The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  "You don't think you're a henchman, do you, Karatajew? You feel strong. The gun in your hand gives you power. The cold steel feels good, makes you safe. You can decide between life and death with it. My life is in your hands. That must be a strong feeling, Karatajew! You are master of life and death!"

  The soldier looked over to Litschenko, who listened with a smile. Then he lowered his arm.

  "I'm telling you, man, your gun can't scare me. Here, there are the really dangerous weapons." Mischka turned to the shelf and drove his index finger over the spines of the books. Then he pulled out one of the works. "What people have thought and written down has changed our world more than swords, muskets and grenades. The misery of our people also goes back to the thoughts of a few people. First came the idea, then the enthusiasm, the conviction, the submission and thus the oppression."

  Mischka returned to Jossif Karatajew. "It is not you who threaten me, nor your weapon, but your attitude of mind, your attitude which has been given to you and others and which you no longer critically question."

  "Now hold your breath, boy!" the soldier growled. "Your intellectual chatter is getting on my nerves! Now let's take you back to Djatlowo. You can continue your discussion with the political officer. So, be a good boy and don't try any of your tricks. This time we're better prepared. Twenty grim men are waiting outside to pick a bone with you."

  Mischka only looked at him contemptuously. "You just don't get it, Comrade Karatajew! Your militia doesn't impress me any more than the great hunter Chrapow. They are powerless against the weapons of the spirit."

  He held the book out to him. The man laughed mockingly and raised his gun. At that moment Mischka parried the pistol barrel with his left hand to the side and pushed the edge of the book against the lower jaw of his opponent with the strength of his steeled body. Karatajew's head flew into the neck under the force of the attack. He staggered back and sank onto a chair standing behind him. The pistol slipped from his hand and rumbled to the ground.

  Mischka slipped behind the chair like a cat, pulled the unconscious man's head by his hair over the backrest and aimed the edge of the book at Karatajew's naked throat. "Don't move, Lieutenant, or I'll smash his larynx in!"

  Mischka's face betrayed wild determination. Dazed by the events, Litschenko sank back into his armchair and tried to grasp a clear thought.

  "Carefully take the gun out of the holster, and throw it over to me. Don't try to be a hero, or Karatajew will be out of his misery! I mean it!"

  Slowly, Litschenko stood up, pulled the gun out of the belt bag with two fingers and threw it to Mischka.

  "You're no better than the one you're accusing, Michail Wulff," he said tonelessly. "Your behavior is not always fair."

  "Not fair?" Mischka returned. "Is it fair that you hunt me like a wild animal? Is it fair that you charge innocent people? Shall I submit to your presumptuous right? May you command and torture and only I suffer? Always suffering? No, Litschenko, you're twisting the truth."

  Mischka threw the book aside, bent down quickly, picked up the two pistols and pushed them into his belt. "If God really should be dead, as you yourselve claim, then all is permitted. Then I have the same rights as the functionaries and party comrades of our state, the rights of the currently stronger and smarter."

  He opened the unconscious soldier's belt and strapped him to the back of the chair over his arms without losing sight of Litschenko.

  "But if God is not dead, then all men are equal and accountable to him. Even then, no one has the right to enslave the next. So, you can turn it around as you like, there's no right to take away my freedom of self-determination!"

  Litschenko was silent for a moment. Finally he straightened up and said, "You're right. Education, habit and fear of the consequences of a refusal to obey orders let us follow in the footsteps of superiors. Everybody tries to build his little happiness on this world. As long as we fit into the ruling system, we're left alone. Few are martyrs and idealists."

  He looked into the distance, lost in thought. "My grandfather was an idealist like you, a fighter for freedom. He left court and family to sweep the oppressors from their thrones, as you demanded, and died in great agony after a shot in the abdomen. What did he get out of his life? What did he die for if his ideals were only utopia?"

