Operation Overflight (32 page)

What a perfect setting for reopening discussions of Eisenhower's Open Skies Plan!

In agreeing to what was already the status quo, Khrushchev would have had far more to gain than lose. And Eisenhower would climax his last year in office with a spectacular accomplishment, a major step toward disarmament.

It was all speculation. And in a sense moot, because the flight had not gone off as scheduled. Yet it interested me. This was one of a number of puzzles I hoped to solve on my return to the United States.

There was no U.S. election news on the eighth. On the ninth Moscow Radio said the results were uncertain: Kennedy was ahead, but the count was still not final.

Diary, November 10: “Very glad to hear that Kennedy will be the new President of the U.S. Hope he goes all out for peace.”

Now all I could do was what I had been doing: wait and see.

Diary, November 11: “Nothing much happened today. Managed to miss studying Russian. Kept my cellmate talking, and he forgot.”

I didn't talk to Zigurd just to avoid studying. He had lived a fascinating life, and whenever he seemed in the mood, I encouraged him to tell me about it. He was as sparing with the details of his underground experiences as I was with my CIA flights. Without ever spelling it out, we respected the fact that some areas would always remain off limits, no matter how much we might trust each other. It was other things, often casually revealed, accidentally glimpsed, that gave me the clearest insights into Zigurd's character. We were together constantly; one of us was never out of the cell without the other; yet it was a long time before I began to feel I really knew him.

One morning while we were washing I noticed two small scars on his shoulder. How had he got them? I asked. Later, during one of our walks, he told me. When the Germans conscripted soldiers from occupied countries, they tattooed numbers on their shoulders, to identify them if they deserted. In fleeing from the Germans to the Allied side, Zigurd had realized that this evidence could cost him his life or be detrimental to his ever obtaining employment. Heating a piece of metal red hot, he had applied it directly to the tattoos, in an attempt to burn them off. He wasn't completely successful. The numbers were obliterated, but the scars remained as evidence.

Yet there was a deeply sensitive side to him too, that came across when he described the retreat from Latvia—frozen bodies piled like cordwood alongside the roads, and how the sight affected him;
or when he talked about the girl from the displaced persons' camp. They had fallen in love and they had almost married, but Zigurd had hesitated. Too long. Relatives were found abroad who offered to sponsor her. She was now either in the United States or Canada, he was not sure which. He thought of her often, with guilt, knowing that because of him they had lost their chance for happiness. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how he must have hurt her. And now suffered himself because of it.

In prison such thoughts and feelings have a way of assuming monstrous proportions, until they dwarf all else.

Gradually, as I began to know Zigurd better, I came to trust him. If a “plant,” he had a most unenviable job, living the life of a prisoner. Though always interested in my stories about flying, he never inquired into details. Only once did he touch on something of a sensitive nature—asking how high the U-2 flew. This is the first question people usually ask even today. I suspect I could have told him ten thousand feet and he would have been impressed.

The memory of the girl haunted Zigurd. But something even deeper troubled him. I knew only that in some way it concerned his parents. But a long time passed before he told me about it.

Once a year each prisoner was photographed, and the pictures were sent to his relatives as evidence that he was neither dead nor being mistreated. Our turn came in November. There was a regular photographic studio in one of the barracks, and although there was no “birdie,” we were told to smile, so the people back home could see how happy we were. I tried but was less than successful.

While at Adana I had worn my hair fairly short. In prison I'd let it grow, intending to comb it back. Instead it just stood straight up. With only a small piece of mirror, I didn't realize how funny it looked, until seeing the prints.

But Zigurd was immensely proud of his new head of hair. And only then did he stop wearing the beret.

Diary entry: “Barbara's birthday. One year I have no gift for her. Wrote a letter this morning, at least started it, wishing her a happy birthday. Will mail it later in the month. Got books from the library, had already read two. Read
The Iron Heel
by Jack London.”

As a boy I'd read many of London's books, but none of his socialist works. It gave me an entirely different perspective on the man.

