I tried again. “When we sent a letter to Shepticki,” I said, “we were supposed to enclose a piece of that paper. He could match it up with the rest of the page which he kept and know that the letter did, indeed, come from us.” “I see,” he said, “some sort of code.” I knew I wasn’t getting through to him, but at moments like this my poor Russian and his poor command of Polish betrayed us. I couldn’t get across to him in either language the distinction between a sign which was simply used to authenticate something, and a sign which was the key to a code, or a means of conveying some information other than itself.
One day, Sedov brought in an English interpreter. He was an older man, perhaps a native Russian, but he spoke perfect English—English in the British manner. He questioned me in English along the same lines as before. Again, I tried to make clear both the significance of that particular bit of paper and my motives for entering Russia to work among the people. He translated it all for Sedov, quite properly as far as I could tell, and also wrote it down in the transcript. For the first time, I felt I had made some progress in clarifying my position and getting them to understand it. At least it seemed so at the time. When I returned to the cell, I felt more confident and peaceful than I had in a long time.
This whole long process of close interrogation was beginning to get me down. It was my first experience with such prolonged and intense interrogation, and I simply couldn’t get used to all the minute probing into the most intimate details. What bothered me most was the complete lack of respect for ecclesiastical persons and the realm of the spiritual. It was a whole dimension which they simply couldn’t understand and in which, in any event, they weren’t interested. But their whole attitude was so much at odds with my own beliefs and background and training that the interrogations were becoming increasingly distasteful and repugnant to me. That night I prayed that this session in English had been as helpful as it seemed to be.
The English interrogation ended my three months with Sedov. For a short while after that nothing happened. I began to hope that we had made some progress, that perhaps he was beginning to believe me—or at least believe in my sincerity. Because that was the worst of the matter; Sedov had told me point blank one day he couldn’t make up his mind whether I was hiding something or whether I was really sincere and just the dupe of higher-ups. That was the type of argument, of stone-walled prejudice, which really left me with a feeling of defeat and dejection when I returned to my cell.
Then one day I was called out by the guard and told to bring all my things. For a few moments the hope flickered that the English interrogation had really made a difference and that this time, certainly, I would be released. But it was not to be. I was simply taken to a different section of Lubianka and put into a larger room. Besides the bed, this room even contained a table, although there was no chair. It also had a much larger window, which of course made little difference since it still had the usual iron bars and the tin shield that allowed only a thin view of sky. But I was puzzled by the change and wondered what would happen now.
Soon after that, Sedov called me again. He informed me that my case was so exceptional that another three months had been officially granted for further interrogations. And so we began all over again the weary round of questions and answers. He warned me that this would be my last chance to “come out with the goods,” because at the end of these three months I would surely be sentenced, and my sentence would depend on my answers and my co-operation.
“You know,” he said, “I sometimes get the impression from your self-righteous answers that you think you’re somehow better than we are. Forget it!” “No,” I said wearily, “I don’t consider myself better than anyone, and I appreciate the fact that you are simply doing your job, but all I can do is tell you the truth as I have been telling it to you from the beginning. I’m sorry if that sounds self-righteous. But the truth is the truth; what else can I say?”
Once again we went over the story, period by period and item by item. From time to time he’d bring in “specialists” in certain subjects to help in the cross-examination. This time around the insinuation was a little broader: they seemed to be hinting that the Vatican itself was behind my spy mission. The fact that I had been in Rome, that all through history Jesuits had been “notorious plotters” and the right arm of the Pope, was adduced as an argument for the Vatican’s implication in my mission. They found it hard to believe that in all my years in Rome I had never come nearer to the Pope than seeing him in St. Peter’s—or in his window at the Vatican while I was standing in St. Peter’s Square—and that I had never in my life set foot inside the Secretariat of State or any other Vatican office.
As the interrogations dragged on, Sedov became very open and frank and, because we seemed to be making no progress, quite tense. One day, in fact, he completely lost his patience, threw down his pen into the pile of papers on his desk, and ordered me out of the room. It was the first time I had ever seen him lose control. I was afraid I might be put into the karcer (something like solitary confinement) I had heard about from other prisoners, but I was simply led back to my cell.
As the second three months of extraordinary interrogations drew to an end, it became increasingly obvious both to him and to me that we were getting nowhere. In spite of all my arguments and protestations of sincerity, he obviously couldn’t believe I wasn’t still hiding something. On the other hand, I had told him everything I knew to be true, and no matter how tense the sessions sometimes became I was simply not going to make up a story, or agree to some of his insinuations, just to ease the tension.
At the very end, almost a week went by when I was not called for interrogations. Sedov must have been collecting all his data, because in our final few sessions he brought in a thick volume of bound pages, the results of all the interrogations, which we read through together. It was hard to read, because it was mostly handwritten and the results of notes he had made during our conversations. When we finished, he asked me to sign it. As far as I could tell, it was an accurate transcript of his accusations and insinuations, plus a fair representation of all my denials, so I saw no reason not to sign it.
After these last few sessions going over the transcript, Sedov told me the interrogations were over and I might expect a verdict soon. I had no idea what it might be, but by this time I had given up almost all hope of anything miraculous. Still, it was a relief to know the interrogations were over. The verdict, however, was delayed.