  Ivan Litschenko looked directly at Mischka. "Can't you understand, Michail Wulff that I just want to live, that I want to enjoy my little happiness with my family and therefore bow to the constraints of society? Isn't it better to live a limited life than to be a dead idealist?"

  "That's the attitude that makes power and oppression possible, Lieutenant. Not religion and empty promises of a better future, which are opium of the people, but bread and games."

  Litschenko shook his head. "Not bread and games. It's just the thirst for life. We've been deprived of a hope for the hereafter. So, all we have left is today. Our generation no longer sees any sense in fighting for a future that they will not experience themselves. That's why we're doing everything we can to enjoy what's left."

  "Even if you have to persecute and torture innocent people, don't you?" Mischka returned.

  Litschenko shrugged his shoulders. "I think we're going round in circles. Maybe someday you'll understand me. Idealism is a prerogative of youth. But you can't keep it up your whole life. I've sobered up too. Ten years ago, I would have agreed with you. But now my family hopes that my success in the line of duty will secure their little happiness and their future, and they don't even know what kind of person you are."

  Mischka stood motionless in the room and remained silent.

  "So, what now?" Litschenko asked him.

  "Now you give your men the order to withdraw."

  Mischka pulled one of the pistols and aimed directly at the lieutenant's head. "All right, let's go! Go to the door and give your orders."

  Litschenko rose from the armchair and walked with stiff legs through the short corridor to the front door. From the corner of his eye he watched Mischka follow him at a safe distance, still pointing the gun at his head.

  He has always been one step ahead of us, he thought, when we gave him time to think. He still felt sympathy for the young man, who fought by all means for his rights. Michail Wulff appeared to him like a Siberian tiger, who can unfold its destiny only in the freedom of the wilderness.

  After the militia left, they returned to the living room. Jossif Karatajew had meanwhile awoken from his unconsciousness and tugged at his belt. His jaw was swollen and began to turn blue. He looked at Mischka with hatred.

  "Dog!" he poked out between his teeth. It was hard for him to talk.

  "Man, be glad I didn't smash your nasal bone or larynx with that book," Misha returned. "A book can be a deadly weapon, but you didn't want to believe it. Be glad I spared you."

  "Next time I'll shoot you dead!" hissed Jossif.

  "There won't be a next time, Karatajew, I promise you."

  Mischka turned to Litschenko. "By the way, where's Chrapow? Has he thrown in the towel already?"

  "No, he's trying to pick up your trail on his own. We haven't heard from him for several days. But he'll turn up, you can be sure of that. He has sworn eternal revenge to you!"

  Mischka smiled. "It would have been enough if he had limited his revenge to thirty years, for he will certainly not live forever. So, now you can free our comrade Karatajew, and then I may ask the gentlemen into the corridor."

  The two men obeyed the young man with mixed feelings. He certainly wouldn't just let them go. They knew him too well for that.

  As if he had guessed their thoughts, Mischka explained to them: "Of course I need a small lead. So I must ask you to spend a few hours in the closet."

  He opened the door of an old oak cupboard, stepped back and told the two with the gun to step into it. After he had locked it, he additionally secured the door with a broom handle, which he clamped between the cupboard and the wall. "Surely you will soon be found and set free. And remember, I hav
e spared you. So, spare the professor and his daughter, too. They didn't take any blame. Hospitality is one of the good traditions of our people. You can't punish them for that. Do not become henchmen of injustice!"

  Mischka hastily collected some important equipment, stuffed everything into his backpack and shouldered the luggage. Most of his equipment was already stowed in the canoe anyway. He heard the two men throwing themselves in vain against the cupboard door, knocked once more on the side wall and shouted to them: "This is still good old handiwork from the time of the tsars. So, spare your strength. I don't think we'll see each other again. Therefore I wish you good luck in your private life despite your professional failure."

  He could still hear Karatajew cursing before he threw the front door behind him into the lock. As fast as he could, he zigzagged to the edge of the forest. He didn't want to risk anything. Maybe a sniper was left behind to kill him when he left the house. But nothing happened.

