Lucille decided to go down and pull him away, if not to warn her father then to save him from himself, a task she had performed before. She began to slip her binoculars back into the case when she heard that terrible clatter and roar as the SS convoy rolled into the Square from all directions, the trucks blocking any escape routes out of the plaza.
The half-track with the upright officer plowed directly through the carnival, crushing stands and stalls under its wheels and tracks without regard to any pedestrians who might be in the way. The startled populace frantically fled out of the mechanical beast’s path. Janos snatched a frozen, transfixed child into his arms, seconds before the little one was run over.
Those not in harm’s way just stood and stared as the Nazi troops leapt off the trucks and aimed their weapons at the crowd. There was an efficiency and sureness about their movements that indicated they had done this before, and more than once. The commanding officer dismounted his vehicle with an imperious nonchalance. He turned to his adjutant and spoke an order. Not loudly—Lucille couldn’t make out the words. He was the kind of leader who believed that men who spoke too loud did so out of weakness.
Lucille could not hear what was said, but she need not have worried, as the adjutant repeated the command in a shout to his men.
“Arrest the gypsies!”
And the soldiers rushed to obey. The gypsies tried to flee, but there was no sanctuary to be found. Every street was blocked. A gypsy man clutched his wife and tried to enter the front door of the bakery, most likely to escape through the back door. A gunshot barked and the man fell. The shot echoed across the square and was replaced with the wail of the fallen man’s wife.
Everyone in the Square froze where they stood. SS soldiers dragged the wounded gypsy and his weeping woman to one of the trucks and tossed them into the bed. The rest of his people were now easily rounded up and loaded into the trucks.
The commanding officer strode into the Town Hall without a glance at the turmoil he had just created.
Lucille held her breath. She was too late to give any warning. Her father was sitting by the window, staring down at the tragedy happening below him. Lucille tightened her view until his face filled the glass. She stared into his heartbroken eyes and muttered one plaintive cry.
“Father.”
Professor Van Helsing listened to Captain Lobenhoffer scamper through the branches of his family tree like a squirrel after acorns and let his mind wander to more weighty concerns—such as how and why some cultures came to consider themselves better than others.
He had witnessed it all over the world. The British lording it over the East Indians, the Turk’s disdain for the Armenian, the Germans looking down their noses at, well, everyone, the rich thinking the poor were a lesser species, his own Dutch and their low opinion of the African, the Oriental.
In Van Helsing’s wide experience, every race displayed the same panorama of human attributes, from the most low to the highest, intelligent and idiotic, good and evil in equal proportions. And then there was that most dominant, most dangerous characteristic, the feckless passivity that allowed evil to prosper. What seemed to unite the arrogant was simply power over their assumed underlings. It was rare to find one of these vainglorious egotists admitting that they held such a lofty status by mere accident of birth—like this Teutonic blowhard Lobenhoffer.
And what was it in the German character that induced them to initiate so many wars in the last hundred years? If Lobenhoffer were any example, it was that very presupposition of superiority. The only catalyst needed for this poisonous brew was a charismatic politician who knew how to capitalise on that presumption.
Lobenhoffer had reached the Hapsburg twig of his great Austrian oak when the recitation was interrupted by a substantial din coming from the Square outside the open windows. The cacophony of steel striking stone leapt into the Mayor’s office, and everyone rushed to view the source.
Van Helsing saw the Germans roll into the plaza below. He recognised the emblem of the SS and knew at once that the game had just escalated. He watched the SS troops collect the gypsies with efficient brutality. He saw the calm shooting of the man attempting to escape—Traian, a stalwart member of the Rumanian Resistance.
The Professor scanned the Square, seeking another freedom fighter, Janos. The young man had gone back to manning the table peddling his mother’s wiener schnitzel. Janos was excitable, a reactionary, not necessarily a leader but a fierce soldier. Van Helsing had put him down at the festival when the meeting in the Mayor’s office had been announced. Janos and three other men were to provide some security. Van Helsing would have preferred his daughter to lead this contingent, but she had made her face familiar to the German Captain and some of his men, so she was left to pacing the floor at home.
