Dracula vs. Hitler

by Patrick Sheane Duncan

  Dracula entered with her into the haberdashery. The proprietor and his son were absent and, from the clatter of cutlery and dishes she could hear from the floor above, Lucille presumed that the family was at their supper.

  “I’m afraid that I have no means to pay at this moment,” Dracula said.

  “My father has an account,” Lucille said. “Credit, actually—he removed a rather large gallstone from the owner two winters back.”

  Dracula tried to remove his jacket, but the cloth was in such a sad state that slipping out of the sleeves was near impossible and he was left with nothing to do but tear it off.

  Lucy sorted through the trousers first, trying to appear casual.

  “Count Dracula . . .” she mused. “I’ve heard stories about you.”

  “Not Count,” Dracula corrected her. “Voivode, or Prince in English, of Wallachia, three times, if I may vaunt. Or my proper name, Wladislaus Drakwlya, named after my father and grandfather. My mother was Princess Cneajna of Moldavia. You may call me Vlad. Or as my intimates once did, Val.”

  She handed him a couple of pairs of trousers and began to sort through the shirts.

  “Your father told you about me?” he asked.

  “No.” Lucille shook her head. “He never spoke of you. I had to find out things on my own.”

  He stripped off the rag that was a shirt and let it drop to the floor. Lucille noted some red stains on the tattered cloth. Could that be blood?

  She held a new shirt to his naked chest, checking for size. His skin was blue-white. His physique was lean, but he was well-formed, muscled.

  “This looks about right,” she said. “Is it true that you are immortal? That you cannot die?”

  “With some stipulations,” Dracula replied. “I think your father proved that.”

  Their eyes met. Lucille had to pull herself away. There was something about his proximity that made her feel vulnerable, not in control. She prided herself on her control.

  For something to occupy herself, she rummaged for socks. Checking his feet, she saw that his shoes were coming apart, the sole of one flapping like a dog’s tongue.

  When she turned back, he was wearing a pair of the trousers and slipping the shirt on.

  “Check the shoes.” Lucille pointed. “They’re over there. Not much of a selection, but . . .”

  She watched him walk over. The pants fit him pretty well, the shirt, too. She had dressed a few men in her time.

  “You’ll need a coat.” Her hand played contemplatively among the racks. “Here’s a nice camel hair.”

  Dracula eyed her choice, shook his head.

  “I prefer something more . . . a cloak perhaps.”

  “Cloak?”

  He found one at the end of the rack, black with a short opera cape.

  “A cape?” She squinted at the garment. “More suitable for the opera, I think. A bit old-fashioned, is what I’m trying to say.”

  “I am old, thus my fashion would be much the same. Would it not?” Dracula donned the cape, regarded the result in the mirror, nodded with approval.

  “This will do nicely,” he said. “I will repay your father. I have hidden some treasures.”

  Lucille frowned at his reflection.

  “You can . . . be seen in the mirror.”

  “Of course. Why should I not?”

  “There are stories that you cannot be reflected in a mirror.”

  “Ah. Superstition.” He emitted a slight laugh. “And how would that operate, scientifically?”

  “I don’t know. Tales, you know.”

  “Well, I cannot defy the laws of physics.” He laughed again, then put himself directly in front of her. “But, this I can do.”

  He raised his hand and waved the open palm inches from her face, then put the full power of his own eyes upon hers.

  “Look now,” he whispered. The voice came to her as if from a great distance. “You cannot see me.”

  She turned to the mirror. And even though Dracula was standing beside her, she saw only her own reflection in the glass.

  “What did you do to me?” Lucille cried with some alarm.

  The vampire made another pass with his hand and he immediately reappeared in the mirror.

  She turned to face him, her anger evident.

  “You bastard. Don’t you ever play with my mind. Don’t ever.”

  “I am sorry. It was only meant as a demonstration . . . to answer your question . . . I am sorry.”

