It was the summer of 1951. It happened during a trip. She had a thought, which was also encountered by many others on their own journeys. The incident should eventually clarify itself. She recalls, simply as an experience, what she faced on that trip. It concerned the Party-meaning, of course, the Communist Party. She was a Party member. At least in her mind she was still one then. And she was an author.

That summer, at the invitation of a labor union, she was on the way from Tokyo to the summer cultural series at a T Prefecture factory as one of the lecturers. She rode the train, as directed by the union, to N terminal on the coast of the Japan Sea and transferred. A connecting train was waiting at the same platform. She assumed without thinking that it was her train. The train stopped at each station, unloading people. Few got on and the seats around her gradually emptied. The train had already run more than two hours. Finally she began to look suspiciously at the landscape along the railroad. The train was supposed to run along the Japan Sea. She had wished to see the gray, heavily swollen ocean again that day outside the window. However, the train never came to the coast. Something was wrong. Wearing glasses, in an indigo cotton blouse, and middle-aged, she alone looked out of place on this train which dropped people at every little station. Feeling restlessly that something was wrong, she felt isolated, a stranger. Somewhat flustered, she took out the letter that had come from the union to check her route from the starting point. It was a businesslike letter written over carbon paper. As expected in such a letter, the train schedule and the transfer point were written in clearly. It seemed that she had taken the trains as instructed. However, while poring over the letter she noticed an error. She had taken the train at N station following the signboard on the platform. The name of the station on it was, however, different by one letter from her actual destination. She had hastily identified the station and traveled in the opposite direction. No wonder the train never reached the coast.

She quickly got off at the next stop. It was a quiet, small station. As she explained what had happened at the ticket gate, the young attendant, relaxed after allowing several passengers to exit, looked up as if at a loss, as much as to say, "Well?" There was no other train that day going to her destination, he told her. The only thing to do was to return to N station, he explained, and take the first train the next morning. Fortunately, she had no plans for that evening at the destination. In any case, there was nothing she could do but go back to N. She had to wait about fifty minutes until the N-bound train came. Though it was not yet dusk, there was no place to go from that little station. A low hill right in front of the station obstructed the view. Beyond the tracks was a farm bathed in the pale yellow evening sunlight, in a hush after the wind had stopped. Since she was by nature unperturbed by having to wait a little while traveling, that was all right; yet, thinking that she was there by mistake, and in a place which had no connection to her, she felt as if she had come strangely far. However, she would be back in N city after a three-hour ride. She knew a family near the station. Maybe she should not, however, stop by there. All she had to do, she thought, was spend one night at an inn in front of the station. After being seated on the N-bound train for a while, she still thought about the inn.

When she arrived at N, it was already night, which made her all the more aware that she had unexpectedly wasted time. Moreover, it was drizzling. In spite of the fact that N was a fairly large city, the front of the station was quiet and traditional, with no tourist atmosphere. The city lay just beyond the narrow square, with rows of shops. Standing in front of the station, she saw an inn right across the square. It was a decent place. There was a humbler inn beyond it. Any place would do. But if she walked a little along the street running vertically from the station front, there was the house of her acquaintances. It was so close. On both occasions when she had come to this city before, she had stayed there. This time, however, her visit might inconvenience them. Would the couple perhaps refuse her? It was easier for her to imagine that she would bother them than that they would refuse her. This was due to her feeling toward them. The husband, purged from his job, was a worker type who gave a sober impression. The wife, too, larger than her husband, had a character drawn, so to speak, with a dark pencil, far from anything like the stereotyped gently smiling female countenance. In the deliberate yet brisk way she dealt with matters she betrayed the wisdom of one who battled for a livelihood. They had five children, the oldest girl with bobbed hair. Of course the husband was a member, and the wife, too, no doubt was another. Thus the atmosphere of the Party pervaded this house.

Was the green grocery continuing to do all right, she wondered, visualizing the household which, on her second visit, had just started to sell dried food, preserved food, and vegetables for its livelihood. When her moan and dad went out to sell vegetables from a cart, the eldest daughter was her mom's right hand, taking care of the shop and her brothers and sisters. She wondered how the girl was doing. Reticent like her father, her eyes tended to be cast down under her long bangs, but she was a good-natured hard worker. The girl had silently imbibed the Party atmosphere of the house, and wrote poems in that vein.

