I made up my mind, though, that if worse came to worst, I would quit my job at the garage on June 1st and go to Moscow for a month. After that, if the militia weren’t already looking for me, I would return and try to find another job. It was a risky step, I knew. If I quit, my passport would be stamped: “Not holding a job.” That would make the officials in Moscow even more suspicious and less likely to let me see my sister freely. But the longer I waited for Sofronov’s answer, the more determined I grew that I was going to see Helen, even if just for a day. (The idea that I might go back to America with her, or ever, didn’t so much as cross my mind.)
In the middle of May, I still hadn’t heard definitely from Sofronov. I knew my sister must be getting anxious for an answer, so I decided to act. I walked over to Sofronov as he was standing near the driveway checking out cars. “Tovarisch Sofronov,” I said, “my people in America have been waiting a whole month now for an answer. What must they think? I have decided to take the case somewhere else and see if I can get a definite answer about going to Moscow.” “No, no,” he said. “Look, today I can’t tell you; tomorrow, I will call you out and tell you definitely.”
That day never seemed to end. I had all sorts of difficulty doing even the simplest things; I sometimes put a shock absorber together two or three times before I got all the parts in correctly. At home that night, I could think of nothing but what Sofronov’s “final answer” would be.
The next morning, I went straight to Sofronov as soon as I reported for work. He told me to come back at 9 A.M. I went to the shop, but I didn’t even bother to put on my work clothes. Precisely at nine, I headed for Sofronov’s office. “Tovarisch Ciszek,” he said, “I can’t get the whole committee together yet; you’ll have to wait until eleven o’clock.” I went back to the workshop and found a crowd had gathered. By this time, practically everyone at ATK-50 knew of my sister’s proposed visit. When I told them what Sofronov had said, they roared with laughter. Some of them snorted “delaying tactics,” and others predicted I would never get a definite answer—at least not until my sister had come to Moscow and gone.
I put on my work clothes and tried to work, but again I couldn’t concentrate. About 10:45, I washed up, changed clothes again, and went back to the office. I was surprised to see four men sitting there with Sofronov: the president of the union, the head of bus maintenance, the head of taxi maintenance, and the head of the labor department.
Sofronov began very solemnly: “Tovarisch Ciszek, it is not customary for us to give second vacations to any worker. Considering your case, however, how long it has been since you have seen your family, and how fine a worker you are, the committee has decided to give you twelve days leave of absence from ATK-50. If you fly to Moscow, you will have ten full days there. If you take a train, you will have only five days in Moscow. But, of course, we must leave that up to you.”
He paused and looked at me. I mumbled my thanks to him and the committee. “Now,” he said, “you must understand that this is a serious matter. By giving you this permission, we are putting ourselves in a dangerous position. We have no one to replace you in this job; that can be handled. But your sister is from America, and you know the Americans, what tales they tell, so you have to be very careful what you tell her. Otherwise, the American papers will exaggerate as they always do, and you—and we, too—will suffer, eh?” All five of them looked at me.
I glanced at the others, but I spoke to Sofronov. “You must also understand my situation. You all know me, and you know my record; I will do my best, but now you have to trust me.” They seemed satisfied. Sofronov asked the others if they had anything to say, but they all shrugged. I thanked them again for their permission and left. I could hardly work all that afternoon, talking happily to friends and receiving their congratulations. That evening, I told babushka, Dmitri and Ilyena, Iosip and Valya the news they were all waiting to hear. I couldn’t wait to finish supper (babushka wouldn’t stop talking) so I could write the good news to Helen.
Before I wrote, however, I said Mass. Starting that evening, I began to say Mass specifically that God’s will be done. I deliberately didn’t pray that I would see my sister, but only that I would do what was His will and what was for the best. In all my excitement and enthusiasm, I didn’t want to begin interfering now with His providence after all these years of protection . . .
