Operation Overflight (14 page)

Also, so long as I didn't do it too often, I found I could interrupt the interrogation, by asking questions myself.

Could I see a representative of the U.S. Embassy?

Not permitted.

The Red Cross?

Not permitted.

Looking around, I suddenly realized that the man with the briefcase had left the room. I had been afraid of this.

Immediately I told the interpreter to warn him to be extremely careful with the pin.

One of the men hurried out to relay the message.

I knew that on closer examination the secret of the pin would be discovered. But I didn't want it to be found through a pricked finger and an accidental death. My situation was bad enough without adding a killing.

And I didn't want to be responsible for the death of any human being, KGB or not.

The man who appeared to be in charge of the interrogation was middle-aged, heavyset, puffy-faced, wore glasses. Later I learned he was Roman A. Rudenko, procurator-general of the USSR, and that following World War II he had been chief prosecutor for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in the Nazi war-crimes trials at Nuremberg.

After about three hours the questioning took an unexpected turn. Rudenko offered me a cigarette. I accepted, noticing it was a Chesterfield. He then asked me if I had ever visited Moscow before. I told him no.

“Would you like to take a tour of our capital city?” he asked.

“Yes, I'd like that very much,” I replied. I didn't add that anything would be preferable to the questioning, and, although I was not greatly hopeful, that this might provide an opportunity for escape.

“It might be arranged,” he said cryptically.

Something had changed. It was hard to define, but for some reason there had been a subtle shift in atmosphere. Everyone became a little friendlier. Realizing that my cigarettes had been confiscated, one of the men gave me a package. At first I thought this was a trick to throw me off guard, that, once I had relaxed, they would throw an unexpected question at me. But there were no more questions. The interrogation was over for the night, the interpreter told me.

I was taken back down the hall and locked into a tiny room. It had no windows, the only furniture a wooden bench built into the wall. Presuming this to be my cell, I lay down and tried to sleep. But a few minutes later a doctor and two guards entered. Again the doctor was a woman. Tall, pleasant-faced, middle-aged, she wore a white smock, stethoscope sticking out of her pocket.

Indicating I was to remove my shirt, she listened to my heart, still beating very rapidly, took my pulse, examined my mouth and throat, checked my breathing, then motioned for me to drop my pants. Embarrassed, I hesitated. One of the guards gruffly barked an order; I complied. She gave me a fairly thorough examination and then indicated I was to dress.

After they left I tried again to sleep, but the guards returned, taking me down another hall into a room obviously a doctor's office. There was an examining table, dentist's chair, heat and solar lamps, medicine cabinet, and table with all the standard paraphenalia—cotton swabs, bandages, antiseptic, distilled water—but with one surprising addition: a huge jar of leeches.

I hadn't realized that in this day and age they were still used.

Another doctor, also female, motioned for me again to take down my pants, as she prepared an injection. My first concern was that the shot was penicillin, to which I was allergic. She seemed to recognize the word and shook her head negatively. My second concern, which I didn't voice, was that it might be truth serum or some sort of drug.

Following the injection, I was taken to a cell about eight feet wide and fifteen feet long. The door appeared to be solid oak, reinforced by plate steel. After another search, the guard went out, slamming the door and locking it.

I was alone. But still under surveillance. There was a small peephole in the door, at eye level, while a light bulb over the door illuminated the room as brightly as if it were day.

Exhausted, my only interest was the bed. It was simple, consisting of a metal frame with crisscrossed iron stripes, each about two inches wide, in place of springs. There were two Army-type blankets and a mattress, the latter very lumpy and thin, in places no thicker than two layers of cloth. It seemed designed to be as uncomfortable as possible, and was.

Though extremely tired, I slept only fitfully. I kept waking, looking around the room, as if to assure myself that it was only a bad dream. But the harsh glare, the stark walls, the locked door, were always there. It was all too real.

Three

T
he opening of my cell door awoke me. I was surprised to see a little old lady come in. Greeting me in Russian, she set a large tin tea kettle, a cup, and a box of sugar cubes on the table. The guards stood in the doorway, watching.

All appeared curious. I could sense no hostility.

After they left, I poured out some of the liquid, tasted it, found it was hot tea. Although worried about being drugged, my mouth and throat were parched.

As I dressed I realized I felt no ill effects from the shot, which apparently had been for sleep, or perhaps a general immunization given all new prisoners.

The night before, I had been too tired to examine my cell.

The floor was concrete, painted a rusty red, the color extending halfway up the wall. The balance was gray, the ceiling off-white.

At the end opposite the door was a single window. Of opaque glass, reinforced with wire, it opened inward about twenty degrees at the top, providing the only ventilation. Looking at the window up close, I saw it was double. Behind the first pane was a dead-air space of perhaps six inches, probably to retain heat during the winter, then another identical pane. Through it I could see the outline of bars.

Standing in just the right position, I could see out the gap at the top. But my view was limited to a small rectangle including two windows plus a piece of the wall of the building across the courtyard.

As I faced the window, with my back to the door, my bed was on the left. On the right, in the corner nearest the window, was a small table and chair. Along the right wall was a narrow shelf and, below that, pegs on which to hang clothing. There was a light bulb in the ceiling, of the same wattage as the night light over the door.

It was on now, the night light off.

These comprised the furnishings.

Although I could find nothing to indicate it, I assumed the cell was bugged. But it would do little good since I was alone and, so far as I knew, didn't talk in my sleep.

The guards returned and took me down the hall to the toilet.

There were two tiers in the cellblock, each with sixteen cells, eight on one side, eight on the other. My cell was on the bottom level, the fourth cell on the right as you entered through the doors that separated the cellblock from the rest of the prison. The guards'
desk was in the center of the hall, almost opposite my cell door.

