The Trace of the Wolf

by Siegfried Wittwer

  With a skillful snow plough, the hunter slowed down his skis and came to a halt on a hilltop covered with bushes. Litschenko stopped next to him. The cloud cover tore open and let the light of the moon burst out. They were about a hundred and fifty yards from the border fence.

  "There!" whispered the hunter, pointing forward.

  Litschenko's breath stopped. In the gleam of moonlight he saw a man in a snow suit leaning a tree trunk against the border fence and climbing up.

  "It's him," he said hoarse. "You were right, Chrapow."

  From the corner of his eye, he watched the hunter take his hunting rifle off his shoulder and putting it into position.

  No! it cried out in him. No, Chrapow, no!

  As if in a vision, Ivan Litschenko saw excerpts from Michail Wulff's escape passing in front of his eye, as he walked through the forest, sat by the campfire, discussed with the hermit in the cave and hunted with bow and arrow. He felt something of the young man's desire for freedom, energy and joie de vivre, and he now wanted him to stay alive. He wanted Michail Wulff to realize his hopes and ideals.

  Olejnik Chrapow held the rifle in the right position and aimed at the man at the border fence. Slowly he bent his index finger.

  ◆◆◆

  A shot tore up the silence of the night. Mischka jerked, as if someone had hit him in the neck, but then he threw himself over the upper wires of the border fence to the other side. A stabbing pain went through his left leg as he hit the ground. He wanted to straighten up, but the pain brought him to his knees.

  All hell had broken loose over there. Sirens howled, searchlights lit and more shots echoed through the night. It was about his life!

  Despite the pain in his left leg, Mischka crawled through the snow, away from the border, into freedom. An unprecedented feeling of happiness flowed through him and gave him energy and strength. Finally he slipped down a short slope on his belly and rolled under the branches of a spruce. His breath went intermittently, and the pulse beat roared in his ears. He made it! He was free! His dream had come true. The exertions of the last months and years were worth it. No Chrapow would ambush him from now on, no Litschenko would sit on his heels, no Karatajew would threaten him with a weapon and no Wdowetschenko would determine his life! Mischka gave a cry of joy, high and long.

  After his breath had calmed down, he took off his left shoe and examined his foot. The ankle hurt and began to swell, but he could still move the foot. Only a sprain, Mischka thought relieved and put the shoe on again. Then he looked around. Finally he discovered a small spruce. He sawed it off, removed the twigs and peeled the trunk smooth. In between he listened to the sounds across the border. The sounds of snowmobiles and excited voices echoed across. He thought he heard Ivan Litschenko. So, the lieutenant had followed him all the way here. He suddenly felt something like compassion for this man. Litschenko had followed him for months. It had been his duty. He had to obey his superior. But whenever he thought the hunt was over, he was disappointed. And now he had to return empty-handed to Djatlowo to report to Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko. Surely a heavy load!

  Meanwhile it had become quiet at the border. The sounds of the snowmobiles faded in the distance, and the searchlights went out. Mischka leaned on his stick and worked his way up the slope. Carefully, he peered over the crest. No one was seen. On a hill, not far from the border fence, a man stood in the moonlight, the hood of the snow suit struck back. He looked over at him.

  Despite the poor visibility Mischka recognized the shape. It was Ivan Litschenko, the man who was to take him back to the camp. Following an inner impulse, Mischka straightened up and showed himself to the lieutenant. Litschenko didn't move. The men stared at each other for minutes. Then Litschenko raised his hand and waved to Mischka as if he wished him luck. Mischka said hello back. Then the lieutenant turned around and drove off on his ski through the snow.

  Mischka slid down the slope again, limped through the woods and reached a ridge, which he climbed slowly and in constant pain. Meanwhile the sky was clouded again, and thick snowflakes whirled to the ground. Mischka did the right thing. Under the political pressure of the USSR, the Finns had committed themselves to extradite escaped citizens. Therefore he was not allowed to run into the arms of any Finnish border official. He wasn't sure if they were going after him. But if the Russians were to call him a criminal, the Finns would perhaps follow his trace after all. Only in Sweden would he finally be safe. But there were still about two hundred fifty miles to go. With his equipment and without injury, he would have made it in a good three weeks without any problems. But now he had to make ends meet.

