Dracula vs. Hitler

by Patrick Sheane Duncan

  Once outside, we stood adjacent to the parapet. I spied Maleva and her companions crouched behind the parapet walls, two of them aiming their weapons to the grounds outside the castle, one guarding the interior courtyard below.

  Sandu gave a low whistle, and we were recognised. Maleva hopped over the wall and into my arms.

  “We took the castle,” she whispered enthusiastically. “Like the Errol Flynn.”

  I could not but help return the embrace with some enthusiasm of my own. The gypsy waif noticed the blood on my forehead and her instant show of concern touched my heart.

  “We need to get you down from here before all hell breaks loose,” I told her, whispering into her ear, which I noticed was within biting distance of my mouth. I wanted to do that and more. But the soldier in me overruled the man, and I led her and the rest of the gypsies toward the access door.

  We started down the stairs and made it to the first landing, when we heard muffled gunshots below us. Then a klaxon blared its obnoxious cry all about. I halted my band of gypsies on the stairs, and I was just about to urge everyone to hurry down, when the charge at the library door went off.

  The concussive force swept up the stairs and we all suddenly found ourselves thrown backward onto the steps. Clambering back to my feet, I began to descend the stairs. Turning the corner, I was able to see the library doorway. Smoke was curling up over the header, and an injured man, his clothes in tatters, bloody from a multitude of wounds, crawled out of the room on his hands and knees.

  I urgently led the others down the stairs. We were almost abreast of the library when gunfire erupted from the smoking doorway. Bullets whipped past my face and impacted against the stone wall. I stopped and everyone backed up behind me. Sandu heedlessly pushed past me into the line of fire.

  I grabbed the boy by his collar and yanked him out of danger.

  “Back!” I shouted and fired a burst into the black interior of the library. I could barely hear because of the concussive effects of the blast, but I could feel the wood steps vibrate as the others ran back up the way we had come.

  More gunfire poured through the library and I fired back until I was sure the gypsies were safe. Then I followed them up.

  We reconvened our little party on the rooftop. Stationing myself at the door, I reloaded and fired a short burst from my Thompson every time a Jerry poked his head into the stairwell.

  “Take the others down the rope,” I called out to Maleva. She nodded and they climbed the wall again and made their way over the roof to where the rope still hung into the courtyard.

  One by one, the gypsies slid down to safety. The Germans were now firing blindly at my position, poking their weapons around the corner to fire wild rounds in my direction. The roof door was being shredded by the constant fusillade and was no longer suitable for cover, so I stood on the other side of the jamb to return fire.

  Maleva returned to my side. “They are all gone.”

  “Now it’s your turn,” I told her. She stared into my face and reached up to pluck a stone shard from my cheek. I reached my own hand to my face and found sticky blood pouring from the wound. I had not known that I was even hit.

  “You must come with me,” she said.

  “I will,” I said. “As soon as you’re safe.”

  I knew this was a lie. It was a bad show all around. I was running short on ammo; I had but one magazine left after this one was spent. Maybe twenty-five rounds or so. Enough to hold them off until Maleva climbed down. But when I left the doorway I knew the Jerries would attack, and I would not have enough time to get to the rope, much less climb down, before they would be upon me. She did not need to know this.

  She still hesitated.

  “Blast it! Go!” I said but the rebellious fire I saw in her eyes made me try another tactic. “Please,” I begged.

  She nodded and sprinted to the wall and was over it and gone. I sighed in regret at what might have been and returned my attention to the stairwell.

  Two Germans made a mad dash up the stairs. I emptied my magazine at them and they fell. While changing magazines I thought I heard Maleva yelling from the roof. I was thoroughly deaf from all the gunfire by now and was not able to make out the words.

  Below, an arm stretched out to drag one of the wounded Germans out of my line of fire, and I let loose a couple of rounds at the reaching hand, missing and cursing myself for wasting ammo on such small targets. No more mucking about—I knew that larger ones were coming. I also knew that I was in an untenable position. I could not withstand a prolonged firefight. This was one that I had little hope of escaping, and I fretted not. This was my job. Fair enough. I would fulfill this mission. Do or die, as they say. Do. Or die.