Janos looked up and their eyes met across the Square. Van Helsing gave a small shake of his head. Janos nodded, for the moment controlling his baser urges. He desired nothing more than to kill Germans; his sister had been raped by a gang of Nazis in Bucharest. Her subsequent suicide only added fuel to the fire that burned in the lad.
Van Helsing turned his attention to the SS Major, who had stepped down from the lead vehicle and was making his way to the Town Hall. The Professor and the other men in the Mayor’s office were silent, listening to the crisp footsteps on the stairs that led up to the Mayor’s office. Van Helsing turned accusingly to Lobenhoffer.
“I am sorry I could not tell you,” Lobenhoffer apologised without sincerity. “Military secrets.”
Lobenhoffer had called a meeting of the Brasov community leaders for what he described as a very important announcement and then, when everyone was assembled, had waffled and treaded conversational water. Meanwhile, cigars had been distributed, Van Helsing accepting even though he knew that Lucille would smell it on him later and lecture him. Sherry was consumed. Conversation stretched until it gave way like taffy pulled into too fine a string.
And now the waiting was over. A lot more than the wait might be finished, Van Helsing thought with some trepidation.
The new SS officer strode into the Mayor’s office, stopped short within the doorway, and took inventory of the occupants, his blue eyes without expression, flitting from one man to the next, like a sharpshooter seeking targets.
Captain Lobenhoffer, straightening his tunic, stepped forward and snapped to attention, aiming his palm at the Major. They exchanged Heil Hitlers; the Major’s salute much more offhand.
“Major Reikel, so very glad to meet you. I have heard of your exploits in Poland.”
The one called Reikel only nodded. Lobenhoffer went on.
“I have gathered together the local leaders as you requested. This is Mayor Muresanu, Father Petrescu, and Constable Chiorean.”
Reikel nodded to each man in turn. The Mayor offered his hand, but it was ignored by the Major, and Muresanu let his hand slowly drop to his side as if the appendage itself were sighing in regret.
Lobenhoffer clapped Van Helsing on the shoulder with a hearty bonhomie.
“And this is the renowned Doctor Van Helsing. He was building a university here before the war.”
Reikel gave the Professor a more thorough inspection.
“You are Dutch?” It was more a statement than query.
“Yes,” Van Helsing replied. “I married a local woman and settled here.”
“A medical doctor?” Reikel asked. “Your specialty?”
“I have some medical training, but mainly as an academic interest. I hold doctorates in philosophy, anthropology, languages, and assorted other fields. Still, I help out the locals with a general practice clinic.”
“An educated man.” Reikel turned back to Lobenhoffer. “Captain, you are dismissed and ordered to report to General Schubert and the Eleventh Army.”
“The Eleventh . . . ?” Lobenhoffer could not contain his shock. “Basarabia. . . . Facing the Soviet line . . . ?”
“Yes,” Reikel said with that nod. “Immediately.”
&n
bsp; Lobenhoffer stood rooted in place, calculating his future. The numbers were not turning out in his favor.
“No need to tarry,” Reikel prodded the reluctant hero.
“But may you not need me to . . . brief you on the area, the, uh, local conditions, status of our anti-resistance operations, my understanding of the . . .” Lobenhoffer swam against the current, searching for a life preserver. Reikel pushed the man under.
“I have been briefed. I read your reports. Go.”
The last word was the softest and at the same time the most forceful order Van Helsing had ever witnessed.
Lobenhoffer snapped his heels together with an audible clack, saluted, and left like a man walking to the guillotine, which was close to the truth. The rumours were that the Russians were amassing an army of millions on the Soviet line in preparation for the inevitable German invasion. The non-aggression pact was nothing but a delaying tactic for both sides as they gathered their men and materiel for what was inevitably going to be a bloody slaughter.
