Silence by Shusaku Endo
Such conduct is pretty far from anything you could call Christian patience, but this weakling’s cowardice is just like that. Raising his face that had been buried in the sand he shouted out something in Japanese. His nose and cheeks were covered with sand and a dirty spittle ran down from his mouth. Now we get some idea of why he suddenly shut up like a clam when we first mentioned the Japanese Christians. Perhaps whenever he speaks he has a dreadful fear of his own words. Be that as it may, this one-sided fight was brought to an end when we finally intervened on his behalf, and so all became quiet. Since that time Kichijirō greets us with a servile grin.
‘Are you really a Japanese? Honestly, are you?’ It was a typical Garrpe question, and not without a touch of bitterness. But Kichijirō, with a look of astonishment, asserted emphatically that he was. Garrpe had too credulously taken at its face value the talk of so many missionaries about ‘this nation whose people don’t even fear death’. It is true, of course, that there are Japanese who have endured torture for five days on end without wavering in their fidelity; but there are also cowardly weaklings like Kichijirō. And it is to such a man that we have to entrust ourselves after reaching Japan. He has promised to put us in touch with Christians who will give us shelter; but now that I see his way of acting I wonder how much he can be trusted. But don’t think that because I write in this way we have lost our energy and enthusiasm. On the contrary, when I reflect that I have entrusted my future to a fellow like Kichijirō I cannot help laughing. When you come to think of it, Our Lord himself entrusted his destiny to untrustworthy people. In any case, in our present circumstances there is no alternative but to trust Kichijirō. So let’s do so.
Only one thing is really disconcerting. He is a terrible drunkard. After his day’s work he uses every penny he has received from the overseer on sake. His way of acting when drunk is unspeakable. I can only conclude that he has some haunting memory, something that he is trying to forget by drinking.
In the night of Macao there echoes out the sad, long-drawn-out sound of the bugle from the lips of the soldier guarding the fortress. Here, as at home, in our monastery after supper there is benediction in the chapel; and then the priests and brothers, candles in hand, retire to their rooms in accordance with the rule.
The servants have just marched through the court-yard. In the rooms of Garrpe and Santa Marta the light is extinguished. Truly this is the end of the earth.
Beneath the light of the candle I am sitting with my hands on my knees, staring in front of me. And I keep turning over in my mind the thought that I am at the end of the earth, in a place which you do not know and which your whole lives through you will never visit. A throbbing sensation fills my being, and behind my eyelids arises the memory of that long and terrible sea journey so that my breast is filled with pain. Certainly my being in this utterly remote and unknown Oriental town is like a dream. Or rather, if I begin to reflect that it is not a dream I feel like shouting out that it is a miracle. Is it true that I am in Macao? Am I not perhaps in a dream? I cannot believe this whole thing.
On the wall is a great big cockroach. Its rasping noise breaks the solemn silence of the night.
‘Go into the whole world and preach the gospel to every creature. He who believes and is baptized will be saved; he that does not believe will be condemned’. Such were the words of the risen Christ to the disciples assembled for supper. And now as I obey this injunction the face of Christ rises up before my eyes. What did the face of Christ look like? This point the Bible passes over in silence. You know well that the early Christians thought of Christ as a shepherd. The short mantle, the small tunic; one hand is holding the foot of the lamb while the other clasps a staff. This figure is familiar in our countries, for we see it reflected in many of the people whom we know. That was how the earliest Christians envisaged the gentle face of Christ. And then in the eastern Church one finds the long nose, the curly hair, the black beard. All this was creating an oriental Christ. As for the medieval artists, many of them painted a face of Christ resplendent with the authority of a king. Yet tonight for me the face is that of the picture preserved in Borgo San Sepulchro. There still remains fresh in my memory the time when I saw this picture as a seminarian for the first time. Christ has one foot on the sepulchre and in his right hand he holds a crucifix. He is facing straight out and his face bears the expression of encouragement it had when he commanded his disciples three times, ‘Feed my lambs, feed my lambs, feed my lambs … ’ It is a face filled with vigor and strength. I feel great love for that face. I am always fascinated by the face of Christ just like a man fascinated by the face of his beloved.
At last our departure is only five days away. We have absolutely no luggage to bring to Japan except our own hearts. We are preoccupied with spiritual preparation only. Alas, I feel no inclination to write about Santa Marta. God did not grant to our poor companion the joy of being restored to health. But everything that God does is for the best. No doubt God is secretly preparing the mission that some day will be his.
Chapter 2
(Letter of Sebastian Rodrigues)
The peace of God.
Glory to Christ.
WITHIN the space of one short letter I don’t know how to speak about the innumerable events that have crowded into my life in the past two months. Moreover, in my present state I do not even know if this letter will ever reach you. But my mood is such that I just cannot keep from writing; for I feel the duty of leaving you something written down.