  He had to catch his breath on top of the mountain. The ascent was difficult for him, but now it went downhill again. He sawed off three small spruces, tied them together and bent up their crowns. So, he could use it like a sleigh. Then he slipped down the mountain on them. It was a long downhill run, and Mischka felt like a ten-year-old on the luge track.

  Down in the valley, he tried to orient himself. Despite the snow drift, he could see a narrow road running north. He tied fir branches under his shoes so as not to sink into the snow and set off westwards. Soon after, he came across the shore of a lake. At this time of year the ice was not firm enough. That's why he followed the course of the shore.

  As the day dawned, he reached a creek that flowed into the lake. Mischka tried to jump over in one leap. But he slipped and broke through the ice.

  He could feel icy water coming through his clothes. Full of panic, he climbed to the shore. Wet clothes could mean death! He rolled in the snow, which absorbed most of the wetness. Then he ripped the wet clothes off his body. The snow suit and the uniform jacket were completely soaked. His leather jacket had only gotten wet, but trousers and shoes were dripping with water.

  Mischka thought feverishly. Even if a fire could draw the attention of the Finnish border guards to him, he had to dry his clothes! He bent dead branches of spruce and fir and piled them up into a campfire. By now he was trembling all over his body. Wind and air temperature cooled him down faster than he had thought. With stiff fingers he pulled two lighters from his breast pocket, which he had made together with Aljoscha from matches, paper and candle wax. They burned immediately and developed such a heat that the moist branches caught fire after only a short time. Mischka jumped up and down at the fire despite his sprained foot to keep his blood circulation going. Then he stretched out his clothes to dry, ran into the forest to fetch new wood and danced again like possessed in the snow around.

  The white snow suit was dry at first. Mischka slipped in. It warmed only moderately. When his leather trousers were halfway dry, he also slipped them over. He positioned himself so close to the fire that it could dry further. The cold still gave him a hard time.

  Suddenly he heard engine noises. He impulsively threw the still wet officer's jacket over the fire and shoveled snow over it. Breathing heavily, he listened into the snow drifting. Two trucks seemed to be driving down the road. Mischka didn't know if they were military vehicles or not. He didn't want to risk anything. So, he slipped into the still wet shoes and stormed away.

  He was going uphill again. The way became more and more arduous. His powers were diminishing. He needed something to eat and warm, dry clothes. The cold pulled through the wet shoes and trousers up to his upper body and cooled him down further. His legs became heavy and his feet numb. If only he hadn't been so reckless at the creek!

  Mischka fought his way up the mountain. More and more often he had to take breaks. The cold gradually sucked all the strength out of his muscles. He knew what that meant.

  Keep moving, he said to himself again and again, keep going, boy, don't stop. Keep going!

  He looked up at the sky for a moment. "Let me find a hut," he whispered hoarsely, "a hut where I can rest and warm up." Sergej had told him that the Scandinavians had built log cabins everywhere in the wilderness where hikers could find shelter. They are even equipped with beds, ovens and food supplies. Ev
ery hiker who sleeps in one of the huts and uses some of the supplies must leave something else behind to help another hiker. These log cabins are connected by marked hiking trails. Mischka didn't believed that, when this was told to him, but now he hoped to find exactly such a hut.

  He reached a high plateau. When the wind hadn't changed, he was still moving west. Snow crystals pelted into his face. He tightened the hood and turned his head to the side. Tiredness paralyzed his body. Again and again he had to stop to rest. His legs were numb, and his muscles failed the service.

  Mischka sank to his knees. His breath went intermittently. He fought his way up again. He was going to black out. Trembling, he held himself upright on his stick. He had to move on. Again and again he yawned because of hypothermia. Finally, he forced himself to keep limping. Every step was a step to overcome. His eyelids were heavy. He blinked to keep it open.

  I must rest for a moment, he said, as he sank into the snow, then I march on. Just three minutes rest.

