THE TRACE OF THE WOLF
A man on his way to freedom
Siegfried Wittwer
Horistorical Aventure Novel
Better to die fighting for freedom then be a prisoner all the days of your life.
Bob Marley
Text Copyright © 2020 Siegfried Wittwer
Proofreading: Michelle Williams
Cover picture: fotolia
All rights reserved.
The plot of the novel is fictitious, but it is based on true events.
Dedication
For my father Karl, who fled the Russian captivity and walked on foot to Berlin.
For Tima Bekow, who for his faith had to work hard in a penal colony in Siberia.
For the priest Alexej Proschin, who escaped the KGB and spent his life in the wilderness of Siberia.
For Dasha, his fiancée, whose life and happiness were destroyed in a penal colony.
For Professor Jarew, who was murdered by the KGB.
Table of Contents
The Escape
The Wilderness
The Hunt
The cave
The Wolf
Head over heels
The Hermit
The gold prospectors
The professor and the girl
The border
Epilog
The Escape
A magpie flew up screaming as the 4th. brigade of the penal colony Djatlowo turned onto the forest road leading to the camp. Her warning cries appeared to the twenty-five-year-old Mischka like a bad omen. His escape plans were really well thought out. Again and again he went through all the details in his mind in order to eliminate mistakes.
But now, doubts arose in him. Were there too many risks? Maybe the guards would see through his plans, maybe he'd get hurt. Even a sprained ankle could question the success of his escape. Mischka didn't even want to think about a gunshot wound.
He could be discovered by chance. Perhaps he didn’t have enough strength for the sixty-two miles to the freight station in Surgut? After all, he wasn't a well-trained top athlete, and he was all on his own. After that? Would he be able to survive in the Siberian wilderness like the natives of the land with primitive tools?
Mischka wiped the sweat off his forehead. Despite the coolness of the early summer evening, a heat wave passed through his body. Now that he needed all his strength so badly, he felt tired and exhausted. His muscles were paralyzed. He had to end this pondering and put aside his negative thoughts!
They were only a few yards away from the beaten path that led to a brook when Nikita and Semjon began to argue with each other, according to plan, as agreed with Mischka.
"You damn rascal stole my salt!", Semjon yelled at Nikita. "Give it back to me now"
"I guess you're quite drunk," the giant returned. "What should I do with your salt?"
"Don't you try to lie to me!" hissed the one whom supposedly was stolen the salt. "I know for a fact that it was you. Only you could know where I kept it."
The giant only laughed scornfully and tried to ignore Semjon, but he didn't let up.
"Scoundrel! You know exactly how dull the daily soup tastes, because our poor homeland cannot afford to buy salt for its unpaid, heavy workers."
"Then you must eat what the comrades can spare for you at great sacrifice."
◆◆◆
Mischka grinned. With their allusions, the two fighting men had finally won the attention of the guards. His plan seemed to succeed! Semjon came to him last week and had secretly put a packet of salt in his hand.
"I'm sure you'll be delighted when you graze the taiga." He shook. "Our porridge tastes pitiful, but I couldn't choke down lichen, grass and weeds, especially raw and unseasoned."
"Our ancestors weren't gourmets either and survived," Mischka encouraged himself. "In addition, during the Second World War, prisoners often fed on wild plants. My father told me about a German farmer who lived on grass for half a year during his imprisonment in Siberia."
"Well, then, enjoy your meal," Semjon said and went off whistling. Even though he found him a little crazy, he loved Michail Wulff like a brother. That's why he wanted to do everything he could to make Mischka’s escape a success. In recent weeks the young man became a symbol of hope for him, because he did not submit to the political system.
◆◆◆
In the meantime the argument became so loud that the men of the brigade, amused, gathered around the two wranglers.
"Break it up!" the officer ordered. "Get moving again. We must be in camp before sundown!"
His words fell on deaf ears. After the hard forest work, the fight was a welcome change for the men. That's why they didn't care about the lieutenant's orders.
"Give me back my salt on the spot," Semjon shouted, red-faced and struck the giant on the chest.
"Yes, give it to him!" the audience cheered him on and applauded. "Finish him off, Semjon Dubitzky!"
"You're getting on my nerves, you little toad," Nikita growled angrily. He grabbed his slim opponent by the quilted jacket and lifted him up like a straw doll. Semjon kicked his legs wildly and screamed full of anger: "You uncouth block! You cattle! Let me down right now!"
The men around loudly laughed and applauded.
At that very moment, Mischka jumped into the forest, ran a few yards down the beaten path, turned suddenly to the left and after a few steps, fell under a thick bush. Not a moment too soon!
An AK-47 barked. Lead clapped into the tree trunks. Mischka ducked deeper into the bushes, curled up like a hedgehog. His heart pounded up to his neck. Now was the critical moment that decided the success of his escape.
Boots trampled down the path, past Mischka's hideout. Once again shots whipped through the forest, shredding splinters of wood from the trees to the right and left of the path. Mischka flinched with every shot, as if the bullets had penetrated his chest.