  Before he disappeared between the branches, he looked back wistfully once more. Like Veras cottage, this house had become his home. Here he had found his love.

  Oh, Anka, he thought, will I ever see you again? Will my flight be successful, and will you and your father be allowed to emigrate, after you have taken me into your house? Will we ever be free? Or were we just dreamers?

  Mischka walked down the path to the stream with steady steps. He took off his boots on the shore and jumped into the water exactly where he had crossed the stream on his return from the hunt. Of course, they'd put search dogs on his trail today. Therefore he marked the other bank with footprints, so that his pursuers were led back to the house in a loop in his old track. This gave him enough time to extend his lead and get to safety.

  Then he waded through the water until he reached the place where the canoe was hidden. He stowed his equipment, untied the canoe and paddled down the creek. Half an hour later he reached the Ob. He crossed the wide river and drifted downstream with the current. When a barge or motorboat appeared, he lay back, pushed the professor's hat over his face and played the recreational captain. But inside he was bubbling with rage and excitement. The arrest of Simeon Jarew and his Anka occupied him more than the continuation of his escape.

  After all, it was his fault that they had been dragged to the KGB. If only he hadn't stayed with them so long! He had lived at their cost and risk, put them in danger and perhaps even prevented their departure. The unpredictability of the secret police even made it possible for them to be sentenced to several years in prison. Mischka clenched his fists. He would have preferred to beat up Litschenko and Karatajew. But out of consideration for Anka and her father, he had to control himself. Finally, the two men were to ensure that the KGB took no further steps against the Jarews and let them run as harmless and ignorant. On the other hand, he had felt something of sympathy with the lieutenant. Why, he couldn't explain himself exactly. Maybe the man wasn't as he seemed. Maybe he himself was in trouble up to his neck and could understand Michail Wulff's escape. He was hoping so. He was hoping for Anka.

  He was lucky that Chrapow wasn't there. He would have had little chance against three. Moreover, this man was dominated by cruelty and irreconcilability. He'd let his hatred run wild on innocent people, too. Of course they'll fly him in right away. But the hunter couldn't follow his trail on the water.

  The Ob turned to the west and shortly after to the north again. In the bend of the river, as described by Anka, the mouth of a river appeared, behind which extended an extensive swamp area with lakes, forests and brooks. Mischka steered the canoe into the river, paddled upstream and then turned into one of the many streams. An hour later he was driving the canoe under the low branches of an unknown tree. The leaves were dense and did not even let daylight through. It was an ideal place to hide for a few days until he was no longer sought in this area. Up to now, and as fast as possible, he covered long distances and brought many miles between himself and his pursuers. This time he wanted to wait until they stopped the search. He was hoping they didn’t see through his tactics.

  He had supplies for at least two weeks, but he didn't want to wait that long in his hiding place. He desperately needed the food for the second part of his escape. He could not rely on being able to supplement his food with wild plants. Only a few marsh plants were edible. In addition, he did not want to expose himself to the danger of sinking into one of the numerous moor holes, only to be excavated five hundred years later by a peat-cutter. His water supply was also limited, and he doubted whether the brown broth of the streams was drinkable.

  After tying up the canoe, he crawled into his worn sleeping bag and pulled a blanket over his head to protect himself from the pests of the swamp. Although it had already become quite cold, the air buzzed with mosquitoes during the day. Despite his tiredness, he could not fall asleep. Anka and her father were in his mind.

  Hopefully they've been set free again by now! he thought.

  At the same time, he doubted that they would be set free so quickly. Surely they had had a hard interrogation. They would ask them again and again, ask them trick questions, listen to them to find out what path he would take and what his plans for the future would look like. Even if Anka and her father would claim not to have learned from the stranger, except that he was an adventurer who had protected Anka from wolves, they would continue to question hoping that Mischka might have betrayed himself at some point. He knew these people well enough by now.

