The Way of Deliverance: Three Years with the Condemned Japanese War Criminals

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Text originally published in 1950 under the same title.

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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THE WAY OF DELIVERANCE:

THREE YEARS WITH THE CONDEMNED JAPANESE WAR CRIMINALS

BY

SHINSHO HANAYAMA

Buddhist Chaplain in Sugamo Prison

Translated by Hideo Suzuki, Eiichi Noda and James K. Sasaki

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

FOREWORD 6

PROLOGUE—THE GATE OF SUGAMO 11

CHAPTER I—THE BUDDHIST SERVICES BECOME A PRISON FIXTURE 19

CHAPTER II—BEFORE THE EXECUTIONS BEGAN 25

CHAPTER III—THE RECORDS OF TWENTY-SEVEN CONDEMNED PRISONERS 32

1. Death in Peacetime is Difficult 32

2. The Last of Young Kei 33

3. The Boy If he Would Not Sing the Kimigayo 38

4. Thanks to Mother Earth 40

5. A Prison Diary 46

6. Shinto Prayers Before A Buddhist Altar 51

7. Praying to Buddha and Marching on the White Lane 52

8. A Merry Departure 53

9. Five Men, Then Five More 64

10.—The First Execution by Shooting 72

11. Glorifying Christ 80

CHAPTER IV—LIFE IN SUGAMO EXACTLY AS I SAW IT 84

CHAPTER V—FINALE OF THE TOKYO TRIAL 88

CHAPTER VI—MY TALKS WITH THE SEVEN MEN 94

CHAPTER VII—ONE MINUTE AFTER MIDNIGHT, DECEMBER 23, 1948 149

(1) The Pronouncement of Execution is Delivered 150

(2) The Sun Looks Out on a Winter Day 152

(3) Through the Portals of This Life into the Eternal 179

CHAPTER VIII—THE DISCOVERY OF PEACE 183

APPENDIX I—RECORDS OF TWENTY-SEVEN CONDEMNED PRISONERS 186

APPENDIX II 191

APPENDIX III 194

GLOSSARY OF BUDDHIST AND OTHER TERMS USED IN THIS BOOK 196

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 201

FOREWORD

The end of the Tokyo Trial marks an important dividing line in Japan’s post-war history.

Three years have passed since I was first appointed Buddhist chaplain in Sugamo Prison. Looking back, I see now that my connection with Sugamo was the result of an unexpected coincidence. I had never dreamed that I would enter the war criminals’ detention camp and come in daily contact with my condemned fellow-countrymen after the defeat and collapse of Japanese militarism.

But as it turned out, I was to have this experience, probably the most valuable of my whole life. For there, under the shadow of the gallows, not only was I to become the intimate father confessor of famous men whom I should not, in other circumstances, have been likely to meet, but also I was to witness the subtle, ennobling change wrought by religion in the human mind and heart when these are face to face with imminent and certain death.

From that time I have been longing to tell our people in some way, in any way, as a part of the record of this miserable war, what I heard and saw. The stories are too sincere and too poignant to remain my private property. And now that the Trial is over and the punishment suffered, fortunately I am able to realize my cherished wish: the Asahi has consented to publish my document.

Needless to say, as a student and priest of Japanese Buddhism, I have no political axe to grind. Indeed, I have always resented the unfair treatment our Government has accorded Buddhism since the Meiji Restoration, in 1868. Far be it from me to glorify the discredited apostles of militarism. By training and natural inclination, I belong to the other side.

It is because I think it necessary, for the realization of true world peace as well as for the reconstruction of a peaceful Japan, to have our people read the records of such men, that I desire to publish the material which personal experience placed in my hands.

With some few exceptions these records show in the condemned men an ardent hope for peace, and indeed an awakening to religious ecstasy, rather than any complaints of injustice to themselves or any desire for revenge. From ex-generals and ex-ministers to humble ex-private soldiers, I found many startling examples of men who, having attained confident belief in a present and future spiritual life, had finally reached a state of beatitude utterly antipodal to that of war and conflict.

Finally, I realize that unless I give to the world these records no one else will or can, because no one else has been privileged to share my unique experience. As a priest I have tried to tell the truth and only the truth, without exaggeration of any kind, and to reproduce the dialogues held in the chapel, in the cells, and on the way to the place of execution in the plain words actually used at the time. And this same method I have employed in my auxiliary description. As for matters directly related to politics, I have avoided them as far as possible, for, as I say, that is not my field.

It was one day near the end of January, 1946, that I first heard from a friend the rumor that the American authorities at Sugamo Prison had requested the Japanese Government to find a Buddhist priest who could serve there as chaplain.

I remember the very bridge we were passing under in Shinjuku, when I said half-jokingly to that friend, Let’s both apply for the position!

