The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  What have you done to our people, Mischka thought bitterly. Instead of motivated, future-oriented people, we have become a bunch of day thieves and drunks. With vodka in the morning, botch-jobs and loafing, we have no future.

  You officials are blind to the tons of rotten food and the inferior junk our workers produce. You can only see the performance of your weapons and enjoy the technical toys of space travel like children. By this you measure the usefulness of socialism. You have lost sight of your original goal of raising the standard of living of the people and educating people to become self-motivated personalities!

  Mischka moved further away from the shed, although he did not have to fear being discovered by the men. He must have been safe from them for the next hour. Nevertheless, he retreated further into a thicket. You never know. Being careless only once, not paying attention only once, has already brought many a misfortune or even cost their life!

  With stiff limbs, he stripped off his sweaty prison clothes, washed the sweat out of his eyes with a handful of water and tried to put on the jumpsuit. It was almost a feat of strength. After his body had found some rest, he suddenly felt the consequences of the strain. The body's pain signals could no longer be suppressed.

  The burst blisters on his feet burned like fire. Every muscle fiber screamed for rest and threatened to cramp. His foot and hip joints hurt with every movement. He needed a few days' rest. But he wasn't safe yet.

  Mischka stuffed the sweaty clothes into his bag, threw his jacket over his shoulders and limped back to the freight station with stiff limbs. A series of wagons stood on the rail tracks waiting to be loaded with new freight. Mischka knew that every morning freight trains left the station, to which a series of newly loaded wagons were attached.

  Spying on all sides, he tried to find a wagon that was going southwest this morning. Ten minutes later, he breathed a sigh of relief. Sverdlovsk stood on the shield, the city at the foot of the Urals. Date and place were right. This morning the transport left, always towards civilization and home. A strong set of cards in his hands and bad hand of cards for his pursuers, because they would surely suspect that he wanted to go back to Russia if he only left them a clear trail.

  In fact, he wanted to disappear into the wilderness of Siberia for a few months, until dust had settled over his file. He wanted to live like the natives of this continent and thus gain experience and knowledge. Later, as an archaeologist and historian, he would certainly be able to use this knowledge.

  Stop dreaming! he ripped himself from his thoughts. You have a long way to go before you can live normally again.

  With all his might, he pushed the door of the wagon open a crack. Sacks of cement piled up just below the ceiling. Not an ideal passenger train for an exhausted refugee! But he had no choice. Mischka pulled himself laboriously into the car and pushed the sliding door back into the lock. Then he climbed up the sacks. Suddenly a cramp twitched through his right calf. He screamed in pain.

  To relieve the spasm, he pushed the tips of his toes against the sacks and tried to stretch his leg. Like a knife thrust, a second spasm shot through the thigh. Desperately he clung to a sack and gritted his teeth so hard that they crunched. Sweat stood in thick drops on his forehead.

  "Relax, boy", he gasped, "Relax."

  With all his might, he tried to concentrate on releasing the cramp. His mind had to control the body, not the cramped muscles and nerves to irritate his mind. As he imagined oxygenated blood flowing into his leg muscles, warming and loosening them, he tried to make his leg hang as relaxed as possible.

  In fact, after a few minutes, he felt the cramps begin to subside. Without putting any further strain on his right leg, he finally pulled himself up on the sacks and crawled deeper into the wagon between the ceiling and the cargo.

  "That's what I thought," he laughed out loud. "In front are the good products and the back are the remnants."

  He saw the trademark of the communist economic system in the shimmer of the sunlight falling through the cracks in the car wall. After the third row of cement bags there was a gap. About twenty to thirty bags were missing, so that Mischka had enough space to make himself comfortable.

  If Marx and Lenin are right that a corrupt political system turns people into thieves and fraudsters, then communism is one of them. History has once again pronounced its verdict on you, gentlemen! But, he continued, perhaps neither the state nor society will make a person a scoundrel. Perhaps there is a dark power, deep within us that guides and determines us in spite of all good intentions. Maybe this Tima Bekow is right, that powers of good and evil fight for us.

