The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  Suddenly it was dead quiet in the room. All the students stared at him with distorted faces, their spoons raised like swords. A KGB official showed up. His iron-fogged boots clashed on the stone floor of the cafeteria. It was Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko himself. His uniform was black as a fascist's. In his hand he swung a rubber truncheon.

  "Keep eating!" he ordered in a freezing cold voice. Mischka's blood froze in his veins. "No protests here! And no more words!"

  Wdowetschenko's piercing eyes let guess what threatened anyone who should disobey his order. Torture, beatings and solitary confinement were only the beginning of the re-education of rebels. Mischka bent over his plate again without hesitation. Fear cramped the muscles of his stomach and ran down his back like a shiver. He didn't want to suffer any more pain. That's why he obediently resumed eating. Like the other students, he began to eat faster and faster so that the pleasant spice of the soup could mask its bitter aftertaste. He looked stealthily through the window of the refectory. A swallow rose from a birch tree and sailed light-heartedly towards the setting sun. Mischka stared at the bird until it seemed to merge with the red fireball. Hope flared up in his heart. He too would be so free one day.

  ◆◆◆

  In the late morning did he wake up to the sound of a heavy rain shower. Mischka looked up in amazement and was surprised at the first moment that he didn't get wet. But then it dawned on him where he was. He hadn't spent that night in the woods. He lounged comfortably in bed and rolled over on his stomach. It was wonderful to be able to cuddle up in a clean pillow. He listened to the pounding of the drops on the window panes and dreamed a little more.

  But when he heard Vera Sergejewitsch clatter with pots and pans in the kitchen, he jumped out of bed, washed himself in a bowl on the dresser, slipped into his new clothes and went over to his hostess. She still looked pale and weak. But she was on her feet again. All her life she had had to work hard and keep pulling herself together. That's why she thought she had to fulfill her duties now.

  "I'm a bad hostess," she smiled as the young man appeared in the kitchen door. "It's almost lunchtime, and I haven't made you breakfast yet."

  Mischka raised his hand defensively: "I am no longer used to eating so much. So, don't worry, Vera Sergejewitsch. Two meals a day has had to be enough in the last few weeks."

  "That's why you look like an orthodox ascetic, Michail. I'm in the process of cooking you a strong borscht. It'll get you better."

  "I've missed it for a long time. Nobody could prepare it as well as my Aunt Lena. But since I've been dependent on the cafeteria food, I'm no longer spoiled with food."

  Mischka shuddered at the thought of his nightly dream when he mentioned the cafeteria. But then he watched with interest as Vera cut up white cabbage and beetroot and threw beef together with small pieces into a saucepan filled with water. While the borscht was cooking, his hostess told a little about her life.

  Her husband Alexei had been an oddball. The collective farm management had had to wage many small wars with him. He just couldn't stand to see crops rot in the fields, because the planned economy couldn't take weather changes and a lack of labor into account. He had never been able to keep his opinions to himself. Therefore the family had been often cut by the villagers.

  Her only son had been drafted by the military at the age of eighteen. Only three months later, they were informed in writing that their Dimitrij had fallen under a tank during a manoeuvre. The funeral ceremony had taken place in the smallest family circle.

  Since then, her husband had become very silent. All his hopes had been for Dimitrij. He should have had it better than them. But now his life seemed empty and pointless. Two years later Alexei suffered a stroke. For five years she had to take care of the hemiplegic until he closed his eyes forever on a November evening. She's been alone ever since.

  Mischka remained silent when he heard Vera's life story. He had sometimes said that all the misfortune in the world would only hit him. But compared to the fate of this woman, his losses and burdens were almost meaningless. Yes, it only makes you depressed when you constantly compare yourself with the better off. A look at the suffering of other people, on the other hand, can perhaps even give you the strength not to break under your own weight.

  As if Vera Sergejewitsch had guessed his thoughts, she continued: "In all these years I have tried to look gratefully at the good days of my life, to focus my hopes on the future and to make the best of my difficulties. With God's help, I succeeded. That's why I'm not depressed because of my suffering."

