In Tokyo last week, after 18 months of legal bickering and monotonous reading of documents, the drowsy courtroom in the old War Ministry building came to life. The chief characters of the climactic scenes were Hideki ("The Razor") Tojo and Ryukichi ("The Monster") Tanaka. Neither expected to live long. War Criminal Tojo expected to be hanged by the victors, whose newly written laws he boldly challenged; Tanaka expected to be assassinated by the vanquished, whose old, unwritten laws he had betrayed.
Sir William Webb, chairman of the International Military Tribunal, Far East, called it "the greatest trial in history." It was likely that history, at least as taught in Japan, would remember chief defendant Hideki Tojo longer than chief prosecution witness Tanaka—and longer than anything else about the trial that was to establish a Japanese conspiracy against peace and humanity.
"He's a Fool." Except for his grim mouth, Ryukichi Tanaka, a fat little man with half-closed eyes and a huge head, looked like a bland buddha. He was a lady-killer, soldier, spy, agent provocateur. After 26 years of this motley career, Tanaka became chief of the Military Service Bureau of the War Ministry, a job that gave him indirect control of the Kempei Tai (Japan's secret police), and made him "The Monster" to terrified Japanese.
During the trial, Tanaka testified three times for the prosecution, twice for the defense. On the stand he was witty, self-possessed, contemptuous of his surroundings, making full use of his amazing memory for details. Peremptorily he picked the few defendants on whose behalf he wished to intercede. Of Field Marshal Shunroku Hata he said: "I will testify for that man. . . . He's a fool." Of ex-Foreign Minister Mamoru Shigemitsu: "My personal good friend. He, together with myself, has always been opposed to war." But most other defendants he decided to condemn—admittedly for reasons of personal revenge. Said Tanaka: "I feel the truth is necessary for Japan and for the world. That is why I shall be assassinated when the occupation is over."
"Such a Long Time." The defendants seemed to be increasingly bored. One day ex-Foreign Minister Mamoru Shigemitsu, in a stained suit, unshaven, his jowls sagging, sank from his crutches into a chair and picked up a copy of LIFE. Suddenly he started. The number was two years old; it contained a famous picture of himself, impeccably attired in top hat and morning coat, signing Japan's surrender aboard the U.S.S. Missouri. At that moment, Lieut. Colonel Aubrey Kenworthy, U.S. officer in charge of the prisoners, passed. "Haven't you seen these pictures before?" he asked. Shigemitsu shook his unkempt head, kept turning the pages. Then he muttered: "It's been such a long time."
But when the time drew near for Hideki Tojo to take the stand last week, the atmosphere changed. It meant that the end was in sight. The defendants ate less. They strained for a look at Fujiyama. To see the sacred mountain at year's end meant luck.