A swell of amusement rippled through the troops as they prepared themselves for the march ahead. Rasch looked crestfallen.
"Will you detail someone to carry my bags for me, Standartenführer, or should I leave them here for someone to pick up?”
Von Struck ignored him and started to sort his pack straps out.
There was only one road to follow. Von Struck checked his compass and map, and set off at what seemed to Rasch an alarmingly fast pace.
"Isn’t the pace a bit brisk, Standartenführer?" Rasch tried to sound casual but he knew he’d never be able to maintain the same work rate for the full twenty miles. "The men have hardly rested after their long journey.”
"We’ll start off fast to warm up a bit, Herr Doctor, then we’ll settle to a more comfortable pace after a while," Von Struck answered over his shoulder.
Rasch was satisfied as he settled down to concentrate on the march.
* * *
As they marched, Von Struck went over what Rasch had said on the train. He really was an odd fish. How on earth did he get so high up in the Party? It just proved to him how wrong it had all turned out.
He thought back to the day he had told his father that he wanted to go to the Waffen SS. His father was a proud Prussian General. The product of a military family and of a strict protestant upbringing, he had shown no emotion as he listened to the news. However, the pain shone through his eyes, betraying his sorrow better than any gesture or word. His only offspring was to join a military organisation that was the very antithesis of every military code he had ever believed in. He realised that this was his role in the great German tragedy that was being acted out everyday in homes all over the Fatherland.
Von Struck had steeled himself ready for anger, outrage and even banishment, but had been ambushed and stopped by his father’s anguish.
He thought back to the scene in his the library.
"A soldier follows orders,” his father had said after a while. "I have always followed the orders of my superiors to the letter. At Verdun, Flanders and the Somme we fought man against man. I have killed with my bare hands.” He paused as if in reflection and looked him in the eye. "I have stormed enemy positions and brought havoc and death on the sons of other fathers. Soldiers fight soldiers because that is the nature of war, that is a soldier’s job and that is the military code. In this code lies honour, Markus, our honour, not in the killing of civilians or the burning of their property. Genocide and terror are not war."
Mistaking his son's perplexity at the lack of rage for non-comprehension, he attempted to explain further.
"Markus, I have lived all my life, from boy to man, by this code. I was, am and always will be a soldier.” He stopped again to regain his composure. ”... A soldier; but I have never forgotten, and will never forget, that I am first and foremost a human being. Do what you have to do, Markus. Follow your destiny, but whatever pressure is brought to bear on you and your comrades, never forget the code. Politics and race have no place on the battlefield. Honour and humanity is all you have. Do not bring dishonour on this family. Now go and tell your mother what you have just told me.”
This, the most dramatic and most enlightening speech he had ever heard from his father, had left its mark far better than any reprimand or corporal punishment ever could have. Stumbling and hesitant to show emotion, his father had tried vainly to prepare him for what he knew was to come.
However austere and understated, the warning had been overshadowed by Von Struck’s naive dreams of glory and ‘Kammeradschafft’. The elitism and esprit de corps of the SS was legendary and in that mythos lay its attraction. His new pride in the black tunic and SS runes outshone any doubts that may have lingered at the back of his mind. The shallow propaganda and the constant political dogma had seemed to be training tools at most to the young Markus Von Struck, like the drill, weapon handling or physical training.
Yes, he thought, there was a time when the uncut diamond that was once Markus Von Struck felt he had found a home-from-home in the Waffen SS. However, that was all a thousand years ago. Now, after witnessing the true horror of the struggle against Bolshevism, there were no noble misconceptions about the real nature of war, especially the war in the East. Now he felt as jaded as a whore and twice as damned, and his thirty pieces of silver were the uniform he once so proudly wore.
Chapter13
He waited for Smith in the library, relaxed and reclining next to the fire that Marik had made for them. He pondered how to approach the subject at hand. It wasn’t going to be easy. How much should he tell him - tell him everything and risk his alienation or condense the whole thing to just his role in the ceremony? Maria had played her role well and soon they would have an heir to the name of Dracyl, if Smith played along and did his part.
