“Would you like to take a tour of our capital city?” he asked.
“Yes, I’d like that very much,” I replied. I didn’t add that anything would be preferable to the questioning, and, although I was not greatly hopeful, that this might provide an opportunity for escape.
“It might be arranged,” he said cryptically.
Something had changed. It was hard to define, but for some reason there had been a subtle shift in atmosphere. Everyone became a little friendlier. Realizing that my cigarettes had been confiscated, one of the men gave me a package. At first I thought this was a trick to throw me off guard, that, once I had relaxed, they would throw an unexpected question at me. But there were no more questions. The interrogation was over for the night, the interpreter told me.
I was taken back down the hall and locked into a tiny room. It had no windows, the only furniture a wooden bench built into the wall. Presuming this to be my cell, I lay down and tried to sleep. But a few minutes later a doctor and two guards entered. Again the doctor was a woman. Tall, pleasant-faced, middle-aged, she wore a white smock, stethoscope sticking out of her pocket.
Indicating I was to remove my shirt, she listened to my heart, still beating very rapidly, took my pulse, examined my mouth and throat, checked my breathing, then motioned for me to drop my pants. Embarrassed, I hesitated. One of the guards gruffly barked an order; I complied. She gave me a fairly thorough examination and then indicated I was to dress.
After they left I tried again to sleep, but the guards returned, taking me down another hall into a room obviously a doctor’s office. There was an examining table, dentist’s chair, heat and solar lamps, medicine cabinet, and table with all the standard paraphenalia—cotton swabs, bandages, antiseptic, distilled water—but with one surprising addition: a huge jar of leeches.
I hadn’t realized that in this day and age they were still used.
Another doctor, also female, motioned for me again to take down my pants, as she prepared an injection. My first concern was that the shot was penicillin, to which I was allergic. She seemed to recognize the word and shook her head negatively. My second concern, which I didn’t voice, was that it might be truth serum or some sort of drug.
Following the injection, I was taken to a cell about eight feet wide and fifteen feet long. The door appeared to be solid oak, reinforced by plate steel. After another search, the guard went out, slamming the door and locking it.
I was alone. But still under surveillance. There was a small peephole in the door, at eye level, while a light bulb over the door illuminated the room as brightly as if it were day.
Exhausted, my only interest was the bed. It was simple, consisting of a metal frame with crisscrossed iron stripes, each about two inches wide, in place of springs. There were two Army-type blankets and a mattress, the latter very lumpy and thin, in places no thicker than two layers of cloth. It seemed designed to be as uncomfortable as possible, and was.
Though extremely tired, I slept only fitfully. I kept waking, looking around the room, as if to assure myself that it was only a bad dream. But the harsh glare, the stark walls, the locked door, were always there. It was all too real.
Three
The opening of my cell door awoke me. I was surprised to see a little old lady come in. Greeting me in Russian, she set a large tin tea kettle, a cup, and a box of sugar cubes on the table. The guards stood in the doorway, watching.
All appeared curious. I could sense no hostility.
After they left, I poured out some of the liquid, tasted it, found it was hot tea. Although worried about being drugged, my mouth and throat were parched.
As I dressed I realized I felt no ill effects from the shot, which apparently had been for sleep, or perhaps a general immunization given all new prisoners.
The night before, I had been too tired to examine my cell.
The floor was concrete, painted a rusty red, the color extending halfway up the wall. The balance was gray, the ceiling off-white.
At the end opposite the door was a single window. Of opaque glass, reinforced with wire, it opened inward about twenty degrees at the top, providing the only ventilation. Looking at the window up close, I saw it was double. Behind the first pane was a dead-air space of perhaps six inches, probably to retain heat during the winter, then another identical pane. Through it I could see the outline of bars.
Standing in just the right position, I could see out the gap at the top. But my view was limited to a small rectangle including two windows plus a piece of the wall of the building across the courtyard.
As I faced the window, with my back to the door, my bed was on the left. On the right, in the corner nearest the window, was a small table and chair. Along the right wall was a narrow shelf and, below that, pegs on which to hang clothing. There was a light bulb in the ceiling, of the same wattage as the night light over the door.
It was on now, the night light off.
These comprised the furnishings.
Although I could find nothing to indicate it, I assumed the cell was bugged. But it would do little good since I was alone and, so far as I knew, didn’t talk in my sleep.
The guards returned and took me down the hall to the toilet.
There were two tiers in the cellblock, each with sixteen cells, eight on one side, eight on the other. My cell was on the bottom level, the fourth cell on the right as you entered through the doors that separated the cellblock from the rest of the prison. The guards’ desk was in the center of the hall, almost opposite my cell door.
There were two guards on duty. Each wore a pistol. Since they were holstered, I couldn’t see what type.
The floor was carpeted, explaining why I could occasionally hear voices from inside my cell but no footsteps.
The toilet was located under the stairway leading to the upper tier, at the end of the hall opposite the entrance.
Handing me a package, the guards locked me in. Although alone, privacy was absent here too. Like the cell door, this one also had a peephole.
The package contained a small towel, a soap dish and soap, toothbrush and powder, a comb, and some coarse toilet paper.
The toilet itself was of the European, that is, stool, type. There were three wash basins, with very cold and extremely hot water.
The soap had a sweet strawberry smell. I looked for a mirror, to comb my hair, but there was none. Nor had there been one in my new abode.
On being returned to my cell, I noticed a cover over the outside of the peephole. The guards could look in whenever they chose; I couldn’t look out.
Shortly afterward the elderly lady returned with breakfast—a slice of black bread, a boiled egg, and a tiny cube of meat. Having no appetite, I didn’t touch it.
Then the guards took me back to the interrogation room.
Many of the same people were there. And most of the questions were exactly the same as those asked the previous night. But there was a difference. Now the questioning was frequently interrupted for conferences, which were not translated. Although unable to understand the words, I got the distinct impression they were unsure as to what they were going to do with me, and debating the various alternatives. This was later borne out when I was shown the interrogation transcripts. Only this session was missing. For the first time since my capture I began to feel a little bit of hope.
After only sporadic questioning, the interpreter told me I was to be taken for a tour of Moscow that afternoon.
Lunch consisted of potatoes and cabbage soup. I was still not hungry.