‘645! Hiranuma! Yun Dong-ju!’ I cried.
He was unconscious. He must have hit his head on the way down. Or maybe he had fallen because he’d lost consciousness. The prisoners rushed forward and surrounded us, glaring at me. Dong-ju was sprawled on the ground. His eyes were closed, but he was still smiling.
AFTER WINTER PASSES AND SPRING DAWNS ON MY STAR
The doctors checked Dong-ju’s vitals every hour, gauging his blood pressure, temperature and pulse. They weren’t trying to save him; they were simply observing the process of death. The doctor on duty granted me special permission to visit Dong-ju, and led me down the narrow hallway lined with dancing white curtains. That was where patients awaited the end of their lives. The doctor showed me to a cot and pushed aside the thin curtain. I could sense the presence of death; Dong-ju was slipping in and out of consciousness. I shot a resentful look at the needle in his arm, through which clear liquid was flowing into his body. The doctor explained that it was a nutritional supplement. Was that even true? I wanted to yank it out. Each time Dong-ju came to, the doctor rattled off a series of questions. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘What’s today’s date?’ ‘Where are we?’
Dong-ju cocked his head. He struggled to open his mouth. ‘I don’t know. 14 July 1943. I’m at. is this the Shimogamo Police Station?’
That was the date he was arrested by the Special Higher Police.
The doctor frowned. ‘His memory’s completely shot. Do you remember anything? Tell me whatever you can think of.’
‘Sky, wind, stars, poetry,’ Dong-ju murmured. ‘Memories and love and longing and poetry and mother. One star and a beautiful word, impoverished neighbours’ names, and puppy, rabbit, deer, donkey, Rainer Maria Rilke—’
The doctor shook his head. He motioned for me to follow him out. Dong-ju stared through me as though he were looking into another world.
That was the last time I saw him.
A few days later, I was in the censor office when I came across a form signed by Dong-ju’s doctor. Requesting posting of prisoner 645’s death notification. I felt everything turn black. It was my job to send telegrams notifying deaths. I pulled the phone on the desk towards me. I turned the handle to call the operator, but I couldn’t speak. The operator’s annoyed voice cut through my muteness.
I managed to dictate the telegram. ‘Dong-ju died 16 February. Collect body.’ My hand — no, my entire body — was trembling. I returned the receiver to its cradle. I opened my hand to count out the days that remained until his release.
I paced the frozen prison yard like a caged animal. Ten days later, Dong-ju’s father and cousin arrived to gather Dong-ju’s remains. I approached them as they headed out of the prison. I bowed my head. I wanted to say something. I wanted to convey his appearance, his last words, something that would allow his father to remember his son the way he was. After a while I raised my head. ‘It’s unbelievable — Dong-ju has died. That beautiful person. ’ I quickly turned round and walked away; my own tears were inappropriate in the face of their grief.
BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN
Time stopped for me, but it somehow kept ticking away for everyone else. Snow fell, piled up, drifted and melted, and new grass sprouted. On frozen branches spring flowers bloomed and died. I didn’t notice the winter fading into spring, which heated into summer in turn. I was a small, unmoored boat on an empty ocean, my sail torn, my oars broken. I was haunted by the men no longer here; Sugiyama’s face and Dong-ju’s voice dogged me wherever I went. My memories flashed back to the guard’s corpse hanging in the main corridor. I heard the plangent strokes of Die Winterreise, saw the poet’s long, pale hand opening the door to the interrogation room and Sugiyama’s rough hand writing on coarse recycled paper, and recalled Dong-ju’s eyes as he recited poetry under the stars. I thought often of the underground library, the long, narrow tunnel, Midori’s fingers flying across the piano keys like birds on the wing and the way she said, ‘He was a poet.’ My memory swam with poems that withered into a plume of smoke, books that transformed into a handful of ash, conversations in the interrogation room and Dong-ju’s words: ‘A book that takes root in someone’s heart never disappears.’
Everyone was leaving this world, especially the innocent. The war wrought violence on my soul. People left even when it wasn’t death that took them. Midori was suddenly transferred to a military hospital in Nagasaki. Perhaps she wanted to get out of here, knowing what nightmares were happening in this place. She left in a swirl of dry wind, without leaving behind even the shortest smile. Her departure made the prison feel emptier. I thought of her every moment I was awake. To push her away from my thoughts, I brandished my club with fervour and harassed the prisoners brutally, like Sugiyama used to. I thought I could understand him now, the guard who couldn’t help but become a monster, walking arrogantly to conceal his limp and turning brutal to hide his guilt. The prisoners began to avoid me, which is exactly what I wanted. I wanted to stop thinking about Midori; she was a good person, not like me. I could stand to be alive only if I could become even more brutal than the war.
I wanted to be invisible, to get out. I holed up in the inspection office, reading books and postcards, consoling myself that I wasn’t the only person bruised by the times. With the excuse of my censorship duties, I skipped meals and didn’t show up for the soldier-guard assemblies. Whenever I thought about Dong-ju, I went to the bookshelves, even though his box of confiscated materials was long gone. In those moments, I took out his black leather-bound Bible from the bottom of my drawer. This was the only thing that still proved his existence to me. I flipped through the pages his fingers had touched and opened it to a passage I’d read so often that my lips moved almost by rote:
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
Blessed are the mercifuclass="underline" for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
— MATTHEW 5:3–10
Dong-ju had made peace with unfathomable despair, even in his brutal, barbaric death. Now, these calm sentences that had meant so much to him soothed me.
One day, I opened the back cover of the Bible and a small piece of paper, covered in neat, familiar handwriting, fluttered out like a feather.
EIGHT BLESSINGS
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are they that mourn
Blessed are they that mourn
For they shall mourn forever.
I felt an immense despair. The repetition seemed to fore-shadow the acceptance of his fate, but the last line emphasized that the pain would go on for eternity. Had Dong-ju resigned himself to this? I shook my head. That wasn’t like him. He would have looked squarely at the hardship he faced; his poem was a promise that he would accept and survive it, no matter what happened. I couldn’t give up now. I had to face these times courageously, just as he had done.