Van Helsing heard the Captain’s steps fade down the stairway and then the cough of his staff car, the banging of the engine as the man rode away to his grim fate.
Reikel turned to the others.
“As I said, I have been briefed on the nefarious activities of the terrorists operating in this area.” He eyed each man as he spoke. “None of you would know anything about these resistance activities, of course.”
“We know nothing,” Mayor Muresanu announced. “We have done everything in our powers to stop them. But . . .”
The Mayor’s shrug was most European. It spoke volumes.
“Everything,” General Suciu confirmed.
“Why would you do anything else?” Reikel’s lips formed what Van Helsing interpreted as a smile. Reikel put both hands behind his back, cocked his head.
“Let me explain my theory of war,” Reikel began. Van Helsing recognised the posture of a man about to give a lecture he has given before. “It is not the theory that they teach in our military academies. Honor on the battlefield. This code of the gentleman soldier. I attended Heidelberg, heard this romantic philosophy of war, and assumed it into my very being, like every young cadet. Then I put these teachings to the test. In Warsaw. And they failed. Yes, they failed completely.”
Reikel strode to the open arch, gave a perfunctory gesture to the men below. He continued to speak to the men in the room with his back to them, words so soft that those gathered had to strain to hear them, the priest stepping forward and cupping an ear with one hand.
“Poland changed my mind about these theories. I realised that they were a nineteenth-century concept, destined to die on this modern battlefield. How I came to this reversal is of no significance to you. It is the idea that is important.”
There was a commotion down in the Square. Cries of protest, sounds of struggle, and wails of fear. Van Helsing had to restrain himself from rushing forward to see what was the cause. He could see the others of the council were also fighting the urge.
Reikel turned back to face them.
“Total war. You do not win by pretending that war is anything but slaughter. He who slaughters the most—wins. No caveats. No quarter given. None expected. Do you understand?”
The Mayor nodded, but Van Helsing could tell he was not really comprehending. General Suciu and Chiorean followed suit. Van Helsing saw no reason to answer and edged toward the open arch. Reikel countered the move, stepping in the Professor’s path, that thin smile returning.
“For example, this resistance,” he continued in his lecture mode. “It is ultimately futile and will cost your people more than can be gained. The question is how to communicate this message. Quickly. Efficiently.”
He waved a hand toward the archway, as if he were a waiter offering a table, inviting the five men to step forward to view the plaza below. Now they could see the SS soldiers herding the people in the Square and lining them against the walls of the surrounding buildings.
“What is the meaning—?” Mayor Muresanu began, but was halted by Reikel raising a silencing hand. Then the Nazi turned to Chiorean.
“Constable, give me a number from one to ten.”
Van Helsing felt the room grow cold, a heaviness forming in his chest. Chiorean was caught by surprise.
“I, uh, I cannot think of one.” He was by nature a plodder, not a fast thinker by any means. Sudden fear had paralyzed him.
Reikel shrugged as if the answer were of no importance and turned to Father Petrescu. “Then you, priest. Those in your field are fond of numbers, the Holy Trinity, Ten Commandments, seven deadly sins . . . A number, please.”
The priest’s thinking was a bit faster than the constable’s. “I know you and your kind disdain any religion but your god Hitler. But I will not stand for any mockery of mine.”
Father Petrescu stood straight, chest puffed as if bravely facing a firing squad. Priests, Van Helsing thought, always trying to become saints, preferably the dead sort.
Despite his own misgivings, Van Helsing found himself stepping in front of the Nazi Major, meeting the German face to face.
“I do not know your game, Major,” Van Helsing said, “but we will not play.”
“Maybe you have no choice.” The Major’s eyes glinted with a sudden enthusiasm. He had finally found a worthy opponent.
“We always have choices, Major,” Van Helsing said to the German in the man’s own language.
“You speak German? Of course you do. You are Dutch. We are of the same native blood, are we not?”
