In the light of the headlights of a truck, the dog handlers let their animals sniff at clothes that a soldier had taken from Mischka's locker. "Search! Search! Get him!" they encouraged their animals. Then they took them down the path.
We'll have you by tomorrow evening at the latest, Litschenko thought satisfied, and then the lieutenant colonel can no longer threaten me. Perhaps even a small promotion jumps out, provided the friendly major from Moscow is still in the camp. Katja would be happy! A promotion meant an increase in pay. Then he could finally buy a new stove and give little Nikolaj a metal construction kit. Early practice. He'll be a good engineer and one day, he'll have it better than his father.
Three of the search dogs stormed past the spruce, which Mischka had climbed up. Only an older, more experienced Shepherd dog hesitated and sniffed at the trunk. Jossif Karatajew pulled the harness impatiently. "You shall not hunt squirrels," he cursed, "but men! Stupid fool!"
Down by the creek, the rest of the pack was yapping.
"Come on, now, or we'll miss something." Karatajew dragged the reluctant dog to the riverbank.
Ivan Litschenko, who had observed the scene, followed them thoughtfully. A deep suspicion caught him. He just didn't know how to describe it.
The trail ended in the water.
"This Mischka is really a bright boy," Jossif admitted, "but it won't do him any good."
"We'll split into four groups," Lieutenant Litschenko ordered. "Then we can search both sides of the creek east and west at the same time. That scumbag must have left the creek somewhere. Once a group finds his trace, immediately report a precise position to the others via radio. You got that?"
The men nodded and rubbed their hands. The hunting fever was still burning in them. They could not have imagined the trials and tribulations that awaited them. Mud and scrub were merciless opponents of their search in the darkness of the night.
◆◆◆
Mischka had already covered about ten miles when the shepherd dogs were put on his trail. He had walked the course in a slow trot, alert and always ready to jump sideways into the bushes should anyone meet him unexpectedly.
Now he saw in the distance the headlights of the lorry that had set off his pursuers. When they went out, he knew the hunt had begun.
"Have fun, comrades," he shouted into the darkness in a low voice and grinned like a schoolboy playing a trick on his class teacher.
Mischka decided to take a short break. He pulled the linen boots off his feet. He had reinforced the soles with felt inserts to cushion the impact of his body weight when he walked. From a bag he picked out a piece of butter and began to grease his feet carefully. He had to do everything he could to delay the blistering for as long as possible. Fat was a good way to do that. Then he slipped back into his boots, opened his jacket and trousers to grease the armpits, the nipples and the inside of his thighs. He wasn't allowed to get sore. Sore spots could make every step unbearable.
It was a strange feeling to pull the clothes over the buttered skin, but he had seen marathon runners with blood streaming from their breasts, because they thought this precaution was unnecessary.
Mischka filled his drinking bottle at a brook and added a pinch of salt to compensate for the mineral loss caused by sweating. Lack of salt could lead to cramps and thus question the success of his escape. He also had to drink as much as he could. Then he could do better. Only when one drank more than the body actually demanded could one endure such exertions over a longer period of time. He'd learned that years ago in gym class. Fortunately, there were no problems with the water supply, because a brook accompanied the road.
After he had tied his jacket around his hip, Mischka continued on his way. As a child he had been a good sportsman. However, he had never been enthusiastic about long distance races. Therefore he had rarely run more than ten miles in training.
"Crazy," Mischka thought out loud, "untrained as you are, you think you can keep up an ultra-long distance run."
Of course, he hadn't really stumbled into this adventure unprepared. As often as he could, he strengthened his calves and thigh muscles with systematic exercises. Five hundred squats did not cause him any problems. But running was different from gymnastics. Muscles and tendons were more stressed by the vibrations of jumping alone.
Mischka decided to alternate between slow trotting and brisk walking. Thus the individual muscle groups were relieved and could recover in the meantime. As soon as he switched to trot, he made only small steps and ran on the sandy ground, so that he would not strain his joints excessively. He soon felt that his considerations had been correct, because after about two hours he still felt quite fresh.