But of course, as so often happens in this life of ours, I had been preparing myself unconsciously, had been edging toward such a move, for a long time before that.

As it did to every Japanese, the Emperor’s broadcast that August day announcing the surrender came to me as a great shock. There was first the unprecedented event of hearing the Imperial voice. But as His Majesty’s meaning sunk in, I was astounded—the world as I had known it abruptly ended. I was too stunned, for the moment, even to feel relief that the horrible conflict was over at last.

Then I began thinking more calmly. I felt intuitively that now the militaristic forces which had been dominant in this country since the Meiji Era, and which had worshipped wealth and material power, were shattered by this single blow; and that now the time had come for men of letters to rise up and play their part, armed with a different sort of power. At the same time, I suffered from deep remorse at having remained a mere civilian in wartime. But above all else, the aroused feeling that I must set forth on a new life would not down; on the contrary, it grew, until I couldn’t sleep at all that night.

The next morning I decided that the first thing I could do toward realizing my desire to be of service was to present in understandable form Prince Shotoku’s{1} Commentary on the Shoma Sutra, to console and inspire a people whose hearts had been made desolate by a long war. The work would be congenial for another reason: Prince Shotoku’s book had been the subject of my Doctor’s thesis. So I started my new life and my new work by getting up at five o’clock every morning.

I will not risk wearying the reader by going into details, but from that first day the problem absorbed most of my waking hours. I have given an account of my feelings at this time in my preface to the Commentary on the Shoma Sutra when it was published as a volume of the Iwanami Library.

How long we have been neglecting true religion! Certainly for eighty years, since the beginning of the Meiji Era. Who can say that the tendency to neglect religion and consequently to ignore the sacredness of the human individual has not brought on the doom we suffer today? I expressed this thought in my article, The Constitution That Remains Unchanged Throughout the Ages, which appeared in the Chugai Nippo on the first three days of 1946.

And I realized that we Buddhists must reflect upon ourselves before criticizing others. Our own lack of spirituality and willpower was one of the principal causes of Japan’s present fate.

As a priest and humble student of religion, I could not help feeling grave responsibility for having, myself, been carried away by the general trend. I could not suppress the passionate desire to make amends.

Moreover, a thing that impressed me much at the time was the fact that the American forces had been careful not to bomb such cities as Kyoto and Nara, which may be called the reservoirs of our Buddhist culture, though it would have been easy for the mighty B-29’s to destroy them utterly.

In these cities there still remains the greatest spiritual heritage bequeathed us by our ancestors through a thousand years and more. There, there are many grand temples; untouched, unspoiled. Within them many splendid Buddhist paintings sleep. They represent our very cultural essence; they are unique.

In the intention of the Allied forces to guard these treasures from destruction I felt I could detect a deeper and higher wish on their part to preserve and foster not only Japanese Buddhist arts but also world culture.

As a result of our defeat in the war, we have nothing today to be proud of. Nothing, except those hereditary treasures fortunately spared from Allied bombardment, and of these Buddhism is the source and embodied spirit. I wished then that I could spread it as a philosophy to Europe and America in some way or other. For that purpose it could be said that the Occupation gave us a rare chance.

Though in Europe, especially in Great Britain and France, an interest in Buddhism in general has existed for a hundred years, the study of the great Mahayanist Buddhism, which has developed conspicuously in Japan, has been initiated only lately and still is in an elementary stage. Its essence is not known to the world as yet. Foreigners’ study of it still amounts to merely a cursory glance at its externals, as it were. This aspiration of mine to promote world knowledge of Buddhist culture must be mentioned as one of the forces impelling me toward Sugamo, though I did not know it at the time.

Strange to relate, a chance association with a certain foreign scholar in the last years of the War had enabled me to piece together my badly broken English. This too was leading me unknowingly to Sugamo.

But a more serious matter influenced me. As their compatriot I could not be indifferent to the fact that those who had controlled and led Japan in the past were now going to stand trial, bitterly criticized by the nation. On this subject I wrote in the Chugai Nippo:

If our people scorn those who are about to appear in court as war criminals on account of the present difficulties of our life and, at the same time, continue their internal struggles merely in order to gain profit and false rights, they should be ashamed of themselves. On the other hand, those who have been arrested as the responsible persons should assert their opinions frankly before the Court and clear the road to true peace, if they conceive themselves to have been the leaders of Japan in the past.

If they feel responsibility for having led the human race into such a war and in having destroyed many innocent lives, even though they may believe in the lawfulness of their conduct as individuals, they should willingly sacrifice their lives and property in this limited world and join those in the infinite world.

Then future history will record the truth about these men, and they will be able to shine as lights that never will be extinguished.