  Without expecting an answer, she turned back to the saucepan and tasted the borscht with salt and spices. Then she set the table and put the food on. Mischka enjoyed the meal. Vera Sergejewitsch was an excellent cook, and he let her know that with his contented smile and a good appetite.

  In the following days Mischka helped his hostess in the household, split firewood, dug up part of the garden and repair doors, windows and leaks in the roof. In the evening they sat together under the low branches of a walnut tree and talked about their experiences and hopes. Mischka felt their relationship grow closer. Two lonely people had found each other: He, his deceased mother and she, her son lost in an accident. That's what forged them together. With a small stab in his heart, he thought that he would soon have to set off again. Vera felt what moved him and tried to make it easy for him: "You have to go on, don't you, Mischka?"

  "Yes," nodded the young man, "I've been here far too long. If I'm really being followed, I'm only putting both of us in danger. I should be on my way by now."

  "Where are you going anyway," Vera wanted to know. "You can't hide in the woods for years until nobody looks for you anymore."

  Mischka shook his head: "I just want to mislead my pursuers a little before I turn west. I hope to escape via the Balkan countries to Western Europe. My father often told me about Uncle Karl, who fled from a Siberian labor camp after the Second World War. Twice they caught him just before the border. But the third time, he did it. Today he is supposed to live in West Germany. I want to see him first."

  "A long way, Mischka," Vera said, with concern. "Will you make it? Do you have the will and the strength?"

  "I will be free, Vera Sergejewitsch," Mischka replied firmly. "One day I will be free, and nothing will stop me on the way there. You know what I mean? Not the KGB and not a political commissioner!"

  "Then my thoughts and prayers will accompany you. I'm just asking you to write me when you've done it."

  "This can take many months, maybe years, Vera," Mischka smiled wistfully, "but I will write to you."

  "I'll wait. I have enough time, my son."

  The next day Mischka packed the backpack that had belonged to Dimitrij before. Vera gave him some food, clothing, shoes, cooking utensils, two knives, a pair of scissors, needle and thread, handkerchiefs, salt, waterproof matches, candles, soap, towels, a mirror, bandages, a blanket, a rope, string and a tarp. The backpack now weighed over fifty pounds, but its contents would make life in the forest more comfortable.

  In the twilight of the night Mischka said goodbye to his hostess. They held each other in their arms for a long time, for they knew there was no reunion for them.

  "I will inform your Aunt Lena that you are alive,” Vera Sergejewitsch promised the young man, "and I will tell her you will contact her when you are free."

  "Thank you for everything," Mischka said roughly and pressed a kiss on Vera's forehead. Then he turned to leave. Again and again he looked back to wave to the woman who had deeply impressed him. Tears stood in his eyes, and he was not ashamed of them when he saw Vera Sergejewitsch standing with her smock apron at the entrance of the crooked cottage. He could feel her loneliness and grief. She had given him all her love and care. She had been like a mother. He would keep her in his heart forever.

  In order to reach the next forest without detours, he had to cross the village. Mischka hoped that nobody would be on the streets at this late hour. Many lights in the
houses were already extinguished. Only a few inhabitants of Muchtuja still seemed to be awake.

  Suddenly Mischka stopped breathing. Two men turned from a side street to the main street not far from the end of the village. They came right at him. He saw in the light of a streetlight that they were soldiers.

  Stay calm, Mischka tried to encourage himself, and do not behave conspicuously. Then nothing will happen.

  With a firm step he went further towards the end of the village. The two men should think he's a resident of Muchtuja. When they were only a few yards away, he looked past them with boredom.

  "Well, boy, where to at this late hour?" one of the soldiers wanted to know. He built himself up directly in front of Mischka and pushed him against a hedge, while the second man blocked the side. The breath of the questioner smelled of vodka and cigarette smoke. His face was fat and unkempt. Fear rose in Mischka and paralyzed his limbs. Nevertheless, he tried to remain as calm as possible: "My name is Aljoscha. Aljoscha Chmaras. On my way to Kargasok to visit friends. I like to hike, preferably at night, when it's not so hot."

