The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  Mischka remembered how the clever Semjon had told him: "Feelings and emotions are important elements of a being human. They enrich and embellish life, but when they control someone so much that they become more important than anything else, he is a fool."

  Yes, Mischka thought about it. Time and again decisions are made that give some people advantages and others suffering, illness or bondage. Basically, there was no difference for him between a ruthless motorist who endangers himself and others through his excessive speed, and the corrupt politicians who dump nuclear fuel elements and radioactive liquids in Lake Petschora.

  Didn't I also carelessly put my freedom and the well-being of my friends at risk when I protested against the abuses of society without thinking about the consequences of my words, Mischka pondered further, and was my protest worthwhile? Was it any good at all? Would I have kept quiet, if I'd been aware of all the things that would happen in my life?

  While eating the fried chicken, Mischka decided to consider the consequences of his behavior and words even more in the future, instead of being guided by sudden impulses and inspirations. On the run from merciless hunters and in the fight for survival in the Siberian wilderness, he had to act carefully and with consideration. He did not want to jeopardize his future by pursuing short-term goals.

  ◆◆◆

  Olejnik Chrapow had picked up the trail of Michail Wulff, and he followed it like a bloodhound. A branch notched with a knife and two bent, semi-dry water lilies had not escaped his sharp eye as he examined the bank of the stream.

  "This is where he left the creek!" the hunter said. He shouldered his luggage and jumped to the other bank. Litschenko and Karatajew followed him. In fact, they found other plants that had been crushed by a human foot. But the soldiers wouldn't have noticed these tracks, if Chrapow hadn't drawn their attention to them. In the following days, under his guidance, their eyes were also sharpened for these signs of human presence.

  They also found nettle plants that lacked the upper young leaves, chickweed, and Spanish spinach with torn stalks and birches whose bark was damaged, all traces of a human being who gets his food from nature. The persecuted obviously knew the edible plants of the wilderness very well. So, they couldn't expect Michail Wulff to weaken over time, and one day to get him half starved. On the contrary, he would probably get along better and better in the taiga. He also progressed faster than them, because searching for clues took a lot of time. Often they lost Wulff's trail and needed hours to find it again.

  The hunter taught them how to survive in the wild during these weeks. It was a tough school for those two men. Chrapow did not take into account their weaknesses and feelings. During the daily marches they often reached the limit of physical endurance. They obtained their food by hunting. Only rarely could they find new provisions in the small villages.

  After three weeks there was the first crisis. Jossif Karatajew refused to march on. Drained and exhausted, he simply remained seated after the lunch break. Recently he had had to force himself more and more often not to give up, not to pay attention to aching blisters and sore shoulders. But now he had no strength left. He longed for rest and recuperation. Without a word Chrapow turned on his heel, released his weapon and put it on the soldier's temple. Jossif Karatajew understood that language. The Siberian wouldn't hesitate a second to bend his index finger! There was no doubt about it! The soldier laboriously got a grip of himself, stretched his aching limbs and marched on. With every step he cursed Chrapow and Wulff, to whom he owed these strains.

  Lieutenant Litschenko did not respond to this incident with a word. He's had enough to do with himself. He also cursed the camp commandant's order to go on a manhunt with Chrapow. It had been clear to him from the outset that it would not be a walk, but he had not expected such an ordeal.

  On the other hand, life in the wilderness began to fascinate him. He admired this Chrapow as much as he loathed him. Litschenko had to openly acknowledge his ability to follow a trail, his knowledge of edible plants or his knowledge of nature. He wished himself to possess the experience of the hunter. That's why he tried to learn as much as he could from him. Maybe one day he could use that knowledge.

  The refugee had become much more careless. If he hadn't lit a fire in the first time, they now often found ash remains that had only been superficially covered with earth. Chrapow discovered them without much searching. His sharp eyes seldom missed anything. They could almost always spot Wulff's campsites at the intervals of a day's march in an easterly direction. Obviously, he made good progress.

  One evening Chrapow returned with a triumphant smile from a short excursion to the evening camp. In his hand he held a bleached skull.

