Hasegawa’s eyes glimmered at the thought of being part of this ambitious project. ‘You have an outstanding artistic vision, Director!’ he cried. ‘But would a famous singer come here?’
Morioka walked over to the piano. Hasegawa followed him awkwardly. ‘You know the singer Professor Marui, right? He is a supporter of Miss Iwanami and offered to help her study in Tokyo.’ He turned to look at Midori. ‘Miss Iwanami! Brief the warden about the plans for Fukuoka Prison’s peace concert. It’s ultimately his decision.’
Midori stood up. ‘Sugiyama-san did his best, but he couldn’t find all the tuning tools and parts in town. That’s when I thought of Professor Marui. I thought he might be able to help us. I know I may have overstepped my place, but I sent a letter asking him for tools and new parts to revitalize the prison’s old piano.’
‘And?’ Hasegawa cut in impatiently. ‘What happened? Did Professor Marui reply?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. From Tokyo we received a tool set, parts and new strings. I wrote back that once the piano was tuned, I would be honoured to accompany his rendition of Die Winterreise. He thought it was a wonderful idea.’
Hasegawa couldn’t believe his ears. The foremost singer in Japan would perform in his prison! A smile began to form on his face. An International Peace Concert at Fukuoka Prison — the benefits of a good press would be incalculable. The music would float out from behind bars and reach a nation exhausted from war and austerity. Hosting such a meaningful event meant that he could invite high-level officials of the central government, including the commanders of the army, navy and air force, and military Diet members. This might help him get a job at the Interior Ministry. Soldiers ruled during wartime, but afterwards it would be the bureaucrats’ era. This concert could deliver him to the core of power. Hasegawa clenched his teeth with determination. ‘We must begin to practise immediately.’
Midori finished her story and started to play. As her fingers sprang across the keys, the keys pushed up the hammers, the hammers pounded the strings, and the strings trembled and vibrated. One note led to another and seeped into the dark, dry air. I felt my despair lifting; from within me bubbled hope for life, making me want to hold someone’s hand and fall in love.
I started to sing along: ‘Carry me back to old Virginny. ’ My heart hammered, a clamour in the calm. It was enough to make me want to hope, even in these turbulent times.
After she finished playing I asked, ‘Why would Sugiyama have the lyrics of Die Winterreise?’ I was afraid to hear the reason, but I had to know.
She swept up a strand of hair. ‘He always kept poems in his shirt pocket. He loved poetry and gave everything to it.’
Untuned strings roared dissonantly in my heart. He loved poetry? He, who callously destroyed books? The face of the young poet hovered in front of my eyes. Hiranuma. He must know something. Maybe he knew everything.
LET ME LOOK UP TO THE HEAVENS WITHOUT A SPECK OF SHAME UNTIL THE DAY I DIE
According to the incineration log, Hiranuma Tochu’s documents were burned on 2 April 1944, immediately after he arrived at Fukuoka Prison. On the log were the names of unfamiliar Korean authors written in Chinese characters — Kim Yeong-rang, Baek Seok, Yi Sang, Jeong Ji-yong. Next to them were titles of books, a mixture of Chinese characters and katakana. Poetry of Yeong-rang, Poetry of Jeong Ji-yong. Most were volumes of poetry, but there were also copies of a Korean magazine called Sentences and books in English. The next incineration date was 3 April 1944. Sugiyama had written down all the names of the burned poems in his cramped hand.
1. Prologue
2. Until Dawn Comes
3. Cross
4. Another Home
5. Night Counting Stars
The numbers went up to nineteen. In the notes column he had written: ‘19 poems, to be included in the unpublished
The Sky, the Wind, the Stars and Poetry’. Under that were the numbers twenty to twenty-nine. In the notes column was the following: ‘According to Detective Koroki, the prisoner translated the poems into Japanese at Shimogamo Police Station in Kyoto.’ So Hiranuma had been arrested and brought to Shimogamo Police Station in Kyoto. The arresting officers confiscated dozens of seditious books and poems, and made Hiranuma translate his poems into Japanese. And of fifty or so poems, nineteen had been intended for inclusion in an unpublished book of poetry. The remaining poems seemed to have been written in Tokyo and Kyoto.
Sugiyama Dozan and Hiranuma Tochu. Sugiyama the censor ruined Hiranuma the poet, and Hiranuma hated Sugiyama for it. They were in stark contrast to each other — one was the shadow and the other the light. But they were linked by poetry. So why did Sugiyama have poems in his pocket and desk drawer? What role did poetry have in their relationship? To find out I had to interrogate Hiranuma.
Prisoner 645 sat straight-backed on the old wooden chair in the interrogation room. The humidity-spotted walls accentuated his gaunt, pale face. He was slight in his too-large prisoner uniform. I assumed an impassive demeanour as I flipped through the file, but I was feeling anxious. I told myself to calm down; Hiranuma was the one who should be worried.
‘Did you catch the murderer?’ he asked.
His question knocked the breath out of me. I’d already lost my authority. I took off my sweat-soaked military cap and decided to confide in him. There was no way he would tell me the truth if I didn’t. ‘It was a prisoner named Choi Chi-su. He killed the guard when his escape plot was discovered.’
Hiranuma nodded. Dark shadows were cast under his nose and on his stubbly chin. The bruise on his eye was turning yellow. ‘So you got the murderer. What do you want from me?’
‘I have the facts, but not the truth.’
He scanned my face. ‘Facts and truth. ’
I recalled Rilke’s book of poems in his box of confiscated books. ‘It was a fact that Rilke died from being stuck by a rose, but that wasn’t the truth. The thorn caused blood poisoning that spread bacteria throughout his body, but that wasn’t the cause of death. It was leukaemia. On the other side of a fact lurks another truth.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘Yes. He wrote his own headstone to say: “rose, o pure contradiction, desire to be no one’s sleep beneath so many lids”. That is suggestive of the secretive essence hidden on the other side of a beautiful rose.’
He searched my face. My argument was, in essence, revealing to him the kind of person I was; he was reading me as I sat in front of him.
I made an effort to regain the terse tone of an interrogator. ‘Why did Sugiyama Dozan copy out your poems?’
He shook his head. He looked firm — he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell. Noting my disheartened expression, he spoke, with the finality of scattering wet dirt into an open grave. ‘Accept the facts that have been revealed. The truth only makes everyone suffer.’
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.’