Dracula vs. Hitler

by Patrick Sheane Duncan

  “For when you lose your love,” the woman whispered into Lucille’s ear, the sound like crushing dried leaves.

  And she walked away. Lucille did not pursue. She was left alone to ponder the dancing shadows cast by the flickering torchlight. There was light from four or five torches around her, and she had as many shadows surrounding her. Her shadows, like a gathering of Shakespearean witches, a coven of Lucille.

  She fled the room, got lost in the myriad cavern corridors, and finally found her father and Harker sitting with the gypsy chief. She joined them.

  “Oh, there you are,” her father said. “We can now get down to business.”

  He turned to the gypsy and laid out the purpose of their mission—to form a band to rescue the prisoners of Castle Bran.

  “No one else will come to our aid,” Lucille added her own plea.

  “We Roma understand this,” he said. “In time, every country treats us like pariahs. We share this with the Jews.”

  He poured mulled wine, vin fiert, into her cup. She drank deeply, and heat coursed through her body.

  “They hold our comrades hostage,” Harker said. “Plus the Prince.”

  “Ah, the Prince.” Ouspenkaya nodded. “In this land he has always been our protector. And he did save my precious daughter and many of my people. I am in his debt.”

  He glanced across the fire to where the gypsies surrounded the musicians. The women wore bright-coloured dresses, scarlet skirts with yellow prints, bright orange and green blouses, and scarves as iridescent as any butterfly. Lucille was envious of the display, but she knew if she wore such blazing colours she would only come off too garish. These women carried it with aplomb, giving an appearance of vivacity and joie de vivre.

  She turned back to their leader. “You will help us, then?” she asked.

  Her father interrupted.

  “Do not let my daughter’s resolve and precipitance pressure you,” he said. “It will be a risky proposition. Lives could be, will be, lost.”

  Ouspenkaya grinned wolfishly.

  “My people live hard, die harder.”

  DATED: 18 JUNE 1941

  TO: CSS REINHARD HEYDRICH, RSHA, REICHSFUHRER-SS

  FROM: SS MAJOR WALTRAUD REIKEL

  CC: HEINRICH HIMMLER, REICHSFUHRER-SS

  (BY SPECIAL COURIER)

  MOST SECRET

  The latest concerning our special guest:

  Last evening there was an incident. What follows I have gathered from those present.

  Two guards were posted outside the Creature’s cell to monitor any further weakening of the steel bars and much-besieged door. A Private Gustav von Wangenheim and Corporal John Gottowt were assigned to the evening sentry duty.

  Beginning their period of guard duty, von Wangenheim approached the door, testing each bar, inspecting the welds for damage and the door hinges (which were being pulled from the wall and frame). This he did with Corporal Gottowt standing a couple of metres away, weapon at the ready. The inspection completed, von Wangenheim looked up to find himself face-to-face with the prisoner.

  Von Wangenheim froze as if entranced. His Corporal inquired if something was wrong.

  Von Wangenheim replied that everything was fine. Later, when clearheaded, he implied that the prisoner told him what to say, forced him, as if he had hypnotised him.

  I think, in retrospect, that this may be a reasonable assumption.

  As von Wangenheim gazed into the cell after his inspection, a mist floated from the prisoner’s side and hovered in front of his face. He watched this remarkable apparition with only mild curiosity, telling Gottowt that there was “nothing to be alarmed about.”

  (Again, later, von Wangenheim said that he was only parroting what the prisoner ordered him to say.)

  This mist then formed into the shape of a hand and wrapped its foggy fingers around von Wangenheim’s neck. With this threatening ghost hand clutching his throat, von Wangenheim heard the prisoner’s next instructions as if they were logic personified.

  “Maybe you should open the door and make sure everything inside is secured.”

  Von Wangenheim repeated the instruction as if it were his own thought, and he was reaching for the key to that door when Corporal Gottowt realised what was occurring.

  The Corporal grabbed the hypnotised man, tried to pull him away from the door as he was attempting to insert the key. But he discovered that the prisoner’s hand was in a vise-like grip around von Wangenheim’s neck.

