Dracula vs. Hitler

by Patrick Sheane Duncan

  The trip from home to the theatre had been an adventure. Lucille had forgotten that the summer days were longer now and the sun was still above the mountains as the showtime neared.

  “We’ll miss the movie,” she had mourned. Weekdays, the Brasov cinema played their feature only once a night, and there would still be light in the sky past the starting time. She explained this to Dracula.

  “Let us try,” he said.

  “But you cannot go about in the daylight,” she protested.

  “I can with precautions,” Dracula told her. “Briefly. The sunlight is perilous to my skin and my eyes.”

  “So you can cover up?”

  “I have done so successfully.”

  “Excellent.” Her childish enthusiasm had returned.

  She searched for and found the pair of darkened glasses she had repeatedly tried to make her father wear, to no avail. They made the vampire seem even more exotic. That effect was instantly ameliorated by a scarf knitted by a grateful patient who apparently couldn’t stop her runaway needles, creating a swath of wool nearly three metres long. She wrapped it around his neck a few times until his face was totally obscured.

  Next came a pair of leather gloves and a broad-brimmed hat Lucille wore while gardening. He looked ridiculous, but in the end not an inch of albino skin could be seen. She decided that Dracula now bore a resemblance to Claude Rains in The Invisible Man.

  As for herself, Lucille wore a dress for the first time in months. Before the war she had pursued style and fashion like men chased riches. But the pragmatic matters of war had changed her focus. These days she wore her father’s discarded shirts and worn-out slacks cinched with a tie or a belt a sailor had gifted her in hopes of a kiss. She had gotten the better of the deal, the belt macraméd from knotted fishing line, a sturdy old sailor’s craft. It was beautifully made and would most likely outlast the memory of the kiss.

  Eschewing practicalities tonight, she had found a soft, slinky dress that clung in the right places. She had shaved her legs and even dabbed on the slightest bit of makeup. For good reason: She was going on a date! With the most unique man on earth!

  She drove into Brasov, the roadblock guards just waving them on when the car was recognised. She and the Prince walked two short blocks to the cinema, making it in time for the cartoon. Dracula was beguiled by the old black-and-white antics of Bugs Bunny and Elmer and laughed out loud when the rabbit declared, “Of course you know this means war.” During the newsreel she tried to explain that the cartoon rabbit was quoting from the Marx Brothers film Duck Soup, but the vampire shushed her. He was engrossed in the footage of the little man with the ludicrous mustache.

  And then King Kong began and there was no talking to or among anyone. Just shrieks and gasps at the travails of the tragic monster and his blond love. Sitting next to each other in the dark, she found herself watching the vampire more than the feature up on the screen.

  Dracula’s gaze was fixed upon the images that floated before him, spellbound by what was projected through a column of light onto the silver curtain.

  He was riveted to his seat, stunned at the magic before him. How did the photographs become animate, so fluid, so lifelike? Where did the music come from? He saw no hidden orchestra. But the questions quickly evaporated as he was lost in the thrall of the story. And when the characters landed on Skull Island, he was swept away to that mysterious land.

  Lucille saw the reflected light dance across his pale face. His emotions, so far mostly hidden behind a regal facade, were now fully displayed upon his face, naked for her to see. He gasped, laughed, stared in awe, ducked once, gaped as the Max Steiner score soared, thundered as the beast approached the walls, the anticipation building to a point of unbearability. He held his breath as the fair maiden was offered as sacrifice, twisted and turned as though he were battling the giant lizard himself.

  The scenes in New York fascinated him. He scooted to the edge of his seat, leaned toward the screen as the giant gorilla escaped his captors, ravaged the elevated train, and then climbed the skyscraper.

  And when Kong fell, as the beast lay bleeding on the street and Denham intoned his elegiac “It was beauty killed the Beast,” Lucille saw a tear flow from the vampire’s eye, a pinkish droplet slipping down the chalk-white cheek.

  Lucille wondered if he identified with the poor creature, so powerful and yet so tragic. An outcast, alone, maybe the only, if not the last of his kind. A king without a kingdom. She watched his rapt attention and studied his face. Could the Prince relate to the mighty Kong falling in love with a mortal woman?

  She reached for his hand, offering comfort, and he took it into his own, clasping his fingers around her palm. His skin was cool to the touch.

  As soon as the lights came up he began questioning her. He asked if such a beast had really been discovered and was sorely disappointed when she said it had not. He queried her about the newsreel, with its litany of German triumphs and the prodigy of Hitler. Dracula commented, “So that is the little man causing all this grief.”

  It was fully night when they left the auditorium. Dracula, now free of his bundling, asked how cartoons were made. He especially admired the music behind Bugs and Elmer, the “hyperactive muscularity of the orchestral score.”

  She asked him how he liked the movie itself.

  “Genius,” he said. “Extraordinary. I would say even profound. And you say there is one of these photodramas about me?”

