Hamamato, and we must revive our union!” cried Siro, climbing up a pine tree near Ozawa’s house.
Siro was eighteen.
A policeman came from Motomura on a bicycle, but what’s one policeman for over a hundred people? He could no nothing but stand and look on.
“Close up the ranks and no one can drive us away; he is the tool of those who oppress us and killed Hamamato in Tokyo. We do not know when they will kill us. I am an old man of sixty, and if they kill me the young ones will have to revive the union with their own hands!” shouted old Ogawa, standing under the tree and trembling with rage.
“Long live the Peasant Union of Osawa!” shouted Tetsu, climbing up besides Siro.
He unrolled a piece of coarse, red stuff which had been wound around his body. It was the union’s banner.
The soiled red flag, made seven years ago, waved in his hand. It was the soiled banner of their fathers and brothers. It was the banner which had been hidden so well that all the threats of the police were unavailing to find it.
“Hurrah!”
Seeing the flag, all raised their hands.
The policeman leant against his bicycle and followed everything with his eyes.
Tetsu shouted: “We’ve got to win! We want to fight! We’ll give the land to those who work it, in spite of all prohibition, in spite of the con-
