It is the staircase of doom. Who knows what goes through a person's mind as they ascend those steps to the scaffold. Are they consumed with dread? Filled with thoughts of their loved ones? Or are they burdened with thoughts of their crime? No one knows because no one comes back down those stairs alive.

But Kiichi Toya has been there. He has seen with his own eyes the executions. And to this day, those images still haunt him.

From 1944 till his retirement in 1972, Toya was a prison warden, and his career included working at the detention facilities in Sendai and Osaka, which are two of seven in Japan where condemned prisoners are hanged. During each of those postings he worked on death row, feeding the inmates, taking care of them -- and then killing them.

"The job of wardens is supposed to be to help convicted criminals get back on their own feet," said Toya. "But the death penalty is completely the opposite of everything we are supposed to be doing."

But done it is, and once the justice minister of the day gives written approval for an execution, the governor of the prison holding the inmate has five days to carry out the sentence. In that interval, the execution chamber is inspected to ensure everything is operating as it should, security is stepped up, and arrangements are made for a chaplain of the appropriate religion to attend. Most importantly, though, the wardens who will carry out the execution are chosen.

No one wants to do it, but orders must be obeyed. Unless, that is -- as former prison warden Toshio Sakamoto explained in his 2003 book, "Shikei wa Ika-ni Shikko Sareruka (How they Carry Out the Death Penalty)" -- a warden's wife is pregnant, a relative is in the hospital, one of their children is getting married, or they are in mourning. Other than that, once you are chosen, there is no way out -- short of quitting the job.

While all this is happening, every effort is made to prevent the death-row prisoners getting any sense an execution is imminent. In fact, they don't know until just minutes before it happens.

Every morning, from after breakfast at around 8 a.m. until about 11 a.m., the latest time hangings are carried out, death-row inmates sit alone in their cells in total silence -- straining for the sound of unfamiliar footsteps. Day after day, month after month, year after year, and in some cases decade after decade, until the moment those footsteps stop at their cell door, they wait in sheer terror. Toya called this "the hours of hell."

"These prisoners sit still as if their body has turned into a stick," said Toya. "Their whole body has become their ears. If no one appears during that hour, they are thankful for another day. If those footsteps come and pass on by, they are relieved, but the next second they wonder which of their friends is to be executed."

When the wardens stop at the doomed inmate's cell, they do not tell the prisoner they are about to be executed. Instead, Toya explained, they say that the prison governor would like to see the inmate, and tell them to make themselves ready. But of course, the prisoner knows.

Toya recalled a prisoner who, while being led out of his cell, shouted out tearfully to the other inmates, "Today is my day to go. Thank you for everything! Take care of yourselves!" And the other inmates, choking back tears, answered, "I'll join you soon!" and "Please wait for me there!"

After being taken out of their cell, the condemned prisoner is led to the small execution chamber -- and those stairs. Climbing up, he meets the prison governor and the chaplain standing on the scaffold. There, the prisoner is told by the governor that he is about to be executed, and then the chaplain prays. A pen and paper are on hand in case the prisoner wants to write a will.

"One time, there was a man who's last wish was to sing a song," said Toya. "His wish was granted and, in a loud voice, he sang a song from his youth. I think that by singing this song, he was able to forget his fears for a moment."

Next, though, in quick succession, wardens blindfold the prisoner with a white cloth, cuff his hands, and tie his feet together. Some struggle from fear, Toya said, while others seem calm as if accepting fate. Then the noose is placed around the neck and tightened.

Out of sight of the scaffold in a separate area of the chamber, the wardens chosen to perform the execution await, each with a button before them. Although the supersecretive Justice Ministry claims to have no data on the exact number of buttons, Toya says that in his experience there were always five. However, only one is wired to the scaffold, so when the wardens are told to press their buttons, none of them knows who actually triggered the trapdoor through which the prisoner drops.

"This is supposed to relieve the burden of the wardens. But it doesn't," says Toya. "It just means that all of you feel you killed that person.

"We all tried to forget, to erase the horrifying sight. But I still remember the rope trembling and swaying left to right. And it doesn't stop moving for 12 to 15 minutes."

Finally, when all movement has ceased, a medical officer checks for a pulse before declaring the prisoner dead.

And that's it -- until the next person's time is up.

For those wardens, though, the end isn't so swift. "Please do not make people commit this horrifying act," Toya pleaded during our recent interview with tears in his eyes. "The death penalty is terrifying -- not only for those who are to be killed, but for those who kill as well."