She liked that family. Rarely was an entire home so perfectly open toward the Party. Elsewhere there tended to lurk an uneasy facade or hidden incoherences. With a jobless husband and five children this family was obviously poor, but everybody worked hard to fight through the poverty. If there were minor flaws, even those were undoubtedly of the kind natural to workers.

Therefore she did not doubt that the family was still involved in the movement while running a green grocery. That was why she hesitated, thinking that her visit tonight might be an imposition. She had stayed there during both of her two previous visits to this area. How would it be for her to stay at an inn without even saying hello to them? A dark thought swelling in her mind, she questioned herself How would that be? After a while, though feeling anxious, with her suitcase she started to walk in the rain toward the house, prompted by trust and love for the family.

Though the glass doors were half closed, the lights were still on in the shop. One step in on the dirt floor, she stood hesitantly.

"My," the wife said slowly in a deep voice, gazing at her. As for her, she instantly groped for something in the wife's expression.

"How unexpected. What happened?"

"I'm sorry it's so sudden."

"Come in anyway. Our place is always a mess—"

The dirt floor connected the shop to the kitchen inside, and without even a step, there was the dining room, and the cash register was also there. When she got in, the children came running from inside. The eldest daughter, who was doing something on the dirt floor of the kitchen, faced her and bowed, smiling faintly. She sat close to the entrance, and after re-exchanging greetings told them about the day's incident. Then she said,

"Maybe it's wrong to come to your place. Forgive me. I just didn't feel like going to an inn and ignoring you. But I'm afraid I may be troubling you. If so, I'll leave right away. You know, don't you, about me lately?"

"Yeah. We didn't understand it well and were wondering what it was all about."

Pouring tea with her eyes down, she added, "Let's see, Dad happens to have gone out to stock up today and won't come back till tomorrow morning. But, since you've come all this way—”

Hesitation surfacing within her breast, the wife's expression had stiffened before she knew it, while maintaining the usual bold lineation. It showed her anxiety about the Party rather than toward the guest, who recognized it and found it natural.

"Well, it would be wrong to ask to stay. I knew it, but—"

"Oh, no, of course, you know— We don't feel any differently toward you, but— A young district committee member is staying with us, you know. I don't know what he'll say. Whatever he does say, do you want to stay until then anyway? It's good of you to come, and I don't feel like asking you to leave—"

While they were talking this way, a neighborhood woman came to buy miso paste for the next day's breakfast, and a young bachelor came to buy preserved food. While handling these sales, the oldest daughter also listened to the conversation between the mother and the guest. Not only that, it was clear from the way she moved this way and that on the dirt floor that she was probably concerned with how the matter would turn out but was disposed in a friendly way toward the guest.

"Will it be all right? I don't want them to say anything about you. That's what I'm worried about. Shall I leave? Somehow I couldn't come here and not drop in—"

While speaking, she felt as if they were carrying on a conversation in a stale melodrama. Neither the wife nor herself, while implying a great deal, directly referred to the affair that had caused this situation. That the wife's expression betrayed an inner struggle but not hatred toward her might have corresponded to the stereotyped quality of the traditional melodrama. At the same time, of course, there was something sentimental about her feeling toward this family.

"It was so good of you to come. I'm happy you thought of coming, but then—it's somehow too hard for the likes of me to understand. But, well, anyway, why don't you stay for now. If it's really something, there are inns nearby—”

"Is it all right? Somehow I don't feel like going to an inn—"

"There's no reason to go to an inn when my house is here. Have you eaten?"

"I had a box lunch, so—"

"Then please have some tea. Yasuko, peel an apple from the store for her."

In a way that expressed relief, the oldest daughter went to the store right away to get the fruit without answering.

"Well then, please relax. I've got to wash the carrots."

"I'm glad that the shop seems to be doing gradually better."

