By the time Oswald’s case came along, he had already had ten years of working for State Security and a good performance record as a developer.
When asked to analyze himself, he would say that he’s a modest person who has never tried to get ahead of others but he is, by nature, hard-working, assiduous, and inclined to analysis. That he can say about himself without reservation. During his time in KGB he was known for sticking with a case once he started. He never made hasty decisions; he thought things out, and tried to base conclusions on concrete materials, not speculation. In addition, he did not drink and did not smoke. He was—he says with a smile—“morally reliable.” Then he laughs. “I was never particularly interested in girls. Most of my attention was devoted to work.”
In 1953 he married. He and his wife have two children, a daughter and son. His son, he mentions, did not follow in his father’s footsteps. If he had, it would not be permissible to tell you, but since he didn’t, one can say so. His wife also worked all these years for the Central Committee of Komsomol as an instructor in a sewing workshop. While you could not let anyone know, particularly any girls you took out, that you were working in Counterintelligence, when he married his wife, it was different. He was able to tell her, but that was because he had been introduced to her by a co-worker in KGB who happened to come from her village. In such a situation, he could hardly keep it secret. For that matter, he did not want to. In 1953, they worked sometimes until two in the morning. What would a wife who did not know his occupation have thought if he returned home that late? Yet, to this day, his wife is aware of no more than that he is an operative. Same goes for his children. He’s one person who can keep a secret.
When asked what his normal working day was like, he would say that in winter he usually got up early, a habit since childhood—never rose later than seven o’clock; shaved, washed, had his breakfast, and walked to his office. Living approximately three kilometers from Minsk KGB headquarters, he’d take a quiet street to Gorky Park, then up a hill and over Yanka Kupala to Lenin Prospekt. He usually walked home as well. Did that for exercise. His system. He would also arrive by eight-thirty instead of nine, and would then spread out all his necessary documents in order to organize his work for the day.
Stepan’s office on the third floor was occupied in those years by himself and another officer. They each had their own table and their own safe. A normal working day would begin with documents; of course, there were always people to meet and conferences with superiors, sometimes staff meetings, but these only took place if really necessary, since they tended to distract people. It was considered better if Stepan approached his boss in private or, preferably, solved a problem himself. You couldn’t bring up everything at a staff meeting, because you had to maintain security. That his office was shared with someone else did not, however, present exceptional difficulties. If you run a tight ship, joint occupation is not difficult. As soon as Stepan was finished using a document, he would put it in his safe. Nor did he have any curiosity about what his colleague might be working on. That was your rule. You’re not allowed to ask questions, and it’s not a matter to feel hurt or offended about. Each man had his own safe; each man was responsible for what was entrusted to him.
Toward the conclusion of his labors on Oswald’s case, he can say that he was promoted. It was a natural matter. During his entire time of service, he never skipped a grade, and each promotion was achieved by honest hard work: Junior Operative Officer; Senior Operative Officer; then Assistant Director of Department. At that point, he was given his own office. Now, people came to see him in order to solve one or another problem, yet even so, his friend, who had started at the same time as himself and was working at the same level, was made Major, which was the appropriate rank for an Assistant Director of Department. Stepan, however, was not promoted. Six months went by. He did not feel comfortable drawing attention to himself, but finally he decided that he must. Sort of joking, he said to his friend that maybe he wasn’t so good at his job, and his friend said, “Stepan Vasilyevich, I’m not going to waste time arguing with you. They didn’t make you Major—well, find out why. You haven’t done anything wrong.” He went to Personnel politely, made inquiries, and his boss started to apologize. They had forgotten. Bureaucrats. Of course, no one could see his rank, because they didn’t wear uniforms.
In his office, there was one large window that looked out on the courtyard, and that was much to Stepan’s preference. As far as he was concerned, too much din came from the windows which had access to Lenin Prospekt. One minute a car screeched, the next minute someone yelled, a militia-man blew his whistle—it was distracting. He liked quiet.
As for his leisure during the working day? It could be summarized easily. On a normal day, they’d usually eat inside. At that time, they had what he calls a wonderful cafeteria. Also, there were gazebos in the KGB courtyard. Many of those who lived close by went home for lunch, but those who dwelt further away ate in this cafeteria, which offered beefsteak, cutlets, bottles of 20 percent cream for tea, and some kind of salad. Afterward, for their remaining half hour, some people would shop. Or sit in the courtyard. At that time, you could relax under a shade tree. At two o’clock, it was back to work.
There was no fixed routine on that. It wasn’t as if one did one thing before lunch, then another afterward. There were no established parameters. You could be on your job until ten or twelve at night, or leave after a normal day, and things could come up in any file at any time, so a day at work might vary emotionally. It was rarely monotonous. There was always a question of which matters to solve first. His superior, for example, might give instructions, but after Stepan thought about it for a while, he could come to still another conclusion. So, he would go back and coordinate, in order not to disobey his commander’s rules.
