The next morning they were awakened by the rattling of a scooter. Then someone pounded on the door. Lechtinnen jumped out of bed, pulled the blanket over Michail Wulff's head, meant to keep quiet and opened the door.
A border guard stood outside in the snow.
"Hello, Arvid, good to see you," he greeted the man. "Come in and warm yourself up a little. I'll put the kettle on."
Arvid Jotuni knocked off his shoes and stepped into the log cabin.
"I'd like you to meet my nephew Eino from Turku. But he doesn't feel very good," Lechtinnen continued. "The poor man had to go to the toilet the night before last in a snowstorm, and imagine, he completely lost his bearings and didn't found his way back to the hut. And its only 20 yards. Two hours he stumbled through the forest. I went after him and dragged him back half frozen. Now all he can do is croak like a raven."
Arvid Jotuni laughed. "Yes, yes, the townspeople are worse off here. If there isn't a sign on every tree, they'll lose all orientation." He peeled himself out of his parka and let himself fall into the armchair by the stove. "And now you're making him sweat a lot."
"The best antidote to the flu," nodded Ragnar Lechtinnen, putting the kettle on the hotplate of the cast-iron stove and stoking the fire. "Say, what are you doing here in this weather?"
"Duty, Ragnar, duty. Someone's escaped across the border again. This time it seems to be a really dangerous man."
"What do you mean with dangerous," Lechtinnen waved off. "For the comrades over there, anyone who disagrees is dangerous."
"I guess not in this case," continued Jotuni. "They've been chasing this man through half the USSR for almost three years now. There were a number of seriously injured and dead, and directly at the border he is said to have shot another KGB employee at close range, a certain Krapow or something like that."
"Hm," grumbled Lechtinnen, "really seems to be an uncomfortable contemporary. Better not to meet him."
"Exactly, that's why I wanted to warn you. The guy could still be around here. Best of all, you two don't leave the log cabin for the next two days and don't open it to any strangers, especially if they don't speak Finnish. If there's anything you notice or suspect, radio it to us. We'll take care of it."
"Did you find his tracks?" Lechtinnen wanted to know while he poured the tea.
"No hope. The blizzard covered all the tracks."
The men chatted for another quarter of an hour while sipping the hot tea. Then Arvid Jotuni said goodbye again.
Mischka had been lying quietly in bed all this time and dozing off. Every now and then he was shaken by a coughing fit. He didn't understand the two men. But the casual nature of Lechtinnen showed him that there was no danger. When the border guard shouted "Get well soon, Eino," he could only answer him with a croaking "Hej, hej". He had learned this Finnish greeting from Sergey.
After the rumbling of the snow scooter in the distance had faded away, Ragnar Lechtinnen closed the door of the log cabin and sat down at Mischka's bed.
"There was a dead man at the border," he said casually.
"Dead?" Mischka asked in a hoarse voice.
"Yes, his name is Krapow."
"Chrapow? Dead?" Mischka looked at him in disbelief.
"Yes. You know him?"
"He chased me through the taiga. Why's he dead?"
"Shot."
"Why shot? Because he didn't get me?"
Lechtinnen shrugged his shoulders. The young man was honestly amazed that this Krapow or Chrapow was dead. That wasn't acting. Whoever did it, Michail Wulff was innocent. He must not have been a felon. Through his profession Lechtinnen had acquired enough knowledge of human nature to be able to say that this man was not a criminal. Typical propaganda, he thought grimly, either criminal or insane. But the comrades over there only want to distract it from themselves.
"Arvid didn't remember either. When you have a better voice, you can tell me about your adventures."
Mischka nodded. Lechtinnen rose, filled a ceramic cup with hot tea, sweetened it with honey and returned to the bed. While Mischka was sipping the tea, Lechtinnen explained to him what plans he had devised last night to help him.
When Mischka was better again, he wanted to take him on the scooter to Kuusamo. From there they would go then with the Volvo to Helsinki and then with the ferry to Sweden.
"I'll take you to the German Embassy in Stockholm. There you can apply for political asylum."
Mischka smiled at him, squeezed his hand and croaked: "Thank you, my friend! Thank you."
"But first, I'll make you a civilized man."
Mischka looked at him without understanding. Ragnar Lechtinnen laughed and tried sign language. "Beard, hair, clothes, everything new. You look like you've lived in the Taiga for a year."
"Two years and half a year in Taiga," Mischka corrected him.