  "Here, Lieutenant, here's an important clue." With these words the hunter threw the skull next to the campfire. Then he squatted on the floor and looked at the two soldiers with a challenging gaze.

  "What kind of animal was that?" Karatajew wanted to know.

  "That's the skull of a deer," Chrapow replied condescendingly.

  "Do you really think, Comrade Chrapow, that Wulff killed this animal?" Litschenko asked unbelieving. "The man doesn't have any weapons. Couldn't it have died in some other way? How do you know it was the inmate?"

  The hunter made a contemptuous gesture: "Lieutenant, you can also hunt without weapons. Wulff set up a trap down by the pond on a deer pass. This skull hasn't been in the woods long."

  "Couldn't it have been from one of the people living here?" Jossif interjected.

  "You always have to see the whole picture, Comrade Karatajew, always the whole picture! The remains of the animal's bones and a number of traces indicate that there was a man at work here who possessed only primitive tools."

  "Then Wulff's physical condition should be pretty good. What are the chances of catching him in the next few weeks?" Litschenko looked at Chrapow questioningly. The hunter just shrugged his shoulders in equanimity.

  "I don't care how long we have to follow him. Time doesn't matter to me. I've had enough of this. Those who put themselves under time pressure make mistakes. So, we will continue to follow this mangy dog until we have him, and if it takes years."

  Karatajew sighed softly. Years, he thought, weeks with this guy would be enough for me. To punish a man, we have to suffer a lot ourselves. Elki palki! Stupid game!

  ◆◆◆

  It had been a long, hot day. Mischka longed for a refreshing bath to rinse the sticky sweat off the skin. Although he had become accustomed to wandering, he sometimes longed for the humble comfort of his Moscow student apartment. Shower and toilet, armchair and bed had almost become foreign words for him and seemed to him like pure luxury.

  He thought that the achievements of civilizations are only really appreciated when they have to be renounced for a longer period of time. We simply take far too much for granted instead of being grateful for what we own.

  He put down his temporary backpack and lay down in the grass. Dreamily he looked at white sheep clouds, which moved lightly over the blue sky like down feathers. That's how free one should be, he dreamed, and so be able to move carefree to where it drives you.

  Two crickets chirped not far from him, as if they were happy about the summer time with its warmth and the rich food offered by nature. Mischka listened to their high, monotonous music. It made him sleepy and lazy. His thoughts were shrouded in mist. Only blurred he perceived the sounds of the forest.

  Suddenly he started! Did he hear right? Or did his fatigue-stained brain fool him? Mischka listened hard into the forest. He must have been wrong. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, now he heard it again! Mischka was electrified. He heard a faint cry. It sounded like a woman crying for help. A woman who fights for her life with all her strength!

  Mischka jumped to his feet in one leap and ran off. He didn't pay attention to twigs that hit him in the face. He could not feel blackberry thorns penetrating his shoes. Someone fought for his life! Someone needed his help! This spurred his steps and mad
e him forget all the precautions.

  Two minutes later Mischka reached the bank of a river. With a quick glance, he tried to grasp the situation. An older woman floated in the middle of the current and fought desperately for herself. Her eyes were wide open in fear and looked for help at the young man on the shore. Then she sank into the floods.

  Without thinking, Mischka jumped into the water and swam with strong pulls into the middle of the river. Not far from him, the woman's head briefly emerged from the water. Then it disappeared again.

  Mischka dove where he had seen her. The water was murky and dark. How could he find the woman under the circumstances? He came up to catch his breath. Then he disappeared into the depths again. There was nothing to see! Mischka had a feeling of panic. He had to find her and save her! He couldn't forget her desperate look. The woman had placed all her hopes on him. He felt responsible for her life, even if he didn't know her.

  Again and again Mischka dove, searched the ground and groped around with his hands. He got short of breath. The effort consumed his strength. Seconds stretched to minutes. Did it make any sense at all to keep looking for the drowned one? Wasn't her brain already damaged by a lack of oxygen? But again and again he dove into the depths.

