The Nazi raised a hand to strike her. Lucy’s hand slipped into the depths of her coat, hugging herself as if against the cold, but I knew she was holding her Luger at the ready.
I stepped toward the Corporal. The Sergeant put himself between us.
“And you are?”
“Their driver.”
“Why don’t you stay with the car?” he asked. I was not ready for this question and my brain did a tap dance to find an answer. Van Helsing saved me.
“I do not like to walk alone at night,” the Professor announced. “I have treated a few of your soldiers, and the partisans resent my ministrations. I am afraid for myself and my daughter.”
“And you think this will protect you?” The Corporal eyed me with derision. I bristled at the slight but was able to contain myself with a super-human control I did not know I possessed.
“What is in the bag?” asked the other.
“The ghastly paraphernalia of my beneficial trade,” Van Helsing said. The Corporal just frowned in puzzlement.
The Sergeant returned Van Helsing’s papers and waved us on our way.
When we were far enough away to be out of hearing Van Helsing turned to Lucy. “Antagonising them does nothing for our cause,” he reprimanded her. “All it does is make you feel superior for the moment. We must appear harmless.”
“They see only my tits,” she scoffed. “To them I am already harmless.”
I was shocked at her vulgarity. How could all of these contradictory characteristics exist in the same creature? The enchanting playfulness and then confrontational antagonism. She brings to mind the object of Byron’s verse:
“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
Such a sweet visage with the tongue of a fishwife.
After wending our way further through the moonlit labyrinth of alleys and narrow streets, we finally reached our destination. It was a small shop; a conservative gilt sign in the window discreetly declared “Mihaly’s Fine Men’s Fashion—Bespoke Suits.”
Van Helsing checked the street in both directions, searching for any observers. There were none, and he opened the door and hastily ushered us inside.
The store was composed of dark wood shelves where bolts of cloth poked out, and display cases containing shirts and ties. The ties were the only splash of colour in the store, and the cloth nestled in the cubbyholes was in the grey, brown, and black spectrum, giving the whole store a masculine but gloomy atmosphere. Mannikins were dressed in what looked to be very well-tailored suit jackets, if not au courant.
A bell above the door pealed out our entrance and a small man answered. I was introduced to him, a dapper gentleman advertising his wares in a beautiful herringbone pant and vest. This was Mihaly, the proprietor and best tailor in Brasov. His pencil-thin mustache was as rectilinear as if made with a straight edge, his skin the white of a frog’s belly, his brilliantined hair black and shiny like wet paint.
Professor Van Helsing introduced me only as the Englishman, and Mihaly accepted this. Peering from behind his father’s hips was Mihaly’s son, eight or so, a miniature version of the father, sans mustache.
The Professor bent down to address the boy.
“How is your appendicitis, Toma?” he asked.
“Terrible.” The child melodramatically clutched his stomach. “Do you have some medicine for me?”
“I do,” Van Helsing said and produced a licorice stick from his coat pocket. “But you are not to take it until after your supper.”
The proprietor led us to a viewing cubicle, a tiny room the size of a telephone kiosk, mirrored on three sides floor to ceiling so that a customer could properly admire his new attire. Stepping onto a small wooden platform, Mihaly reached up and pulled on the light fixture inside the tiny closet, one of those old brass hanging lamps that had been converted from gas to electric. At this, one of the mirrored walls swung inward, revealing a set of stairs leading down into a basement.
I followed the Professor and Lucy down the concrete steps. A lone, bare lightbulb hung from a wire in the centre of the subterranean room, the limited light casting dark shadows into a great number of nooks and crannies. Bolts of cloth, jars of buttons, spools of thread mounted on pegged boards, and a great miscellany of goods crowded onto shelves that went from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. In one of the dark recesses I saw a stack of weapons, five Mannlicher rifles, and a bucket of ammunition for the same. Next to a mannikin pinned with a paper pattern leaned what appeared to be the tube and base plate for a 60mm mortar, and next to a stack of ancient yellowing celluloid collars sat a pile of French-style grenades.
