Occupied City

For though I am innocent of the Teikoku Bank murders, I am guilty of so many other crimes. Crimes against my wife, crimes against my children, crimes against their hearts. And I truly believe I deserve to die for these bad things I have done, the terrible hurt I have caused them, the lies I have told them. In short, for the life I have led.

The sole reason, therefore, that I allow and I assist in the attempts and the appeals to clear my name and save me, is for the sake of my ex-wife and my children; that their reputations may be restored, and that they may once again live not in fear or in shame.

And that then is the only reason I have told this story, that I have said these words. But these words I have said are not for me. These words are only for those who once loved me, my ex-wife and my children. For I do not seek your pity. And I do not seek the truth. For I do not deserve your pity. I do not deserve the truth.

Beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, between the three candles, the old man now bows his head,

and another candle gutters,

gutters and then

dies–

‘No!’ you are screaming. ‘No, no! Come back! Come back! There’s more to say. There must be more. That can’t be all. That can’t be it. Please, please! Come back! Come back!’

But the flame of the candle is out, its light is gone, and the old man is fading; fading, fading, fading –

’No!’ you shout again — ’

There’s so much more I want to know, much more I need to know. No! No! What about the trials, the appeals? The conspiracies, the experiments, the war? Help me! Please help me to help you!’

But in the dim-light of the last two candles, the old man is shaking his head; fading, fading –

‘Wait! Wait! I know you did not murder those people. I know you were never there. I know you were never at the bank. But help me, please! Please help me to help you. For I want to tell your story. I want to prove your innocence, to clear your name …’

For now you see, now the old man is fading, going and now gone, now you see and now you know, know what it is,

what it is you want; just the truth –

Not the fiction. Not the lies –

Only the truth –

Tear by drop-drop, foot by step-step, hoping there is still time; still two candles, in this upper chamber, beneath the Black Gate; still two last candles, tear by drop-drop, foot by step–

step, your head now turning, this way,

that way, turning again, and again –

Tear by drop-drop, foot by step-step, for you are not alone, beneath the Black Gate, in this upper chamber,

between these two candles, drop–

drop, step-step, drop–

drop, step–

step–

‘We are all in our cages, our cells and our prisons,’ says a voice in the shadows. ‘Some by the hands of others –

‘And some of our own making –

‘Of our own design …’

This way, that way, left and then right, you turn and you turn again, looking with the candlelight, searching through the shadows,

step-step, right and then left, step-step, that way and this,

step-step, looking, step-step, searching, step–

step, for the author of these words –

‘Are you my judge? The man who will accuse me? Accuse and convict me? Sentence and imprison me? Imprison or execute me? Is that you, my dear writer, is that you?’

Beneath the Black Gate, in its upper chamber, in the candlelight, now plague-light; white-light, hospital-white, laboratory-white then grey, an overcast-skin-grey then open-vein-blue, blue and now green, a culture-grown-green then yellow, yellow, thick-caught-spittle-yellow, streaked sticking-string-red, then black;

black-black, drop-drop, black-black,

step-step, in the plague-light,

drop-drop, step-step,

in the plague–

light–

‘Would you sit at my table of rotting food?’ whispers the voice in the shadows. ‘Would you dine with me, drink with me, and then enter a large black cross beside my name? Is that your plan?’

This way and that, you turn and turn and turn, drop-drop, step-step, you huff and breath-puff –

‘Is that what you want, my dear writer? Is that what you seek, here beneath this Black Gate, here among your melting candles?’

You puff and breath-pant, you pant and now-gasp,

for he is coming, step by step-step, whispering and muttering. In your ears, you hear him gaining, step by step-step,

drooling and growling, step by step-step,

A Night Parade of but One Demon …

Half-of-monster, half-of-man, you can smell him, you can sense him, but still you cannot see him,

still you can only hear him, whispering and muttering, drooling and growling –

‘Every society needs people like you, dear writer, people who will weep at their mother’s funeral. But a truly great man will always, already place himself above the events he has caused –

‘A man like me. And so behold –

‘In this city. In this mirror –

‘Here I am …

The Eleventh Candle — The Last Words of the Teikoku Murderer, or a Personal History of Japanese Iniquity, Local Suffering & Universal Indifference (1948)

In the fractured, splintered mirror, the child before the man / Before the doctor. Before the killer. Before the dead / The sunlight and the stream, the flowers and the insects / Wings off flies. Legs off frogs. Heads off cats / The skin and the skull, the appearance and the absence / In the fractured, splintered mirror, murder is born

In the Death Factory, at Pingfan, near Harbin, in Manchuria. This place had once been home to villages and farms, to families and fields. The villages had been requisitioned and their inhabitants expelled. Then the Nihon Tokushu Kōgyō Company arrived. The Tokyo-based company hired local Chinese labourers to work day and night for three years to construct the one hundred and fifty buildings which would form the vast complex, the Death Factory.

I can never forget the first time I saw the place. Across a dry moat, beyond the high earth walls and the barbed-wire fences, the square-tiled facades of the central buildings towered, larger than any I had ever seen in Tokyo, reflecting the sunlight and the sky in a brilliant white radiance.

Over the moat, behind the walls and the wires, through the gates and the guards, a whole city, a future city, was waiting for me. There was a runway and a railway, a huge administrative building and an equally large farm, a power house with cooling towers, dormitories for the civilians and barracks for the soldiers, barns and stables, a hospital and a prison and, of course, the laboratories and the furnaces. This was the home of Unit 731, my new home.

The Unit was divided into eight separate divisions; First Division was concerned with bacteriological research; Second Division with warfare research and field experiments; Third Division with water purification; Fourth Division with the mass production and storage of bacteria; the four remaining divisions handled education, supplies, administration and clinical diagnosis.

The Emperor was our owner, Major Ishii was our boss.

On the Black Ship, the Killer sees it stretched out now before him: the Occupied City; its sewers and its streets, its homes and its shops, its schools and its hospitals, its asylums and its prisons. This city is a monstrous place; a Deathtopia of fleas and flies, of rats and men.

On the Black Ship, here in this Deathtopia, no one knows who he is, no one will ever know who he is. Here he will dwell, among the fleas and the flies, among the rats and the men –

The Killer in the Occupied City.

In the twenty-fifth year of the reign of the Emperor Meiji / In a village, in Chiba Prefecture / The fourth son of a rich landowner / In a lavish villa, in a bamboo forest / A tall child, a bright child / In a shaded grotto, before the family graves