Now, one way of the other, my future could very well depend on the outcome of the balloting.
I vowed that if —when—I returned to the United States, never again would I miss an opportunity to cast my vote.
Something had been on my mind since long before the trial. Now, awaiting the election results and knowing that whichever way the balloting went that the Eisenhower years were coming to an end, I gave it more thought.
I asked myself why, with the Summit so close, had Eisenhower approved my flight?
I tried to assemble the pieces of the puzzle, those few I possessed. I knew there had been no overflights for months and then suddenly two in close succession. The pilots believed the resumption of the flights was due at least in part to the agency’s fear that Russia was now close to solving her missile-guidance problem. I knew that my particular flight had been authorized on the highest level because my take-off had been delayed until White House approval had been received.
I also knew the intelligence objectives of both flights were important—but important enough to take this risk at this time?
One possible explanation occurred to me. At first it seemed farfetched; yet, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.
Could Eisenhower have wanted Khrushchev to know of the flights?
We knew that the Russians had radar-tracked most if not all of the overflights, so the chances were that these last two U-2 flights would not have gone undetected. Might Eisenhower or his advisers have felt it to be to our advantage, psychologically, to have Khrushchev know, to have this very much on his mind when he arrived in Paris for the talks?
Had the flight gone off as planned, it would not have been mentioned. The two men sitting across the table from each other: Eisenhower smug in the knowledge that we could overfly Russia at will, and Khrushchev not able to do a thing about it; Khrushchev inwardly raging but unable to protest, because to do so would be to admit that his country did not have missiles capable of reaching the planes.
What a perfect setting for reopening discussions of Eisenhower’s Open Skies Plan!
In agreeing to what was already the status quo, Khrushchev would have had far more to gain than lose. And Eisenhower would climax his last year in office with a spectacular accomplishment, a major step toward disarmament.
It was all speculation. And in a sense moot, because the flight had not gone off as scheduled. Yet it interested me. This was one of a number of puzzles I hoped to solve on my return to the United States.
There was no U.S. election news on the eighth. On the ninth Moscow Radio said the results were uncertain: Kennedy was ahead, but the count was still not final.
Diary, November 10: “Very glad to hear that Kennedy will be the new President of the U.S. Hope he goes all out for peace.”
Now all I could do was what I had been doing: wait and see.
Diary, November 11: “Nothing much happened today. Managed to miss studying Russian. Kept my cellmate talking, and he forgot.”
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.