Everything we would need to begin a well-dressed revolution.
Under the glaring light squatted a long table upon which lay a long, wide length of grey pinstriped cloth, a tissue pattern pinned to it. Above it floated a great pall of cigarette smoke produced by the three smoking around the table. One of those was introduced as Anka, a short, stout woman with a black-and-grey rat’s nest of hair, and black eyes that stabbed at you with malice and skepticism. Her face was lined with deep crevices where her cynicism toward this bitter life had been as permanently engraved as a woodcut. Her downturned nose and theatrically placed warts only reinforced the resemblance to an Arthur Rackham illustration of an evil witch. Sitting with her were two battle-weary-looking men introduced as Pavel and Farkas, as suitable noms de guerre as any.
Pavel was a tall, scholarly-looking chap with a great halo of curly hair and black-rimmed spectacles. Farkas was pale, blond, slight, an almost effeminate fellow. Both looked haggard, the same look I had seen on the soldiers returning from Dunkirk.
Van Helsing introduced me by my own pseudonym and vouched for me. We sat with the others, circling the table.
“Don’t touch the cloth. Very expensive,” warned the man called Farkas, pointing at the table, and for caution’s sake I edged my chair away.
“Where is Vasile?” Van Helsing asked.
“Arrested,” Anka pronounced. “Taken to the castle.”
“Castle?” I queried. The woman squinted at me as if she suspected me of arresting this Vasile.
“In Bran,” Farkas explained. “An old fortress from centuries ago.” Bran was a tiny village less than twenty miles southwest of Brasov.
“His fortress,” Pavel intoned.
“Who?” I asked.
“He whose name we do not speak,” Anka replied.
My mind sprinted after the thought. Could they be speaking of the one who haunted my Transylvanian ruminations? I knew that Dracula’s castle was located in Bran.
“The Germans have abandoned the Town Hall, except as an office to coordinate their patrols and roadblocks.”
“Why Bran?” I asked. “Why not use the Citadel?” The Citadel, built in the middle ages, was a massive fortress on the north side of town, overlooking the entire city.
“Too large to hold with the men they have. Bran is smaller, more easily defended,” Anka said. “Though they have also added another company of SS to their number.”
“The Huns now have at least three companies of SS and a garrison of Rumanian traitors,” Pavel said. “They have moved all prisoners from the Town Hall to the castle.”
“Vasile will talk. He knows who we are,” Lucy said.
“Not Vasile,” Farkas defended his comrade.
“Everyone talks,” Lucy replied. “Eventually.”
“He will not talk,” Anka said flatly.
“We cannot be sure of this,” Lucy cautioned.
“He hung himself in his cell before they could torture him,” Anka said. It was very quiet for a moment. Farkas produced a bottle of wine from within his greatcoat and poured the contents into six jars and passed them among us. He raised his.
“To Vasile,” he toasted, and we drank. It was sharp, bitter claret—appropriately so, I suppose.<
br />
“And Iaon?” Van Helsing inquired. “I hope his excuse for being late is not so tragic.”
“He has fled to the mountains,” Pavel told us. “They burned his house. Killed his dog.”
“He loved that dog,” Farkas said with some sadness. “A gentle beast but gassy.”
“I brought bread,” Pavel announced. “It is still hot.”
He passed around a warm loaf of rye. The smell was amazing, and I tore off a chunk. I had just eaten, but I could not resist. It was delicious. Lucy turned to me just at the moment when my mouth was full, of course. I smiled at her, my cheeks puffed like a squirrel storing nuts. This woman had a way of finding me at my most awkward state every time.
“So we are reduced to what you see,” she said, gesturing around the table.
“What have you learned concerning this Major Reikel?” Van Helsing asked.
“This Major Reikel,” Anka began. “I asked one of the soldiers whose laundry I wash about this man. Reikel made a name for himself in the Poland invasion. He was a Captain commanding the Einsatzgruppen, the paramilitary death squads, during Operation Tannenberg. Twenty thousand Poles were executed. The Captain was promoted to Major for his efficient rendering of this mass extermination.”
