Facts are stronger than rhetoric; and no one expected such pitiless irony. Your "theory" is certainly much loftier than that of Mao Tsetung; yours is high in the sky, while his is down-to-earth. But admirable as is such loftiness, it will unfortunately be just the thing welcomed by the Japanese aggressors. Hence I fear that it will drop down from the sky, and when it does it may land on the filthiest place on earth. Since the Japanese welcome your lofty theories, I cannot help feeling concern for you when I see your well-printed publications. If someone deliberately spreads a malicious rumour to discredit you, accusing you of accepting money for these publications from the Japanese, how are you to clear yourselves? I say this not to retaliate because some of you formerly joined certain others to accuse me of accepting Russian roubles. No, I would not stoop so low, and I do not believe that you could stoop so low as to take money from the Japanese to attack the proposal of Mao Tsetung and others to unite against Japan. No, this you could not do. But I want to warn you that your lofty theory will not be welcomed by the Chinese people, and that your behaviour runs counter to present-day Chinese people's standards of morality.
~ Lu Xun,
Reply to a Letter from the Trotskyites
Down-with-Imperialism Union Headquarters, Jilin; August 1932
Shintaro Imada’s vision was blurry and his head ached. Being without his glasses wasn't helping matters in this regard but he also felt as if he had picked a fight with a battleship and charged it headfirst. The room was spinning and was only brought to a halt when he realised that everything was dark. Even though his eyes were open.
It would take another minute for him to realise that he was blindfolded.
“Oyn nye shpit?” A voice murmured in a language unknown to Imada.
It was something he wasn’t able to dwell on for long before being slapped across the face. Attempting to react he realised he was tied to a chair but his movements were seemingly enough to satisfy his captors who now removed his blindfold.
It seemed he was being held in a coal cellar. The man who had removed his blindfold looked like he might be Russian. He was in an olive shirt that looked like it might be part of a uniform. He seemed tired, regarding Imada pensively, almost bored. This was in contrast to the man behind him, dressed in peasant clothing with a red armband tied around his shoulder. His hair was prematurely grey but his eyes weren’t at all weary. They seemed full of hate.
Imada realised to his horror that he had been captured and instinctively struggled with the rope binding him to the chair. This earned him another slap. The Korean seemed to have been anticipating this moment, the Russian appeared to regard Imada as a chore.
“Spraasi voyanna.” The Korean stated.
“What is your name?” The Russian translated to Japanese.
“Captain Ya-, erm, Yasujiro Ozu of the Mukden MIlitary Police.” Imada croaked.
“May I have some water?”
The Russian said something to the Korean about that and they both laughed before the Russian went to the side of the room where a large field jacket and satchel hung from a hook. He produced a canteen and Imada thought he was going to bring to his lips, before he opened his mouth and motioned for Imada to do the same. Imada did as he was told and the Russian emptied the contents over Imada’s head before giving him another slap.
“You are not a film director.” The Russian barked at him.
“Name?!”
“Captain Shintaro Imada, of the Mukden Military Police.” Imada replied sheepishly.
The Korean made an affirmative noise and walked towards Imada as well. It seemed he could also speak Japanese, another part of the charade.
“What is a member of the Mukden Military Police doing this far north?”
Imada felt like he could ask his hosts that. He didn’t know where he was. Realising asking such questions might not be pertinent for his health he tried to think back. Having water poured over him had actually helped to clear his head.
He had been investigating the increased sightings of Soviet troops in the territory of the warlord Zhang Xueling, the young marshal who remained in control of Manchuria in spite of the Soviets now attempting to assert their own influence in the region. He had hoped that increased reconnaissance of Communist activity and any links to Korean nationalists they might have had, would be enough to finally force Tokyo to act.
They had managed to journey far into the Manchurian interior under the cover of darkness before someone in his squad had shouted that they had been spotted and another had mentioned a grenade. He explained this to the Russian officer and in turn was told he was the only survivor of his squad left alive. The shame was unbearable. To have been knocked out in the middle of a firefight or to have lived when the men he had led died. It was hard to tell which was worse.
