The Cannery Boat/For the Sake of the Citizens
For the Sake of the Citizens
by
Takiji Kobayashi
For the Sake of the Citizens
I
The fact that at a time like this Arisuke felt an irresistible urge to rejoice and be merry is not in the least strange. Such things are known to happen on occasion to men of the most rigid morals—to which class Arisuke unreservedly belonged. When, for instance, these people have achieved some “supremely glorious” exploit, they feel, more than lesser mortals ever do, a naive desire to kick over the traces. So it happened, rightly or wrongly, that Arisuke went with two or three mates to have just one glass.
“Damn it all, a man wants on an occasion lke this …” Truly strange sentiments to flow, from his lips. As a member of the Young Men’s Association he had been working for the 4,000,000 citizens of Tokyo, which for the past four days had been a “legless” city. And now to-day, this day of days, the street-car strike had been settled. He felt as if a ton of bricks had been lifted off his back. “No one can say I didn’t do my bit any more.” The faces of all the citizens who had mumbled words of thanks to him and his mates floated vividly through his mind—the city’s hero.
At every street corner the busy jingle of the newsboys’ bells brought the network of moving feet to a standstill. Every evening paper was full of the strike. Arisuke almost wept for sheer joy.
“Come on, let’s have another. A man’s got to do something.”
He grabbed his friends by the shoulders and dragged them off to a back alley in Shinjuku. Pushing apart the curtains across the doorway of the sake shop with his shoulder, he swaggered in. As he got drunk (even a virtuous member of the Young Men’s Association can get drunk), he stood up and waved his arms and dangled his legs. Then, facing the bewildered customers, he recounted how he had served in His Majesty’s Imperial Army, and a workman who was eating mince pies and drinking sake clapped his hands.
“You’re a hero, a real hero. There’s not many young fellows like you about nowadays. We’re proud of you.”
When he flopped down into his seat, he felt a sudden dizzinesss. Tables and plates and bottles, and faces and arms and walls, all jumbled together, came rushing at him and hit him between the eyes. In some corner of his brain he regretted that there was no one to carry him shoulder-high, and then he lost consciousness. The next thing he knew was that one of his mates was tapping him on the shoulder and shouting at him: “Tamanoi.[1] We’re going to Tamanoi. Call a taxi. Do you think we’re going to creep straight home without having a bit of fun on a joyful occasion like this?”
II
There are many varieties of strikes, but in essentials they do not differ. When a general strike of longshoremen and harbour workers took place in Hokkaido, it meant that the city of Otaru was completely cut off from all supplies. Thereupon the Young Men’s Association came out and transported necessities “for the sake of the citizens.” And in Korea, in Genzan, during the transport workers’ strike the same thing happened. If a strike occurred in an ammunition factory when war clouds were on the horizon, “for the sake of the country” (whose country we know all too well) the strikers would be silenced for good and all. The great street-car strike in Tokyo was no exception. Quite apart from the causes leading up to the dispute on both sides, when 4,000,000 citizens were stranded, you could not just dismiss it by saying, “If they want to fight, let them have it out,” and so the whole city started writhing and like an old man in the throes of a seizure.
When a car drew up in front of Shinjuku Station, a crowd like an army of ants would surround it in no time. Office workers, who had to be at their offices by ten minutes to nine, kept pulling out their watches and scowling in exasperation as they mingled with the crowds: “This is outrageous. They’re free to strike, but I wish they’d do it so as not to inconvenience others.”
The sight of those damned yen-taxis gliding past was even more offensive that usual to these hard-up clerks, as they watched them out of the corners of their eyes. Pressed all together into the Overhead, and then emptied out at the station, with nowhere to go, they just mooched about hopelessly. Those with any understanding began to realize for the first time that the work of motormen or conductors was of some importance; until now no one had bothered to realize such a simple fact. Even if they had, they were so wrapped up in their affairs that the mere realization alone would not have achieved much.
In Hinjo district, workmen rushed the cars as if they were storming a citadel. Then, dangling all over the car, like a lot of nails hanging from a magnet, they were borne away. But when five or six other workers, walking along with sharp and steady strides, saw that magnetic car, they thumbed their noses at it and shouted:
“You swine. Have y’got no shame, workers like us to go riding on a scab street-car. Get out and walk, you bastards.”
