‘Hmm,’ I murmured, ‘we’re supposed to be careful not to create marks on the body.’
‘Once I was treating a prisoner for a shallow cut when I noticed that his left little finger was bent. It had broken, but hadn’t properly healed, so it was twisted. He told me he’d blocked Sugiyama’s club with his hand, and that was how he broke it.’
‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘When a forehead is busted open, it looks like a major and bloody injury, but it actually heals quickly. A broken finger is much more serious. He wasn’t treated for that?’
‘No. And that was how it was with the rest of the prisoners. Even those with serious wounds weren’t sent to us, and then all of a sudden prisoners with minor cuts came flooding in.’
It didn’t make any sense. Sugiyama had been violent for a long time, but he had never referred anyone for medical treatment. And then, in August, he began to send people with minor cuts to the infirmary. What happened in August? ‘Choi and Hiranuma went to the infirmary once a month. But, starting in October, they began going once a fortnight. What was going on?’
Midori’s eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. Was she hiding something? ‘I remember Choi being investigated for his tunnel around that time. Hiranuma—’
My eyes fixed on hers. ‘That was when Sugiyama was communicating with Hiranuma through poetry. He was still violent, but he was almost the man’s guardian. So then why would he injure him?’
The sun turned purple before disappearing in a reddish black. Darkness watched us through the window.
‘August 1944,’ I said to myself. ‘What happened then?’ My head was spinning with thoughts.
But Midori said nothing. She slid the file back into the leaves of the sheet music, crossed the auditorium and disappeared into the darkness.
I dragged myself back to the guard office, and the guard on duty looked up. I told him I would take over, as I had to catch up on reports anyway. He flashed a dazzling smile, handed me the ring of keys and scurried off. I opened the cabinet where we kept all the files: the Disinfection and Sanitation Log, Air Raid Evacuation Training Report, Ward Three Prisoner Interrogation Log, Assignment of Workers and Review of Work. I found what I was looking for on the third shelf — Diagnostic Referrals and Autopsy Requests.
Guards filled out diagnostic referral forms when a prisoner needed treatment, and gave them to Maeda for signature. The two-page form had carbon paper underneath, which was submitted to the infirmary; the original went into the file. The same procedure was followed for autopsy requests. I noticed that the forms were the same as those in the file Midori had shown me. The only difference was that we kept the two forms in separate files, while they filed them both in one. In our file, too, the referrals increased, starting on 22 August, mostly by Sugiyama. Various reasons were listed as the cause of injury. Another file, the Infirmary Inspection Results Report, drew my gaze like bait to a fish. I opened it. It didn’t start in January; it began with 24 August. So the inspection programme had begun in August. I flipped the page. There were twelve patients identified, along with their symptoms and suspected illnesses. The symptoms were listed as malnourishment, weakness, weakened eyesight, insomnia, haemorrhoids and emotional instability. These were all common; none was worthy of study by Kyushu Imperial University doctors. Why didn’t they select Japanese prisoners with more critical illnesses? I knew that many suffered from diabetes, glaucoma, hepatitis and arthritis. But these Korean prisoners seemed relatively healthy, and they were all young, in their late teens to early thirties.
Could it be that the best medical team in the nation had made a grave mistake? I laid the Diagnostic Referrals, Autopsy Requests and Infirmary Inspection Results Report files side-by-side and started to cross reference them by date. Kaneyama Tokichiro, Korean name Kim Myeong-sul, age twenty-nine, was selected during the first infirmary inspection on 24 August. He suffered from malnourishment and insomnia. I was puzzled. Even we guards experienced those conditions. Food was becoming scarce, rations were dwindling and air-raid sirens blared in the middle of the night. I found Kaneyama in the Autopsy Request file for 17 November. What had killed a healthy twenty-nine-year-old man in three months? I flipped through the Diagnostic Referrals carefully, but didn’t spot his name. He’d never received treatment for any ailment. I went back and compared the Autopsy Request forms with the Infirmary Inspection Results Report. Since October, five out of seven autopsied bodies had been selected for medical treatment. The causes of death were listed as an aneurism, abnormality of heart function and disturbances of metabolism.
I heard a loud bang and felt suddenly cold. I spun round. The wind was rattling the old doorframe. Freezing air burst through the gap in the windowsill. I looked out the window. Goosebumps prickled all over my skin. Prisoners who had been referred to the infirmary by Sugiyama hadn’t been chosen for medical treatment during the inspections. Prisoners who had been chosen died. Why did they keep dying? What was happening during these medical treatments?
The next morning I walked into Director Morioka’s office. The antique brown carpet muffled my footsteps. Next to the glistening hardwood desk stood a model of a skeleton. An anatomical diagram, a muscular model and a model of the human body hung on the walls; I could see the shoreline of Hakata Bay outside the window.
‘How are things, Yuichi?’ Morioka asked kindly. ‘Was it helpful for you to observe the medical treatment procedures?’ His smile was white and sparkling, almost blinding.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, my voice cracking.
‘Very good. I’m sure your misgivings were put to rest. I will give my recommendation to the warden that you be granted leave. I hope you will be able to visit your family with your mind at ease.’
I couldn’t wait. I wanted to flee this place and its bars and fall asleep between the dark, narrow bookcases in Kyoto, inhaling the scent of old paper and dust. But I forced myself to speak up. ‘Thank you, sir, but unfortunately, the side-effects are continuing.’
Thick furrows creased the director’s brow, but he continued to smile. He coughed. ‘I know. They’re not side-effects. We had fully anticipated these symptoms.’
I was stunned. ‘You expected that your patients would lose their memories and keep bleeding? So why are you continuing the treatment?’
The director’s face stiffened incrementally. His eyes glinted, cold and ruthless. ‘You’re Japanese, aren’t you?’ His voice was chilly.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you must know what a great war we are waging. And how important it is to Japan’s legacy.’
‘Yes, sir!’ I’d heard this my entire life. After all, we’d been at war from the day I was born. With Russia, with China, with Mongolia, with Korea, with America, against regular armies and Communist forces and guerrillas. When one battlefront was vanquished, we moved on to yet another.
The director nodded. ‘My medical team is devoted to research. Just as you are devoted to our country. You handle prisoners for the glory of the Empire, and the doctors handle patients for victory.’
I felt nauseated, as though I had swallowed maggots. ‘How can that be for the victory of the Empire?’
‘We’ve been working hard to develop new treatments for our soldiers. We’re on the brink of developing great, life-changing medicine.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. But I know for a fact that the patients are experiencing side-effects from those treatments.’
‘Enough about that!’
‘People are dying off. What is going on in this infirmary?’ I shouted, unable finally to restrain myself.