“Reikel did this?” Farkas asked.
“The same,” Anka answered.
“So, I assume that if we continue to resist he will do the same here in Brasov,” Pavel stated.
“It seems prudent for us to cease our operations,” Van Helsing said. “At least for the moment. Until we can evaluate our opposition.”
“No!” Lucy cried out. “No! We quit?! Never!”
“Not quit,” Anka responded. “A pause.”
“It’s quitting,” Lucy argued. “What did all of our friends die for? What did Janos die for? All those people we lost fighting . . . No.”
“We fight, we get innocent people killed,” Pavel said.
“There are no innocent people,” Farkas replied. “We are all soldiers. We are all at war.”
“Platitudes are very nice when your family is not at risk, nor your children,” Anka replied, her eyebrows drawn.
“So, we just sit on our hinders, waiting for the Germans to go away? Until the war is over? After the Nazis have taken all of Europe, England, the world?” Lucy had worked herself into a proper snit.
“My dear Lucille.” Van Helsing laid his hand on her shoulder to calm her. It seemed to be the unction to quell her fire. “We know what is at risk. Our task is to find a way to hamper the enemy without destroying our own viability. If we incur too many civilian deaths due to reprisals, we may find our own people turning against us.”
“We don’t need them,” Pavel stated, chin thrust out stubbornly.
“Yes, we do.” Anka glared at him. “You do not know how many people know about us, our activities.”
“We have security in our cells,” Pavel protested.
“Our security is a joke,” Farkas replied. “This is a small town. Everybody knows everybody’s business. A young lass is found pregnant, they know who the father is, when the deed was done, behind whose barn, and whether they did it standing up or from behind.”
“And what colour her knickers were,” Pavel said with a nod, conceding the point.
“Is this true?” I asked in momentary panic.
Lucy just shrugged. “Our command cell is well secreted. But . . .”
“I have the cheese, cascaval,” Crisan said and produced a large cloth-wrapped wedge. Peeling away the cloth, he withdrew a rather large knife from his boot top and carved off a chunk for himself, then passed the blade and cheese around the assemblage. It was a tasty yellow cheese, not too sharp, somewhat like a Swiss Emmental, and it went very well with the bread and wine. Our conversation ceased for the moment, as any talk does when food intrudes, no matter how serious the conversation.
“So we agree,” Van Helsing said. “We will suspend all.”
“No!” Lucy declared. “We do not agree!”
“Never,” Pavel added.
I felt the same outrage as Lucy and Pavel. For different reasons, I suppose. Here I was on the precipice of my first induction into the war, ready and more than willing to begin my cherished mission, and the very people I was supposed to organise and lead into battle were calling it quits. A great melancholy settled upon me, my whole purpose draining away.
“Tell them, Farkas, what the bastards have been doing,” Lucy urged.
“They have been arresting people off the street and from their homes,” Farkas answered. “Arrested is the wrong word. Kidnapping. There are no charges. People are just . . . taken. Gypsies, Jews, and others. Sometimes relatives are told that these detainees are suspected of ‘malicious activities,’ but often there are no reasons given at all.”
“Haven’t the local authorities been able to do anything?” I asked.
“Constable Chiorean has abandoned Brasov,” Van Helsing stated without emotion. “He has decided to spend some time with his sister in Belgrade.”
“I would have thought better of him,” Lucille said, disappointed.
While they gossiped, my attention was on that delectable cheese and knife as they circled, eagerly awaiting my next turn with mouthwatering anticipation. I had already re-filled my glass with the heady wine and filched another chunk of that glorious bread.
“No one knew he had a sister, much less one in Belgrade,” said Farkas. “Father Petrescu has appealed to the Pope. The Vatican replied that this is a political situation, not ecumenical, and they stay out of the politics.”
“Pula calului in virful dealului,” Pavel spat.