He pondered over the Germans. If they kept their part of the deal, a completely new age lay on the horizon. A wave of vampirism would sweep through Europe and, after that, the world. He would be a god and Smith would provide him with his heir. The dynasty of the Dracyl would go on for a thousand years, as was predicted in the Cronica Insangerata. His brother just had to provide the heir, and then he could disappear, forever.
The door opened and Smith walked in. There was a brief moment of uncertainty before he went over to the chair opposite the Count.
"So now will you please tell me who I am?" Smith sat back, crossed his legs and waited.
The Count leaned forward and started right in. "As for a name, I cannot tell you. You were taken away at birth. This wasn’t done out of malice or ill-will, it was done because it is so written in the Cronica Insangerata that the son of Utu must be separated from the family at birth. You were watched and guarded, as I have already told you, so you would come to no harm. You are my brother in blood as in flesh, but you have no family name."
He paused to let it sink in and ploughed on. "Our family have always believed that tradition is one of the pillars of power. We have always followed and obeyed the traditions and customs that are set out in the Cronica. It may seem quaint and odd to you, but that is our way.”
Smith fired off the next question without waiting. "What and where is this Cronica?” And, as an afterthought, "Who are you?”
"My name is Vlad Dracyl, son of Szoltan Dracyl the Second. Our mother is unimportant; she died during childbirth, as it was written in the Cronica Insangerata. The Cronica Insangerata is an account of all that we have done and all that we will do. It is both a record and a direction.”
He stood up and started to pace in front of Smith.
"The Cronica Insangerata is its Romanian name; The Chronicle of Blood. The ancient Greeks called it the Biblion Haimatos, the Book of Blood. That was its first appearance, in ancient Greece. It went through various versions and had many names. The German Crusaders, the Teutonic Knights, called it the Buch Des Bluts. In Hungary, A vér Könyve. It’s strange that there is no Latin name for it, bearing in mind that there was a large Roman presence in this area for a long time. Cronica Insangerata means Chronicle of Blood and that is what our family is all about, James, blood.”
For the first time a silence stretched out between them. Smith tried to take it all in while keeping a calm exterior.
"What do you mean that our family is about blood? Isn’t every family about blood or the bloodline?”
"Yes, it is and we need new blood for our family. That is why you are here, James. That is why I sent for you. You must take a woman and give us an heir, a male heir. That is your destiny and that is why we need you here. Can you do that?”
Smith’s mind was racing. So he has got a problem, that’s why Maria came to me in the night. He felt cheated, used and, for some obscure reason, strangely superior. However, the growing sense of menace that had started with the revelations about his father now seemed to take on a very real edge. He could hardly conceal his shock at what was being proposed. Breeding to keep in line with some ancient scripture seemed so arcane.
The Count seemed to read his m
ind. "Now, don’t say you didn’t enjoy last night with Maria?” he chided.
Smith reddened and stood up. "Now, steady on, you’re getting a bit too close to the bone. I understand that you want me to play my part in your plans but they are your plans, not mine. Think about what you’re asking of me. You want me to father a child for you …. ”
"For the family,” he passionately broke in and grasped Smith by the wrists. Looking him in the eye, he whispered urgently, "It’s for our line, for our whole heritage. If we break the line now we will be the first to break with tradition for hundreds of years.” He let his wrists go and hastily apologised. "I didn’t mean to offend. I’m sorry. This is not an easy thing to do, asking a man to father a son for me is hard on my ego and my pride. But you see how much this means to me, no to us, and to our history." Striding to the door he opened it.
"Maria, bring Iullia to the library,” he called and turned back to Smith. "Let me introduce you to the prospective bride.” Sighing resignedly, and somewhat over-theatrically, he smiled, "Perhaps she can convince you.”
