Operation Overflight

by Francis Gary Powers

  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.”

  Again I asked her to be sure to send me a copy of Kennedy’s inaugural address.

  Barbara hadn’t started numbering her letters, so there was no way I could tell whether some were being lost or if she simply hadn’t written between September 23 and November 26.

  December 13: “Bath today. No glue, so cannot make envelopes. Millet for breakfast, millet soup and potatoes for dinner, a type of potato salad for supper. Wrote letter to wife. Have no idea what she is doing or where she is living. Sent it care of her mother in Milledgeville.”

  December 14: “Received seven letters today!”

  There was one from Barbara, another from her mother, with whom she was living I now learned, the rest from my sisters and parents. My mother’s letters always moved me because they evoked home: “Daddy went up to the high knob to try to get a deer this morning.” Her own health wasn’t very good, but I wasn’t to worry. She closed, “I can’t enjoy coffee, not knowing if you have a cup or not.”

  The health of both my parents concerned me. On his return from Russia, my father had discovered that he had diabetes. Yet he was still “pestering ” the people in Washington, especially the State Department, trying to get them to initiate some action in my case.

  Barbara’s letter bothered me also. I knew she was under a tremendous strain, that all of this must seem like a horrible nightmare to her, yet reading her letter I had the feeling that she was bored and just writing to fill the pages, not really thinking about what she was saying. For example, she asked about my job in the mail room, which meant she hadn’t read my letter about the envelope making very carefully. And she asked if they observed Thanksgiving in the Soviet Union. But, I told myself, everything that happens in prison assumes an importance and magnitude all out of proportion to reality.

  December 15: “Fed pigeons during walk. Am partial to a white pigeon and try to feed him more than the others. He is too shy and lets the other pigeons take his food. No glue, so no envelopes made today. Potatoes for supper.”

  The embassy had included a jar of peanut butter in my last package. Together with the jelly, obtained from the prison commissary, Zigurd got his first peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. From his initial look, I decided this must be an acquired taste.

  On December 18 the KGB colonel and an interpreter arrived with the print of a classic Russian film, Soldashka, and Zigurd and I were given a private showing. Beautifully made, the film depicted an ancient conquest of Russia by barbarians and their eventual defeat.

  But even here they couldn’t resist propagandizing. The message was tacked on to the end, to the effect that: “Come to Russia as a friend, you will be welcomed. Come as an enemy, you will be met with a sword.”

  Or a rocket.

  Actually the movie itself impressed me less than their going to the trouble to bring it all the way from Moscow for a private screening. All this concern wit
h giving me the best impression of Russia had to be for some reason. And the only possible reason I could see was that they intended to release me soon. I tried not to draw too much hope from the incident, but despite my resolve, I did.

  Zigurd agreed. It was a very good omen.

  December 19: “Has been a long day. Two visits by Major Dimitri. He is going on leave tomorrow. Our contact will be Major Yakovlov. A good man. Will soon finish Anna Karenina. Someone pulled the tail feathers out of one of the pigeons. He flies like a duck now.” Another common trick was to tie a pigeon’s legs together, which gave him a sort of Charlie Chaplin walk. In a way, I could understand why such things were done—they were antidotes to boredom—yet such senseless cruelty greatly disturbed me.

  Often, through the hole in our cell window, I’d study the prisoners as they went through the gate. Before long I began to type them. The political prisoners were usually quiet, studious. Going from one place to another, they often carried a book along. It was as if they realized they had a certain amount of time to serve and were determined to use it to best advantage. They seemed to avoid causing trouble.

  It was different with the work-camp prisoners, many of whom were rowdy, constantly breaking rules, getting into arguments with each other or with the guards.

  It was an interesting generalization, except for one thing. There were several rowdies in our building also. They would yell out the windows. Or try to catch the pigeons. Or throw things from their windows.

  Zigurd explained the seeming discrepancy. Fights were common in the work camp. One prisoner might steal another’s bread, while someone else got knifed for it. Occasionally, to escape vendetta, a prisoner would try to obtain a transfer. There were two ways to do this: hurt himself so badly he would have to be hospitalized; or become a political prisoner. The latter was fairly easily accomplished. He need only mock Khrushchev or write anti-Soviet slogans on the wall. Taken before a judge and resentenced as a political prisoner, he would be reassigned to building number 2. This meant time added on to his sentence and the loss of some privileges, but it was preferable to being stabbed.

  Occasionally Zigurd and I would get into arguments, albeit friendly ones. During one of our bull sessions I mentioned that it was an established fact that north of the equator whirlpools move in a clockwise direction, while south of the equator they move counterclockwise.

  He doubted this, and said so.

  Finally, after some thought, we came up with a scheme to prove or disprove at least half the theory. The next time we went to the toilet we would stop up the washbasin with a sheet of paper and fill it full of water. Then, very carefully, we’d pull the paper out and watch which way the water went. Since we were obviously north of the equator, the motion should be clockwise.

  The trouble was, when we pulled out the paper it made waves, confusing everything. We had tried this a half-dozen times, getting water all over ourselves and the floor, when the guard looked in. He was not at all sure what we were up to, but whatever it was, we were to stop.

  On the subject of whirlpools, Zigurd remained a skeptic.

  December 21: “Dad’s birthday. Had potatoes for supper, as usual. But with meat!”

  The meat, roast pork, had arrived in a package from Zigurd’s parents. To preserve it, Zigurd’s mother had packed the meat in lard in which she had previously cooked onions. This gave it a strong onion taste. By smearing the lard on bread we made some of the most delicious sandwiches I had ever tasted.