  Suddenly he touched something soft. A face shimmered through the murky water, pale and lifeless, the eyes wide open as in a last fright. Mischka hastily reached for the drowned woman and dragged her to the surface. She hung limp and lifeless in his arms. With his last strength he brought her to the shore and pulled her to a shallow sandy beach.

  Mischka turned the woman on her stomach, grasped her hips, lifted her up and shook her vigorously. A surge of water shot out of her mouth and poured into the sand. Without losing precious time, he turned her back, bent her head back, opened her mouth and tried to revive her by giving her breath.

  Again and again he listened, felt the artery on the woman's neck with his fingers. But there was no sign of life. Mischka tried it with a heart massage and continued afterwards the respiration. Suddenly he felt a weak throbbing in the carotid artery. Joyful excitement seized him. The heart had resumed its work! He hit the woman lightly on both cheeks. A soft groan escaped her chest. Then she began to breathe again, at first weakly, ruffling and barely perceptible, then ever deeper and stronger.

  Mischka lovingly stroked her wet ash blonde hair as if she were his mother. She opened her eyes clumsily and looked around as if she didn't know what had happened to her. Her body was shaken by a coughing fit. Mischka patted her lightly on the back so that the water droplets in her bronchi could dissolve more easily. Finally the cough subsided and the woman's gaze became clearer. She began to realize that she was saved.

  Mischka could have cheered! She was alive! He had saved her. Even if one had surprised and caught him, he would risk his freedom again for the life of a human being. Suddenly freedom no longer seemed to him to be the highest good for which he would sacrifice everything. There were other values.

  "You did it, mother," he smiled at the woman. “You can live again.”

  He massaged her arms and legs to speed up blood circulation. Again and again he checked her pulse. It was still weak, but the heart was beating evenly. Although the search for her had apparently taken an eternity, she had only been without oxygen for a short time. Luckily, her lungs weren't full of water either. Slowly her face was getting color again.

  "Wait a minute, I'll be right back."

  Mischka rushed to his resting place, gathered his belongings and returned to the river bank. The woman was still lying exhausted on the sandy shore.

  "Thank you!" she whispered in a faint voice. That's all she could say. But her eyes said it all.

  Mischka carefully straightened her up and led her to a soft grass area.

  "I will light a fire immediately so that you can dry your clothes." He smiled encouragingly at her. "Well, and myself also. I'm soaking wet and I need dry clothes."

  The woman looked at him from top to bottom. A fine smile showed that she knew his secret.

  Mischka noticed it and said honestly: "Yes, I am an outlaw, not a criminal, just a political. You could tell from my clothes, couldn't you? I've been chased through the woods by militia for weeks. But I think I've lost them now. You're not afraid of me, are you?"

  The woman shook her head almost barely noticeable.

  "By the way, my name is Michail Wulff," continued Mischka and stretched out his hand towards her, "I'm a student of archaeology from Moscow."

  She looked at him questioningly.

  "Well, I ran my mouth because I couldn't keep my opinions to myself. That's why I've been sentenced pursuant to paragraph fifty-eight and put in a penal colony."

  The woman grabbed Mischka's hand and pulled her to her breast. "Thank you," she whispered again, "thank you for saving me. I'll never forget that."

  He could feel her trembling inside. The shock was still deep in her bones.

  "It's all right, mother," Mischka replied as he stroked her shoulders in a soothing manner, "it was only natural that I pulled you out of the river."

  "No, nothing goes without saying," she contradicted gently. "Many think only of themselves and do not care about others. I'm an old woman and I live alone. I know what I'm talking about."

  Mischka rose to make fire. While he stacked the wood and rekindled the embers from his clay jug with dry grass and dry fir branches, the woman told how the accident had happened.

  Her name was Vera Sergejewitsch and she had been looking for wild plants and berries to enrich her diet. When she had bent down on the bank of the river to pick a tuft of water mint, she suddenly blacked out. She had lost her balance and had fallen into the river. In her despair she had called for help, even if she was far away from the village. Then she had seen him on the shore just before her senses had faded.