"Well, you know, with a family this size, livelihood's hard. Dad can't be very active in the Party."

"It must be really hard."

"Me too. There's talk about organizing women, but the situation's getting more and more difficult, you know. It's hard to move. Though it's not that I'm doing that much—" she said, standing up to go to the kitchen. "Where did you say you're going this time?"

"I'm invited to a spinning factory. I think it will be a learning experience for me, too, to meet young spinners."

"I see. You're busy too. Well, please give a good talk to the young spinners."

"I'm the one who wants to hear them talk."

"Even so, they'll all listen to lecturers from Tokyo. Local communities need that kind of thing. Your last visit was for a cultural lecture series."

As the wife had made up her mind about the guest's staying, and the guest herself felt set on it, the two started to talk animatedly. That eased her restlessness, and she shared with the children the apple the oldest daughter peeled for her. The youngest, a boy, had been a baby on her last visit. He was already three or four. That meant that she was here after three years. The boy, like neither his father nor his mother, smiled all the time, and though he didn't talk much, he ran around the rare guest moving his round eyes as if he just couldn't sit still.

"It was bad of me not to bring a gift. And I have only one of these." She held out the last boiled egg from her bag. He took it, looking surprised, and went to show it to the second daughter, an elementary school student with an open textbook in front of her.

"Oh, Mom!" The big sister in elementary school took it from her brother, reporting it to their mother, and added, "We'll all share it, all right? I'll slice it for you."

The big brothers, also studying, glanced at it. The little brother eagerly gazed at his sister peeling the egg with his round, impish, lovable eyes, without saying anything. With his hands on the edge of the desk, he stamped his feet repeatedly.

The second oldest daughter, having carefully peeled the egg, said, "Wait," and brought a cooking knife. The egg rolled under the big knife. But the girl neatly cut it into four pieces. Since she sliced it crosswise, the two corner pieces had little yolk. That didn't seem to matter. Anyway the single egg could now be shared by the four children. "Look, I cut it."

The older brothers' hands, too, stretched out. They each picked up a piece and tossed it into their mouths. The youngest child remained looking at the piece of boiled egg in his fingers as if it were a treasure, and smiled at the guest. The second oldest daughter, after putting her portion into her mouth, returned to prepare for school, satisfied that she had completed the task of distribution. The single boiled egg was shared by the four children without a complaint, disappearing into their mouths in a second. As if contented, the older children studied, while the youngest was somehow still interested in the guest. He sneaked up from behind and put his arms around her shoulders as though to hug her tight. At first he appeared hesitant, not sure if he should do such a thing: then he peeked at her face and smiled. The oldest daughter, who with her mother was washing the carrots to be arrayed in the store, went out front each time a customer came in.

"Yes, that's right. Thank you very much."

She was blunt, but she didn't forget a polite thank you. There were eggs in the store too. "To organize women," the mother had said a while ago, but now she was washing dirt off the carrots, her sleeves rolled up to expose round arms, while instructing her daughter on something about the store. This housewife with the robust hips also talked in front of people at various Party meetings.

Wouldn't the wife be criticized for asking her to stay? The guest felt as if something was going to happen that very evening and yet she was there because she had a feeling of love and trust toward the family. But what did that mean? The reason that she dared, so to speak, to sit there was owing to this doubt. Rather than doubt, it might have been confidence. Confidence in her feeling of love and trust toward this family—it might have been something like that. Without that, she couldn't have sat there. This house, she knew, was not only the residence of the family members, but also a lodging for Party activists. Moreover, it tended to be a site for Party activities.

Rising slowly within her now, like a wave, was the tremor that had risen at that time in the past from the bottom of her breast, draining her entire body. Whenever she recalled that moment, that sensation in her entire body came back. That time, it was deep night. It was in the suburbs of Tokyo, where many fields and woods were still left. She crouched on the road alone by the side of the woods. Beyond the road were several city-run apartments, from which she had just come. Though she had come outside, she was unable to walk, and remained crouching there. Her inability to walk was not just owing to fatigue. It was already past twelve, but people were still in that house. After an all-night debate, she had just been driven out of the cell on their decision to expel her. So she crouched by the roadside, unable to simply return home. The road near the woods had few passersby even during the day; so no one could be expected to pass. The few city-run apartments in front had grown dark, and it was almost odder that a woman was crouching there than it would have been if the place had been totally deserted. A tepid late April wind blew from time to time carrying the smell of soil.