For two days this went on. Then the third day came, and the situation ceased to be a joke for anyone. It was then the Young Men’s Association, with red badges on the arm of their uniforms, started to man the cars. Not only Arisuke, but one and all wore a proud but strained look, like men who have been picked to make an attack into the enemy’s territory. All the passengers by their manner showed they appreciated their work.
The chief of the City Electric Bureau even wept tears before those crawling worms of the Young Men’s Association. His unexpected behaviour amazed, excited and stirred Arisuke and his mates to the depths of their souls. They pledged themselves to work for the 4,000,000 citizens regardless of consequences. With a little exaggeration you might say that for such inexperienced men it meant risking their lives. Arisuke himself, at Miyakezaka, made a mistake in putting on the brakes, and damaged the back of the car ahead. A friend, who had been allotted to a motor-bus, finally managed to smash it to pieces. There was even a picture of it in the papers the next day.
However, he met with two unpleasant experiences. One happened when the car he was driving was slowing up before the next stop. A group of three tough-looking fellows, walking close alongside, suddenly fixed him with a scowl.
“You scab. You’ll remember this.”
Scab? He did not know what it meant then, but later on, when he came to learn, he felt the blood leave his cheeks.
The other incident happened when he had knocked off work and was going to take the Overhead from Shimbashi Station. A group of bus conductresses—strikers—marching in a row, all of a sudden scattered a shower of leaflets, and then ran for their lives. After them went two plain-clothes men. One of them grabbed a girl by the shoulder with one hand, and struck her full in the face with all his strength with the other. He followed this up with a kick in the back. Five or six yards ahead she collapsed and fell on her back. The two detectives planted themselves on top of her. Arisuke gasped and turned his head away. The leaflet was urging the railway workers to come out in sympathy—weren’t they silly girls?
The next day, however, he was once more the earnest Young Man. He was convinced that someone was “behind the strikers.” He well knew that at present there was some deadly hidden force sweeping all over Japan.
III
He seemed to remember seeing a gleam of light on the opposite bank as his taxi crossed Asakusa Bridge. Then he remembered being dragged down a funny narrow lane for some reason or other. The next thing was the strong scent coming from a woman’s body, and her eyes and cheeks and lips close to his. He felt the smooth short hair of a girl who was lying in bed beside him. This was Tamanoi, but as yet he did not know the wretched fate that lay in wait for him there. Naturally he could not be in bed facing that short-haired girl—whoever she was—without beginning to tell her proudly of the strike. But when she heard she drew away from him and started up.
“Then, if our girls were to strike, would you bring your little sister here to fill our place? It’s the same thing.”
“Don’t be silly.”
All the same, those were disconcerting words. And the short-haired girl uttered many others, more disconcerting still.
She told him how the city authorities, having prearranged with the Right-Wing leaders that they were to drop out half-way through, had planned to weed out the Left-Wing elements who were always ready to flare up over anything. She related how a 60,000 yen bribe had been given to the Right-Wingers; how one well-known renegade leader had been photographed staggering out of the geisha-house dead drunk; how in the taxi he had counted a big wad of bills and blustered out boldly, “We hold the key to the strike,” and how in order to cover up all these goings-on, and put people off the scent, the Electric Bureau had sent out an “appeal” to the citizens. All this was proved by the fact that after the settlement more than a hundred lost their jobs, and those who were taken back at last were much worse off than before, while the renegades had neatly pocketed 60,000 yen.
“You certainly helped to do a fine piece of work, didn’t you now?”
As I have said, Arisuke was a steady, high-principled young fellow. When such people begin to doubt the value of the work they have put their whole heart and soul into, the result is often serious. Arisuke had become ashen pale all of a sudden.
To come upon such a girl in Tamanoi or in Kameido is nothing very out of the ordinary. After this she went on to explain all these things to him in fuller detail, and at dawn the serious thing happened to him. I repeat, once again, that he was a man of the most rigid morals, bound always to follow the straight and narrow way he thought was right.
In addition to that, he was drunk.
Well, to tell you the serious thing: in the toilet of the brothel, Arisuke, member of the Young Men’s Association, committed suicide by hanging himself.
Only one word need be added: there are plenty more Arisukes.
- ↑ Tamanoi and Kameido are the great “licenced” districts of Tokyo.