  Tiredness flooded his body. He no longer felt the sprained ankle, the aching muscles and the biting cold. He looked up at the sky, from which flakes fell like cotton balls. A face bent over him, a face with grey eyes, black-brown curly hair and a soft, smiling mouth.

  "I'm tired, Anka," he whispered. "Just let me sleep for five minutes. Then I'll go on." He closed his eyes. A deep peace filled him. Anka was with him. She was as free as he was. Nothing could separate them now. Nothing.

  ◆◆◆

  Lieutenant Colonel Juri Wdowetschenko stood at the window of his newly built office barrack. Arms crossed on his back, he stared out into the swirling snow. Five minutes ago he had received a call from Lieutenant Ivan Litschenko of Kestenga. Michail Wulff had escaped across the border last night.

  Wdowetschenko just said, "Thank you for contacting me, Lieutenant." Then he hung up again. Resignation spread through him, paralyzing his entire body. Yes, it was as if an abyss had opened under his feet. He fell down, fell further and further into an endless depth.

  He was done! There was no hope at all for him. His ambitious plans had been shattered that night. Goodbye, Moscow. Goodbye, career, future, sweet life.

  He lowered his head and closed his eyes. What was the point of all this? Life, schooling, work? What was the value of commitment, career aspirations and ideological agreement? What good did it do him that he had devoted himself to communism? What good was it for his life? As a teenager he had been full of optimistic plans. Love, success at work, prosperity, all this should make him happy. He had failed in everything, and he had no chance to start all over again and do everything differently. He had set the course wrong at the beginning of his life. At first the trip had gone well, but now he was siding. End of the line!

  Juri Wdowetschenko opened the desk and grabbed a bottle of Vodka. Till now he hadn't had much to drink. But now he needed the alcohol to silence the probing questions. He needed a little happiness, even if it was only chemically generated.

  ◆◆◆

  Ragnar Lechtinnen leaned back in his wooden armchair. The fire crackled in the stove and spread cozy warmth in his log cabin. He enjoyed life in the wintertime. No mosquitoes buzzed around his ears. The snow covered mire and dirt, and even the dying conifers looked young and strong. In general, he loved cold more than heat and stuffy air. He would never fly to the Canary Islands or spend his holidays in the Maldives. The cool weather of the north suited him more.

  Whenever the stress stretched his nerves to the breaking point, he slammed the door of his Helsinki brokerage office, swung into his Volvo and drove north. In Kuusamo, near the Russian border, he parked his car in a garage. During the summer months he chugged his motorboat across the lake to a boathouse he built below the high plateau on which his log cabin lay. In winter he drove over the mountains on a snow scooter.

  His hut was only spartanly furnished, but Ragnar Lechtinnen loved the simple and plain more than the designer furniture his wife had chosen for their bungalow in Porkala. She rarely came with him to this wilderness. Life here was too primitive for her here. She loathed the earth toilet and spring water as well as the simple pine furniture of the hut. This was just right for Lechtinnen. She was pretty and sweet, but Renata seemed to suffer from a neurotic compulsion to speak. She had to comment on everything and everyone. If someone told her about his problems or illnesses, she stopped him after three sentences to tell him that she had already been through them. There seemed to be nothing she hadn't experienced before or at least didn't know about.

  Lechtinnen enjoyed the silence of the winter landscape. Here all the tension that his hectic life brought with it fell away from him. Every time he returned home, he was cheerful and balanced and could endure not only his wife's eternal chatter, but also the angry calls of dissatisfied customers.

  He opened the stove to refill some logs, when he suddenly had the impression that someone was outside the hut. Lechtinnen listened hard. No sound was heard. He pushed the curtain in front of the log door to the side, opened it and stepped outside. No one was seen. Thick snowflakes whirled through the air and blocked the view into the valley.

  Ragnar Lechtinnen closed the door and sat back in his armchair. The wood creaked under the weight of his muscular body. He scratched his blond beard stubbles and grumbled something of "seeing ghosts." Then he turned up the wick of the kerosene lamp and reached for a book he wanted to read for two days. But he couldn't focus on the content. Again and again he listened outside. Finally he closed the book, rose sighing and put on his down lined jacket.