  He wiped away the thought of this slim boy in the camp, spread out his sweaty clothes to dry, and adjusted a few cement bags to create a comfortable hollow. Then he took another sip from his water bottle and sank back with a sigh.

  Silence at last! The freight train wouldn't arrive in Sverdlovsk for three days. That meant some time of rest for him. He desperately needed it. Mischka closed his eyes and tried to relax despite twitching muscle fibers.

  In his mind he was still on his way, running with heavy limbs and burning feet through the darkness of the night, running towards freedom, dogged, the fear in his neck and yet full of hope.

  How long he had slept, he could not tell. But he awoke by the screeching of the train brakes. It was pitch-black. Something heavy fell on him and squeezed his chest. Panting, he tried to free himself. But his legs were paralyzed. Every movement hurt. His thinking was sluggish, hazy and confused. Panic rose in him as he struggled for air and tried to free himself from the weight on his chest.

  Slowly his thoughts cleared up again. He was lying in the wagon of a freight train. Two cement bags had slipped on him during the braking manoeuvre and took his breath away.

  Mischka pressed against the sacks with all his might and groaning turned out among them. He rubbed the painful ribs and tried to orient himself. In the meantime it became night, because no light shone through the cracks of the car wall. According to a cautious estimate, he must have slept at least fifteen hours without noticing the wagon docking and the train leaving.

  Mischka was cold. He felt like a consumptive. He had to eat something. After finding his bag again in the dark, he dragged out a piece of sticky black bread and chewed it slowly to salivate it well and make it digestible faster.

  An oncoming train thundered past. Then the locomotive started moving again. Mischka took another sip from his water bottle and felt new powers flowing through his body.

  A human need gave him the idea of how he could further mislead his followers. He crawled into the rear part of the wagon and urinated extensively over the cement bags. "Here's my scent badge, comrades, so your dogs know where my territory is."

  Satisfied, he huddled back into his den to sleep for a few more hours. Early in the morning he wanted to leave the train to continue his escape to the east.

  Always towards the sun, while you search in vain for me in the west, Mischka thought contentedly, while his eyes closed again.

  Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko raved. Michail Wulff had escaped them. Basically, that wasn't so tragic. There were attempts by prisoners to escape in all penal colonies. Most were recaptured within a few hours or days. They knew that in Moscow, too. But this was about his promotion!

  He had tried to show Major Kurbanow an exemplary camp to demonstrate his own ability, and now this embarrassing incident! If Lieutenant Litschenko had dragged a completely exhausted Wulff through the camp gate at least within the next ten hours, this could perhaps have been interpreted as a sign of a well-trained team. But this loser had returned early in the morning empty-handed.

  Wdowetschenko immediately gave the order to set up guard posts on the premises of the freight station in Surgut. He didn't let anybody fool him. The railway line was the only way to quickly escape from the vicinity of the camp. As far as he knew, this Wulff was a sporty man. He thought it was possible that the convict could march the nearly sixty-two miles in 20 ho
urs. Wdowetschenko did not know that well-trained athletes need less than half of the estimated time. Even if he had heard of it before, he did not believe that any of the prisoners would be able to do so.

  To be on the safe side, he alerted the militia of all the stations along the route from Surgut to Tjumen in the morning. If Michail Wulff were to hide in a freight train, despite his precautions, he would be discovered the next day at the latest.

  Wdowetschenko could not know that at this time Mischka was already heading for freedom in a train that only interrupted the journey to Sverdlovsk for a short stopover in Tjumen.

  When one day later the wagons of this train were checked there, nothing suspicious was found. It was not until the morning after next that a worker in Sverdlovsk reported an irregularity in wagon no. 27 to his superior. A note about it reached the desk of the completely overloaded KGB, and operative officer Moissejew, who read it only three days later and darkly remembered the news of a lieutenant colonel in Djatlowo that there may have been a runaway convict in one of the southwest-bound freight trains.

