It’s pitch black at the end of the hallway, and I can’t see much. Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I move forward slowly. It’s a summer night, and I’ve slipped out from under my mosquito net to head to the bathroom. During the day, this is a place where children run around and play, but late at night, monsters and ghosts that lurk beyond the bathroom are said to emerge, attacking frail, helpless old people and young children and devouring them, starting from the head. What a terrifying, spine-chilling story—yet I had no choice but to go to the bathroom. Encouraging myself to “be brave,” I managed to tiptoe forward along the creaking hallway when suddenly, a gust of wind slammed against the storm shutters with a loud thud, and a white, fluffy object appeared right before my eyes. Just as I braced myself, thinking, “Is that a monster?,” I woke up.
During the day, it functioned as a recreational area for children, but in the late evening hours, it metamorphosed into a disconcerting and perilous environment. This transformation occurred in the dimly illuminated corridor of the antiquated farmhouse to which we had evacuated. It was the only passageway leading to the bathroom deep inside the house. To my childish mind, the darkness beyond seemed like a nest of truly, truly terrifying monsters and ghosts. Even now, I sometimes have nightmares that make me jump out of bed. I woke up once that night as well, but since it was the middle of the night, I soon drifted back to sleep.
Before long, I sensed something inexplicable rising around me, wavering like white mist. It felt like steam from a bath, and my body felt hot for some reason. I seemed to be soaked through with sweat. Yet, it also felt different from sweat. It turned out to be nothing more than that: I was soaking in a bathtub. I had come to a public bath with some friends from the neighborhood. In the bathing area, several boys considerably older than us were sitting silently in the water, not saying a word. They seemed to be enjoying a relaxing soak after a long time away from the hustle and bustle of daily life. When they stepped out of the water, I realized they were young soldiers because they were wearing khaki uniforms. Two of them exited the building without wrapping their gaiters around their shins, simply holding them in their hands. Gaiters were designed to be wrapped around the lower legs in order to secure the pant legs and protect the legs from potential obstacles, blood clots and fatigue. It was mandatory for soldiers to wear them at all times. However, it may be surmised that the soldiers had relaxed their vigilance following their ablutions. To a young child, the khaki military uniforms exuded an aesthetic appeal, thus prompting immediate pursuit of the soldiers.
A few minutes after we went outside, I heard a sharp voice call out, “Hey, wait up!” A middle-aged man with a stern gaze—who appeared to be an officer—called out to the young soldiers. “Which unit are you from? You aren’t wearing your gaiters—you’re slacking off. Come this way,” he said, then stepped in front of the two young soldiers and began walking. As if it were only natural, we followed behind them. When the officer—who appeared to be their superior—reached a certain alley, he said, “Come here,” once more and lined the two up. Then, without warning, he began punching them in the face with his fists. The two would be struck, stagger, immediately regain their composure and stand in line, only to be struck again. The middle-aged officer paid no attention to the fact that children were watching. He was solely focused on upholding military discipline. That’s when the dream ended. Then I fell back asleep. The next dream went like this.
I found myself sitting in seiza position, In other words, I'm sitting with my knees bent on the hard wooden floor of the hallway. It seemed to be taking place in the school where I had been evacuated. I wasn’t the only one forced to sit there. A dozen or so people were lined up in a row, made to sit in seiza on the floor of the hallway. The teacher emerged from the classroom holding a wooden sword. “From now on, in accordance with the nation’s policy, I will hold you all collectively responsible. One of you has committed an act of misconduct. When one person commits such an act, the entire group must bear collective responsibility. To that end, I will first have all of you sit in seiza position in the hallway and give you some time to reflect.” “I am now going to carry out the punishment,” the teacher said, holding the wooden sword above the head of the closest student seated there. It was held about twelve inches above his head. Then, he let the wooden sword fall. He continued in this manner, holding the wooden sword above the heads of the seated students one by one and letting it fall. Finally, it was my turn. Just as I was about to close my eyes tightly in preparation for the impact, my eyes flew open and I woke up.
Speaking of private homes and schools at my evacuation site, I previously wrote about being bullied by the village schoolchildren there. That was Episode 4 of this series, “Evacuation.” However, evacuation wasn’t all unpleasant and painful experiences. One such event was a village festival held at a local shrine on a day that, although marked as the start of autumn on the traditional calendar, still felt like a hot summer day. It was a festival dedicated to the guardian deity who protects the village and promises a bountiful autumn harvest. Early that morning, the lively sounds of bells, drums, and flutes could be heard. The entire village turned out for this grand festival. At night, food stalls appeared, lined with antiques, handmade crafts, sweets, and drinks—a feast for the eyes. I used to go there with my older brother and sister, as well as the children of relatives who lived nearby. On this day alone, even the mean bullies would behave themselves and enjoy the festival.
It was one holiday morning. The faint sounds of flutes and drums drifted in from somewhere. I wasn’t sure if it was a dream or reality. Perhaps the sound was leaking from the TV of an early-rising household. As I listened with a dazed mind, it seemed to be a verse from the elementary school song “Village Festival.” Following the lyrics, “Today is a joyous festival day for the village’s guardian deity,” I heard someone humming: “Don-don-hyara-ra, don-hyara-ra, don-don-hyara-ra, don-hyara-ra.” It was a truly soothing sound. Before I knew it, I drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep.
