Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

I didn’t talk to Zigurd just to avoid studying. He had lived a fascinating life, and whenever he seemed in the mood, I encouraged him to tell me about it. He was as sparing with the details of his underground experiences as I was with my CIA flights. Without ever spelling it out, we respected the fact that some areas would always remain off limits, no matter how much we might trust each other. It was other things, often casually revealed, accidentally glimpsed, that gave me the clearest insights into Zigurd’s character. We were together constantly; one of us was never out of the cell without the other; yet it was a long time before I began to feel I really knew him.

One morning while we were washing I noticed two small scars on his shoulder. How had he got them? I asked. Later, during one of our walks, he told me. When the Germans conscripted soldiers from occupied countries, they tattooed numbers on their shoulders, to identify them if they deserted. In fleeing from the Germans to the Allied side, Zigurd had realized that this evidence could cost him his life or be detrimental to his ever obtaining employment. Heating a piece of metal red hot, he had applied it directly to the tattoos, in an attempt to burn them off. He wasn’t completely successful. The numbers were obliterated, but the scars remained as evidence.

Yet there was a deeply sensitive side to him too, that came across when he described the retreat from Latvia—frozen bodies piled like cordwood alongside the roads, and how the sight affected him; or when he talked about the girl from the displaced persons’ camp. They had fallen in love and they had almost married, but Zigurd had hesitated. Too long. Relatives were found abroad who offered to sponsor her. She was now either in the United States or Canada, he was not sure which. He thought of her often, with guilt, knowing that because of him they had lost their chance for happiness. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how he must have hurt her. And now suffered himself because of it.

In prison such thoughts and feelings have a way of assuming monstrous proportions, until they dwarf all else.

Gradually, as I began to know Zigurd better, I came to trust him. If a “plant,” he had a most unenviable job, living the life of a prisoner. Though always interested in my stories about flying, he never inquired into details. Only once did he touch on something of a sensitive nature—asking how high the U-2 flew. This is the first question people usually ask even today. I suspect I could have told him ten thousand feet and he would have been impressed.

The memory of the girl haunted Zigurd. But something even deeper troubled him. I knew only that in some way it concerned his parents. But a long time passed before he told me about it.

Once a year each prisoner was photographed, and the pictures were sent to his relatives as evidence that he was neither dead nor being mistreated. Our turn came in November. There was a regular photographic studio in one of the barracks, and although there was no “birdie,” we were told to smile, so the people back home could see how happy we were. I tried but was less than successful.

While at Adana I had worn my hair fairly short. In prison I’d let it grow, intending to comb it back. Instead it just stood straight up. With only a small piece of mirror, I didn’t realize how funny it looked, until seeing the prints.

But Zigurd was immensely proud of his new head of hair. And only then did he stop wearing the beret.

Diary entry: “Barbara’s birthday. One year I have no gift for her. Wrote a letter this morning, at least started it, wishing her a happy birthday. Will mail it later in the month. Got books from the library, had already read two. Read The Iron Heel by Jack London.”

As a boy I’d read many of London’s books, but none of his socialist works. It gave me an entirely different perspective on the man.

November 18: “Still no mail from the U.S. Temperature this morning -24°C. Have put on long underwear. Must remember to thank Barbara for the clothes she sent. Cabbage for supper.”

Something was definitely wrong with our radiator. Even wearing all the clothes we had, fur cap with ear flaps down, we were literally freezing. For days we had complained to the guard; he’d feel the radiator, look puzzled, tell us the radiators in all the other cells were working, then, as if that settled the matter, do nothing. Except to bring in a thermometer, which only made us feel the cold all the more. On the morning of November 21 he checked it; the reading in our cell was below zero Centigrade. With that, something was done. Later in the day workmen arrived and installed an electrical outlet near the door. And the following day the Little Major personally delivered the electric heater from his office, an act of kindness I’ll never forget.

November 23: “Still no mail from the U.S. today. Prison officials (KGB) checking for me on this end.” Again potatoes for supper, but with roast meat and apples Zigurd’s parents had sent, which made all the difference.

Zigurd’s parents had a small plot of land with an orchard. In season they sent apples, onions, and garlic. Zigurd would take the garlic and put it in the meat, not for flavoring but because he had read somewhere that garlic would preserve meat. Whether it did or didn’t, I wasn’t sure. By the time we received the apples they had usually begun to rot. But what we could eat tasted marvelous. They were the only fruit we received.

In the order of their frequency of appearance, I dreamed of: desserts—banana splits, coconut-cream pie, anything made with eggs or ice cream; meat—all kinds, but hamburgers especially; and greens—I’d never known how much you could miss a salad.

November 25: “Still no letters. Mailed two today, one to Barbara and one to Mother. Russian studies going very slowly. Can’t get in the studying mood. Potatoes two times today.”

In my letter to Barbara I told her my reaction to the election: “I am glad that Kennedy won. I sincerely hope he turns out to be a good President and puts the good of the people above all other considerations.” I asked her to send newspaper clippings of any of his speeches relating to foreign policy. I was particularly anxious to obtain a copy of his forthcoming inaugural speech, as soon after he made it as possible. I wanted to see if there were any indications of his attitude toward Russia.

November 26: “Wind blowing this morning. Makes it seem very cold. One letter from Mother. Took thirty-four days to arrive. Something wrong. Started trying to read a Russian story. Constant use of dictionary and many questions.”

Boredom was the greatest problem. It was compounded when we lacked books, but even when we had them I was often restless. I could read for only an hour or two at a time. Then I’d put the book aside and work on envelopes for another hour. Then read awhile again, then pace the cell awhile. I’d do a few pushups, a little exercise, as much as space would permit, careful to make as little noise as possible, so as not to disturb Zigurd if he was reading. I’d try reading some more, or, if we both felt like it, talk.

After a while we developed a sensitivity to each other’s moods. Respecting the need for silence was important. Equally important at times, and there were many such, was realizing when the other needed cheering up.

Zigurd was involved in one activity I wasn’t. Before my arrival he had made several carpets. He’d been working on one when I arrived, but only after we had exhausted all the obvious subjects of discussion had he taken it up again. Watching him work, I asked questions, as much to make conversation as from curiosity. To me needlework had always seemed a woman’s occupation. But in Latvia, on long winter nights, with little else to do, whole families engaged in handicraft. Zigurd had turned to rugmaking only after being sent to Vladimir, however. One of the Latvian magazines his mother sent contained some patterns. Drawing vertical lines over the pages of a ruled notebook, he had made graph paper, then transferred the pattern onto it. His mother had sent burlap bags, wool and needles. And from there he had found his own way.