“Our visitor needs his rest,” Father Rector had told the community assembled in the main chapel. “Please respect his privacy with charity and patience. Don’t pry. Your curiosity will be satisfied eventually, but not right now.”
Brother Hegstad’s patient had arrived fairly worn out from his long journey, but he wasn’t sick and required no special attention. He stayed in his room, took his meals in the infirmary and said Mass every morning in the small chapel down the hall, once the novices had cleared out of their dormitory rooms. Brother Hegstad served as his acolyte. “Father” said Mass real slow. Brother Hegstad liked that.
A doctor from out of town—Washington, he said—came to give Father a thorough physical examination and Brother Hegstad assisted him. “Doctor” had some suggestions about rest and diet with which Brother Hegstad agreed. “He’s in pretty good shape, considering his age, but make sure he takes it easy for a while.”
The doctor had more to say to Herb Coogan and Father Beck.
“It’s obvious that he’s been through quite an ordeal. Everything you’d expect for a prison camp survivor. Exposure to the elements. Poor diet bordering on malnutrition. He should see a dentist one of these days, but there’s nothing urgent. The man has one hell of a constitution. Heart and lungs sound. Muscle tone good. Nothing seriously wrong with him that I can see. I’ll call you with the lab results when I get back to Washington, but I don’t anticipate any surprises. How tough are you going to be on him?”
“Not tough at all,” said Coogan. “A very informal debriefing. Just Father Beck and me, a Jesuit lay brother to record the minutes, maybe a couple of observers from D.C.”
“Well, if you’re not going to make a big deal out of it,” said the doctor, “you can start whenever you want. But don’t try to get it all done in one day.”
When “Doctor” left for Washington, Brother Hegstad noted that he took with him the black satchel and all the clothing and toilet articles “Father” had brought out of Russia. “Doctor” didn’t bother to say why.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was Father Beck’s idea to use the retreat house at the far end of the novitiate’s property for the debriefing session. Laymen from Cincinnati stayed in the two-story wooden structure when they came to Milford for weekend spiritual exercises. The building had its own kitchen and dining room, and a conference room where the Jesuit retreat masters prepared the laymen for their private meditations. The bedrooms were on the second floor.
“You and your men won’t even be noticed,” Father Beck told Herb Coogan when he showed him through the building. “Laymen walking around this section of the grounds are a familiar sight here. So what do you think? Will this place suit you?”
“It sure will,” said Coogan. “Takes me back to my army days. Looks like my old barracks died and went to Heaven.”
“Well, maybe Purgatory, Herb. It’s been renovated, but it’s not the Ritz.”
“We’re not looking for luxury, Father.”
“Just as well, because you won’t find it. But what are you looking for?”
“I honestly don’t know,” said Coogan. “We’re always looking for anything new about the Soviet Union, of course. But Father Samozvanyetz is an unusual case. That’s why we’re keeping quiet about him. If we find out anything that might affect relations with the Soviet Union, President Kennedy wants to know about it before he reads it in the papers. He’s made that very clear. He was happy he could get your guy repatriated, but he doesn’t want it to backfire on him politically. So he wants to have all the right answers before reporters and congressmen start asking questions.”
“I’m sure that’s the best way to proceed,” said Father Beck. “For the government and the Society, too. Is that why I’m participating in this exercise?”
“You’re involved because I insisted you be involved, Father. Part of a debriefing is determining the credibility of the person providing the information. I’m counting on you to pick up on things I may miss.”
“Like what, Herb?”
“I have no idea. Just don’t react if you hear something that bothers you, but be sure to tell me about it later, when we’re alone.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Father Samozvanyetz seemed rested and in a good mood when Father Beck brought him to the retreat house for the first day of debriefing. He shook hands with Brother Al Krause who would be representing the Chicago Province and recording the minutes; Agent Coogan, whom he knew, and Professor Mitchell Sloane, who would be representing the U.S. Attorney General.