Smith looked to the door in a mixture of curiosity, panic and eagerness. He didn’t quite know. He could hear footsteps coming towards the room. It wasn’t Maria with whom he should couple, then, so who is it to be? Why would a perfect stranger want to bear his child? For money, position, favour? He felt like a nervous schoolboy and he didn’t know why, this wasn’t his doing.
The door creaked open and Maria walked in with the unknown Iullia in tow. She stepped to the side so Smith could see her. Iulia was young - about eighteen Smith reckoned - with long blond hair that crowned a wonderfully innocent face. She looked at Smith unabashed and almost challenged him to not find her attractive. The long green dress that she wore fitted her to perfection, emphasising her slim but curvy figure. Smith swallowed hard and tried to think of something to say.
Vlad Dracyl saved him. "Well, brother, will you help us carry on the family bloodline? Will you play your part for our family name? ”
All eyes turned to Smith, waiting for an answer. Looking at them one by one, he grasped for something to say. "You'll have to give me more time to consider … " he blurted out.
Iullia looked shocked and dropped her eyes to the ground. The Count stiffened and only Maria seemed to nod. "How long do you need?" she asked, matter-of-factly.
"I’m not sure. Situations like this don’t happen to me every day." His ill-timed attempt at humour fell on stony ground. Nobody seemed happy and Smith felt uncomfortable in his failure to accommodate them. The awkward silence hammered at him until the Count tutted and walked away towards the fire. Both women said nothing, as if waiting for his decision.
"We can talk tomorrow," the Count said. "I have things to see to now. I bid you a good night, brother,” he added, placing a harsh emphasis on the word ‘brother’, before storming past them and leaving the room.
They watched him go and Smith noticed the worried looks on the faces of the two women.
"James … ” Maria started, "I … I think you … " She trailed off and looked at him for what seemed like ages. Her face was blank, yet her eyes burned in furious turmoil. "Good night, James. We can talk in the morning." She turned and left him alone with Iullia.
Smith struggled to explain himself to Iulia. "You must understand, I don’t mean to offend but from where I come from, it’s simply just not done like this, it just isn’t.”
She studied him with an unconstrained lack of guile as if he were a circus curiosity. More painful silence followed before she spoke. "You must fulfil your destiny. We must fulfil our destinies. You were born to this, as I was chosen. As it is written and so it shall be." With this, she turned and walked slowly out, leaving Smith even more confused.
This damned book was beginning to annoy him. Who said it was his destiny? As it is written so shall it be - what is that supposed to mean? Were they all like this in Romania or was it just a Transylvanian trait?
He went up to the fire and warmed his hands. What had he gotten into? He could hardly believe the events of the last few days. It all seemed like a bad piece of theatre with no interlude for respite.
He had to leave - tonight, if possible.
He drew away from the hearth to peer out of one of the windows. He caught movement outside and looked harder to make it out. What he saw made his blood freeze. Of all the shocks he had received in the last twenty-four hours, the troop of German soldiers marching in the snow towards the house was the most startling. He turned in blind panic. What was going on?
"You want answers, English?” It was Michael. He stood in the doorway to the library looking directly at him.
"I need to hide, if that’s what you mean,” he replied as casually as he could, though the bravado soon started to slip as the sound of the jackboots grew louder. "Can you help me, old boy?”
"I will provide you with both answers and a good hiding place. Follow me. I’ll tell you the truth about your family and I’ll hide you from the Count’s newest guests."
With that he turned and Smith followed him.
Chapter 14
Rasch had stayed mercifully silent throughout the march up to the castle. Henning had taken over the map reading, leaving Von Struck with his thoughts. The men had been in good spirits at the beginning of the march, despite the demanding pace. SS Oberschütze Matheus Nau had even broken into song at one point, until Rohleder had told him to shut up. Von Struck could understand their good mood; they were in a friendly territory on an operation that, in comparison with Russia, was a holiday.
