Full and content, he now sat by the campfire and tried to knead a bowl, a cup and a jug-like vessel out of the clay. They shouldn't be primitive pottery. He wanted to enrich his life in the wilderness with at least a touch of luxury. But it was not so easy to form circular vessels without a turntable.
The cup burst in the embers of the fire in two parts. It had obviously been too thin. But the bowl and the jug looked quite reasonable. Mischka proudly looked at his works of art. With a little practice, he'd soon hold a candle to the natives of this country.
Before he lay down to sleep, he shoveled a handful of embers into the clay jug, laid small pieces of beech wood on top and covered the whole thing with a thick layer of moss. To be on the safe side, he put the clay bowl over the opening of the jug. The jug was his hot-water bottle for cold nights, and the next morning he could also light a new campfire with the embers, an important aid because his matches were running out.
After a breakfast of birch bark moss porridge with grass seeds and the rest of the fish, Mischka went to the fish trap again the next morning. Three slender minnows swam in the second reservoir. Their golden tops were brightly contrasting with the dark green bodies. They were just too small for a meal. That's why Mischka set them free again.
In the cage and in the third plant cages there were two Perch and three bluish-green Vendace with silver flanks, which were good for smoking. After he had slaughtered them, Mischka took another lump of clay to reshape the misshaped cup. He needed such a vessel not only for drinking, but also for collecting the juice of young birch trees, which was an excellent substitute for sugar syrup. His palate shouldn't be neglected. He had gotten used to the taste of the new food, but why not make life as pleasant as possible?
Mischka felt entirely at ease, as he sat at the campfire again in the evening, looking at the starry sky and listening to the sounds of the night. The familiar call of an owl, the rustling of the leaves, and the croaking of the frogs on the shore of the lake, all these sounds were signs of freedom for him.
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The prison cell, the so-called isolator, in which Michail Wulff had been locked was dark and damp. It was from the Tsarist period. At that time, revolutionaries sat here on the hard plank beds to wait for their sentencing.
Obviously the communists have not learned from their own prison experiences how to deal better with their critics, Mischka sadly thought.
Nicholas II had lost sight of the needs and hardships of his people, and thus contributed to the revolution and the downfall of his house. But his successors were not any better. They wanted to improve the situation of the people and build a just society, but power also corrupts idealists. History has taught us that over and over again. State capitalism, corruption, nepotism and enrichment at the expense of the people were cancerous ulcers of the system, not to mention the omnipresent lack of freedom that seemed unbearable to an alert mind. A political system that overthrew a dictatorial monarchy in order to impose the ideal form of state, would have to treat the inhabitants of the country more humanely and mercifully. But the continued use of tsarist dungeons became a symbol of the government and its worldview.
His cellmates didn't seem like brutal felons. They greeted him jovially and immediately offered him some food: Bread, a piece of cheese and a tin cup with water. They stormed him with questions: "Well, buddy, why did they put you in jail? Are you a political, a Christian or a criminal?"
"I've complained too often about grievances,” Mischka replied chewing. "But why do you ask if I am a Christian? We have religious freedom in the USSR. Because of his faith no one is punished here!"
"You can actually visit the church with impunity,” boasted a wild looking giant named Nikita. "But Tima Bekow, the slim boy back there, felt compelled to tell others what he had heard in church. He's in the same hole with us now."
"That was religious propaganda,” Tima admitted, "and that's forbidden in the Soviet Union."
"Nikita Chruschtschow, your dear namesake, said years ago that there is only one freedom in our country: the freedom to propagate communism in the light of contemporary Marxism-Leninism."
The giant spat contemptuously on the ground when he heard the name Nikita. "The guy should burn in hell, provided it’s real! And all his followers with their minions to it!"
The others mumbled approvingly. Only Tima Bekow was silent. Finally he said quietly, but understandably for all: "If we cannot forgive them, we are not better than them."
