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.”
Laughing, the colonel said they probably couldn’t manage the martini. However, when the meal arrived—two breaded veal cutlets, the most meat I had been given by the Russians—there was a tin cup with it, half full of brandy. It was good and potent, and having had nothing to drink for twenty-one months, I slept well that night.
Early the next morning, Friday, February 9, the three of us were driven to the airport. En route the interpreter informed me they had purchased souvenirs, but had been unable to find the phonograph record I wanted, which surprised me, since the singer was apparently one of the most popular in the Soviet Union. At the airport a plane was waiting, the only other occupants the two pilots. I’d spent so much time dreaming about escape that the thought pattern was hard to break; I wasn’t checked out on this type of aircraft, but I was sure I could manage it in about one minute, after disposing of the two pilots. Later, when one of them came back and made conversation through the interpreter, I was thankful he hadn’t been able to read my thoughts.
We were going in the right direction—west.
Everything was precisely arranged. When we landed in East Germany, a car was waiting. Without any delays we were driven directly into East Berlin. February in Germany is bleak. There was no snow, the leaves were gone from the trees, the grass was dead. Our destination was a “safe” house, but unlike the agency, they made no attempt to make their residences inconspicuous. There were guards all around the outside, patrolling with submachine guns. Every time I looked out a window I could see one. The house, apparently once a private home, was luxuriously fitted. I guessed that it was used for top Russian Communist-party functionaries on their visits to East Berlin. That night supper was served with crystal and silver.
Earlier the colonel had asked me if there was anything I especially wanted. I observed that I’d like a little more of the brandy. When we sat down at the table, he produced a bottle that either was Hennessey Four Star or an exact imitation. I began to sip my drink, but he said that since I was with Russians I should drink the way they did, and, following his example, I swallowed the whole drink in one gulp. The colonel corked the bottle, saying that we would save the remainder for the next morning.
“If everything goes well,” he said through the interpreter, “you will be released tomorrow morning and will have a reason to celebrate.”
It was now official, “if everything goes well.” Curious, I asked why I was being released at this time. He replied that it was a gesture of goodwill. “We wish to show the world how humane the Soviets can be.” I suspected there was more to it, but said nothing.
The interpreter and I had beds in a room on the second floor. Following dinner, we played several games of chess. I hadn’t realized how much Zigurd had taught me. I beat him several times.
There was no light in the room. But the door was left open, and there was a light in the hall. There was a guard downstairs, in addition to those outside. The bed was comfortable, but I was so tense that I slept little, dozing off only a few times. So much depended on the next morning. Although the situation looked good, far better than ever before, I kept reminding myself that anything could happen.
Saturday, February 10, 1962. Up very early, we had the brandy with breakfast. The car arrived shortly after five A.M., and a long drive followed. I noticed that we seemed to be leaving the city and returning to the country. That worried me. I was afraid we were headed back to the airport. I wanted to stay as close to West Berlin as possible. Eventually, however, we drove into what I later learned was the Potsdam section, and after circling one block several times, stopped.