Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

Early September 1990, Tokyo.

The autumn rains of the typhoon season had washed the summer heat from the city early. At Shinjuku Station in the morning, crowds of commuters holding transparent umbrellas huddled before the crosswalk. People walked in silence, their faces etched with anxiety. No one spoke to one another.

After all, the Ministry of Finance’s credit crunch directive had been in effect for several months. The frantic era of clutching ten-thousand-yen bills while fighting for taxis on the street was over. The government insisted the economy would warm up again, but announcements of corporate bankruptcies increased every day.

Today, however, this somber tide of commuters came to a noticeable halt in front of the newsstands at every major subway entrance.

Every passerby’s gaze was drawn to the morning papers hung in the most prominent positions. The front pages of mainstream outlets like the Yomiuri Shimbun and Asahi Shimbun were dominated by several rows of massive, bold headlines:

Prime Minister Oversees the Battle!

Financial Circles Launch Unemployment Relief.

Saionji Group Injects 10 Billion in Cash!

Seibu Group Joins Fuji Bank to Contribute 15 Billion to Overcome Difficulties Together!

Mitsubishi Group Announces 20 Billion Special Fund, Expanding Recruitment by 5,000 Unemployed Workers!

Mitsui and Sumitomo State Positions Overnight. Total Pledges from Financial Circles Surpass 60 Billion Yen!

The bold, inked characters were particularly jarring amidst the gloomy autumn rain.

To ordinary citizens, these astronomical figures with their long trails of zeros were the only lights flickering in this economic winter.

”So there really is relief money...”

A middle-aged man in an old trench coat clutched the newspaper, his eyes reddening as he read the details.

Yet for the two hundred and thirty unemployed workers hiding under the overpass at Ueno Park, this sensational national charity spectacle carried a weight ten thousand times more real than the ink on the page.

Ueno Park, under the overpass.

A corner of the waterproof tarp was lifted by a cold wind swirling into the hollow, letting mist drift into the dim space. The pungent smell of mold and rancid food scraps mixed with muffled coughs in the damp, stagnant air.

Yamada stepped through the muddy puddles and entered the hollow under the bridge.

He carried a heavy black canvas bag in one hand and a morning paper he had just bought from a newsstand tucked under his arm.

Following behind him were four of the most robustly built foremen. They had been with Yamada since they left their hometowns and could be considered his confidants.

They flanked him on both sides and to the rear, each holding a rusted steel scaffolding pipe upside down.

As they walked deeper into the hollow, the shivering unemployed workers wrapped in old cardboard boxes looked up one after another. Hundreds of gazes, tinged green from prolonged hunger, focused on the bulging black canvas bag.

Heavy breathing echoed through the crowd. A few starving young workers propped themselves up with their hands, trying to crawl forward on their knees.

Clang

The foreman on Yamada’s left slammed his steel pipe against a nearby concrete pillar. The crisp metallic impact was amplified by the acoustics of the hollow.

The other three foremen stepped forward slightly and raised their steel pipes.

The crowding unemployed workers were forced to a halt. Those in the front row stared fearfully at the rusted, blunt instruments, the faint sound of swallowing coming from their throats.

Yamada walked to a load-bearing concrete pillar in the center of the hollow.

He pulled the Yomiuri Shimbun from under his arm and smoothed it out against the surface of the pillar. Then he fished a thumbtack from his pocket, aimed at a corner of the paper, and pressed it in firmly.

After that, Yamada turned and placed the heavy black canvas bag onto a worn-out wooden pallet on the ground.

He pulled the zipper open with a sharp tug.

Stacks of yen, bound with bank seals, were exposed in the dim light.

The coughing inside the hollow ceased completely.

The two hundred and thirty sallow-faced workers stopped everything they were doing.

”Big Brother Yamada...” At the very front of the crowd, an old worker with graying hair stared fixedly at the cash. ”Is this... for us? The people from Chiba Bank didn’t seize this money?”

Yamada took a step back and pointed at the front page of the newspaper behind him.

”Everyone here can read.” Yamada’s voice echoed in the hollow, raspy from a sleepless night. ”This is today’s morning paper. Last night, those big bosses gathered over sixty billion yen at a hotel in Minato District.”

Yamada’s finger tapped twice on the headline about the Mitsubishi Group.

”Look closely. Mitsubishi says they want to use twenty billion to recruit five thousand people. It sounds nice, but they’re hiring skilled workers for shipyards and machinery plants. Rough fellows like us who only know how to tie rebar and pour concrete can’t even get through their front door.”

