A well-dressed man, who looked and talked like an American, but I later learned was Ivan A. Schischkin, Soviet consular representative in East Berlin, got into the car and explained the procedure. We were to drive directly to Glienicker Bridge, which spanned Lake Wannsee, separating Potsdam from West Berlin. At 8:20 A.M. we would walk onto the bridge, at the same time a group of Americans approached from the other side. About ten yards from the white line in the center, both groups would stop. Part of our group would then go forward to meet part of their group; we were to remain behind. If all was satisfactory, I would then be escorted forward and across the white line marking the border between East and West.
“However,” he added with some firmness, “if anything goes wrong on the bridge, you are to return with us. Do you understand that?”
I nodded. But I decided then that should something of that sort occur, I would run for it. Even if it meant a bullet, I wasn’t coming back.
It was a cold, dark day, the sky overcast. Even with my heavy coat and Russian fur cap, I felt chilly. We reached our end of the bridge about eight A.M. It was painted a dull green color. Under any other circumstances I probably would have found it ugly, but at that moment it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.
At about 8:15 we got out of the car. The colonel who had accompanied me from Vladimir shook my hand. It was the first such gesture since my capture. We walked onto the bridge, which was devoid of traffic. I carried my suitcases, one of the KGB men the box of souvenirs and rug parcel. I could see, too far away for any of them to be clearly recognizable, a group of men approaching from the other side.
Following the plan, both groups stopped about ten yards from the center, three men from our side, two from the other going forward to the line. I remained behind, between the colonel and another KGB man. A short distance behind us were armed guards. It would be a long run, and they would have ample time to shoot. That didn’t shake my resolve. I wasn’t going back.
After a few minutes the colonel left me and walked across the line. At the same time, one of the men from the other side also crossed and walked up to me, grinning broadly. I recognized him as a former acquaintance in the U-2 program. His was the first familiar face I had seen in a very long time.
“Gee, it’s good to see you,” I exclaimed, shaking hands.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked.
“You’re Bill.”
He looked surprised, then laughed. “No, I’m Murphy. Bill was my boss. You’ve got our names confused.” He was right.
“What was the name of your high-school football coach?” he asked.
It was my turn to look puzzled. Then I remembered the Air Force form I had filled out more than ten years ago, with questions to be used in case I had to be identified. The agency had gone to all the trouble of digging it out of my service records.
For the life of me I couldn’t think of the name. In the excitement, my mind went blank.
I did better with the names of my wife, my mother, my dog.
“You’re Francis Gary Powers,” he finally said, bringing the agency’s little guessing game to an end. He had known, of course, who I was all the time. Recrossing the white line, he relayed this information to the others: Identification positive.
At the same time, the KGB colonel also recrossed the line and rejoined me. I wondered what he had been up to.
There followed a long delay. Apparently the negotiators were awaiting some word from the other end of the bridge. As minute after minute slowly passed, the distance to the center of the span seemed to grow greater. Glancing over the side of the bridge, I spotted two men in a small boat, on the West German side of the river. Each man was carrying a shotgun, and was dressed like a duck hunter. Their hunting clothes appeared straight out of Aber-crombie & Fitch. I was certain they were agency men, and I added another possibility: diving off the bridge and swimming to the boat.
While we were waiting, Schischkin, the Soviet consular representative, remarked, “The next time you come to see us, come as a friend.”
“Next time,” I answered, “I’ll come as a tourist.”
With a smile, Schischkin replied, “I didn’t say as a tourist. I said as a friend.”
Suddenly there was a yell from the other end. The negotiators huddled briefly, then nodded to the colonel, who pushed me forward. As I walked toward the line, another man—thin, gaunt, middle-aged—approached from the other side. We crossed at the same time.
It was 8:52 A.M. on Saturday, February 10, 1962. One year, nine months, and ten days after my capture by the Russians.
I was again a free man.
Murphy ran up and slapped me on the back. “You know who that was, don’t you?” he asked, indicating the other man.
“No,” I replied.
“Abel, Colonel Rudolf Abel, the Soviet spy.”
It was the first time I realized that my release had been part of an exchange. The KGB colonel from Vladimir, I now realized, had crossed the line to identify Abel. I wondered if they were friends, and if Abel had remembered the name of his high-school football coach.
While Abel and the Soviets stood in precise military formation on their side of the border, concluding the negotiations with their counterparts, Murphy and I walked over to the edge of the bridge and began talking with the excitement of two kids.
I couldn’t help noticing the contrast. The Americans, friendly, excited, making no attempt to hide their feelings; the Russians, rigid, emotionless, totally businesslike.
Much handshaking followed, everyone talking at the same time, as the American delegation joined us. Getting into a car at the end of the bridge, I was introduced to James Donovan, Abel’s American attorney, who I now learned had arranged the trade. I also learned the reason for the delay on the bridge. They had been awaiting confirmation of the release at “Checkpoint Charlie” of Frederick L. Pryor, a Yale student arrested on espionage charges in East Germany six months earlier.
Two Americans for one Russian seemed to me an excellent bargain.
Asking about my wife and parents, I was told they were well and would be greeting me before long. They didn’t know about my release, but would be notified as soon as word was relayed to the President.
It all seemed very unreal.
We drove rapidly to Tempelhof Airport, where we were hustled onto a C-47 cargo plane. Destination Wiesbaden. Minutes after we were airborne, a flight surgeon examined me. The air corridor was bumpy, however, and his attempts to extract blood from my arm left it black and blue for weeks. The blood samples were necessary to determine whether I had been drugged. This seemed to be the first question of almost everyone to whom I talked: had I been drugged? They seemed almost disappointed when I told them I hadn’t.
All my gear had been loaded aboard the plane. My suitcases, a box, and the parcel with the rugs. Checking the latter, I was pleased to find both my diary and journal intact.
Murphy asked what was in the box. I explained about the souvenirs, mentioning that I hadn’t yet had a chance to look at them.
It occurred to someone, or maybe several people at the same time, that perhaps we had better examine the box, to make sure the Russians hadn’t planted a bomb. Although I felt this somewhat unlikely, I was as cautious as the others when it was opened. Packed inside were plaster of paris desk sets and paperweights commemorating Sputnik; wood carvings of various animals—horses, dogs, and a frog on a lily pad; a University of Moscow ashtray; dolls that came apart with ever-smaller dolls inside; small figurines, including a ballet dancer; and a very charming beautifully carved little troika. There was no bomb.