For eight days after leaving Macao our ship was blessed with extraordinarily fine weather. The sky was clear and blue; the sail bellied out in the wind; we could see the shoals of flying fish gleaming like silver as they leapt out of the waves. Every morning Garrpe and I offered Mass on board ship, giving thanks to God for our safe passage, but it was not long until we hit up against our first storm. It was May 6th when a strong wind began to blow from the southeast. The sailors were men of experience. They took down the sail and put up a smaller one in the front of the ship. But now it was dead of night, and the only thing possible was to abandon our ship to the winds and the waves. Meanwhile in the front of the ship a great rift was opened and the water began to pour in. For almost the whole night long we worked at stuffing cloth into the rift and bailing out the water.
Just as dawn was breaking the storm ceased. The sailors, as well as Garrpe and myself, in utter exhaustion could only throw ourselves down between the bales of luggage and stare up at the thick black rainclouds floating off to the east. There arose in my heart the thought of Saint Francis Xavier. He also, in the calm which followed such a storm, must have looked up at the milky sky. And then for the next eighty years how many missionaries and seminarians had sailed around the coast of Africa, passed by India, and had crossed over this very sea to preach the gospel in Japan. There had been Bishop Cerqueira; there had been Organtino, Gomes, Lopez, Gregorio. …
If one began to count them there was no limit. And among them there were some, like Gil de Mata, who met their fate in a sinking ship with their eyes fixed on Japan. Now I have some idea of the tremendous emotion that filled their breasts and enabled them to endure this awful suffering. All these great missionaries gazed at both the milky clouds and the thick black rain clouds floating away to the east. What thoughts filled their minds at such times? This also I can well imagine.
Beside the ship’s baggage was Kichijirō. I could hear his voice. During the storm this pitiful coward made almost no attempt to help the sailors and now, wretchedly pale, he lay between the baggage. Splashed all around him was white vomit; and he kept muttering something in Japanese.
With the sailors we looked at the fellow with contempt. We were too exhausted to be interested in his stammering Japanese. But quite by accident jumbled in with his sentences I caught the words ‘gratia’ and ‘Santa Maria’. This fellow who was just like a pig that buried its face in its own vomit had without a doubt uttered twice the words, ‘Santa Maria’.
Garrpe and I e
Raising up his face filthy with his own vomit, Kichijirō turned on us a glance of pain. And then with his usual cunning he made a pretence of not understanding the questioning looks we fixed on him. He smiled his cowardly smile. He has the most fawning, obsequious laugh you could possibly imagine. It always leaves a bad taste in our mouths.
‘I am asking a question,’ said Garrpe raising his voice. ‘Give me a clear answer. Are you, or are you not, a Christian?’
Kichijirō shook his head vigorously. The Chinese sailors from their place between the bales of luggage looked at the whole affair with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. If Kichijirō were a Christian, why did he go so far as to conceal the whole affair even from us priests? My guess was that this cowardly fellow was afraid lest on returning to Japan we might give him over to the officials, revealing the fact that he was a Christian. On the other hand, if he was not really a Christian how explain the terror with which the words ‘gratia’ and ‘Santa Maria’ rose to his lips. Anyhow, the fellow intrigues me. I feel sure that bit by bit I will come to learn his secret.
Until this day there was no sign of land, no trace of an island. The grey sky stretched out endlessly and sometimes the rays of the sun struck the ship so feebly as to be heavy on the eyelids. Overcome with depression we just kept our eyes fixed on the cold sea where the teeth of the waves flashed like white buds. But God did not abandon us.
Quite suddenly a sailor who had been lying like dead in the stern of the ship raised a loud cry. There from the horizon towards which his finger pointed, a bird came flying. And this tiny bird which flew across the ocean came to rest on the sail, rent and torn by the storm of the previous night. Next, countless twigs came floating along the surface of the water. This indeed was proof that the land for which we longed so ardently was not far away. But our joy quickly changed to alarm … If this was really Japan we must make sure not to be seen even by the smallest vessel. The sailors on such a ship would doubtless hasten at once to tell the officials that a junk containing foreigners was drifting on the waves off the coast.
Garrpe and I crouched amidst the luggage like a couple of dogs as we waited for darkness to come. The sailors put up a small sail in front of the ship and they made a brave attempt to keep clear of the pieces of land that looked like mainland.
Midnight came. The ship moved forward noiselessly. Fortunately there was no moon; the sky was jet black; no one found us. The mainland rose up before us. We noticed that we were entering right into a harbor on both sides of which steep mountains arose. And now we could also see clumps of houses huddled together beyond the strand. Kichijirō was the first to wade ashore; next came myself; and last of all Garrpe got into the icy cold water. Was this Japan? or was it an island belonging to some other country? Frankly, none of us had any idea.