The pair proceeded to question him on Japanese strength in the region, on politics within Korea, on his own views as to what actions the Kwantung Army might take next. Eventually the Korean seemed to have gotten what he wanted and departed from the cellar.
The Russian stayed with him and gave Imada a look of resignation.
“Your imperialist violation of this independent republic has been decided upon by a people’s court. We are grateful for your help all the same.”
Imada turned away from thoughts of shame for a moment.
“Independent republic?”
The Russian smiled at that, and returned to his coat. What he might come back with made Imada shiver but the man produced a packet of cigarettes and put one in Imada’s mouth before lighting it. Imada struggled to smoke the thing whilst restrained even as the Russian enjoyed one of his own.
“Captain Dmitry Getmanov, of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army. You can probably guess I’m not Chinese. I was stationed out here during the civil war, there were a lot of you in our country back then. Those were good times, every day was painful but we had the world ahead of us back then. It all feels very different…”
Getmanov trailed off, it seemed his memories were clearer in his mind than Imada’s had been. Eventually he focused on his prisoner once more.
“I am here to help but I also am here for my country’s survival.”
Imada spluttered as his mouth filled with bitter smoke and Getmanov now released his arm restraints to allow him to take it out of his mouth. The Russian put a hand through his dark hair as he sat down.
“We are decades behind the advanced countries and we must change that urgently if we are to avoid destruction. This is primarily an economic problem but it is also a military matter at the present time. Our workers state is the largest country in the world and up until now we have struggled to maintain the revolution at its furthest reaches. I have fought against the resurgent Tsarist terrorism borne of exiles in China and Japan, we are now going to put an end to that by assisting our comrades in Manchuria. We will help them to establish a soccialist republic there and in doing so protect our own motherland and the broader revolution in China.”
“That is more ambitious than anything we thought.” Imada replied, he wasn’t sure why the Russian was telling him this but he had a feeling it was due to the fact he wouldn’t be alive much longer.
“How was the cigarette?” Getmanov asked awkwardly, as if afraid Imada might rebuke him for its poor quality.
“It wasn’t to my tastes.”
With that the Russian Captain shrugged and pulled out his pistol.
“Can’t please everyone.”
There was a loud flash before things went dark again.
When Imada awoke he felt even worse than he had in the cellar.
He scratched at his head only to realise the area around his right temporal lobe was caked in blood. By chance and an even worse headache, the shot had failed to kill him. He felt unable to see properly, even worse than usual without his glasses. He feared that he would not only have to endure the shame of capture but might face lasting brain damage, enough to impair him from receiving a proper death.
It was a horrific thought but in putting it out of his mind he realised his glasses weren’t the only thing missing. In the light of the early morning it was clear he had been dumped in a field without his uniform. It didn’t take long for him to realise he was lying amongst the members of his expedition. They had been left to rot in their undergarments, like himself. Perhaps the Koreans the Russian had been with needed their uniforms for some new act of banditry or terrorism. Perhaps they had been left like this out of spite.
Imada was relieved that he could still hand, even if his depth perception felt off. He tried to focus but it felt too painful to do so for more than a few seconds and so he went forward in a blurry haze, away from the bodies of his comrades.
It was hard to say where he was. At that moment he couldn’t even have been sure if his interrogation had actually happened or had merely been some fever dream. Imada didn’t know where he was going but he set out all the same. Amidst his injuries, the sun bearing down upon and an ever increasing thirst the day went on and he continued to limp, gaining a focus of sorts.
If he had not been allowed to die it must have been for a reason. Perhaps destiny would have it that the information the Russian had saddled him with needed a living messenger to carry it back to the Kwantung Army.
Perhaps he would find himself a glorious death after all.
It was all worth staggering around in circles for at any rate and as he kept on going he wondered whether those who had held him back from launching the incident the previous year were happy with themselves now. Perhaps in this sorry state he could make them listen.
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The poster is
Imperialists and all other reactionaries are paper tigers by Chen Xiaoxi and Guo Kekuan