The Investigation (30 page)

I heaved a deep sigh. ‘So you’re saying Sugiyama was violent because he felt guilty. He was trying to atone for betraying his comrades.’

Dong-ju ran a hand through his bristly hair. ‘He might not have thought about it that way, but yes, that’s what happened.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘I believe he thought the torture he experienced caused everything that happened. If it weren’t for the torture, he wouldn’t have told them anything.’

‘What does that have to do with how he treated the prisoners here?’

‘Becoming evil might have been the only way for him to survive. Judas hanged himself after betraying Jesus,’ Dong-ju said cryptically. ‘But Sugiyama survived.’

I pondered Dong-ju’s words. So every time Sugiyama felt guilty, he remembered being tortured, and then he thought about his dead friends. An awful memory bred another evil; it was an
unbreakable chain. ‘How could you possibly atone, if you keep doing bad things?’

‘I think he had to see with his own eyes that man is powerless in the face of pain. He had to assure himself that nobody could stand up to cruel treatment.’

I was having a hard time wrapping my head around all of it. ‘Did Sugiyama really tell the Soviets the location of his platoon?’

‘Nobody knows. He didn’t know. But he was still destroyed over it.’ Dong-ju shook his head.

‘I don’t think Sugiyama talked,’ I said quietly. ‘He should have realized that the Soviets were tricking him. They would have let him escape precisely because he
didn’t talk. They must have followed him. And then, when he had led them there, they destroyed the platoon.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘If he had told them, his platoon would have been killed much sooner. Then he wouldn’t have witnessed the attack. His remorseful conscience is what destroyed his soul.’

I still wasn’t certain if Sugiyama had been a good man, and I still didn’t know what to make of his death.

It was February. Dong-ju’s release date inched closer. But now he often forgot when he would be released.

Some time after Sugiyama’s death, Dong-ju stopped writing letters for the prisoners. One day I pulled aside a friendly Korean prisoner who’d frequently sent out postcards, to ask him
why they’d stopped.

He sighed. ‘We need good news to send out a postcard. If it’s bad news, it’s better if our friends and family don’t know.’

But then why had all those Koreans asked Dong-ju to write postcards for them in the first place?

‘That man has a talent for writing the worst news in the most beautiful way. It could be so cold that it might kill you, and he would write: Thanks to the cold, I’m feeling
invigorated. Even though there are so many of us crammed into our cells, he would write: Thanks to the tight quarters, we can survive the winter. He never lied. He just framed our truths in warm,
kind words that reassured the reader. He helped us think about terrible things in a good way. That’s why so many of us went to him. I wonder if he’ll ever help us write postcards
again.’

I didn’t have an answer.

The war limped on. There was nothing to eat, nothing to wear and nothing left over. People starved; fear suffocated them. But the prison was roiling with excitement. In a week there would be a
concert; it was the biggest event in the history of the institution. Warden Hasegawa rushed about, from the auditorium to the yard to the administrative offices, while Maeda prepared to host
high-level officials from Tokyo, the choristers focused on final rehearsals and Midori fine-tuned their voices. Some officials declined to come to Fukuoka amid the continuing air raids, but the
Interior Minister and an army general would still be attending.

Dong-ju seemed revitalized as the concert approached. He knew it would be impossible to hear anything from his cell; it was too far from the auditorium. The noisy machinery in the work area
would drown everything out.

Two days before the concert he came up with an idea. ‘Yuichi,’ he said, his eyes sparkling, ‘I know how I can hear it.’

‘How?’

‘The concert’s on Monday. I’ll volunteer to receive medical treatment that day!’

The infusion room was on the same floor as the auditorium, so he might be able to hear something. But his plan was dangerous; he might only become weaker.

I shook my head firmly. ‘Your medical treatment schedule is Tuesday and Friday. It can’t be changed.’

‘Yuichi! Please!’

I couldn’t refuse him. His memories were slipping away like sand pouring through open fingers. He would do anything to fill his failing mind with music. The next day, after I escorted the
choristers to the auditorium, I headed to the infusion room. I kept stopping in the long corridor, wondering whether to turn back. Finally I opened the door to the room and reported to the puzzled
doctor that a prisoner wanted additional infusions. ‘It appears that the medication is starting to work. The patient has recovered and he does not tire during labour.’

A look of disbelief flashed across the doctor’s face. He excitedly asked for the prisoner number. Three numbers circled my head. It took me a while to spit out the numbers.
‘645.’

‘Wonderful!’ the doctor cried. ‘Bring him here at two on Monday! We’ll conduct a careful observation.’

I turned to leave. Had I finally become a murderer?

I woke up on the morning of the concert to a blanket of snow that had fallen silently overnight. The prison yard looked like a piece of white paper. As the sun rose, I escorted
the singers across the yard to the auditorium. Inside, dozens of guards were scurrying about under Maeda’s direction. The stage was carpeted in red. There were enough seats for 300. I lined
up the choristers backstage and finished the head count. I looked at Midori. She led the final rehearsal, starting with simple individual vocalizations and organizing the men to then practise by
voice part.

Some minutes past noon, a black car pulled up to the gates of the prison. Professor Marui, wearing a black tuxedo, got out. He immediately headed to the auditorium to inspect it. After the final
stage check, he went into make-up. Black cars drove up to the main gates, spilling out men in tuxedos and dress uniforms and women in finery. They appeared uneasy about the unusual setting, but
seemed oddly excited, too. Warden Hasegawa greeted each guest, smiling widely. Senior guards in well-ironed uniforms and nurses ushered the guests to the auditorium. The empty seats gradually
filled. Then the concert began with everyone singing the ‘Kimigayo’. The stage lights were turned off and the curtain rose. Professor Marui, wearing tails, walked into the
spotlight.

