Dracula vs. Hitler

by Patrick Sheane Duncan

  ATTACHED NOTE: (Handwritten on W. Reikel’s personal stationery.)

  W.R.

  Eugene,

  [Editor’s note: Eugene was Reinhard Heydrich’s middle name.]

  Have you been to the opera as of late? The cultural activities here are puny and my only comfort is the recordings you send. Thank you for the Alfred Rosenberg article and the fresh copy of New Nobility from Blood and Soil. I have a promising Lieutenant who could use a dose of Darré. This same Lieutenant is also a decent hand with the foil and épée, but even more of a foe with the sabre. His attack is respectable, and our daily encounters help me keep in passable form. I entertain him with accounts of our bouts in the old days in Kiel. Of course these stories always end with you losing. You can tell your own lies to the beauties of Berlin.

  Here I dwell at the hemorrhoid of Europe, attempting to sort out this Rumanian knot. I am using the old Night and Fog tactics we developed in Norway and France: Troublemakers disappear in the middle of the night, no witnesses, and vanish into the fog of war, no word, and no explanation. Maybe, if the family is lucky, they will receive a jar of ashes.

  It is my opinion that this Rumanian rabble cannot be Germanised, no matter how hard we try. And these local agitators disgust me. I despise them all and will eradicate them. These are not soldiers like us; they have no more military conduct than a gang of children playing Shatterhand and the Indians. Well, I will teach them that this is no juvenile game dreamed up by Fenimore Cooper or Karl May. They will instead find themselves in a nightmare more suitable to Machen.

  Give all my love to Lina.

  Wally

  P.S. Thank you for the kind word in Himmler’s ear. Maybe it will be my ticket out of this backwater and into the real war. I owe you a drink. A bottle! A case!

  Wally

  FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER

  (transcribed from shorthand)

  Our first target—a railroad switching station, at a location that was a vital confluence of four rail lines from all four points of the compass. I conducted a brief recce of the crossing and then set to our preparations.

  To everyone’s surprise, including my own, Renfield came out of his somnambulant state and performed like the demolition master he was reputed to be. It seemed that if you put an explosive in his hands, he reverted to the professional he had been before his accident. And he was not shy about sharing his expertise with anyone who would listen.

  Instead of the ribald ditties, we were privileged to receive an education in explosive ordnance.

  “The Bickford fuse is a core of twisted hemp impregnated with gunpowder and coated with a waterproof material. This burns at a relatively constant rate of one centimetre per second, thusly culminating in a time delay between the lighting of that fuse and the ignition of the blasting cap at the other end, all depending on the length of your cord. Mind you, this gives your saboteur the chance of a safe getaway.”

  The proof of this lecture was put into play one glorious night at the switching station in Breaza. A few pounds of gelignite were laid under four sets of tracks and a few more placed strategically around the building overseeing the crossing. The fuse was lit by the Sergeant himself and then he ran giggling to the nearby culvert where we all had taken cover, telling us, “’Tis some dirty work at the bliddy crossroads, aye.”

  The blasts followed one another like a line of cannons firing a salute. We watched as the entire site was enveloped by a dense cloud of dust, bricks falling like rectangular hail. As the dust dissipated, we saw that the observations structure was no more and the rails were curled and bent into a steel tangle.

  The sight was a demonstrative metaphor for the tangle of my emotions. Dear Lucy is maintaining her distance, and the chill I feel when I am around her wraps my heart in a cold grip. I do not see the fairness in her treatment of me. I gave her my all, my heart and soul. Still do so. Why does she deem to treat me this way? Do I deserve it? I say no. I do not know who is to blame for my torment. I have gone over my interactions with Lucy, every word and deed since we met. I cannot, for the life of me, find any reason for her displeasure. So, I must come to the conclusion that the fault is not mine. Could it be the influence of her father? I do not think he dislikes me, but then the protectiveness of a father cannot be underestimated. And I do not think I offended him in any way. Plus, he is not here with us and able to affect her. Nor is Lucy the type of woman to mindlessly follow her father’s command if she should disagree.

