Dracula vs. Hitler

by Patrick Sheane Duncan

  And although she had read that his breath was rank with the emanation of carrion, she had caught no such odour when they had been so close at the tailor’s.

  In fact, as she now watched his chest, having some experience as her father’s nurse, Lucille was astounded to observe that he seemed not to breathe at all. What did she expect? she scolded herself. He was, after all, dead, was he not?

  Once they arrived at the house, the three of them settled themselves in her father’s library. Dracula wandered the shelves, his long white fingers trailing across the spines of the books as if he were caressing the ribs of a beautiful woman. Lucille went to the kitchen and prepared a plate of meats and cheeses. She sliced some dark bread and brought a bottle of wine and three glasses.

  She set the plate on the low table centred between three wingback chairs and a leather chaise lounge. Taking her seat on the chaise, she nibbled and watched Dracula take one of the chairs and page through an anatomy text. Her father sat and watched the vampire as he would a feral dog.

  “Wine?” Lucille offered. “There is chicken, ham, some fine cheese from Luxemburg, a local white cheddar.”

  “I do not sup, thank you.” Dracula waved the offer away.

  She saw her father was staring at the floor, and he bent to pluck a monkshood petal from the carpet. Frowning at it, he turned his gaze to Lucille and seemed to be ready to ask a question. She purposely interrupted the incipient inquiry.

  “Wine, Father?”

  She poured a glass for him as he made himself a sandwich, his thought lost to the ethers. Lucille watched the two men, not sure what she was expecting. Maybe an explanation of what had occurred between the two of them, an evaluation of the legend versus the actual events, some revelation of the truth behind the myth.

  Instead it became an elucidation of what had transpired since Dracula had been “away.” “Sleeping” was her father’s term.

  The Professor began with the Boer War, the Spanish-American War, and the unraveling of the Ottoman Empire, which pleased the former Prince of Wallachia.

  Lucille interrupted with a short discourse on the theory of social Darwinism and the spread of democracies.

  “The masses ruling themselves.” Dracula shook his head. “It will never last. The masses are ignorant.”

  “But we are educating the masses,” Lucille objected.

  “Education does not make a man intelligent,” Dracula said. “Ignorance, willful ignorance, and mental laziness are hallmarks of the masses. They need leaders. They cry out for leaders and do nothing by consensus without them.”

  Van Helsing used this moment to describe the pervasiveness of mass production and its impact on Europe and the United States. He spoke of the changes the automobile had made on society, the promise of heavier-than-air flight.

  Dracula seemed most surprised by the telegraph and telephone, especially the trans-Atlantic cable—that one could speak to another hundreds if not thousands of kilometres away instantaneously or near that.

  Lucille broke in to extol the potential of the cinema and radio; this led to her enthusiastic gush about the phonograph and recorded music. She leapt up to demonstrate, but her father stopped her with a hand.

  “It is a frivolity,” Van Helsing said. “Some other time.”

  And in his most professorial tone, her father launched into an exposition of the Great War: the poison gas attacks, machine guns, artillery, tanks, submarine predation, and casualties into the millions, nearly seven hundred thousand dead at Verdun alone, the participation of the United States tipping the balance, resulting in an uneasy and ultimately unsuccessful peace.

  Dracula listened with avid curiosity and enthrallment, asking piquant questions.

  He followed the description of the Russian Revolution, but dismissed their socialistic aims with even more vehemence than his opinion of democracy. “The Russians worship their Czars as they do their icons,” he said. “They seek a ruthless, strong leader the way bees need a queen.”

  “Another biological imperative at work?” Lucille smiled to take some of the bite out of the remark.

  Her father rhapsodised about Einstein and tried to explain the accomplishments of this genius, but Dracula became mired in the philosophical implications. He finally called a halt to the discussion. “This is too arcane for my medieval mind. You must give me some books to supplement my shortcomings.”

