Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

Too, I now had something else to think about, which, though not unrelated, concerned me very much.

Following my conviction, I had been told that on completion of one half of my three-year prison sentence—or eighteen months—I could apply for an early transfer to a work camp, where the remaining years of my sentence were to be served. Such requests were by no means granted automatically but at the discretion of the court. My conduct as a prisoner had been good, so I couldn’t see this hindering the application. November 1 had marked the completion of my eighteenth month.

Yet, as I observed in the journal: “This camp business has me worried. Here in the prison I have been relatively isolated. I have contact only with my cellmate. In a camp it is my understanding that all prisoners are free to mingle, and they more or less govern themselves. Of course, there are guards outside. It is my impression that they are set up somewhat like concentration camps during the war. I have heard that there are fights, and groups who oppose each other, and I do not know how I will fit into such a situation, since I cannot speak the language. I don’t fear any harm to myself, because I don’t think the Soviet government would want to cause an international incident by exposing a citizen of the United States to conditions which could result in his being harmed. It would be hard for them to explain why they could not protect their prisoners if word were to get out that something had happened to me.”

Then, too, there were some privileges I enjoyed in prison that might be revoked if I transferred to a work camp, such as my receiving the embassy packages, books, and unlimited amounts of mail. Also keeping my hair.

Zigurd tried in every way he could to keep me from getting my hopes up. He was sure the request would never be granted. The Soviets couldn’t risk the chance of having me killed by some patriot anxious to make a name for himself.

But there was one important factor in favor of work camp. I had heard that prisoners there were allowed to have their wives visit them for ten days every three months. If Barbara could come to Russia, even for a short time, perhaps we could discuss and resolve some of our difficulties.

On November 15 I submitted my application for a transfer.

Journal, November 21: “Last Saturday the colonel came to have a talk with me about the application to the work camp. He asked a few questions about why I wanted to transfer there, and then he said he would come back later with information about the questions I asked him concerning visiting privileges and the granting of a visa to Barbara. When I mentioned that it would probably be a long time before I heard anything from the application, he said it might be sooner than I think. I feel certain he knew much more about their plans for me than he let on….”

Journal: “Today is Tuesday, November 28.1 expected some mail today but didn’t receive any. It has been over two weeks since I received my last letter, and over three weeks since I have had one from Barbara. Is the cure progressing as it should?

“I also have not received my monthly package from the embassy. It is almost two weeks late. I wonder if there is any connection between the missing package and the missing mail?

“Another thing that seems odd, since this is the first time it has happened, is that for about five days I have not received the Daily Worker . When it did arrive there were several issues missing, ranging from about the fourth to the ninth of November. (I do not remember the exact dates, because I thought very little of it at the time.) Yesterday I received the November 23 issue, but November 22 was missing. This is very odd, because I have been receiving this newspaper for many months and I have never missed getting an issue. They are often late but always come.”

Little things, but the mind fits them into a pattern.

“Today for the first time I realized there might be a connection between the missing newspapers and the absence of mail. The mail I should be receiving now and for the past week would have been sent from the United States about the same time the missing papers were printed. Could it be that something has happened to my wife or other members of my family and that mention of it was made in the papers and also in the letters? If so, it must be very serious to be withheld from me.”

I didn’t commit my worst fears to paper, not wishing to give them that much reality.

An explanation for the missing embassy package occurred to me. Maybe the money in my account had run out, and Barbara, being in the hospital, had been unable to replace it. The thought that the embassy would stop the package for this reason did nothing to help my frame of mind. But this still didn’t explain the absence of mail and the missing newspapers.

I put a request through the authorities to check, to see if they could learn what had happened.

The November embassy package never did arrive for a simple reason: Somebody had forgotten to send it.

I felt more relief than anger. Like my hopes, my fears were constructed of little pieces of circumstantial evidence. There was now one less piece.

On December 8 I received two letters from Barbara, one having taken thirty-five days to arrive and the other thirty-eight. In the last, dated October 25, she said she was ready to go home, only Dr. Thigpen didn’t agree. She was now assigned to a private room in an open ward; however, still not allowed matches.

Knowing that Barbara was alive, even if still in the hospital, was a great relief. And at least there she would be properly cared for.

On December 11 the colonel brought me the bad news. Journal: “There will be no work camp for me. I was told that a law or decree had been passed by the Presidium in the early part of May, 1961, in which the sentence of several crimes, mine included, naturally, cannot be mitigated by any court, but only by a pardon from the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet itself. This decree has been in effect since May and was approved on the fifth of December, twenty days after my application was tendered.

“The only chance I have of getting a mitigation of my sentence is by a pardon from the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet. This is very unlikely, because they have not even bothered to answer the pleas that my wife and parents submitted to them in my behalf more than a year ago.”

Secretly, in the back of my mind, I had hoped for more from the work-camp application than I had confided in the journal. There was always the possibility—although admittedly remote—that in reviewing my sentence the court might decide to extend clemency. Thus my disappointment was compounded.

However, the colonel’s attitude wasn’t entirely negative. He wasn’t sure it could be arranged—he would have to check further—but it was possible that if I did have visitors from the United States that provision might be made for my being allowed to spend a longer period of time with them.

I grabbed onto this as if it were a life raft. Even if it could only be a short visit, just a few days, perhaps Barbara and I could solve some of our problems, one way or the other. I wrote her to this effect, urging her to consider making the trip.

That same day I heard from Barbara’s mother that Barbara had been released from the hospital late in October. However, she had gone back several days later with a bad case of flu.

There was a single letter from Barbara on December 21, written November 19, when she was still in the hospital. There was no mention of what her plans were once she was released, except that because of the conflicts with her mother she would have to find a place by herself. I wasn’t too happy about that. There would be no one to look after her.

My second Christmas in the Soviet Union was even rougher than my first. There were few cards; people have a tendency to forget. There were several presents, including a beautiful pair of woolen mittens knitted for me by Zigurd’s mother. But there was little in the way of encouraging news. With what seemed my last hope frustrated, and no prospect of release in sight, I slipped into a deep lethargy. Though he tried his best, Zigurd was unable to pull me out of it. For hours I would sit staring at the floor, saying nothing. Nor did a letter I received on December 27 from one of Barbara’s relatives do anything to brighten the holiday season, even though it contained the news that she was now out of the hospital.