  "Well, well, you're a night walker," grinned the drunken soldier. "And you want us to believe that? Can you identify yourself, Comrade Night Owl?"

  His colleague, a skinny man, with angular movements, laughed mockingly and grabbed Mischka by the left arm.

  "Come on, get your ID, night owl," he shook him roughly. "Let's not wait so long. We want to celebrate with Comrade Wolodja. So, hurry up!"

  Mischka felt his fear suddenly turn into aggression. He tore himself loose with a jerk and stabbed the soldier in the eye with his fingers. The man howled and slapped his hands in front of his face. Mischka then kicked the second soldier in the abdomen with full force. The man moaned only briefly and collapsed like a pocket knife. Without a second's hesitation Mischka jumped over him and ran as fast as he could towards the forest.

  When he reached the edge of the forest, he heard a motorcycle being started. Probably someone took the chase! Mischka ran as fast as he could. But he also felt fear paralyze him again. The backpack was heavy on his shoulders. His heart was racing and his lungs were burning. In the shimmer of the rising moon he saw a strong stick lying on the way. Mischka grabbed the stick and kept running. He'd be defending himself. They shouldn't have it that easy!

  The headlight of a motorcycle appeared. It was too late to jump through the thicket into the forest because the machine was already beside him.

  "Faster, comrade," mocked the soldier on the motorcycle, "maybe you can run away from me. Run faster! Or do you want to beat me up with your stick?"

  Anger rose in Mischka. Anger at these soldiers, the political system, yes, at all the ruffians and torturers of this world. As quick as lightning he pushed his stick between the spokes of the front wheel and dropped sideways.

  The 750 cc Dnepr reared up like a wild horse. The soldier flew in a high arc over the handlebar, overturned several times and crashed against a tree. With the engine howling, the machine slid across the path and slipped into a ditch.

  Mischka rose. Prepared for anything, he walked towards the injured soldier. The man lay moaning and bent in pain next to the trunk of a spruce tree. His right tibia was strangely dislocated, obviously broken. From a laceration on the forehead, blood ran over the injured man's face.

  "You see, that's how fast the tide can turn," Mischka said, "and the hunter becomes the hunted."

  The soldier only answered with a moan. Then he lost consciousness. Mischka bent over him and loosened the belt with pistol and cartridge bag. He'd really need the Makarov in the wild.

  "You will soon be found and cared for, comrade soldier," Mischka assured the injured man, who however did not hear him.

  Then he hurried to the motorcycle and turned the throttle back. The howling of the engine turned into an even chugging. Obviously, it hadn't been damaged by the fall. Mischka erected the Dnepr and pushed it out of the trench. He moved it back and forth. A quiet gurgle told him that the tank was well filled. Some spokes were broken, but the bike was ready to drive.

  Mischka swung into the saddle, accelerated and drove carefully along the forest path. The front wheel flapped a little, but it held the track. Following a sudden inspiration, he turned around, drove back towards the village and then turned onto the country road. He let the engine howl strongly and chased with screeching tires in the direction of Kargasok. But already behind the next bend he braked the machine, turned off the engine and pushed the Dnepr back over a dirt road to the forest. There he hid it together with his backpack in dense bushes.

  He was sure within the next twenty minutes they would search for him and set up roadblocks. The attempt to go further with the motorcycle had little chance of success. So, it was best to give his pursuers the impression that he had stormed away in a wild escape. Later, when no one in the area suspected him anymore, he could still make off with his motorcycle.

  "I have to find out what they're up to," Mischka said in low voice.

  He sneaked through the bushes like a cat until he came to the forest road. He remained motionless, all senses on alert. No suspicious sound was heard. Only the wind rustling in the branches of the birches and pines. Mischka estimated that the injured soldier was about five hundred yards away from him. I'm sure they'd be looking for him in the next few minutes. Carefully he came closer to the path.