  Dracula was confused. Not at her response, but his own apology. Why did he feel the need to defend himself to this woman, this human? She had just made a vulgar imprecation that in a previous time would have resulted in a duel—if she had been a man. Which she was most decidedly not.

  They stared at each other for a moment that seemed for Lucille to stretch time. She stepped closer to him. They were inches apart. She reached out a hand to his face, a desire to touch him, to make physical contact, a need that overwhelmed her.

  Was this another of his mesmerising tricks? She didn’t care. He just stood there, waiting, not resisting, and her fingers trembled before his cheek.

  “We have come to an arrangement.” It was her father.

  She and Dracula both took a step back from each other, like children caught in some deviltry.

  “The Englishman has presented a most perspicacious plan,” Van Helsing said.

  Young Harker stood behind him beaming at Lucille.

  She ignored the boy and turned to her father, who obviously knew he had interrupted something between his daughter and the Prince and was happy for it.

  “You can fight for us,” he said. “For the moment. The others are, shall we say, reticent. But you will prove yourself, I know.”

  Farkas, Pavel, and Anka appeared behind him. Anka stepped forward, the short, stout woman pushing her way through the men like a tank breaching a wall.

  “The first time you attack one of my people you will be destroyed,” she addressed Dracula.

  “You want him to help us, but you threaten him?” Lucille asked defiantly. But Dracula laid a hand on her shoulder. She felt the coolness of his flesh as one finger touched her neck.

  “You do not have to defend me,” he told her and faced the others. “I deserve whatever opinion they have of me. And more. I thank you all for the opportunity to serve my country and my people again.”

  He made that little bow and in doing so saw his bare feet poking out from under his trouser cuffs. He wiggled his toes, which Lucille found endearing.

  “I need shoes,” he said. “And then we go to war.”

  FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER

  (transcribed from shorthand)

  When Lucy left the meeting and took the vampire upstairs to outfit him in a new wardrobe, I was torn between accompanying them or staying to plead my case. I needed the partisans to act, to continue the fight. Duty won out.

  I monitored the discussion among the partisans, looking for an opportunity to interject my carefully rehearsed speech. I had been putting my case in order ever since the last meeting, when the decision had been made to cease insurgent activities.

  Anka and Farkas were still espousing vehement declarations that they would not fight alongside the vampire.

  “You have not stated your position in regards to the Count, Pavel,” Van Helsing addressed the man.

  “In Das Kapital,” Pavel began, “Karl Marx uses the vampire as a metaphor for capitalism. The exploitation of labour is akin to draining the blood of civilisation.”

  That gave us all pause, and in the midst of everyone’s puzzlement I used the silence to speak.

  “I think I have a solution to both of our problems,” I said. “The danger of incurring reprisals for any partisan acts in and around Brasov—and your apparent antipathy to the Count. There is another possible course you could take.” Every face turned toward me. I did not want to muck this up.

  It was at times like this that I cursed my looks. It is an unfortunate statem
ent of fact that I appear ten years younger than I am. Well, maybe five. It is not unusual for me to be asked at pubs for some kind of verification that I am of age, and any encounter with a woman, well . . . ’Struth! If I had a tuppence for every time some comely woman had asked me, “How old are you, dearie?” I would be as rich as Farouk.

  “You could take your resistance efforts to another part of Rumania; leave the Brasov province undisturbed until the Germans leave.”

  Van Helsing looked at me with what I could only call respect. I continued, “Our goal, yours and mine, is to make life difficult for the enemy, correct? Does that have to be only in Brasov? We could target the oil fields in Ploesti or interrupt the chromium transports from Turkey, which are of immense importance to the Rumanian and German war machine. There is much mischief to be had in other areas of your country.”

  There was a moment of quiet as they all weighed my proposal. I held my breath, not only because of the pall of smoke that hung in the air like a diaphanous dirigible.

  “That seems to be a perfect alternative.” Van Helsing pursed his lips and nodded. “Kudos to our British ally.”

  Even Anka was responding with what I perceived as acute interest. She nodded, frowning in contemplation.

