My eyes were frozen, paralyzed from movement. My heart was pulsating rapidly, and I could feel a thunderous pounding in my chest. The view of deep crimson and scarlet blood muddled my vision, and blood-curdling screeches made my body take a low, shallow breath of purposeless air. The characteristic metallic smell of blood created a wave of nausea in my stomach. 

       “Are you ready to perform surgery next week?” he said with a sanguine tone, filled with an eerie curiosity. He blithely giggled like a little girl. “We will see how many logs you will cut.”

       I glimpsed at the sparklingly clear skies. The trees were scrawny and delicate, like the arms of a malnourished child. The most alive thing in sight was a quivering brown and orange bird sitting on a gaunt branch. I stuttered a trembling and tiny yes with the microscopic amount of strength I had left. 

       I would have to create this pain for another human being. I kept envisioning this stimulation in my head for the next week. Wearing a pristine white coat with sweaty gloves and head coverings, cutting a human inch by inch. Hearing their screeches of hysteria slowly turned into a distressing but tranquil silence. I have no idea why I turned this in my head for hours on end, but so it was. 

       I had been awakened by the warm and cordial light and a faint knock at my door. I wasn’t sure if I didn’t sleep peacefully because of the thoughts in my head or the dense bed, or a combination of both. A pale, almost translucent-looking man came up to my door, and he had the most feminine eyes I had ever seen on a man.

       My grandmother told me once, “A woman with beautiful eyes is more beautiful than a woman with the most beautiful face.” 

       He directed me toward a group of people at the frost-bite center. 

       A middle-aged woman whispered, “Another surgeon rookie.” 

       “Here we are,” said the pale man.

       I bowed into a 90-degree bow and said with the clearest voice I could muster, “I am Noburu Yosuke. It is an honor to become a member of the Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department.”

       “I am going to go work,” said the pale man as he walked away.

I whispered to my colleagues for the day, “That guy didn’t tell me his name,” making sure he couldn’t hear me.

The same middle-aged woman replied, “That is Yamamoto Naomi. He’s just like his name. Straight, direct, and beautiful.”

There was instantaneous laughter right after she said that. Pitch silence quickly ensued. 

       A younger guy followed, “So, anyway, you don’t have to say The Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department every time.” He followed with a quick chuckle. Around here, we call it the ‘Unit 731’ or, if you are like me, you can call it the ‘Ishii Unit,’ named after Surgeon General Shirō Ishii, of course.” 

Several people gently nodded their heads toward the explicit statement. A man with salt and pepper hair checked his loosely fitted watch with quite a bit of interest.  He quietly sighed and leisurely started walking.  Members of the frost-bite team quickly paced the man, and I followed without  comment. 

We reached a gloriously immense room. It was grander than my entire home. A broad man appeared with an equally broad face. The only color on his face was the light blue tint of his glasses. Dressed in a polished suit, he exuded the professionalism of a man who had no patience for errors or incompetence.

“Hello employees, and welcome to the new fella.” His voice was lower than I thought. 

       The middle-aged woman’s family name was Takuma. So, Takuma told me to work in the garbage deposition area. She slowly walked me to the area. The stench violently forced itself into my nose, bringing a nauseating feeling into my head. The stench was a combination of rotten eggs, foul blood, and a slight floral scent that coated the room. I stumbled around the room with a hand placed firmly on my nose; I could barely breathe.

       My brain forced that memory into the back of my mind like how an old book is slowly pushed out of a library, but I still remember a hand slightly larger than mine. Probably, the hand of a man around 178-182 cm tall. It was tough and swollen with a deep violet hue. What if it was me? What if it was my family? My grandfather, my grandmother? 

       What can I do? What should I do? Contemplating my entire reason for being here seemed like a bad idea, and it was. Could I be able to get out? Whom would I talk to? Whom should I ask? Many similar questions found themselves in my brain for hours on end.

       I pondered about it sometimes, actually all the time. What would have happened if I had decided to leave if I had more will, more determination? The only words that continue to stay in my head are, “What if?” The Ishii unit was hurriedly dissolved after the war had ended.  I haven’t seen my homeland since I came to Harbin, so many years ago. I have not stayed in touch with members of the Ishii Unit, but I have heard many of them moved back to their hometowns in Japan. Probably, going back to their families’ business. I don’t dare to face my hometown.  What would I say if they asked me about what I did? Harbin is a place where no one knows or remembers me. I only feel safe in loneliness. 

-Anagha V.