Was I ever meant to experience this in my life? she asked herself, lowering her shoulders in a complex sense of sorrow. It wasn't the kind of sorrow that made her cry; rather, her entire body became void, and a shiver rose from the base of her breast. In addition to the dozen or so cell members, many of whom she had had frequent contact with, there was also a young farmer she didn't know and a young man from on high who was present that day especially in connection with her punishment. She met these two district committee members for the first time.

Her expulsion was a result of the sectarianism of those days. However, in her case, which involved nothing but a difference of opinion, there was an atmosphere didn't easily allow a decision for that reason alone. Among those she had contact with were one or two close friends. Not because of that, but because the case for expulsion was weak, the unknown village youth joined in insisting on deferring the decision. The district committee member cornered those with softhearted views. So long as a directive from above called on them to "examine the thought of the concerned party and punish her," the young district committee member was determined, as his ominous expression revealed, not only to "examine" her thought but to "punish" her. A despicable fag end of a sect—-this, it seemed, was she. Moreover, she was a habitually insolent novelist, he seemed to think subjectively, which made him even more ferocious. He was lean and pale with drawn cheeks. He thrust out his arm to point at her, opening his mouth wide to spew forth harsh words. Irregular teeth were exposed in a sickly blackish mouth. He rebuked her for irreverently grinning. She didn't at all mean to deride the debate concerning herself. On the contrary, she was seriously angry, even sad. And yet the district committee member seemed to whet his irritation and authority by arrogantly shouting that she was grinning. The air in the room was oppressive. Only the young cell leader, as though to prove himself to the higher-ups, joined the district committee member in enumerating her accustomed faults. Her attendance at cell meetings was poor, she took the liberty of holding regular gatherings for literary associates without reporting to the cell, and so on. Such arguments sounded shallow and forced and only served to make the atmosphere of the meeting unbearable. The reasons for expulsion were not strong enough to convince all the cell members. At last an elderly historian resorted to something blatantly transparent:

"Can we establish the fact, for example, that she has pocketed some money?"

This was not only an insult but was so unexpected that no one even answered. No one even whispered an aside in this debate, out of which the higher-ups seemed determined to expel at least one person. Twice, three times, they were forced by the district committee member to state their views one by one, and as this was repeated twice, three times, the number of those arguing for deferring the decision perforce decreased. For they themselves were vehemently criticized for their soft compromising spirit. Those who opposed expulsion to the end were just the three who were close to her, and the expulsion was resolved by a majority vote.

cannot accept it, never."

What she was allowed to say during the debate was turned by the district committee member into material for exposing her before the cell members, since it did nothing but prove her insolent sectarian thinking. She kept her eyes wide open, resisting a feeling which might be called despair at the stupidity of it all. At the end of the debate, she just had to say that she could never accept the decision.

"Ah," the district committee member said contemptuously, "it's possible for you to submit a protest to the general meeting."

And she was ordered out before the dark expression on the faces of several cell members. Crouching close by the house was her act of resistance. She sat down on a small rock, an elbow on her lap, resting her cheek on one hand. Something was wrong about this situation, something was wrong somewhere, she thought, ruminating with an odd calm on the condemnation that had befallen her. Partly she laughed at herself, realizing that, however unexpected, such a thing had really happened to her. But something was wrong somewhere. Something that made her say she could "never accept it" rescued her from her self-scorn.

She peered at the dogs appearing under the lamp at the street corner. They flocked together, as if liberated, on the midnight street. Nearly ten of them came toward her, sporting with each other. They had not noticed a human being crouched on the street. Since she thought she must look suspicious crouching there, she readied herself against the dogs, peering at them. They were now chasing, now being chased, in a good mood and not noticing her until one of them came close to her knees and flinched. Taken aback upon glimpsing her, it retreated a step, as much as to say, "what a surprise." "Oh, just a human being"—it seemed relieved and ran away joyfully as another dog sprang on it.