  Could the vampire be holding some sway over her? I see how they talk together, laugh, share opinions on the books he is always reading. Is he to blame for my misery?

  But I refrain from assigning blame in a heedless manner. Mayhaps if I can find the source of our estrangement I can somehow combat what is now an invisible enemy. An enemy I am sworn to defeat. My happiness is at stake. My love.

  My world is a contrast of dire proportions. The absolute joy of finally embarking upon a mission, to fulfill my promise to King and country. That is the bright side. In the dark, a deep, desolate, clouded gloom of my broken heart is Lucy’s disaffection. I am torn between laughing and crying.

  Oh, crikey, I am royally buggered!

  EXCERPTED FROM THE UNPUBLISHED NOVEL THE DRAGON PRINCE AND I

  by Lenore Van Muller

  Lucille was not as amazed as everyone else at the sudden lucidity that Renfield demonstrated whenever he was queried about his craft. She had witnessed his rational interludes in her basement.

  What was surprising was the Sergeant’s near adoration of the vampire. Renfield kept a constant watch on Dracula, attending his every move as a dog eyes his master at feeding time. Even when Dracula sat reading for hours, the poor, imbalanced soul would stare, a silent sentinel to the Prince’s every move, even if that was only the turning of a page. Dracula bore this attention with patience and equanimity. And as before, whenever Renfield was required to utilise his craft, he transformed into the Scot demolition expert. “Aye, Cordex is a detonating cord with an almost instantaneous eight-foot-per-second burn rate.”

  As with the first attack at the rail switching station, the damned Brit Harker treated Lucille like a frail appendage to the mission, trying to protect her from any of the dangerous work. He took the explosive charge Renfield had provided right out of her hands.

  “I’ll handle this,” he told her as if she were a child.

  “Like hell you will,” she replied, snatching it back with more vehemence than she wished. She thought she had proven herself more than capable, repeatedly, during her time with the partisans, ambush after ambush, battle to battle. She had to remind herself that the Brit had not witnessed any of this. Still, the kneejerk assumption by every damned male that combat was their domain and not the place for some weak female irritated her all to hell. That the Prince shared Harker’s views only increased her pique. Closca and Crisan seemed amused at her current contretemps, and she shot them a look that wiped the grins from their faces.

  Their next target was a bridge over the Lalomita River. While the rest of them stood guard, Renfield studied the structure for two entire days, staring at the beams and trusses with the concentration of a cat at a mouse hole.

  The railroad bridge spanned the water with a gentle curve composed of wood and steel. The canyon it crossed was deep, two hundred metres, the sides steep and rocky. Access to the bottom was a narrow footpath that snaked back and forth across one side of the valley wall. Lucille’s informant told her that the rail line was the main means of transport from the nearby oil refinery. Harker proposed attacking the refinery itself, and it was discussed. The final, mutual decision was that the facility was too well guarded and their team too small for a successful outcome.

  On the night set for the demolition, the Prince approached Lucille and Harker. “It is time for my participation in your rebellion,” he announced.

  “You’re coming with us?” Harker asked. Lucille could detect some fear in the Englishman’s voice.

  “No, I thin
k not,” the Prince replied. Harker seemed relieved at that.

  “I could perhaps venture out on my own,” the Prince offered. Harker instantly agreed and Lucille concurred.

  The other members of the team were brought into the conversation, and Horea suggested that the vampire could target a nearby freight warehouse. The Germans had diligently looted and confiscated artworks from across Rumania, from churches, museums, and private collections—and the precious possessions of anyone arrested, be it Jews or “persons under suspicion.”

  These treasures had been gathered in the warehouse to be catalogued before shipping, per the usual Teutonic efficiency. A German staff of soldiers, Gestapo, and experts in art, jewelry, and antiquities were in the process of inventorying the stolen hoard. They had taken over a local hotel as their residence while working. Dracula would attack there.

  This was not necessarily a formative military target, but if the Nazi guards could be eliminated the local partisans were prepared to remove the artworks and valuables. Nearby caves had been surveyed and considered large enough to hide everything from the Germans.

  The Prince agreed to the assignment. Horea would drive and assist. Lucille thought the mission too dangerous for only two men and said so.

