The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  Mischka had doubts. If the dictatorship of the socialist system were to collapse, a vacuum would be created. What would fill this vacuum? The thinking and lifestyle of the free West? Socialism had promised to establish a workers' and peasants' paradise without being able to bring this goal within reach so far. Capitalism, on the other hand, had already partially realized paradise: prosperity and enjoyment of life also for petty bourgeoisie and workers. But this system remains fragile just as socialism did.

  He had no illusions. The poisoning of nature and the limitations of resource were not a problem of the East alone. The prosperity of the West, the belief in unlimited growth, health and longevity had long since shown deep cracks, as an alternative from Paris had explained to him during his visit to Moscow University. His escape to the West was perhaps only an escape into illusion. If the affluent society were actually to collapse in the distant or near future, what would fill this vacuum? Could it be that a new dictatorship will enslave the people to cope with the world crises? A new ice age that also buries the free West, even the whole world under itself? Hadn't this man from Nazareth said that people's love would cool off and a reign of injustice would be established when the world would stagger towards its last crisis?

  But who should be able to establish such a global dictatorship? The political systems have failed so far. Religion has not been able to improve the world permanently. But what if they were allies? What if they reconciled again to save a dying world? Would freedom still have a chance?

  Mischka instinctively shook his head. When the overall welfare of mankind is at stake, when eco-crises and self-inflicted natural disasters make survival on planet Earth questionable, then individual fates, freedom and rights become unimportant. There was no doubt about that! And it is precisely the religions that will then play a decisive role.

  "A first sign of this is the radicalization of Islam, Judaism and Christianity," Mischka thought out loud, "the strengthening of fundamentalism in the world religions. We haven't heard much about it because we're so shut off. But what we have been told underhand shows that religion is gaining influence. It wants to return to power as it did when the rulers willingly subordinated themselves to religion and set fire to the pyre."

  Even Proschin, his benefactor, had not been free from this secret striving for power. After numerous do-gooders had hoped for socialism, they now turned to the offers of religion. The countries of the Third World felt abandoned by their big brother in Moscow, especially the Islamic countries. Protestant churches in the West were also disappointed by socialism because it could not keep its promises. Therefore people put their hopes again on the offers of the religions.

  The establishment of Islamic governments that strictly and fundamentally adhered to the Koran, Islamic terrorist attacks or the rise of the moral majority in the USA that tried to dictate the state with its religious demands, this and other aspirations were perhaps nothing other than pioneers of a new enslavement of mankind, allegedly "for their own good."

  Mischka closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. As long as love among people was strong, no ice age of dictatorship could freeze life forever. But where would people find the strength for such love? And what is love anyway? Where did it come from? Is it alone the product of a random evolution of life? Or is there this higher being from whom life and love emanate?

  He opened his eyes and suppressed his thoughts. Maybe because the answers would have decisive consequences for his life. He longed for freedom, and he soon wanted it. What the distant future would bring, he wanted to think about later. Maybe he didn't even experience it anymore.

  The professor and the girl

  In the middle of June Mischka reached the bank of the Jenissei. After the last ice floes had drifted by on the Wiluji, he set off with Proschins rowing boat. It lay in the reed as he had left it and only had to be emptied of rain and condensation of water.

  The trip upstream with the fully loaded boat demanded all his strength. Mischka regarded it as a reward for these efforts that the Uas, hidden in the abandoned labor camp, had started after only half an hour of work. Despite numerous misfires, he had spent three nights driving the car on roads with little traffic until he filled the last spare canister into the tank and headed for the banks of the Tunguska River.

  With the second rubber dinghy he paddled down the river to the Jenissei for several weeks under the protection of darkness and crossed the river in a warm June night. Now he stood on the shore and looked back to the east. Life on the other side of the river had had a profound influence on him. It had changed his attitude and had raised numerous questions. He was not the same Michail Wulff as two winters before. He was no longer the student misunderstood and unjustly convicted by the state. He became a fighter, who defended his freedom and his life with all means at his disposal, and would do so again. He became more contemplative, and increasingly confronted the questions of meaning and existence that Proschin had brought to life in him.

  Mischka turned abruptly to the west. No matter whether the philosophy and lifestyle of the free countries had become fragile or whether everything was just false propaganda, he wanted to find his way there. He wanted to live his life in freedom and one day start a family. Even though he was introverted in the bottom of his heart, day after day he longed more and more for fellowship, love and warmth. Here, in this country, he had no future. After all he had experienced, things could only get better in the west. If one day the future were to be obstructed for him there too, he would move on to USA, but perhaps he would also bow to the constraints of society there. In any case, it was certainly easier than to continue to make a living here.

  After he cut the air chambers of the inflatable boat and sunk it into the river, weighted it down with stones, Mischka made his way west in the shelter of the dark of the early morning. Only a quarter of an hour later he met a road that followed the course of the Jenissei. He only walked a few miles when he saw a tanker truck on the right side of the road. At first he thought his driver had parked it there to take a short break. But then he noticed skid marks, torn grass and a broken birch. The headlights and rear lights of the truck train were still burning. Only the engine had stopped.

