November 23: “Still no mail from the U.S. today. Prison officials (KGB) checking for me on this end.” Again potatoes for supper, but with roast meat and apples Zigurd’s parents had sent, which made all the difference.
Zigurd’s parents had a small plot of land with an orchard. In season they sent apples, onions, and garlic. Zigurd would take the garlic and put it in the meat, not for flavoring but because he had read somewhere that garlic would preserve meat. Whether it did or didn’t, I wasn’t sure. By the time we received the apples they had usually begun to rot. But what we could eat tasted marvelous. They were the only fruit we received.
In the order of their frequency of appearance, I dreamed of: desserts—banana splits, coconut-cream pie, anything made with eggs or ice cream; meat—all kinds, but hamburgers especially; and greens—I’d never known how much you could miss a salad.
November 25: “Still no letters. Mailed two today, one to Barbara and one to Mother. Russian studies going very slowly. Can’t get in the studying mood. Potatoes two times today.”
In my letter to Barbara I told her my reaction to the election: “I am glad that Kennedy won. I sincerely hope he turns out to be a good President and puts the good of the people above all other considerations.” I asked her to send newspaper clippings of any of his speeches relating to foreign policy. I was particularly anxious to obtain a copy of his forthcoming inaugural speech, as soon after he made it as possible. I wanted to see if there were any indications of his attitude toward Russia.
November 26: “Wind blowing this morning. Makes it seem very cold. One letter from Mother. Took thirty-four days to arrive. Something wrong. Started trying to read a Russian story. Constant use of dictionary and many questions.”
Boredom was the greatest problem. It was compounded when we lacked books, but even when we had them I was often restless. I could read for only an hour or two at a time. Then I’d put the book aside and work on envelopes for another hour. Then read awhile again, then pace the cell awhile. I’d do a few pushups, a little exercise, as much as space would permit, careful to make as little noise as possible, so as not to disturb Zigurd if he was reading. I’d try reading some more, or, if we both felt like it, talk.
After a while we developed a sensitivity to each other’s moods. Respecting the need for silence was important. Equally important at times, and there were many such, was realizing when the other needed cheering up.
Zigurd was involved in one activity I wasn’t. Before my arrival he had made several carpets. He’d been working on one when I arrived, but only after we had exhausted all the obvious subjects of discussion had he taken it up again. Watching him work, I asked questions, as much to make conversation as from curiosity. To me needlework had always seemed a woman’s occupation. But in Latvia, on long winter nights, with little else to do, whole families engaged in handicraft. Zigurd had turned to rugmaking only after being sent to Vladimir, however. One of the Latvian magazines his mother sent contained some patterns. Drawing vertical lines over the pages of a ruled notebook, he had made graph paper, then transferred the pattern onto it. His mother had sent burlap bags, wool and needles. And from there he had found his own way.
As the pattern of the rug began to emerge, my interest grew. At least it was something to occupy the time. Finally I asked if he had an extra sack. Yes, and we could order more wool and needles from Moscow.
Picking out a pattern, I followed his example, transposing it onto paper, then onto the sack. When the wool arrived, it was too thin to use. I had to stretch it out the length of the cell about five times, then double it and twist it to get the desired thickness.
November 29: “Started making a small carpet today. May send it to Barbara as an anniversary present.”
I was extremely depressed about Barbara. I hadn’t received a letter from her in fifty-three days.
I considered every possibility. She was sick and unable to write. Unlikely; surely her mother or someone else would have informed me. The KGB was withholding my mail, in an attempt to break me. This was also improbable: as far as I could tell, they appeared to believe that I had told them everything I knew; too, they seemed honestly concerned about my failure to receive letters. The mail was being delayed, or some letters had been lost. Both were possible.
There was one other alternative. She simply wasn’t bothering to write.
There were several reasons why this might be true. I tried not to think of them. I was not proud of how I had handled Barbara’s and my marriage, her various problems. I was spending many long hours wondering and worrying about her. What more could I have done to help? Well, it was too late to do anything now. That was certain. What I really wanted, I realized, was a connection with the outside world. I was hanging on to anything familiar to keep my sanity. I needed reassurance that things would remain the same while I was in prison. I needed a letter from her to prove that life was going on as usual on the outside, that it was a life I knew and understood, that it was one I could become part of once again when I was free.
December 1: “Started War and Peace. Very good. Cabbage for supper.”
December 7: “Talked with the KGB colonel.”
It was an odd interview. He asked me if I felt I was being treated well. I replied, much better than I had expected, although I was sure no prison was enjoyable. How did I like the movies? Not wishing to appear ungrateful for what was a most welcome break in our monotonous routine, I told him they were “interesting.” But he persisted: How did they compare with American films? Well, since he seemed to want a frank answer, I told him: They ranked about the same as some of our B-grade westerns.
My reply appeared to upset him very much. The Russians, he said, had pioneered the art of film making. They made the finest motion pictures in the world. Then why, I inquired, weren’t the prisoners shown any of them? Because, he replied, they preferred the kind of movie we were being shown.
He remained disturbed by my reaction. If they could arrange to bring one of their classic motion pictures to the prison, would I like to see it?
Of course, I replied.
After he left, Zigurd and I talked about the exchange, coming to the same conclusion. It seemed a good omen.
On December 10 there was a letter from Barbara, the first in sixty-three days. Knowing that she was well was a tremendous relief. Most of the letter, postmarked November 26, was in answer to my questions about the possibility of a prisoner exchange. The United States had only two prisoners of comparable importance: Morton Sobell, convicted of espionage in the aftermath of the Rosenberg case, and Colonel Rudolf Abel, the Soviet spy convicted of espionage in 1957, now serving a thirty-year sentence at the federal penitentiary in Atlanta. It was doubtful if Sobell, an American who continued to maintain his innocence, would be interested, while the Soviet Union had never recognized Abel as one of their own. There had been much conjecture in the press about a possible Abel-Powers swap, however, especially immediately after my capture, though there had been no mention of it of late. If I felt it might help, Barbara said she would try to see Abel at Atlanta.
I asked Zigurd what he knew about Abel. He had never heard of him. This, I learned, was true throughout the Soviet Union, where there had been no radio, TV, or press mention of either his arrest or conviction. He was a “blown” spy. Russia didn’t claim him.
In reply to her letter I wrote, “There is no need for you to attempt to see that Colonel Rudolf Abel. Just forget about that. We can only let nature take its course. I feel that the only thing which could improve my situation would be better relations between the two countries. I don’t know that this would help, but I am sure it would do no harm….