And—of prime importance—I could deny knowing how many flights there had been before May 1, the dates on which they had taken place, and what their target objectives were.
Some of the most valuable information I possessed concerned these earlier flights. If the Russians learned it, a great deal of what we had accomplished through the U-2 program could be negated. For the value of intelligence lies not only in knowing what the enemy is doing; often of equal—and sometimes even greater—importance is their not knowing that you know.
If the Russians thought we had made ten overflights, and we had actually made more, we possessed an advantage.
If they thought we had made ten, and we had actually made fewer, the advantage was still ours.
The same was true if the number were a hundred or a thousand.
It was possible they had radar-tracked all of the overflights. But I couldn’t risk making that assumption.
Repeating “I don’t know” so often probably made me seem stupid, uncurious, unobserving.
For once I was quite happy to give that impression.
Yet one lie, exposed, could bring down the while structure.
Even worse was the realization that, once it was discovered, they might not even bother to confront me with it.
That the walk might not be to the interrogation room but to some soundproof courtyard.
No, it was not a game.
Four
With the crossing off of May 7, I finished my first week in Lubyanka Prison. By now the days had developed into a routine, some of the strangeness had worn off, and I began to observe things missed earlier.
If the wind was right, I could hear the Kremlin clock strike six A.M.. This was also the time the night light went off, the day light came on, and I was to get up.
Hot tea was followed by a trip to the toilet, then breakfast.
Several times I tried to eat. I would pick up the food, taste it, and put it down. I did drink the tea, however—hot in the morning, cold the rest of the day.
As utensils I was given a fork and spoon but, for obvious reasons, no knife.
After breakfast a doctor or nurse would arrive. Did I realize I had eaten nothing for a whole week? Yes. Was it because I didn’t like the food? No, I just had no appetite. This quite obviously worried my captors. They were anxious that I not ruin my health.
At least not yet.
Without access to a scale I couldn’t tell how much weight I had lost, but it was a good amount, since I had to knot my pants at the waist to keep them up. I was far more worried about my heart. It would beat irregularly, all at once stop, then a big beat, and back into sequence again.
It was ironic. I was convinced that sooner or later they were going to shoot me. At the same time, I was worried about an irregular heartbeat, which might take me off flying status.
After the doctors left I would be allowed to shave. There was an electrical outlet outside the cell. The guard would plug in the electric razor, hand it to me, then stand in the door watching until I was through. Without a mirror I had to learn to do it through feel.
Then I would be escorted to the morning interrogation.
I never saw another prisoner. Elaborate precautions had been taken to ensure that there were no chance encounters. The elevator cage was just one such precaution. In each of the halls, in both the prison and the administration building, was a series of three lights—white, green, red. The white light was strictly for illumination, since it was on all the time. The green light indicated the passageway was clear. When the red light was on, however, it meant another prisoner was being escorted down the hall. Whenever this happened, I was quickly placed in an empty cell until after they had passed.
Occasionally, en route or returning, I’d pass a cell whose door was open, indicating its occupant had been taken out. Looking inside, I could see clothing, the kettle on the table, books on the shelves. For some reason all the beds looked more comfortable than mine.
Morning interrogation always began the same way. I was asked to initial each page of the interrogation record of the previous day.
But they’re in Russian, I argued, and I can’t read Russian.
That does not matter. It is required.
Finally, seeing my argument was without effect, I gave in, at the same time pointing out that with no knowledge of the language it was a ridiculous, meaningless procedure, certifying nothing.
That might be. But it was required.
They were incredibly bureaucratic. Many things were done not because of necessity but because these were the rules. And they were not about to question them. Even if they made no sense.
After the first several days there had been a welcome addition to the routine. Following lunch I would be taken up onto the roof for about fifteen minutes of exercise.
The roof, which I estimated was on about the twelfth floor of the prison, five stories above my cell, was divided into tiny courtyards about fifteen by twenty feet each. High walls separated them.
Atop the walls a lone guard patrolled with a submachine gun.
The adjacent administration building was three or four stories taller than the prison. From the antennae on the roof, I guessed the upper floors to be the KGB’s communication center. Sometimes I’d see people standing in the windows looking out.
One thing struck me as unusual. Along the side of the building, workers were scraping paint off the storm gutters. Although it was a high building and the work looked very dangerous, all were women.
It reminded me a little of the old WPA. No one seemed in any great hurry to get the job done—a typical government project.
Up here, where I could see the open sky, my thoughts were often on escape. Yet the more I thought about it, the more hopeless it seemed. The walls were too high to climb. The guard and his submachine gun remained well out of reach.
Occasionally, although talking was forbidden, the guard would speak to someone in one of the other courtyards. The replies were always in Russian, never English. Were there any other Americans here? I wondered. And if there were, how could I get a message to them? I’d already ruled out one possibility—leaving a note. The guard would spot it.
There were two things in my courtyard that especially interested me.
The walls were covered with tin. One rusty piece was loose. Each time I came up, I checked to make sure it was still there. If things got really bad, I intended to wait until the guard was looking the other way, then break it off. Since I was searched after each walk, getting it to my cell would be a problem. I had noticed, however, that during the searches the guards were frequently lax, not bothering to make me take off my shoes.
I’d have to wait until the same day I intended to use it because my cell was searched also. One morning I’d arranged my paper and pencil in such a way as to tell if they had been moved during my absence. They had. Apparently they were interested in learning what I was writing, and must have been disappointed to find only doodling and a calendar.
I’d asked for permission to write letters. It had been denied.
The other thing in my walk area which interested me greatly was my “garden.” The prison was an old building. Over the years thousands of feet had paced these courtyards, wearing down the cement, leaving dirt in the cracks between the slabs. Carried by the wind, seeds had lodged in the crevices and, now that it was spring, had sprouted and begun to grow into weeds. After a rain the water would accumulate in little puddles. The problem was getting it to my garden. Then I devised a technique. I’d stand in the puddles until the soles of my shoes were wet, then flip the water on the weeds as I walked by.