We hid silently in a tiny hollow while Kichijirō went off to explore the situation. The sound of footsteps on the sand came near to where we crouched. As we clutched our wet clothes and held our breath, we saw passing just before us the figure of an old woman with a cloth on her head and a basket on her back. She did not notice our presence and went on her way. Her departing footsteps faded into the night, and once again the deadly silence descended on the shore. ‘He won’t come back! He won’t come back!’ exclaimed Garrpe tearfully, ‘Where has he gone, the weak-minded coward?’
But I was thinking of a more terrible fate. He had not fled. Like Judas he had gone to betray us. Soon he would appear again, and with him would be the guards.
‘A band of soldiers went there with lanterns and torches and weapons’, said Garrpe, quoting the Scriptures.
We reflected on the night at Gethsemane when Our Lord trusted himself without reserve to the hands of men. But the time dragged on so slowly that my spirit was almost crushed. It was fearful indeed. The perspiration flowed down my forehead and into my eyes. And then came the sound of footsteps. A group of people was approaching. The light of their torches burned dismally in the dark, and they came closer and closer.
Someone thrust a torch forward and in its light there appeared the ugly face, both red and black, of a small old man, while around him five or six young men with frightened eyes looked down on us.
‘Padre, Padre!’ The old man made the sign of the cross as he uttered the words, and in his voice there was a gentle note of solicitude for our plight. As for us, this ‘Padre’, spoken in our own beloved Portuguese tongue, was something we had never dreamt of hearing in this place. Needless to say, the old man could not know more Portuguese than this, but before our eyes he made the sign of the cross showing a bond of something that held us together. These indeed were Japanese Christians. All in a whirl I stood up in the sand. At last I had set foot on Japanese soil, and the realization of this fact swept over me with tremendous force.
Kichijirō was cowering behind the others with that servile smile of his. He always looks just like a mouse ready to scamper off at the slightest thing. I bit my lip with shame. Our Lord had entrusted himself to anybody—because he loved all men. And here I was with such a feeling of distrust toward this one man Kichijirō.
‘Quickly. Keep walking.’ It was the old man who was talking, and he urged us on with a whisper. ‘We can’t afford to be seen by the gentiles.’
‘The gentiles!’ Another word from our language now known to the Christians. Our forebears from the time of Xavier taught them these words. What sweat and toil it had taken to plunge the spade into this barren soil, then to fertilize it, to cultivate it until it reached this present stage. Yes, the seed had been sown; it sprouted forth with vigor; and now it was the great mission of Garrpe and myself to tend it lest it wither and die.
That night they kept us in hiding beneath the low ceiling of their house; nearby was a barn from which the stench was carried to where we lay. They assured us, however, that there was no danger. But how had Kichijirō been able to find the Christians so quickly?
The next day, while it was still dark, Garrpe and I changed into peasants’ clothes and together with the young men who had met us on the previous day we climbed up a mountain which lay behind the village. The Christians wanted to keep us hidden there; they had a safer place there, a charcoal hut. Thick, thick mist lay over the woods and over the path along which we walked. Eventually this mist turned into light rain.
Arrived at our destination we heard for the first time about the place in which we now found ourselves. It was a fishing village called Tomogi, not too far from Nagasaki. It contained about two hundred households and the greater number of the villagers had already received baptism.
‘And how are things now?’ I asked.
‘Yes, father.’ It was Mokichi who spoke, a young man who accompanied us; and looking back at his friend, ‘Now we can do nothing,’ he went on. ‘If it is found out that we are Christians we will all be killed.’
How shall I describe the joy that filled their faces when we gave them crucifixes that we had had around our necks. Both of them bowed to the very ground, and pressing the crucifixes to their foreheads spent a long time in adoration. Apparently they had not had such crucifixes for many, many years.
‘Is it possible that we have a priest in our midst?’ Mokichi held my hand clasped in his as he spoke. ‘And what about brothers?’
Needless to say, these people had met neither priest nor brother for six years. Until six years ago a Japanese priest, Miguel Matsuda, and a Jesuit brother, Mateo de Coros, had secretly kept in contact with this village and its immediate surroundings, but in November 1633, worn out by labor and suffering, they had both passed to their reward.
‘But what has happened during these six years? What about baptism and the sacraments?’ It was Garrpe who asked the question. And the answer of Mokichi stirred us to the very depths of our being. Indee
For example, in Tomogi this organization was set up more or less as follows. From the Christians one of the older men was chosen to play the role of the priest. (I am simply writing to you without any embellishment what Mokichi said to me.) The old man we met yesterday at the shore (they call him ‘Jiisama’) holds the highest post of authority; he leads a blameless life, and the task of baptizing the children is entrusted to him. Beneath the Jiisama is a group of men known as ‘Tossama’ whose job it is to teach the Christians and to lead them in prayer. Then there are helpers known as ‘Mideshi’. All are engaged in this life-and-death struggle to keep the faith alive.
‘And all this goes on only in Tomogi. … ?’ I asked the question with some enthusiasm. ‘I suppose other villages are preserving their faith in the same way and with the same kind of organization.’