  Von Wangenheim, still in a trance-like state, resisted Gottowt’s efforts to free him. Gottowt’s only recourse was to first club von Wangenheim unconscious. He did this with the butt of his rifle. Using the same technique, he pounded the prisoner’s hand where von Wangenheim still hung in the creature’s grip. By this he was able to break the prisoner’s fingers.

  (It should also be noted that in the frenzy of the attack and rescue, Gottowt also mutilated von Wangenheim’s ear and shattered the man’s collarbone.)

  The prisoner finally released von Wangenheim, who fell to the floor.

  A near disaster, I admit. But in retrospect, it also means that we have discovered another ability possessed by our guest. A means to enthrall others. Whether there has to be some proximity to the victim, and the range where the ability becomes effective, is to be learned later after more testing.

  I will keep you informed as to any more developments.

  Heil Hitler.

  FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER

  (transcribed from shorthand)

  JUNE 20, 1941

  We are off, like dirty socks, as my mum would say. The rescue party is scant; hardly what you think would be needful to assault a bloody castle. Ouspenkaya and eleven of his men, plus his daughter. I do not know how this girl will be anything but a hindrance, and I made the mistake of voicing this doubt within earshot of Lucy, who lit into me with a tirade about male condescension, which I bore with as much composure as I could muster.

  To tell the truth, I am not that perturbed by the young lady’s presence. The previous night, before we received word that the gypsy king would help us, I was watching a pair of young men play a dangerous version of mumblety-peg with daggers, an item which no gypsy man seems without (I am afraid to ask the women if they carry one). Facing each other, no more than a foot apart, they were throwing the knives at each other’s foot, the launch point being some part of their anatomy above the waist, such as chin, elbow, forehead, and so on to acrobatic extremes, which the other had to imitate, the winner of each round choosing the throw position.

  To return to my anecdote—I was spectating this sport when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and suddenly the young gypsy aerialist sat beside me. I remembered her name, Maleva, and greeted her in her native Romani tongue.

  “You speak our language?” She smiled at me, her teeth a brilliant white against her tawny skin, contrasted even more by her raven hair and dark eyes.

  “Only a few words,” I told her honestly. “Languages are a hobby of mine. I have been picking up words here and there. You are the daughter of Ouspenkaya, right?”

  She nodded. “He is at the diwano, where the elders discuss the gajo request.”

  “Gajo?”

  “One who is not gypsy. You.” She poked me in the chest with her finger, laughing. “I teach you gypsy words. What is your nav?”

  “Nav . . . name?” I asked. She nodded. “Jonathan Harker.”

  She tried forming the syllables of my name then shook her head, wrinkling her nose.

  “I do not like. I call you rom baro.”

  “Rom baro?”

  “Means ‘boss.’ You are the Englisha boss, no?”

  “Well, in a manner, yes. Rom baro . . .” I tested it. “I like it. Tell me another word. How do you say ‘beautiful’?”

  “Pakvora.”

  “Then that is what I will call you. Pakvora.”

  She bit her bottom lip and looked deep into my eyes. The effect was pixieish, most appealing. I was proud that
I did not look away, in fact, gazed back and fell into the dark depths until I was lost.

  “We have new names. Secret names. Tell no one. We are bound in this secret.”

  She reached out to me with a clasped hand, only the little finger protruding. I imitated the gesture and we joined those little fingers, like children making a solemn promise.

  She then took my left hand into her own hands and gazed into my palm and traced the lines with her index finger. The fingernail tickled my palm in a most sexual manner. I have to admit that I was a bit aroused.

  “You have been here before,” she murmured. Her voice was low, just above a whisper, most seductive.

  “Not really,” I replied. “You mean Rumania? This is my first visit, actually.”

  “Your blood has been here.”

  “Well, my grandfather . . .” I realised with a shock that she had just divined my past. Was this some sort of gypsy magic?

  She leaned into me, stared at my palm, her demeanor changed, registering surprise, then very serious.