  Then I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Maleva and Sandu standing behind me, their shoulders sagging under the weight of a couple of satchels. They dropped them at my feet. Three Schmeissers, a proliferation of magazines, and a satchel full of grenades.

  “The others, they attack from below,” Maleva said.

  “Well, we’re not playing the game for candy.” I grinned. “We will attack from above.”

  And this we did. Brandishing two Schmeissers, Maleva doing the same, with Sandu hurling grenades over our heads into the stairs before us, we charged the Germans.

  It was madness, the gypsy girl at my side, both of us emptying two machine guns simultaneously, reloading during Sandu’s grenade tosses, making our way step by step down the stairs. We had to step over, around, and sometimes upon the bodies, firing into any that stirred in the slightest, sometimes shooting the already dead just to make sure none of them were going to shoot us in the back after we passed.

  At the library, we stopped to toss in six more grenades, if for no other reason than momentary paranoia. At this point we heard the gunfire below and proceeded to pin the last redoubt of Jerries between us and our compatriots. It was short work to eliminate this last obstacle, and we suddenly found ourselves in the brisk, fresh air of the courtyard.

  I took a deep breath that was not redolent of cordite and blood. And found myself wrapping my arms around Maleva and giving her a proper kiss.

  Of course this was the moment when her father and the Professor chose to exit the castle and join us.

  I quickly pulled away from the girl and saw her father’s face twist into a sardonic grin.

  “So, did you save my daughter for me or for yourself, Englishman?” he asked.

  “She saved me,” I told him. “And I was just demonstrating my appreciation.”

  That received laughter from those gathered about. But the mirth was short-lived, as suddenly we were under fire again.

  There was a gun battle at the gate as a lorry full of SS, returning from some off-post duty, was set upon by our gypsy machine-gun crew. I led my group across the courtyard to reinforce the gate defenders and join the fray, when we were suddenly under fire from above.

  We all sought cover as bullets pinged off the cobblestones underfoot. I searched for our attackers and saw four rifles protruding from windows of the third floor. From that secure perch, the courtyard was a fish barrel for them.

  Maleva and I crouched under an overhang of the building. The Professor and Ouspenkaya joined us.

  “Where’s Lucy?” I asked her father.

  Ouspenkaya answered for him. “She went after the Prince,” he said. “He went after Hitler.”

  “Hitler!” I could not contain my surprise.

  “He probably came for the vampire,” Van Helsing said.

  “Hitler . . . ?” I was still trying to absorb this when I noticed a small group of people huddled against the wall across the courtyard. They were thin, wearing rags. The prisoners. Freed. That was good. Then I remembered.

  “Renfield?” I asked.

  “Dead,” Ouspenkaya stated solemnly. “He died a hero.”

  “Of course.” But I did not mourn. Instead I felt an anger bloom within me. “Then we shall repay his sacrifice.” I began looking around, ta
king in our status, and searching for a way to join the fray.

  “Our escape is completely blocked!” Van Helsing shouted over the gunfire. And we saw the gate machine-gun nest overtaken by the Germans as they drove the gypsies back and took positions behind the sandbagged position.

  “We have to get everyone out before any Rumanian Army reinforcements arrive!” Ouspenkaya shouted. “I am sure the Germans called for them!”

  They were all looking to me, and I realised that this was the reason I had been sent here.

  I turned to Sandu, who had tagged along with me since our assault on the stairwell. “Any more grenades?” I asked.

  “Five,” he said, checking his satchel for confirmation.

  “Enough,” I said, looking up at the third-storey sniper positions. “Now if I could only find a way to deliver them.”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. Maleva. The elfin face was smeared with gunpowder blowback and she looked like a Dickens street urchin. A street urchin with a peculiar sexual component, I must confess.

