The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  The pilot had switched on the thermal imaging camera and flew the area as planned. Again and again he stopped the helicopter and slowly turned it around its own axis so that Wdowetschenko could search the landscape below them with his binoculars. But they found no trace of Michail Wulff or the canoe.

  "Keep going down the river," the lieutenant colonel ordered. One could see how grouchy he was.

  The pilot pointed to the fuel gauge. "We must turn back if we don't want to get into trouble."

  "Oh, nonsense!" Wdowetschenko hit him. "That'll get us to Natanga. Keep flying!"

  The pilot reluctantly obeyed. "It's your risk, Comrade Lieutenant."

  "Lieutenant Colonel, if you please!" Wdowetschenko rebuked him.

  The pilot was silent. With such a man, it’s not easy to deal with him, he thought. It's better to keep your mouth shut. Let him see how he gets home when he's out of gas.

  He was flying low, heading west, always along the riverbank. After a quarter of an hour he pointed again to the fuel gauge. The needle was on reserve. "Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, I can no longer be held responsible for a onward flight. If we don't turn back now, we'll have to walk home. Besides, the weather seems to be changing. The barometer has dropped sharply in the last few minutes."

  "Don't pee your pants, man!" Juri Wdowetschenko growled. "But for my sake, turn around so we can refuel."

  Relieved, the pilot pulled the helicopter up and set course for Strelka Tschunja. The wind had refreshed and stood against the helicopter. They progressed slower than expected. A bank of clouds pushed over the mountain peaks in the east, black and ominous. The sky in front of it turned yellowish-red. The barometer kept falling. The pilot looked at the instrument panel. Another hour flight to Strelka Tschunja. The fuel gauge was approaching zero. The headwind increased fuel consumption more than he had calculated.

  A bolt of lightning flashed over the horizon. Then the storm howled, drove over the treetops, grabbed the helicopter and shook it as if it were a toy model.

  "Pull up the heli," Wdowetschenko yelled at him through the noise of the engine and the roar of the wind.

  "We no longer have enough fuel in the tank for such manoeuvre," the pilot replied. "We should be looking for a place to land."

  "Man, do as I tell you!" the lieutenant colonel hit him. His eyes sparkled cold.

  Lightning flashed across the sky like firestorms. Thunderclaps followed them, drowned out the beating of the rotor blades. Rain clapped against the windshield. The windshield wipers fought in vain against it. They were in the middle of a Siberian thunderstorm. The helicopter swayed like a sailing dinghy on a storm-washed sea.

  "Pull that machine up!"

  The pilot saw fear in Wdowetschenko's eyes. His abs were also hard from tension. He took the helicopter up with a quick decision. They broke through the clouds. Sunlight flooded the sky and dazzled them. The sudden calm let them breathe a sigh of relief.

  The pilot was about to call the tower of the military airport when the engine stopped. The helicopter jerked and stood afterwards again calmly in the air.

  "What was that?" Wdowetschenko wanted to know.

  "What I had feared for a long time," the pilot replied. "The tank's empty. I warned you about that. But you knew everything better."

  "Do something! Go down and land before the engine stops completely."

  "I wanted to do that before," the pilot replied. Suddenly he was calm himself and felt superior to the lieutenant colonel. "But you always have to get your own way."

  A series of misfires shook the helicopter. The pilot throttled the engine and went into descent. As soon as they were immersed in the clouds, the thunderstorm grabbed them again and shook them. Nevertheless, the pilot let the helicopter sink further. He switched on the spotlights to search the ground for a suitable area to land. A small clearing appeared between the curtains of rain. Relieved, he set out on his landing. Two yards to the ground. Wdowetschenko also breathed a sigh of relief.

  Suddenly the world around them seemed to explode. The bang of a thunderclap almost tore their eardrums apart. The instruments sprayed sparks. The helicopters runners hit hard. The rotor blades shredded the trunk of a spruce and broke like matches. Once again the engine howled. Then it died.

  Pale as chalk Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko stared at the pilot. Blood was running down his forehead from a cut.