“We have no more in common, Major, than the worm and the apple it infests.”
The Nazi’s eyes went dead. “You, my Dutch friend, you will state a number.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Have you heard of the East Indian bed of nails? I have a variation of this trick I would be happy to show you.”
Van Helsing’s dread came creeping into his consciousness with bared claws.
What to do? What to do? Lucille was desperate, her mind a whirligig of myriad responses. She could rush down into the Square to her father’s rescue. But there were all those armed men between here and there. And she with only her pistol. There had to be something she could do. Anything.
She dug into her trouser pocket and withdrew a handful of coins, quickly sorting through them. How many were in the Mayor’s office? Five. She picked out five coins, a one-, five-, ten-, twenty-, and fifty-lei denomination.
Returning the rest of the change to her pocket, she set the five coins on the cement floor at her feet. Knowing she did not have the power or the expertise to protect everyone in the office, she designated the fifty as her father.
Dragging a knuckle across an exposed nail she waited for blood to well in the cut. First she kissed the fifty lei, then pressed her blood upon its surface and laid it on the floor. Mumbling a protection spell in crude Portuguese, she drew a circle of blood around the coin. It took a few tries, as the cut wasn’t deep. Doubts intruded upon her thoughts as she chanted, hoping that she remembered the spell correctly.
On a visit to Brazil, Lucille had learned the Macumba magic from a Santeria High Priestess. It was probably the only white magic the ancient woman knew except for some love spells that could go hideously awry if the purchaser somehow offended the prickly witch. Lucille had seen the horrifying results.
She arranged the other four coins into a square around the fifty, bent over, and spit on each of them. Finished with the spell, her mind became frantic with the thought that she might have made a mistake in the ceremony that would result in serious if not deadly consequences.
Lucille hurried to her view port, staring at the Town Hall, wishing she had a spell to see through walls.
“Is this how your new style of war works, Major?” Van Helsing met the German’s cold stare with his own. He was not afraid of the Nazi. Van Helsing had faced more formidable adversaries. “Through threat and bluster?”
“There is no threat or bluster, Profes
sor. Quite the opposite. I am a man of action and results. As you shall see. Right now . . .”
Frown lines formed on the Major’s forehead, and his gaze left the Professor and stared beyond the old man as if he were not there any longer. There was a blank, fugue-like moment, and the German officer suddenly turned to the Mayor. It was as if the confrontation between Reikel and Van Helsing had never happened. Van Helsing was confused over the Major’s sudden change of focus. The Nazi was acting as if Van Helsing were no longer in the room.
“Mayor?” Reikel’s voice was insidiously calm. “If you will oblige me, a number.”
“Could you tell me what you are getting at?” the Mayor asked. He was beginning to grasp that the Nazi was heading toward something dire. “What are your intentions, sir?”
Reikel ambled over to the Mayor’s desk, casually picked up a framed photo, and seemingly admired the picture. “Your family?”
“Yes.” Muresanu’s face became as white as his beard.
“Major.” General Suciu stepped forward. “I do not like what is going on here. This is my area of responsibility. I am in command. State your purpose.”
Van Helsing had never seen the man so imperious and was surprised at his temerity. It was the first time Suciu had ever impressed him.
“My purpose, dear General, is to rid you of the vermin that have spread from your area of responsibility, that have polluted your country, endangered your people and our mutual goals. For some reason you have failed to eradicate this pestilence yourself. I could step aside and allow you to pursue whatever plan you may have, if that is what you desire. And I assume that you will also accept the full responsibility for the success or failure of your actions.”
Once again that little smile, a barely discernible upturn of the very edges of his mouth.
“And of course,” he continued, stepping forward so that his face was inches from the General’s. Suciu flinched. “Then you would also accept the consequences of any failure on your part. By the way, your lack of success so far has been pointed out to your commanding officer.”
Dracula vs. Hitler Page 5
