The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  "Come on, faster, big mouth, or I'll beat you through the forest," his tormentor hissed.

  Mischka felt the hard blow of the rubber truncheon on his shoulder. Anger and thirst for revenge rose in him. He had not forgotten the night in the dungeon and his vow.

  Abruptly he stopped, turned around and looked Pankratow directly into the cold eyes. The man could not resist his gaze, began to blink and finally looked past him.

  "You won't hit me again, Pankratow!" Mischka's voice sounded frighteningly quiet.

  Pankratow just laughed scornfully and swung his rubber truncheon: "Haven't you had enough yet, big mouth?"

  Mischka threw the ropes off his shoulder. Pankratow aimed directly at his temple. Mischka intercepted his arm, hit him on the nose with the ball of his right hand at the same time and tore the stick out of his hand.

  Pankratow howled. Tears shot into his eyes. The pain made him furious. With his head down and his arms outstretched, he tried to undermine the young man in order to pull him to the ground. Instinctively Mischka slipped backwards into a deep lunge and pushed his right forearm against the attacker's neck with full force.

  Pankratow gasped. Mischka grabbed him by the neck and jerked up his knee, right in Pankratow's face. The jaw broke with an ugly noise. Then he banged his left elbow against the back of his head.

  Pankratow fell to the ground like a wet sack and remained motionless. Blood leaked from the broken nose and the disfigured mouth.

  "I warned you, you bastard," Mischka said in a rough voice, "but you wouldn't listen."

  Mischka looked around. No one was seen. He still had to hurry to cover the tracks of the fight. He lifted Pankratow's head by his hair so as not to smear his hands with blood and pushed a medium sized stone under his broken jaw. Then he hung the rubber truncheon back on the unconscious man's belt, took his whistle and gave the guard's warning signal.

  It took only a short time until three comrades of Pankratow appeared between the trees. They carefully examined the injured man. Shortly afterwards, Lieutenant Ivan Litschenko arrived also.

  "What happened?" he asked Mischka as he bent over the unconscious Pankratow.

  "I walked with the ropes in front of him and heard only how he stumbled and cursed. As I looked around, I could still see how he hit his head against the stone. I immediately reached for his whistle to give the signal."

  Litschenko nodded silently. Michail Wulff had behaved correctly. He could have used the opportunity to flee. Nevertheless, the lieutenant had the feeling that something was wrong here. He looked at the prisoner's knuckles. But he could see nothing suspicious, no abrasions or other signs that would have betrayed a brawl! Perhaps Pankratow had indeed fallen so unhappily that his lower jaw and nose had been shattered.

  Litschenko wiped his thoughts aside. He no longer wanted to deal with these suspicious facts. There were more important things to do. Pankratow had to be taken to the hospital in Surgut as soon as possible. He was still unconscious. There was no time for speculation or interrogation.

  Michail Wulff was interrogated the same day by Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko himself. But even the camp chief did not succeed in entangling the prisoner in contradictions with trick questions. Pankratow himself could not be interviewed during the next weeks. He was more seriously injured in his accident than it seemed at the first moment. An uncontrolled tremor ran through his body over and over again. The emergency room doctor therefore suspected a bleeding in the cerebellum. Finally Pankratow was transferred to a neurological clinic after the treatment of his fractures.

  Wdowetschenko had Michail Wulff strictly observed, but nothing could be found against him. On the contrary, Wulff proved to be a reliable worker, and even during the retraining by the political officer, he no longer proved to be as critical of the regime as he used to be. Finally, all suspicions were dropped.

  Mischka did not tell any prisoner the true course of the conflict, nor did he tell Nikita and Semjon. He didn't want to get them into trouble if they were interrogated. He only said to them, "That was a compensatory justice. Anyway, he won't be able to beat anyone with his rubber truncheon for the next few months."

  "I hope that he never shows up here again, otherwise I will break all his bones in a dark corner and not only his lower jaw," Nikita grumbled angrily.