It irked him that Rasch hadn’t trusted him with all the details of the mission. Operational security was important for any mission but this was hardly a deep penetration into enemy territory. There was no danger of him being taken captive and tortured because the enemy, although on the advance, was hundreds of kilometres away. He’d even told him that he would soon learn everything, so what was he playing at? He shrugged inwardly. Rasch was a sad specimen of a man. Pettiness and arrogance seemed to be the main ingredients of his character, so why did Von Struck feel so annoyed at his lack of trust? He shook his head to be rid of the thought.
After a while he saw the outline of the castle in the distance. For no apparent reason the mood of the squad darkened as it loomed on the horizon, but Rasch seemed to pick up and called to the men, "Keep it tight now, men. Let’s make a good impression." He ran to the front of the troop and took the lead with Henning, "Links, rechts, links, rechts…”
Von Struck had taken a position to the left of the squad, in line with the elder of the two Bavarians in the troop, Jurgen Muntner.
"What an arsehole,” Muntner muttered to Von Struck. "We’ve got to lose this idiot before he spoils the whole trip.”
Rohleder took up the doctor’s call and shouted to the men, "You heard the good Doctor, links, rechts, links rechts." Then, as if to himself, "What a rabble, what a shower of shite. Herr Doctor, I personally apologise for the lack of military discipline in my squad. I will charge myself accordingly on our return to the beloved Fatherland. Heil Hitler!”
"No need for that, Rottenführer” answered Rasch generously, "I’m sure the men are just out of practice.”
"What an arsehole” Muntner muttered.
As they neared the castle, the troop fell silent. No jokes, no remarks and no calling out the time from Rasch, who now seemed also to be as affected by its presence as the others.
Von Struck halted the squad in front of the main door. Rasch walked up to him and said in hushed tones, "I think now, Standartenführer, that I should do the talking.”
"Fine with me, Herr Doctor. Just make sure the men are sorted out with somewhere comfortable before you talk deals with the Count.”
"Of course, Herr Standartenführer. I’ll … " but he was talking to his back. Von Struck had turned to the men and given the order to fall out. They dropped their packs and lingered in a squad, uneasily.
"Damn peasant.” Rasch muttered. He hesitated before lifting the giant
knocker and letting it fall. Rasch physically jumped as it crashed down. The whole squad stood in uneasy silence. Not a man moved. The door opened with a shriek that spiked their concern to the point of alarm.
Rasch stepped up to the door and took a step back as Marik came into view. His wasted, derelict features and the repugnance of his body odour at first repulsed Rasch, until his natural arrogance took over as he looked down and analysed the manservant.
First impressions meant everything to Rasch and he routinely attempted to racially identify a person on introduction. The manservant’s aura of corruption relegated him (in Rasch’s fussy and pseudo-scientific mind), to the lower echelons of mankind. Above the Jews and Gypsy’s, but doubtless below the Serbs; probably of Slavic origin.
"We’re here to meet with the Count … Count Blestamatul.” He blinked and pushed his tiny glasses up on his nose.
"Count Vlad Dracyl Blestamatul … ” Marik told him in heavily accented German, ” …. is aware that you are here and he ordered me to show you in." He pointed to the stables to the left of the building, "Your men can sleep in there.”
"Good, that seems in order. Standartenführer, will you take the men to their accommodation, I’ll see to our rooms.” Without waiting for a reply, Rasch walked into the castle.
"What an arsehole," Muntner muttered.
* * *
Von Struck walked to the stables with the men. It was a long building with a dividing wall in the middle. The few horses that it held were kept in the adjoining room to where the men would sleep. There was no straw but an abundance of abandoned horse blankets which the men took over as bedding.
They cleared an area and lit a fire in the middle of the building. The stalls were clean and the blankets had hardly any lice. Compared to Russia, it was almost paradise.
The Division of the Damned Page 6