  My diary entries now contained no mention of my Russian lessons. For good reason. I was trying to forget them. For me, prison was not conducive to studying. Working on the carpet gave me an excuse to skip memorizing the long lists of words Zigurd supplied. After missing one day it became easier to miss the next, until it gradually slipped out of the routine. Also, since the prospect of release seemed to be even brighter—the significance of the special movie had now become almost a certainty—it seemed useless to persist in learning the language.

  December 23: “Package from American Embassy with coffee, cigarettes, razor blades, candy, etc. Was told today that starting in January I would be given The National Geographic, Popular Science, and Nation magazines. Can be bought in Russia. Two walks today; made envelopes. Potatoes for supper; didn’t take any.”

  December 25: “Christmas Day. Had manna for breakfast, soup and plate of noodles for dinner, and a plate of mashed potatoes for supper. Typical Sunday here but no movie this weekend. Took one walk and took a nap in the afternoon. All that made this Christmas Day was my knowing it was. Am pretty homesick. Worked on carpet quite a lot today.”

  December 26: “Only took one walk today. Made 250 envelopes. Finished a play by Gorky, Lower Depths. Worked on carpet. Had potatoes for supper; didn’t take any.”

  December 27: “Four letters today. Two from Barbara, one from Mom and Dad, and one from Jessie. Jessie’s and Barbara’s had pictures in them.”

  December 31: “New Year’s Eve—a very lonely day with lots of reminiscences. Spent several hours writing in the history of my stay here [the journal]. Thinking very much of my wife. Hope I can go to sleep tonight.”

  Twelve

  On New Year’s Day I was startled to hear my own voice on the radio. It was a year-end wrap-up of significant events of I960, and parts of the trial were rebroadcast.

  I asked Zigurd if there was any mention of the RB-47 pilots, but on this the news was curiously silent. So far as I knew, they had yet to be brought to trial. However, on the off-chance they had been sent to Vladimir, I had resumed whistling American songs during our walks, in hope of making contact.

  My diary entries for 1961 started off with a humorous note.

  January 1: “Just opened a package that I thought was cookies. Turned out to be Cocktail Dainties! Why in the world is the American Embassy sending me cocktail snacks when they know I don’t have and can’t get cocktails?”

  On January 2, regular programming was interrupted for Khrushchev’s New Year’s toast. Greatly excited, Zigurd translated it for me. Khrushchev had said that with the passing of the old year and the old government of the United States, Russia was willing to forget the U-2 incident and start 1961 fresh!

  Diary: “Surely they can’t forget about it with me in prison? Much hope.”

  Zigurd shared it. He had maintained, from the very start, that I would not serve my full sentence.

  That same day something else occurred to make me hope he was right.

  With the Little Major on leave, Major Yakovlov brought the mail. Just before leaving, he told us we needed haircuts.

  Journal: “This is very strange, for no one has ever mentioned our needing haircuts before, even though they were certainly needed.”

  To a prisoner, anything out of the ordinary, no matter how seemingly unimportant, takes on significance.

  First there was Khrushchev’s toast, then Major Yakovlov’s remark about haircuts. If they were going to release me, they would want me to look presentable. It all fitted.

  Of course, I reminded myself, we did need haircuts. It could be coincidence.

  I didn’t believe that. Nor for a moment.

  Following the excitement, reaction set in.

  Diary, January 3: “Having a sinking spell in my thoughts. I suppose my chances of being released soon are better than they were, but I am too unimportant a person for anyone to worry about me. My release depends on the whims of men who could not care less what happens to me or to any single person. They think in millions, not in ones. Made over five-hundred envelopes today.”

  Using up my two-hundred-and-fifty-envelope quota was a nervous response. I paid for it immediately.

  January 4: “Ran out of paper for making envelopes today. No more available, so can’t make any.”

  January 5: “Has been a very bad day for me. Have been very depressed most of the day. Took bath and was supposed to get a haircut, but barber didn’t show up.”

  Journal: “A prisoner never gives up hope. He is alwa
ys waiting for some miracle to happen. There would probably be a lot more trouble in prisons if this were not so. … A person would go completely crazy in prison if there wasn’t, in the back of his mind, this hope of getting out, some way or the other.”

  We got the haircuts on the seventh.

  On the ninth we were visited again by the major. I asked outright how my chances looked. He replied that things would go well for me if Kennedy made a policy of having better relations with the USSR.

  This time I didn’t try to hide my excitement. One thing I had learned about the Communists, particularly the KGB, was that no one ever ventured a personal opinion. Every statement was prefaced by the collective we. “We think …” We feel…,”I was never told anything that Moscow hadn’t approved, that wasn’t the official line. The major wouldn’t have ventured this much unless he had some assurance that prospects were good.

  January 11: “I don’t think I have mentioned it before, but ever since May 1 I have had a constant high-frequency ringing in my ears. It was lower than usual this evening.”

  January 13: “Excellent news today. The colonel (regional KGB, from Vladimir) told me that my release from prison depended wholly upon how Kennedy reacted to the toast of Khrushchev on New Year’s Eve. I certainly hope that Kennedy in his speech on the twentieth will come out very strong for good relations and easing the tension in the world. Hope he repeats what he said during the campaign, about apologizing for the flight, etc.”

  January 15: “Started reading Ben-Hur. I finished all I can do to the carpet this morning. I hope I am able to deliver it in person to the States soon. I feel fairly certain that February will see me free, but there is always the possibility of it not happening. I refuse to think about that. Potatoes for supper,”

  I was rather proud of the carpet. It measured twenty-one by twenty-eight inches; had six colors in the pattern—light and dark green, tan, red, pink, and black; and contained over thirteen-thousand crosses, each cross formed by pushing the needle through four times. I estimated it had taken about three hundred hours. At least I would have something to show for the time I had spent in Russia.