The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  Mischka was piling up wood as his sciatic nerve dropped him to the ground. It had only been a small twist, but his muscles were cold and poorly supplied with blood, so they cramped and pushed a disc against some nerve fiber in the spinal cord.

  Mischka felt that his back muscles were as hard as stone. He tried to breathe quietly and relax, but every little movement caused a hot pain that shot along the spine.

  "Man," he mumbled, "this is serious."

  He didn't dare to move, but he couldn't sit under the tree forever either. It was his first sciatic attack. One of his fellow students had suffered from it several times. That's why Mischka knew what to do. Slowly he bent his head to the ground and then lowered his buttocks. Like a praying Muslim he lay on the moss carpet and tried to relax his muscles. Then he rolled carefully to the side. Again, the pain twitched through his body. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped down his cheeks. Mischka closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then he gently pulled a knee to his chest, stretched the other leg and turned his shoulders to the other side. This exercise was designed to stretch his spine so that the inflamed nerve was not further stressed. But Mischka didn't feel any pain relief. He remained motionless.

  He didn't know how much time had gone by. However, a slight shivering told him that it was now evening and the temperatures were dropping. Mischka pulled both legs to his chest and turned to the other side. It was torture. Pain drove sweat out of all his pores and almost robbed him of his senses. Fortunately, he could reach his luggage with his left hand without having to turn. Avoiding any false movement, he unlaced his sleeping bag and rolled himself in. He didn't even dare think of lighting a fire. The sleeping bag had to be enough.

  He hadn't slept as badly as that night in a long time. He hadn't dozed off till morning. A noise woke him. It sounded like an old man's cough.

  Mischka tried to stand up. But the pain in his back sent him back to the ground. He gasped.

  "I don't think this is your day, kiddo."

  Mischka turned to the voice. A man sat only five steps away from him on the fallen trunk of a beech tree. He looked just as adventurous as he did. White, curly hair fell down to his broad shoulders. A full beard framed the furrowed face, and deep blue eyes flashed from under the bushy brows. His clothes were made of hides. He wore worn leather boots on his feet. The old man pointed at him with an oak stick. "What are you staring at. Haven't you ever seen a hermit before?"

  Mischka shook his head. "I'm from Moscow, there are no hermits around."

  "From Moscow? You can tell that to your grandfather. Missed the last bus to the central station last night? But the way you look, the bus driver wouldn't have taken you with him even if you'd been at the bus stop on time. You're a tramp, aren't you?"

  Mischka smiled. "No, I'm a hunter. Got a little lost. But maybe you can show me the way to the next place, Father."

  "Don't talk nonsense, my boy. You can't fool me. A hunter. Don't make me laugh! You’re a convict. You escaped from a labor camp. Now you're doing rather badly in the wilderness. Hunters are a little differently equipped than you are." The old man looked meaningfully at the hunting bow and spear. "Whoever tries to live here like a native is usually up to his neck in water."

  Mischka swallowed. He couldn't fool the old man. Questions spun through his head. What was the man up to with him? Would he turn him in? With his sciatica, he was as helpless as a child. The old man could tie him up without him being able to defend himself. Surely there was a reward on his head! Some Siberians would even betray their mother to earn a few rubles.

  As if he had guessed Mischka's thoughts, the old man continued: "Don't worry, my dear, I will neither betray you nor hand you over. So, relax. I'll tell you right now, we're both fellow sufferers. I, too, am on the black list of comrades, which means that I have certainly been forgotten in the meantime. I've lived in the woods for many years. Mind you, not backwoods."

  The old man grinned like a schoolboy. Then he bent over and held out his hand to Mischka. "By the way, my name is Alexej Proschin. Who am I dealing with?"

  "Michail Wulff."

  Mischka saw no reason to keep lying. The old man's face was open. He felt deep down that he could trust this man. "I am an archaeology student from Moscow and have spent several months in the penal colony Djatlowo, because I am not politically correct. But the food was bad, and the work wasn't to my liking. That's why I started my own business. My employers have been trying to bring me back ever since. But their arguments don't convince me."