  Mischka crept closer, all senses wide awake. He listened to the sounds of nature, the irregularities of which had always been a warning sign to him. But there was nothing treacherous to hear. Only the blowing of the night wind and the croaking of frogs in a pond on the banks of the river broke the silence.

  Mischka took a quick step towards the driver's door and pounded against it. "Hey, anybody home?"

  Nothing moved. Mischka grabbed the door handle and opened it with a jerk. A man fell on him, tore him to the ground and lay heavy on him. Mischka gasped with surprise. "Eh, comrade, I just wanted to see if something happened to you. Obviously, you've had problems with your truck. Now let me get up. You're gonna crash me."

  The man didn't move.

  "Comrade, you're a real heavyweight. I admit defeat. Roll off me now."

  The man didn't make a sound. Mischka raised his head and tried to throw off his opponent. With all his strength he lifted himself up and rolled out under the massive body. The man still didn't show any sign of life.

  In the first light of dawn Mischka looked at the figure lying on the ground. The man was dead as a doornail. His face seemed grey and empty. The eyes had stepped out of the sockets like in a cramp and stared into emptiness.

  Heart attack! Mischka stated. Collapsed at the steering wheel.

  The driver had probably still tried to stop the tanker truck. Then night had fallen around him, eternal night.

  Mischka felt sorry for the man. But at the same time his thoughts were racing. The driver's misfortune seemed to be his luck if he dared, if he had the courage to sit behind the steering wheel of the truck train. A daring thought!

  Daring? Why? It shot through his mind.

  Why shouldn't he pretend to be the driver of the fuel tanker in order to take him as far we
st as possible? He'd learn to steer it fast on this lonely road. He was able to avoid conurbations, and he had enough fuel to cover many hundreds of miles. At some point, of course, one would miss the truck and look for it, perhaps in two or three weeks at the latest. But then he couldn't just leave it somewhere. They could easily put a bloodhound on his trail without knowing who they're hunting. There was only one solution: he had to take the dead driver with him in order to put him back on the steering wheel later. A gruesome thought! Drive with a dead man in the truck bunk through the taiga! But it wasn't about feelings, it was about the possibility of gaining time in the race against the onset of winter in three to four months. Then he must have crossed the Urals. The tanker truck would give him the advantage he needed.

  Mischka didn't think any longer. At any time a vehicle could show up here and destroy his chance. Hastily he wrapped the dead man in a blanket he found in the bunk and hoisted him into the truck. He must have weighed more than two hundredweight. No wonder his heart had gone on strike for being overweight.

  After the man was stowed away under a tarp, Mischka hung one of his jackets around himself, slipped on military trousers and started the engine. The gearshift was choppy and made shifting difficult. Even the steering wheel could only be turned with great effort. However after the truck had set itself in motion, the steering forces eased.

  With trembling hands Mischka steered the vehicle back onto the road. The second gear crashed in the gearbox. The truck moved sluggishly forward. Third gear. Mischka felt an unprecedented feeling rise up in him. High above the road, he felt the tingling sensation that every trucker in the world knows from his first driving lessons. He was a king of the road!

  Gravel splashed up. The truck lurched. Instinctively Mischka stepped on the brake. Too hard. The engine bucked and shook the vehicle. Then it died. Mischka wiped the sweat off his forehead. There was still a long way to go until the king of the road. He started the engine again and drove the car back onto the road. He shifted the gears up and down, braked, clutched and tried to get a feel for the steering wheel. After half an hour, he felt halfway safe. The only thing he'd still have trouble with is maneuvering, but if he drove with foresight, he might have been able to avoid reversing.

  A small truck overtook him. Mischka honked his horn and waved at the driver. That would make him less suspicious. Soon he realized that this way of travelling was comfortable but unusual. The even humming and warmth of the engine made him sleepy. That's why he decided to take a break. He parked the truck on a side strip, switched on the side lights, wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the passenger bench. It only took him a few minutes to sleep soundly.

  A knock on the driver's door woke him. Mischka forced himself to lie still and not to raise his head. It was better not to see him up close. Maybe it was the militia who wanted to ask for papers. Of course, it was possible to control the tanker truck and its driver. It had been reckless not to think about it!

  It knocked again. Without moving his head, Mischka pushed his arm out from under the ceiling and gave an angry hand signal as if to say, "Leave me alone and go to hell!

  "It's all right," there was a man's voice heard outside. "I just wanted to see if everything was all right, comrade. Saw skid marks of a heavy vehicle. You must have been a little overtired. Good, good, good. I'm going so you can get some rest. Have a good trip, comrade!"

  The man went away. A car door slammed. Then Mischka heard how the engine of a Tatra was started and the car drove away. Carefully he rose and looked after the wagon. Once again, that had gone well! Whoever drove a Tatra in this area was certainly not a Tungus reindeer herder.