  "Final stop," said the pilot, as if he were the driver of a Moscow suburban bus. "From here it is only twenty-five miles to Strelka Tschunja, twenty-five miles through swamp and thicket."

  Then he leaned back, closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  ◆◆◆

  Once again Chrapow had every reason to curse. A successful search for clues was out of the question after the thunderstorm. The rain showers had certainly blurred all footprints of Michail Wulff. This time they had had a real wild card.

  "Damn! Damn it!" the hunter shouted with a red head and threw a beech stick into the pouring rain. The stick collided with a tree root and turned like a boomerang over the ground.

  They huddled under a tarpaulin that they had stretched out to form an emergency tent. The mood of the other two was also at zero.

  "What's the next step?" Karatajew wanted to know.

  "We'll start all over again," Litschenko replied as he picked a pine cone. "We set up search parties, inform the population, remind them of the bounty and comb the area. This man's gonna show up sometime. He can't hide in the taiga forever."

  Litschenko wanted to encourage himself with these words. Basically, however, he knew what his slogans of encouragement meant: Hard work, short nights, trouble with the superiors and the exhausting life in the wilderness. How much longer? he asked bitterly. When can I finally live a normal life with my family again? Why me? Then he rejected that thought again. It was nonsensical and unfair. If someone else had been chosen to hunt Wulff, he, Litschenko, would have ignored it indifferently. It wouldn't have touched him.

  As long as you are not personally hit by misfortune, suffering and anger, you don't ask why - questions, he thought. Actually, one should ask oneself: Why not me? Why should suffering and anger always happen to others? Life is far too complicated. There are too many dangers lurking along the way for you to remain unchallenged. And if you think you have a guarantee card for a happy life in your hands, a gust of wind comes and whirls it away. It’s better that I should come to terms with fate and try to look at the positive side of life.

  Lieutenant Litschenko took a breath. He felt his mood improve again. Maybe it was all a matter of attitude.

  For Mischka, the thunderstorm was just right. It fitted his plans. Even Chrapow would have to throw in the towel by now.

  Rainwater came through a crevice in the rock and flowed over the stone slab that had previously served as his lying surface. Mischka caught the water with a piece of leather and filled it into his drinking bottle. Now he didn't have to leave his hiding place to quench his thirst at the creek. Then he squatted on a dry spot, leaned his head against the side wall of his cave and began to dream.

  What will life be like in the free West? Are the people happier there? They must be happier because they're free. Nobody's restricting their expression. They can say what they think openly. No one forbids them to go where they want to go.

  The beaches of the Mediterranean, the snow-capped Alps, southern France or the art treasures of Florence, Rome, Paris or London, he would love to see that all.

  Undreamt possibilities are open to the people there. They can fulfil their wishes and buy what makes life better: fast cars that don't have to be tinkered with every Sunday, elegant clothes, stylish or modern furniture, food from all over the world. What would he give if he could eat a banana or a peach right now?

  They had tried to hide it all, the rulers of the East. False press reports and lies in the news were intended to give the impression that workers in democracies lived at the lowest social level and were condemned to poverty forever. But Udo, the assembly
line worker from Ingolstadt, had been able to afford a trip to Moscow. Mischka had discussed with him on Red Square for an hour. It opened both their eyes. Udo owned a fast Audi, leather armchair and a modern fitted kitchen with all luxury. He lived better than most of Russia's officials. Nevertheless, he was a convinced communist, at least until his arrival in Moscow. Udo had had to revise his views on many points. He had not travelled to a workers' and peasants' paradise, but to a huge Gulag. The conversation with Mischka had, after all he had seen, been a revelation for him. When he said goodbye, Udo had tears in his eyes.

  It is difficult to have to say goodbye to a worldview, even if it does not correspond to reality, Mischka thought. But perhaps my ideas of freedom are also wrong. Maybe it’s all just a dream, a beautiful illusion. Maybe I'm on my way to nowhere. I might!

  ◆◆◆

  A week later Mischka set off again. The days had become long for him. In the small cave he had felt like a prisoner. Sometimes he had to force himself not to leave the hiding place prematurely. The vastness of the taiga seemed like a paradise to him.

