Jung-myung Lee - The Investigation

Sugiyama nodded. Every night, from the eastern sky, Venus rose without fail, and the Big Dipper circled the North Star like an enormous waterwheel in the sky. The Milky Way and the sharp twinkling stars giggled and whispered and fought like children. Stars didn’t appear in Dong-ju’s sky. Each night he lay in his cell and drew an imaginary constellation on the ceiling. Sugiyama couldn’t blame Dong-ju for wondering whether light had disappeared from the world and whether stars no longer twinkled in the sky.

That night at 10 p.m. Sugiyama stood in front of the cells. The steel doors opened with a screech. He walked down to Cell 28 at the end of the corridor on the right. ‘645! Interrogation! Regarding seditious writings.’

The prisoners turned around in their cots and hurried back into slumber. Men called out in the middle of the night rarely came back whole. The guard on duty unlatched the lock and opened the door, then tied Dong-ju’s arms together. Sugiyama signed off on the prisoner log and prodded 645 with his club. He could feel Dong-ju’s protruding ribs through the tip of his club. The long, winding corridor heading towards the interrogation room was dark. The two passed the interrogation room. The shackles clacked and shrieked. Dong-ju was afraid. Where was Sugiyama taking him?

They stood in the prison yard, spotted with white light as though salt had been scattered over it. They heard the watchtower machine gun readying. The cool searchlight stopped over them.

‘Sugiyama Dozan, Guard Department!’ Sugiyama shouted. ‘Interrogation of the scene with Prisoner 645.’

The guard above them checked his files; he found paperwork signed by Maeda that had been submitted earlier. The searchlight returned to its normal pattern, circling the premises. Sugiyama and Dong-ju could hear the wind against the branches of the poplar trees as they rose like soft, leavening bread. They sat against a tree, side-by-side. The wind blew cold air on Dong-ju’s pale cheeks and temples. He could hear his own heart beating. Sugiyama loosened Dong-ju’s ties and took off the handcuffs. The cold night air smelled sweet. Dong-ju inhaled deeply and murmured words Sugiyama couldn’t understand; he was reciting a poem in his mother tongue, the same language he shouted in as he played in the mountains and fields of his hometown. The language he’d had to repress now burst out through his lips.

A shooting star raced over their heads. Dong-ju had too many wishes to pick only one. Not Sugiyama; he asked that this poet pass safely through this cruel era. He gazed up at the stars as they traced concentric circles along the sky and wondered if they made a noise as they orbited, or whether they gave off a gentle rustle. He wanted to hear it. The wind blew; his cheek was wet and cold.

Back in the interrogation room, Sugiyama opened the report form. Dong-ju began to speak, translating ‘Night Counting Stars’ into Japanese. The poem emerged as fragile as candlelight in a gale. Sugiyama wondered: how could he not blame himself if he couldn’t usher these poems past the end of the war? He was the only person who could protect this young man’s legacy; there was no one else. Sugiyama dipped his pen in ink and began transcribing the words, which floated like stars on the dark paper:

NIGHT COUNTING STARS

The sky of passing seasons

Is filled with autumn.

Without a single worry

I think I can count all the autumn stars.

The reason I can’t count all the stars carved

one by one in my heart is

because morning is coming,

because night will fall again tomorrow,

because my youth is not yet gone.

For one star, memory;

For one star, love;

For one star, loneliness;

For one star, longing;

For one star, poetry;

For one star, mother, mother.

Mother, I call out one beautiful word for every star. The names of the children I shared a desk with in primary school, the foreign names of girls, Pei, Jing, Yu, other girls who have already become mothers, the names of impoverished neighbours, dove, puppy, rabbit, donkey, deer, the names of poets like Francis Jammes and Rainer Maria Rilke.

They are so far away.

Like stars in the beyond,

And you, Mother —

you are in Manchuria far away.

Longing for something,

On top of the hill under falling starlight

I etched my name,

And covered it with dirt.

The insect that cries all night

Does because of its sorrow about its shameful name.

But after winter passes and spring dawns on my star,

On the hill where my name is buried

Grass will stand thick and proud

Like green grass blooming on a grave.

Sugiyama carefully folded the report form and slid it into the inner pocket of his uniform.

Warden Hasegawa and Director Morioka were immersed in Midori’s playing, their eyes closed. Hasegawa began to clap when she finished. ‘Wonderful performance, Miss Iwanami! Thank you in advance for your efforts in preparing for the concert. The entire city of Fukuoka is waiting with anticipation.’ He laughed loudly, revealing molars capped in silver.

Thanks to the newsworthy concert, the Interior Minister and high-level officials in attendance would be favourably inclined towards him, Hasegawa thought. Reporters from leading newspapers would rush in; he might become a nationwide celebrity. He planned to invite the ambassadors of allied countries, Germany and Italy, as well as the foreign press; his fame might stretch beyond national boundaries. He couldn’t keep the pleasant thoughts away or tamp down his gleeful smile.

Midori spoke up, taking advantage of the moment. ‘I have one request.’

Hasegawa nodded eagerly.

‘I would like to include a chorus at the end of the concert.’

Hasegawa twisted his moustache, looking amused. ‘A chorus? Who will sing? And who will lead the practice?’

‘This prison is filled with people who can sing.’

‘You mean the prisoners?’ Hasegawa’s face contorted.

‘The concert would be more noteworthy precisely because they are prisoners. Their beautiful song would demonstrate how the Empire’s incarceration system has reformed them.’

‘But it’s a solo recital by the respected Professor Marui Yasujiro. You’ll ruin the stage for the best singer in all Japan!’

Midori hesitated a moment before taking out a pristine letter from her pocket and handing it to the sceptical warden. ‘This is Professor Marui’s letter. It arrived yesterday. He’s already agreed to it.’

Hasegawa hesitated. A chorus of prisoners couldn’t do much harm, could it? He appraised Midori coldly. ‘But who would want to sing? And even if we had volunteers, I don’t know what the prisoners might do, if we don’t watch them carefully.’

Sugiyama jumped in. ‘I can take care of that, sir. I’ll bring them to practice and guard them.’ He would do anything to provide an audience for the piano he had tuned, no matter what everyone else’s hidden intentions were.

‘The repertoire is “Va, pensiero” in Scene Two, Act Three of Verdi’s opera Nabucco ,’ Midori said.

‘Verdi. Verdi?’ Hasegawa looked puzzled.

‘Verdi, to our ally Italy, is what Wagner is to Germany,’ Morioka explained. ‘ Nabucco was a huge success at La Scala. Everything about the opera represents Italy’s hopes. It reminded Italians, who were suffering from division and war, of their love for their country. And of all the songs, “Va, pensiero” is in effect Italy’s second national anthem — it was sung at Verdi’s funeral. It’s majestic and powerful, so it would work for our purposes, even if we only have male singers.’