Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

I slip the note under a cup, shoulder my backpack, and head out of the apartment, leaving the key under the doormat like she said. A black-and-white spotted cat's lying in the middle of the stairs, taking a nap. He must be used to people because he doesn't make a move to get up as I go down the stairs. I sit down beside him and stroke his large body for a while. The feel of his fur brings back memories. The cat narrows his eyes and starts to purr. We sit there on the stairs for a long time, each enjoying his own version of this intimate feeling. Finally I tell him good-bye and walk down the road. A fine rain's begun to fall.

Having checked out of the hotel and left Sakura's, I have no idea where I'll spend the night. Before the sun sets I've got to find a roof to sleep under, someplace safe. I don't know where to begin but decide to take the train out to the Komura Library. Once I get there, something will work out. I don't know why, but I just have a feeling it will.

Fate seems to be taking me in some even stranger directions.

October 19, 1972

Dear Professor,

I'm sure you must be quite surprised to receive a letter from me, out of the blue. Please forgive me for being so forward. I imagine that you no longer remember my name, Professor, but I was at one time a teacher at a small elementary school in Yamanashi Prefecture. When you read this, you may recall something about me. I was the teacher in charge of the group of children on a field trip, the ones involved in the incident in which the children all lost consciousness. Afterward, as you may remember, I had the opportunity to speak with you and your colleagues from the university in Tokyo several times when you visited our town with people from the military to investigate.

In the years following I've often seen your name mentioned prominently in the press, and I have followed your career and achievements with the deepest admiration. At the same time, I have fond memories of when we met, especially your very businesslike, brisk way of speaking. I feel blessed, too, to have been able to read several of your books. I've always been impressed by your insights, and I find the worldview that runs through all of your publications very convincing-namely that as individuals each of us is extremely isolated, while at the same time we are all linked by a prototypical memory. There have been times in my own life that I felt exactly this way. From afar, then, I pray for your continued success.

After that incident I continued to teach at the same elementary school. A few years ago, however, I unexpectedly fell ill, was hospitalized for a long spell in Kofu General Hospital, and, after some time, submitted my resignation. For a year I was in and out of the hospital, but eventually I recovered, was discharged, and opened a small tutorial school in our town. My students were the children of my former pupils. It's a trite observation, perhaps, but it is true what they say-that time does fly-and I've found the passage of time to be incredibly swift.

During the war I lost both my husband and my father, then my mother as well in the confused period following the surrender. With my husband off to war soon after we married, we never had any children, so I've been all alone in the world. I wouldn't say my life has been happy, but it has been a great blessing to have been able to teach for so long and have the chance to work with so many children over the years. I thank God for this opportunity. If it hadn't been for teaching I don't think I'd have been able to survive.

I summoned up my courage today to write to you, Professor, because I've never been able to forget that incident in the woods in the fall of 1944. Twenty-eight years have passed, but to me it's as fresh in my mind as if it took place yesterday. Those memories are always with me, shadowing my every waking moment. I've spent countless sleepless nights pondering it all, and it's even haunted my dreams.

It's as if the aftershocks of that incident affect every aspect of my life. To give you an example, whenever I run across any of the children involved in the incident (half of whom still live here in town and are now in their mid-thirties) I always wonder what effects the incident had on them, and on myself. Something as traumatic as that you'd think would have to have some lingering physical or psychological impact on all of us. I can't believe otherwise. But when it comes to pinpointing what sort of effects these were, and how great an impact it all had, I'm at a loss.

As you're well aware, Professor, the military kept news of this incident from reaching the public. During the Occupation the American military conducted their own investigation behind closed doors. The military's always the same, whether Japanese or American. Even when censorship was lifted after the Occupation, no articles about the incident appeared in newspapers or magazines. Which I suppose is understandable, since it had taken place years before and no one had died.

Because of this, most people are unaware that such an incident ever took place. During the war there were so many horrific events, and millions of people lost their lives, so I don't suppose people would be very shocked by what happened in our little town. Even here not many people remember what happened, and those who do don't appear willing to talk about it. I'd say most people who recall the incident find it an unpleasant memory they'd prefer not to touch on.

Most things are forgotten over time. Even the war itself, the life-and-death struggle people went through, is now like something from the distant past. We're so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the past, like ancient stars that have burned out, are no longer in orbit around our minds. There are just too many things we have to think about every day, too many new things we have to learn. New styles, new information, new technology, new terminology… But still, no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone. And for me, what happened in the woods that day is one of these.

I realize there's nothing I can do about it now, and I would certainly understand if you are puzzled about why I'm bringing this up at this late date. But while I'm still alive there's something I have to get off my chest.

During the war, of course, we lived under strict censorship, and there were things we couldn't easily talk about. When I met you, Professor, there were military officers with us and I couldn't speak freely. Also, I didn't know anything about you then, or about your work, so I certainly didn't feel-as a young woman talking to a man she didn't know-I could be candid about any private matter. Thus I kept several facts to myself. In other words, in the official investigation I intentionally changed some of the facts about the incident. And when, after the war, the American military interviewed me, I stuck to my story. Out of fear and to keep up appearances, perhaps, I repeated the same lies I'd told you. This may well have made it more difficult for you to investigate the incident, and may have somewhat skewed your conclusions. No, I know it did. This has bothered me for years, and I'm ashamed of what I did.

I hope this explains why I've written this long letter to you. I realize you're a busy man and may not have time for this. If so, please feel free to treat it all as the ramblings of an old woman and toss the letter away. The thing is, I feel the need, while I'm still able, to confess all that really took place then, write it down, and pass it along to someone who should know. I recovered from my illness, but you never know when there might be a relapse. I hope you will take this into consideration.