The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  "You can see that you’ve come back to life again," Mischka smiled at him. "Your wound has healed. But you still have to take it easy."

  As if Aljoscha had understood him, he lay down again and relaxed. Obviously his fear of the two-legged friend had given way to trust and affection.

  Mischka stayed at the lake for two more days. But when the weather changed, he made his way back to the cave. As he had hoped, the wolf followed him, at first hesitant, then more and more determined. On the way Mischka rewarded him again and again with small pieces of caribou meat.

  Aljoscha limped slightly, but this would not be a disadvantage for him. He was an extraordinarily strong wolf, who could take the lead of a pack despite his injury.

  It took Mischka a week to get Aljoscha so far that he moved into the cave with him. The last push came from a heavy snow storm that swept down the mountains with an icy wind. The desire for food, warmth and protection had become greater than the fear of man's dark cave.

  As a precaution Mischka expanded his own sleeping place into a kind of crib. Aljoscha was not a tame dog, but still a predator. He couldn't fully trust him, not yet.

  In the dark winter days he was glad to have a living being around him to talk to, even if his counterpart did not understand the meaning of the words. The long Siberian winters had already driven some lonely hunters to madness. One Yakut, for example, had thrown all his ammunition into the moor when he went crazy. And he needed it badly to shoot food for him. Another hunter had stormed in his madness without headgear at minus forty degrees into the winter night. He was found near his cabin shortly afterwards. His brain was frozen.

  During the cold and stormy days Mischka tried to make the cave more comfortable and carved hunting arrows. He explained every move to Aljoscha. The wolf listened patiently to him. It was not unusual for him to fall asleep, like a pupil who found his teacher's lessons too boring.

  "You know, Aljoscha, I'm just thinking about the people of yore. I wonder how they thought and felt. Were they really primitive monsters who communicated with grunts and primal sounds?"

  Mischka threw a failed arrowhead into the fire and searched for another matching piece of bone. "I'm sitting here in a cave carving arrowheads out of animal bones. I sew primitive clothes out of furs and feed like a Stone Age man, while at the same time astronauts orbit around the earth in space capsules and carry out scientific experiments. Maybe it was similar before?"

  Aljoscha tilted his head and blinked at him.

  "Yeah, I'm serious. Perhaps the Stone Age and highly developed civilization existed side by side at that time? Suppose I die here in this cave, and two hundred years later a paleontologist finds my bones and tools. What theory do you think he's going to come up with about me? A relapse into the Stone Age? What will he say about my intelligence quotient, my abilities and my knowledge? Won't he have to misinterpret his find?"

  Mischka laid a few logs on the embers of the fire and began to smooth the tip of the arrow. "Even then, cave dwellers and civilized people could have existed side by side. During my studies I was interested in the cultures of the Middle East. I was particularly interested in the city states of Mari, Uruk, Lagas and Ur. The people of these cultures already knew banks and breweries five thousand years ago. In Ur, the wealthy citizens even had heated floors! Women and men put on make-up. They had tweezers, toothpicks and cuticle removers. They made artistic objects or jewelry from gold and precious stones, possessed game boards with mother-of-pearl inlays and also made glass vessels.

  Of course, people could read and write. The children went to school and were just as annoyed as today's pupils with their teachers. At that time, the characters were pressed into clay tablets with a stylus, which were later fired to make them durable. Under the desert sand in Mesopotamia thousands of these tablets were found. These signs are called cuneiform writing because the stylus pressed cuneiform signs into the clay. The archaeologists found out that the people at that time were really literate. They wrote everything down that had to do with their lives. Children even wrote letters to their departed fathers. What particularly fascinates me are the excavations in Ur. There, clay tablets were found in all layers, all the way down to the prehistoric rock. Do you know what prehistoric rock is?"

  Aljoscha looked at him bored and yawned heartily.