My work of translating into modern Japanese the Commentary on the Shoma Sutra was completed much earlier than expected—after two and a half months of labor, day and night. On November 16th, I handed my manuscript to the Iwanami Publishing Company.

And now to return to that conversation with my friend as we passed under the Shinjuku bridge that day in January, ‘46. He merely laughed when I proposed that we both apply for the chaplain’s position, and I laughed too; but when I reached home I was serious. To make a story already too long less interminable, let me say that a few days later, accompanied by Mr. Saburo Ota of the Liaison Office, I was introduced to Major Doty of Sugamo Prison. Thus I appeared at the prison with my personal history typed in English and was given an appointment to see Colonel Hardy, the Commanding Officer, and Lieutenant Clemens, one of the chaplains, on February 14th. The interview was satisfactory, and I was told to start my service from the following week.

Thus I became, so to say, a voluntary prisoner of Sugamo for three years.

I learned later that the following circumstances had led to the appointment of a Buddhist chaplain.

Upon investigating the religious affiliations of the prisoners of the A, B and C Classes, the prison authorities discovered that 90 percent were Buddhists. Of course those who wrote Buddhism in the space reserved for Religion might not believe in Buddhism sincerely; undoubtedly in many cases they meant merely to give their family religion.

As for the few Christian war criminals, they presented no problem since the resident American chaplain could take care of them through a Nisei{2} interpreter. But the authorities found they needed a Buddhist priest because they themselves knew nothing about Buddhism. They were on the spot, as American slang has it, because they had allowed the prisoners to choose their faith in accordance with the principle of religious freedom.

An amusing sidelight on the whole affair was that the Japanese authorities were greatly embarrassed by the request, since they had never before concerned themselves with religion. But in the deeper sense it was not amusing, I felt, since here was evident a defect in our national character and way of living.

A striking contrast was offered in a copy of the New Testament and Psalms which the Protestant chaplain, Capt. Bones, gave me. An American Flag was printed neatly inside the back cover, and on the first page was an inscription signed Franklin D. Roosevelt, January 25, 1941. It was his message sent from the White House in Washington, and read as follows:

As Commander-in-Chief I take pleasure in commending the reading of the Bible to all who serve in the armed forces of the United States. Throughout the centuries men of many faiths and diverse origins have found in the sacred Book words of wisdom, counsel and inspiration. It is a fountain of strength and now, as always, an aid in attaining the highest aspirations of the human soul.

At that time, in Europe, Germany had already started the war. The United States was already vigorously aiding Great Britain and France. The act of the President in officially making this recommendation to think on spiritual things filled me with admiration. And knowing that all Americans serving in the Pacific went to the front with this Bible in their pockets, I felt as though cold perspiration were running down my spine. For how many of our supreme commanders had taught their subordinates the importance of having religious faith? In this point alone it can be said that we were beaten before we started. And I thought to myself then how strange a fate that now I should be called upon to preach the truth and the need for faith to these very leaders.

In completing this work I owe much to the generous co-operation of Messrs. Masao Nomura and Fumio Kobayashi, both of the Social Department of the Asahi, and I beg them to accept my warmest thanks.

SHINSHO HANAYAMA

PROLOGUE—THE GATE OF SUGAMO

I Hold My First Services for the Prisoners

Guided by an American M.P., I passed through the entrance hall and mounted to the chaplains’ office on the second floor. There, Lieutenant Scott, a chaplain attached to the prison, had been waiting for me. After giving me a pleasant greeting he led me into the adjoining hall, which, since they had taken over Sugamo, the Americans had been using as a Christian chapel. It was a big room, over forty feet long and more than thirty-five feet wide. The Buddhist altar which I had brought to the gate with the help of American G.I.’s the week before was standing in its proper place in front.

It was February 28th, 1946.

As I was wearing a morning-coat with a stiff collar, I put the Buddhist gown on over it and hung the ceremonial beads around my neck. Then I decorated the altar with the beautiful white and yellow chrysanthemums and narcissus which the American authorities had sent from Tsukiji, and lit the U.S.-made white candles. Then I burned some fragrant incense sent by the Chief Priest of the Honganji sect of Kyoto. And then I waited.

At one o’clock the prisoners of Cell Block 1-A, who I learned later were living lonely days confined in single cells, entered and took seats by sevens on the double lines of benches. Soon there were the faces of more than sixty men sitting side by side, eyes gleaming. The men wore various kinds of clothes, and no one was handcuffed. The six doors were locked tight. Outside the windows, only the tops of the Himalayan cedars were visible.

Now I was seated on the chair in front of the altar, facing it. With my eyes closed and hands clasped softly, I bowed down three times, recalling my debt to my parents, Buddha, and the Emperor. Then, ringing the little bell, I read the Shoshinge—a gospel by Shinran—and finished the reciting of six short prayers. This lasted about twenty-five minutes. Then I stood up, and turning around took my place in front of the pulpit. Though I glanced over the faces to see if there might not be an acquaintance among them, I found no one I knew. They all looked alike.