  “I know how to get the apples through the window,” she said cryptically and tugged on my sleeve to follow her. I allowed her to lead me back into the castle through a small door that led to a kitchen and then a door to a most claustrophobic stairwell. We hurried up the narrow stairway. I had to hunch over for the low ceiling; once again I found the walls so close that my shoulders brushed the sides. How small were the builders and occupants of these fortresses? Maleva held my hand the whole circular climb and I felt a strange dislocation, she and I holding hands like a boy and girl on a frolic in Hyde Park. There was a rush of emotion inside me reminiscent of those innocent days.

  Once we made the fourth floor, Maleva directed me to a window. As the sound of gunfire increased in volume, my romantic reverie was shattered, and I was rudely reminded of our embattled situation.

  Maleva used the butt of her Schmeisser to clear out the glass, and we both put our faces to the opening to survey the situation from on high. The machine-gun nest at the gate was now turned from facing the entrance road to aim inside the courtyard. An occasional burst from this emplacement kept the partisans trapped in the courtyard. The riflemen at the windows were one floor below us and fifteen to twenty yards to our right. These Nazi snipers were oblivious to our presence, firing down below at targets of opportunity. Two more were in reserve, taking over when their fellows emptied their clips and had to reload.

  I thought of firing upon them, but all I could see were mere bits and pieces of them, not good targets, and my Schmeisser was not accurate enough for a sure hit in any case. Plus, we would be in another firefight and outnumbered at that.

  I related this to Maleva and she gestured to the grenades.

  “Much better, no?”

  “Too far to throw with any accuracy,” I told her.

  “But I can get closer,” she said and pointed to the telephone wires just below us, strung from building to building across the courtyard. A few of the wires ran from our window and just above the snipers’ positions.

  I remembered her tightrope act in the caves and smiled. While she took off her shoes, I told her that if she was discovered to come right back. I took the M24 stick grenades and prepared them, unscrewing the base cap to allow the ball and cord to fall out, then arranged them inside the satchel, stick end up so that the strings would not tangle. She nodded and slipped the satchel of grenades over her head to hang from one shoulder.

  Then I helped her out onto the window ledge, where she stepped onto the wire as casually as I would step off an underground platform and onto a train.

  Walking the wire, she soon crossed the distance between our window and the Germans. I rested my Schmeisser on the windowsill, keeping what I could see of the Nazi snipers in my sights in case they spotted her approach and I had to cover her retreat.

  But they were oblivious as they took pot shots at any movement of the gypsies below.

  Maleva reached into the satchel, withdrew a grenade, pulled the porcelain ball initiating the five-second fuse. Then I was witness to the most calmness and coolness under pressure I have ever seen. She counted off three seconds of the five before tossing the grenade through the open window. Obviously she had more confidence in the lowest bidder than the late Renfield and I did.

  The Jerries had but a second to take notice of what had landed in their midst before it went off. And meanwhile she had taken a second grenade and repeated the amazing act.

  The explosions blew out the glass from the surrounding windows, and a cloud of debris shot out into the courtyard.

  Amazingly, Maleva never wavered on her precarious perch. I waved her back, but she turned her back to me and stepped over onto one of the other black cables and began making her way toward the machine-gun nest, reaching into her satchel on the remarkable walk.

  There was no way for me to call her back. I tried shouting over the gun battle still happening below, but it was a futile exercise. And the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to her. Besides, I doubt if she would have obeyed. Realising that she might need covering fire, I rushed away from the window and back down the stairs as fast as I could run, jumping the steps two, three, and four at a time.

  I came out to find the situation still at a stalemate. I could see Maleva overhead, and I pointed this out to her father, who shouted for her to stop.

  She ignored him and continued her dangerous trot across open air. But now every one of the gypsies was staring up at her—which, to my chagrin, alerted the Germans at the machine gun.

  One of them lifted his rifle and took aim. I yelled a warning. The German fired. She was hit, in the arm or shoulder, it was hard to tell. I saw only a spray of blood and her twist, then teeter on the wire.