  "I like you better this way," the old man nodded to him. "A few years ago, I made the same decision. So, we are fellow sufferers. – Well, its broad daylight, and you're still in your sleeping bag. Do you have any problems?"

  "I guess you could say that. Yesterday I had a sciatic attack. Since then, I can't move."

  "Sciatica?!" Proschin nodded understandingly. "This is one of the worst pains I've ever known. But let's see, maybe I can help you."

  He rose from his tree trunk and disappeared without further explanation. Mischka waited restlessly. His helplessness made him nervous. Could he really trust the man? Again, a wave of pain pulled through his body. If only he could move again!

  Proschin returned an hour later. He put down a kettle, a pot and a leather bag and lit a fire. Then he went to the river, fetched water and put the kettle on the fire.

  "I'll make you a tea that will relax you and make you tired. You'll also get a pack of clay on your back. You'll see, it helps."

  The hot clay was really good for his tense muscles. The old man understood his business. Mischka gave in to the warmth and tiredness and dozed off the day. Proschin changed the clay envelopes every hour. In between he massaged Mischka's back. He proceeded as cautiously as if he were an experienced masseur.

  They barely spoke. Mischka was not after a conversation, and the old man left him alone because he seemed to know how the young man felt.

  In the evening Proschin finally dug a man-sized pit and lit a fire in it. After the flames had gone out, he covered the embers with a thick layer of sand.

  "So," he finally said, "your bed's ready. The warmth will continue to soothe the inflamed nerves, and tomorrow you'll feel better again."

  Proschin helped Mischka on his bed and then sat down again on the tree trunk. "Well, good night and get well."

  "Thank you, Alexej Proschin, for your help." Mischka closed his eyes and let tiredness carry him to the land of dreams. It wasn't long before he slept like a dead man.

  The next morning arrived with bright sunshine. Insects scurried through the interplay of light and shadow, and birds chirped in the branches. Mischka blinked into the sun and tried to rise. He felt that Proschin's treatment had brought first relief. He cautiously rolled to his side, pulled his knees tight and squatted. From the corner of his eye he could see that his Samaritan was sitting on the tree trunk like last night.

  "Come on, let's go! Get up." The old man waved at him encouragingly. "Do you want to crawl around on the floor your whole life?"

  "You can talk well, Father," Mischka returned, "but as long as you're not in the other person's skin, you can't really understand him."

  "Will you give me a sermon, boy? I can do better than that. I'm here as a professional Priest."

  "A Priest? That's all I need!"

  Proschin looked at him amused. "You're not a churchgoer, are you, boy?"

  Mischka shook his head. "No, but even if I were, I would not have suspected a priest in this wilderness, and certainly not in this outfit. I thought you were a doctor, a physiotherapist or a masseur."

  The old man looked down at himself. "All right," he grumbled, "I must admit I don't look like a priest."

  "I guess you could say that."

  "But there were other times, kiddo." The old man looked across the river as if he was looking for the lost years of his youth on the other bank. "At that time the people of Leningrad greeted me with reverence, though I was only a young priest."

  Mischka w
as silent. He could understand the man. As an Orthodox priest he also belonged to the enemies of the people, although the constitution guaranteed freedom of religion. Proschin, like Tima Bekow, had certainly stood up for his faith in youthful conviction and had had to atone for it with labor camps and persecution. But he didn't want to delve further into this topic now.

  Carefully Mischka straightened up. It took him a few minutes to stand halfway up straight. Proschin handed him a self-carved crutch, which he had made in the last hours from a birch trunk. Mischka’s melancholy was gone now.

  "There, brace yourself with it, or your muscles will tense up again."

  "Thank you, Proschin, my back is indeed still quite stiff, and the lumbar vertebrae are as immobile as if I had swallowed a steel bar."

  "Tilt your pelvis forward, boy." The old man moved his hip like a belly dancer. "As soon as you make a hollow back, your sciatica will start singing again."