  Van Helsing agreed and moved on to the worldwide Depression, how Germany rose out of the ashes of the First World War, Hitler and his expansionism, the other fascist movements, Spain, Italy, and the simultaneous spread of Japanese imperialism into China.

  “War. War again and again. Humankind does not change,” the vampire mused. “The efficiency of their war machines may, but the basic instinct to kill each other for causes great or small never ceases to amaze me.”

  “You killed more than a few yourself,” Lucille ventured.

  “As a monarch, yes. Because I realised something that your Kaiser, your Hitler, Mussolini, emperor, and premier know. Oftentimes the only way to deliver a message that everyone understands is to pile the bodies up so high that all can see.” Dracula shrugged, such a human gesture that it unsettled Lucille.

  She looked away from him and noticed that the dawn light was beginning to climb the opposite wall.

  “Oh my God, it’s morning,” she cried.

  “You must get some sleep, Lucille,” her father said, hoping to put some distance between his daughter and the vampire.

  Lucille turned in concern to Dracula. “Don’t you have to climb into . . . a coffin or something?”

  “No, no.” Dracula smiled. “But a room where I can pull the drapes to block the light would be greatly appreciated.”

  “We can accommodate that,” Van Helsing replied. “The guest room will suffice, will it not, dear?” Lucille nodded in assent.

  “And maybe I could partake of your library?” Dracula asked. “To pass the time. Books have always been amiable companions. They have given me many hours of pleasure.”

  “Of course.” Van Helsing smiled. He was proud of his collection, not unduly, and led Dracula to the shelves.

  “Let’s see . . . maybe we should start with Mein Kampf. That would inform you about our enemy.”

  “Freud!” Lucille exclaimed as she found the volume and passed it to the vampire. “In order to really know the self-hating martinet.”

  “And some Shaw, for entertainment,” her father added and passed the book to Dracula.

  “H. G. Wells, then,” his daughter countered. “And Oscar Wilde! You will love Wilde.” She excitedly searched for and found a collection of his plays in the stacks.

  “Well, some Conrad, Chekhov, Tagore. Proust?” Van Helsing was snatching books from the shelves with the same enthusiasm as his daughter.

  “Not yet,” Lucille said. “But Joyce, certainly.”

  “Ah! Pirandello!”

  “Ibanez!”

  “Karel Capek!”

  “F. Scott Fitzgerald!”

  “Remarque!”

  “Kafka!”

  “Graves!” her father shot back. “Fisher’s History!”

  “Joyce!”

  “You already pulled Joyce, dear,” her father noted and they both faced each other, glanced at Dracula, who had a stack of books in his hands that reached his chin. They broke into laughter and the vampire joined them.

  The sight of the legendary creature laughing like a schoolboy at a classroom joke caused Lucille to gape at him in astonishment.

  “Well, I think we have suitably armed you with enough reading material for a few fortnights, much less the day,” Van Helsing said. “Lucille, if you will show our guest his room. I must retire. As amusing and convivial the night has been, my old body does not have the stamina it once did.” And he walked to the door. “I bid you good night, rather, good day.” And he exited the library.

  Lucille watched him leave, his shoulders bent, his fatigue evident. She regretted keeping him up so
long. But she would not have traded this night for any other in her life.

  “Come this way,” she told Dracula and led him to the guest bedroom upstairs. He had to duck beneath a shaft of sunlight beaming through the stairwell window. Lucille entered the bedroom first and closed the curtains while he waited in the hall.

  “You can come in now,” she said, turning on the bedside lamp. “Maybe tonight we can talk. Just you and me. Not a history lesson but . . . more personal.”

  “I shall look forward to it,” Dracula whispered. His accent gave his words a quality not unlike a cat’s purr.

  They stood there for a few seconds, inches apart. And Lucille confirmed her earlier assumption. He did not breathe. His chest neither rose nor fell, his nostrils did not flare, and she felt no breath from his mouth.

  The realisation so disturbed her that she involuntarily stepped away, then fled the room, closing the door behind her.