◆◆◆
The rush-hour traffic around Hamburg's city Centre came to a standstill this summer evening once again. The sultry, exhaust gas-laden air stood in the streets. No breeze moved the leaves of the trees in the avenues. The heat and noise of the big city made people irritable and unfocused.
Michail Wulff pushed himself with his rusty Alfa Spider over the East-West road. The stop-and-go traffic didn't bother him as much as his fellow sufferers on the three-lane street. He opened the sun roof and looked at the hazy blue sky above the skyscrapers. On such days he longed for the clear air and silence of the taiga. He wished to be able to listen to the roaring and gurgling of the streams, the chirping of the crickets and the "haakk, haakk" of the snow geese.
He'd been in this town for half a year. He had temporarily found work in the Hamburg State Museum. With his salary he could not only earn a living, but also save something for his studies. He had enrolled at the university for the autumn semester in order to continue his studies.
Mischka had often thought of Anka and her father in the past months. He wondered if they had received their emigration notice by now. Had they perhaps already left for the West, and if so, how would he find them?
Two weeks ago, an employee of the museum had given him the tip to inquire with the officials in the city of Friedland. Mischka had immediately called the reception camp and asked whether a Jarew family had arrived from Russia in recent months. The officer had explained to him friendly but determined that she could not give him any information on the telephone. That's why he immediately went to the reception office in Friedland the next day, but even his personal visit didn't get him any further. Only when Mischka had pretended to be Anka Jarew's fiancé did the officer disappear into a back room. She came back about ten minutes later and asked him, "What's your name again?"
"Wulff, Michail Wulff."
"Do you have another nickname your friends use to call you?" the officer wanted to know.
"Yes. Mischka."
"All right, Mr. Wulff, you're in luck. Two months ago, an Anka Jarew actually arrived here."
Mischka's heart jumped.
"Is she still here?" he shouted in an excited voice.
"No, she's moved to Hamburg now. But I can't give you the address."
To Hamburg! Anka was already in Hamburg.
"What about her father, Simeon Jarew? You were just talking about Anka?"
The woman looked embarrassed at her desk. "I'm sorry, Anka Jarew left the USSR alone."
"And her father? What happened to him? Tell me."
"He died of a heart attack in the hospital," the officer replied hesitantly.
"Dead? Simeon Jarew is dead?" Mischka swallowed and looked to the side. The woman shouldn't see his tears.
"Yes, but that's all I can tell you."
"Thank you," Mischka said, "thank you very much for the information! You don't know what these two people mean to me."
"I think I can understand you." The officer sighed. "We have many such fates."
With sadness and joy in his heart Mischka had returned to Hamburg. The next day, he went on a search, but the residents' registration office
couldn't help him. Anka Jarew was not registered in Hamburg.
◆◆◆
The driver behind him honked his horn. Mischka returned from his memories, engaged first gear and let the car roll three yards further. How could he find Anka here again? Suddenly his heart was beating up to his neck. A young woman with black-brown curly hair and a plain linen dress crossed the road between the waiting cars and walked down the sidewalk. He had only been able to see her profile for a short time, but Mischka was sure that this was Anka. He jumped out of the Alfa and ran after the woman.
"Hey, man, where you going?" shouted the driver behind him from the open side window. "You can't leave your car in the middle of traffic."
Mischka didn't hear him. He only had eyes and ears for the slender figure in front of him.
"Anka!" he shouted after her, "Anka, it’s me, Mischka!"
The woman went on as if she didn't hear him.
"Anka, stop, Anka!"
The passers-by looked after him shaking their heads.
Mischka reached the woman and grabbed her on the shoulder to stop her.
"Anka ...?"
The woman turned around and stared at him. "Yes, please, what do you want?"
"Excuse me," Mischka stuttered with a bright red head. "Excuse me, I mistook you for someone else."
"Stupid pickup line!" answered the woman and turned to leave.
Mischka stood with hanging shoulders on the sidewalk. A group of adolescents sneered at him. He didn't pay attention to their looks and cheeky sayings. Disappointment shown on his face.
Behind his Alfa, the drivers started honking their horns.
"Hey, man," someone shouted to him from the open driver's door, "its time you finish your walk and get your rusty bucket off the road. Man, you got a thick skin."
◆◆◆
Next Saturday Mischka went for a walk along the Alster-lake. The sun was shining from a bright blue sky. Nevertheless, it was not as humid as in the days before. A rain shower had cooled the morning air. Parents played with their children on the green areas. Seniors fed ducks and swans. Married couples, lovers and singles strolled along the shore, while joggers and cyclists sought their way between people.
