He laughed a little. It goes without saying that the national convention he spoke of was the second convention of the National Committee for Buraku Liberation, but what I wish to tell you here is not the story of the convention but that of Noguchi. It is not about basic human rights or democracy or anything like that—this is the story of what it means to be alive.
On that bench on the platform, with the collar of his overcoat turned up and his shoulders hunched up like a child, Noguchi began to speak slowly in a soft voice, a faint smile on his lips.
“I live in a vile time in history. I was struck by this thought when I received my draft papers and I realized I would rather run away. My parents and siblings, they said if I didn’t go to war like everyone else, they would lose face in the village. But when I told them I couldn’t do it, that I would do anything else for them but I could never become a soldier of the Imperial Army, in the end my mother said she would call the military police, my father said he would sacrifice his own life to beg forgiveness from the people of his village, and my extended family had the audacity to show up at our house yelling and threatening me with bamboo spears. When I saw all that, I asked myself how much more vile we could possibly be. The only reason people say you are less than human for not being willing to shoulder a gun for the emperor is because they are scared of being ostracized by the entire village, of being treated even more horribly than before. So everyone’s howling like scared dogs and preying on one another. It’s vile that the memory of starvation is so ingrained into our daily lives, which consist only of working, eating, and sleeping. It’s vile that we can’t be rational. In that sense I think the entire country of Japan is vile. Having said that, if I had run away my parents and siblings would have been the ones to be ostracized and left to starve to death, so I eventually went to war, but there’s nothing more pathetic than the poor going off to invade a poorer country. I should have known this better than anyone else, but they told me I’d be killed if I didn’t kill first, so I became a killing machine—I can hardly stand being human any more. You might object to me saying this, Okamura, but I think those of us who survived to see the end of the war have been chosen by heaven to live on carrying the burden of these vile sins.
Although I live in a vile time in history, I also feel as if I am seeing the faint light of the dawn of a new generation. To tell you the truth, I cannot contain this hope welling up inside of me. It is a hazy glow, but I’ve never felt like this before. If you believe that a new era is something you create yourself rather than something you wait for, then we can make short work of that damn prime minister of ours, Shigeru Yoshida. The top officials of the liberation committee talk about all kinds of things, but more than a democratic revolution or anything like that, just being alive here and now makes me itch with happiness . . . or is it fear? I am happy that I can talk like this with you, Okamura. Even if it is only my imagination, I feel so refreshed—as if the dirt that is embedded in my body will be washed away. The way I see it, if a rice plant that has been curled and twisted by the cold for hundreds of years can start growing again, then I think that time is now. Personally, I would rather be a stalk of wheat that stands upright when it ripens rather than rice that bows its head.”
Noguchi had faltered now and then as he spoke. Having finished, he eventually joined an acquaintance he had been waiting for and left. But he left me with these parting words: “Oh, speaking of which, that Hinode beer sure was delicious. That amber color itself is enchanting, and that popping sound of the carbonation is like music. I believe that beautiful, delicious, and pleasing things save us from vileness. That’s what I learned from the beer. Too bad I didn’t learn it from the company, Hinode.”
Whatever Noguchi said, I don’t doubt he was one of the employees who shared that brief dream at Hinode.
So, has the “the faint light of the dawn of a new generation” of which Noguchi spoke really arrived? Is it that I am blind to it, or have I alone been left behind, standing still? Noguchi spoke of a new generation—his cheeks red, his body aquiver—but how on earth had he attained such vitality? While I remain stunned with this vague emptiness within me, where had he gained the strength to shoulder this vile history and to set out on his own, brimming with such joy for life?
Or, perhaps the “the faint light of the dawn of a new generation” is nothing but a momentary delusion of his, and he has already awoken from it by now. Or did he simply speak of his hope for his own sake? I do not know which is the case.
But I do know that Katsuichi Noguchi is Japanese, just like the middle-aged lady cleaning my hospital room right now, the children causing a racket out in the hallway, and the woman who looks like a hostess walking by below my window just now—and myself in this hospital. We