A guard checked the shackles around Dong-ju’s ankles before leading him out of the cell. They slowly proceeded towards the infirmary. The snow underfoot made angry
grinding sounds and fluttered in the wind, but silenced the clanking of the shackles. As soon as they entered the infirmary building, Dong-ju could sense the expectation in the air. His footsteps
became lively. A doctor greeted him with a smile in front of the infusion room and, as Dong-ju entered, he could hear a clear, sorrowful voice singing from far away:

Dong-ju closed his eyes.

The doctor spoke. ‘Prisoner number!’

‘645.’

‘Name?’

‘Hiranuma Tochu.’

‘When will you be released?’

’30 November 1945. In 298 days.’

Applause broke the short silence. Professor Marui wiped away the sweat on his forehead. The applause continued. He bowed deeply and disappeared backstage. The unceasing
applause brought him out again. Backstage, I closed my eyes.

The nurse attached the tube with skilful hands. The cold needle pricked Dong-ju’s arm and clear liquid entered his body. The singing and applause swelled and receded like
the tide. Then a long silence ensued.

Onstage, the prisoners dragged their heavy shackles to line up. The audience looked tense. Midori, in her white nurse’s uniform, stepped onstage to a smattering of
applause. She walked over to the piano and sat down. Blank eyes watched her. She drew in a deep breath and nodded, her fingers grazing the keys.

Dong-ju closed his eyes. His breathing was calm, but his mind was sluggish. It seemed as though he were submerged in deep water. He could hear the piano from far away. As the
clear liquid slowly infused his bloodstream, the solemn, sad voices rushed into his ears:

Strong but sorrowful voices hurtled forward, shoving me aside. The sad beauty of the song made me wonder if I had the right to enjoy it. I was shaken awake by the joy for life. My heart heaved
in turmoil; I was human, I was still alive.

The song careened from tautness to softness, from speed to languidness, like a grand love-affair. The different notes and the varying timbres of each person’s voice melded together,
howling sorrowfully and pounding majestically like a rainstorm. Midori pushed, suppressed and urged the voices on. They blended with the piano, then exploded in bliss:

The song ended, but the final chord remained ringing in the cold air. The last note dissipated, leading to a short silence. Dong-ju’s eyes were still closed as he held on to the lingering
notes. The silence burst into thunderous applause and cheers. Dong-ju opened his eyes. His lashes were wet; he looked content, like a boy waking up from a happy dream. As the nurse pulled the
needle out, the doctor exclaimed, ‘Good. You look more alert than usual.’

The following day Warden Hasegawa summoned me. Had he discovered my role in the underground library? Had he found out about the girl flying the kite? Frozen stiff, I perched on
the chair the warden offered me. He held several newspapers aloft. The large letters danced in front of my eyes. Fukuoka Prison. Concert. Moving. Beautiful. ‘The concert was a huge
success,’ he said, overcome with emotion. ‘Even the national press covered it! You contributed greatly by escorting the prisoners and watching over the rehearsals.’ He put the
papers down and twisted the ends of his moustache. ‘By the way, you should know that Prisoner 331 was executed two days ago.’

Everything suddenly went dark.

‘Good job. You have successfully completed the investigation and resolved the murder.’

Choi was dead? I hadn’t even begun to figure out who the real killer was. I felt powerless. ‘Did he have any final words?’

‘No. He refused to say anything.’

‘Was his family notified?’

‘According to his file, he didn’t have any family. So I had no choice but to oversee the execution and then the burial.’

I nodded slowly.

Hasegawa thumped my slumped shoulders and congratulated me on a task well done, telling me that, as a reward, he would grant me leave in the spring. None of what he said registered. I left the
warden’s office and walked mechanically down the long corridor of the administrative wing into the snow-covered yard. I felt that I was floating, as though the ground beneath my feet had
collapsed. Choi’s death wasn’t an out-of-the-ordinary event at this prison, but I was racked with guilt. He shouldn’t have died. He’d risked his life to get out of this
prison; his endless escape attempts and the resulting stints in solitary were the two true pillars that had supported his life. He was brought close to death, and yet he’d survived each time.
But he’d failed to leave Fukuoka, even as a corpse.

I headed to the cemetery. I spotted a new marker inscribed with his number. I’d strung the noose around his neck. While I was lost in a maze, searching for the truth, he’d died
alone. There was nothing I could do.

Or maybe, just maybe, there was something – I could find the man who had really killed Sugiyama.

Darkness fell over the frozen ground. The faint sounds of a piano could be heard outside the infirmary. The ivy snaking up the red-brick walls rustled in the wind. White frost
nibbled at the edges of the clear window as warm light spilled into the darkness. Sitting at the piano, Midori was focused on the sheet music in front of her. She paused and turned round to look at
me.

‘I want to see the charts of the patients who received treatment in the infirmary,’ I blurted out. ‘You see patients from Ward Three. You must oversee those records.’

‘I need a note from the head guard and to obtain permission from the head doctor.’

I paused. ‘Those records would help me figure out how Sugiyama died.’

Her forehead furrowed.

‘What do the charts have to do with the murder?’ she asked.

‘If I could see what he was involved in before he died, I’ll be able to find clues. Who he injured, when and how.’

‘The charts merely have simple entries about how the injury occurred and how it was treated. What could that possibly say about a murder?’

‘Records are living documents. Just as your sheet music becomes beautiful music, charts might be able to tell me more about Sugiyama’s life.’

Midori stared out the window for a long time. ‘Come back here at my next practice session.’ She turned back to the piano. Her beautiful music began once more.