  She found her father waiting for her in the hall.

  “I know you are not of an age to need or take advice from an old man . . .” he began.

  “I have always respected your advice, Father,” she told him in all sincerity. “Whether I take it or not is another matter entirely.”

  He smiled ruefully.

  “Keep your distance from that one,” he said. “He is most dangerous and, though he may appear civilised at the moment, you have no idea the barbarous acts that are within his capability.”

  “But you trust him.”

  “With reservations,” he said. “With great reservations.”

  And he pulled her into his arms with one of his rare embraces. Two in the space of a day. Lucille held him for a bit longer than he was comfortable with, but he allowed it.

  “Get some rest,” he told her. “Tomorrow you take our new weapon to war.”

  FROM THE DESK OF ABRAHAM VAN HELSING

  (Translated from the Dutch)

  What have I done? Have I, by this brash act, endangered my colleagues, our effort against our enemy? Have I put my own dear daughter in peril?

  To unleash this monster upon the world is a formidable responsibility. Only I know how evil were his predations, how corrupt were his deeds upon the innocent and weak. Now he is free to prowl the earth again. Am I able to control him? Is anyone?

  And if we are so fortunate as to succeed in vanquishing our adversaries—what then? What do we do with our “monster” after the war is over? Do we put him back in his box like the Christmas angel?

  These questions haunt me like the ghosts of poor Lucy Westenra and Quincey Morris.

  What have I done?

  FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER

  (transcribed from shorthand)

  MAY 17, 1941

  When the partisans asked me to reconnoitre the castle Bran and examine the captured documents, I have to admit I was a bit miffed at being separated from the vampire and dear Lucy. I had so many questions to put to him, and so many things I wanted to say to my love. But the presence of the vampire dominated my thoughts. I was kicking myself for not asking more questions of the creature when I had the opportunity. I craved knowledge. I needed to fill in the gaps between my grandfather’s stories and that damned Book, which was so vague in so many areas and quite often contradictory to my grandfather’s version of events.

  Lucille, the other thorn in my brain, left with Dracula. And I was not unaware of the certain magnetism between them, at no time more evident than when we walked in on the pair as she clothed him. I was indubitably aware of my own feeling at the moment—jealousy. But of whom I was jealous I was not sure. I wanted time with each of them.

  The reconnaissance of the castle came a cropper, as we could not get within a mile of the ancient palace. Nazi roadblocks and sentries blocked all roads to the fortress. From a distance it did appear to be formidable, perched high upon a promontory much as these medieval structures are, with steep walls and towering battlements. It is of yellow stone topped with red tile roofs, the walls rising from equally vertical cliffs, with but one curving approach, heavily guarded. Impenetrable in its day, but with today’s aerial bombing, just another target. I made notations on a map provided by Anka, for any future attack.

  After this we drove to what appeared to be an abandoned livestock barn and pens situated alongside the railroad tracks. Inside a smelly, shambling structure, I was presented with the dispatch rider’s documents by a waiting Pavel. I noticed a bullet-riddled motorcycle sitting in a stall and a Rumanian uniform laid out to dry on a rusty cart. There were holes in the uniform jacket that I doubt were caused by moths. The remnants of the luckless dispatch rider, I supposed.

  The documents concerned the Rumanian Army’s recent shortening of the training periods for military recruits and a desperate need for soldiers who could read, write, and hopefully do the basic math needed to run the logistics of a military operation. Suggestions were made to start conscripting teachers in those very subjects and to establish schools for military typists. Also included were a list of promotions, enlisted and officer ranks, plus some vehicle and parts requests. I properly complimented Anka on the capture and told her to forward the whole package to London, as the experts there probably would be able to harvest all sorts of intelligence from these bits and pieces.

  Pavel meanwhile took Renfield to a trapdoor covered in six inches of cow dung. The manure was shovelled aside and the trapdoor was lifted to reveal an arms cache. We inspected the weapons, a hodgepodge of German, Rumanian, and French small arms with accompanying ammunition, some of which matched the calibre of the arms, some not.