“Also, our appeals to the Antonescu government have fallen upon deaf ears,” Van Helsing added. “We are to face this brutality by ourselves.”
“And that brutality has escalated,” Lucy said. “There have been rapes, seemingly at whim; every woman who encounters a German is at risk. Families keep their daughters and wives imprisoned in their homes, not allowing them on the streets, day or night. Not even for church. And when the Nazis invade a house the women must be hidden, under beds, in cupboards and chests, even in barrels. Still, some are . . . found.”
It was evident that Lucy had been doing more than arranging a leadership meeting while she had been out today.
“There is also much theft,” Pavel told us. “They steal property, not just money, but jewels, silverware, take paintings right off the wall. Anything.”
“You fret about . . . things,” Anka chastised him. “While they rape and torture and kill our people?”
She turned her fevered eyes to me. “They suspected Emil Rusu to be one of us and killed his family before his eyes, trying to force him to confess. His eight-year-old son, his ten-year-old-daughter, his wife, throats cut in front of their helpless father. He cried for them to kill him instead. That he knew nothing. Nothing. And it was true, he knew nothing. So they shot him in turn.”
“And we know this for a fact?” I asked, as I knew that rumours often were prone to exaggeration.
“His seven-year-old daughter was in the room, cowering atop a tall wardrobe where her father had hidden the poor child.” Anka glared at me and I felt properly reprimanded.
“The sad fact is that these depredations in the village pale to what is happening within the castle,” Farkas gravely intoned. “Anka has placed some of her people within those walls.”
“Less said the better,” Anka warned.
“Of course.” Farkas nodded. “But we have been tracking those who have been apprehended.”
“Abducted,” Pavel corrected.
“So far, four hundred twenty-two have been taken into the castle,” Farkas continued, ignoring the harsh tone of his compatriot. “Seventy-three have been released.”
“Every one of them has been tortured,” Anka said. “In horrible ways. Skin flayed from the bottoms of their feet. Then forced to walk. Excruciating.” She shuddered.
“Genitals have been . . . mangled,” Pav
el said. “This was done to men. They made a machine to do this.”
“We have been able to discern, via Anka’s inside informants, that there are, as of today, two hundred sixty-eight prisoners held within the castle,” Farkas said.
“That leaves eighty-one unaccounted for,” I interjected, math always a strong point for me.
“Where are they?” Lucy asked.
“A pit outside the castle has been discovered,” Pavel sighed heavily. “An old cistern gone dry. We do not know exactly how many bodies it contains. At least forty. To accomplish a full count would mean emptying it—which, of course, we cannot do without some jeopardy.”
“Some of these bodies were recognised.” Anka stopped suddenly and turned to Lucy. “Someone should tell Horea that his Floarea is among the dead.”
Lucy nodded, accepting the burden. A pall hung over the room, thick as the nimbus of cigarette smoke.
“These bodies . . .” Anka continued. “Those that could be seen have been mutilated.”
“Torture of the most fiendish variety,” Pavel said.
“The screams are heard throughout the castle,” Anka said heavily, and I realised that she was the inside informant and she was the one who had witnessed this depravity. The cheese, much diminished, had finally come around and I eagerly cut myself a modest piece, then felt a pang of guilt and conscience. Here I was thinking of my stomach while we discussed the tragic fate of our peers. Sometimes I can be a right prat.
“Monstrous,” Lucy declared.
“Exactly. This Reikel is a monster,” Anka said, and the others nodded in grim affirmation.
“They are all monsters, the Huns,” Pavel muttered.
“How do we fight a monster?” Lucy whispered, a curse in her voice. She stared into her wine, seeking an answer in the bloodred depths.
Van Helsing, who had been uncharacteristically silent during this recitation of evil, taking it in as if he were attending a lecture at school, took a deep breath, as if preparing for a plunge into dark waters.
“I once fought a monster,” Van Helsing said quietly. “He was also . . . formidable. And more than a match for these beasts.”
I was stunned. I almost choked on a mouthful of bread and cheese. Was he speaking about the same monster that came to my mind?
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