November 18: “Still no mail from the U.S. Temperature this morning
-24°C. Have put on long underwear. Must remember to thank Barbara for the clothes she sent. Cabbage for supper.”

Something was definitely wrong with our radiator. Even wearing all the clothes we had, fur cap with ear flaps down, we were literally freezing. For days we had complained to the guard; he'd feel the radiator, look puzzled, tell us the radiators in all the other cells were working, then, as if that settled the matter, do nothing. Except to bring in a thermometer, which only made us feel the cold all the more. On the morning of November 21 he checked it; the reading in our cell was below zero Centigrade. With that, something was done. Later in the day workmen arrived and installed an electrical outlet near the door. And the following day the Little Major personally delivered the electric heater from his office, an act of kindness I'll never forget.

November 23: “Still no mail from the U.S. today. Prison officials (KGB) checking for me on this end.” Again potatoes for supper, but with roast meat and apples Zigurd's parents had sent, which made all the difference.

Zigurd's parents had a small plot of land with an orchard. In season they sent apples, onions, and garlic. Zigurd would take the garlic and put it in the meat, not for flavoring but because he had read somewhere that garlic would preserve meat. Whether it did or didn't, I wasn't sure. By the time we received the apples they had usually begun to rot. But what we could eat tasted marvelous. They were the only fruit we received.

In the order of their frequency of appearance, I dreamed of: desserts—banana splits, coconut-cream pie, anything made with eggs or ice cream; meat—all kinds, but hamburgers especially; and greens—I'd never known how much you could miss a salad.

November 25: “Still no letters. Mailed two today, one to Barbara and one to Mother. Russian studies going very slowly. Can't get in the studying mood. Potatoes two times today.”

In my letter to Barbara I told her my reaction to the election: “I am glad that Kennedy won. I sincerely hope he turns out to be a good President and puts the good of the people above all other considerations.” I asked her to send newspaper clippings of any of his speeches relating to foreign policy. I was particularly anxious to obtain a copy of his forthcoming inaugural speech, as soon after he made it as possible. I wanted to see if there were any indications of his attitude toward Russia.

November 26: “Wind blowing this morning. Makes it seem very cold. One letter from Mother. Took thirty-four days to arrive. Something wrong. Started trying to read a Russian story. Constant use of dictionary and many questions.”

Boredom was the greatest problem. It was compounded when we lacked books, but even when we had them I was often restless. I could read for only an hour or two at a time. Then I'd put the book aside and work on envelopes for another hour. Then read awhile again, then pace the cell awhile. I'd do a few pushups, a little exercise, as much as space would permit, careful to make as little noise as possible, so as not to disturb Zigurd if he was reading. I'd try reading some more, or, if we both felt like it, talk.

After a while we developed a sensitivity to each other's moods. Respecting the need for silence was important. Equally important at times, and there were many such, was realizing when the other needed cheering up.

Zigurd was involved in one activity I wasn't. Before my arrival he had made several carpets. He'd been working on one when I arrived, but only after we had exhausted all the obvious subjects of discussion had he taken it up again. Watching him work, I asked questions, as much to make conversation as from curiosity. To me needlework had always seemed a woman's occupation. But in Latvia, on long winter nights, with little else to do, whole families engaged in handicraft. Zigurd had turned to rugmaking only after being sent to Vladimir, however. One of the Latvian magazines his mother sent contained some patterns. Drawing vertical lines over the pages of a ruled notebook, he had made graph paper, then transferred the pattern onto it. His mother had sent burlap bags, wool and needles. And from there he had found his own way.

As the pattern of the rug began to emerge, my interest grew. At least it was something to occupy the time. Finally I asked if he had an extra sack. Yes, and we could order more wool and needles from Moscow.

Picking out a pattern, I followed his example, transposing it onto paper, then onto the sack. When the wool arrived, it was too thin to use. I had to stretch it out the length of the cell about five times, then double it and twist it to get the desired thickness.