Mischka sat down on a bench that had become vacant and watched the leisure captains in their sailing boats. A catamaran shot by, drove a jibe near the shore and went away again with inflated sails. Mischka was fascinated by the speed of these sport boats. One day he would also buy a catamaran and sail across the North Sea with it. He was sure it was just as exciting as flying. He closed his eyes and began to dream. A shadow fell on him. Someone sat on the open end of the bank.
He opened his eyes and looked stealthily to the side. A woman with a headscarf had settled there, probably a Turk. He couldn't see her face. Her slender figure seemed helpless and fragile. Mischka had a kind of sympathy for this woman. She was probably uprooted like him, without friends and family in a foreign culture.
He turned his gaze back to the Alster. Surely Anka would enjoy sailing, too. When the water hisses under the bow and the wind rattles in the sails, one can forget worries and pains.
The woman next to him rose to move on. He looked over at her. Her eyes met his. Like in a dream Mischka got up and took a step towards her.
"Anka? Is that you, Anka?"
She stared at him as if looking far away.
"Anka!" Mischka took a step towards the woman and grabbed her gently by the shoulders. "Anka, don't you recognize me? It's me, Mischka."
Grey eyes, whose pupils were framed with a narrow black line, looked at him under curved eyebrows. He would never forget those eyes again. Her nose was finely drawn and her mouth soft and full. It was like the first time. He couldn't take his eyes off her and thought he was floating.
Mischka pushed her headscarf aside. Black-brown curls fell over the young woman's shoulders, making her face mysterious and attractive.
"Anka, don't you recognize me?" Mischka repeated.
He saw her eyes lose the absence of mind and fill with tears. He gently embraced her in his arms. A tremor rose in her. Mischka held her tight and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
"They've killed my father," she said suddenly. "And they said you were dead, too. They shot you at the border. Then ... then I died too."
"Thank God we're alive!" he answered hoarse and lovingly pressed her to himself.
"How could they do this to us?"
"Some are certainly evil, some are full of fear and some are simply blinded," he replied hesitantly. Mischka was silent for a moment. "But if we can't forgive, we're no better than they are."
She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. "But it’s so hard."
"Our love will give you the strength, Anka."
She looked at him in silence and finally nodded.
"Yes, it will," Anka whispered and snuggled up to him. "But Mischka, don't ever leave me alone again."
He stroked her black-brown curls and said. "Never again! Never! I promise!"
An old woman on the bench across the street smiled when she saw them. Her thoughts went back to the time of the end of the Second World War, when with spring freedom returned and love defeated hatred.
Epilog
Shortly after Michail Wulff's escape across the Finnish border, Lieutenant Ivan Litschenko was transferred to the Ukraine. Because of his experience in the Siberian wilderness and his skills, he was appointed a Survival trainer for the Army.
Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko spent fifteen years as a prisoner in a penal colony in Kazakhstan. An anonymous writer from Surgut told the KGB Major Kurbanow in Moscow that the colony chief enabled Wulff to escape in order to sell information about the restructuring of the KGB to Western secret services. After imprisonment Juri Wdowetschenko remained in Kazakhstan. He completely lost his footing and became totally addicted to alcohol within a few months.
Even Pankratow could no longer be integrated into the socialist work process because of his nervous breakdown. Five years after his release from hospital, he threw himself in front of a train.
Jossif Karatajew resigned from the army and began to work in a steelworks.
Aljoscha studied law. During Gorbachev's reign he opened a lawyer's office in Moscow. Anka and Mischka later visited him regularly.
Nikita and Semjon became tiny wheels in the socialist society after they had finished their imprisonment. With clever trickery they tried to damage the state wherever they could. After the fall of the communist system, they founded an import-export business.
Alexei Proschin, the priest and hermit, had disappeared. Although rumors spread among Orthodox that he had been seen in different places, no one could say more.
Boris and Pjotr were involved in the youth work of their home town and took care of Vera Sergejewitsch until her death. Pjotr studied sport and philosophy and then worked as a teacher in Kargasok. After the fall of socialism he switched to politics.
Boris became an officer to serve his people and his country. During the war in Afghanistan, partisans attacked his convoy on a mountain road flooded with gasoline. When the Afghans ignited the gasoline, Boris tried to save himself from the hell fire and jumped down a slope. There a hail of bullets from the partisans struck him down, while a western camera team filmed the scene. Michael Wulff didn't recognize the dying soldier when the TV news showed these pictures, although his face seemed strangely familiar to him.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 35
