For once, talk about a thaw in the cold war seemed realistic. Last week President Kennedy signed the test ban treaty, handed around 16 souvenir pens to Senators and Administration officials who were in the White House for the occasion. In response, Russia's Premier Khrushchev sent out messages of congratulation saying that the treaty opened the way to solution of "other ripe international issues."
In the new spirit, the U.S. and Russia again exchanged nationals who had been held on charges of spying. It was the second time the two countries have swapped prisoners in this fashion. The first: Communist Agent Rudolf Abel was traded for U-2 Pilot Gary Powers in 1962. In last week's exchange the U.S. released Ivan Egorov, a Soviet U.N. functionary, and his wife Alexandra, who were arrested last July in New York for espionage. In return, the Soviets let go 24-year-old Fulbright Scholar Marvin Makinen, who was sentenced to eight years in prison in 1961 on photo-taking espionage charges; and Jesuit Priest Walter Ciszek, 58, who had been arrested in Poland in 1940.
At first imprisoned and then "paroled" to work as an automobile mechanic in Siberia, Ciszek was given up for dead—until 1955 when his family got a post card from him.
Spy swaps are not notably wholesome in the context of international principle, but last week's did add substance to the thaw talk. And then, for some mysterious reason that would require a Communist mind to explain, the Russians deliberately tried to unthaw the thaw.
An Odd Impasse. The scene, as so often in the past, was the autobahn corridor that passes through Communist-ruled East Germany between West Berlin and West Germany. As a routine function, Soviet guards stop U.S. troop convoys at checkpoint stations, count the soldiers—and then wave them on.
But not last week. At roughly the same time, a 61-troop eastbound convoy and a 73-troop westbound convoy rolled into the autobahn's Marienborn checkpoint. Russian guards not only stopped both convoys but ordered that all the U.S. personnel get out and line up for head counts. Then came one of the oddest impasses of the cold war.
The commanders of the two convoys flatly refused to let their men get out of the trucks. And the Communist guards flatly refused to let the convoys continue until their orders were obeyed.
Stalemate. Rising tension. What would it all lead to? Darkness fell, and the convoy-confined U.S. troops dug into their C rations.
Finally, after 15 hours, with the same abruptness and with as little apparent reason as they had to stop them in the first place, the Soviets let the convoys go. The westbound convoy went unhindered, to its destination in West Germany. But the eastbound convoy got only 90 miles along the pike toward West Berlin when it was halted by tommy gun-toting Russian soldiers headed by a high-ranking Soviet officer. Again came the Communist command: everybody out for a head count. And again the U.S. convoy commander refused.