One dog ignoring her, the others also paid no attention, going back and forth before her in a group. The footsteps of the several dogs of various sizes made mincing four-footed whispers. As though reverting to their wild instincts, they sported on the midnight street for a long time. There was no other sound in front of the woods. Only the footsteps of the four-footers continued. She suddenly felt sorry for herself, crouched near them without budging, and after a while she rose to go.

The children were put to sleep; a curtain was drawn across the glass doors of the store.

"Why don't you sleep now? We stir early in the morning," the wife said, looking up at the clock. "I'll talk to him, all right?" she said, lowering her voice at the end of the sentence.

The district committee member staying upstairs was expected back late. At this suggestion, she went to the bed prepared for her upstairs, but for a while she struggled to suppress the memory of that night which started to move in the bottom of her heart, stirred by the atmosphere of this room. There was only one room upstairs. There was a small desk. Nothing else. Her bedding was spread close to the wall on one side. The district committee member shortly to return was to sleep near the wall across from her. From previous experience, she knew her way around. Staying over itself was already a problem-now she was to sleep in the same room with the committee member. Under the dim electric light, she imagined his return. District committee member-he must be a sharp fighter. When that district committee member with drawn cheeks had opened his mouth as if howling, the inside of his mouth had looked blackish and sick. A thought occurred to her: had his lungs been infected? But why were there such human beings? A type: lean, pale, sharp-tongued, honed like a razor, with shallow arrogance as if finding pleasure in thrusting an arm straight out to point at a person and smash him. It was a type.

She regretted that her memory of him was only as a type. Although she remembered him clearly as a certain type, she was not confident that she would be able to recognize him if she met him somewhere again. Her hatred from that night was, in other words, directed only toward a type.

She had begun to doze off before she knew it, when she opened her eyes at the voices downstairs. They must be talking about her. The wife's voice was heavy and somewhat muffled, and the man, too, talked as if forcing himself to hold down his voice. I'll be called down, she thought, and just then heard footsteps on the staircase.

"Say," the wife said hesitantly, "are you awake? Listen, I'm sorry, but he says you're to come down."

"I'm coming right now," she answered, implying that she knew what it was about, and getting up. As she went down the steps, a young man seated near the foot of the staircase with his face down looked up.

"Hi," she greeted him face to face. He started without introduction, as much as to say that he had called her in order to tell what was to be told: "For you, you see, to stay here is, you see, partly for the reason that this is not just a private residence, you see, though I don't know how you think of it, from our standpoint, troublesome."

The young district committee member, owing to the character of the problem, sounded antagonistic. However, he was not arrogant. Grew up in poverty, became a worker—that was the impression he gave, a character spotted everywhere and yet not particularly conspicuous. He looked like a man who would pursue his job sincerely without minding what went on around him. He examined her with that sincerity. The wife had left to join the children.

"When I'm asked what I think of it, I don't know how to answer, but I did think about whether it would cause trouble, yet— It was hard to come here but not drop in."

Her answer wasn't at all logical. The young man looked as if he had missed the target.

"However, you see," he pressed, "you're walking along a different road from ours, aren't you? Suppose a person like that, you see, stays in this house, what would that mean?"

"What different road? I'm not walking along a different road."

"Well, but, you people are already engaging in activities hostile toward the Party, aren't you?"

"Against the Party—?" she lifted her face as though to question back. "I don't think that we engage in hostile activities against the Party. This involves, I think, various problems. There are many factors."

"I don't, you see, recognize the need for developing a theoretical struggle with you, but in any case, what is the purpose of your trip this time?"

It was nothing but an inquisition. For him, she might have been an enemy spy. On hearing the purpose of her trip, he still imagined it in direct connection with the organization.

"Then, you will go to the factory and on your return report to the higher-ups?"

"There's nothing in particular to report to higher-ups. Due to the nature of my work, occasions arise when I'm invited somewhere, and if so, I talk from my own standpoint."

