Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

Perhaps it was fortunate that I did not learn, until much later, the track record of my so-called “defense counsel.”

Mikhail I. Grinev specialized in losing important state cases. When Lavrenti Beria, head of Stalin’s secret police, was tried for treason, Grinev defended him. Beria was executed. In 1954 and 1956 Grinev defended twelve of Beria’s former secret-service officials following purges. All twelve were convicted; four were given stiff sentences, eight executed.

Nor was this the first time he had worked in tandem with Rudenko. During the Nazi war-crime trials at Nuremberg, Grinev had been a defense counsel, Rudenko a prosecutor.

Such knowledge, however, would have made little difference. I knew my captors wouldn’t appoint someone to defend me who would not act exactly as they wanted.

Maybe I was wrong, but I had the strong feeling that everything had already been decided, that even Grinev knew what the sentence was to be.

Grinev’s visit on July 9 was the first time I had seen anyone other than my guards and the serving woman in nearly a week.

That previous occasion had come as a surprise. A few days after the first of July, I had been taken back to the interrogation room.

What did I know about the RB-47 flights?

I gave the same answer as in the earlier interrogations. Nothing. Which was not true.

Although they approached the subject from a number of different directions—Did I know any of the pilots? Had I ever flown the plane? Was there an arrangement whereby the RB-47s covered certain areas, the U-2s others?—I continued to plead lack of knowledge.

I knew something had spurred their interest. I had no idea what.

When the interrogations were in progress, I had dreamed of the day they would be over. Now, left alone in my cell, I missed them. Deceiving my captors had been a challenge; even that stimulation was gone, and with it any semblance of human companionship. This was the way they intended it, I was sure. No beatings, no torture except that inflicted by the mind. Only an all-pervading emptiness that made you desire even the company of your enemies.

Even visits to the doctor became welcome events. Possibly because of the ten days when I hadn’t eaten, or the changed diet, I was still losing weight and having considerable stomach trouble. Had I known what was coming, I would have said nothing, for the result was the ultimate indignity, a proctoscopic examination, made even more unpleasant by an audience of doctors, nurses, guards, and interpreters.

Ten days after Grinev’s visit, I was informed that my trial would begin on August 17.

My thirty-first birthday. A hell of a birthday present!

I was also allowed to write two more letters. Again I was to reiterate that I was being well treated; “very nice” was the phrase they wanted me to use. I was also to state that I had conferred with my defense counsel several times. This wasn’t true; I had seen him only once, and I still hadn’t received the indictment, but I went along because it was a small point and I didn’t want my mail privileges revoked. Although my incoming letters were censored, and my outgoing letters edited and rewritten, this was my only link with the outside world.

Again the letters were hard to write. I knew that my family wanted to come to Moscow for the trial. More than anything, I wanted to see them. But it would be cruel to raise false hopes. I made it clear that “there is no doubt in my mind that I will be found guilty…. It will be more of a trial for determining the degree of guilt and the degree of punishment.”

I didn’t add that I felt sure I knew what the latter would be.

Monotony formed the shape of my days, loneliness their substance. About three hours were spent on the roof, walking, sitting in the sun, or tending my garden. To have something growing—alive, green—in the midst of this bleakness meant a great deal to me. One weed had grown very tall. I was afraid one of the guards would pull it. But on each visit to the roof it was still there.

As was the piece of tin.

Most of the rest of the time I read. In addition to the mysteries, Gone with the Wind , and the Bible (for the first time I read it all the way through), I’d received a few books from Moscow University Library, including Mikhail Sholokhov’s And Quiet Flows the Don and The Don Flows Home to the Sea .

This was not all my reading matter. I read the few letters I had received, over and over and over again.

But there was still time—much too much time—for thought.

From the moment of my capture I had been certain of eventually being taken before a firing squad. My captors had never stated positively that this would happen; since telling me I was to be tried, they had noted two possibilities—imprisonment or death; but I had brainwashed myself into expecting the latter.

And yet just the word “trial” contained the element of hope.

I had to keep reminding myself that I was thinking in terms of American justice, not Soviet, that whatever was decided here would be in the best interest of the state.

Sometimes it occurred to me that maybe I wouldn’t die, that with the whole world watching the outcome of the trial, the Soviets would have to be lenient.

Yet the whole world had been watching the Rosenberg case. And we had executed them anyway. Except for the fact that their crime was treason, mine espionage, there was no reason to suppose the Russians would be any less severe with me. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed they would give me the strictest possible punishment, as an object lesson to dissuade others from attempting the same thing.

I gave a great deal of thought as to whether I should or should not testify.

The prospect of having the interrogation records read in open court bothered me. Not only would it stretch out the trial for weeks. Many of the things I had told the Russians were meant for their ears alone; an astute newspaperman, with good sources in Washington, was bound to spot some of the lies immediately. Exposing them would be an opening of Pandora’s box. Other statements I had made would be reexamined. Subjects carefully avoided would be scrutinized minutely. And once they began digging…

Yet, alone in my cell, with only my thoughts for company, there were moments when I was tempted, when my imagination engaged in the heroic fantasies of a young boy. Not only would I refuse to testify, when it came time to plead I would stand and deliver to the court a ringing declaration, in the manner of Nathan Hale or Patrick Henry. Every man would like to be remembered as a hero. This would be my chance to play the part.

What would it accomplish?

It would ensure Francis Gary Powers a place in history books, thought he would not be around to read them. For I could be fairly certain it would remove any slight element of doubt as to my sentence.

And it might well negate everything I had succeeded in doing thus far.

I knew some things about the U-2 project which, brought out, would make the headlines already published seem microscopic. That I had remained silent about them did not mean that, given enough clues, the Russians couldn’t draw their own conclusions.

Although I debated the question for hours, in a way my decision had been made long before, after my capture and on the flight to Moscow. I had decided then what course of action to follow during interrogations. If it appeared to the world I had told everything, it was a risk I’d have to take. I knew that the President, the CIA, and others involved in the U-2 program would know better. And maybe, someday, someone would set the record straight.

There was more mail from home. Containing good news—and bad.

The visas had been granted. But some sort of misunderstanding had arisen between my wife and my parents. Exactly what occasioned it was not clear, but they would be traveling to Russia separately.