  The wound had healed quite well by now. Because he had lived the past days only from his supplies, his luggage was no longer so heavy and hardly burdened him. The wound still hurt, but it was bearable. The charcoal envelopes had helped him.

  Although his pursuers had probably extended their search to a larger area by now, he moved with extreme caution. Again and again he searched the area for treacherous signs like flags of smoke or flying birds.

  Because the embers in the clay pot had gone out during his cave stay and he also had no time for hunting, he fed the next days mainly on raw plants, sometimes only on moss or grass, because nothing else could be found. It tasted disgusting at first. But he could only eat it raw. A cooking fire could betray him.

  Mischka tried to make further progress to the northeast. Swamps and impenetrable thickets made his escape difficult. Often he had to make large detours before he could continue his way. His feet and trouser legs were always wet. But he'd gotten used to it. There were worse things. As long as he was moving, the wet wouldn't make him sick.

  Twice he watched people from a hilltop. They were too far away for him to know whether they were civilians or militia. In any case, he became even more cautious.

  At the end of the next week Mischka reached a river. It came from the north, meandered through a valley and turned north again. He didn't know that he was on the headwaters of the Tunguska. Mischka sat down on the steep bank between two birches and watched the course of the river until evening. But no ship or boat could be seen. Probably only a few people lived here. So, he decided to continue his escape on the water. As long as he drifted down the river in the darkness and stayed away from the shore, he would not be discovered. He already had a plan. Satisfied Mischka rolled into his sleeping bag and slept deeply and soundly.

  The next morning, he woke up early. The sky was blue, and the first rays of sunlight made the dew drops on blades of grass and cobwebs sparkle like diamonds.

  A roebuck stood on the bank of the river and quenched his thirst. Mischka checked the wind. He was in a favorable position, so the animal couldn't smell him. He cautiously crept up to fifty meters to the roebuck, hooked his spear into the catapult, aimed and threw it with all his strength. Deadly wounded, the animal collapsed. Mischka pulled it behind a bush, grazed it and took off its fur. Then he cut the meat into thin strips and hung them in the sun to dry. After work he washed himself thoroughly in the river and ate a little.

  In the late morning he began to make frames for a small boat from willow rods by bending the branches U-shaped between stones and drying them in the sun. After that, he collected as much resin as he could find. To avoid sticking his fingers together, he used a simple glove made of deerskin. Tired and content he went back to sleep.

  The next day he tied the frames with tendons to a birch tree trunk, so that a simple boat form resulted. Then he sewed wet skins around the mold. Dried in the sun, they would later be tightly stretched. Finally Mischka sealed the seams from the outside with resin and also covered the skins with a thick layer of resin.

  The boat wasn't a jewel, but it would do its duty. After the sun had set, Mischka let it into the water and checked whether it was tight. Only a few spots still had to be repaired. Then he tied a bushy birch trunk to the left side of the boat so that his canoe looked like a floating tree trunk in the dark of night.

  That same evening he pushed off the shore and let himself be carried down the river. Stars sparkled in the sky and let the feeling of infinity and freedom flare up again. Mischka enjoyed this moment. It was unimaginable for him to have to return to the stench and noise of a big city. The taiga had shaped him forever.

  During the day he slept in the boat, which he camouflaged behind low bushes. Three motorboats chugged past in the next two days. Mischka didn't dare watch them. Maybe they were militia rubber dinghies. Possibly they were only hunters or workers of a lumberjack brigade who drove back to their home village.

  He passed several small villages. In the darkness of the night the unlit houses lay like rock blocks on the shore. No one was seen. Only sleepy animal sounds filled the air here and there.

  Mischka always stayed in the middle of the broadening river and ducked under the birch branches when a house appeared on the shore. As soon as the first glimmer of the day rose in the east, he headed for a suitable hiding place and camouflaged the boat with additional branches.