  "You're not saying that Mischka injured his face," Semjon threw in and looked mischievously over at the young man. But Mischka just smiled: "If I had such bear powers as Nikita, I would have considered that."

  "You hypocrite," Semjon replied and friendly slapped him on the shoulder as they strolled to the bunkhouse.

  The Hunt

  "No doubt, he’s actually been here!" Lieutenant Litschenko scratched his head. "We have thoroughly searched every square yard around the lake. But no one came up with the idea of looking here."

  "An unforgivable mistake, Lieutenant!" Chrapow rebuked him. "He who hunts men must not work sloppily and superficially. Every move of the runaway must be taken into account and thought through if you want to checkmate him! Do you play chess?"

  Litschenko nodded reluctantly. The arrogant and schoolmasterly behavior of the black-haired hunter had repelled him from the beginning. Success and fame had certainly gone to the man's head in such a way that he felt like the emperor of China. To him, they were all just losers and weaklings. He made them feel that clearly. Litschenko liked to see such people from behind. The man wasn't a pleasant person at all. Hair, complexion, the beardless face and the high cheekbones betrayed Mongolian blood in his veins. The stocky body moved like a cat. The man seemed to be a predator, pitiless and brutal.

  Olejnik Chrapow had arrived at the camp yesterday, asking his questions and cynically raising his left eyebrow as he heard of the search's failures. Apparently, he was amused by the amateurish actions of the soldiers. Nevertheless, he had not yet pronounced a clear rebuke. That was also not necessary, because his whole behavior was a single rebuke! Litschenko sighed deeply that he now had to work with this man for the next days and weeks.

  On the other hand, he was already felt like he should gloat a little. He would witness personally how Chrapow had to follow the trail of a man who was quite a rascal. Every failure, every mistake of the hunter would give him, Litschenko, satisfaction, and of course he would describe everything in detail in his daily reports. The blacker he painted this big mouth, the whiter he would appear himself. Any failure of the hunter would be his success! In the meantime Litschenko knew this game well enough, and although he abhorred it, he also wanted to play it this time. In any case, he would use all means to secure the future of his family.

  Early in the morning a helicopter had dropped off Chrapow, Litschenko and Jossif Karatajew together with their equipment at the lake. When Chrapow heard the story of the sighted plume of smoke, the KGB hunter immediately decided to start the search for the convict on the lake shore. The tracks left in the train were undoubtedly only maneuvers to confuse the pursuers. In reality, the fugitive wanted to penetrate deeper into the Siberian wilderness to hide there. That was all right with Chrapow. Taiga and tundra were his home, his well known hunting grounds. Here he was superior to everyone else! So, there was no escape for Michail Wulff!

  Now they stood in front of the beech tree struck by lightning. The dense foliage of the treetop had withered in the meantime, revealing the shattered emergency shelter of the refugee.

  "You have to think through every possible movement of a runaway convict like in a chess game, Lieutenant," Chrapow declared patronizingly. "Of course, some people are very easy to see through. They often just want to go away, back to their old home and to their family. They run quite straight in the desired direction and thus into the trap. This Michail Wulf, on the other hand, seems to be moving in circles to lure his pursuers onto the wrong track."

  Litschenko nodded again wordlessly. That's what he had in mind. Chrapow could have a big mouth. But if you don't hold the beginning of a thread in your hands, you can't roll up a ball
of wool.

  "Probably the fugitive has moved east to hide in the taiga until no one is looking for him anymore. As far as I can judge, he knows nature well and which plants you can eat. Otherwise, he wouldn't venture into the wild without equipment and provisions."

  "And how could he escape from here without leaving a trace that the dogs could pick up?" Jossif asked.

  Chrapow just looked at him pitifully and pointed to the lake with a wave of his hand. Jossif clapped his hand to his forehead and shouted, "Now I understand. He swam across the lake and let himself drift down the creek. That's why we didn't find any footprints! All right, let's go east. Somewhere he must have come back to the bank."