November 29: “Started making a small carpet today. May send it to Barbara as an anniversary present.”

I was extremely depressed about Barbara. I hadn't received a letter from her in fifty-three days.

I considered every possibility. She was sick and unable to write.
Unlikely; surely her mother or someone else would have informed me. The KGB was withholding my mail, in an attempt to break me. This was also improbable: as far as I could tell, they appeared to believe that I had told them everything I knew; too, they seemed honestly concerned about my failure to receive letters. The mail was being delayed, or some letters had been lost. Both were possible.

There was one other alternative. She simply wasn't bothering to write.

There were several reasons why this might be true. I tried not to think of them. I was not proud of how I had handled Barbara's and my marriage, her various problems. I was spending many long hours wondering and worrying about her. What more could I have done to help? Well, it was too late to do anything now. That was certain. What I really wanted, I realized, was a connection with the outside world. I was hanging on to anything familiar to keep my sanity. I needed reassurance that things would remain the same while I was in prison. I needed a letter from her to prove that life was going on as usual on the outside, that it was a life I knew and understood, that it was one I could become part of once again when I was free.

December 1: “Started
War and Peace
. Very good. Cabbage for supper.”

December 7: “Talked with the KGB colonel.”

It was an odd interview. He asked me if I felt I was being treated well. I replied, much better than I had expected, although I was sure no prison was enjoyable. How did I like the movies? Not wishing to appear ungrateful for what was a most welcome break in our monotonous routine, I told him they were “interesting.” But he persisted: How did they compare with American films? Well, since he seemed to want a frank answer, I told him: They ranked about the same as some of our B-grade westerns.

My reply appeared to upset him very much. The Russians, he said, had pioneered the art of film making. They made the finest motion pictures in the world. Then why, I inquired, weren't the prisoners shown any of them? Because, he replied, they preferred the kind of movie we were being shown.

He remained disturbed by my reaction. If they could arrange to bring one of their classic motion pictures to the prison, would I like to see it?

Of course, I replied.

After he left, Zigurd and I talked about the exchange, coming to the same conclusion. It seemed a good omen.

On December 10 there was a letter from Barbara, the first in sixty-three days. Knowing that she was well was a tremendous relief. Most of the letter, postmarked November 26, was in answer to my questions about the possibility of a prisoner exchange. The United States had only two prisoners of comparable importance: Morton Sobell, convicted of espionage in the aftermath of the Rosenberg case, and Colonel Rudolf Abel, the Soviet spy convicted of espionage in 1957, now serving a thirty-year sentence at the federal penitentiary in Atlanta. It was doubtful if Sobell, an American who continued to maintain his innocence, would be interested, while the Soviet Union had never recognized Abel as one of their own. There had been much conjecture in the press about a possible Abel-Powers swap, however, especially immediately after my capture, though there had been no mention of it of late. If I felt it might help, Barbara said she would try to see Abel at Atlanta.

I asked Zigurd what he knew about Abel. He had never heard of him. This, I learned, was true throughout the Soviet Union, where there had been no radio, TV, or press mention of either his arrest or conviction. He was a “blown” spy. Russia didn't claim him.

In reply to her letter I wrote, “There is no need for you to attempt to see that Colonel Rudolf Abel. Just forget about that. We can only let nature take its course. I feel that the only thing which could improve my situation would be better relations between the two countries. I don't know that this would help, but I am sure it would do no harm. …

“It is odd how I keep hoping a miracle will happen and someday someone will walk in and say that I am going home. I don't believe in miracles, but I am always hoping and waiting for something to happen. I try to interpret each little variation of the routine as having some special meaning. This is all silly, but one never loses hope. It is very good in a way. If I knew definitely that I would have to spend the entire ten years here, I think I would do something drastic. But as it is, I keep thinking that maybe next month or the one after that, etc., will be the one I am waiting for. As long as I do not lose hope, everything will be all right. I haven't lost hope yet.”