I went up. And hastened her date’s departure. In the argument that followed, I noticed that Barbara was trying to conceal a letter sticking out of her purse. Aware that I’d noticed it, she grabbed it and ran into another room, locking the door behind her. I kicked down the door and took the letter from her. It was from an Air Force officer in Athens, informing her he had decided to divorce his wife, and could she arrange to divorce me they could be married.
By the time I had finished reading it, the Air Police arrived and placed me under arrest. When Barbara attempted to retrieve the letter, they confiscated it. Taken before the base authorities, we had no choice but to explain the whole mess. After some remarks on my temper, it was suggested that if we wished to resume our argument we do so off base, and I was released. Although Barbara demanded that they return the letter to her, it was handed to me.
Tearfully Barbara explained that the letter was as much a surprise to her as to me. Though she had had dinner with the man on several occasions, and had provided a listening ear for his marital problems, he had given no indication of his real feelings for her.
I wanted very much to believe Barbara.
Yet, on my return to Adana, I began to have misgivings. In all fairness to her, she could be telling the truth. Unable to live with such uncertainty, at the first opportunity I flew to Athens. Knowing some of the places Barbara had frequented, I asked questions. And received answers, more than I had anticipated, and not at all those I wanted to hear.
In August, 1957, I took Barbara back to the United States, with the idea of obtaining a divorce.
It is difficult to explain, especially to oneself, why one tries to save a marriage when it has obviously gone bad. In our case, although there were no children, there were several complicating factors. One was an earlier divorce in my family, which had determined me never to go through anything similar. Another was my feeling that I was more than a little responsible for the situation, leaving Barbara alone so often. From almost the start of our marriage there had been a series of separations, necessitated at first by Air Force assignments, later by my work for the agency. When the agency decided to extend the overflight program, and, as incentive for the pilots to renew their contracts, permitted families to be brought to Adana, I decided that if we were together and not separated maybe we could salvage our marriage.
Maybe. I was not at all sure. It was not a matter of forgetting. I knew I could never do that. But, with a sincere effort on Barbara’s part, and with the separations behind us, perhaps we could make a fresh start, a new beginning. It wouldn’t be easy, I knew.
I had never confronted her with what I had learned in Athens. Perhaps that had been a mistake. If so, it was not the only one. Another was underestimating the extent of the problem, believing it could be so simply solved. At Adana there had been more incidents—nothing definite enough to precipitate a break, only strong suspicions, but enough of these to leave the marriage very shaky, even if it hadn’t been for the increasing problem of her drinking.
This was the situation when I took off from Peshawar, Pakistan, on May 1, 1960.
It was time I grew up and faced the truth I’d avoided much too long. I had hoped that with her hospitalization everything would change. But obviously nothing had. With her release she had begun drinking again, and stopped writing.
There was only one alternative now. To end it, for the sake of both of us. But in my present situation there was no way to do that. Again my utter helplessness overwhelmed me. It was compounded by still another realization. I had clung to the marriage for so long, hoping to save it, when all evidence indicated it was beyond saving. I’d done the same thing with each and every prospect of early release, when all evidence indicated there was little hope.
Had I deceived myself about being released too?
January 1, 1962. Although I dutifully wrote in my journal that I was hopeful the new year would see me free I saw little likelihood of that happening. Tensions were building over the Berlin question. In the past I had foolishly drawn hope from all sorts of unlikely circumstances, but I was not now optimistic enough to believe that I had a chance if my release depended on the settlement of the Berlin issue.
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.
Fifteen
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.