  The snow still fell in thick flakes from the sky, but the biting wind had calmed down. Lechtinnen walked around his hut and then stomped down into the valley with his hands in his jacket pockets. Suddenly he stopped. His feelings had not deceived him. Only a few steps away from him lay someone. He could barely see him. The man's white snowsuit was covered with a thin layer of snow. His beard was full of snow crystals. Only eyes and nose were clearly visible.

  Ragnar Lechtinnen stormed over to the lifeless figure and settled down on his knees. He felt the man's pulse on his carotid artery. It was weak. But the heart was still beating. Lechtinnen breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God the man was alive!

  He patted him on the cheek. "Hey, man, wake up! It's too cold to sleep here."

  Only the eyelids of the man on the ground twitched a little bit.

  Lechtinnen shook him. "Wake up, wake up!"

  The man moaned quietly. Then he opened his eyes a little wider.

  "Is it you Aljoscha?" he whispered, barely perceptible.

  "What did you say?" Lechtinnen asked. Then it dawned on him. The man had spoken Russian. This was not one of those reckless tourists who regularly got lost in the Finnish snowstorms. No, this man came from far away, from across the border.

  Quickly deciding, he lifted up the half-frozen man and carried him like a doll on his shoulder. In the cabin, he put him on one of the beds. Before he freed the man from his hard frozen and damp clothes, he threw some logs into the stove and put a kettle of water on it.

  Afterwards he went outside again and fetched an old zinc bathtub from the tool shed. A few years ago he had discovered it in his grandparents' cellar and transported to the hut. He filled the tub with cold water and added the boiling water from the kettle. Then he put the newly filled kettle back on the stove.

  "Come," he said to the man, "now we'll defrost you."

  He put him in the bathtub.

  The man screamed in pain.

  "A good sign, boy," he said, visibly relieved. "If your feet and hands still hurt you in the cold water, they are not frozen."

  Lechtinnen replenished warm water again and again for the next half hour. So, the temperature of the bath water first increased to hand warmth and finally reached forty degrees. In between he gave the young man warm elderflower tea to drink.

  The treatment was successful. Slowly the spirits of his guest returned. He began to speak, faltering in a husky voice.

  "I'm sorry. Unfor
tunately I can't understand you." Lechtinnen shrugged his shoulders and looked at him with questioning eyes.

  "Michail Wulff," the man said hoarse.

  "Ah, your name is Michail Wulff." Lechtinnen reached out his hand and knocked himself with the left on the chest. "I am Ragnar Lechtinnen. You can call me Ragnar, you know? Ragnar."

  "Ragnar," the man repeated, holding his hand. "Mischka."

  "Pleased to meet you, Mischka. You're certainly from Russia, aren't you?" He pointed his hand to the east.

  When the man heard the word Russia, fear filled his eyes. Lechtinnen patted him comradely on the shoulder and shook his head. "Don't worry, boy, I won't turn you in. Ragnar Lechtinnen betrays no one, especially not to this comrades over there."

  He took a break. A thought flashed through his mind. The man's name was Wulff. That wasn't a Slavic name.

  "You German Russian?" he asked in broken German. It's been years since he last spoke that language.

  The young man's eyes lit up. "Yes, I am a German Russian." His German was as bad as Ragnar Lechtinnen's. "My father taught me to speak German, even if it’s forbidden."

  "Well, then we have a base," said his rescuer pleased.

  "What does base mean?"

  "Foundation," Lechtinnen replied. "But now wrap yourself in warm blankets. You have to sweat so you don't get sick."

  Later he sat down at Michail Wulff's bed and asked him why he had fled across the border. But then he left him alone, because the man was visibly exhausted. They still had plenty of time to chat.

  He dimmed the lamp and sat down at the table again. This day was one of the few unforgettable days of his life. He had saved a man's life, at the last moment, so to speak. Something had made him restless, had driven him outside to look for this Michail Wulff. Ragnar Lechtinnen was not a religious man. But now he began to suspect that there was something above his life, a higher wisdom or power that would lead the life of every human being to his destiny, if he did not resist.