  “And we could take the vampire with us,” I pressed. “He can thusly prove his worthiness—or not. And you will not have to accommodate his presence, if that is an anathema to you.”

  To my surprise they responded affirmatively. I could barely pay attention to the discussion among them as a little man inside my head ran about in delirious circles shouting, “I did it! I did it!” I was putting a match to the fire Churchill wished to light in this part of Europe. Despite my bungled performance so far, I was beginning to render my mission and fulfill the promise that Gubbins had seen in that artless boy at the St. James Club. I could not wait to relay my triumph to HQ. Of course I had no transmitter, and that realisation brought me back to the conversation.

  The debate continued as they parsed procedural, tactical, and logistical concerns. I withheld comment, deciding my part had been accomplished and not to push my luck. To be honest, I was fearful of getting rather outside my brackets.

  During their discussion my mind once more returned to what might be happening on the floor above me, Lucy and the vampire. Doing what?

  Finally a consensus was agreed upon. Anka would continue to monitor Reikel and the German occupiers (as they had come to be known). Farkas and Pavel would spread the word among the local partisan cells to stand down momentarily, but to keep their members in readiness.

  Lucy and I were going to take the sabotage efforts south, her father to stay in Brasov and hold the local Resistance together as best he could. When I heard the pronouncement pairing me with the fair Lucille, my mind tumbled into a mental maelstrom, drowning in an undercurrent of Paphian delight.

  I was in a turmoil, the thrill of finally embarking upon a war mission, to take the first step toward my destiny, to fulfill my commission, to engage the war personally. And to do so with Lucy, my beloved. I had dismissed the brief encounter she had with the vampire at Mihaly’s. When I saw them together, to be honest I did envy the solicitude she displayed to him. But I pushed aside my jealousy—it is true that is what I felt—and calmed myself with the obvious fact that there was no possibility that an ancient creature such as he and a vibrant young woman such as dear Lucy could ever find any commonality together, much less share the bond that Lucy and I had found. She has made a commitment to me, carnal though it may be, that will only grow in affection. I look forward to our future as I have anticipated few things in my life. I am impatient, hungry for the adventure to begin.

  I thought about going upstairs as soon as we returned to the Van Helsing residence, to knock upon her door and enter that den of delight once more. I imagined her sleepy smile, a welcoming kiss. and the warm invite of her bed, the cozy comfort under the covers, and the erotic entwining of naked flesh.

  But I held that impulse in check. I did not want to be rude or thought impetuous, maybe even desperate. And there was the possibility of putting a match to the tinderbox that is Lucy’s temper. She was an irascible sort, like most women, of unpredictable and tempestuous nature. A minefield of emotions that I, at the moment, dared not venture into for fear of losing an appendage. Any appendage, if you know what I mean.

  EXCERPTED FROM THE UNPUBLISHED NOVEL THE DRAGON PRINCE AND I

  by Lenore Van Muller

  After the meeting at Mihaly’s, the cell broke up and everyone went their separate ways, each exiting at carefully timed intervals.

  Harker and Renfield accompanied Anka. She had asked the British agent to reconnoitre and acquaint himself with the Bran Castle, since it was now serving as SS headquarters. Plus she had some papers taken from a Rumanian Army dispatch rider for him to inspect and determine if they would be of any value to his superiors.

  Harker decided to take Renfield with him, but the Sergeant, out of character, resisted. He had to be physically led away from Dracula, with whom he seemed to have an extreme fascination. Harker was also apparently disappointed at abandoning the vampire and Lucille, but acceded like the good soldier he was.

  Lucille left with her father and Dracula. She felt a tumultuous excitement blossom within her as she watched the vampire stride ahead of her with a cat-like grace. She did not analyze this feeling, rather indulged in it, as she had not felt this way since her adolescent days of girlish crushes on movie stars. She remembered her collection of postcards, giddily swooning over Victor Vina and Jean Angelo.