There were two guards on duty. Each wore a pistol. Since they were holstered, I couldn't see what type.

The floor was carpeted, explaining why I could occasionally hear voices from inside my cell but no footsteps.

The toilet was located under the stairway leading to the upper tier, at the end of the hall opposite the entrance.

Handing me a package, the guards locked me in. Although alone, privacy was absent here too. Like the cell door, this one also had a peephole.

The package contained a small towel, a soap dish and soap, toothbrush and powder, a comb, and some coarse toilet paper.

The toilet itself was of the European, that is, stool, type. There were three wash basins, with very cold and extremely hot water.

The soap had a sweet strawberry smell. I looked for a mirror, to comb my hair, but there was none. Nor had there been one in my new abode.

On being returned to my cell, I noticed a cover over the outside of the peephole. The guards could look in whenever they chose; I couldn't look out.

Shortly afterward the elderly lady returned with breakfast—a slice of black bread, a boiled egg, and a tiny cube of meat. Having no appetite, I didn't touch it.

Then the guards took me back to the interrogation room.

Many of the same people were there. And most of the questions were exactly the same as those asked the previous night. But there was a difference. Now the questioning was frequently interrupted for conferences, which were not translated. Although unable to understand the words, I got the distinct impression they were unsure as to what they were going to do with me, and debating the various alternatives. This was later borne out when I was shown the interrogation transcripts. Only this session was missing. For the first time since my capture I began to feel a little bit of hope.

After only sporadic questioning, the interpreter told me I was to be taken for a tour of Moscow that afternoon.

Lunch consisted of potatoes and cabbage soup. I was still not hungry.

Following lunch, accompanied by the interpreter, two guards, a driver, and two officials, I rode out of the prison in the same limousine which had brought me there from the airport.

But the relief I had expected to feel once outside the gates wasn't as great as anticipated. Surrounded as I was, my only chance for escape would be to make a run for it when we stopped, but we didn't stop. Still it was good to have the questioning over, even if only temporarily.

For some reason, although I knew better, whenever I thought of the Russian people it was as in Tolstoy's day, the men bearded, the women in black shawls. The streets of Moscow quickly dispelled this notion. Although the clothing was much more drab than in America, the people looked very much the same.

Our route took us past the Kremlin, Moscow University, a large stadium, an immense ski jump located right in the city. But their enthusiasm was less for these things than for the great amount of construction going on, particularly the rising apartment houses.

Although they didn't say it, it was clear that housing was scarce.

Their pride in their capital city was obvious. They answered my questions eagerly, as if anxious for me to get the best impression possible. And they had numerous questions of their own, thankfully not about my flight, but the United States. Every aspect of life there seemed to fascinate them.

The mood was definitely easier than it had been, and, sensing it, an idea began to form in my mind. Perhaps I wouldn't be shot after all. Perhaps they were trying to impress me, both with their city and their kindness, because they were soon going to release me.

Maybe it was fantasy, born out of the desperateness of my situation, but it occurred to me that when the Summit talks took place in Paris on May 16, Khrushchev might bring along a surprise. Taking me by the scruff of the neck, he might say, “Here, Ike, is something that belongs to you!”

I would be a great embarrassment to Eisenhower, but a tremendous publicity coup for Khrushchev. See how humane the Soviets are! You send a pilot to spy on us. Do we shoot him? No, we return him unharmed to his family.

Not a single word indicated that this would happen. But the scene was so real I began to believe it would.

Returned to my cell, I could barely contain my elation, not even minding the thorough search, which was already becoming almost routine.

As the hours passed, the fantasy began to dissipate and depression set in. With nothing to read, nothing whatsoever to do, my thoughts began to close in on me.

Although I still had no appetite and left it untouched, supper was a welcome interruption, as was a trip to the toilet.

But after that I was alone.

It was odd. Earlier, out of boredom and curiosity, I had gone to the door and tried to look out the peephole, to see an eyeball staring back at me. It shook me. Yet, even knowing I was being watched, I felt totally alone, in a way I had never felt before, bereft of family, friends.

No one knew where I was. Quite possibly they presumed me dead. There was nothing anyone could do to help me.

In my mind I had already reviewed the possibilities of escape. Even if I succeeded in getting the gun away from one guard and disposing of the other, I would still be locked in the cellblock. There were a half-dozen doors, each locked, each guarded, between me and the street. To escape I would need help, and this was when I felt the loneliness most, for there was no one, absolutely no one, who could—or would—offer that help. I couldn't count on the other prisoners aiding an American spy.

My earliest feelings again became certainty. Although thus far I hadn't been mistreated, there was no reason to feel this situation would continue, and every reason to expect it wouldn't.

I had been a fool to think they would believe my lies. They were experts at this sort of thing; I wasn't even as good as an amateur. Sooner or later they would see through the fictions in my story. Even if they didn't, the end result would probably be the same: I would be tortured and shot, without anyone outside the Soviet Union even knowing what had happened to me.

The day light went off, the night light came on. I had no idea of the time.

Tying my handkerchief around my head like a blindfold to try to keep out at least a little of the light, I lay down, momentarily expecting the guards to come in and tell me this was not permitted.

But they didn't. I was left undisturbed.

Though not given to dreams, I had one that night.

I was in The Pound, on my father's farm, walking down the road toward the house with Barbara, my mother, father, and all five of my sisters, when suddenly I felt a severe pain in my leg. As it grew worse, I began falling back, unable to keep up with them. Slow down, I wanted to yell, but for some reason couldn't. Finally the pain became so acute I had to sit down on the edge of the road and watch as my family walked away from me, seeming not to know or care that I was not with them.

I awoke. The pain was real. Because of my lying in one position too long, one of the iron strips had pressed through the thin mattress into the flesh of my leg.