  "Yes, I see you're not interested in archaeology. But I'll tell you anyway. I don't have anyone else to talk to. There are no fossils in prehistoric rock. Therefore, it is assumed that this rock was formed before life came into being. In Mesopotamia, directly on this prehistoric rock, we already find a layer with remains of a human culture that could read and write. At the same time, the inhabitants of Europe lived in primitive dwellings and hunted with hand wedges and stone axes. I now ask myself: How did the ancestors of both cultures live? Were they civilized so that the people of Europe fell behind and degenerated? Or were they primitive? Then the people of Mesopotamia must have undergone a sudden, inexplicable leap in development that brought them civilization and scripture within a few decades. Their relatives in the north, on the other hand, were still far away from what we call civilization. These are unresolved questions for me. That is why I would like to continue my studies in this area later."

  Mischka rose and stretched his arms.

  "By the way, Neanderthals weren't that stupid either. They had a bigger brain than people today. Whether they really were hairy like monkeys and had flat noses is already strongly doubted today. Probably they would not attract much attention in our time if we put them in modern clothes. In Le Tuc d'Audoubert in the Pyrenees, art objects have been found in a cave that testify to exceptional skill and intelligence. The replicas of two twenty-four inches bison figures are so crafted that they would do every credit to a contemporary artist. They were made by torchlight with the simplest tools. Perhaps these cave dwellers were just outcasts of a halfway civilized society whose remains have not yet been discovered. In humus layers, bodies and natural materials decompose completely, while they are partially preserved in the ideal cave climate. So, we'll never quite find out what really happened back then. Much will always remain only hypothesis and speculation."

  Aljoscha answered his teacher only with a quiet snoring. He lived in the present. Yesterday and tomorrow didn't interest him.

  A month later, a storm howled once again over the mountain ridges and buried everything under a thick blanket of snow, Mischka had an enlightenment.

  "Hey, Aljoscha," he shouted to the wolf who was gnawing at a bone, "why didn't I think of that before? Our ancestors made a groundbreaking invention, and I haven't used it yet! Do you know what I'm talking about? From the spear slingshot! It's probably mankind's first great invention."

  Mischka began to rummage in a pile of wood to find a straight stick.

  "A spear slingshot considerably increases the flight distance and impact force of a spear. A well-trained athlete can reach about seventy to one hundred yards with a spear. With a slingshot he could throw even one hundred and fifty yards or more. This is due to the better lever ratios. The human arm is not really designed for throwing and hurling."

  In the meantime he had found a straight and tough birch trunk with a diameter of about one inch. "From this I can carve a throwing spear, which still hunts down a stag at fifty yards," he explained enthusiastically to his friend.

  He searched for another twenty four inches long birch branch, the end of which was slightly curved, and took one of the small deer antlers from the shelf. Mischka spent the next few hours making a Stone Age spear thrower, as he had seen it in the museum. From the antlers he carved a strong hook, which he had to connect with the birch branch. He beveled both parts, glued them together with pine resin and wrapped them in strong tendons. The slightly curved end of the birch branch was formed into a handle and carefully smoothed. Finally Mischka drilled through the end piece and provided it with a leather loop. So, he could wear the slingshot on his wrist.

  "Look, Aljoscha, that's how the hunt
ers did it back then. Here you see a real Stone Age spear sling."

  After a short meal, the young man continued his work. He smoothed the spear and gave it an aerodynamic shape. Then he provided it with a sharp bone tip, which he attached with resin and tendons. At the other end he carved a groove for the hook of the slingshot. Finally, he attached spring strips to the end of the spear to give it flight stability.

  Satisfied, he weighed it in his hand. Weight and strength were right. The spear, thrown with a sling, would mortally pierce a buck at forty yards. Now all he needed was the training and the marksmanship. But he had enough time for that when the weather improved. Until spring, he would have enough experience with his new weapon to be able to use it for hunting.

  ◆◆◆

  Despite the heat of the wood stove, the windows of the barrack were frozen. Ice flowers decorated the panes with artistic patterns and blocked the view of the snow-covered camp.

  Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko tried to thaw a hole in the ice layer with his index finger. Even as a boy he had melted such peepholes into the frozen windows of his parents' apartment. He remembered his childhood, the strict mother and the father who had never had time for him. He saw again the simple living room in front of him with the worn out sofa and the floorboards. Even then he had not been able to bear it when ice flowers blocked the view outside. Juri Wdowetschenko never wanted to be blind, never wanted to lose track. He always wanted to know what was going on around him, always wanted to be informed. It was like that back then.

  He cleared his throat. "Well, Lieutenant, what do you have to say for yourself? So, far you have not been particularly successful. How many more months do you actually need before the fugitive is back in the camp? How many more dead and wounded should there be?"

  Wdowetschenko turned abruptly and stared coldly at Litschenko. "Moscow has indicated that the escape of Michail Wulff will be taken very seriously. It has become, so to speak, a test case for the ability of Siberian camp authorities to recapture escaped convicts. Should you and Chrapow continue to fail, this will have consequences for everyone, without exception! So, don't take your assignment lightly. It'll cost your head, too! Wulff must be caught! Do you understand me?!"

  Litschenko nodded silently. He could imagine what pressure Major Kurbanow exerted on Wdowetschenko, which he now passed on to him. Secretly, he was pleased that his superior would not get away with it either, if he did not catch Wulff.

  You just can't take these people so seriously, Litschenko thought, and he felt how a feeling of relief flooded him. In reality, they are just little spirits who pursue their selfish interests and are plagued by fears and worries. You're no better off than I am. Their threatening gestures are nothing but a sign of their own weakness. – When someone attacks me, I should not always take it personally and react with fear or anger.

  This thought fascinated Litschenko. Those who do not feel attacked or hit can deal more calmly with the pressure and aggression of their fellow human beings. Suddenly his superior appeared to him like a bad actor in a cheap movie.

  "What are you smiling at?" Wdowetschenko drove into him.

  Litschenko pulled himself together and put on a formal face again.

  "I was just thinking about it," he lied, ""how the political officer will be pleased when he is allowed to discuss with Wulff again."

  "You have to have him first. So, stop dreaming!, What actions have you taken in the meantime, and how do you plan to continue when Chrapow is finally restored?"

  "All militia departments within seven hundred miles of Nakama have been informed. In addition, all collective farms and state farms, especially the comrades of hunting and the timber industry, have received a precise description of the fugitive. For the capture of Michail Wulff, a bounty was suspended."

  Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko nodded, but it was noticeable to him that he was only half satisfied. "And what else?"

  "As soon as Chrapow is fit again, I will fly him into the mountains. He's dying to see where we lost the trail. We are also planning to comb the area between Krasnojarsk and Irkutsk with smaller search teams despite the cold weather. I'm sure Wulff's headed south. Maybe he wants to cross the border there in the spring."

  "Siberia is infinite, and this man has shown that he can travel great distances in a short time." Wdowetschenko flicked his fingers disparagingly. "Probably he left five hundred miles behind before winter, unless he froze to death or was eaten by wolves."

  "I think he knows exactly how to survive a Siberian winter," Litschenko said. "So far, however, he has always known exactly what to do. Even Chrapow respects his abilities."

  Juri Wdowetschenko growled a short "Maybe" and turned again to the window. Litschenko stood indecisively in the room and waited for a sign that he could withdraw. But his superior suddenly continued the conversation without turning around. "We've underestimated this man so far. In the future, set heaven and hell in motion so that you can soon drag this fellow through the camp gate here. You know what else you're going get! I stand by my promises."

  "I will do everything in my power, Lieutenant Colonel. But even an experienced man like Chrapow hasn't had any success."

  Wdowetschenko was silent and made a sign that Litschenko could leave. He was furious. He felt how he was losing influence over this man. Power is based on intimidation and fear. This Litschenko had changed in the meantime. He reacted more calmly to threats than a year ago. Apparently, he'd resigned himself to possibly being penalized. It didn't seem to scare him anymore. Thus he, Wdowetschenko, lost power over the lieutenant, and that exactly did not please him at all.