These words hit Mischka like a burning arrow. Again and again they rang in his ears later when he was yelled at, kicked and beaten, when he had to work under the eyes of his guards until he collapsed, or they threatened him.
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do." Hadn't that man from Nazareth proclaimed it when he was tortured and finally killed? Do these functionaries and their henchmen really not know what they are doing to us, their brothers and sisters? Are they so blind, so clouded by their world view that they no longer see reality? Have they learned nothing from the mistakes of the Tzars?
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The next day came up sultry and with pale light. During the morning, the humidity continued to rise. Mischka didn't like this tropical climate, which drifted sweat on his forehead with every movement and led to inertia. He loved the clear, cool air. Nevertheless, he pulled himself together to empty the cage and collect some plants.
In the afternoon white clouds came up, which were driven tower-like into the sky by strong updrafts. Obviously, a thunderstorm was approaching. Mischka dug a gutter around the outside of his refuge, covered the roof with another layer of leaves, weighted it down with branches and stones and collected enough firewood. He wanted to be prepared for a longer rainy season. He also brought his belongings to a secure place under the trunk of the uprooted tree.
In the evening the air stood. No breeze moved the leaves. The birds had fallen silent, as if they knew about the approaching thunderstorm. Over the leaden sky moved a black cloud wall. Lightnings twitched on the horizon, and distant rolling thunder made the air tremble. First drops clapped through the leaves and destroyed the smooth surface of the lake. Then the storm broke. A gust of wind blew over the treetops, stirred up the water and whipped the rain through the air. Lightning shot across the dark sky. Thunderclaps cracked like explosions.
Mischka kept jerking together in horror. The center of the thunderstorm seemed to be directly over him. Lightning and thunder followed without a measurable break. He felt like he was in a witch's cauldron.
Suddenly he felt as if he was electrically charged. A tremendous tension crackled in the air. His hair was straightening up. Then he heard it coming. It hissed like a rocket went down. A deafening bang almost tore Mischka's eardrum apart! The smell of fire filled the air. The breaking and bursting of heavy wood roared in his ears.
Mischka instinctively rolled into the corner of his refuge and pressed against the trunk of the uprooted tree. Above his head it roared, then the tree struck by lightning hit the roof of his hut. Wood splintered, a branch drilled into the ground directly in front of his face and filled his mouth with sand and dust.
Trembling Mischka crawled out from under the tree trunk, spat out the sand and wiped his face. In the light of the lightning he looked at the crown of the old beech that had crushed his lodging. Rain pelted down on his skin and made him shiver. The forces of nature were not friendly to him this time. But they had spared his life. His path wasn't over yet.
Mischka crawled back under the protective trunk in order not to be completely soaked. His hands groped through the darkness. He felt the rough surface of the clay tableware. He drew the warm jug to himself and pressed it to his chest. Comfortable warmth went through his body and gave him the feeling of not being completely helpless at the mercy of this storm.
The new day began with warm sunshine. The heavy clouds had moved to the east. Only a few white veils were dragging sluggishly across the sky. Mischka crawled out from under the trunk and stretched hi
s stiff limbs. Shortly before dawn, after the wind had finally subsided, he had fallen asleep, but he still felt tired and dazed by the horrors of the night. The storm had done quite a job. The crown of the old beech had completely destroyed his shelter. Fragmented branches covered the forest floor as if a horde of savages had raved out their unbridled aggressions at night.
Mischka lit a new fire with the embers of the clay jug and the thin, dry fir branches to cook his breakfast. Because the beech wood was damp, it took a long time for the flames to blaze. White smoke rose through the leaves of the treetops to the sky.
A barely perceptible humming suddenly penetrated from the north through the silence of the forest. Mischka listened. The hum was getting louder. A plane was approaching! Shocked, Mischka threw sand at the blazing fire. It seemed to take an eternity until the flames were extinguished and no more smoke rose. In the meantime, the plane had come closer. It seemed to be a twin engine machine, an IL18. Did the pilot see the smoke trail of the fire? Mischka retreated under the crown of the beech and watched the sky through the foliage.