  The next morning he woke up by beating rotor blades. There had to be at least two helicopters flying over the taiga a few miles away. Mischka never doubted for a second that the swamps were searched for him. In order not to be detected by infrared cameras, he stretched a dripping wet blanket over the canoe, put some branches over it for safety and crawled additionally into his sleeping bag. He hoped that these measures would prevent the cameras from capturing any of his body's heat rays.

  The helicopters were closing in. They seem to have flown the area systematically. Mischka stopped breathing when one of the helicopters flew over his hiding place. But the pilot did not stop and did not return. They hadn't spotted him. Fear and tension fell from him. He had done it again. Eventually, the flight sounds were lost in the distance.

  Mischka slipped off the blanket and crawled out of the sleeping bag. Then he rubbed himself with a liquid that Anka had extracted from a wild shrub and mixed with oil. It almost smelled pleasant and kept mosquitoes away for half a day. He had already forgotten the name of the bush again. He thought it might be possible to produce this mosquito repellent in large quantities and market it as "Jungle Oil.” These pests exist in every country of the world. Because it consists of natural substances, it will certainly be of interest to a large group of buyers. Entrepreneurial spirit gripped him. In his mind he saw himself and Anka wandering through a plantation and examining the bushes from which they would extract the basic substance of their product. They would own a growing business and a house that would be tastefully furnished. In front of the house would be a climbing frame and a sandbox for their children.

  A sharp pain went through his right arm hanging over the side of the canoe. Mischka moved up and stared at the two tiny red spots on his forearm.

  A snake shot off through the bushes. The markings on its back scared Mischka. A cross viper! He tore his knife out of its sheath and cut crosswise deep into the flesh of the forearm. Blood shot out. While he was sucking out the wound and spitting the blood into the stream, he wrapped his scarf around his upper arm with the other hand, knotted it, put one of the batons under it and turned it until he felt no pulse on his wrist. With a shoelace he fastened the stick to his forearm.

  Desperately, he tried to suck the poison out of the wound. He massaged the arm to carry poisoned blood to the wound. He didn't pay attention to pain. He sucked and spit, sucked and spit. His arm turned blue and numb. Mischka turned the stick back three turns, so that blood and life flowed into the arm again. Then he squeezed the veins off again.

  Aga
in and again he sucked out the wound. Then he briefly opened the upper arm tourniquet and closed it again. He had to prevent his arm from being undersupplied with blood and oxygen, otherwise he would seriously damage his muscles. He had no idea how long he could keep the tourniquet closed. He was unaware of the effects of snake venoms. He also did not know how often he had to repeat this procedure until the residual poison could no longer harm him. But too much could only be an advantage here.

  When the muscles began to hurt, he decided to finally open the upper arm tourniquet. Then he wrapped a handful of charcoal in the cloth and tied it over the wound. He lay down on his sleeping bag and hoped that the charcoal would absorb the rest of the poison.

  In the evening his forearm was slightly swollen and red-blue. He opened the wound again with the knife and then bandaged it again with a charcoal compress. His hands were wet with sweat despite the coolness of the evening, and his forehead was feverishly hot. The body had taken up the fight against the snake venom.

  Although Mischka didn't know how this fight would end, he felt strangely calm. The snake had apparently emptied its poison gland shortly before into another victim. Otherwise, he would have felt different. He had sucked most of the poison out of his arm. With the rest, his immune system would be fine. With these thoughts he tried to encourage himself.

  Yet he felt the fever rise from hour to hour. The inflammation pounded in his arm, causing it to swell further. Fear suddenly rose in him. Fear he won't make it. The man from Nazareth came to his mind again, about whom Tima Bekow had talked so much. Who had healed many sick. Could he help him, too?

  "If you exist," Mischka whispered desperately, "help me now. Now you can prove your power."

  But then doubts arose in him. Why should God help him? He, who had always cared less about God. Who had brought suffering and death to men. Why should this Jesus be interested in him at all?