  He had doubts. Should he really continue the journey by the truck? He sat up and looked at his face in the rearview mirror. Well, truck drivers didn't usually look like administrative employees, but I'm sure a little body care wouldn't hurt him. Mischka looked for the driver's toiletry bag to adapt to civilization. After he had washed himself with a water canister, he trimmed his beard with nail scissors and cut and cleaned his fingernails. Then he combed his shoulder-length hair and put on a hat he had found among the driver's belongings. Even if his jacket didn't fit him, as long as he sat behind the wheel and you couldn't see him from close up, he wouldn't attract much attention.

  When he searched the truck, he found a bicycle behind the cab that its owner had tied up there. A good idea, Mischka thought, so the poor guy could move freely when he wasn't on the road with the truck.

  The bike was equipped with studded tires and saddle bags. Mischka checked their contents. Besides a map he also found a flashlight, repair kit, plaster and a filled water bottle. Obviously the bicycle had also been a precautionary measure for the man in case the car stopped once and no help was in sight.

  Mischka climbed back into the cab and looked through the papers in the glove box. Everything was fine. Driver's license, certificates, car papers, everything was correct as far as he could judge. The destination of the truck train was Larjako. He looked on the map. Finally he found the place. Larjako was located about one hundred fifty miles from Surgut, only seventy miles from the penal colony Djatlowo!

  He was thinking. If he was controlled west of Larjako, it would be difficult for him to explain why he had moved on. So, he couldn't get to the Urals with the truck. He had to drive it into the forest just before Larjako and then continue on foot or by bicycle.

  A thought flashed through his head, a crazy idea. It was dangerous. It was against all reason! But it excited him. How about sending a little greeting to Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko, thanking him for all the hardships he had suffered as a result of his orders? A greeting without a sender of course. After all, he had no desire to have this Chrapow on his heels again. Litschenko and his men were to continue to freeze their feet off in Central Siberia as he crossed the Urals. With a little skill he could do it, and later he would let him know from whom he had received his gift. Mischka felt a tingling excitement as he swung back behind the wheel and started the engine. Jury Wdowetschenko, he thought fascinated by his own idea, Jury Wdowetschenko, I come to visit you, and I bring you a little gift!

  ◆◆◆

  The soldier at the camp gate heard the truck coming. The deep hum of the diesel engine penetrated the silence of the night. Then the headlights appeared, the high beam was fully faded. Like a prehistoric monster, the truck crawled up.

  The soldier looked nervously over to the barrack behind the gate, where the camp administration had its offices. Only the officer's room and lieutenant colonel's office were still lit. The barracks of the forced laborers were a hundred yards behind, separated from the other buildings of the camp by a second fence. In the glistening light of the spotlights on the watchtowers they cast no discernible shadow. Everything was quiet.

  He had to report a transporter rolling in. Never before had a load been delivered here at night. Only military vehicles came at night from time to time. He picked up the phone.

  "Let the truck through," the guarded officer reassured him. "I do not have an entry in the book here that something is to be delivered, but you can have the papers shown to you at the gate and inform me afterwards. In the meantime, I will ask the camp commandant if he has requested anything of which I know nothing."

  The soldier was reassured. He had handed over the responsibility. That's all he wanted. He looked across the street again. What the transporter had loaded, he could not see, because the high beam dazzled him. Well, he'd know soon enough.

  The truck stopped briefly, then it started moving again. Slowly it pushed itself across the street towards the camp gate. Now it was only twenty yards.

  "Stop!" screamed the man at the gate and raised his hand. But the truck continued, at a walking pace, but unstoppable.

  The soldier jumped to the side so as not to be run over. The smell of gas went up his nose. Full of panic he ripped his whistle out of his jacket pocket and gave the warning signal.

  The camp gate broke like a construction of mat
ches when the truck bounced against it. His driver hung lifelessly above the wheel, his head turned to the side, his mouth as if open to scream. The soldier could not see more than the slowly turning wheels. He knew what was going to happen next. He turned around and stormed away as if he was being chased by a thousand dogs.

  Lieutenant Colonel Wdowetschenko and the guarded officer rushed to the window when they heard the warning signal and then the bursting of the camp gate. The headlights of the fuel tanker truck blinded them. Suddenly they realized that their lives were at stake. Nevertheless they remained paralyzed, fascinated by the spectacle that was offered to them. Sparks sprayed on the truck. A blue flame scurried over the chassis.

  Wdowetschenko awoke from his numbness.

  "Come on, get out of here, man!" he yelled.

  The two men broke away from the sight and stormed outside. Behind them the truck drilled its way into the wall of the barracks. Wood splintered. Corrugated iron and beams swirled up. Then a detonation filled the air. A fireball climbed into the night sky and bathed the camp in a ghostly red light. The air pressure threw Wdowetschenko and the guard officer to the ground, pressed their breath out of their lungs. Stones and splinters of wood hissed over their heads. A beam crashed on top of the officer and crushed his lower leg. The man's cry was drowned in the noise of the inferno.

  With wide open eyes Wdowetschenko stared at the barrack standing in flames. The back wall burst in a second explosion. Out of the fire emerged the burning truck. Like a demon of revenge, he pushed further towards Wdowetschenko. Flames shot out of the bonnet and the burst windows. A grinning face seemed to stare down at him from the fire, as if to say: "Now the day of reckoning has come, Jury. Your doomsday!"