It was a creative process. A matter might be resolved in a month, or it might take a year—or years. You didn’t look to find results in a given period—it didn’t happen that way. Unforeseen circumstances usually arose. Who, for example, could have predicted Oswald’s marriage to Marina? Sometimes a task cannot be resolved, no matter how hard you try.
Asked if one of his digressions from work was playing chess, he says: “Playing chess, checkers, or dominoes was not appropriate—only for loafers. It was different if you smoked in order to wind down a little—there was a place where people who needed their dose of nicotine could go.” But he was not in that category. Whenever he felt tired—although generally he was full of energy and health—he would visit a co-worker, someone he was close to. They would talk for ten or fifteen minutes, then go back to their desks. And when he had a little time after lunch, he did like to play chess, but was hardly what you would call one of the strongest players, merely third class. He did it for pleasure. During summer, on lunch break, he would play volleyball. While not tall, he was good at defense, and his hook shot was pretty good. He relaxed that way.
KGB workers would often hang around after work. Some would stay to play chess and then justify it to their wives by saying it was necessary for work. But he almost never lied to his wife. And he never delayed that long; he didn’t abuse his domestic privileges. Played a game, had a laugh, washed up, went home. Usually, when she knew he would be late, his wife timed her dishes to match his arrival. In fact, she wouldn’t eat by herself, even if sometimes he came very late. To this day, such a tradition still stands. He comes home and says, “Why didn’t you eat?” and she says, “I was waiting for you.” “Why did you spend all that time waiting?” Her reply: “I can’t do it alone.”
Of course, whatever his wife cooked, he was happy to receive. He would come home and eat with gusto. Everything was fine, and he would get rid of stress that way. Leaving work, you see something interesting in a store, you go in, so on. Their domestic life was a little easier because his wife worked too. So, they put their children in a twenty-four-hour kindergarten for five days a week. Only during weekends did they see their kids. On Mondays, they brought
them in to work. There was a bus waiting that took children of KGB personnel to the outskirts of Minsk, where there was a nice kindergarten located in a dacha that had once belonged to a former Minister. While it made things easy around their house, you could say that in terms of the children’s upbringing, these weren’t your best conditions. Still, kindergarten was strict, and his children did not turn out spoiled—that’s good, too.
For entertainment, he would go to the theatre or cinema. He liked the Russian National Choir, and most sporting events. He was a big hockey fan and he often watched soccer, but Stepan couldn’t stand boxing—it was face-bashing. He liked to read books so long as his vision was still good. Journals and the daily press as well—that goes without saying. It was part of his job. He saw many films as well: Cossacks of the Don, Swineherder and Shepherd—he liked upbeat films, but didn’t go for dramatic situations; they affected his nervous system and got him upset. His passion, however, was fishing. He could say that he is ready to fish anywhere: lakes, rivers, any body of water, winter, summer, any wind or season.
Asked to criticize himself, Stepan would state that, as a person, “I feel I was really too tough with my children. I disciplined them a lot and I think maybe some children need more softness. I am too impatient with certain people. I like it that when people talk, they talk sense. Discreet and brief. But, you know, people are different. Some people want to express themselves more emotionally, and I was not patient. If somebody starts to blab and blab, I interrupt, I direct conversation to what I see as the essence of the matter. But one should be more patient. Not all people are like me.
“On the other hand, when I was devoting all my attention to work, I didn’t always pay attention to important events. I would overlook a colleague’s birthday. As for my wife’s birthday, I would not forget. For decency’s sake, you should make things pleasant, for your wife and for people around you, your co-workers, your family.”
Asked one more time to give his opinion of Oswald’s case, he says it proved to be “primitive—a basic case,” because it did not involve anyone of extreme intelligence. Nor did it cost too much money. Oswald did not have a large circle of friends and was not erratic in his behavior. It wasn’t as if one week he had three friends and by the following week had accumulated twenty so they had to increase their budget immediately to watch twenty people instead of three. No, this case was simple because it did not have variables, it did not fluctuate, and finally there wasn’t much that really raised a lot of new questions.
4
On the Turn of the Year
FROM KGB TRANSCRIPTS FOR OBJECT: OLH-2727 FOR PERIOD: 31 DEC. 61
LHO: You won’t look good in this dress.
WIFE: Why?
LHO: It’s too open.
WIFE: Where is it open? It’s nice.
LHO: Doesn’t go.
WIFE: Now, my shoes are a different matter! They don’t go with this at all . . .
LHO: You really don’t know how to dress, I swear!
WIFE: Buy me different shoes.
LHO: Those are nice shoes.
WIFE: That’s true. But they’re no good for winter. They’re white. There are winter shoes and summer shoes.
(LHO goes into the kitchen and comes right back)
LHO: Are you going to put on a jacket?