"It's no use, Jossif," he heard the voice of a soldier just a few steps away. "The guy's probably already gone. They say he's a good runner. I'm sure you can't catch him with your flat feet."
"You're right," Jossif growled angrily, "let's leave him to the search dogs. It'll be dark in half an hour anyway. Let's come home. The sooner we report the incident to Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko, the sooner we can get on his trail."
The footsteps moved away. Mischka's heart pounded so loud that he feared it would still be heard on the forest road. So far everything had gone according to plan. The guards had actually assumed that he had walked straight into the woods. That's exactly what he was expecting.
You'll have some more surprises, he thought half relieved.
From the path, the prisoners' shouts of sympathy sounded across the soldiers' curses, the order to march off, and the canvas boots crunching on the sandy path. Then it went quiet.
Mischka breathed a sigh of relief, but didn't dare move. Perhaps Lieutenant Litschenko had posted a soldier to surprise the fugitive if he dared to return to the path. So, he remained motionless for another ten minutes and listened hard to unusual sounds. But everything remained silent. Only the buzzing of bumblebees and mosquitoes penetrated his ear in the evening silence.
He stood up halfway, pushed his bag on his back, crawled to the path and peered through the branches. No one was seen. Relieved, he drove his hand through the blond hair stubbles on his head. Now came the exhausting part of his escape. At twenty-five years old, he felt at the height of his physical strength. The hard work in the woods around the penal colony had strengthened his muscles despite the poor diet. He had also used every unobserved minute to train his body and harden the soles of his feet. He felt he was in good shape.
As fast as he could, Michail Wulff ran down the beaten
path, leaving a clear trail in the grass. They should be sure of their success so that they would continue to follow the wrong path. The more overconfident a person is, the more he becomes paralyzed by depression, when he suddenly finds himself in a dead end. This lesson his pursuers would learn in the next few hours.
Arriving at the creek, Mischka put one foot in the water to leave a mark in the muddy ground. After he had rinsed the shoe off on the surface of the water, he walked back, step by step in his own tracks. He stopped at a spruce whose branches reached almost to the ground and climbed up the trunk like a squirrel. He wasn't allowed to dawdle. Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko would certainly not lose any time and would immediately start the search.
Years ago he had learned from the son of a forester how to cross a fir Forest in the treetops. Now he could apply his knowledge. He began to rock the crown of the spruce until he could grab the trunk of the neighboring tree. Then he swung over and started the same game there. When he rocked on the top of the third spruce, he was filled with a feeling of gloating joy.
Well, wait, Mischka thought, you will have to solve some riddles, if you want to catch me.
This time he almost slipped down. The crown of the fourth tree was further away than he had estimated. At the last moment, however, he was able to cling to the trunk with both hands. A red line stretched across his left palm, an insignificant but painful scratch.
Mischka took a deep breath. He couldn't get sloppy. This was not about games with young people, but about a race for freedom and life. He could not expect mercy as a political prisoner. He had been made to feel that again and again in the camp. Should he be caught, he would be beaten up and held in solitary confinement for several weeks.
Sweat ran into his eyes. He clung to the trunk with his left arm and both legs, pulled a linen cloth out of his pocket and tied it around his forehead. Then he continued his way over the treetops of the fir Forest. Over time, he got the routine and felt safer.
What would he give, if he could see the helpless faces of his pursuers down by the creek! Hopefully the bloodhounds didn't smell that he had climbed up the spruce! But if they did, that wouldn't help his pursuers either, because he hadn't sat on that tree for a long time, and the dogs couldn't follow his trail over the treetops!
It took Mischka about a quarter of an hour to get back to the forest road. He slid down a spruce with spread legs, grabbing the branches one after the other. He almost felt himself transported back to the days of his childhood, when he had often slid down fir trees, much to the annoyance of his mother, who didn't know how to clean his pants of resin. He gave her a lot of work with his adventure games.
Mischka straightened his clothes. He couldn't waste any more time. His pursuers would be arriving with the dogs shortly. So, he had to hurry!
At dusk, he began to run towards Surgut. About sixty miles to the freight station, more than twice the distance of a marathon lay ahead of him. But he'd make it! Mischka never doubted that for a moment.
◆◆◆
Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko sat with KGB Major Kurbanow over a glass of vodka in the colony administration office when Lieutenant Litschenko reported the escape of the political prisoner Michail Wulff.
"Sloppiness!" the colony chief drove up and hit the table with his flat hand. "You can't even control a small prisoner brigade with your department. Your people lack discipline! I've told you that before!"
Wdowetschenko took a deep breath to regain his self-control.
Amazing, he thought, how a glass of vodka makes the control of feelings difficult. I must take a fine line with Kurbanow if I'm to get out of here. So, watch what you say and how you say it!
"Of course, I will have this incident noted in the files, Comrade Lieutenant," he continued, calmed down, but with a hard voice. "If you continue to perform your duties so negligently, I will transfer you to prison."
The colony chief took a meaningful break to emphasize the following words: "To the furthest corners of Siberia!"
