Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

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 with 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.”

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 1960, 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.