  Mischka smiled tormented. "It still hurts pretty hard. Surely, I don't look good."

  Proschin looked at him. You could see that he had to make an important decision for himself. Finally, he said, "I've made up my mind. I'll take you to my hermit cave, a cave not far from here." He scratched his head. "I've spent the last few years there. It was lonely sometimes. You can recover with me, of course only if you feel like it. Or are you afraid of a priest?"

  The old man's eyes flashed under the bushy brows and gave his furrowed face a boyish expression. He reached out a hand of friendship to the young man. Mischka seized it without hesitation. "Thank you very much, Alexej Proschin! I appreciate your trust. You reveal your hiding place without really knowing me."

  "Oh, I don't think you're a stranger to me anymore. I have watched you closely, and you know, priests have some knowledge of human nature, even if they don't have a doctorate in psychology. So, let's get going."

  He collected Mischka's things and shouldered the luggage as if it consisted only of a few little things. Mischka didn't think he had the strength. Proschin had to be over seventy years old. Yet he moved like a young man.

  The walk was more difficult than Mischka had expected. The path first meandered along the banks of the river and then up a slope between pines and birches. Rocky cliffs rose up into the sky. Every step was torture, even if he leaned on his crutch with all his strength. Sweat ran down his forehead and neck. His back muscles tightened again and a feeling of strange numbness appeared in his right leg. When he said this to Proschin, he reassured him: "We'll be there in a moment, and then we'll cure your sciatica. Just a few more steps."

  Shortly afterwards he disappeared between some bushes. Mischka dove under the branches. He sensed that this was the access to Proschin's hideout.

  A crevice opened in front of him. He squeezed himself through and stood in a cave filled with twilight. It was three yards high and about thirty square yards tall. The ceiling arched in the middle and merged into a crevice that stretched upwards and let in the dull glow of daylight. On the side walls there were shelves made of birch trunks on which clay pots and tin pots were stored along with other utensils. A table and two stools were moved to the side. In the right back corner hung a moose skin like a wall hanging to the floor. On the back wall the old man had knocked out a niche from the sandstone, which he used as a stove. He had built a chimney out of clay and stones, which led the smoke of the fire into the crevice. Next to the stove, steps led to a second niche above the stove, on which several skins were piled up. Mischka was amazed.

  "My place to sleep." Proschin grinned like an eight-year-old who reveals a secret hiding place to his friend. "Not as good as a Russian stove, but still warm and cuddly. When the frost is clinking outside, I heat up here and hide between the skins. We'll do the same to you now."

  Proschin took Mischka by the arm and helped him up the stairs. At the top he arranged the skins so that they supported his patient's back in the right place.

  Mischka lay down on the bed with his legs tightened and rolled to the side. The pain brought tears to his eyes. Proschin understood him even without words and went down the stairs, took an armful of branches from a stack of wood and lit a fire in the stove. "So, now I'm gonna heat you up, then put a hot compress on your back, and finally put you on the stretching board."

  Mischka let the old man talk and closed his eyes. He hoped that the treatment method of the priest would bring quick success. The pain seemed unbearable to him again.

  It didn't take long for the heat to penetrate the entire cave. Proschin hung a pot of water over the fire. After it cooked, he poured an analgesic and antispasmodic tea of goose cinquefoil, yarrow and meadowsweet and heated cloths in the remaining water. Finally he put these hot compresses on Mischka's back. As soon as they had cooled, he heated them again.

  "That'll loosen your muscles, kid," he told his patient. "Once they're nice and warm and relaxed, we'll do an exercise that will pull your vertebra apart and relieve your sciatica."

  "I trust your methods, Proschin. Anyway, you've already helped me."

  The old man smiled. "You'll see, the day after tomorrow you can walk again like a young bull moose."

  An hour later Proschin pulled a board out of a corner and laid it over the steps to the bunk. At the top he attached a leather sling.