  A month later, he passed through a larger inlet. The river had meanwhile turned to the northwest. Now, however, it bent all the way to the west and turned into a broad stream. Nevertheless, the current did not become faster, but slowed down from hour to hour. Shortly before dawn the boat finally stopped drifting. Apparently the river was dammed not far from here. But there are always people at a dam. It was time he left his escape route.

  Mischka cut the birch trunk loose and paddled to the right bank. His plan had been in place for a long time. He had to spend another winter in Central Siberia. In spring he wanted to lay a clear trail to the east, and then set off undisturbed towards the west. He hoped that this would finally mislead his pursuers.

  After he had filled the boat with stones and sunk it, Mischka shouldered his luggage and climbed up into the mountains. The ground was rocky, so he left no trace. Once again, he had escaped his pursuers.

  ◆◆◆

  It had been a long and hard march for Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko and the pilot. Swamps and impenetrable thickets had made their way difficult. Their clothes hung in shreds from their shoulders, and scratched mosquito bites covered their bodies. Juri Wdowetschenko had never felt so miserable before. He could not imagine having to live another day in this wilderness.

  After they had reached Strelka Tschunja, he had himself treated in the hospital and then moved into a room in the militia barracks. He'd always believed he was a tough man. But the last three days had sobered him up. He wasn't made for this country. It was about time he was called back to Moscow! But to do that, he needed a success. He had to catch that Michail Wulff again. Otherwise Kurbanow would let him rot here in the wilderness. That was as sure as eggs is eggs.

  Two days later, Chrapow and Lieutenant Litschenko entered his room. Wdowetschenko looked at their faces testing.

  "Have the mosquitoes spared you," he asked, "or have you not come through the swamps?"

  "Yarrow, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. Yarrow and walnut leaves." Litschenko pulled a bottle out of his belt bag and grinned broadly. "The sap of these plants drives these tormentors away like holy water to a political officer."

  "Stop your stupid sayings, Litschenko!" growled Wdowetschenko. "So, he got away from you, too."

  "Yes, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. We almost had him, but the storm covered all the tracks. Even a sniffer dog couldn't have found Wulff. But we've started a manhunt in the meantime. The whole area is being combed from east to west."

  "I don't give search parties a chance," Chrap
ow threw in between, "too much swamp, too many ways to hide, and too many men who can't tell a moose hoof from a bear paw. They'll come back empty-handed, like you, Lieutenant Colonel."

  Wdowetschenko felt his stomach cramping and a sour taste spreading in his mouth. He wanted to do better than Litschenko, Chrapow and their men. But the Taiga had been against him.

  "Enough criticism," he growled. "Let's look to the future. From now on you will both take up positions in Strelka Tschunja or Nakama and comb the whole area again and again. Pass on warrants to all brigades, collective farms and government farms. Fly the area. Someday and somewhere, this Wulff will have to reappear. Either we find his gnawed bones or we find him ourselves. He can't vanish into thin air."

  "But he could be many miles further east again," Litschenko threw in. "You said it yourself: He has covered incredible distances so far. It actually looks like he's headed east instead of directly south. Maybe he's trying to escape via the Amur to Manchuria."

  "Then find him that way, Comrade Lieutenant, and inform all the authorities. You need to track him down. A lot depends on it, especially for you."

  Wdowetschenko watched the lieutenant's face twitch. He'd caught him at his sore spot. That would motivate the man not to take the search lightly. But he couldn't rely on him and Chrapow alone. If he told all KGB offices that Wulff was a henchman of Western agents, they would set all the machinery in motion to catch him. But that would only be a last resort. This piece of artillery could turn out to be a barrel burst. It was a risk.

  The Hermit

  The pain shot through his body like a jet of flame. It turned black before his eyes. Mischka went to his knees and supported himself with both hands. It felt like someone had knocked a nail in his back.

  After long marches over mountains and through dense spruce forests, he had reached the bank of a river that flowed southeast with a strong current. It was too late to cross it. Therefore Mischka had begun to pitch his camp under an old beech tree. The leaves of the tree should distribute the smoke of his campfire. Even a small column of smoke would reveal the presence of a human being. Until now, he had always paid attention to remain invisible to curious eyes.