  “You are my savings,” she said.

  I was pondering this statement, ready to correct her or seek further elucidation, when she used her grasp on my hand to pull me toward her. She then kissed me on the lips, a mere peck, but a shock nevertheless. And I do mean shock, as I felt an electric charge that ran from my lips to the soles of my feet.

  Before I could recover, she leapt up and dashed away. I felt that fever blush again, and it was a few moments before I could recover my composure. I decided to take a walk and unfluster myself.

  I wandered the cave and marvelled at how the gypsies had made themselves a home here, how much resilience mankind demonstrates, over and over. No matter the depredations, the hardships, the calamity—man-made or the result of fierce nature—people find a way to survive, even find some remnant of happiness.

  These musings were repeatedly interrupted by sweet, invasive thoughts of the dark gypsy beauty. Some of these exotic visions I was not proud of, as they verged on the side of licentiousness. In order to hold on to some respect for myself, I continued my survey of the quiet cave.

  I found Lucy in the pictograph cavern, lying upon her back, playing the beam from her battery-powered torch across the painted ceiling. It seemed the moment to have a proper chin-wag with her.

  I sat down next to her and took the opportunity to admire the beauty of her face as the ambient light spilled across her features, and I found myself comparing it to that singular allure of Maleva.

  “Amazing,” she remarked. “All that beauty and few people to appreciate it. Created by people who made their tools out of stone. This is what makes us different from the lower creatures.”

  “Do you include the Germans in your admiration?” I joked.

  “Actually you should see some of the architecture the Germans are building. Some are quite beautiful in a brutish way. The best show in Berlin was when Hitler gathered together what he thought was ‘degenerate art.’ The show sold out repeatedly, defeating his purpose. And I have known some very artistic people who were complete sadists. No, art doesn’t make us humane, just human.”

  “That brings up another subject,” I said and laid back to join her in the admiration of the painted horse trapped in her ring of light.

  “What would that be?” she asked.

  “There is no future for you with him, you know,” I told her.

  “You’re thinking of my future?” she asked

  “I am concerned for your welfare,” I said. “What can you look forward to? I doubt you can have children with him. And he is not going to die, age. And you will. Age. What then?”

  “You’ve thought this out,” she said, regarding me with those green eyes.

  “I have,” I said. “And only out of concern for you, not investing my own interests at all.”

  “Really?” She smiled softly.

  “Honestly.”

  “Well, let us examine the logic of your argument,” she began. “One, you assume that I care about my future. I am sorry, but this war has taught me that none of us can count on having a future. We are about to assault a castle where we will be outnumbered, outgunned, and have little chance of survival. If I have learned one thing in this conflict it is that you live by the moment—as it may be your last. And as for children . . . Who would bring a child into this world of death and destruction? Not I. Not I. As for making it to old age?” A short, derisive laugh escaped her lips. “Those are all peacetime indulgences.”

  She rose from the ground, dusted off her trousers, handed me the torch.

  “Here. Be sure to lock up when you leave.”

  I lay there, absorbing what she had just said, playing my light across the ancient drawings overhead. I studied the delicate form and line. An artist, to be sure. I wondered how violent was the world he walked, where he not only had to battle his own kind but the very elements, had to fight just for a bit of meat. And still had the soul to create something so full of grace as this.

  My view was suddenly eclipsed. A face hovered over my own. Maleva. The reflection of my torchlight filled her eyes with a sparkling fire.

  She put a finger to her lips, which drew my attention to her ripe mouth. It was a voluptuous smile, swollen and sultry. She reached down and turned off my torch.

  I was plunged into a darkness so black that I could not see my own hand, though I held it only inches from my eyes.

  Then I heard a rustle of cloth.

  “What . . . ?” I began to ask but a delicate hand was put over my mouth. Then her other hand took my own and moved it across naked flesh.

  What followed was the most erotic moment of my life. Sight gone, I experienced everything by touch alone. It was flesh upon flesh, fingers and lips and tongues, exploration and discovery, until I succumbed to a sensual overload, unparalleled by any man, ever.