He moved his finger to the side, pointing at the Saionji Group headline.

”Only here. The Saionji Family published a notice in the paper, bypassing corporate legal entities to issue relief directly to laborers who hold unpaid wage slips.”

”Only the Saionji Family is genuinely giving us cash! This cash is part of our back pay!”

The old worker reached out a grime-covered hand and tremblingly touched the stack of bills closest to him. Then his legs gave way, and he knelt directly into the mud.

”There’s hope... There’s hope for Misaki’s medical bills...” The old worker covered his face with his hands and wailed.

The crowd instantly erupted into long-suppressed sobs and ragged gasps.

”The Saionji Family really gave out money...”

”God has eyes!”

”I can finally send living expenses back home...”

Listening to the chaotic cries around him, Yamada lifted his foot and stood upon an overturned, discarded wooden crate.

”Don’t be so quick to cry.”

The crowd below stopped weeping and looked up at Yamada standing on the crate.

”President Matsuura jumped off a building. The old corporate union didn’t dare utter a peep, let alone go to the bank to demand our money.” Yamada pointed at the cash on the ground.

”We take this money today, and we can fill our bellies and pay off our debts. But what about next month? The overall environment is still seeing layoffs. If we go to work at other sites and run into bosses and banks like that again, who will protect us?”

”From today on, the old union exists in name only.” Yamada raised his voice.

”We are going to establish the Independent Labor Mutual Aid Association. This money will be distributed to everyone, down to the last cent. But those who take this money must follow the coordination of the Mutual Aid Association from now on.”

Yamada pulled a waiver and mutual aid contract, drafted by legal personnel at the hotel last night, from his pocket and pressed it next to the newspaper.

”The Saionji Family is willing to provide us with legal support behind the scenes. In the future, whenever we go to work at any site, the Mutual Aid Association will collectively sign contracts with the employers. If anyone dares to withhold our wages, the Saionji Family’s legal team will seek justice for us.”

Yamada’s gaze swept over every worker in the front row, his eyes red.

”Brothers, this life-saving cash was allocated from an account by a certain benefactor of the Saionji Family, despite the huge risk of it being frozen by banks and courts.” Yamada’s voice trembled with emotion, his fingers gripping the seams of his work pants tightly.

”They have no relation to us and didn’t need to care whether we lived or died. This debt of gratitude is owed by all two hundred and thirty of us.”

He raised his clenched fist and thumped his chest heavily.

”The world outside has changed. Big banks are hounding everyone for debts, and big bosses are laying people off. People like us who only have labor to sell will be worse off than stray dogs this winter if we are scattered.”

Yamada looked at the tear-stained faces of his fellow workers below.

”If any of you feel that taking this money means you can just go back to your hometown in peace, or if you want to go out and work on your own, you can take your share of the wages and leave right now. I, Yamada, will not stop you.”

The two hundred and thirty people stood in the mud, huddled closely together. No one moved a step.

”But if you still recognize me as your foreman, and if you still want to survive this predatory winter together...” Yamada raised his voice, his raspy shout echoing under the bridge.

”Then we must pull together like a rope! We’ll huddle for warmth and leave no one behind! We’ll build this Mutual Aid Association, and in the future, when the Saionji Family needs our strength, we’ll give our very lives to repay this debt of gratitude!”

The hollow fell silent for a few seconds.

A young rebar worker with an old scar on his face squeezed forward two steps. He wiped his face, a mix of rain and tears, with the back of his hand and shouted at the top of his lungs.

”Big Brother Yamada is right! We didn’t see a shadow of the old union when we were starving! It was the Saionji Family that gave us a way to live! Wherever the Mutual Aid Association goes, we go!”

”Right! Everyone pull together like a rope!”

”We will never forget the Saionji Family’s kindness!”

Hunger and the pressure of survival, combined with gratitude for their lives being saved, completely ignited the emotions of the two hundred and thirty workers. The roars of agreement joined together under the bridge, nearly drowning out the sound of the wind and rain outside.

The workers spontaneously formed a long line.

Yamada pulled a cheap red plastic ink pad box from his work pants pocket. He popped the lid and pressed it flat against the concrete pillar next to the contract.

The young rebar worker at the front of the line took the stack of ten-thousand-yen bills Yamada handed him, his hands trembling as he stuffed them into his shirt.

Then he extended his right thumb, pressed it firmly into the red ink, and left a heavy, circular thumbprint in the blank space of the Mutual Aid Association’s membership list.