  “You spoke of changes,” Dracula addressed Lucille’s father. “But you did not apprise me of the shift from the patriarchal to a matriarchal rule.”

  “I do not perceive your meaning, sir,” her father said.

  “When did the female gender overthrow the rule of men?” Dracula asked.

  “That, I assure you, has not occurred,” Lucille interjected. “Not yet, at least.”

  “Then why is that shrew allowed to command?” Dracula looked to her and her father for an answer. “War is the provenance of men.”

  “A man’s business?” Lucille eyed the vampire, her brow furrowing. “The Resistance is everybody’s business.”

  “Anka is an able and passionate partisan. She is often loud, brash, and obstinate but more than capable,” her father replied.

  “More capable than you?” Dracula asked.

  “She has the trust of the local people,” Van Helsing said. “I have lived here for near half a century and they still refer to me as ‘the Dutchman,’ ‘the foreigner.’ Anka is one of their own. Her family has resided in this valley for untold generations. She is one of them. I am not.”

  “Still, war is not for the female. Their sensibilities are not suited to the harsh realities of combat.”

  “I would disagree,” Lucille said. “In fact, I think you have a lot to learn about modern women.”

  “I fear that I have offended you,” Dracula said to her. “I am eager to learn anything you can teach me. But the biological imperatives are not to be denied.”

  Lucille decided to allow the argument to die for now. She did not want to annoy the vampire. Why, she did not know.

  As they trod the empty streets, Dracula paused at a spot where the pavement glistened, having recently been splashed with water.

  Dracula exchanged a look with the Professor.

  “I had Mihaly send some of our people to clean up,” Van Helsing remarked. “And take away the bodies. They will disappear.”

  “This ground has been fought over for centuries,” Dracula said. “By the Wallachians, the Saxon, the Turk. There is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriot and invader.” He shook his head and they continued on to their car, which was muddied from the previous day’s excursion.

  Lucille drove, her father on the seat next to her, as he described the brief confrontation with the two Nazis and their dispatchment. Dracula r
ode in the back with the privileged air of a potentate. She stole a glance into the rearview mirror and Dracula caught her peeking. He made an exaggerated version of the gesture he used to hypnotise her and smiled playfully.

  Lucille could not help smiling. He was so different from the personage portrayed in The Book, the movies, the folktales. She wanted to know more about him.

  “The women in your castle, were they your wives?” she asked.

  “The women in my castle . . . ?” Dracula frowned. “You heard about these women where?”

  “The book,” Lucille told him.

  “The book . . . what book is this?” he asked.

  “There is a novel, well, I’m not sure if it is fiction or . . .” she stumbled.

  Her father saved her. “There is a book that takes liberties with the story of our encounter in England, Harker’s experiences in this country, and melds them with some fantastical rubbish,” her father explained. “Written by a vaudevillian.”

  “It would be interesting to compare your version of the events with those in the book,” Lucille offered. “And yours,” she said to the vampire’s reflection in the mirror.

  “I cannot conceive of a more useless endeavour than comparing fiction with what may or may not have happened almost fifty years ago,” Van Helsing said. “Let us speak of it no more.”

  The last was directed at Lucille. She nodded, but her father knew that the subject was not closed. His daughter was tenacious and not easily swayed from anything that piqued her interest. And Dracula, he had noticed, had ignited her curiosity. It worried him. No, it frightened him.

  She examined the vampire’s face. It was a strong one, no doubt, aquiline, a lofty forehead, eyebrows thick, his hair bushy, curls in profusion, a rather cruel-looking mouth, red lips, broad chin, and an extraordinary pallor. There was an intelligence in those amber eyes that reduced her general feeling of superiority over most men. The mustache seemed old-fashioned but enhanced his aura of masculinity. There was no evidence of the oily, smarmy air seen in the Lugosi performance.

  His hands surprised her. Not the hands described in the novel, not coarse or broad, with squat fingers, but long, artistic fingers as those of a pianist she had once met. Nor were the fingernails long and cut to sharp points, hair supposedly growing in the palms.