For a week nothing happened. Then one day the guard brought another bed into the room, and a little later led in another prisoner. He was a young Polish officer from Anders’ Army who had been arrested and recently transferred from Saratov to Lubianka. I had now been living alone more than five months, so I was delighted to have someone to talk to besides the interrogator. I welcomed him warmly and we jabbered away in Polish. He told me all about his experiences, and then I told him my story, including the fact that I was a priest. As soon as I said that, his face changed.
He got up from the bed and began pacing nervously, then stood for a long while at the door listening for the guard. At last he came back and spoke to me very quietly. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said. “I’m a Catholic and I feel terrible about this whole situation. I just have to tell you that I was put in here to have you tell me all about your activities in Russia. My parents and my wife and children are living in the Russian zone of Poland. If I find out what they want to know about you, then I can be reunited with my family. Otherwise—well, without putting it in so many words, they imply that I may never see my family alive again. Now, I’ve been honest with you. You’ve got to help me. Tell me what I’m going to tell them.”
By this time he was so worked up that my first problem was to calm him down before we could even begin to discuss the situation. I tried to make him see that the NKGB couldn’t expect more from him than they had been able to get from me. If we made up a story, no matter how much it might seem to the NKGB to confirm their suspicions of me
, he’d still be held while they tried to verify the story. That was how they worked. And when they couldn’t prove it, because it would be a lie, he would be in worse shape than he was now. On the other hand, if the Russians really intended to release him, he would stand no worse a chance if he proved no more successful in shaking my story than they themselves had been.
“Tell them the truth,” I said. “Tell them my story just the way I told it to you when you first came in. It’s the same story I’ve been telling them ever since I was arrested. If they press you for details I haven’t mentioned, say that I’m as cautious as the next prisoner, and don’t talk much about myself—except for the story I first told you.”
Nervous as he was, he could see the sense of that. He agreed to try it. We were together only four or five days, and he was called out several times. They didn’t like the story, but they didn’t blame him and just told him to keep trying. He felt much better, he told me, and his conscience didn’t bother him because he was telling the truth. He also thought his chances of seeing his family were as good as they had been before; the interrogators hadn’t mentioned that threat again, perhaps because they thought he was co-operating. After he was called out on the fifth day, the guard took his bed out of the room and I never saw him again.
A few days later, about 2 A.M., the guard rapped on my door and walked in. She told me to get dressed in a hurry. I had been sleeping so soundly I couldn’t get my bearings. I asked her what it was all about; she just answered, “Hurry up, hurry up!” I dressed slowly, trying to think, and she rapped on the door again. When I came to the door, she opened it, then led me down to Sedov’s office. I remember it was quiet that morning; we could hear the people talking in the NKGB offices as we passed. It was Sunday morning, and not much was going on.
I was still sleepy when we reached Sedov’s office; he looked tired himself. He apologized for calling me, but said he was on duty that night and just wanted to go over things again to pass the time. He had on a shirt and tie, but no coat, and a pair of slacks. When I sat down, he picked up the phone and called one of the girls. “I suppose you’re hungry?” he said to me. I didn’t answer. “How do you feel?” he asked. “Tired.” “Yes,” he said, “I know what you mean.”
When the girl came in, he said a few words to her in a low voice, and she went out again. Sedov leaned back in the chair with his hands behind his head. He seemed relaxed and began talking at random about his days in the Ukraine, when it was still part of Poland. He told me a little episode about a Polish teacher he had had who tried to influence him toward religion. “He didn’t succeed,” said Sedov, “because I had my own ideas. And yet, you know, when I was a boy, I did believe for a while.”
The girl came back with a tray of sandwiches, a piece of cake, and two glasses of hot tea. She put it on the desk, made a passing joke, and went out again. Sedov offered me a sandwich. “A little treat,” he said, “for breaking up your sleep.” I went over and got a sandwich and began to eat it. I really was hungry. Sedov began to comment on the bologna, and how hard it was now to get meat with everything going to the front. “Here, have some tea,” he said. He pushed a glass toward me, dropped in a big lump of sugar and (I thought) something else. Yet, I didn’t suspect anything; he seemed so relaxed and pleasant that night.
“Drink it while it’s hot,” he said, “and have some lemon.” I squeezed a little lemon into the tea and stirred it with a small spoon. It was so hot I put the glass on a saucer and began to sip it. I finished about half the glass along with the sandwich. Sedov offered me another. I reached for the sandwich, touched it—then felt my jaws getting tight, my hand falling to the desk. I couldn’t swallow the bite of sandwich still in my mouth. I slipped back into the chair.
I have a hazy memory of Sedov looking at me anxiously just before I dozed off. The next time I woke, I was lying on the davenport. Someone, a doctor I think, was sitting next to me. There was someone alongside the doctor and Sedov was standing at the foot of the davenport. I opened my eyes wide. “Here, take this!” said the doctor, and gave me a pill. I dozed off again.