  Moissejew therefore instructed his secretary to telegraph the camp commandant that the trail had been recorded in Sverdlovsk, but that it was not yet possible to give exact details. Further information would follow if a detailed description of the prisoner arrived at his office. The telegram was not sent until the afternoon because the secretary did not want to do without her lunch break. But Moissejew was no longer interested in this. He had other worries than playing the errand boy of some camp commander.

  A few hours ago, Moscow had given the order to start a targeted action against the non-registered Christians of his district. So he had his hands full to keep up with the demands of the KGB. Spies had to be recruited to sneak into the various groups and collect indictments. Not an easy task, because Nikita Chruschtschow's punitive actions against the Christian free churches had not yet been forgotten and had made their members careful. So he had to come up with something if he wanted to succeed.

  The Wilderness

  Michail Wulff fought his way through the dense undergrowth of an overgrown forest. Every step was torture. Muscles, foot and hip joints hurt with every movement. The chafed skin between the legs and under the arms burned like fire, in addition came the burst blisters on the feet. Still, he felt good. His escape had been successful, until now at least.

  He had jumped off the train at dawn when it had slowed down on a slope. To the west a steppe landscape spread out interspersed with bushes, while on the other side of the tracks there was a dense forest. He wanted to hide there to recover from the strains of the run.

  At the railway embankment he discovered some evening primroses, whose pale yellow flowers open in the evening and wilt the next morning. "That's a good start,” Mischka encouraged himself as he dug up the turnip-shaped, fleshy roots. "Cooked in salted water and steamed with butter, Rapunzel is said to give more strength than a hundredweight of ox meat. Let's see if that's true."

  Carefully avoiding all traces, he then submerged in the forest. He imagined the hike to be easier, but undergrowth and fallen trees made his way difficult. Again and again Mischka leaned against a tree trunk, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He needed rest and relaxation. His body was drained.

  After about an hour the forest thinned out unexpectedly. The morning sun broke through the treetops with silver rays. Millions of dew drops hung on grasses and spider webs and glittered in the sunlight like flawless diamonds. Last swaths of the morning mist floated like disheveled cotton balls between the tree trunks. Birds chirped in the twigs, a woodpecker knocked tirelessly his "Tock, Tock", and insects scurried humming through the interplay of light and shadow.

  Mischka stood next to a mossy tree root for minutes and tried to absorb the beauty of the untouched wilderness with all his senses. He wasn't an emotional guy, but that sight made his mood skyrocket. All the hardships of his escape had paid off for that alone!

  Even now he could no longer imagine having to live in the barbed wire fenced camp, with its grey barracks and loamy paths, with the fixed, uniform daily routine and the harsh voices of the guards. He was finally free, and freedom was indescribably beautiful! Never again would he return to the slavery of the communist system! He swore that to himself again.

  Mischka had to tear himself away almost violently from the image that nature offered him. He would have loved to have it in a painting, but his battered body reminded him that he had to quickly find a place where he could rest for several days, undetected and prepare his further escape. He continued on his way, tired and hungry, but with all his willpower.

  Three hours later he saw water shimmering between the trees. As fast as he could, he limped towards it. But then he forced himself to be careful. He wasn't allowed to run into the clearing like a stupid schoolboy. After all, it was possible for people to be there. Spying on all sides, he sneaked on until he had reached the edge of the forest.

  In front of him a lake spread out, about the size of two soccer fields, with clear, green shimmering water and white-yellow sand, surrounded by small grass areas, bushes and mixed forest. Mischka's heart beat faster. What lay ahead of him was the purest holiday paradise. This lake was simply fantastic! Crouching behind a bush, he carefully checked the shores, but nothing indicated that there were people here. Not satisfied, he climbed up a spruce and let his gaze wander over the treetops. As far as the eye could see, he only saw forest. There was no sign of a human settlement, no traitorous smoke, no straight line that betrayed a path. He was alone in the wilderness, far away from civilization, far from the slave drivers of the camp.