◆◆◆
Lieutenant Ivan Litschenko cursed as loudly as he could. For three hours he and his men had combed the swampy bank of the watercourse and found no trace. The other groups informed by radio that they had been just as unsuccessful. Tired, exhausted, covered in mud and sweat, the men squatted on the shore.
"This guy can't wade through a stream for hours on a pitch-black night without accidentally touching the shore or getting completely wet," one of the soldiers complained.
"Maybe he didn't walk down the creek at all," Jossif Karatajew said.
"You must have exhaustion hallucinations!" the soldier hit him. "Where else does his footprint come from in the shallow water on the shore?"
"It was just a shoe print," Jossif replied. "That doesn't prove anything. He must have tried to lure us onto the wrong track to buy him some time."
"Say that again," Litschenko shouted to him. A suspicion arose in him. Somehow he had already suspected it, but now the picture became clearer.
"Well, I think the kid set us up," Jossif repeated. "Surely he squats on a spruce and laughs at us, while we crawl through the mud like idiots. My dog knew it, but I didn't want to believe him." Jossif lovingly scratched his shepherd dog's ears.
◆◆◆
Litschenko jumped up as if stabbed by a tarantula. "That's exactly what I was thinking. Come on, everybody back to our starting point! We have to catch Michail Wulff before the midday roll call!"
The soldiers rose up with stiff limbs and without enthusiasm. They were tired and exhausted. There was no trace of their hunting zeal. They had imagined the pursuit to be easier: A short chase, the prisoner's frightened face in the bushes, and then the victorious homecoming. This is how an escaped man's hunt usually went. This time, however, the search operation degenerated into a hard day's work.
"Move your lazy bellies faster," Lieutenant Litschenko cursed angrily, "Wdowetschenko has promised to take each of us to the end of the world when we return home empty-handed! So, take to your heels if you don't want to live in East Siberia!"
That worked!
Ivan Litschenko thought that fear motivates better than comradeship. He was aware that he had sunk to Wdowetschenko's level. But he did not want to jeopardize the welfare of his own family by respecting the inertia of men.
Two hours later, shaking their heads, they stood under the spruce, which Jossif recognized immediately, and lit up the treetops with their torches. The remaining search teams had also joined them in the meantime after they had been informed by radio.
"Apparently this guy climbed up the tree, but didn't come down again," Litschenko puzzled. "He isn’t up there anymore either. He can't have disappeared into thin air or made off over the treetops!"
"Why not?" Jossif Karatajew thoughtfully interjected. "Maybe he climbed from tree to tree to cover his tracks."
Litschenko's knees became soft. Panic rose in him. He had underestimated this Michail Wulff! By his officer's honor, he had sworn to bring the convict back. By his officer's honor! Like it had any value left!
In the last few years, all he had done was dirty work: Guarding and hunting humans. He hadn't dreamed of that when he started his officer's career. He wanted to defend his fatherland, become a hero of the people, ensure the safety and well-being of his fellow countrymen. But for years he was
nothing more than a jailer and slave driver. Instead of protecting his fellow men, he had to force them into forced labor, hunt them down and punish them. What an honor for an officer of the USSR!
If he did not catch this man and bring him back to the camp, he was threatened with degradation, transfer to prison and a future without hope. What was to become of his family, little Nikolaj and his wife? He had to find Michail Wulff at any cost! But where should he begin his search?
Ivan Litschenko decided to create a large circle around the forest with two groups in order to be able to pick up the prisoner's trail again. They had to go on even though they were exhausted and discouraged. A rain shower would blur the trail. Even a bloodhound couldn't find it then.
"And then God's mercy on us!" Litschenko thought, even if he was not a religious man.
Disgruntled the two groups set themselves with the dogs in motion. Fear but also anger filled them and drove them forward.
◆◆◆
The "low point" hit Mischka like a punch in the stomach. Three hours earlier he had already felt a tiny tension in his lower leg, the first warning sign of a muscle cramp. But through stretching and loosening exercises these cramps had eased again.