  EXCERPTS FROM UNIDENTIFIED DIARY

  (translated from the German)

  Herr Wolf took a brief sleep (the only kind he can manage anymore). After waking and dressing (a new record), his valet HL provided a light breakfast—tea, biscuits, and an apple. Watching through the window of his private rail car, he saw vistas of Hungary then Rumania glide past. Grubby children stared at the train, some making vulgar gestures. The Rumanians are a vile, inbred race of dwarfs without any culture. There is a saying that there are three sorts of Rumanians—they are either pimps, pederasts, or violinists, and very few play the violin.

  June 20

  Herr Wolf arrived at the grimy Rumanian outpost in the midst of the day, purposely pausing at a sidetrack a kilometre from the Brasov station to wait for the sun to go down and the railroad station to be evacuated of prying eyes.

  Through the windows Herr Wolf could see that the station was in the midst of repair: Scaffolding had been erected and stacks of lumber and building materials were scattered all about, and cement dust covered every surface. Examining the pieces of the structure that had not been reduced to ruin, Herr Wolf wondered why such a boring piece of junk architecture would even be reconstructed. They should raze it to the ground and start over. He would offer the locals some advice and maybe forward some examples of what he had erected in Germany. He passed these thoughts on to the secretary who travelled with him.

  During the wait for night, Herr Wolf’s thoughts drifted to his own Mortality. He had escaped Death repeatedly, the Miraculous Survival in the trenches at Ypres, the narrow escape from the podium bomb at the Sportpalast. He considers this a Divine protection; Fate has always had a Greater role for him.

  This current opportunity is another gift from Destiny. Lately Herr Wolf has been haunted by the thought of what becomes of the Reich and Europe in a hundred years, a thousand years, without the proper Stewardship. Will it fall from neglect or corruption as before?

  Herr Wolf has determined that he is irreplaceable; no military or civilian personage seems able enough to take his place. Even after his retirement to Linz, the Fate of the Reich may depend on him alone, and he m
ust act to preserve what has been fought so hard to create. This is the next step in Herr Wolf’s evolution to what Nietzsche called his “superman.”

  Herr Wolf has been given a Divine Historical Imperative to return Germany to a purer place, and it is only proper that Supernatural means be given to him to perpetuate that Reign.

  With Immortality, he could become Master of the World; take his rightful place in history alongside Frederick the Great, Genghis Khan. No, do not think in those mortal terms. Take a seat alongside Thor, Odin!

  There was a Brasov greeting party, a small contingent of SS as per the instructions cabled to the local German commandant telling him to expect the visit of a low-level dignitary.

  There was a display of flags, Rumanian and German, a few threadbare and faded swastika banners, but the Commanding Officer was present to greet this visitor, and Herr Wolf commended him on that point of courtesy.

  The compliment was lost on the poor soldier, a Major WR, as the soldier was quite discomfited when he recognised his guest. The Major fell all over himself apologising for the meager reception and the appearance of his troops, who looked fine considering they were field soldiers.

  Herr Wolf attempted to put the Major at ease, informing the intimidated soldier that he was travelling incognito, that Herr Wolf’s presence should not in any way be revealed—and that if this information was to leak, there would be dire consequences. Fatal consequences.

  The Major had to be informed by Herr Wolf’s valet, HL, that smoking was not allowed in Herr Wolf’s presence.

  Herr Wolf was transported quickly through the charming village of Brasov and further to the castle that housed the SS garrison. The area reminded Herr Wolf of the terrain around his own mountain retreat, the Berghof. The castle was quaint, a bit cold and damp as these places tend to be, smelling of mildew and wood smoke.

  Supper was offered, mostly various meats, but Herr Wolf took no offence, the ruse of who was visiting the Major being so successful that the cooking staff had not been prepared for his vegetarian diet. He asked for some oatmeal soup, if there were any available. Herr Wolf told the Major that the elephant is the strongest animal in the world but eats no meat. The point was not taken. The Major is definitely a Leichenfresser. Herr Wolf could smell it on his breath.