The propeller plane flew over the lake. Mischka breathed a sigh of relief. A routine flight, nothing to worry about! But then he heard the plane take a bend and return. It circled over the lake three times before turning north again.
They had tracked him down! The smoke of the fire had betrayed him! Soon the search teams would be swarming for him. It's about time to get back on the road anyway! Those who are on the run must not stay too long in one place. He must keep moving and confuse his followers again and again. And he was sure he wouldn't make it easy for this bastards either.
At first, Solojew, the pilot of the IL18, thought it was just a fog. But then he clearly recognized the smoke trail of a fire. As he approached the shimmering green lake, the plume of smoke disappeared, but he could still clearly smell the odor of burnt wood through the ventilation of his plane. Obviously someone on the shore of the lake tried to hide his presence. That was more than suspicious.
Solojew took a bend and circled over the lake. But he couldn't find anyone. A hunter would make no secret of his presence. It was obvious that someone wanted to stay undiscovered here.
The pilot read the coordinates of his position from the instruments and reported his observation by radio to the airport authority with the urgent request to forward it immediately to the KGB. If it turns out that someone was on the run here, the prompt report would certainly bring him advantages. Satisfied, Solojew pulled the plane back into the sky to return to the airport. His day had started well.
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Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko received the telegram of the hopelessly overloaded Moissejew from Sverdlovsk and the message of the pilot Solojew almost simultaneously. His eyes gazed from one piece of paper to another as he chewed on his cold cigar. He didn't have to think long. Sverdlovsk was a false lead. Obviously Michail Wulff didn't want to go west as fast as possible. The flight via the Balkan countries had also become very difficult in recent years. It looked more like he was going underground in the East. The border to China was not as well secured as that of the allied Eastern bloc states. Out of fear of their big Soviet brother, their security apparatus ran like a well-oiled gear train. One could rely on the Stasi or the Bulgarian KDS.
No, Michail Wulff certainly sat at the small lake where Solojew had discovered the smoke trail of a fire, and hurriedly packed up his belongings. He could bet his month's salary on that.
Twenty minutes later, a helicopter landed. Three selected soldiers, a search dog and Lieutenant Litschenko rushed into the helicopter with their packs. Then the machine climbed back into the air with rattling rotors, turned south and followed the railway line.
The flight lasted about five hours until they reached the given coordinates.
Litschenko thought restlessly that there was far too much time to catch Michail Wulff. He was sure the runaway had gotten suspicious after the plane had circled over the lake and would be already miles away. Until now, he had always led them around by the nose. Why should it be any different this time?
The copilot opened the large side door while the helicopter floated over the northern shore of the lake. One after the other the men strapped on the belt system, hooked the steel cable into the safety eyelet and let themselves be rappel with the motor winch. The last to be lowered was the shepherd dog. Immediately the men swarmed out and searched the ground for traces. In the meantime, the helicopter flew to the military base in Tjumen to refuel. If the search fails, he would pick up the men the next morning.
The sun was already on the horizon when Litschenko's soldiers were called together to discuss the situation. Their search had been unsuccessful so far. If Michail Wulff had actually been at this lake, then yesterday's storm had thoroughly covered all his tracks. Broken wood and bent plants covered the forest floor, no footprint could be found. The shepherd dog sniffed here and there, but could not pick up a trail, and the only traces of a fire they found on the trunk of an old beech felled by lightning.
"Either the smoke comes from lightning or this Michail Wulff is a master of camouflage," one of the soldiers said discontentedly.
"Let's follow the course of the stream a little before we set up camp for the night,"Litschenko tried to encourage the men. "Maybe he left a trail there. Anyway, if someone was after me, I'd wade through the creek in his place."