He also drank more water from that time on to reduce the risk of cramping.
Shortly afterwards he felt a stabbing pain in his knee. But the fear of his pursuers drove him forward. Just as unexpectedly as these aching had occurred, they disappeared again. But he felt his foot and hip joints, not to mention the pressure pain under the soles of his feet. But even these pains subsided to such an extent that he could bear them. Mischka was seized by an elation. Deeply, he sucked in the cool night air, clenched his fist and shouted half-voiced into the darkness: "I can do it! I can do it!"
Probably his brain had started to release endorphins under the stress of physical exertion –morphine-like substances that dampened all pain and increased his euphoria.
But at two o'clock in the morning it hit him. Mischka had never experienced such a low point! Leaden tiredness lay over his consciousness and paralyzed every thought. It flickered before his eyes. The feet became so heavy that he could only shuffle them over the ground in small steps. He breathed quickly and intermittently without feeling able to pump oxygen into his body.
Mischka wiped the sweat off his forehead. Despite the physical exertion, he trembled with cold. Now he would like to drop down on the floor to sleep or at least rest for a few minutes. But he knew he wouldn't be able to stand up again.
No, don't give up! it screamed in him. Hang in there! Otherwise you're dead! If they catch you, they'll kill you.
Although he had reached the limits of his capabilities, Mischka dragged on. A hot rage went up in him. If anyone had touched him, he'd have exploded. He hated the government, the political system, the camp administration, the soldiers who persecuted him. He was furious at himself, his cheeky remarks, his desire for freedom, and his decision to dare escape.
But he dragged himself on, step by step, breath for breath. There were still about thirty miles ahead of him, and he could not imagine how he would manage this distance. But with every step, he hissed in a low voice: "I want! I can! I have to! I want! I can! I have to! ..."
◆◆◆
They were lucky, or Michail Wulff wasn't as smart and careful as they had feared in the meantime. Soon after the soldiers swarmed out, one of the shepherd dogs picked up the refugee's trail again. Actually, they could have imagined it right away, that he would return to Surgut via the treetops, to run back in the footsteps of the convict convoy. But the dogs wouldn't be fooled!
Lieutenant Litschenko was regaining hope. By radio he requested a new search party and sent his overtired soldiers back to the camp. Now it was only a question of a few hours before they would catch up with the escapee. He probably tried to make his way to the railroad tracks in two days' marches in order to continue his escape with a freight train.
Not stupid at all! Litschenko thought satisfied, but if we don't catch you beforehand, we will check every train in every station in the area down to the last screw. You can't escape us, Michail Wulff!
In the meantime, a truck with the detachment had arrived. While two dog handlers ran ahead with their animals, the rest of the crew followed on the truck. Tired, Ivan Litschenko leaned back on the passenger seat. The monotonous hum of the engine made his eyelids as heavy as lead. He felt neither the shaking and bumping of the chassis nor the strained muscles and his soaked clothes.
◆◆◆
It was a warm spring day. With little Nikolaj on the back seat, he chugged with his Ural along field and forest paths around the small settlement at the camp. Every time the motorcycle jumped through a pothole, Nikolaj cheered with joy. It was a wonderful joke for him!
Suddenly a young man in prisoner clothes stood on the way, blond, blue-eyed, and with a broad grin on his face.
Michail Wulff! It flashed through his mind. Wait, now I'm gonna get you, boy!
He jerked the throttle grip to the stop. The 750cc engine howled. The machine shot forward. He did not hear the cry of his son, nor did not feel his fear and horror. All he had left was eyes and ears for the escaped man. But just before he reached him, the man jumped sideways into the forest.
He made the brakes screech. The rear wheel slipped around and stirred up the sand. Then he ducked behind the handlebars and accelerated again. Branches clapped at his ears. But he felt no pain. The hunting fever made him numb and blind to all dangers. He had to catch that Wulff at any price! It was about the future of his son, his Nikolaj!