  He hadn't got far yet when he heard an SUV. Spotlights penetrated through the leaves of the trees. Like a shadow he slipped back into the forest. The engine stopped, and two men began to discuss excitedly. Ready for anything, Mischka sneaked on. He worked his way up to fifty yards to the men. They were two soldiers. One of them just radioed for paramedics for their injured comrade. The other tried first aid.

  Mischka ducked into the shadow of a beech tree, merged with the night and observed the scene that took place in front of him. Perhaps he was able to gather important information that helped him plan his further escape.

  A second SUV, an Uas, appeared on the way. Three men got out. They didn't seem to be soldiers, but dressed like hunters. When they stepped in front of the car's headlights, Mischka recognized two of them immediately. They were Lieutenant Ivan Litschenko and the guard Jossif Karatajew. He had never seen the third man before, but surely this strong figure was a tracker.

  Mischka felt fear accelerate his pulse. He had gained a lot of experience in the wilderness during the last weeks. He could have easily deceived the soldiers. But he had heard incredible stories from Siberian trackers. He had few chances against such a man. The mere fact that the three men were here proved that they could follow his trail without much difficulty. So, in the future he had to be even more careful, even more cunning, if he wanted to shake them off. Silently Mischka withdrew deeper into the darkness of the forest, but remained within sight and hearing distance.

  "This looks like Michail Wulff, doesn't it Chrapow?" Litschenko looked questioningly at the Siberian.

  "Hmm!" was his whole answer.

  "Sergeant," the lieutenant turned to one of the soldiers, "so it was a blond man in his mid-thirties who played so badly with your comrade?"

  "Yes, Comrade Lieutenant. The two of them in the village aren't that badly off. One has a slight eye injury and the other has abdominal pain. They'll forget about that in two or three days. But Wolodja got it bad."

  It was at this moment that the ambulance with the paramedics appeared. They routinely lifted the seriously injured man onto a stretcher, strapped him down, pushed him into their car and immediately drove off to take Wolodja to the nearest hospital.

  "And this Michail Wulff escaped with the motorcycle towards Kargasok?" Litschenko wanted to know from the sergeant.

  "Yes, but we immediately ordered roadblocks to be set up within fifty miles."

  "It would be better to set up a second chain of roadblocks within a radius of a hundred miles and also to control all bridges across the Ob. The escaped man is probably trying to get as far away from here as possible. Even before
the first barrier stands, he is with the motorcycle already across the river. That makes our pursuit even more difficult, doesn't it, Comrade Chrapow?"

  The hunters’ face was expressionless, but inside he was cooking. In the forest Wulff could not hold a candle to him and escape, but on roads and in cities his knowledge helped the Siberian no further. Now it was the turn of the police and the KGB. He, Chrapow, however, would stand by and wait, with the patience of a spider stretching its strings to get its victim caught in it. He knew this Michail Wulff very well by now. He had studied him on the basis of his tracks, his character, his behavior, his approach. If he was not mistaken, the fugitive would soon disappear again into the wilderness of Siberia. That's where he knew his stuff. There he felt safe, and there he would run into the trap of the hunter!

  "There's no point in discussing this any further," Chrapow finally came out. "If Wulff doesn't blindly drive into a roadblock, and I think he's too smart for that, then he'll probably make it further east in the next few days."

  "I can only agree with that, Comrade Chrapow. He doesn't know yet that we are on his heels, and so far he has preferred this direction," Litschenko nodded. "I guess he wants to cross the southern border into one of the Asian countries. He will certainly not turn north, because it will bring him dangerously close to the camp of Djatlowo."

  "Don't commit, Lieutenant. That kid's been fooling you around so far. But he won't be able to shake me off!"

  "And how do you intend to resume his trail? Do you have a plan yet?"

  "I will look for signs. They, on the other hand, will spread his profile all over the region up to the Jenisei. Every irregularity, every theft, every ash heap and every pheasant bone must be reported to me immediately. So, put your police and informers on high alert. Perhaps the news that Wulff is a dangerous felon will help the lethargic comrades on their feet".