“And where is the CIA?” asked Father Samozvanyetz, pretending to survey the conference room. “Under the table, perhaps?”
“No CIA,” said Herb Coogan. “This is a very private affair, Father. Only a very few of us know that you’re even here.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Father Samozvanyetz.
He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a mug of coffee.
“My, doesn’t this place bring back memories! This is where Father Beck and I lived while the main building was being constructed. We were among the Missouri Province novices who came here by train from Florissant. That was back in 1927. I hope you gentlemen find it more comfortable than we did back then. It was pretty cold and drafty in the winter.”
He took his seat at the head of the table. “So, let us begin,” said Father Samozvanyetz. “What do you want to know?”
“Father has back grounded us on the Russian Mission,” said Sloane. “We might want some specific information about your training in Rome, but we can come back to that later if we feel we need to. Let’s start with how you got into the Soviet Union in the first place.”
“Yes, of course,” said Father Samozvanyetz. “Well, it wasn’t all that difficult, as it turned out. Not as difficult as I’d anticipated, certainly. It was simply a matter of not calling attention to myself, moving forward without doing anything unusual at any given place or time.
“For example, when I left the Jesuit house in Rome to begin my journey, I was just another priest taking a leisurely stroll, but I was really walking to the train station with a ticket in my pocket. Once there, I went to the baggage check room and claimed a suitcase, which had been left for me the day before. Then I boarded the train to Vienna. I must have been excited, but I can’t recall my exact feelings. It was very hot and uncomfortable, I remember, until the train began moving. Nobody asked me any questions. A priest on a train. Who cared?
“There was confusion all about and much talk of war. I remember the speculation in Rome among the people, the conferences with my superiors at the Russicum, the decision that I should prepare to leave for Poland. Apparently the Vatican had learned of something long before the general public for there was nothing in the newspapers when I left to indicate any change in the general situation. But my superiors told me the wind was right, the hour had come and it was time to go. So I walked to the station and took the train to Vienna.
“It was a time of confusion, as I said, but everyone was trying to behave in a calm, civilized manner. It was important to behave as if everything was normal and would continue to be so. Did people believe that correct behavior could forestall inevitable disaster? That calm could prevent the storm? Perhaps they did. Perhaps that’s why I had no difficulty taking the train to Vienna and then taking another train to Warsaw. I had no trouble getting a seat. Not many people were headed in that direction.
“When I arrived at the Vienna train station, I saw a great many German soldiers. They were returning from leave to rejoin their units, I supposed. It was common knowledge that the Germans were massing troops along the Polish border. I was afraid I might have some problems getting through customs and passport control. But, again, everything went smoothly. I approached an official with a Nazi swastika armband. I presented myself as an American Jesuit on his way to one of our houses of study in Poland. He looked at me as if I was mad, but he said nothing. He gave my passport a cursory glance and passed me through the gate.
“It was much
different at the train station in Warsaw. The Poles greeted me warmly, as if I’d come to join them in the defense of their country. The customs official didn’t even open my suitcase. Instead, he asked me to pray for Poland. I can see him now, the poor man: a brave smile and a gold tooth, right here, in the front of his mouth. I assured him that I would indeed pray for Poland. And I did.”
He smiled at Father Beck. “So much for my understanding of prayer, John. I was young and naïve and still quite smug, I’m afraid.” He shook his head. Then he brightened suddenly. “Here’s something I remember quite well. It changed everything. But let me explain something first.
“I’d been following my instructions to make my way to the Jesuit theolgate at Lvov where I’d be told how to proceed into Russia. I suppose there was something like an underground railroad, but my superiors never gave me any specific information about that. No matter. I never reached Lvov.
“What happened was this. I was walking through the Warsaw train station, following my orders, looking for the train to Lvov. Music was coming from loudspeakers. They’d been set up to carry the broadcasts of Radio Warsaw. I remember hearing the music as I walked along: something by Chopin. Then the music stopped abruptly. People in the train station fell silent.