The motorcycle broke through the bushes and slipped onto a paddock. Far away, at the other end of the pasture, he saw Wulff. He waved at him as if he was trying to tease him. Angrily, he powered the Ural. Earth and shreds of grass sod splashed through the air. With his engine howling, he chased down the paddock.
At the end, he heard his name calling behind him. He turned around. Michail Wulff stood at the edge of the forest, where he had just started from.
"Hell!" he yelled. "Can you fly? Your tricks won't help you. I will catch you and if I had to follow you through all Siberia!"
While he turned the machine around, Wulff disappeared again between the bushes. Without slowing down, he shot after him. When he wanted to turn back on the path, the Ural slipped sideways. He overturned, slipped across the path and remained lying with cramped limbs.
Footsteps approached him. He looked up. Before him stood Michail Wulff. On his arms he carried a lifeless bundle. Blood seeped through the torn fabric. Wulff bent over him.
"Take a good look, Comrade Lieutenant. Take a good look at him, your son!"
He looked frozen into the blood-drenched face of his son. A groaning came out of his chest, a cry: "Nikolaj, what has he done to you?"
"Wake up, Comrade Lieutenant!" ordered Michail Wulff. "Can't you see you killed him yourself?"
Confused, he looked up, unable to reply.
"Yes, you have killed him – through your hatred, your blindness, your fanaticism! Wake up and look reality in the face! You're following the wrong man and ruining your own life! Wake up, Litschenko!"
"Wake up, Comrade Lieutenant!" The truck driver shook Litschenko's shoulders hard. "Man, you sleep like a bear! Exhausted from the long hunt, huh?"
Litschenko sat up from his seat and looked at the road through the windshield without understanding. Some soldiers discussed with the dog handlers and pointed again and again to the edge of the forest.
"What's the matter, Juri? What happened?" Ivan Litschenko asked hoarse, still dazed by the terrible images of the nightmare. But already his thoughts cleared up, and he knew instinctively that this Michail Wulff had already fooled them again. The track of the refugee led a second time to a spruce, this time exactly at a crossroads, and disappeared into the crown of the tree.
So, let's start all over again! Ivan Litschenko felt a strange paralysis that ran from his legs through his whole body. The images of his dream mingled with his f
ears. He heard Michail Wulff shout from the darkness of the forest: "You are chasing the wrong man, Comrade Lieutenant! Don't ruin your life!"
◆◆◆
One hour later Mischka had overcome his low point. Although he felt his hip and ankle joints with every step and also tense muscles in the lower lumbar vertebrae and between the shoulder blades, the leaden heaviness of his limbs and his dizziness were blown away. Obviously his body had finally adjusted to the excessive strain. Even though blisters under his balls and heels tortured him and he still had about twenty miles ahead of him, he was now firmly convinced that he would reach the freight station early in the morning.
Mischka laughed into the beginning twilight. In order to finally confuse his persecutors, he had climbed a spruce a second time, but had not made off again over the treetops. You always have to do the unexpected when you want to confuse someone, he thought gloatingly.
With Nikitas socks smelling of sweat over his felt boots he had returned on the way, walked a bit in the old track and then continued his escape. By the time they found his trail again, he was long gone.
◆◆◆
The sun was already on the horizon when Michail Wulff reached the freight station. Crouching, not to bump into one of the workers from the early shift, he crept from bush to bush until he reached the back of a shed. He peeked through one of the windows. No one was seen. Apparently the early shift hadn't arrived yet. Like a shadow he squeezed along the wall, and slipped through a side door into the shed.
Mischka let his gaze wander through the room, reaching for a jumpsuit and a jacket, and then quickly stuffed a few useful things into his pocket: a rusty knife, strings, two candles, an empty tin can, a handful of nails and a box of matches. Carefully he peered out of the door and limped as fast as possible to a dense bush.
A few moments later, a group of chattering railway workers turned around the corner of the shed and disappeared into the door. Laughter was heard through the open window, the clink of glasses and bottles, hearty toasts and curses. Obviously, vodka made the rounds.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 2