When I came to again, I was on my feet. Someone was holding me, and there was a tight-fitting apparatus of some sort, almost like a football helmet, on my head. I dimly remember a dull, fierce throbbing pressure in my head. Sedov was holding my head and pulling at my eyelids, looking into my eyes. He was staring intently, and his eyes blazed like evil incarnate. That was my impression—of something almost diabolic, certainly inhuman, for his eyes were staring, his hair rumpled. I shook involuntarily, and I jumped. Then I blacked out.
After that, I have a fuzzy impression of someone jerking at my neck with rubber cords, so that quick, sharp shocks ran down my back and stung my neck. Someone was also jerking at my wrists, and shocks were running up my arms.
Then I remember being at a table, propped up. Sedov was shouting at me loudly, shaking my face. “What’s your name? What’s your name?” I tried to say something. I couldn’t. I kept trying, but no sound came. Sedov kept repeating, “Lypinski, Lypinski, Lypinski.” He put a pen into my hand at one point and moved it. What I was doing with it, I don’t know. Perhaps I was signing a paper on the desk, but I just can’t remember.
I woke up again, and was given more pills and a drink of water. When I finally came to, I felt all washed out. Sedov was there alone. He led me to the toilet, and I felt like I had fallen down ten flights of stairs. Afterward, I remember sitting in a chair in his room. Other interrogators came up to me, shaking their heads and laughing. I just sat there, staring at one place, paying no attention to them. It was daylight in the room, but I couldn’t focus.
Finally, I was taken to a box. I sat down and huddled into a corner. When I opened my eyes, everything seemed to be falling on me, the walls and ceiling pressing in. Everything was burning, fiery red. I wiped my eyes, but the fiery red persisted in the tumbling walls. I was terrified. I threw my arms across my head and yelled; I remember shouting and shouting. I felt menaced, attacked; I huddled deeper into the corner. Then I fell asleep.
When I woke up, everything was black. I felt a deep-seated feeling of resentment—almost hatred—for Sedov, a feeling of betrayal mixed with unbelief which I can feel stirring now as I recall the incidents. Never in my life had I had such a feeling for any man; it was more than a feeling, it was something almost physical.
Finally, a guard brought me back to my cell. There were two portions of bread and soup and kasha lined up on the table. I couldn’t eat, but I knew then that I must have been out of the cell for at least forty-eight hours. I just sat in one place, staring at one place, with no thoughts and no feelings at all. I was simply washed out. The condition lasted for a couple of days, then I became active and hungry again. Toward Sedov, however, I always felt that burning feeling of betrayal, and from then on I was always on my guard.
I never again was fooled, never trusted any Soviet official, of whatever rank. After that, I prayed every morning and every evening, “Lord, deliver me from my enemies and their evil operations.” It was a spontaneous reaction and a heartfelt prayer; only in God would I put my trust. From then on, I felt stronger and comforted. No matter what the danger, I always felt His help and a growing confidence in Him.
Several weeks went by. Then, one night, I was again awakened at 2 A.M. by the sound of the bolt crashing in the door. I sat up, tenser than ever before. The guard told me to get dressed and follow her. As we made our way along the darkened corridors, I prayed once more, and over and over, my prayer for deliverance and protection. I was taken downstairs this time, however, to a detention box. That really surprised me. I sat there for almost half an hour, trying to puzzle out what this meant. Was I going to be taken to another prison?—perhaps to court for sentencing?
Then I heard doors down the corridor being opened and closed again, the sounds of laughter and footsteps approaching my box. The door opened. A commissar came in with the chief of the prison, both of them slightly intoxicated, very talkative and fl
ushed. The commissar handed me a paper to read. It was a simple document, not what they call a judicial verdict, but rather what is called an “administrative sentence.” It stated quite simply that Walter J. Ciszek had been found guilty of the charges against him under Section 58:6 of the Soviet penal code. Section 58:6 deals with espionage. It was quite a change from the 58:10:2 charge under which I had been arrested—subversive activities.
“Do you understand it?” said the commissar. I nodded. “Are you content?” he said. The verdict as written out in the document was fifteen years at hard labor. I looked at him and smiled rather wryly. “I really don’t have much choice, do I?” I said. They both found that uproariously funny. Then the commissar said, “You’re getting off easy, you know.” Since I had “no complaint,” he told me to sign the document to indicate I was in agreement with the verdict. I signed; the commissar took back the paper. He and the chief of the prison then went off, laughing and exchanging a few comments I couldn’t quite overhear, as they walked down the corridor. According to the date on the “verdict” I had signed, it was July 26, 1942.
LUBIANKA “UNIVERSITY”
BACK IN MY cell after the verdict, I couldn’t sleep. I spent a restless night thinking back over the past, wondering what might have happened if I had agreed to some of the charges they accused me of, or whether the verdict had been a foregone conclusion ever since I was arrested. I began to wonder what the prison camps would be like; I had heard stories from other prisoners and rumors of all sorts. At least, I thought, I’ll see people again. Even if the work is hard, I’ll be active and doing something, instead of being penned up here in a cell. Now that the verdict was passed, I was anxious to get going into whatever the future might hold. I knew God would take care of me. I certainly never thought that it would be almost four years before I saw Siberia.
With God in Russia Page 11