The men shouldered their luggage and followed the lieutenant. Here, too, heavy rain showers and the thunderstorm had done quite a job. Traces of rainwater flowing and broken branches were found on both banks, but no sign of a human being. Suddenly Litschenko bent over. The bottom of the creek looked kind of strange. Although he could not see a footprint, the order of the pebbles seemed unnatural to him. Excitement gripped him. Maybe Michail Wulff had been here after all! But what should the changed brook bottom mean? Had the fugitive built a trap here like a playful boy? Or was he wrong? Did he even make a fool of himself under the pressure to succeed?
Litschenko shook his head. He wasn't a tracker. I wish this Chrapow were here! But as Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko had told him, the infamous Ranger would not arrive until next week. By then, Michail Wulff had long since gone into hiding in the taiga.
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When the helicopter dropped the men off, Michail Wulff had already been on the way for three hours. In the distance he heard the hard hitting of the rotor blades and knew that there was no danger for him at first. Still, his heart pounded up to his neck. They had taken up the pursuit again. This thought alone worried him. His trail was to be lost in Sverdlovsk. But a stupid coincidence had led to his discovery. Coincidence? Or was it his carelessness? He couldn't lie to himself. The last few days he had felt too safe. Too much security is reckless. He was not allowed to make this mistake too often, otherwise he would one day run blindly into the arms of his pursuers.
As necessary as criticism is in order not to be deceived by overestimation of one's own self, one must not agonize too much about his problems. He had done well so far. Mischka shook his head and laughed quietly as he drifted along the creek on his little raft. He imagined how the men searched in vain for his traces on the shore of the lake. The thunderstorm had done most of his work. The footprints had been washed away by the rain showers, the fragmented crown of the beech covered his hut, and all other traces had been thoroughly removed by him by covering them with a pine branch and sprinkling them with sea water. Mischka had also artificially increased the burn marks of the lightning strike on the beech trunk. He hoped it would distract the pursuers from his trail. They should assume that the pilot had not seen the smoke of a campfire, but the last swaths of a lightning-burnt fire.
From thick branches he had built a narrow raft, which he had reinforced with the material of the fish traps. He had distributed the pebbles of the fortifications over the river bed and then laid down on the raft on which his belongings had already been stowed. After he had also covered his footprints in the stream bed, Mischka left.
He followed the stream, away from the small lake, which had seemed like a paradise to him after the months in the camp. He looked back wistfully to take a last look at the turquoise water.
In the evening Mischka began to freeze. Clouds were raised in the sky and had weakened the power of the sun's rays. Besides, he was always wet on his narrow raft. That's why he got colder and colder. Now his whole body trembled. He had to warm up. But Mischka didn't dare light a fire. His pursuers were certainly not on his heels yet, but he was not allowed to become careless. Moreover, he could not bury the treacherous ashes of the fire in the loamy forest soil as easily as on the sandy shore of the lake.
Mischka tied his raft to the trunk of a birch tree standing on the shore, climbed up the embankment and began to exercise to warm up. After ten minutes, he felt the blood circulating in his veins again. Hungry, he ate a dried fish and a tuft of seaweed. After the delicious dishes of the past days from the lake and forest, the sea grass tasted dull. Nevertheless, he was a little more comfortable after the meal.
He decided to continue drifting down the creek until sunset, even if he would freeze again. He wanted to bring as much distance as possible between himself and his pursuers. Therefore, after carefully covering all tracks, he swung himself onto his raft again. After all, it was possible that one had discovered his presence at the lake and had seen through his plan. Perhaps the men had followed him along the creek in a fast march. Therefore, only the darkness could offer him protection.
Despite his clay jug filled with embers, the night was cold and there seemed to no end to the cold. Already in the first dusk, Mischka destroyed his raft, let a part of the branches drift down the stream, distributed the rest in the forest, shouldered his luggage and continued his escape on foot. The movement did him good, even though his sore feet had not yet completely healed and the hip joints were still hurt. But over the next few days he got used to hiking again.
The Trace of the Wolf Page 5