  "So, my boy, now crawl up here." Proschin lifted the lower end of the board so that it lay horizontally. "Put your feet in the noose and lie on your back."

  Mischka obeyed his words and stretched out. He took his time because he wanted to avoid every wrong move. When he finally lay on his back, Proschin carefully lowered the board and put it down.

  Mischka now lay with his head down, his feet in the noose. He felt the weight of his body pulling the spine apart. The pain ebbed noticeably. Even though the blood shot into his head and caused an unpleasant feeling of pressure, he enjoyed his lying position.

  Ten minutes later Proschin lifted the board again and pushed one of the stools underneath with his left foot.

  "So, your head wouldn't burst," he just said. Then he turned to other work.

  After some time, Proschin tilted the board again to stretch Mischka's spine. In the meantime, they talked about their past. After Mischka had told his story, the old man carefully stroked his beard.

  "Yes, it was the same with me. Only I was not persecuted because of political ideas, but because I did not follow the orders of the KGB in questions of church life. I was too godly for them and seemed to have too much influence on the youth. I was almost a teenager myself. I just got engaged to Dascha. We were supposed to get married the next summer. But it didn't work out. I was arrested and dragged away in Leningrad in a cloak and dagger operation. I was able to notify Dascha of my arrest through friends. Later she wrote me two letters to Kolyma. She assured me in it that she was waiting for me. But then no more letters came."

  Proschin stared into the fire lost in thought. His hands trembled as the memory rose in him. "For thirty years I was in various camps and prisons. When I was finally released, I hurried immediately to my home village. There I learned that a man from our village had wanted to marry Dascha. When she turned him down, he denounced her to the KGB."

  Proschin became bitter as he continued to speak. "She was arrested shortly afterwards because she had had a relationship with me, the counter-revolutionary. She was one of the kindest people in the village. For many hours she sat at the beds of the sick and the elderly to take care of them. When she was finally released from the camp, her health was completely disrupted. Four weeks before I came home, she died. Only four weeks before!"

  Mischka felt the arousal and sadness in the words of the old man. His eyes also became wet when he saw Proschin in front of him, burying his face in his hands. He kept quiet. What could he say? It is better to keep silent and cry with the sad than to try to comfort them with hollow words.

  Proschin straightened up. "In the Kolyma camp, an old archbishop ordained me bishop shortly before his death. I was supposed to build and run the Orthodox under
ground church after my release. So, in the following months I traveled through Western Siberia to visit the believers and encourage them. The State Security was on my heels more than once."

  He laughed.

  "Once I escaped through a secret tunnel when the KGB tried to break open my host's door. They’ve never found out his secret. Another time, we were just celebrating a birthday at a forester's, I quickly cut off my beard, mixed with the guests and sipped soup out of my plate like a farmer when the KGB carried out a raid. They didn’t see me at all! God has struck them with blindness, my boy."

  Mischka saw how the priest became calm again inwardly and regained his old self-control.

  "Shortly afterwards, I hid in the hermitage of an old hermit in the Urals. At first I thought my life was over. I even said goodbye to my friends and went to Central Siberia to die there. But as you can see, I'm quite well again. Life in the great outdoors has helped me get back on my feet."

  Proschin rose, clenched his fists and patted himself on the chest.

  "To me, you give the impression of an old black bear, who still flattens the moose bull to the ground with the stroke of a paw," Mischka grinned at him.

  "Thanks for the compliment, kid," Proschin returned. "That gives me courage. But now we want to turn you upside down again."

  The old man continued the treatment all day long. The following night Mischka slept soundly and dreamless again. When he woke up the next morning, he felt no more pain. He already wanted to stand up when Proschin gently but firmly pressed him onto his bed. "No, no, that's too soon, my dear! Today we continue the treatment, and tomorrow you can get up a little."

  After a breakfast of acorn porridge with dried blueberries, Proschin began warming Mischka's back with hot compresses, massaging him and putting his patient back on the "stretching bench," as he used to say. During the treatment they shared their experiences about life in the taiga.