  “But you are not calculating properly,” the Prince replied. “It is one man and I.”

  “Maybe you overestimate yourself,” she said.

  “I doubt that,” he said, his arrogance coming to the forefront once more.

  “I say we let him give it a crack, old bean,” Harker said.

  Lucille relented even though she was afraid for the Prince. She had grown accustomed to allowing friends to put themselves in jeopardy for the cause. She wished the pair luck, and watched Horea drive the Prince into the moonlit night.

  Then she and the rest of their force took the lorry to the bridge site where everyone—under Renfield’s quite coherent instructions—set charges among the beams and supports. Renfield followed, wiring the explosives together. Once all the charges were in place they retreated to the western bank of the gorge, where Renfield attached an ignition switch to the ends of the wires.

  Renfield gave the igniter a twist and the resulting blast was unimpressive. A short, sharp crack and nothing happened. Lucille’s first thought was that they had failed.

  She said so and Renfield responded, “You think I’m all fart and not shite? ’Tis not the size of the tool, lassie, but where you put it.” He grinned lasciviously.

  Then Lucille saw a great, centre support bend like a knee joint at the spot where the charge had gone off. Another small blast followed by a stuttering series of tiny explosions that spanned the entire construction, little puffs of spark and smoke like stitches in a quilt.

  She watched the whole intricate structure bend slowly as if taking a stately, graceful bow. Then with a scream of protesting wood, the groan and squeal of tortured steel, and a thunderous crash, the entire bridge fell into the moonlit waters of the stream. Years of stalwart support were extinguished in but a breath as the massive framework surrendered to gravity.

  She could not help but cheer, as did her comrades. She began to understand the complete atavistic satisfaction of destruction for its own sake. And it was obvious that the larger the object being destroyed, the more joy that accompanied the act. She was reminded of the first time she had fired a pistol and felt the sudden surge of power, a feeling she found nowhere else. Blowing up things magnified that same intoxication to an extent she had not thought possible.

  They returned to the empty garage that had been their hideaway for the last two nights. It was a cavernous space, enough room for both the hearse and the lorry. Oceans of oil stains blotted the cracked concrete floor, auto parts were scattered about, fenders, doors, bumpers, wheels, and tyres stacked or piled along the walls. The wartime scrap drives had obviously skipped this place. It stank of oil and rubber, but the tattered vehicle seats made halfway comfortable beds.

  Horea was waiting for them but the Prince was not. Lucille became instantly worried.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “He didn’t show at the rendezvous,” Horea reported. “He went in, there was a ruckus. I saw the hotel staff run out. Then there was a fire. I waited an hour past the designated time. Then I came back here.”

  Lucille nodded, knowing Horea had gone beyond what was safe.

  “He’ll be fine,” Harker told her, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. It was the first time they had touched since the night of her mistake. They both became acutely aware of the contact and he quickly removed his hand.

  “But what if he uses this as an opportunity to run off?” she asked. “What if my father’s worries were correct? Have we unleashed an unspeakable evil upon the world?”

  Harker had no answer for her. She could tell that the same worry now dominated his own thoughts. He went to the Marx Brothers, who were passing a bottle of palinca around. Harker grabbed the bottle and took a hefty swallow of the twice-distilled brew. Soon they were all drunk, reliving the bridge destruction and their parts in it. Even Renfield was imbibing and began singing about a man who could pleasure himself in all holes. This went on until the balladeer was the only man still conscious.

  The others collapsed onto their improvised beds. Renfield laid his blankets under the only skylight, where the stars and a half moon could be seen through murky glass.

  Lucille would not sleep and spent the time tweezing splinters out of her hands. She had acquired them climbing the timbers of the bridge superstructure. A new thought had taken over her mind. Maybe the vampire had been caught, perhaps killed. She knew the Prince was immortal, or nearly so, but she still fretted. Was he immune to fire? What if he did not return by daylight? They were due to leave the next evening, as soon as the sun set. What if he wasn’t back by then? Dare she delay their departure? They could not abandon him—correction, she could not leave him behind. But it would be most dangerous to spend another night here, especially after the commotion they had caused at the bridge.

