, which had sustained
minor damage. I found Dong-ju. He was alive, his head covered in white dust. His lips trembled when our eyes met.

Dong-ju dragged his feet as he made his way towards the chair. His white ankles showed under his threadbare trousers. He creaked when he moved, like a shuttered window. He
placed his interlaced fingers on the table. His thumbnail had cracked from the cold. His deep-set eyes watched mine. I’d brought him to the interrogation room because I wanted to know more
about Sugiyama. Dong-ju’s memories were fading. I had to get all the information while I still could.

‘You must know who killed Sugiyama,’ I said bluntly.

‘Yes. This terrible era. Everyone goes insane. Everyone’s dying off.’ He didn’t sound like his usual self.

I didn’t say anything.

‘Being alive is the most beautiful thing,’ Dong-ju said, regaining his customary optimism. ‘Surviving this hell, Yuichi, means being cowardly. It’s better than meeting a
hero’s death. You need to see this war through and witness the end of all the atrocities. Promise me that.’

‘Do you think Sugiyama wore the mask of evil to survive?’ I asked, changing the subject. He shook his head. ‘No, no. He was evil. But he was ashamed of being that way, which
was why he was so brutal.’

‘What do you mean?’

Dong-ju glanced down at his hands, hesitating. ‘He wasn’t a war hero, you see. He was only a survivor. He hated himself for that.’

‘What does that have to do with how violent he was?’

‘He was punishing himself. He destroyed others, which ruined his soul. He closed his eyes to humanity and encouraged his own hatred and rage.’

That didn’t make any sense. The person who deserved sympathy was the victim of torture, not its perpetrator. I’d known Sugiyama – he was unfeeling towards another man’s
pain. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. ‘Brutality is simply immoral. It’s not a way to punish yourself,’ I shot back. ‘Your theory might make more sense if he harmed himself
or committed suicide.’

Dong-ju mulled over my words before nodding agreement.

‘That’s right, but you should know that he was a very sensitive soul. He was wounded and broken.’

‘And you’re wrong, by the way,’ I countered. ‘He was a war hero. He was surrounded by a Soviet mechanized brigade with dozens of tanks. At night, he attacked the enemy
base. He dodged shells for two weeks before returning to headquarters.’

‘That’s not true,’ Dong-ju insisted. ‘The Army Ministry fabricated that story. They made him a hero because they needed to hide the fact that they had been defeated. He
wasn’t a hero. He was a human being, just like the rest of us. He was someone who wanted to run away.’

‘What are you saying? He was never surrounded by the Soviets?’

Dong-ju paused. ‘Well . . .’

Actually, he had been surrounded. Sugiyama’s search party of nine had broken off from the rest of the unit in search of a retreat route. That was when the Soviets
attacked. Four of the party died on the spot and Sugiyama was captured. Later, he couldn’t remember the details of the ten days of brutal torture he’d suffered. As evil ate away at his
soul, he gradually turned evil, too. That was the only way to fight against it. As he had known only pain since birth, survival to him was winning; death was defeat, abandonment, shame.

The Soviets were insistent. They kept him dehydrated, then demanded that he tell them where his platoon was hiding out. When he refused, they taunted him, pouring iced water on the ground in
front of him. He wouldn’t break. They kept him awake for three days straight; soon he wasn’t sure how many days had passed or even who he was. He fervently wished he could forget where
the platoon was and its plans and signals, so that he wouldn’t accidentally say something. He fainted, came to, fainted again. Everything smelled like blood. His consciousness eroded; he spat
out smashed fragments of words, not realizing what he was saying.

When he opened his eyes, he smelled something fresh instead of blood. He thought he’d died. He figured he was in hell. But when he looked around, it was as though he’d gone to
heaven. There was a cup of water and a bowl of watery gruel by his bed. He was in a Soviet field hospital.

He touched his legs. His knees were skinned and parts of his flesh were burned, but nothing was broken. He looked out through a gap between the tent flaps. A soldier was standing guard at each
of the four large tents of the field hospital. He had to escape. There was still hope. Even if they knew where the platoon was, his comrades would have moved by now. If he followed the signs they
left behind, he might be able to rejoin them. Sugiyama pulled a tent stake out of the ground. He considered stabbing the guard and stealing his gun, but changed his mind; his goal was to escape,
not to kill. He stretched his weak legs and looked around. A thick forest of birch trees began about a hundred metres from the tent.

He counted to three, closed his eyes and dashed out, kicking one leg out before the other leg touched the ground. A bullet might shatter his spine at any moment. The breeze rushed at him and
whistled past his ears. Soon it was quiet. It smelled of fallen leaves. He opened his eyes. He’d made it into the dark woods. The forest embraced him. He couldn’t tell in which
direction he was going; the thick branches slapped his face, the thin rays of light stabbed his eyes, roots grabbed his ankles and vines tangled his limbs. His tired legs trembled and he felt
nauseated. Each time he was close to collapse, the thought of his platoon members kept him going. He walked all day and night, and another day and night until he arrived at the platoon’s
hiding spot. There was no sign of his friends. They had already moved on to their next location, as planned. Two days later, he’d almost caught up with them. He hoped he would be forgiven for
revealing their location. If he were fated to die, he wanted to die with them. He had just one more hill to climb before he could be reunited with his brothers. He was crawling up the steep slope
when he heard the long whistle of death: a shell flying overhead. The forest erupted into chaos, with explosions, gunshots and screams.

Sugiyama hauled himself over the hill, pulling himself up by rocks and roots. Sweat and dirt clung to his body. When he got up to the top of the hill, he saw what had transpired. The Soviets had
attacked his platoon. They’d been one step ahead of him. The trees were columns of fire. He practically rolled down the hill. The forest had burned to a crisp. The heat from the explosions
warmed the bottom of his feet. He shouted the names of his friends. There was no answer. He was looking up at a far-away hill when a flash blinded him. He heard a gunshot that shattered the quiet
and was knocked off-balance as though he had been clubbed. Hot blood trickled down from his shoulder. He laid his cheek against the ground, listening to the burning trees crackle; it sounded like
music. He remembered the long, white fingers of the girl he once loved. This wasn’t a bad way to go.

When he woke again, the forest was cold. He opened his heavy eyelids. He saw the gaiters that were part of the Japanese military uniform. They belonged to a search squadron of the Kwantung Army
mobilized to rescue the isolated platoon. They were too late. They’d only found one dying soldier. Sugiyama’s eyelids slid shut. He heard someone shouting, as though through a tunnel,
‘A survivor! Let’s evacuate!’ He heard urgent footsteps; his body was hoisted up. He’d performed his duty; he’d survived. For the rest of his life he wondered if he
should have died in that forest. For a long time he couldn’t forget what he’d seen. In the meantime, a demon entered his soul and settled there.