  Jossif shouldered his luggage and turned to walk. But then he paused and asked: "After so many days, do we even have a chance to find his trail again?"

  "Even after weeks one can take up a pursuit," Chrapow replied patronizingly, "because a bent plant does not straighten up again. We must also look for torn stems and leaves because the refugee is likely to feed on them. So, keep your eyes open, Karatajew!"

  Until shortly before sunset the men fought their way through the bushes and undergrowth on the banks of the creek. Carefully they looked for irregularities in nature. But they didn't notice anything suspicious. Finally, Litschenko rubbed his burning eyes and suggested to set up camp for the night. Even Chrapow, who did not yet show any tiredness, gave his approval. In the twilight they could all too easily overlook a treacherous sign.

  After a simple meal they sat by the campfire and stared silently into the embers. The night was cool and full of noises. Litschenko looked up to the starry sky and admired the countless light points of the Milky Way. Like a veil they hung on the dark firmament and gave the viewer the feeling of being just an insignificant grain of dust in the infinity of the universe.

  We were taking all this far too seriously, Litschenko thought. Why don't we just let this Michail Wulff go? What has he done! He just said out loud what a lot of people in this country think! Why don't we give our fellow men the freedom to live the way they want? Why do we all have to have the same beliefs? Why do we set ourselves apart from the rest of the world? What's in it for us?

  Suddenly Chrapow began to speak as if he had guessed the lieutenant's secret questions. His voice sounded cold and rough. Litschenko shivered internally.

  "I am a hunter, Lieutenant, with every fiber of my body. Even as a child I felt this urge in me. The hunt is my drug. I don't need vodka to get my blood pumping. I just need a lead that I can follow. At the end of the trail, where the victim waits, with frightened eyes, trembling and no way out, that’s where I’ll catch him."

  Chrapow threw a branch into the fire. Sparks flew to the sky and burned up in the cold night air. Then he continued: "In my spare time I hunt the animals of the taiga, preferably wolves. They're unpredictable and strong. But when comrades call me, I hunt people. I'm after them. I drive them through forests and swamps. I rush them until they give up exhausted and begging for mercy. Hunting makes me feel that I'm alive."

  Chrapow broke off and kept quiet. After a few minutes he started again: "Michail Wulff has crippled my half brother!"

  "You're misinformed, comrade," interrupted Litschenko, "the investigation has shown that there was an accident ..."

  The hunter raised his hand defensively. "Only you believe that, Ivan Litschenko! Michail Wulff has crippled my half brother, I am absolutely sure of that. He did it smart, but not smart enough. He left the only witness alive. Brother Pankratow will never laugh again. He'll never dance or drink vodka again. He's just a bundle of nerves, incapable of living and weak. This Wulff will pay for this! I'm not a KGB henchman. I am Chrapow, the hunter! I'm following the predator who killed my brother. I will rush him through the wilderness of Siberia until his skin falls from his feet in shreds! Let him sweat blood and water! Let him suffer the cold of winter until his senses fade! And then, when he's at the end, when he's exhausted and panic-stricken waiting for his end, then I'll attack him. I'll let him feel the pain he inflicted on my brother! He shall suffer as he has never suffered before in his miserable existence! He'll wish he'd never been born!"

  Karatajew and Litschenko looked spellbound at the dark figure of the hunter. The glow of the fire eerily illuminated his distorted face. Not a word came over their lips. Also, the voices of the night were silent, as if they feared to draw the hatred of the possessed on themselves.

  ◆◆◆

  For the next few days Mischka felt more efficient than before. His meals from wild plants, roots and berries had not only tasted better but also were more nutritious thanks to small portions of venison meat. However, the salt stock had sharply shrunk. He had to be more economical with it now.

  Mischka used his overall as a backpack to transport equipment and supplies comfortably. The trouser legs were tied around his stomach like a waist belt, while his sleeves served as shoulder straps. So, he could carry the weight without it tiring and hurting him too quickly.