  Renfield became enamored with three cases of German land mines, mostly anti-tank and anti-personnel. The Sergeant became a bit giddy at the sight and instantly took one apart in front of us. He was smoking a cadged cigarette, and the ash kept falling onto the exposed explosive charge. We all watched with dread, expecting the butt to fall from his lips and blow us all to kingdom come, but he was as sure-handed as a watchmaker, and our fears were for naught.

  Finally we pulled Renfield away from his latest crush and were driven to the basement of a Brasov bakery, where a stack of flour sacks was provided for our repose. Unexpectedly, taking into account my preoccupation with Lucille and Dracula, I immediately fell asleep. But my dreams were a phantasmagoria of vampires, blood, graveyards, and falling under the rapacious fangs and claws of a pack of wolves, one of which transformed into the naked form of Lucy and proceeded to devour me.

  I was jolted awake from this deranged nightmare by the rattling sound of a machine gun, but when my senses returned me to this world, I realised that the sound was the rattle of the giant floor mixer in the bakery above my head.

  I glanced at the glowing dial of my watch. It was only a tick past three in the morning. The rattle and clang, with the muted voices of the bakers working above, kept me awake for only a brief minute, and I slipped back into a more peaceful slumber, the sweet smell of yeast and the comforting redolence of baking bread wrapping me in the arms of Morpheus as easily as if in the arms of my mother.

  Two hours later I was awakened by a series of kicks upon my leg. It was Pavel and Farkas. They led us upstairs, where I was allowed a brief, unsatisfactory wash in a sink and the use of the facilities. Then, after I was provided with a hot cruller and a cup of thick coffee, we were taken back to the Van Helsings’.

  EXCERPTED FROM THE UNPUBLISHED NOVEL THE DRAGON PRINCE AND I

  by Lenore Van Muller

  After more than a few ignominious escapades, Lucille Van Helsing learned quickly that one cannot dwell on regrets. One must acknowledge the blunder, the momentary weakness, and plunge ahead with one’s life.

  The assignation with the English boy was one of those lapses. She could excuse it; tell herself that this was all related to her loss of Janos. That love affair had been spurred by the aphrodisiac of war. She and Janos had succumbed to the knowledge that death was only the next mission away. They tried to live for the moment and the future be damned. They wallowed in the pass
ion fuelled by near escape and the urgency of no tomorrow.

  But she was not even sure if the impulse to bed Harker was that deep. Perhaps all she desired that evening was not to sleep alone, to merely hold someone, anyone, to find a bit of comfort in the arms of another.

  Or she was just randy. This had happened before. She was a woman who was aware of and at ease with her own lust.

  She had also found, through her few but busy years, that it was beneficial not to think about these episodes too much. Not during times such as these.

  Her problem with the infatuated English boy was now complicated even more by her sudden attraction to the Prince. Not necessarily romantic, but she could certainly feel the pull of a certain fascination.

  Lucille found little sleep, knowing that the vampire occupied the room next to her. She wanted to go to him, pummel him with questions, scientific and otherwise. She was curious about how the vampire was able to exist, how he metabolised blood into sustenance, how his organs managed without oxygen.

  And there were personal questions. She wondered what her father had been like fifty years ago. Before he met Lucille’s mother. What had actually occurred in England. Why had he seduced—or, to be blunt, preyed upon—the two women. So many questions, one leading off to another, like the spreading limbs of a tree, branches and twigs of query.

  Finally she dressed and left her room. In the hall she resisted the impulse to knock on the Prince’s door. There would be time later, on the coming mission to the south. She was not a child who couldn’t wait for Mos Nicolae.

  Downstairs she could hear young Harker in the basement speaking to Renfield. She considered going down and dealing with the situation she had created, but she was not in the mood to unravel the emotional knot she had tied. Maybe she just did not have the courage to make another man unhappy just because she was too weak to control her own base needs.