He coughed. ‘I’m not the only one. Everyone’s eyesight and memories are failing, too. The doctors say all of these are temporary reactions because the infusions are a shock to our systems. They told us we’ll get better if we continue with the treatment.’
I looked him over carefully. His once-handsome face was unrecognizable from ringworm and the constant beatings by my fellow guards.
His eyes glazed over again, like a dusty sheet of glass. ‘Don’t worry!’ Dong-ju said, smiling. ‘I’m going to survive. I’m walking out of this place on my own two feet.’
A thought flashed through my head — I knew who could help us. Midori. I got Dong-ju to his feet. At the steel gates that led to the infirmary corridor I told the guard that I was escorting an emergency patient. He opened the gate. The noise of clanking shackles preceded us in the dark corridor. We could hear the piano. Midori stopped playing and turned to look at the source of the disturbance.
I was breathing hard from the effort of bearing Dong-ju’s weight. ‘I’m sorry to bother you during practice,’ I said, panting. ‘It’s an emergency. He won’t stop bleeding.’
She motioned for Dong-ju to sit on the piano bench and opened the emergency kit she kept next to the piano. She cleaned the wound with alcohol. ‘It’s only a superficial cut. It won’t require stitches. But it’s odd that it won’t stop bleeding.’ She placed gauze on the wound and wrapped it with a bandage. Gradually the blood stopped seeping through the gauze.
Dong-ju turned round in his seat and placed a careful finger on the keyboard. The note lingered, continuing on like a delicate thread. He closed his eyes, feeling the note with his entire body.
I asked Midori to step outside. ‘Thankfully the bleeding is under control now, but I’m still worried. He’ll keep getting injured during hard labour. Besides, the bleeding might only be an indication that something else is wrong.’
‘Does he have any other symptoms?’
‘He’s definitely changed. He’s sluggish. He falls asleep during interrogation. He has a chronic cough and his memory is getting worse.’
‘We’re seeing plenty of patients with colds, since the temperature is freezing right now and the cells aren’t heated. And we’ve started seeing other prisoners who wouldn’t stop bleeding, mostly from Ward Three.’
‘Ward Three? Well, they’re getting nothing to eat and their cells aren’t heated, but they’re assigned to hard labour. It makes sense that their immunity would be compromised.’
‘There’s another notable thing about the Korean prisoners,’ Midori said hesitantly.
‘What’s that?’
‘Most of the patients assigned for medical treatment were chosen from Ward Three.’
I froze. ‘The medical treatment was for those who are unwell, right?’ I stammered. ‘And that’s why the Koreans were chosen. But then why would they be getting worse?’
She shook her head. ‘It might be the infusions. If a weak person is infused with strong nutritive medication, they might experience side-effects.’
‘We need to find out what’s going on.’
‘These are doctors from the best medical school in the Empire. If they see any side-effects they’ll be the first to take action.’
‘They should have done so already!’
‘We’re going to have a research meeting in three days. The doctors will go over the treatment plan and research questions for the week. I’ll report the side-effects and suggest remedies. Would you look into the prisoners’ symptoms?’
Her calm tone reassured me to some degree. But I was nevertheless deeply troubled by an unidentifiable nervousness.
A few days later, I was called into Director Morioka’s research lab. The air was filled with the cool, clean smell of dozens of medications and, on one wall, bookcases were lined with numerous foreign-language medical texts.
The director offered his hand eagerly. I took it stiffly.
‘Yuichi!’ the director cried. ‘I heard that you recently volunteered to escort the prisoners to the infirmary for their medical treatments. I commend you for that. I understand that you put together Nurse Iwanami’s report at the research meeting. It seems there was a small misunderstanding about the medical treatments.’
At the meeting Midori had presented a chart of prisoner numbers and the side-effects each suffered. Almost all the patients experienced headaches, fatigue, weakness and indigestion. Vomiting and diarrhoea weren’t uncommon. They also experienced loss of memory, dizziness, bleeding and bruising at the smallest impact. Almost all the prisoners showed several symptoms.
‘I merely reported the results after receiving complaints from the prisoners,’ I said, somewhat defensively.
‘Oh, I’m not reprimanding you. The medical team has decided to review the report and come up with an appropriate plan. It was a wonderful report, except for one fatal flaw.’
‘A flaw?’
‘You relied too heavily on the patients’ statements. These kinds of symptoms have to be determined through careful medical examination.’
I felt cowed by Director Morioka’s gentle expression and melodic voice. ‘Sir,’ I began hesitantly. ‘The symptoms weren’t false. The prisoners who received infusions are in pain. What the patient is feeling has to be the most accurate documentation of his pain.’
Director Morioka smiled. ‘Will you be my guest tomorrow in the infirmary? Your misgivings will be put aside when you see for yourself how scientifically and hygienically we conduct the medical treatments.’
I nodded, mute.
The next day, at two in the afternoon, I escorted thirty prisoners to the infirmary. We stopped, as always, in front of the auditorium. Dong-ju’s gaunt cheeks were flushed with vitality as he stood listening to the singing. At the end of the song I led the prisoners down the corridor, their shackles dragging behind us.
In the infirmary a doctor wearing silver glasses motioned for me to follow him. He opened the door to the infusion room, revealing six cots shielded by white curtains on either side of the room. ‘The infusion room is the height of hygiene and convenience,’ he explained.
In a clear, high voice a nurse called out six numbers. Prisoners filed in and each took a cot. Nurses approached them and, with precise movements, found the veins and inserted the needles in their thin arms. After the treatment the men rested. The doctor explained to me that they might experience dizziness or muscle spasms if they moved right away. I tagged along behind him as he moved slowly between the cots.
‘This medication will give them more vitality and help prolong their lives,’ he said and opened the door at the other end of the room. I followed him in, feeling like Alice hurtling down the rabbit hole. He sat down at the desk, which was stacked with medical files, and nodded at the young prisoner, an interpreter, sitting stiffly in a chair in the corner.
The doctor flipped through the list and shouted, ‘531! Enter!’
The interpreter followed suit in Korean.
A man with sunken eyes walked in.
The doctor didn’t look up from the chart. ‘Any uncomfortable symptoms?’ he snapped.
The patient blinked his eyes, waiting for the interpreter to finish translating. ‘Nowhere in particular,’ he replied nervously. ‘I’m always uncomfortable. My head feels foggy and I’m tired, but I can’t sleep at night. I haven’t eaten much. I can’t digest anything, anyway. I have the runs, you see.’
The doctor wrote down the symptoms on the chart. He laid down his pen and took out a stopwatch and a piece of paper from the desk drawer. He turned to me and explained that he would conduct a mental-agility test that would reveal any damage to brain function. Apparently, performance of arithmetic was the most effective neurological test, as it required instant recall, strong focus and accurate maths skills.