Operation Overflight (39 page)

Zigurd was exuberant. It could mean only one thing. Hadn't he told me from the start that I wouldn't have to serve the full ten years?

Not until the guard brought in two suitcases and informed me I should spend the evening packing did I really believe it.

I was going home!

Yet my excitement was saddened by the realization that Zigurd was not, that he still had eight of his fifteen years to serve, with his earliest chance of parole nearly three years away. But he was as happy as if it had been his own release.

Having few possessions, it took me only a short time to pack. I made a large parcel of the three carpets, the only product of my imprisonment, except for memories. In between the carpets I slipped the diary and journal, hoping the Russians would overlook them. Anything I felt he could use, such as books, pipes, tobacco, I gave to Zigurd.

We couldn't sleep, but talked all night. We promised to write, to visit each other someday, although, I'm sure, we both realized the likelihood was remote. We exchanged home addresses and
photographs. Across the back of a photo of himself taken some years earlier in Germany he wrote, “To my friend and cellmate 9-9-60, 8-2-62. Zigurd Kruminsh.”

September 9, I960—February 8, 1962. I had been in Vladimir for seventeen months.

Shortly after six
A.M.
the guard brought the items which had been held for me, including my wedding ring. I hadn't been allowed to wear it in either prison.

With the arrival of my escorts, we said our good-byes. Because it was not easy, we made them brief. I felt as if I was leaving a part of myself behind. And in a sense I was, for Zigurd was now speaking with a pronounced Virginia accent.

Walking across the courtyard to the gate, I looked at the window of cell number 31.

Contrary to rules, Zigurd was standing on the cabinet, looking down at me from the window at the top.

Emerging from the other side of the administration building, I climbed into an automobile with the colonel, the interpreter, and a driver, and we rode away from Vladimir Prison. I didn't look back.

The colonel kept his promise. When we reached the railroad station and boarded the train, there were no guards. We had the whole compartment to ourselves, until, at one of the many stops, two peasant women got on, sitting toward the end of the car. But they paid no attention to me, and, I must admit, I was little interested in them, spending most of my time staring out the window at all the open space. It was a beautiful day, there was still snow everywhere, and finally, trees. Trees!

But it was the slowest train I had ever ridden. I thought perhaps it was my imagination, until the interpreter explained that winter thaws were causing the ground to shift, and we had to travel slowly for safety's sake.

I tried to question the colonel, but apparently he was under orders to tell me as little as possible. Thus far, no one had actually stated that I was to be released. But I would permit no other thoughts to enter my mind.

It was late afternoon when we reached Moscow. A car was waiting at the station. I had guessed I would be driven directly to the American Embassy and turned over to officials there, but I guessed wrong. Instead the car followed a familiar route, one I had not been anxious to retrace.

Once again I drove through the gates of Lubyanka Prison.

I was taken to my old cellblock, to a cell two doors from the one I had formerly occupied. I was now able to confirm one of my suspicions: there were beds softer than the torture rack they had originally given me. This one had two mattresses.

Only then did the colonel inform me that we were going to East Germany the following morning.

I had about one hundred dollars in my prison account, he said. They couldn't give it to me in dollars, only rubles, and I couldn't spend them outside the USSR, so what did I want to do with them? I asked if the money could be credited to Zigurd's account; I was told no, and so I asked if I could spend it on souvenirs to take home. I also wanted to obtain a phonograph record. When at Vladimir I had heard a girl singer on Radio Moscow. She had one of the most beautiful voices I had ever heard, and I had developed something of a crush on her. Phonetically her name sounded like Savancova. The record I liked most was her version of Grieg's
Solveig's Song
. They promised to try to get it.

The mention of my being unable to spend rubles outside the USSR was the closest anyone had come to saying I was to be freed.

Following a bath, a luxury, since I wasn't “due” for one for another five days, the colonel explained we had arrived too late for supper. However, since I had money, they could send out for food. Was there something I especially wanted?

“Meat,” I replied, “and a martini.”

Laughing, the colonel said they probably couldn't manage the martini. However, when the meal arrived—two breaded veal cutlets, the most meat I had been given by the Russians—there was a tin cup with it, half full of brandy. It was good and potent, and having had nothing to drink for twenty-one months, I slept well that night.

Early the next morning, Friday, February 9, the three of us were driven to the airport. En route the interpreter informed me they had purchased souvenirs, but had been unable to find the phonograph record I wanted, which surprised me, since the singer was apparently one of the most popular in the Soviet Union. At the airport a plane was waiting, the only other occupants the two pilots. I'd spent so much time dreaming about escape that the thought pattern was hard to break; I wasn't checked out on this type of aircraft, but I was sure I could manage it in about one minute, after disposing of the two pilots. Later, when one of them came back and made conversation through the interpreter, I was thankful he hadn't been able to read my thoughts.

We were going in the right direction—west.

Everything was precisely arranged. When we landed in East Germany, a car was waiting. Without any delays we were driven directly into East Berlin. February in Germany is bleak. There was no snow, the leaves were gone from the trees, the grass was dead. Our destination was a “safe” house, but unlike the agency, they made no attempt to make their residences inconspicuous. There were guards all around the outside, patrolling with submachine guns. Every time I looked out a window I could see one. The house, apparently once a private home, was luxuriously fitted. I guessed that it was used for top Russian Communist-party functionaries on their visits to East Berlin. That night supper was served with crystal and silver.

Earlier the colonel had asked me if there was anything I especially wanted. I observed that I'd like a little more of the brandy. When we sat down at the table, he produced a bottle that either was Hennessey Four Star or an exact imitation. I began to sip my drink, but he said that since I was with Russians I should drink the way they did, and, following his example, I swallowed the whole drink in one gulp. The colonel corked the bottle, saying that we would save the remainder for the next morning.