  She heard a rustle. The first time she thought it was one of the sleeping men. Or a foraging rat. Then she heard it again, in the opposite corner of their sleeping area, a dark recess, the shadows so deep and dark that nothing could be seen.

  She approached cautiously, Luger in hand. The closer she came the more she could see. She made out crates of Coca-Cola bottles, stacked five high, an engine block, hollowed piston tubes, rusted and corroded, a black cloth-covered mound.

  The cloth moved.

  “Come out of there,” she ordered.

  The black cloth rose, slowly, like a plume of coal smoke. She raised her pistol. Then she recognised the figure: the Prince, his cape covering him like a shroud.

  “Prince Vlad,” she whispered.

  He turned. She stepped back in shock.

  His entire front was covered in blood and gore, the scarlet stain most visible on what once had been a white shirt.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “I am unharmed,” he replied. Lucille could sense a forlorn quality to his voice, a profound sadness. She approached him. He immediately backed away from her.

  “Do not touch me,” he said. “I am an abomination.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Please. At least let me find you a clean shirt.”

  “No! Leave me be!” He turned away from her.

  “I don’t think you need to use that tone of voice with me,” Lucille said. “I’m just trying to help, trying to be . . . your friend.”

  “I deserve no kindness,” he said, his voice soft. “No mercy. And certainly not any friendship.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is true, what they call me. I am a monster.” The defeat in his voice was pitiful.

  “What happened?” she asked and stepped forward. He backed away but the wall prevented him from retreating any further. She placed herself so that she was face-to-face with him. He looked away from her probing eyes.

&nbs
p; “What happened to you?” she demanded.

  “I dare not say. You would abhor me as the world does. As I do. There was . . . carnage beyond your mortal imaginings. Blood and butchery.”

  “But have you not done this before?”

  “Yes. That is the crux of my problem. I thought I had . . . more control, that I had come to grips with my compulsions. I have not. Far from it.”

  “Well, don’t complain. Rather than whine about it, do something.”

  “This is not something to quibble about,” he said, waving her to go away. “Please leave me to myself. It is not safe for you to be in my presence.”

  She reached out a hand to his face, made him look her in the eye. “I can help. We can overcome whatever problem presents itself. Together. You have friends here.”

  He flinched at her touch. “Go! Leave me be!”

  She turned and walked away, jolted by the fierceness of his rejection. Retreating to her place across the garage, she sat and watched the Prince as he returned to his huddle in the dark corner.

  It was difficult for her to contemplate, the powerful, noble character of the man she had begun to know, to admire, even have affection for—reduced to this aggrieved, miserable being. Even more grievous was that she was unable to do anything for him.

  FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER

  (transcribed from shorthand)

  After our stupendous destruction of the Lalomita bridge and celebration of the same I slept until past noon. Upon waking I found the vampire in a distressed state, his clothes stiff with dried blood. Crisan went out for food and water and I gave him some money to purchase clean clothing for Dracula. Cleaning the garments was out of the question—we had neither the facilities nor the time.

  Dracula reacted little to my offer to provend for him, no gratitude of any kind. It was as if he expected such service from us, his royal hauteur much in evidence at all times. He also seemed withdrawn, morose. So did Lucy. I sense some kind of disharmony between them. Dare I say, good show? Closca ventured out to the neighbouring hamlets to inquire about any heightened security or other consequences from the previous night’s sabotage. He came back in time for a communal meal that Crisan had foraged from a local cafe. The gypsy chap never misses a chance to eat. While we fed he told us that the blown bridge was on everyone’s lips and the local Rumanian police and military were still investigating the remains. There were whispers of sabotage but no particular alert. The other item of interest was the fire that had destroyed a certain hotel. None of the Rumanian staff had been harmed, but not one of the German residents had escaped the inferno, the cause of which was still unknown. The common theory was some kind of explosion that had rendered the victims into the charred bits and pieces that had been recovered. The curious part was that no concussion, the signature of any bomb, had been heard by any of the witnesses. Still there was no other explanation for the terrible state of the dead.