at 8:40 pm. Three hours later, there was a knock at the door and Smolkin opened it to Kestutis who took off his coat, which was wet with newly fallen snow. He said that he had been on his way to meet me in front of the hotel when he was surrounded by five plain clothesmen. He was taken to a police station, the same one where he was taken after his first arrest in 1947, and put in a cell. He was then interrogated by a police officer who appeared drunk and spoke in a weird combination of Russian and Lithuanian and told him he was a suspect in the robbery of the state insurance company.” “I’ve been in the camps,” Kestutis said, “I’m not going to participate in your comedy.”
In the end, we spoke for several more hours and Kestutis gave me the address of Ints Tsalitis, a Latvian nationalist in Riga and the names and addresses of dissidents in Estonia. He also made one request. He asked me to make sure my notes from Lithuania never left my hands. I agreed and at that moment, I certainly intended to keep my promise.
The next morning I flew to Riga. The train from Vilnius to Riga was closed to foreigners. After I checked into my hotel, I realized that I had filled a notebook in Vilnius and would need a new one to interview city officials. I had promised the Lithuanians that I would keep my notes with me but the notebook was an awkward size. I finally forced it into my jacket pocket and left for the interview. That afternoon, however, I put the notebook in my suitcase and locked the suitcase in my room, leaving the key with the room clerk downstairs.
When I returned to the hotel, it was already dark. I asked the girl at the reception desk for the key to my room. But she looked and said she could not find it. I went upstairs and asked the floor attendant but she did not have the key either. I was now seriously worried. I went out for a walk. When I returned, I asked the girl at the desk to check again for my key. “Here it is,” she said, reaching into a slot in the key rack, “it was here all along.”
I took the key and went upstairs to my room. The light of the street lamps cast a pale glow in the darkness through the room’s nylon curtains. I opened my suitcase and saw that the notebook from Vilnius was still there. Everything appeared untouched.
I put the notebook back into my jacket pocket and caught a cab for Vecmilgravis, outside of Riga, to meet Tsalitis. I arrived at his home at 9 pm. He welcomed me and, as we sat in his kitchen, I told him about the events in Vilnius and warned him that I was probably being followed. He put on his coat and went outside with his dog, a large St. Bernard. When he came back, he said there was a black car parked at the end of the street with four men in it. “They’ve probably been there for several hours,” he said. “They don’t have to follow you. They know there are only a few places for you to go. It saves them time and energy.”
Tsalitis said that, in general, the situation was quieter in Latvia. There were no active dissident groups or samizdat journals. “The Latvians find it easier to get along with others,” he said. “It’s a virtue but it’s also our tragedy.” A half an hour later, Viktors Kalnins, another nationalist, joined us and he and Tsalitis gave me the names and addresses of Estonian nationalists in Tallinn. I wrote them on a separate piece of paper but they were the same names Kestutis had given me in Lithuania.
The next day in Riga I visited another collective farm. That evening I checked out of the hotel and prepared to go for a walk. Once again, I had to decide what to do with my notes. I had put the notebook in my suitcase. But I did not want to take a walk carrying a suitcase. I decided to leave it with the doorman. When I returned, I opened the suitcase. It appeared that nothing had been touched.
It was only on the night train to Tallinn that I began to feel at ease. The coach poured out drinks for each of us and Masha asked me where I was from. I told her that I was an American and that I was working in Moscow for the London Financial Times.
The coach asked what women were like in the United States. I said that they were better dressed than Soviet women but not necessarily prettier. Masha asked if I believed in God. I said that I did. This puzzled her. “Here, no one believes in God,” she said. I then began to explain my views. As I continued, trying to make sense in less than perfect Russian, Masha moved slightly forward, leaning over the small table and resting her chin childishly on the rim of one of the tea glasses. The dark haired girl also fixed her eyes on me and, inexplicably relaxed, I motioned to Masha to sit beside me. She complied and although I tried to continue what I was saying, she put her arms around me and began kissing me. The coach immediately went over to the other bunk and started kissing the dark haired girl, holding her in his arms and pressing her breasts against him.
This situation did not last long because the two girls almost immediately told us to go into the corridor so they could make the beds and get undressed. Most of the other passengers in the car had retired for the night. As we waited in the corridor, it occurred to me that the women in the compartment, the offer of easy sex, were the standard techniques of entrapment but it was exactly this that allayed my fears. Putting women in an overnight train compartment was too obvious. If the goal was entrapment, the KGB would have tried something less primitive. The idea that my new friends had been seated in my compartment for no other reason than to compromise me was just too incredible to believe.
When we entered the compartment, the women were in their nightgowns. Masha was sitting on the upper bunk, her breasts and a crucifix visible through the opening of her gown. The dark haired girl was lying on her side on the bottom bunk. We began to undress and the boxing coach turned off the overhead lamp so the only light came from the reading lights above each of the berths. I climbed into the upper berth and the coach got into the lower berth. The small lights were then turned off, leaving nothing to illuminate what went on until several hours later when the first filtering rays of sunlight indicated the break of day.
During the night, I was troubled by a strange dream. There was an indistinct image of the dark haired girl moving around the compartment as if she was making preparations to leave. After I had opened my eyes, I became concerned about my suitcase. I pulled on my pants and climbed down from the upper bunk. The fields and forests looked blue in the early morning light. The coach was already dressed and sitting on the opposite lower berth. The girls were asleep in their beds. Joking with the coach, I reached for my suitcase. It was then that I discovered that it was gone.
Suddenly, the coach began feeling the pockets of his jacket. “Wait a minute,” he said, “my watch is gone!”
He looked down at the bunk where the dark haired girl was sleeping, curled up in a tight ball facing the wall. He pulled back the top blanket and under it found other blankets tightly rolled from the inside out and arranged to create the impression of a sleeping person. I woke up Masha Ivanova and asked her what she knew about the dark haired girl. She said that she had met her that evening for the first time. I called the attendant and asked her if she had noticed anyone leaving the train in the middle of the night. I explained that I had lost my suitcase and the boxing coach had lost his watch. She promised to alert the police.
The train arrived in Tallinn at 8:30 am and we were met by the police and taken to their headquarters in the station. The police made clear that they viewed the case with the utmost seriousness. They insisted that we write detailed statements and stressed that any omission could impair the investigation. The coach and Masha wrote their statements and then Masha helped me to write mine. Reading the statements, the officer in charge began to wonder. “Two men and two women in one compartment,” he said, his voice trailing off thoughtfully.
I now faced a dilemma of my own making. My notes from Lithuania were gone. It was urgent that I find the Estonian dissidents whose names and addresses were in my suitcase. Fortunately, I also had written them down on a piece of paper that was in my wallet.
We left the station and got in a line at the taxi stand. It was a cool, foggy morning and behind us, the Upper City of Tallinn, with its medieval walls and spires, was wreathed in mist. A jeep pulled up and a policeman offered us a ride. We were taken