The sermon took forty minutes, but they listened earnestly. Then they went out in good order through a narrow door at the rear—looking as if they had gained something.

I was left alone with the empty rows of benches. When I attempted to return to the adjoining room, I found the door was locked. I was in an awkward position. I wanted a drink of water. I could neither go to the toilet nor smoke. Indeed, I had never had such an awkward experience. I was a prisoner in Sugamo!

Rapping on the various doors brought no one. There was nothing I could do about it. I had to wait for about thirty minutes watching the Himalayan cedars and the rows of prison windows opposite the chapel.

At two-thirty, the men from Cell Block 2-A came in. Sixty of them; interned in thirteen multiple cells. Near the chapel windows at the side there stood five or six M.P.’s and Nisei G.I.’s on guard. This time Chaplain Scott and Major Swanson came in to watch proceedings. When the service of about one hour had ended like the previous one, the Major unlocked the door and sent the prisoners out.

I am afraid you must be tired, he said to me in English.

Well, I was greatly inconvenienced because I could not smoke or even have a drink of water, I answered frankly; upon which the major showed his sympathy by giving me a pleasant smile.

Can’t you make your sermon shorter? Lieutenant Scott asked.

I’m sorry, but I can’t, I answered.

Then both officers praised me, saying that they were quite satisfied with my Buddhist service. When I left the room, Lieutenant Scott condescended to hold my hat and help me on with my overcoat, and sent me off kindly.

In comparison with the strained feeling of the morning, my returning steps after the unloading of my heavy burden were light.

MARCH 2ND

On this day I discovered that the altar had been placed inside the alcove and a curtain hung in front of it as I had previously suggested. And before the curtain, the Christian altar now stood. But they consented to remove this altar to the corridor during my service. I was deeply impressed by the generous attitude of the authorities, even though the arrangement may have been chiefly for their own convenience.

I helped Lieutenant Scott, the Catholic chaplain, and Captain Bones, the Protestant, shift the altar on which the Cross and the Holy Picture of Christ was placed, to the corridor. Then arranging the ornaments on my own altar, lighting the candles and burning the incense as before, I waited for the arrival of the prisoners. This time there were thirty men from the multiple cells of Cell Block 2-A. Then sixty prisoners from the single cells of Cell Block 3-A. I held service and preached for about one hour to each group as I had done before.

Captain Bones thanked me for the Buddhist Bible I had sent him and said it would be a great help to him. That day, things went better during the interval between the services and I was given some oranges and apples to eat.

MARCH 7TH

Sixty-five men from the single cells of Block 1-B. There were many young men among them, and I was reminded of my classroom in the University. I was disappointed to note that none of them bowed toward the altar on returning to their cells, but I felt somewhat relieved when I found some of them reciting the prayers after the reading of the Shoshinge.

When I began my next sermon, I was deeply moved to find Mr. Kunihiko Okura in the front row and Mr. Matsutaro Shoriki in the last row, among the forty prisoners from the multiple cells of Block 2-B. Mr. Okura, as president of the Okura Spiritual Culture Institute, had taught some of my friends. Furthermore, after he became president of Toyo University, I as one of the professors there came to know him well and had many chances of listening to his inspiring talks to the students. But now the situation was exactly reversed. With my mind on the strain in the presence of my master, I preached for his sake, and I think that, for me, my sermon was full of strength.

After the service I descended from the pulpit and approached him.

It’s too bad— I said.

Rising from the bench he answered with a smile. Thank you. Please give my greetings to all and tell them I am in good health.

Mr. Shoriki, former president of the Yomiuri Newspaper, I had met two or three times at banquets given by the Chief Priest, whose advisors in various matters we had both been. He was still as vigorous as ever. I spoke to him too.

There were some prisoners in this group nearly seventy years old, and many of them bowed low toward the altar. I wished from the depth of my soul that the Buddhist Scriptures and beads would arrive soon.

MARCH 9TH

For the first time, today I had a chance to really converse with a condemned prisoner. As I was waiting in the chapel, Major Doty and Lieutenant Scott entered with a youthful Japanese soldier. He was ex-Captain Isao Fukuhara, former commandant of Omuta Prisoners’ Camp. Leaving an M.P. on guard, the two American officers went out; and after having him pray before Buddha for a time, I began to talk with him.

Worried over his poor farmer parents, his brother, sisters, and wife with young children whom he had left in his hometown of Masuda, Mino Gun, Kumamoto Prefecture, he asked me to deliver to them these words: Don’t make any complaint, and build up the family again.

While preaching to forty prisoners from the multiple cells of