 Words at war. From Lieutenant Colonel W. E. Dias' account of the death march of the Tan, I quote, two more followed these. Then a sixth broke from the ranks. Japanese guards all along the line made no sign to prevent them. Just raised their rifles and waited for the sixth to scramble into the grassy ditch and go up on the opposite side a few feet from the well. Most of the Filipinos fell at the first volley. Thus did our fifth day of the death march start with a bloodbath. I needed... What's that knocking? I needed all the strength. Somebody stop it, or you were on the air. Will somebody get them away or let them in or something? We're on the air. To continue. We're on the air. The deeds had been murdered behind me all night. But the deeds had been veiled by darkness. It is true. The deeds veiled by darkness. Will you be quiet? No, I must tell you. I must tell them that it's true. I know it. I had just seen. I walked... When they brought a Korean boy back to our cell and something among us, we, his fellow prisoners, countered five cigarette burns on his neck. Be quiet. No, I must speak. It is important that I tell you how true it is. The things you are just learning. The things I knew for years. For I am a Japanese. Japanese. Japanese. Yes. Taro Yashima, a painter from the Japanese. Will you hear my story? Words at War. The national broadcasting company in cooperation with the council on books in wartime presents the new son by Taro Yashima, Japanese painter. Where shall I begin? Tell you how poor I was. How my father was a village doctor? How I? No. That is not the way now. Let me begin with a spring evening in Tokyo, nearly ten years ago. I was returning to my home, the little house in the working class district. Through the soft dusk I walked, carrying in my hand a bouquet of daffodils. Why? For my wife. In the morning she had told me I was to be a father once more. In the twilight I walked along, talking to myself. No more weeping my wife. For our dead baby. No, Taro. You're carrying toward life a new child. Yes, Taro. From our sorrow and bitterness and poverty, this child shall grow into a new world. Ah, yes, Taro. Yes. A new world. One we shall both paint. Yes, Taro? This child shall be like a crocus. Out of the winter-cracked ground, like a crocus our child shall grow and bloom. Whispering so to myself, I came to our little house. The lights were shining from it. But it was also still. Everything was silent in the lamp light. I stepped into my house. There were three men there. My wife was not. Your wife couldn't wait for you. She had urgent business. Elsewhere. Where is my wife? Where? Where? What have you done with her? She is carrying our child. You should have thought of that before. You can't! Can't we? Can't we? I know who you are now. You are the Tokoka. The secret police. It's you who closed the workers' nursery without warning. It's you who are to blame because our first baby died. Grab one of his arms, each of you, and pull him along. The Tokoka. The Tokoka. From the account by Lieutenant Colonel W.E. Dias of the death march of the Tan, I quote, Dawn of April 13th seemed to come in the middle of the night. Its magnificent colors and flaming splendor meant to us only the beginning of new sufferings. We averted our heads as the coppery light flooded our filthy prison. I too sat in a prison in filth. I too have averted my eyes from the heat of the sun streaming into a Japanese prison. I have been a prisoner of the Tokoka. A prisoner of war. The war which the government was making against its own people. Shhh. I must speak and whisper. Because there are guards outside. Hear them? If we are caught talking, if we pause in the business of picking lice off ourselves and exchange just one thin little word of comfort with each other, we are made to sit alone in the corridor, alone, alone. I must speak to the old man beside me. I must know why he is here. Why, old man? I had 40 yen in my pocket. Shhh. Not so loud. Is it a crime to have 40 yen? They didn't think it was proper for me to have that much. My clothes were too poor. And you? Well, you can't be more than 13. Why have they put you here? What did you do? Me? I'm just a news boy. And I peeked into the factory through a hole in the wall. But I didn't see anything. I didn't. I didn't. Shhh. It's enough for them. That you wanted to see. I'm a garbage man. A Korean. That's enough against me, I know. But I stole a piece of zinc pipe. Just one. Just one? What is that little piece of pipe to Japan's taking all of Korea? My country. Oh, Manchuria. Why did they have to steal that? You haven't told us why you're here. I? I'm a painter. I drew pictures of the life that people live. Of the war that is being prepared for them. Then you're not really surprised to be here, are you? If I am, I'll get over it. Perhaps I've been too surprised. Always. I'm a modem. Just a modem. I'm a member of a labor union in an iron factory. That's a terrible crime, isn't it? No answer for it, yes. They're carrying someone. Pitch him in. He's unconscious. The strangest face looks with that cut in it. The cut looks as if it were a mouse that would speak for him. Will it hurt if I brush the hair away from him? Oh, I'm sorry. Sorry. He's coming, too. That is too bad for him. He was out of his pain. It is better to be unconscious. No, old man. No, it is not. It is better to know. There is a man who is made to sit holding his books each day till he falls over and his books fall all around him. Wouldn't it have been better if he never had known of books? No. Let's see if we can't move this man a little. Help me, someone. What did you do to him? I only touched his arm. It's broken. They've broken both his arms. Each of us will have to turn like him, won't we? Yes, Moldemon. Somewhere in this prison is my wife, carrying our child. The wife who wept for our dead firstborn, who could not be