The 15th of June came and went, but I heard nothing further from Helen. I looked for a letter every day, but none came. Of course, there was always the possibility that my letter or her answer had been delayed somewhere, so I prepared to leave for Moscow. I decided to take the train to Moscow, then perhaps fly back to Abakan. The train took three days, but it would give me a chance to see some of the country I’d never seen. Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, it would give me a chance to rest and collect my thoughts as I could not do on a plane.
I bought a train ticket for Sunday, June 16th. At nine that morning, I walked out into the street and was just closing the gate into our courtyard when a young girl came hurrying up the street and called, “Does Ciszek live here?” I was so startled that for a moment I hesitated. “Yes.” “I have a telegram for him.” “I’m Ciszek.” “Well, this is the strangest telegram I ever had to deliver. Will you sign for it?” I told her I’d like to see it first to be sure it was for me. I opened it—it was all numbers! The only thing in plain text was the point of origination, “Washington”; I knew it must be from Helen. “Well, this is no good to me,” I said to the girl. “I can’t read this code and it’s very important. I was supposed to catch a train today.”
The poor girl told me she was just a messenger. She could only give me the name of her supervisor at the local post office. I hurried down there, but the supervisor couldn’t read the telegram either. “Well,” I said, “it’s very important. Can’t you do something about it?” The supervisor went to the phone, made several calls, then finally gave me the name of a woman to contact in the main post office downtown.
I took the bus down to the main post office, growing increasingly anxious and irritated. I showed the telegram to the woman there and said, “Look at that! What’s that supposed to mean?” She called upstairs to the telegraph office; a young girl came down, looked at the numbers and smiled. “Just wait,” she said, “wait here for half an hour and I’ll get you the translation.” In less than a half hour she was back, but this time she was puzzled. She asked me if I understood the telegram.
It was in English: “Encountering delays. Will keep you informed. Helen.” The telegram had been sent on the 13th of June; it had taken three days to reach me. I told the girl I understood, signed for it, and went out. I was puzzled, but all I could do was wait for more information from Helen. So I waited anxiously for a letter, without writing myself; I was afraid our letters might cross in the mail and just make things more complicated by containing alternate suggestions.
June 19th came. There was no letter from Helen. I figured something was wrong. As a matter of fact, it was almost a month before I got a letter, and then it was from Sister Evangeline. She said she had decided to come to Moscow with Helen, but because she was having trouble getting a visa, they had had to postpone the trip. She added that she would let me know when they were coming.
That evening, while we were all watching television—Iosip and Valya, Dmitri and Ilyena, the babushka—I mentioned that two of my sisters were coming and that their trip had been delayed because my other sister couldn’t get a visa. Iosip blamed the American Government; he said they didn’t want my two sisters to come to Russia. I tried to convince him the delay was in Moscow, that it was the Soviet Embassy in Washington which refused to grant them a visa. We started to argue, and the group told us to be quiet and watch the television set.
There was a pause, then Iosip began to muse that my sisters must be coming for a reason. “Both of them insist on coming,” he said, “so it can’t be just a trip. They must be going to try and get you out.” Dmitri was skeptical. He rarely
got into any conversation concerning politics or the government, but he said there was no chance for my sisters to get me out. “Perhaps,” he said flatly, “sometime later, if our government has to make an exchange for one of our own men, they might just possibly give you up.” Iosip laughed, and the conversation drifted off after that. But I remember it, because it was so rare for Dmitri to talk at all on such matters.
CHAPTER 5
My Return Home
THE KGB BAFFLES ME
ONE SUNNY SEPTEMBER day, when the air had already turned cold though the sun was warm, I was at work at ATK-50, not even thinking about my sisters. With the summer gone, the possibility of their coming seemed remote. I was listening to Vassily tell some stories of his escapades and waiting for the end of the shift, for I was tired. Shortly after three o’clock, Sofronov’s secretary came in. Vassily, who had an excellent nose for trouble, muttered to me, “Something’s up!” The secretary smiled. “Wladimir Martinovich,” she said, “Tovarisch Sofronov wants you to come immediately to his office. Please put your tools away, change clothes, and come quickly.” I was surprised, but as I hesitated Vassily said knowingly, “News from Moscow about your sisters.”
