Following lunch, accompanied by the interpreter, two guards, a driver, and two officials, I rode out of the prison in the same limousine which had brought me there from the airport.
But the relief I had expected to feel once outside the gates wasn’t as great as anticipated. Surrounded as I was, my only chance for escape would be to make a run for it when we stopped, but we didn’t stop. Still it was good to have the questioning over, even if only temporarily.
For some reason, although I knew better, whenever I thought of the Russian people it was as in Tolstoy’s day, the men bearded, the women in black shawls. The streets of Moscow quickly dispelled this notion. Although the clothing was much more drab than in America, the people looked very much the same.
Our route took us past the Kremlin, Moscow University, a large stadium, an immense ski jump located right in the city. But their enthusiasm was less for these things than for the great amount of construction going on, particularly the rising apartment houses.
Although they didn’t say it, it was clear that housing was scarce.
Their pride in their capital city was obvious. They answered my questions eagerly, as if anxious for me to get the best impression possible. And they had numerous questions of their own, thankfully not about my flight, but the United States. Every aspect of life there seemed to fascinate them.
The mood was definitely easier than it had been, and, sensing it, an idea began to form in my mind. Perhaps I wouldn’t be shot after all. Perhaps they were trying to impress me, both with their city and their kindness, because they were soon going to release me.
Maybe it was fantasy, born out of the desperateness of my situation, but it occurred to me that when the Summit talks took place in Paris on May 16, Khrushchev might bring along a surprise. Taking me by the scruff of the neck, he might say, “Here, Ike, is something that belongs to you!”
I would be a great embarrassment to Eisenhower, but a tremendous publicity coup for Khrushchev. See how humane the Soviets are! You send a pilot to spy on us. Do we shoot him? No, we return him unharmed to his family.
Not a single word indicated that this would happen. But the scene was so real I began to believe it would.
Returned to my cell, I could barely contain my elation, not even minding the thorough search, which was already becoming almost routine.
As the hours passed, the fantasy began to dissipate and depression set in. With nothing to read, nothing whatsoever to do, my thoughts began to close in on me.
Although I still had no appetite and left it untouched, supper was a welcome interruption, as was a trip to the toilet.
But after that I was alone.
It was odd. Earlier, out of boredom and curiosity, I had gone to the door and tried to look out the peephole, to see an eyeball staring back at me. It shook me. Yet, even knowing I was being watched, I felt totally alone, in a way I had never felt before, bereft of family, friends.
No one knew where I was. Quite possibly they presumed me dead. There was nothing anyone could do to help me.
In my mind I had already reviewed the possibilities of escape. Even if I succeeded in getting the gun away from one guard and disposing of the other, I would still be locked in the cellblock. There were a half-dozen doors, each locked, each guarded, between me and the street. To escape I would need help, and this was when I felt the loneliness most, for there was no one, absolutely no one, who could—or would—offer that help. I couldn’t count on the other prisoners aiding an American spy.
My earliest feelings again became certainty. Although thus far I hadn’t been mistreated, there was no reason to feel this situation would continue, and every reason to expect it wouldn’t.
I had been a fool to think they would believe my lies. They were experts at this sort of thing; I wasn’t even as good as an amateur. Sooner or later they would see through the fictions in my story. Even if they didn’t, the end result would probably be the same: I would be tortured and shot, without anyone outside the Soviet Union even knowing what had happened to me.
The day light went off, the night light came on. I had no idea of the time.
Tying my handkerchief around my head like a blindfold to try to keep out at least a little of the light, I lay down, momentarily expecting the guards to come in and tell me this was not permitted.
But they didn’t. I was left undisturbed.
Though not given to dreams, I had one that night.
I was in The Pound, on my father’s farm, walking down the road toward the house with Barbara, my mother, father, and all five of my sisters, when suddenly I felt a severe pain in my leg. As it grew worse, I began falling back, unable to keep up with them. Slow down, I wanted to yell, but for some reason couldn’t. Finally the pain became so acute I had to sit down on the edge of the road and watch as my family walked away from me, seeming not to know or care that I was not with them.
I awoke. The pain was real. Because of my lying in one position too long, one of the iron strips had pressed through the thin mattress into the flesh of my leg.
When the guards and the little old lady arrived with the tea, I was already up and dressed. I had been anticipating their arrival, eagerly awaiting it, in fact.
She greated me with “Zdravstvuite”, I replied with “Good morning.” Pointing to the tea kettle, I asked what it was called, managing to make myself understood. It was a chuenek.
“Chaenek,” I repeated.
I’d had my first lesson in Russian.
I felt better than the night before. Whether intentional or not—and I felt sure everything my captors did was for a purpose—leaving me alone had a definite psychological effect. It made me anxious to talk to someone, anyone. I’d have to guard against this, I realized.
But it was, in a way, an unnecessary worry. For that morning, May 3, the interrogations began in earnest. Morning, afternoon, evening, averaging eleven hours per day, seven days per week, they were to continue without pause for nineteen days, then, after a single day’s recess, start all over again.
The indecision as to my fate I had sensed on the second day was gone now. As was the friendliness. From this point on everything was quite businesslike, with one objective, to get as much information as possible from the prisoner.
Although the cast occasionally varied, technical experts sometimes sitting in with questions of their own, five people were usually present at the interrogations:
A stenographer. I had expected them to tape-record the sessions. Instead, each word was laboriously transcribed, typed in Russian, then, later, translated and retyped in English. Not too surprisingly, in the process words and phrases changed, whole sentences got lost, meanings distorted. In some instances, intentionally. Thus, questioned about the Defense Department certificate in my wallet and asked if this meant I was an Air Force pilot, my reply, “It means that I was a civilian employee of the Department of the Air Force,” became in transcript, “It means that I served in the United States Air Force as a civilian.” A small but quite important change.
The interpreter. In his mid-thirties, only he “appeared” to know English. I was never sure about the others.
Two majors, Kusmin and Vasaelliev. Both about thirty, my age, which I suppose was more than coincidence. They handled the bulk of the questioning, working as a carefully rehearsed team. I’d read in detective stories of how American policemen would sometimes grill a suspect, utilizing a Mutt and Jeff routine. While one would be impatient and threatening, his partner would be sympathetic and kind, the prisoner naturally hating the former, but warming to and cooperating with the latter. Although I recognized the tactic, this didn’t keep me from succumbing to it, halfway. I hated Major Vasaelliev. But, quite aware that his purpose was exactly the same, I didn’t allow myself the luxury of thinking Major Kusmin meant me well.