“A voice reverberated through the terminal. The German foreign minister—von Ribbentrop, was that his name? He was flying to Moscow to sign an agreement with the Soviet Union. The radio announcer called it a non-aggression pact.
“The Poles in the station stood frozen in their tracks. So did I. We all knew what the news meant. Hitler had secured Stalin’s promise of neutrality. German armies could march into Poland without fear of Soviet opposition or interference. An invasion of Poland was not only possible now, it could happen at any moment. Suddenly there was turmoil. If Radio Warsaw resumed playing music, I couldn’t hear it over the clamor of voices.
“Now what was I to do? My orders were to go to Russia. That was the purpose of all my training. There was no point in going on to Lvov just to become a captive of the Germans. I had to improvise, to head to the East on my own and take my chances. I left the train station with my suitcase and walked into the city.
“I found a quiet park and sat there on a bench until dusk, keeping my eye on a nearby church, not too big, not too small, until I saw the sexton close the front doors, locking up for the night. I hoped he was getting ready to go home to his supper. I hurried across the park to the church and found the sacristy door on the side of the church and knocked. The door opened almost immediately. The sexton looked exasperated, but he relaxed when he saw I was a priest.
“I told him, in Polish, that I had a long wait between trains and wanted a quiet place to read my Office. Perhaps I could sit in his church? But I could see he was leaving. Never mind, I told him; I’ll try to find someplace else.
“But the sexton said, ‘No, no, no, Father,’ and waved me inside. He showed me how to switch off the lights and how to lock the sacristy door when I left. He asked me to remember him in my prayers and went home to his family. As soon as he left, I locked the door after him and went underground. Quite literally.
“I lit a candle and crept into the darkened church where I found a stairway that led down to a crypt below the main altar. Candle in one hand, suitcase in the other, I crept down the stone steps to a vaulted chamber with deceased priests and parishioners interred in its walls. Off to one side stood a sarcophagus. I hoisted my suitcase onto its lid and unpacked my new identity.
“I laid out a working man’s traveling wardrobe: hat, coat, sweater, trousers, a pair of worn but sturdy boots, extra socks and underwear, a few toilet articles, and a haversack to sling over my shoulder. The suitcase had a false bottom. The hidden compartment contained two old leather wallets, which held some money and forged identity papers—one wallet for Poland, one for the Soviet Union. I hid the Russian one in the lining of my haversack.
“I stripped naked and turned out the pockets of the clothes I’d been wearing to make sure they held nothing to identify the Jesuit priest from Rome. Then I packed everything I had worn on my trip into the suitcase and got dressed in the clothes I’d worn while doing manual labor at the Russicum. The clothes were familiar and comfortable. I slipped the Polish money and documents into my coat pocket and became a Pole, at least for the time being.
“I slid the suitcase into the dead space behind the sarcophagus and the wall of the crypt and pushed it as far as it would go. Anything that marked me as a priest was out of sight, entombed in the crypt.
“Standing there in the gloom and dampness, the candlelight and the cobwebs, I felt very clever indeed. I smiled a conspirator’s smile. Very much the daring secret agent, I slipped back up the stairs. The church was still empty and I swaggered to the sacristy. Before blowing out my candle, I took one last look around. There were vestments laid out for the first Mass of the morning. The chasuble was red as blood. But I had no intention of becoming a martyr myself.
“Such arrogance! I thought I was not going to get caught because God had such important work for me to do. At least I had enough sense to kneel down and pray. Before I slipped out into the night, I made sure the sacristy door was locked tight behind me.
“In Rome I’d been told of a safe place to stay in Warsaw, a small working man’s hotel that I found without difficulty. My Polish was good enough to get me a meal and a room for the night. I ate at a common table with some men who were exchanging rumors. Some had a lot to say. Others just listened. I chewed my food and listened with an occasional nod of agreement. I was a dullard with nothing of interest to contribute. Nobody asked me any questions.
