The interpreter warned us that our hour was nearly up.
I had a message for the press, I told them. Grinev’s denunciation of the United States had come as a shock to me. I had not known what arguments he would use, until hearing them in court. I repudiated them, and him, entirely. As for his statement that I might remain in the Soviet Union, I would leave Russia, and gladly, the minute they let me do so. I was an American, and proud to be one.
The hour was up. The guards led me away.
That evening the guards brought me the New Testament and the diary. The latter was a five-year diary. I would need two of these, I realized, before my sentence was completed.
My first entry was brief, purposely. I was afraid that once starting to write, I would release a well-spring of pent-up emotions.
August 19, 1960: “Last day of trial. 10 yr. sentence. Saw my wife and parents for one hour.”
The nineteenth was a Friday. Saturday and Sunday were very hard. Everything went on as usual in the prison, yet, knowing I had ten years to look forward to, everything was subtly, immutably changed.
Looking back, I could see I had brainwashed myself into anticipating the death sentence. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, an escape device. Perhaps unconsciously I had realized all along that for me the worst possible punishment would be a long imprisonment.
On Monday, August 22,1 was taken to the Supreme Court Building in central Moscow for my last meeting with my mother, father, and sister, during which my father several times referred cryptically to “other efforts” being made to secure my release.
I had no idea what they were. But he obviously did not wish to elaborate, with my jailers present.
He was extremely angry with Grinev. McAfee had sent him, weeks ago, a detailed brief with suggestions for my defense. He had given no indication of having read it.
I said that I was not exactly happy with his “defense” myself, that Grinev had made it through the trial with a perfect score—not a single objection, not one statement which contradicted the prosecution.
As my father had already told the press, he was convinced that the Russians wouldn’t make me serve my full sentence. If for no other reason, they wouldn’t want the expense of feeding me.
I hoped he was right, but was afraid it wouldn’t be quite that simple.
It was a difficult parting: my parents leaving their only son in this hostile land; I was not sure, considering their age and health, whether I would see either of them again.
After they left, Barbara and her mother came in. They brought along a United States Embassy “News Bulletin,” with quotations from President Eisenhower’s last press conference. The President regretted “the severity of the sentence,” noted that the State Department was still following the case closely and “they do not intend to drop it,” and added that there was no question of my being tried on my return to the United States. As far as the government was concerned, I had acted in accordance with the instructions given me and would receive my full salary while imprisoned.
The Moscow embassy personnel had been very helpful, Barbara said. Although they had failed in all their attempts to see me, they had collected over fifty paperback books for me from their private libraries. And they would handle arrangements for my monthly package.
Under Soviet law, each prisoner could receive one seventeenpound package from home each month. On receiving the money and being informed what I needed, the Embassy would purchase the items and see that I received them. Although not sure what was and wasn’t permitted, we made up a list of items I most wanted: American cigarettes, shaving gear, instant coffee, sugar, canned milk (to go over the boiled oats sometimes served for breakfast), news magazines, books, and more books. Asking the interpreter what I would need in the way of clothes—he suggested heavy shoes, work clothes, a warm topcoat, winter underwear, a fur cap with earflaps—Barbara promised to obtain them before leaving Moscow. She intended to stay until Friday, hoping to see Khrushchev on his return.
Thoughtfully, Barbara’s mother then left, so we could be alone. As alone as you can be with an interpreter and two guards.
Through the use of guarded phrases, I was able to piece together a number of things. Arrangements had been made by the “U.S. government,” by which I assumed she meant the agency, for her to receive five hundred dollars from my pay each month, the balance to be banked pending my return. My “employers” had also paid her way to Russia and arranged for two lawyers, members of the Virginia Bar Association, to accompany her. Their major task, I gathered from her remarks, was to interview me for the agency, but they had been refused permission to see me.
My father has arranged with Life to pay his and mother’s expenses. And this, apparently, was what had caused the schism between my wife and my parents. The agency had offered to pay their fares also, but my father had refused, wanting to remain a free agent. Barbara, quite bitterly, declared that she wasn’t. She couldn’t speak to the press without permission. Everywhere she went, she was followed.
Time was up, the interpreter said.
After Barbara had been escorted out, the interpreter returned and said, “There’s an American here who would like to see you.”
Though I had dreamed for months of just such words, actually hearing them startled me.
“An American? Who?”
I thought perhaps it was someone from the embassy.
“An American tourist who has been given permission to visit you. Do you wish to see him?”
“Of course.”
While I was waiting, another thought occurred to me. Maybe the agency had managed to get someone in.
Although his clothing obviously marked him as an American, the man wasn’t familiar. Middle-aged, florid faced, he seemed very nervous. Pumping my hand, he told me his name and said, “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
I had to admit I hadn’t.
This seemed to deflate him somewhat; reaching inside his wallet, he extracted a sheaf of clippings. “These are all about me,” he said, “when I was a candidate for the Presidency of the United States, in 1956.”
Looking at the clippings, I saw that he had run as the candidate of the Progressive party. But the name, Vincent Hallinan, still meant nothing to me.
He was an attorney, he explained, and had attended the trial as a guest of the Soviet government. The trial, in his opinion, was absolutely fair—
I was more than tempted to interject a dissenting opinion, but he gave me no chance.
—and my sentence very lenient. Now, as for ways of spending my time, I should start by learning the language.
I agreed with that. In fact, this had been one of my intentions, although I was put off a bit by having a stranger tell me what to do.
Then I should spend my time studying the Communist form of government. It was a remarkable system. If I approached it with an open mind, realizing that the American system had grave flaws, I would learn a great deal.
Pausing only to light one cigarette after another, he gave me no time to reply, but after listening to him for a few minutes I had no inclination to do so.
If the Soviet Union had a Chamber of Commerce, I decided, Mr. Hallinan could easily win its presidency.
When he finished his spiel, he pumped my hand again and asked if there were any messages he could take to the United States for me.
There were a number of things I was anxious to tell the CIA. But I didn’t think Mr. Hallinan was the man to serve as courier. Thanking him, I declined his offer.