Barbara and her brother, the Air Force chaplain, arrived shortly afterward. I had anticipated and feared this moment. At Vladimir, during the last long period when Barbara hadn’t written, I had reached a decision: to obtain a divorce upon my return to the United States. It was as firm as any decision could be, yet I knew that seeing her again, in entirely different circumstances, my resolve might be shaken.
She had changed most of all. Bloated, her face puffy, her eyes heavily lidded, at least thirty pounds overweight, she was almost unrecognizable. Despite thick makeup, it was apparent her dissipation had taken a terrible toll.
I had loved Barbara, and, at times, I had hated her too. Now both emotions were gone. All I felt was pity, and all I wanted was to help her, if she would let me. I had no illusions. Our marriage was dead. It had died while I was in Vladimir Prison. Only the form remained.
We talked a long time that night. She was vague as to the details of her life while I had been in prison, her only explanation for the absence of letters that there had been nothing to write about. Her main complaint was that she had not been warned that I was going to be released. I wondered why she felt a warning necessary, and started to ask, but then stopped myself. In that way lay more pain. And I’d had more than enough of that. The questions, and the answers, could wait until both of us were strong enough for them.
I did learn a few things, one especially surprising. Upon return to the United States, following my trial, she had been interrogated by the CIA. Their first question: “Mrs. Powers, are you sure the man you saw in Moscow was your husband?”
Although assuring them he was, she still sensed their skepticism.
I could see them covering all possibilities. But this, as far as I was concerned, was nothing more than wishful thinking on their part.
It was not to be the last time I was to encounter evidence of this reluctance to accept obvious facts.
I awoke once during the night, panicked by the blackness. Then I remembered where I was and gratefully slipped back into sleep. With this, as with other things, I had anticipated a long adjustment, but after that, sleeping without a light never bothered me again.
It was like a series of aftershocks following a major earthquake. All at once I realized: I have all kinds of room! I can go outside whenever I want to! I’m not limited to a walk area of twenty by twenty-five feet!
Perhaps a taste of freedom whets the appetite, making you want more.
Barbara was permitted to stay at the farm, but her brother left the same day he arrived. The second morning my parents returned to The Pound. Soon after they left, Murphy and I took a walk around the yard in front of the house. Ashford Farms was a large estate, at least sixty acres, surrounded by a high wire fence guarded by German shepherds and, I presumed, more than a few agency employees. Like the house itself—a two-story, beautifully furnished Georgian structure—the estate was roomy but secure. Aside from my family, everyone I came in contact with was agency. Even the meals were cooked by one of the agency men.
“Murph,” I said, as we tramped through the snow, “I get the impression that I’m almost a prisoner here. Tell me something. If I wanted to leave right now—just pack my bag and walk out— could I do it?”
After a moment of quiet thought, he replied, “I don’t think so.”
I didn’t know how they could stop me. But at that time I wasn’t particularly anxious to find out. Extremely nervous, still trying to adjust to my changed situation, I wasn’t in any hurry to face the world, especially the press, not quite yet. I became even less so after reading American newspapers and watching TV for the first time in twenty-one months. The exchange dominated the news. Much of what was said stunned me.
While imprisoned I had been protected by my isolation and my correspondents. I had seen no American newspapers, and in the letters I received there was no hint of censure. More than that, I had often drawn strength from the knowledge that the American people were behind me, that they understood what I was going through.
The criticism hit me with a sledgehammer blow.
“A HERO OR A MAN WHO FAILED HIS MISSION?” read the headline on the New York Sunday Herald Tribune.
The American people demanded answers to certain questions, the paper said. Among them:
“Why, knowing that neither he nor the U-2 should fall into unfriendly hands, didn’t he blow himself up, and the plane?
“Why didn’t Powers use the poison needle he had on hand? Or the pistol he had with him?”
Apparently a great many people were under the impression that I had been under orders to kill myself, come what may. But, as I had attempted to make clear in the trial, I had no such orders. I was to use the destruct device—which wouldn’t have destroyed the plane, only a portion of the equipment—if possible. Under the circumstances, it had not been possible. I could understand why, not having been in the cockpit with me, some people might doubt my story. But when it came to the poison needle, there shouldn’t have been any doubt. Since carrying it was optional, suicide was obviously optional too.
Now I understood what was behind the Hutchins remark in Time about Nathan Hale and me.
It bothered me that this criticism was apparently long-standing, and that the CIA—although it would have been very easy to do so, without in any way jeopardizing security—had made no attempt to set the record straight by stating exactly what my instructions were. Instead they had let this misapprehension, damning as it was, continue undisputed.
Much was made of the fact that Abel had not testified during his trial, while I had. But no one pointed out that our law gave Abel the right to remain silent, while under Soviet law I had been denied that luxury, the refusal to testify in itself being considered incriminating.
Five words from my trial testimony had been emphasized almost to the exclusion of all others: “deeply repentant and profoundly sorry.” At the time, I had been sure the American people would understand that this was the only defense I had. But obviously they hadn’t. Those words were emphasized throughout all accounts of the trial.
The criticism went far beyond that, however. Comparisons were made between my conduct and Abel’s following capture, the implication being that while Abel had revealed nothing about his mission, I had “spilled my guts,” “told everything.”
I knew better. The other pilots knew better. As did the agency, the President, the Secretary of State, and, I presumed, quite a few others. I could see why this particular misapprehension hadn’t been corrected. To do so, while I was still in prison, would have placed me in additional jeopardy. Also it would have made the Russians reconsider everything I had told them, and quite possibly give them clues to what I hadn’t told. Although obviously disturbed by the implication that I was some kind of traitor, I felt sure that now I was no longer in Russian hands, the truth would out.
Yet some of the information I had withheld was so sensitive as to make me wonder if it could ever be made public. And, thinking about this, I became vaguely uneasy.
One story, featured in all the papers and on TV, bothered me more than any other. “U.S. ‘UNWISE’ IN SPY SWAP,” read the headlines. “RUSSIANS GOT BEST OF DEAL, SAYS LAWYER.”
William F. Tompkins, a former assistant U.S. attorney general, and the prosecutor of Abel, was quoted as saying: “It’s like trading Mickey Mantle for an average ballplayer. We gave them an extremely valuable man and got back an airplane driver.”
That made me angry. Not because I put a high value on myself, but because it ignored the fact that the United States had gained the release of two Americans by freeing one Russian. (Actually, the count rose to three. Later, Marvin Makinen, a University of Pennsylvania student serving an eight-year sentence for espionage in a Soviet prison in Kiev, was released as a result of negotiations begun by Donovan.) To my mind, this was the same kind of irresponsible criticism that followed President Kennedy’s statement that he was “grateful” for the release of the two RB-47 pilots.