“If everything goes well,” he said through the interpreter, “you will be released tomorrow morning and will have a reason to celebrate.”

It was now official, “if everything goes well.” Curious, I asked why I was being released at this time. He replied that it was a gesture of goodwill. “We wish to show the world how humane the Soviets can be.” I suspected there was more to it, but said nothing.

The interpreter and I had beds in a room on the second floor. Following dinner, we played several games of chess. I hadn't realized how much Zigurd had taught me. I beat him several times.

There was no light in the room. But the door was left open, and there was a light in the hall. There was a guard downstairs, in addition to those outside. The bed was comfortable, but I was so tense that I slept little, dozing off only a few times. So much depended on the next morning. Although the situation looked good, far better than ever before, I kept reminding myself that anything could happen.

Saturday, February 10, 1962. Up very early, we had the brandy with breakfast. The car arrived shortly after five
A.M.
, and a long drive followed. I noticed that we seemed to be leaving the city and
returning to the country. That worried me. I was afraid we were headed back to the airport. I wanted to stay as close to West Berlin as possible. Eventually, however, we drove into what I later learned was the Potsdam section, and after circling one block several times, stopped.

A well-dressed man, who looked and talked like an American, but I later learned was Ivan A. Schischkin, Soviet consular representative in East Berlin, got into the car and explained the procedure. We were to drive directly to Glienicker Bridge, which spanned Lake Wannsee, separating Potsdam from West Berlin. At 8:20
A.M.
we would walk onto the bridge, at the same time a group of Americans approached from the other side. About ten yards from the white line in the center, both groups would stop. Part of our group would then go forward to meet part of their group; we were to remain behind. If all was satisfactory, I would then be escorted forward and across the white line marking the border between East and West.

“However,” he added with some firmness, “if anything goes wrong on the bridge, you are to return with us. Do you understand that?”

I nodded. But I decided then that should something of that sort occur, I would run for it. Even if it meant a bullet, I wasn't coming back.

It was a cold, dark day, the sky overcast. Even with my heavy coat and Russian fur cap, I felt chilly. We reached our end of the bridge about eight
A.M.
It was painted a dull green color. Under any other circumstances I probably would have found it ugly, but at that moment it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

At about 8:15 we got out of the car. The colonel who had accompanied me from Vladimir shook my hand. It was the first such gesture since my capture. We walked onto the bridge, which was devoid of traffic. I carried my suitcases, one of the KGB men the box of souvenirs and rug parcel. I could see, too far away for any of them to be clearly recognizable, a group of men approaching from the other side.

Following the plan, both groups stopped about ten yards from the center, three men from our side, two from the other going forward to the line. I remained behind, between the colonel and another KGB man. A short distance behind us were armed guards. It would be a long run, and they would have ample time to shoot. That didn't shake my resolve. I wasn't going back.

After a few minutes the colonel left me and walked across the
line. At the same time, one of the men from the other side also crossed and walked up to me, grinning broadly. I recognized him as a former acquaintance in the U-2 program. His was the first familiar face I had seen in a very long time.

“Gee, it's good to see you,” I exclaimed, shaking hands.

“You know who I am, don't you?” he asked.

“You're Bill.”

He looked surprised, then laughed. “No, I'm Murphy. Bill was my boss. You've got our names confused.” He was right.

“What was the name of your high-school football coach?” he asked.

It was my turn to look puzzled. Then I remembered the Air Force form I had filled out more than ten years ago, with questions to be used in case I had to be identified. The agency had gone to all the trouble of digging it out of my service records.

For the life of me I couldn't think of the name. In the excitement, my mind went blank.

I did better with the names of my wife, my mother, my dog.

“You're Francis Gary Powers,” he finally said, bringing the agency's little guessing game to an end. He had known, of course, who I was all the time. Recrossing the white line, he relayed this information to the others: Identification positive.

At the same time, the KGB colonel also recrossed the line and rejoined me. I wondered what he had been up to.

There followed a long delay. Apparently the negotiators were awaiting some word from the other end of the bridge. As minute after minute slowly passed, the distance to the center of the span seemed to grow greater. Glancing over the side of the bridge, I spotted two men in a small boat, on the West German side of the river. Each man was carrying a shotgun, and was dressed like a duck hunter. Their hunting clothes appeared straight out of Aber-crombie & Fitch. I was certain they were agency men, and I added another possibility: diving off the bridge and swimming to the boat.

While we were waiting, Schischkin, the Soviet consular representative, remarked, “The next time you come to see us, come as a friend.”

“Next time,” I answered, “I'll come as a tourist.”

With a smile, Schischkin replied, “I didn't say as a tourist. I said as a friend.”

Suddenly there was a yell from the other end. The negotiators huddled briefly, then nodded to the colonel, who pushed me forward. As I walked toward the line, another man—thin, gaunt,
middle-aged—approached from the other side. We crossed at the same time.

It was 8:52
A.M.
on Saturday, February 10, 1962. One year, nine months, and ten days after my capture by the Russians.

I was again a free man.

Murphy ran up and slapped me on the back. “You know who that was, don't you?” he asked, indicating the other man.

“No,” I replied.

“Abel, Colonel Rudolf Abel, the Soviet spy.”

It was the first time I realized that my release had been part of an exchange. The KGB colonel from Vladimir, I now realized, had crossed the line to identify Abel. I wondered if they were friends, and if Abel had remembered the name of his high-school football coach.

While Abel and the Soviets stood in precise military formation on their side of the border, concluding the negotiations with their counterparts, Murphy and I walked over to the edge of the bridge and began talking with the excitement of two kids.

I couldn't help noticing the contrast. The Americans, friendly, excited, making no attempt to hide their feelings; the Russians, rigid, emotionless, totally businesslike.