The Investigation

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Life may not have a purpose. But death requires clarity — not to prove that death occurred, but for the benefit of those who survive. This lesson, which I learned this past winter, made me who I am now. War had whipped me like a sandstorm. Somehow, even as I was worn down, eroded, I grew up, little by little. One might be congratulated for maturing, for the body becomes stronger and one accumulates experience; but to get here I’d lost so much. I am unable to return to who I’d been before, when I was unaware of the world’s cruelty, the evil among us or the power inherent in a written line.

The war ended on 15 August 1945. The prisoners were freed, but I’m still here. The only thing that’s changed is that now I am behind bars, my brown guard uniform exchanged for this red prisoner’s garb. Dark numbers are printed clearly on my chest: D29745. I don’t entirely understand why I’m here. During the war I was stationed as a soldier-guard at Fukuoka Prison. Now the Americans have classified me as a low-level war criminal. I am incarcerated in the very cell I once patrolled, in this immense prison of tall brick walls, sharp barbed wire, thick bars and the brick rooms that swallowed the lives of thousands.

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