  His self-esteem depended on others looking up to him and trembling at his anger. He had to be careful not to lose authority. Somehow he felt that this Michail Wulff was his destiny. With his escape he had kicked off an avalanche that could tear all those involved into the abyss.

  As Litschenko approached the officers' barracks, little Nikolaj ran towards him through the snow. His cheeks were red with cold and excitement.

  "Daddy, Daddy! Mommy, look, Daddy's back!" Overjoyed, the boy jumped into his father's arms. Marina appeared in the open front door and beamed at her husband. She was no beauty, but her blond hair and her happy laughter made her the most beautiful woman in the world for Ivan Litschenko.

  She hurried towards him, fell around his neck and pressed him firmly to herself. Ivan Litschenko felt the warmth of her body. Excitement rose in him. He'd missed her for a long time.

  "Come on, Marina, let's go into the house. I haven't held you in my arms in a long time."

  She kissed him tenderly and whispered: "Go ahead. I'll get Nikolaj to his playmates quickly."

  Litschenko stroked his son's face and pulled the hood up for him. "When you get back, we'll go sledding together. Do you want that?"

  Nikolaj clapped his hands and jumped up with joy. "Oh yes, Papa!"

  Then he jumped at his mother's hand through the snow. Ivan Litschenko looked after them. For him, they were the most important thing in the world, and no Michail Wulff or Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko should be allowed to make them unhappy with their decisions. He'd make sure of that, and if he had to fight hard.

  He turned to the house. Two soldiers and a prisoner with a toolbox just stepped out the door. It was Semjon with two guards.

  "Hello Lieutenant," the prisoner shouted to him, "we haven't seen you here in a while. Mischka Wulff must have kept you on your toes the whole time! That boy's pretty cooked, isn't he?"

  "We don't have him yet. But the frost will already wear him down, and in spring we will collect him like fallen fruit."

  Semjon shook his head, took the toolbox in his other hand and replied: "I think you underestimate the boy! He is smarter than most people in this camp! He'll fool you a lot of the time."

  Semjon turned to walk, but paused and said over his shoulder: "I wish you no luck, Lieutenant! Michail Wulff has become a symbol of freedom and resistance for all of us. He's our man! Bets are hig
h that he will never set foot in this camp again, and even Nikita prays for the success of his escape. So, do your thing badly, Lieutenant!"

  Litschenko did not respond to this provocation. Basically, Semjon was right. He could understand him and his friends. If it weren't for Marinas and Nikolaj's future, he'd think the same. He's been that far.

  ◆◆◆

  It was a hard winter. Although Mischka had closed the entrance on the steep wall and sealed the entrance to the underground waterfalls with reindeer skin, the cave was still full of draught. Also, the campfire and the thick clothing did not create a warm or comfortable feeling on some days. Outside, his beard froze within minutes. That's why he didn't venture into the icy cold without a face mask of soft deerskin.

  Of course, the hard Siberian winter also gave him a feeling of security. With the extreme minus temperatures, hardly anyone would dare to visit this hostile area. After just a few hours of walking through the snow drifts, there would be a risk of severe frostbite to the face, hands and feet. Therefore Mischka felt relatively safe from unpleasant surprises.

  The presence of Aljoscha made the days easier for him. Yet loneliness and darkness tore his nerves. Sometimes he began to doubt the success of his escape, cursing his decision and dreaming of the warm barracks and the hard guys of the penal colony. Once they had attacked Tima Bekow, the devout, while he was reading his Bible.

  ◆◆◆

  "Hey, Tima, you're probably just back on a pilgrimage to the Promised Land," bawled Igor Lukin, a coarse, unkempt fellow with black hair and a red face. He bumped into the boy so that he fell off his stool and the Bible slide onto the floorboards.

  "Devout, but no guts in the bones," Wolodin Moisejew blasphemed. He himself was a lean, medium-sized man who tried to make up for his lack of intelligence and physical strength through his mouth. He stared at the boy with his watery eyes, as if he wanted to intimidate him.