Operation Overflight (37 page)

“Before I was captured I had a great tendency to accept things as they were, not questioning the policies of the United States, since I knew we had intelligent people in our government whose job it was to make decisions for the benefit of the country as a whole. I realized that they were more intelligent than I, and if they did something I thought strange, it was only because I did not know all the reasons for the action, and I accepted it as right and proper.

“But now I realize there is more to it all than I saw at first….”

The Mossman article, Hutchins' remarks as reported in
Time
, the neutral-country story, my father's letter—all continued to bother me, as did the thought that upon my return to the United States I
might not again be trusted with a responsible position. Even if people didn't believe the lies about my defection, they could always say I had been “brainwashed” or “exposed to Communism.” As I wrote in one letter, “I try to tell myself that things will be all right in the future, sometime, but I can't eliminate the present. I am even afraid of what the future will bring. I have had strong feelings it may not turn out as I would like. In fact, it scares me sometimes to think about it.”

Barbara was doing nothing to help my state of mind. After a spurt of letters—four in one month—they had again become infrequent. I knew I was receiving all she sent, since, at my insistence, she was now numbering them. On August 17, my thirty-second birthday, she had given a reporter a long interview, a copy of which my parents had sent me. In it she stated that as soon as I was transferred to a work camp she would come to Russia, to live near me. But she hadn't thought to write me this, although that news, if true, would have meant a great deal to me. She had also told the reporter she had just finished a long birthday letter to me. As I noted in my journal, apparently talking about the letter so exhausted her that she didn't get around to writing it. She hadn't bothered to send a birthday card.

Fourteen

I
n late September we heard that two junior officers in the Dutch Merchant Marine, Ewert Reidon, thirty, and Lou de Yaher, twenty-five, had been arrested and charged with spying in the Soviet Union for NATO. The pair had been arrested near the Czechoslovakian border following a month-long auto trip through the Ukraine. Brought to trial in Kiev in early October, they had been given thirteen years, an indication that Russia was currently pursuing a hard line.

Shortly afterward they arrived at Vladimir. Peeping through the crack in the window, I spotted them being escorted through the gate, each carrying a bag. They looked very young and very forlorn. I wished there was some way to contact them, but I doubted if I would have an opportunity, and in this I was right. In the way that prisons have of swallowing up people, I never saw them again.

Letter from my father, dated September 16, received October 10: “The letter I have been expecting has not come through yet. I was
told by Mr. Donovan that I would hear from her [Mrs. Abel?]. … Carl and I are going to Washington to see about a few things. … I have also written to Khrushchev.”

Included was a clipping. I had never thought I would be happy to find myself considered unimportant. But this time I was.

FREE POWERS, NIKITA HINTS

N
EW
Y
ORK
(AP)—Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev says Francis Gary Powers may be released before his 10-year sentence is up, but international tension makes it impossible to free the U-2 pilot from his Soviet prison right now.

Khrushchev told C. L. Sulzberger of
The New York Times
in an interview published today that “Powers himself is not of such value that we would consider it necessary to make him serve his full sentence.”

Powers was shot down over the Soviet city of Sverdlovsk May 1, I960, and subsequently convicted as a spy.

Although the time obviously wasn't yet right, I found the news encouraging. And my mood was helped by a letter from Barbara, the first in a long time.

The feeling did not last long. On Friday, October 13, an unlucky day if ever there was one, I received a letter from Barbara's mother. She did not know how to tell me this, writing it to me pained her greatly, but on September 22, following a family conference and on the advice of doctors, she had been forced to have Barbara committed to a mental institution.

The news came as a tremendous shock. Barbara's last letter had been written on September 18, just four days before the commitment, and, though brief, as usual, there had been no indication she was ill.

Now, for the first time, I had an inkling as to why Barbara had done some of the things she had: the incidents in Florida, Athens, Tripoli; her conflicting stories; and, since I'd been in Russia, her erratic letter writing. She was ill and had been for a long time. The news, in a way, was almost a relief. It helped explain so much. And now, maybe, under the proper medical treatment, she would get well. God, I hoped and prayed for that! But I needed to know more.

My mother-in-law's letter was short on details. All she said was that Barbara had been drinking heavily and that the doctors said
she was emotionally disturbed. There was no mention of the names of her doctors, or of the hospital.

Immediately I wrote letters to Barbara's mother, her sister, and her brother, an Air Force chaplain, asking for more information.

My feelings were a mélange of concern, helplessness, guilt, and understanding. Coupled with the terrible uncertainty was the realization that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do. If I weren't in prison, this probably wouldn't have happened to Barbara. If I had been firmer with her about her drinking, when I first realized it was a problem, maybe this could have been avoided. If it hadn't been for the frequent separations. … These recriminations changed nothing, yet I could not stop blaming myself.

Journal, October 14: “I am very upset and cannot get it out of my mind. If only I knew exactly what is going on, I think I would feel much better. I am sure that a great deal is my fault. …”

Not for another thirteen days did I receive a letter. In the interim, in my desperation, I exhausted the possibilities. As I wrote in the journal, “I have even conceived the crazy idea of writing to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR to ask them to let me go home for a short while to see if I can help in any way. … I would promise to return. I realize it is a crazy idea, but it might work, because they could get a lot of favorable publicity from it.

“I know it is stupid, but I am grasping at straws. If I have no mail by early next week, I will try it.”