comforted by the words and the poems of the workers who were our neighbors. Somewhere in this prison, because she, too, painted the life about us. They're taking a woman past ourselves. She keeps looking in here, trying to... Oh, they caught her doing it. Why do you cover your face, Tarot? That is my wife. I'm sorry. Can you see where they're taking her? Upstairs. Maybe I shouldn't have told you. It is better not to know. Our child was to be like a crocus, one that blooms through the rough earth left by winter into a new world of springtime, bringing joy to us. In a world without whips, without broods, without poverty and needless death, a flower like a cup for the sunlight. Did you hear? Hold man, hold my hand. Boy, hold my other hand. That is my wife, my wife. Teach me something, tell me something. I'm helpless. That is my wife who carries the crocus in her body. Squeeze my hands tight. My fingers aren't very strong. My hands are slippery with sweat. Titer, titer, hold my helpless hands. And you, helpless brain, think, think. What can you think when your wife is being beaten? I can think of the things she loved. Of the bright paint of the characters we painted once on our roof that read, come, study, new progressive art studio. Of the farmer who told us he wanted to be painted on top of a rock with his plow. Of the poor young worker who wanted to earn enough money to buy books. Did he ever, ever earn enough? Of the child, our child, trying to live within her, trying to reach the world. Oh, child of mine, live, live. Come forth among us. Your father is helpless. Hold man, boy, don't let go of my hand. From Lieutenant Colonel W. E. Dias, account of the death march of a tan, I quote, mutterings about me brought me back to earth to look upon a new horror. I saw all eyes were directed toward an object hanging on a barbed wire fence that paralleled the road. It had been a Filipino soldier. The victim had been bayoneted. His abdomen was open. This was a Japanese object lesson, of course. An object lesson, yes. The Imperial Japanese government gave its own people object lessons, too. They're coming back. Don't look. She's my wife. They are dragging her. But her feet move. She's alive, Tarot. She still lives. Let me look at her. Look, Tarot, let me tell you, I will not lie to you. She lives. She's lifting her head. Her hair hides her eyes so she cannot see. But she tried, Tarot. Tried. I can see her broken teeth. Broken teeth. She's smiling. Trying to smile. Smiling. She will bear your child. Believe us. Believe us. Wife. Wife, do you hear? My unborn child, do you hear? I believe them. I believe. I believe. You, Tarot Yashima. You are wanted. I am wanted. This isn't your wife, are you? Come on. Come on. They'll be whips for me. There will be worse for those into whose hands they thrust the guns. For they will slay knife men like themselves in the name of the emperor. And they shall be cursed. Get in there. The room is cold. And the face of the man, the police officer who eyes me, the member of the Tokoka is like the face of a toad. The eyes. Drawing yours. What is it show? A whole village in silence after a fusing military drill. There are no people seen. Only a large, ridiculous figure who looks like an officer. A Japanese officer. Are the strokes of the pen bold and free? Bold and free? They are ugly. Yes. Does the officer look like a frustrated shark? Yes. And are the huts of the people hiding from him dark and bitter? Like a litter of curled hedgehogs on a mud flat? One window in each shining like an open, wary eye? Then it is my drawing. It is mine. And why did you draw it? Because an artist must belong to the people. See what they do. Feel what they do. And that is the way the people feel. You said something? I said I... Excuse me. The tooth is loose. Let me help it. You were saying... I was saying... that is the way the people I know feel. I will show you how the people feel. Cut! Cut! Yes, honoured sir? Strip him. Strip him to his naked, filthy skin. Let him see how the people feel. Make the lice dance on his body till they drop off dead. Let him see how the people feel. And let me draw back now. As you draw back from the black print that told you how soldiers of my nation ran the soldiers of your nation prisoners through with bayonets, starved them, flugged them, massacred them. Let me draw back from my naked bodies sprouted there on the floor. For I am being beaten too by Japanese soldiers. These men holding the whips and blackjacks in their hands have been cuffed and beaten themselves. They are the mannequins now of fascism. One idea alone is forced into their heads. Kill the other nations for the peace of the East. The peace I am getting at their hands that they will get if they disobey. Disobey the toad who sits there grinning at my bloody writhings. I give that toad now a Western thought from a Western book spoken in the Garden of Eden to a serpent. Between thy seed and mine I will put enmity. My wife. My wife. My unborn child. May you be born into the mourning of the world. My son. Come forth as your father fails under this whipping the slashing from Lieutenant Colonel Dias account of the death march of a tan. I quote Captain Burt had managed to secret a long lump of sugar which he was eating. In a minute or two Captain Burt had dropped back beside us and was holding out the sugar. We each took a bite and tried to give it back. Captain Burt shook his head. Splitted fellas he said. I've already had more than that. I've never reacted so quickly to anything in my life. Strength flowed through me. Carol? Carol? What is it? Where am I? I know now. The same cell. I didn't like to wake you. I was dreaming. I saw a puppy growing out of the earth where I had planted it in our backyard. It's hot in here. So hot. The motorman is sick. Yes, for a week old man. But now I think he's dying. He must not die. No we will