Litschenko avoided the piercing look of his superior and shuddered inwardly. This man had been scary to him from the beginning. He seemed to belong to the kind of men who would stop at nothing for their own careers.
There's nothing you can do about guys like that, he thought bitterly. They always fall on their feet, even if the regime should change.
He had no difficulty, imagining Juri Wdowetschenko as the manager of a large capitalist company that was constantly courting opportunities for advancement and was therefore trying to impress its bosses. Since he was a child, Litschenko had the horror pictures of Western exploiters and industrial tyrants in his thoughts. But undoubtedly Wdowetschenko also belonged to this type of man. Despite different political systems, they were cold, calculating and without compassion.
Litschenko had to swallow. He felt unfairly treated. What was he supposed to do about one of the prisoners unexpectedly disappearing into the forest? Is he supposed to let them work in chains all day because of the danger of escape?
So far, he had been a dutiful soldier. But every protest was pointless. Objection would only make the lieutenant colonel angrier. Wdowetschenko obviously tried to play the superior colony chief in front of the KGB major from Moscow to secure his promotion to the headquarters of the Gulag Administration. Therefore, he could not afford failures and setbacks in front of his superior. One track minded people and contracting thoughts had nothing to laugh about with him anyway. Only obedience was required, submission and blind obedience!
Major Kurbanow cleared his throat and leaned slightly forward in the armchair. With his short-cut, grey-white hair, the reserved smile and the tailor-made uniform, he looked like a gentleman. He nodded first to Litschenko and then friendly to the colony boss.
"Difficulties are a real challenge, my dear Wdowetschenko. So, don't waste precious time sending a search team. By dawn, the dogs will have certainly caught this man, and the matter is settled. You should entrust Lieutenant Litschenko with this task so that he can rehabilitate himself. To me, he seems to be a capable officer."
Litschenko changed visibly by the praise of the KGB Major: "Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, I'll bring the escaped man back to you even if I had to chase him all over Siberia. I'll vouch for that with my word as an officer!"
"A big word, Lieutenant," his superior replied with a stern look and told him to go, "but remember, the taiga is bigger and my patience is very limited."
As soon as the door had closed, the smile on Kurbanow's face froze to death. "If you want to move to headquarters, Comrade Wdowetschenko, you still have a lot to learn. Threats and intimidation paralyze small minds like this Litschenko. Praise, on the other hand, motivates them to perform at their best! You have seen with your own eyes how this fool blossomed when I called him a capable officer."
He stared coldly at the colony chief. "Stalin's methods belong in the Museum of State Security. We must not be afraid to learn from the managers of capitalist countries."
Wdowetschenko kept his mouth shut. He just missed the lesson. He was a tough man. He didn't think much of these new methods. But he had to play the teachable pupil so that this cocky bastard from Moscow would give him good grades and thus enable him to move into the upper Gulag floors.
He hated this life in the wasteland of Tjumen, seven hundred miles east of the Urals. He hated the camp with its barbed wire fences, the stinking prisoners and the drunken soldiers. He abhorred the lousy settlements of the locals, the streets littered with mud holes and the dilapidated dachas. Juri Wdowetschenko loved big cities, concert visits, culture and art. He desperately wanted to live among civilized people again, and no one would stop him, neither losers like Litschenko nor this escaped prisoner. He wouldn't stand for anyone to block his way to Moscow!
"You can't stay as you are, comrade," Kurbanow continued. "The dinosaurs became extinct because they could not adapt to new conditions. If the archaeologists of later centuries are not to dig your bones out of the Siberian ice as well,
you must be open to new things.
Soviet society has changed in the last ten years. You don't feel much of it yet in this god forsaken neighborhood, but west of the Urals, we're being watched with growing criticism. These are no longer isolated mavericks, they are broad sections of the population, and even a number of party officials no longer agree with us. That goes right to the top of the government! So, we must change our methods, otherwise history will one day repeat itself, the same way it did about Comrade Stalin."
Juri Wdowetschenko nodded. So, everyone fights for their own survival. Michail Wulff in the forests of Tjumen, Lieutenant Litschenko under pressure to succeed on his heels, he himself in the hierarchy of the KGB, and Kurbanow in the bureaucracy of Moscow. Everyone tries to secure his little happiness by ruthlessly using the welfare of others as stepladders and forcing them into the dust.
Wdowetschenko did not shun the comparison with the food chain: the big ones eat the small ones, and the big ones are eaten by even bigger ones, who are only hunted. The internal poisoning increases from step to step due to the accumulation of pollutants.
My soul is already black as night, he thought grimly, but your soul, Comrade Kurbanow, already stinks of decay!
As if to confirm the thoughts of the camp commander, the KGB major continued: "Of course you can still transfer this idiot Litschenko to Chukchis, if that seems useful to you. You just have to make it look like a promotion. The results may well be the same, but the methods, comrade, the methods must change."
◆◆◆
The moon was already above the treetops when Lieutenant Ivan Litschenko and his search team arrived on the beaten track. The shepherd dogs nervously dragged the harnesses. They knew instinctively that it was time to track down another human being, and they could not wait for the beginning of the hunt.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 1