The next letter, from Barbara's sister, was more detailed. Barbara's drinking had gotten completely out of control. It had reached the point where her mother was no longer able to remain in the house with her because of the fights that resulted. Under these circumstances they had felt the best thing for her was medical help, and she had been committed to the Psychiatric Center of Augusta's University Hospital. She had an excellent doctor, Corbett H. Thigpen, author of the book
The Three Faces of Eve
, and was receiving the best care possible. They were sorry they hadn't been able to contact me first, but because of her condition they felt it best for Barbara if they acted promptly.

It was a very considerate letter, and it relieved my fears somewhat to know she was being helped. But I had the feeling they were withholding something; I wrote, begging for more information, asking that they not treat me as a child but tell me exactly what was happening. I pointed out that my imagination would create fears far worse than anything they could write.

On November 1 I received two letters. One was from Barbara.
Although written October 7, she made no mention of being in the hospital. The other was from Barbara's brother, the Air Force chaplain, who had handled the details of the commitment and who had been appointed Barbara's legal guardian in my absence. He stated that she was now free to leave the hospital at any time she wished.

Another letter from Barbara arrived November 5, this one, written October 15, explaining that she hadn't told me about being in the hospital in her earlier letter because she had not wanted me to worry. There was no mention of drinking; tension was given as the reason for her being there. She had high praise for Dr. Thigpen, although she complained about his strictness; he wouldn't even let her have matches.

Although I was already well over my monthly quota for outgoing letters, I wrote Dr. Thigpen, as well as Barbara's own doctor in Milledgeville, asking for more information. I hoped the Russians would let them go through.

Because of the delay between the time a letter was written and the time I received it, I was unsure whether Barbara was still in the hospital. The thought that she might be better, might even have been released, made living from day to day a little easier. That sort of hospital must be very like a prison, I thought, and I wouldn't wish that on anybody.

Too, I now had something else to think about, which, though not unrelated, concerned me very much.

Following my conviction, I had been told that on completion of one half of my three-year prison sentence—or eighteen months—I could apply for an early transfer to a work camp, where the remaining years of my sentence were to be served. Such requests were by no means granted automatically but at the discretion of the court. My conduct as a prisoner had been good, so I couldn't see this hindering the application. November 1 had marked the completion of my eighteenth month.

Yet, as I observed in the journal: “This camp business has me worried. Here in the prison I have been relatively isolated. I have contact only with my cellmate. In a camp it is my understanding that all prisoners are free to mingle, and they more or less govern themselves. Of course, there are guards outside. It is my impression that they are set up somewhat like concentration camps during the war. I have heard that there are fights, and groups who oppose each other, and I do not know how I will fit into such a situation,
since I cannot speak the language. I don't fear any harm to myself, because I don't think the Soviet government would want to cause an international incident by exposing a citizen of the United States to conditions which could result in his being harmed. It would be hard for them to explain why they could not protect their prisoners if word were to get out that something had happened to me.”

Then, too, there were some privileges I enjoyed in prison that might be revoked if I transferred to a work camp, such as my receiving the embassy packages, books, and unlimited amounts of mail. Also keeping my hair.

Zigurd tried in every way he could to keep me from getting my hopes up. He was sure the request would never be granted. The Soviets couldn't risk the chance of having me killed by some patriot anxious to make a name for himself.

But there was one important factor in favor of work camp. I had heard that prisoners there were allowed to have their wives visit them for ten days every three months. If Barbara could come to Russia, even for a short time, perhaps we could discuss and resolve some of our difficulties.

On November 15 I submitted my application for a transfer.

Journal, November 21: “Last Saturday the colonel came to have a talk with me about the application to the work camp. He asked a few questions about why I wanted to transfer there, and then he said he would come back later with information about the questions I asked him concerning visiting privileges and the granting of a visa to Barbara. When I mentioned that it would probably be a long time before I heard anything from the application, he said it might be sooner than I think. I feel certain he knew much more about their plans for me than he let on. …”

Journal: “Today is Tuesday, November 28.1 expected some mail today but didn't receive any. It has been over two weeks since I received my last letter, and over three weeks since I have had one from Barbara. Is the cure progressing as it should?

“I also have not received my monthly package from the embassy. It is almost two weeks late. I wonder if there is any connection between the missing package and the missing mail?

“Another thing that seems odd, since this is the first time it has happened, is that for about five days I have not received the
Daily Worker
. When it did arrive there were several issues missing, ranging from about the fourth to the ninth of November. (I do not remember the exact dates, because I thought very little of it at the time.) Yesterday I received the November 23 issue, but November
22 was missing. This is very odd, because I have been receiving this newspaper for many months and I have never missed getting an issue. They are often late but always come.”

Little things, but the mind fits them into a pattern.

“Today for the first time I realized there might be a connection between the missing newspapers and the absence of mail. The mail I should be receiving now and for the past week would have been sent from the United States about the same time the missing papers were printed. Could it be that something has happened to my wife or other members of my family and that mention of it was made in the papers and also in the letters? If so, it must be very serious to be withheld from me.”

I didn't commit my worst fears to paper, not wishing to give them that much reality.

An explanation for the missing embassy package occurred to me. Maybe the money in my account had run out, and Barbara, being in the hospital, had been unable to replace it. The thought that the embassy would stop the package for this reason did nothing to help my frame of mind. But this still didn't explain the absence of mail and the missing newspapers.

I put a request through the authorities to check, to see if they could learn what had happened.

The November embassy package never did arrive for a simple reason: Somebody had forgotten to send it.

I felt more relief than anger. Like my hopes, my fears were constructed of little pieces of circumstantial evidence. There was now one less piece.