do something. What is there to do? God! God! Carol, what is it now? Did your worship crave something? One of the men is dying. He cannot eat, he's dying. That is too bad. Keep still. You see, it is hopeless. No it is not. He must not die. Motorman, friend, brother. Yes, Carol. You shall not die. Trying that too. I don't want to. I'll try. But you will pretend to. We will all pretend that you're dying. Listen, all of us. Whenever any of us sees a guard in a few minutes when we wash, when he's walking past our cell, when he sits out there tweaking hairs from his nostrils, when they bring in another prisoner, we say a man is dying. Yes, yes, all of us. God! God! God! A man is dying in here. Where is the dying going on? Over here. Look at him. He will be dead soon. Unless he has milk from now on, he will die. Yes, he will die, God. Unless he has milk. You see, Carol, it is hopeless. Hopeless. Yeah, hopeless. Hopeless to ask for milk, Tarot. They will never... They're bringing supper. Will they? Don't speak. Wait. Wait and see. They're going to open the food panel. They're going to. Tarot. I looked once for you. If the milk for the motorman is there, I can't look. You, Tarot, tell us. Tell us. The rest of us will shut our eyes. We cannot see. Tell us, Tarot. In the opening, a whole bottle of milk is standing. Even in this darkness, it is white. Put the motorman. Give it to him. No, no, no. Don't spill it. Friend, motorman. Yes. It is your milk. Only don't drink it all at once, dying man, find out the fraud. You must have some. No. Take just a mouthful. Swallow it. Swallow it. Don't hold it in your mouth. He will. He will. It's hard for him. Please swallow it. Please. There. It was good, wasn't it, brother? The taste of milk in the mouth. Thank you. Thank everybody. Thank you. It is the motorman still awake, scratching with a bit of stone at the wall of our prison. Motorman, what are you doing? I'm trying to scratch a poem on the wall, saying how I thank each all for the milk, how our sweat in his cell has mingled. I didn't mean to wake you. We are all awake, motorman. Thank you. A lump of sugar. A bottle of milk. Maybe this is a sample of the future world. They had let my wife go at last. The ninth month was on her. They let her go to have our child. I saw her just an instant, not to speak, only to look at her eyes as she passed. Tarot, our child shall be born. You, my wife, you must live too. I will bear our child, Tarot. This was said not in words. Only a glance as she passed. As she dragged herself past myself. The days passed. The deadly days. The voices you hear are those of some of the men trying to teach each other Esperanto. The man who knew it has left. And I am sitting here in his shirt. He stripped it from his back to give me. It is usual for departing prisoners to do this. No one is surprised anymore. But it is still prison. Is my son being born? Is he born? And into a world of terror and destruction? Yes, terror, war, destruction. Born among a people being destroyed by their rulers. I must get out. It is true, Tarot. You must get out, Tarot. But I... Don't argue. We have all decided it. We have all agreed. Yes, it is decided. You must write a false confession for them, Tarot. Then you can go free. And my friends will think I have betrayed them. No one will think that. They will know. Others have gone before you. Just that way. Tarot, with your drawings, you can tell the world how fascism eats at the very balls of our nations. Drawing us up into an agony, like a beast's agony. You can see your wife and... Yes, Tarot. Perhaps even your son. Write the confession. Tell them what they think they want to know. Everything. Except one thing. What is that, old man? Don't tell them. Don't confess about the bottle of milk. No, Tarot. No, no, someone else might want milk someday. And then how would we get it? Tell your son, Tarot, when you see him, that we send him the greetings of his brothers. And I was released. And as I walk forth, a guard... For you. What is it? It came a month ago. A telegram. Read it if you want to find out what's in it. A month ago. And I do not dare read it. But I must. My wife had safely born our child. A son has been born to us. And I am out under the sunlight of heaven. The big bright ball of light is over my head as I walk. As I run, run, bearing the greetings to my child from his brothers in the prison. Oh great shining sun over my head. Surely you will increase your brightness over me. And over people everywhere. And so I, Tarot Yashima, Japanese painter, came to this studio to tell you of my story and of the mingled sweat of my wife, my fellow prisoners and myself in our struggles against the enemy fascism that beat to death your soldiers on Batan. And I wish to thank the America which lets me talk and write freely about events and people I shall never forget. Tarot Yashima, Japanese artist, is now in this country. He is a member of the Japanese American Committee for Democracy and a member of the Art Council of the Japanese American Committee for Democracy. He's completing a series of cartoons on Japanese fascists and arranging for a third exhibition of paintings and cartoons. The dramatization of his book, The New Sun, was the 36th program of Words at War. The radio adaptation was written by Kenneth White. The material quoted from Colonel W. E. Dias' account of the death march of Batan is copyrighted and was used by permission of the Chicago Tribune and associated newspapers from coast to coast in which the Dias story is now appearing. The part of Tarot Yashima was played by Everett Sloan. Next week, Words at War will present an adaptation of Assignment USA by Seldon Menafee, an account of a reporter's travels throughout the United States. The music for tonight was arranged and played by William Meader. The production was under the direction of Anton M. Leder. This is the night...