Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

Occasionally there would be days when my depression would dissipate temporarily. More often than not it was due to Zigurd, who understood what I was going through and did his best to help.

One day we had an argument. Zigurd maintained that people can dream in color. I insisted they couldn’t. At least I could never remember dreaming in anything except black and white.

But I was wrong. That night I dreamed of a large banquet. The colors of the food and wines were as vivid as any could be.

Unfortunately, I awoke before I ate or drank a mouthful.

She was quite plain: I was sure her interest in me was professional, nothing more; yet I realized I was counting the days between the nurse’s visits.

Powers, you’re being a fool, I told myself. Zigurd warned you, when he told you about his cellmate. Yet now you’re letting the same thing happen to you.

Once I recognized the symptoms, the attraction vanished. But the story of the boy who ate his tin plate no longer seemed incredible.

Journal, January 28: “I have written Barbara only once this month, because I am trying to stick to the resolution I made to write only when she writes…. I must admit I am becoming more and more afraid of what the future holds for me. Am I man enough to face all the things I may have to face, including a divorce? Divorce, much as I hate the idea of it, is fast becoming the only answer to Barbara’s and my problems. I must truly admit I do not know how well I will face up to things. I hope it works out so that I am proven wrong in all my thoughts. But that hope is slim.”

When I took up the journal again on January 31,1962, the subject was the same. There was still no letter from Barbara. She had written once in mid-December, then nothing after that. And there was no news, of any sort, from which I could draw even the slightest hope of release.

I closed the entry: “I am a nervous wreck because of this, and as hard as I try, I cannot keep from thinking about it. I need help badly! But who can help ?”

Those were the last words I wrote in the journal.

At about 7:30 on the evening of Wednesday, February 7,1962, Zigurd and I were just returning from our evening trip to the toilet when we noticed the KGB colonel from Vladimir and the interpreter walking down the corridor ahead of us. They stopped outside our cell. It was an odd time for a visit, enough in itself to alert us that something out of the ordinary had happened.

Following us inside our cell, the colonel asked me, “How would you like to go to Moscow tomorrow morning?”

“Fine,” I replied, still unsure.

“Without guards,” he added.

Then I knew. But I couldn’t be positive. My hopes had been aroused so often, only to have them wither and die, that I couldn’t face the prospect of another disappointment. “Why?” I asked. “What’s happening?” But he would tell me nothing more.

Zigurd was exuberant. It could mean only one thing. Hadn’t he told me from the start that I wouldn’t have to serve the full ten years?

Not until the guard brought in two suitcases and informed me I should spend the evening packing did I really believe it.

I was going home!

Yet my excitement was saddened by the realization that Zigurd was not, that he still had eight of his fifteen years to serve, with his earliest chance of parole nearly three years away. But he was as happy as if it had been his own release.

Having few possessions, it took me only a short time to pack. I made a large parcel of the three carpets, the only product of my imprisonment, except for memories. In between the carpets I slipped the diary and journal, hoping the Russians would overlook them. Anything I felt he could use, such as books, pipes, tobacco, I gave to Zigurd.

We couldn’t sleep, but talked all night. We promised to write, to visit each other someday, although, I’m sure, we both realized the likelihood was remote. We exchanged home addresses and photographs. Across the back of a photo of himself taken some years earlier in Germany he wrote, “To my friend and cellmate 9-9-60, 8-2-62. Zigurd Kruminsh.”

September 9, 1960—February 8, 1962. I had been in Vladimir for seventeen months.

Shortly after six A.M. the guard brought the items which had been held for me, including my wedding ring. I hadn’t been allowed to wear it in either prison.

With the arrival of my escorts, we said our good-byes. Because it was not easy, we made them brief. I felt as if I was leaving a part of myself behind. And in a sense I was, for Zigurd was now speaking with a pronounced Virginia accent.

Walking across the courtyard to the gate, I looked at the window of cell number 31.

Contrary to rules, Zigurd was standing on the cabinet, looking down at me from the window at the top.

Emerging from the other side of the administration building, I climbed into an automobile with the colonel, the interpreter, and a driver, and we rode away from Vladimir Prison. I didn’t look back.

The colonel kept his promise. When we reached the railroad station and boarded the train, there were no guards. We had the whole compartment to ourselves, until, at one of the many stops, two peasant women got on, sitting toward the end of the car. But they paid no attention to me, and, I must admit, I was little interested in them, spending most of my time staring out the window at all the open space. It was a beautiful day, there was still snow everywhere, and finally, trees. Trees!

But it was the slowest train I had ever ridden. I thought perhaps it was my imagination, until the interpreter explained that winter thaws were causing the ground to shift, and we had to travel slowly for safety’s sake.

I tried to question the colonel, but apparently he was under orders to tell me as little as possible. Thus far, no one had actually stated that I was to be released. But I would permit no other thoughts to enter my mind.

It was late afternoon when we reached Moscow. A car was waiting at the station. I had guessed I would be driven directly to the American Embassy and turned over to officials there, but I guessed wrong. Instead the car followed a familiar route, one I had not been anxious to retrace.

Once again I drove through the gates of Lubyanka Prison.

I was taken to my old cellblock, to a cell two doors from the one I had formerly occupied. I was now able to confirm one of my suspicions: there were beds softer than the torture rack they had originally given me. This one had two mattresses.

Only then did the colonel inform me that we were going to East Germany the following morning.

I had about one hundred dollars in my prison account, he said. They couldn’t give it to me in dollars, only rubles, and I couldn’t spend them outside the USSR, so what did I want to do with them? I asked if the money could be credited to Zigurd’s account; I was told no, and so I asked if I could spend it on souvenirs to take home. I also wanted to obtain a phonograph record. When at Vladimir I had heard a girl singer on Radio Moscow. She had one of the most beautiful voices I had ever heard, and I had developed something of a crush on her. Phonetically her name sounded like Savancova. The record I liked most was her version of Grieg’s Solveig’s Song . They promised to try to get it.

The mention of my being unable to spend rubles outside the USSR was the closest anyone had come to saying I was to be freed.

Following a bath, a luxury, since I wasn’t “due” for one for another five days, the colonel explained we had arrived too late for supper. However, since I had money, they could send out for food. Was there something I especially wanted?

“Meat,” I replied, “and a martini.”