When I got to Sofronov’s office, there were three workers standing in front of the desk. Alongside Sofronov, behind the desk, was a man in civilian clothes who looked directly at me as I opened the door. I took one long look and immediately I knew him—a member of the KGB. He was in civilian clothes, but I couldn’t miss the mark of the breed, not after all these years. Sofronov looked up and asked me to wait a few moments until he had finished with the three men. When they came out, Sofronov said, “Wladimir Martinovich, this man has come to see you. I have some other work to do, so if you don’t mind I’ll leave you with him.” With that, he said goodbye to the KGB agent and left.
The agent was a young man of about thirty, of medium height and so bland of manner he seemed almost simple. He stuck out his hand and said directly: “I’m from the KGB. If you’ll sit down for a minute, I’ll tell you why I’m here. Our chief, General (I didn’t catch the name), is here from Krasnoyarsk and would like to see you right away. Perhaps at 4 P.M., at the hotel on Oktobrskaya Street? He’d prefer to see you there in order to make it more pleasant for you. If you came to KGB headquarters, you might be seen, but at the hotel no one will pay any attention to you. I’ll be waiting outside the hotel at four o’clock and take you to him.”
Despite all his politeness, his last words sounded like an order of sorts. It was already 3:30, and the next bus for our neighborhood left at 4:00. I caught a bus downtown instead, then, and walked home from there. Babushka was surprised to see me so early. I asked her if a letter had come for me (I thought that might be what the KGB were anxious about); she said no. Then I told her I had to meet someone, and that I would eat dinner later that night. I dressed, shaved, and walked to the market square, where I took a bus to the post office. As I got off, it was nearly five o’clock.
I walked back the block toward the hotel from the post office and saw the KGB man pacing nervously on the sidewalk. He didn’t see me coming, because he was expecting me to arrive from the other direction. “Zdravstvuite,” I said. He looked startled, recognized me, then looked relieved. “They’re here already,” he said. “Let’s go right up.”
As we went through the lobby, people turned to stare. Most of them can tell a KGB officer in or out of uniform, just as I could. We walked up to the second floor and entered a two-room suite. Two men were already there, and one of them called out heartily: “Wladimir Martinovich, come right in, come right in.” He was an older man in a dark suit, almost completely bald, but tanned and solidly built. He shook hands with me and said, “I’m General (again I didn’t catch the name), and this is Viktor Pavlovich.” I shook hands with Pavlovich, a young man in a white suit, with a fair thin face, long nose, and blue eyes.
The General did most of the talking, and he was exceedingly cordial. “Well, how are you?” “All right.” “How do you feel? Is your health all right?” “Yes,” I said, “I’m fine.” “Where are you living now?” I was sure he knew, but I played the game and told him. Then in short order we went down the rest of the routine: my salary, my fellow workers, whether the supervisor was kind to me, the union, etc. I told him everything was just fine.
“Yes,” he said at length, “we get excellent reports of your work. Your fellow workers think highly of you; I understand you have won some certificates and bonuses. Now, taking all this into consideration, we would like to do you a favor. Do you remember the petition you sent us about an exit visa to the United States?” Once he said that, I became cautious. This wasn’t the first time I had been called out about those petitions.
“I wrote about four or five,” I said. “Yes, well now we’ve been looking through the file and we happened to see them. Up to this time, there hasn’t been much possibility of our granting such a request—but things are different now. Let’s forget the past. Today is today.” “Yes,” I said, “very unpleasant.” “Wladimir Martinovich, let’s not talk about that now. You’re different; we’re different people. We know you’d like to see your family, and in these new times it might be possible for us to do something for you.” “That’s nice,” I said.
Then the General began to go on a little fishing expedition. He asked my opinions of life here, of Communism, the system, the technical progress, current developments, and the social life, etc. “I’ve lived here twenty-three years,” I said, “and you’ve never heard me complain. Moreover, you can ask anybody I’ve lived with. Rules are rules, and I live by them wherever I happen to be.”