"Oh, is that right."

He was thinking to himself, looking as if somehow he didn't understand it well. And now that something he could not understand surfaced, he seemed to realize that the situation was different from what he had comprehended. He said, "Well, in any case, you see, now, at this time of night, probably I can't ask you to leave, so it can't be helped. But tomorrow morning, I expect you to leave early?"

"Thank you very much. I'm sorry to have troubled you."

The wife, who had lain by the side of her children, might have anticipated this conclusion beforehand. Nevertheless, she must have strained her ear to follow the process. Climbing the steps, she felt simple-heartedly warm toward the young district committee member who had brought this around to its natural conclusion. Slipping under the covers, facing the wall, she felt that this was logical enough for her in its own way. And yet, even so, what did it mean that they, namely the housewife, the young committee member, and herself, all had to experience such delicate pain? Something was wrong somewhere—-she could only think so. The footsteps approached, mounting the stairs. The young district committee member, since this room was his sleeping place, had no choice but to prepare his bed, ignoring her. She heard behind her back the sounds of his quick preparation. And soon she too fell asleep.

In the morning she rose quietly. Downstairs, the wife and the oldest daughter were already up.

"Oh no, I didn't have to eat," she said, seeing that breakfast was ready.

"But please, at least do that before you leave," the wife said.

There were eggs on the table. The daughter occasionally smiled modestly, but seemed to hold back from talking to the guest. She, too, knew of the problem within the Party.

Saying that it was so close, the wife accompanied the guest, despite her protest, to the station.

"Young people, you know, are single-minded, so—," the wife said, by way of excusing what had happened the night before.

"Well, he probably had to say what he did, so I don't mind at all. Rather, I feel sorry about bothering him," she answered. In front of the station early in the morning, commuters to the factories were hurrying along, and the station shops were beginning to open.

"Well of course he has responsibilities, so perhaps he can't help it."

"I'm sorry this happened when your husband wasn't home. Please give him my regards."

"You may meet him at the station. He's due on the same train that you are taking."

As she apparently intended, she went onto the platform with her. After a while the train arrived, and as she got on, the wife spotted her husband and brought him near the window where she was looking out. It seemed that she had hurriedly informed him of the events of the night before, for the husband responded to her greeting by saying, "Yeah, yeah," with a vague expression, keeping his distance as though at a loss. He had gone to buy vegetables in the same work clothes he would wear when pulling a cart.

Since there was a little time before the train started, the couple stood before her window, but the husband remained silent as if he didn't know what to say. It was because of her delicate situation, as was evident in his distant expression. The wife, too, seemed to understand it. The wife said at the window, as if to both the guest and her husband, "Since we like you as a human being, so— Right, Dad? So, if you come this way, please stop by again."

This must have been said from something like relief at the fact that the guest was finally leaving. Letting the words "we like you as a human being" linger in her ear and beset by complex feelings, she said, "Thank you very much, but forgive me if anything annoying happens later."

"I trust that it'll be all right," the wife said.

When the bell rang for the train to start, the husband, too, for the first time recovered his usual expression, saying in a clear voice, "Take care now." It sounded as if, since this was the moment the train was leaving, he had put aside the Party problem just for that instant. By doing so, he seemed to feel relieved himself.

After dropping off people going to work in N city, the train was filled with the voices of local people mingling with each other. Near them she warmly recalled the delicate psychology of those from whom she had just parted; however, the warm feeling, at this point, gradually changed to pain. She soon grew tense and started to think somewhat farcical the course of events since last night which placed everyone including herself in an awkward situation.

Today, the train soon ran along the coast of the Japan Sea. The ocean spread in the exact same color as the clouded sky. Somewhat farcical—thinking so, and yet owing to the forced character of the thought, she gazed at the color of the sea with an expression of sorrow.

Sata Ineko. “Memory of a Night,” Japanese Women Writers: Twentieth Century Short Fiction, Lippit, Mizuta Noriko and Selden, Iriye Kyoko (eds, trans). Armonk, NY: An East Gate Book, M.E. Sharpe Inc., 1991; 84-96.