  She fell, but caught herself with one leg, hung there by a bent knee as the satchel dropped to the ground.

  The German fired again, mercifully missing this time. But his comrades took up the same action and instantly the air around her was alive with bullets like hornets flitting about the poor girl.

  I do not know what came over me. I charged across the courtyard firing my Schmeisser. The Jerries momentarily ducked for safety, and I was able to cross the courtyard far enough to put myself under the dangling Maleva.

  “Let loose!” I shouted at her.

  She did, and I caught her in my arms. And for a moment, time stopped. She looked up at me, her eyes so wide, an incongruous smile on her lips. “See,” she said, “you are my savings.” I wanted to kiss her but I uttered only one word.

  “Pakvora,” I said. And she was just that: beautiful.

  But this was no time to throw bouquets. The sound of gunfire interrupted this insane reverie. I saw the spark of bullets skipping across the cobblestones around us and I suddenly was aware of where I was and the danger we were in.

  Then Ouspenkaya was beside us.

  “Take her,” I told him, and as he did so I snatched up the satchel. Reaching inside, I pulled the cords of every stick as I sprinted toward the machine-gun nest in a broken zigzag run that would have made my field hockey coach proud, heedless of the M34 belching flame and spitting bullets my way. I felt a tug at my jacket as a round tore through, but I did not stop.

  When I was within throwing distance, I tossed the satchel over the sandbag wall and threw myself flat upon the cobbles.

  The blast pounded through my body like a giant had slapped me into the ground with one great hand.

  As I rose, the armed gypsies bounded past me to clean up the nest, and I became stunned at what I had just done. The feeling overwhelmed me to the point that my legs wobbled like my grandmother’s tomato aspic.

  I started back to where I had left Maleva, and I saw the weakened prisoners being carried and escorted out of the gates. Van Helsing was bent over a prostrate Maleva as Ouspenkaya hovered, and the Professor bound her shoulder in a hasty bandage.

  I walked over, feeling suddenly very weak myself.

  “Is it bad?” I asked, the guilt of allowing her
to endanger herself weighing heavily on me. But the gypsy girl responded by leaping up from the ground and into my arms, kissing me. I felt the startling, incredibly sensual intrusion of the tip of her tongue.

  “You saved me!” she cried, and I was immediately self-conscious. My eyes looked everywhere but at the girl.

  My eyes lighted upon her father, who just shrugged in that European manner that says so many things at once.

  I regained my senses and took a deep breath to calm myself.

  “If Hitler is really in the castle, it is imperative that we capture him,” I said as I gently pried my way out of Maleva’s grasp and led them back into the castle.

  “This is our chance to end this war. Now,” Van Helsing declared as he and the gypsies followed me.

  EXCERPTS FROM UNIDENTIFIED DIARY

  (translated from the German)

  Herr Wolf studied the bloodless face of Major R and felt himself take a few involuntary steps back, his fingers tensing on the Mauser pistol as the transformed man walked toward him. Being in the Major’s presence gave Herr Wolf a feeling of malignant threat. Nothing that the soldier did or said communicated this sinister aura, but it still emanated from him like heat from a blazing fire. Herr Wolf could not help but back away.

  The Major seemed to realise this trepidation and ceased his approach. The light from the gas lamps on the wall bounced off the cistern waters and rippled across the ghostly face.

  — Mein Fuhrer, you will have to order me to commit this deed, the Major said. — I cannot do this to you of my own accord.

  The thought came to Herr Wolf that the consequences of this act could be very black. He could die. The Major might not be fully in control of his new state and be able to stop before draining Herr Wolf to the point of death.

  Was Herr Wolf afraid? Possibly. Perhaps the act of submission needed to do this was what was holding him back. Herr Wolf had not subjugated himself to any person in quite some time.

  But fear? He brushed aside any qualms. It certainly was not his Destiny to die at the hands of some mythological creature in the subterranean vault of an obscure Rumanian castle. No. “If you do not stake your life, life shall never be your prize.”