“The talk was of war. The alliance between the Russians and the Germans, all agreed, meant Hitler was free to attack. But did it mean that the Soviet Union would also attack Poland? Some said yes and some said no. No one had any facts. The futile discussion was still going on when I wiped my chin, bid everyone a goodnight and went upstairs to bed.
“Before retiring—I’d been given a small room all to myself—I took my straight razor and sliced my American passport into tiny bits. I shredded it all, the cover as well as all the pages. I put the fragments in a paper bag along with my shredded train tickets. I stuffed the bag into my jacket pocket. Next morning, after a sound sleep, I ate breakfast with the other workingmen and set off toward Brest Litovsk. First by bus and then on foot.
“I had no way of knowing what route other Jesuits might have taken to get into the Soviet Union. I’d no idea of how to get past the Russian border guards. My plan, such as it was, was simply to head east as slowly as possible. If war broke out soon, which seemed more and more likely, some opportunity to cross the border undetected would probably present itself. In the confusion, I might even be able to join a crowd of refugees fleeing to the East.
“I avoided the large towns and it was, by and large, a pleasant journey: a stroll through the rolling countryside which was not so much different from our Ohio countryside. There were a lot of small farms with pigs and chickens and geese, and villages clustered around stone churches. Mostly I walked on dirt roads through patches of woodland and along open fields almost ready for harvest. During the first week of my journey, I had the roads to myself except for a passing truck or cart. I got rid of my shredded American identity—a little piece here, a little piece there—as I walked to the East. The skies were blue and almost cloudless. The air was warm and dry. Perfect weather for a hike in the country.
“Out in the countryside, war seemed unlikely and unreal. But there was fearful speculation in every village I passed through and in every home in which I spent the night. I was now a merchant seaman, you see, a sailor on his way home to his own village on the Russian border after many years away at sea. I had a bag full of tall tales to distract the country folks. They were as eager to hear about far-away places as they were generous in their hospitality. So I never lacked for a meal to eat or a place to sleep. I’d spend the night, go to morning Mass in the village church, buy
some bread and cheese to eat during the day and be on my way.
“The war, when it did start that first week in September, was something that was happening far, far away to the West. But late one morning, getting on toward noon, I got a clear view of the real war.
“I’d followed a dirt road up a little hill to a grove of trees where I sat in the shade with my back against a tree, ate my bread and cheese and washed it down with a little wine my hosts had pressed upon me. Before me stretched golden fields waiting for the harvesters and green pastures where cattle grazed. Beyond the fields I could see grey village buildings gathered, as if for protection, around a church with a tall, slender spire.
“It was a warm, peaceful day. I was sweaty from the morning’s walk, but there was a slight breeze and it was cool under the tree. I was lulled by the humming of the insects and the chirping of the birds. I dozed for a while. For how long, I don’t know. But I became conscious of another humming sound, a pulsating drone more insistent than the buzzing insects.
“I was hearing aircraft engines. I was wide awake now, but I wasn’t frightened. The sound of aircraft motors harmonized with the other sounds. I looked about the sky, but not with any sense of urgency or anxiety. I was not even frightened when I finally saw the airplanes.
‘There were three of them, dark against the cloudless blue sky. They seemed to glide together through the air without obvious purpose and they reminded me of the turkey buzzards I used to see around here in the afternoon, soaring aimlessly through the air on motionless wings.
“I watched the planes much as I used to watch the buzzards, with mild interest but certainly no apprehension. The three airplanes slowly followed a curving line of flight, which took them directly over the village and beyond. Now I could barely hear their engines.
“Then I saw bright flashes on the ground. Quick flashes of sunlight. Clouds of dust and smoke. Then came the sounds of explosions: like an irregular beating on a shrouded bass drum. Thump-whump. Thump-whump-whump. Thump, thump. I couldn’t count the number. I sat staring at the thick column of black smoke rising above the village, hanging there, drifting slightly in the blue sky above the green and golden fields.
Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy Page 8