WIFE: What jacket? I don’t have any jackets. Do you think it’ll make a difference [to the Zigers] if they see that it looks bad?
LHO: Yes!
WIFE: It’s a simple dress.
LHO: No, it’s not nice!
WIFE: Well, I can’t put this one on. It’s full of holes . . . I don’t know what to wear.
LHO: Everything will be fine! Everything will be just wonderful.
WIFE: You know that no one needs me.
LHO: Jesus, what about Oswald? (kisses her) People are going to look at us and say, There’s a handsome pair!
WIFE: Handsome! (laughs) In that case, I’ll go in a skirt and sweater. You’ll just have to be embarrassed. (pause) If there were something to wear, I would dress better than you, better than your Americans.
(they laugh)
WIFE: If I had been wearing these shoes when we first met, you wouldn’t have danced with me.
(they laugh)
So much had happened to them in a year. We can wonder if at the Zigers’ party that will welcome the arrival of 1962 they will recollect their previous New Year’s Eve. Lee had spent it with Ella and her family; Marina had been with Sasha, then with Konstantin.
Jan. 2
Dear Mother,
Well, I have pretty good [hopes] we shall receive our visas about the middle of February, which means we may arrive in the U.S. about the 1st of March give or take a month or so.
I would like you to do something important for us. Get in touch with the Red Cross in Vernon and ask them to contact an organization called “International Rescue Committee” or any organizations which aid persons from abroad [to] get resettled. There are many such organizations.
We need $800.00 for two tickets from Moscow to New York and from N.Y. to Texas . . . You can tell the Red Cross . . . that both of us have now received Soviet exit visas to leave the Soviet Union . . .
We only need money for the tickets now.
Ask them to contact the American Embassy, Moscow, for information . . . I want you to try to get the money through some organization, and not try to collect it yourself, alone.
Do not, of course, take any loan, only a gift, and don’t send your own money . . .
We received your Christmas card with photos. They were very good; both of us enjoyed them very much.
Write soon,
Love,
Lee1
On receiving this a couple of weeks later, Marguerite Oswald proceeded to act upon it at once, and would remember every detail when she related the event to the Warren Commission two years later.
MARGUERITE OSWALD. So when I entered the Vernon Red Cross . . . I told the young lady, showed her the letter and showed her the paper . . .
She said, “What is your son doing in Russia?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
“You are his mother and you don’t know what he is doing in Russia?”
I said, “Young lady, I said I do not know what he is doing in Russia.”
“Well, I think anybody goes to Russia doesn’t need any help to get back, they should stay over there.”
So I said, “I am not interested in your personal opinion. I need help. Would you please contact, give me the address of the International Rescue Committee so I can continue to try to get money for my son to come home?”
She did not know of any address for the International Rescue Committee . . .
Now this young lady [in Vernon Red Cross] was very, very regalish. She didn’t want to help anybody going to Russia. So when . . . I called her at her home and told her that I had the address from the State Department of the International Rescue Committee, and would she be so kind enough to come to the office and write the letter for me.
She said, “Well, Mrs. Oswald, I don’t have a key.”
This is on a Saturday morning and she is in the courthouse.
I said, “Do you mean to tell me you are in charge of the Red Cross and you don’t have a key?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, young lady, you have delayed me 4 days and I don’t like your attitude. I am going to ask you especially to make a point to come to the office and get this in the mail for me. It is very important.”
So, reluctantly, after much persuasion, she came.
So she wrote the letter to the International Rescue Committee, and handed it to me, and I mailed the letter—I mailed the letter.2
5
Pen Pals
January 4
I am called to the [Soviet] Passport Office since my residential passport expires today. Since I now have a U.S. passport in my possession, I am given a totally new residential passport called “Passport for Foreigners” . . .
[It’s] good till July 5, 1962.
They are so confident they will be able to leave in a few weeks. He will have his new passport, she has her exit visa; his mother will convince some charitable American organization to give them a gift. Maybe they can even travel before their baby is born. When you push a wall and the wall begins to move, it is natural to be optimistic.
Shocks await them. Bureaucratic snags. Questions about his defection begin to circulate in inter-office memos at State. Concerns arise in the Department of Justice: Are they being asked to aid an American Communist and his Soviet wife? And who will guarantee support for Marina?
Letters circulate through January and early February 1962. Oswald will send three to the Embassy in Moscow before the month is out, and two to the International Rescue Committee. He writes seven letters to his mother in the next two months and four to Robert Oswald; he receives six letters from the American Embassy in the same two months. In Washington, over the preceding two years, inter-office memos concerning him have been passing back and forth at the State Department, more than ten in 1959 and early 1960, twenty or more in the last year. A certain division of opinion has developed at State on whether Oswald is to be helped in this repatriation project. It cannot be said that the arrogance he exhibits in his letters proves endearing to American officials, but who is to say that his tactics are not effective?
Oswald's Tale Page 29