Tokyo Year Zero

I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari. I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari …

Brown and then clear, clear and then brown again –

I rinse my face. I search for soap to shave –

But there is none to find, again –

I rinse out my mouth and spit –

I am one of the survivors …

I put on my shirt and my trousers, the same shirt and the same trousers I have worn every day for the last four or five years, the same shirt and the same trousers that my wife has tended and mended, stitched and re-stitched, like the socks and the shoes on my feet, the winter jacket on my back and the summer hat on my head –

I itch. I scratch. Gari-gari. I itch and I scratch –

I am one of the lucky ones …

There is one small dish of zōsui on the low table, a porridge of rice and vegetables. I leave it for my wife and my children –

I take out my watch. Chiku-taku. And I wind it up –

It is 4 a.m. My wife and children still asleep –

I still itch and I still scratch. Gari-gari …

I put on and lace up my old army boots in the genkan. I gently open the front door and then close and lock it behind me. I walk down the garden path of our house. I close the gate behind me –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

I walk away from my house, away from my family –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

I walk down our street towards the station –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

Through the sound of the hammers –

Ton-ton. Ton-ton …

The dawn of a New Japan –

Ton-ton …

The reconstruction work starts early; the surviving buildings being repaired or demolished, new ones built in their place; the roads being cleared of the rubble and ash, the rubble and ash tipped into the canals, the canals filled up and hidden. But the rivers and roads of Tokyo still stink of piss and shit, of cholera and typhus, of disease and death, death and loss –

Ton-ton.

This is the New Japan; Mitaka station swarming with hundreds, thousands of people waiting for trains in both directions; to travel out into the countryside to sell their possessions off cheap to buy food; to travel into Tokyo to sell food to buy other people’s possessions cheap: endlessly back and forth, forth and back, endlessly buying and selling, selling and buying; the New Japan –

Every station. Every train. Every station …

People in two solid lines along both platforms, swaying as newcomers try to push their way to the front, treading and trampling on the bodies of those who have slept out all night upon the platform, a last huge surge as the first Tokyo-bound train approaches –

Every train. Every station. Every train …

Two empty carriages exclusively reserved for the Victors, one second-class hard-seat carriage for the privileged Losers, and a long string of run-down third-class carriages for the rest of us –

The ones who’ve lost everything …

The third-class windows already broken, the carriages filled to the last inch at 5 a.m., the people on the platform pushing more bundles through the windows to take into Tokyo as others silently fight for a foothold on the steps or on the couplings –

Every station. Every train …

I take out my notebook –

I itch and I itch …

I shout, ‘Police!’

I manage to climb on board the train. I itch but I cannot scratch. I force my way inside one of the carriages. I itch but I cannot scratch. People continue to push from behind me. I itch but I cannot scratch. The train begins to move slowly down the track. I itch but I cannot scratch. My arms are pinned to my sides in the crush. I itch but I cannot scratch. There are people and there is baggage in every possible place. I itch but I cannot scratch. They squat on seat backs and they squat in the luggage racks. I itch but I cannot scratch. I can only move my eyes. I itch but I cannot scratch. The young boy’s head in front of me covered in ringworm. I itch but I cannot scratch. Lice crawl in and out of the hair of the young woman to my left. I itch but I cannot scratch. The scalp of the man to my right smells of sour milk. I itch but I cannot scratch. The train lurches over another set of points. I itch but I cannot scratch. I close my eyes –

I think about her all the time …

It takes over an hour to reach Yūraku-chō station and then it takes a fight to get off the train and onto the platform –

I scratch. Gari-gari. I scratch. Gari-gari …

I walk from Yūraku-chō station down to Police HQ. I itch and now I sweat and it is not yet 6 a.m. and Tokyo stinks of shit; shit and dirt and dust, the shit and the dirt and the dust that coats my clothes and coats my skin, that scars my nostrils and burns my throat with every passing jeep, every passing truck –

I stop. I take out my handkerchief. I take off my hat. I wipe my face. I wipe my neck. I stare up at the bleached-white sky, searching for the invisible sun hiding somewhere up above the clouds of typhus, the clouds of dust, of dirt –

Of shit, of human shit …

The side of the road is littered with people on mats, men and women, young and old, soldiers and civilian, their eyes blank or closed, exhausted –

My fists ball, my chest constricts, my lungs scream, What are you waiting for?

It has been one year since people knelt upon the ground across the moat and wept. It has been one whole year, but still the people are on their knees, on their knees, on their knees, on their knees –

Get off your knees! Get off your knees!

*

Ishida is back. Ishida is cleaning Room #2, wiping down the chairs and the tables, sweeping up the floor and the doorway, straightening the telephones that can’t ring and dusting the fans that can’t turn –

Ishida is too young for this room, for this work, this place, but his family have connections, connections that have kept him alive and given him this job in this place and he is grateful and eager to prove himself, his face permanently to the floor, his back slightly bent, he is here to clean and make the tea, to make the tea and take our shit –

‘This is disgusting! The worst tea I’ve ever tasted!’ Fujita is shouting at Ishida; Fujita spitting his tea across the desk –

Fujita is back too. Fujita always comes back –

Late forties. Passed over and bitter …

Detective Fujita knows he should be the head of this room, knows I am too young for this position, for this work, this place. But Detective Fujita knows my family had connections, connections that have kept me alive and given me this job in this place –