  He slipped down the branches of the spruce, in the manner he was trained in. After that, there was no stopping him. He stripped off his clothes, hobbled to the shore and jumped into the clear water. Snorting Mischka showed up again, took a breath and disappeared again. The cool water was a relief. It washed the burning sweat off the sore skin and revived the whole body.

  Back at the surface of the water, Mischka drank greedily until he felt full and satisfied. Then he rolled and slipped back into the ponds’ depths. The bottom of the lake was covered with sand, so that he could see far under water. A silver shadow flitted by.

  Fish! Mischka shot it through his mind. There's fish here!

  If he could catch some of them, his meals would certainly not become monotonous! He swam to the other side of the lake with strong strokes and drifted along the shore. Behind a narrow split, the bushes opened up and gave a view of a creek that meandered further east through the forest.

  Mischka laughed. It was like Christmas and Easter at the same time. The lake was fed by underground springs, hence the first-class water quality. However, the stream connected it with other waters, so that fish had migrated. He could also follow the stream himself later and did not need to worry about drinking water.

  Carefree and happy Mischka swam back to the shore and let himself fall into the warm sand. He closed his eyes and dreamed. So, you could enjoy life. But then his sense of duty drove him up again. First, his sweaty clothes had to be washed so that they could dry in the afternoon sun until evening. Otherwise, he'd have a cold night.

  He got back on his feet, took his clothes, except for the railway worker's jacket, and washed them carefully on the shore of the lake. Again and again he turned them together, beat them hard into the shallow water and washed them out afterwards. After wringing them out, he stretched one of the stolen strings between two trees and hung up the laundry.

  "You'll be a good housewife,” Mischka said to himself as he watched the linen fluttering in the summer wind. Then he washed his canvas boots and hung them with the soles removed, over two branches stuck into the sand, so that they could dry in the sun as well.

  Only now was he satisfied and withdrew into the semi-shade of a tree. He couldn't afford a sunburn. His chafed skin and blisters were enough for him. Mischka leaned back on the stretched out railway worker's jacket and tried to relax. As soon as he had closed his e
yes, he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He awoke with a slight shiver. The sun was already low above the treetops. Time for an ample supper. He also had to find and furnish a suitable place for the overnight stay.

  Mischka lolled, yawned uninhibitedly like a hippo and rose up. He scratched his stomach and legs and yawned again. The itch didn't go away. Curiously, he looked at the places where he had scratched himself. Small red hives covered the skin. Mosquitoes! That he hadn't thought of it! Throughout the afternoon he had been a willing victim to these pests. In the future he had to protect himself better from them if he didn't want to look like a smallpox patient soon.

  He quickly slipped into his underwear and jumpsuit and rolled up the camp clothes. He was not allowed to get wet in the evening coolness, so that he had something dry to wear for the night. In addition to cold and wind, the moisture would quickly cool his body. Therefore he needed dry clothes for the overnight stay outside.

  A few yards further Mischka found a fallen tree, whose trunk and root provided excellent shelter from the wind. With his hands, he dug a shallow hollow that corresponded approximately to his body measurements. Then he broke needle-fine, dry branches of a spruce, turned them into a firm bundle and laid them next to the hollow over two arm-thick beech branches, in the shape of a pyramid. He then layered finger-thin branches, which later became thicker and thicker, over this kindling fire, but left a narrow opening through which the bundle of fir branches was to be lit. Finally, he drilled a strong branch into the sand to hang the water-filled tin can.

  The fire already burned with the first match, no wonder with the dry and well thought-out stacked woodpile! Squatting next to the lambent flames, Mischka peeled two of the turnip-shaped roots of the evening primroses, cut them into small pieces and threw them into the tin. While the roots were cooking, he was washed the young stinging nettle leaves, always careful to go over the leaves with a stroke, so that the nettle hairs would not penetrate his skin. He discovered the white umbels of a bear's garlic colony with its lily-of-the-valley-like leaves and triangular stems. He hurriedly dug out one of the thin onions and added it into the tin. A fine smell of garlic ran through the forest and Mischka let the water run together in his mouth. Satisfied, he tasted his first hot dish with a little salt.