I took the incineration log and a lamp and headed to the inspection library. I lifted the wooden board; dust and the dank odour of mould washed over me. I ran down the stairs. I pushed aside the construction materials and found the waist-high entrance to the tunnel. I examined the wall, bringing the lamp closer. Inside the tunnel I noticed sharp marks from a shovel carved in the hard dirt wall; the way they were cut into the dirt showed that the digging had commenced from the library. So Sugiyama had not only supplied the books. No wonder he had dirt on his uniform. Dong-ju had been telling the truth. Sugiyama hadn’t stumbled upon the secret plan; he’d had a crucial role in creating it. Sugiyama Dozan, that feared guard of the Empire, had wilfully betrayed everything it stood for.
Who was he really? And who exactly had killed him?
THE TRUTH DOES NOT LEAVE FOOTPRINTS
The next day I dragged myself to Maeda’s office, feeling embarrassed, fearful and guilt-ridden. Maeda was stirring lumps of coal in the furnace with tongs, his cheeks ruddy.
‘I’ve discovered something new in regard to the murder of the guard,’ I announced.
‘And what is that?’ he asked, bored. ‘Did Sugiyama’s ghost tell you something?’
I swallowed hard. My lips felt stuck together, as though a spider had spun a web in my mouth. ‘I believe we have the wrong man.’
Maeda tossed the tongs aside and turned round to look me squarely in the eyes. ‘What are you talking about? You’re the one who investigated the murder. You said it was Choi. You’ve been given a medal and promoted to corporal. And now you’re saying you’d reached the wrong conclusion?’
‘There was an error in the investigation. Circumstantial evidence pointed strongly to Choi, who, as you know, confessed. But there are still unresolved issues.’
‘This prison is filled with unresolved issues! For example, why don’t these filthy Koreans disappear from the earth? Why do soldiers of the Empire have to take care of them? Everything is an issue. That doesn’t mean there are answers.’
‘If Choi killed Sugiyama, there would have been footprints at the entrance to the central facilities. If you remember, it snowed that night. But there were no footprints at the scene of the murder or in the yard leading up to the building.’ Of course I knew that the lack of footprints had nothing to do with Choi’s innocence, since he could have entered the central facilities through the tunnel leading to the underground library. But I wasn’t about to reveal that secret. To get at one truth I had to hide another; I was playing a dangerous game.
‘I suppose they could have got erased by the guards’ or the prisoners’ footprints.’
‘That night all the prisoners were in their cells. I have another question.’
‘How many goddamn questions do you have?’ Maeda snapped.
‘Why didn’t Sugiyama report Choi’s tunnel? And why hasn’t Choi been executed for digging it?’
The damp coal in the furnace crackled. Maeda waved his hands impatiently. ‘Enough! You intellectuals never know when to put a stop to things. You’re over-thinking it. When you’re not sure, the very first thought that comes to you is usually the right one.’
‘But Sugiyama was so thorough. Why would he look the other way when a prisoner tried to escape? And why would that prisoner be allowed to live? Neither of these things should have happened at a place like Fukuoka Prison.’
Maeda looked uncomfortable. ‘So you have a lot of questions. But you’re a soldier! Your job is to take orders.’
I straightened my shoulders. ‘Sir, I’m not resisting an order. As an investigator—’
Maeda’s voice sliced through mine. ‘You’ve wrapped up that incident!’
I forced myself to keep talking. ‘But if Choi isn’t the murderer. If it wasn’t Choi, then who killed Sugiyama? Who’s the real murderer?’ I looked down at my feet.
‘Yuichi,’ Maeda said gently. ‘The investigation is over. Stop picking at scabs. It doesn’t matter who killed him. All Koreans are the same. They’re not worth being kept alive.’
Although I had begun this investigation only under orders, now I found myself unable to let it rest. I still had no idea what had happened. What was behind Sugiyama’s mysterious actions, the secret tunnel and the underground library?
Maeda raised his voice. ‘You need to realize how serious the war situation is. Every day young men are dying on one battle-front after another. Sugiyama was just one of them. It’s like pouring a small gourd of water into the Pacific. Obsessing over a closed investigation is an affront to their memories. Understood?’
I turned around woodenly and walked out of the office, feeling his gaze burning into the back of my head.
Maeda’s voice flew at me like a leather whip. ‘By the way, I’m assigning you to take over Sugiyama’s other duties. You must censor the sheet music for the concert, escort the chorus and watch over them during practice.’
The grandfather clock rang ten times, like a heavy axe chopping down a tree. I was certain I would begin to fall very slowly, unable to stand upright any more.
JESUS CHRIST, A HAPPY, SUFFERING MAN
The cells were filled with cold, grey air. Twelve men were crammed in a space five metres wide by five metres long. Their breath formed tiny water drops that clustered on the walls. The stiff, frozen men waited impatiently for the beginning of labour; it was easier to live with the cold when they moved their bodies. They were starving, freezing and dying. Before falling asleep at night, they stared into the face of the person lying next to them. Nobody knew what would happen overnight; an invisible hand silently yanked souls away in the dark. In the morning the prisoners woke with moans, starting a new nightmare all over again. Lying on the frosted floor, their blood frozen, the men would turn their heads to check that their neighbours were still breathing.
One day, as a man ate his meagre ration of rice, he announced, ‘If I die, don’t move my body until spring. My body won’t start rotting because it’s so cold. And you can have my share of the rice.’
Indeed, nobody told the guards when someone died. The prisoners would rather sleep next to a corpse, if they could fill their hollow stomachs with a few more frozen balls of rice. They wished they were living a nightmare; at least they wouldn’t feel pain if they were dreaming. The men who were still alive ate the meals of the dead, then paid the price by digging graves in the frozen ground when the guards found out. They all believed they might be next.
Soon, even the healthy men started to die. The prisoners liked to say that one could survive the year if one lived through the winter. As the season deepened, more and more men were assigned to receive medical treatment every week. The prisoners felt protected and cared for as the doctors listened to their hearts, measured their blood pressure and drew their blood. Depending on the results, the doctors prescribed infusions. The men entrusted their bare arms to gentle nurses in white masks. They hoped the warm solution entering their veins would invigorate their tired bodies and strengthen their feeble heartbeats. Their fellow cellmates eagerly waited for their return to hear every last detail. The men who’d received treatment exaggerated what they’d experienced, creating a fantastical infirmary, a place filled with bright light that wasn’t hot in the summer or cold in the winter, a paradise where angels in white caressed their wrists. Everyone wanted to be chosen, to revel in that special privilege. Weak, sickly men were treated as heroes. Before long, though, their dreams and fantasies crumbled. Those who were called into the infirmary saw no visible changes to their health. They became more subdued and talked less, but it wasn’t clear what the cause was. The patients began to tire of going to the infirmary. Eventually some of them wanted none of it, but it wasn’t in their power to decide.