  "It was a coincidence that you were around. Maybe you also had to flee the camp and wander so far to save my life. God's ways are sometimes very confused."

  Mischka shrugged his shoulders. God's way? He felt uncomfortable at the thought that a higher being would determine his life. It did not fit into his concept of a free and unattached life. "I think it was coincidence," he said laconically, "I might as well have chosen another direction for my escape."

  Vera Sergejewitsch smiled silently. For her, there were few coincidences. Without this providential knowledge, her life would often have seemed gloomy and hopeless. But she wouldn't tell Michail Wulff that until later.

  Mischka didn't understand himself anymore. The encounter with Vera Sergejewitsch had transformed him. He no longer felt like a hounded game that had to constantly smell from all sides and restlessly roam the wilderness. He trusted Vera completely. She had been sympathetic to him from the very first moment. So, he did not hesitate for a moment when she invited him to interrupt his walk for a few days to relax in her cottage on the outskirts of the small village of Muchtuja.

  "Nobody visits me anyway," she assured him, "so it won't be noticed at all if you stay with me."

  Then she looked at him with the playful look of a strict mother and continued: "And a little body care and new clothes wouldn't hurt you."

  Mischka laughed. He didn't exactly look like a Moscow student. His blonde hair had regrown and could certainly stand a cut. His beard also had to be trimmed, and he didn't even have to say a word about his clothes.

  Late in the evening, when Vera Sergejewitsch had recovered a little and there was no danger that they would unexpectedly run into the arms of a villager, they made their way to the cottage. Mischka supported Vera as best he could. He felt like a son who took responsibility for his old mother. It was a good feeling.

  Her cottage was a simple half-timbered house filled with braided willow rods and clay. The faded wooden shingles of the roof were partly covered with a thick layer of moss. The cottage seemed a little crooked, but it gave Mischka a feeling of security and home. Around it there was a garden which testified to the care and knowledge of the owner. Vegeta
ble beds, fruit trees and bushes with different kinds of berries were harmoniously arranged. The houses in the village were about five hundred yards away. The realm of Vera Sergejewitsch was lonely, idyll, and Mischka liked it right away.

  In the shimmer of a petroleum lamp Mischka washed himself from head to toe in a wooden tub with real soap. Then he trimmed and combed his beard so that he no longer looked like a forest goblin. Although Vera was still very weak, she wanted to cut his hair. Mischka gave up his protest and entrusted himself to her hairdressing skills. Her skillful fingers testified to long experience.

  "I often had to cut my husband's and my son's hair," she explained a little wistfully, "but that was a few years ago."

  Mischka did not dare to ask what had happened to them, because Vera had already been through enough that day. After Vera had given him clothes of her son to put on, she led him in front of a wall mirror. "So, now you look like a civilized man again. I'll burn your clothes. If one of the neighbors wants to visit me, I'll pass you off as my nephew Sergei from Moscow. I'm sure it won't be hard for you to be a big city dweller. You're safe with me for now."

  Mischka smiled satisfied. It was nice to be able to live in a house, washed and well dressed. He enjoyed it with all his senses. But he was not allowed to stay too long in order not to put Vera in danger. Surely his pursuers would not lie back and relax.

  After a meal with bread, tea and cheese, Mischka fell into bed. He hadn't felt this well in a long time. He was clean, full and dog-tired. Still, he couldn't fall asleep right away. Too many thoughts were buzzing through his head. Should he continue his escape on foot through the wilderness? Or could he dare to use a means of transport? Was he wanted in a profile? How far did he have to walk before he could feel safe, and where would his journey take him? Would he ever reach the free West?

  ◆◆◆

  That night Mischka dreamed of guards and trained dogs patrolling the canteen of Moscow University, while inside students mutely spooned a watery potato soup. Whenever the plates threatened to become empty, political commissioners showed up and filled them up to the brim. Mischka himself sat with a full plate among the young people and tried a first spoon. The soup tasted pleasant in the beginning, but soon a bitter aftertaste spread in his mouth. Full of disgust, he spat on the floor and shouted, "Bah! No man can eat this stuff!"