Something was bothering me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. He was fishing for something; I’d been through too much of this sort of thing to miss that point. Yet I couldn’t quite make out just what he was after. We talked for about three hours, getting nowhere as far as I could see. The General seemed to want to review everything, and yet talk about nothing. In a sense, he was like a boxer sparring for an opening—yet he was always most cordial, most pleasant, and most understanding, no matter how short and abrupt my answers became.
Finally, however, the General said he must be going. “I would like to see you again tomorrow,” he said, “but if I can’t make it, Viktor Pavlovich will be here. Shall we say 4:30, here at the hotel? Why not come as you are from work, there’s no need to change clothes. No one at the hotel will pay much attention to you.” We stood up, shook hands again, and I walked out.
The next day at work, everyone wanted to know what had happened and why I had been called out. Some of the girls from the office told me they hadn’t slept all night; they knew the man in Sofronov’s office had been from the KGB. “We were afraid they would send you off,” said one of the girls. “We were afraid you would never come back.” “Well,” I laughed, “you can see that I’m here!” “Yes, but what happened? What did they say?” “It seems to be a question of my petition about going back to the United States; they think I might be able to go home. I don’t believe it, of course. I think it has something to do with my sisters.”
All day long, in the shop, on the way to the warehouses, wherever I went, I talked to workers and officials alike, and everyone was interested in the case. “Wladimir Martinovich,” said one of the mechanics, “the whole trouble is with our government.” “I don’t doubt it,” I said. “You’ll have a hard time getting anywhere without compromise,” said another, “but don’t give in!” By noon, the story was all over the garage via the grapevine, and everyone wished me luck.
After work, I washed up quickly and walked to the bus stop with Vassily. We talked about the previous day’s interview, but I didn’t tell him I was on my way to another one. “Well, here’s luck to you!” said Vassily as he boarded the bus. “The same to you,” I answered. I took a bus past the hotel and saw Viktor Pavlovich walking up and down near the door. A block beyond the hotel I got off and walked back. He was reading a sign when I came up behind him.
He hurried into the hotel and I followed him. I felt dirty and out of place in my work clothes as we went up the stairs to the second floor and back again to the same suite. “Well, how are you today, Wladimir Martinovich?” he said as we sat down. “I’m all right,” I said without much enthusiasm. Viktor told me the General was not able to make it that afternoon; he hoped I wouldn’t mind. I shrugged. Then he went on to say how highly I was thought of by the General, and how they wanted to help me—and that I should return the favor. (That did it. I could feel the skin crawl on my spine; I didn’t even answer.)
Viktor began to talk of many things. He spoke of Communism and of how much good it had done, how much progress had been made. The more he talked, the less I said; our conversation soon assumed the aspect of a monologue. He must have realized it, for he abruptly shifted gears. “You know, Wladimir Martinovich, we will more than likely send you to Moscow. You will be able to see the good of Communism, travel wherever you like, see what you want.”
“Yes, well, I’d like that. I think I would like to see European Russia.”
“Well, you know, when you get to Moscow you’ll be able to see all the famous places, the historical landmarks. It’s quite a city. There is even a Catholic Church there which you can visit if you like, or go to confession. You needn’t be afraid that we would have anything against it.” When he said that, my nerves twitched. I knew then where he was heading with that particular line: the same old pressure. They wouldn’t exactly want me to spy on the Catholic priest in Moscow, but it would “be nice” if I reported my “impressions.”
From that point on I was tense and depressed. I began to build up a full head of steam and soon I was almost physically sick. Viktor didn’t seem to notice, but went on chatting pleasantly about other priests. “You know who they are,” he remarked almost offhand, “you probably have their addresses. You ought to have a wonderful time visiting them.” “Addresses?” I broke in. “I’m not sure . . .” I did have an address book in a drawer back at Dmitri’s. If they had already seen it, I couldn’t deny that I had it; if they hadn’t seen it, I didn’t want them looking.
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