David Peace - Tokyo Year Zero

His eyes, red spots on white …

He stares into the blade –

Bewitched .

Now he turns from the blade and looks into each of our faces, then down at the old Korean man still in our midst –

‘Move!’ he shouts at the Korean –

‘Back over there, Yobo!’

But the old Korean man stands shaking his head –

‘Move! Move!’ shouts the Kempei man again and begins to shove the old Korean back over towards the hole –

Kicking, prodding him with the sword –

‘Face the hole, Yobo! Face the hole!’

The Korean with his back to us –

The sword raised high again –

Eyes, red spots on white …

The man begging now –

The last sunlight …

Begging then falling, falling forward with a shudder as a cold chill courses through my own arms and legs –

The sword has come down –

Blood on the blade …

Now a desperate, piercing lament whines up from out of the mouth of the old Korean –

My blood cold …

‘What are you doing?’ the man cries. ‘Why? Why?’

The Kempei officer curses the Korean. He kicks the back of his legs and the Korean stumbles forward into the hole –

There is a foot-long gash on the man’s right shoulder where he has been cut by the Kempei’s sword, the blood from the wound soaking through his brown civilian work clothes –

‘Help me! Please help me! Help me!’

Now he claws wildly at the earth, screaming over and over, again and again, ‘I don’t want to die!’

‘Help me! Help me!’

But Captain Muto has lowered his bloody military sword now. He is staring down at the old Korean in the hole –

Each time the Korean comes crawling back up from the hole, the officer kicks him back down into the dirt –

The blood draining from his body –

Into the dirt and into the hole …

‘Help me!’ gasps the man –

The Kempei captain now turns to the caretaker and the boiler-man and commands, ‘Bury him!’

The caretaker and the boiler-man pick up their spades again and begin to heap the dirt back into the hole, over the man, faster and faster, as they bury his cries –

Down in the hole …

Until it is over –

Silence now …

My right hand trembles, my right arm, now both of my legs –

‘Detective Minami! Detective Minami! Detective Minami!’

I close my eyes. Eyes that are not my own . There are scalding tears streaming from these eyes. Eyes I do not want …

I wipe the tears away, again and again –

‘ Detective Minami! Detective Minami!’

Finally I open these eyes –

‘ Detective Minami!’

There are flags falling to the ground, but these flags are no flags, these buildings no buildings, these streets no streets –

For this city is no city, this country no country –

I eat acorns. I eat leaves. I eat weeds …

The voice of a god on the radio –

Hollow and sorrowful …

Everything distorted –

Heaven an abyss …

Time disjointed –

Hell our home …

Here, now –

Ten minutes past noon on the fifteenth day of the eighth month of the twentieth year of the reign of the Emperor Shōwa –

But this hour has no father, this year has no son –

No mother, no daughter, no wife nor lover –

For the hour is zero; the Year Zero –

Tokyo Year Zero.

to them weep. Thirty Calmotin, thirty-one. To my father: I hope you have been well. We land tomorrow. I shall do my best, as you would wish. To my wife: the great moment has come. To me, there is no tomorrow. I know well what you are thinking about, my dear wife. But be calm and serene. Take care of our children. To my son: Masaki, dear, your daddy is going to fight with the Chinese soldiers soon. Do you remember the big sword that your grandfather gave me? With it, I shall cut and stab and knock down enemy soldiers, like your hero, Iwami Jutaro. Daddy is going to bring home a sword and a steel Chinese helmet as a souvenir for you. But Masaki, dear, I want you to be a good boy always. Be nice to your mummy and Grandmother and all your teachers. Love your sister, and study so that you may become a great man. I see your little figure, waving a little flag in your little fist. Daddy cherishes that picture forever in his mind. Masaki, Banzai! Daddy, Banzai! Forty Calmotin, forty-one. Heavy fog hides everything but the railway station. Hints of Chinese houses, echoes of Chinese voices. Everything is yellow . Now we can smell acacia flowers, now we see Rising Sun flags. Everything khaki . Lookout patrols are dispatched, sentries posted. This unit to the noodle factory, that unit to the match factory. The Chinks rob the Japanese . The soldiers cook and clean. The Chinks rape the Japanese . The soldiers guard and patrol. The Chinks murder the Japanese . The soldiers build defence zones. The Chinks rob the Japanese . Barbed wire and barricades throughout the city. The Chinks rape the Japanese . Every Chinese is challenged at every intersection. The Chinks murder the Japanese . There are sandbags and there are roadblocks. More units arrive. There is always sand, there is never water. More units arrive. Always dust and always dirt. More units arrive. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari . Daytime duty is followed by nighttime duty. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari . Nighttime duty followed by daytime duty. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari . The mattresses are torn, the bedbugs hungry. I itch and I scratch. Gari-gari . There among the corpses, I cannot sleep. Bayonets fixed . I can hear their screams. Rifles loaded . I can hear their pleas. The Chinks rob the Japanese . The Japanese bosses don’t pay their Chinese workers. The Chinks rape the Japanese . The Chinese workers complain to their Japanese bosses. The Chinks murder the Japanese . The bosses insert cotton-thread needles into the gaps between the flesh and the nails of their workers’ fingers. I can hear their screams . The bosses thrust the needles into their ring fingers, their middle fingers and their index fingers. I can hear their pleas . The Japanese bosses do what they want now. I was impertinent, lazy and bad . Workers are lashed with wet leather whips. This is a warning . Workers are hung from the branches of trees. I was impertinent . Fifty Calmotin, fifty-one. A child shits behind a sorghum straw fence. Single-wheeled carts rush down the street. In this city of robbery . A woman with bound feet hurries past. The solitary wheels groan beneath the weight of huge gunnysacks. In this city of rape . Coolies the colour of dust sift through peanut shells and watermelon rinds. The rhombus-shaped sails of the carts inflate and disappear. In this city of murder . Long-eared donkeys lead a lengthy funeral

Tokyo, 91°, overcast

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

The sound of hammering and hammering –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

I open my eyes and I remember –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton … I am one of the survivors –

One of the lucky ones …