  Every day he now covered about twenty five miles. His muscles were strengthened and well trained by the efforts of the past weeks. A thick, protective, hard skin had formed on his feet. He had a good chance of escaping his pursuers if they found his trail. They had to fight their way through the wilderness just as he did, but certainly lost time searching for clues again and again. As often as he could, Mischka therefore waded through brooks and searched for firm, ungrown ground in order to leave as few traces as possible.

  After two weeks he reached an agricultural settlement: Grey, crooked cottages and barns, surrounded by orchards, meadows and fields, ducked in a small valley. When he saw the apple trees and vegetable beds, he decided to gather some food under cover of darkness to bring some variety to his menu.

  Comrades, you have taught me that there is no private property and that everything belongs to the people, Mischka thought, while spying on the village hidden behind a bush. So, I'm going to help myself to your store tonight. Work hard, so that you are tired and can sleep soundly.

  In order not to be discovered by chance, he withdrew into dense undergrowth until about midnight. In the meantime he had learned to estimate the time of day from the position of the stars. Protected by darkness, he cautiously crept up to the gardens of the settlement. Motionless he lay in the grass for a few minutes and listened, strained into the silence of the night. No suspicious sound was heard.

  So, that nobody discovered the theft, he picked only a few apples from different trees and harvested here and there some carrots and other vegetable plants. Heavy packed he wanted to return to the forest when he heard the cackling of chickens. Mischka stopped abruptly. Water ran into his mouth as he thought of crispy chicken legs. Should he get involved in the adventure? He rejected the thought again. The risk was too great! But just as he turned to walk, one of the chickens in the nearby stable chuckled again. It was a real temptation for him. It was unreasonable, but the adventure excited him. All he had to do was be smart.

  Silently Mischka crept up to the open chicken coop. It was not far from one of the houses. In the gleam of moonlight he saw two dozen chickens sitting on their poles, their heads hidden under their feathers. He reached for one of the hens in a flash and turned her neck before the terrified animal could make a sound.

  Mischka stayed for a moment. The other chickens hadn't noticed anything and were fast asleep. He put his fingers together to press footprints of a small predator into the dusty ground, distributed some neck feathers and dragged the hen afterwards over the earth. The farmers should think that the animal was dragged away by a fox. He also covered his own tracks with it.

  Satisfied Mischka returned to the path, when suddenly a dog in the nearby homestead began to bark wildly. The dog had smelled him! Mischka sank to his knees in a flash and merged with the darkness.

  Stupid dog, he thought angrily, you have to start yapping right now! Just a few minutes later and he would have been safe. Mischka now reproached himself for his willingness to take r
isks. It's not worth risking your freedom for a good meal! But afterwards you're always smarter.

  He remained motionless and waited for the dog to calm down. But he pulled his chain like a madman and continued to bark. A window opened in the house. Mischka stopped breathing. A rough male voice shouted some curses down on the dog. Then a wooden shoe flew through the window. The dog howled and crawled into his hut.

  Mischka waited another quarter of an hour before he cautiously started the retreat. Only after he was a few hundred yards away from the village did he dare to move more freely again. With a heavily filled backpack and the hen in his hand, he walked along a dirt road. His pursuers would have a hard time finding his tracks here, if they were on his trail at all. Towards dawn Mischka turned into the forest and walked until morning before he took a break. He'd prepare the hen for dinner. Now he afforded himself some apples, which he ate up to the core. Satisfied with himself and the world, he then lay down to sleep in a thicket.

  While he roasted the chicken over a small fire in the evening, Mischka thought about his daring action. He had risked the success of his escape for a roasted chicken. Wasn't that often the case in his life, perhaps in the lives of all people? For a short moment of joy, for the satisfaction of the taste buds, for a short relief or a little fun, many people have endangered their lives, freedom and health, or even blindly sacrificed. People do not always act logically or strictly according to the guidelines of reason. They often do not ask about the consequences of their behavior and decisions. If they always did, they'd be spared a lot of suffering. But the short pleasure or the small advantage seems to be more important to them than a happy future.