  “Yes,” Lucille took the crook of his arm as they walked into the lobby. “You wouldn’t like it. It’s a bit hammy. The actor who plays you is short and creepy.”

  “‘Creepy’ . . . He creeps?”

  “A bit of slang. It means ‘unpleasant.’ You can skip it.”

  “‘Skip it’?”

  They passed through the cluster of people milling outside the theatre entrance. A few of them stared at Dracula with more than idle curiosity and a modicum of fear. She was sure that they could not recognise who or what he was, so she suspected the reaction must have come from a more primal level. He was oblivious.

  “More slang. It means ‘forget it.’ But wait until you see Fred Astaire dance! Poetry in motion. Oh! And Buster Keaton! Another poet of the physical. And The Wizard of Oz. You will be . . . when the house lands and the screen goes from black-and-white to . . . I don’t want to spoil it. La Regle du Jeu! Snow White! The Thirty-Nine Steps!”

  Dracula slowly shook his head in marvel. “Every time I think that this world has been reduced to barbarism, that the human creature is but another soulless animal, something alters my opinion. A bit of music, a line of poetry or literature, something sublime as this magnificent work you just shared with me, something as inspiring as this gives me hope.”

  Lucille shook him out of his reverie by nudging his elbow with her own, bringing his attention to the truck filled with German soldiers that rolled to a stop in front of the theatre.

  The Nazis leapt off the vehicle and waded into the crowd, some invading the lobby and auditorium to roust those still lingering inside.

  The familiar Lieutenant Guth stepped out of the truck cab shouting, “Everybody out of the theatre!”

  He stood in front of the crowd, fists on hips. “This establishment is closed. Assemblies in Brasov of more than four individuals are now forbidden.”

  Cesar Tirlea, the proprietor and projectionist, and his wife, Vasilica, ticket seller and usher, were forcibly dragged out of the theatre and the doors locked and chained.

  The SS used their rifle butts and a few kicks from their boots to hurry the crowd away from the building. An old woman was given a brutal shove and she fell into a child, both tumbling onto the pavement.

  Dracula was incensed and stepped forward, intent on some kind of intervention. Lucille pulled him back, impelled him to turn away, walked him into the shadows.

  Behind them they could hear the Nazis shattering the windows of the ticket kiosk.

  There was a scream from Vasilica. Dracula turn
ed back at this and Lucille vainly tried to restrain him, but it was like attempting to pull down the Empire State Building with her bare hands.

  She leaned into him, put her lips to his ear. “Don’t make yourself conspicuous. Leave, to fight another day.”

  She could not believe that she was repeating what her father had cautioned so many times. Advice she had defiantly dismissed, over and over.

  “I would rather fight now,” Dracula said fiercely.

  “So would we all,” Lucille whispered, matching his anger. “We choose our battles.”

  He allowed her to walk him away from the commotion.

  “Another day,” she said.

  “Another day,” Dracula repeated. “And soon, I hope.”

  EXCERPTS FROM UNIDENTIFIED DIARY

  (translated from the German)

  [Editor’s note: Despite an extreme effort we have not been able, at this date, to authenticate beyond all doubt that this is in fact Adolf Hitler’s personal diary, written by his own hand. We still are pursuing all means to verify its authenticity.]

  May 20

  Herr Wolf cannot sleep. His Mind is a waterwheel spinning with the planning of the coming Operation Barbarossa. And this Hess farce—What was he thinking? Surely he is deranged.

  Herr Wolf has tried to read, finishing the Hemingway novel Fiesta. Romantic balderdash full of Communist bickering. The hero, a misnomer, is a perfect metaphor for the Americans. Impotent. Much like the Cripple who leads them.

  HH is relentless with an annoying demand to watch some film he has obtained from the Balkans.

  Does he not know that the Soviet invasion is our opportunity for Lebensraum? Herr Wolf imagines a place for Germany to expand, like the British into India, a colony for Germans to establish handsome, spacious farms, marvelous lodgings that Herr Wolf has designed himself (often drawn during those dreadful meetings where his Generals give all the reasons not to do what must, will, and has been done). They tell Herr Wolf that Russia is too big, that the engagement will take too long, and we will find ourselves stuck on the tundra in the blasphemous Russian winter like Napoleon. They lack Vision. Herr Wolf has a Vision, one that has Conquered every obstacle before us thus far. If he had listened to the Generals we would still be negotiating with the French. It is a test of Willpower between the Generals and Herr Wolf, one which they will lose. Herr Wolf’s Iron Will prevails, as always.

  These new lands will have government offices like palaces, honoring the glory of our Fatherland; it will be a closed Society, a bulwark against the corrosive influences of the Russian barbarians, none of the degenerate miscegenation that the emasculated British are prone to indulge in.

  The postponement of Barbarossa, due to the unreasonable and unexpected duration of the Jugoslav liberation, has put Herr Wolf on edge. He is impatient for the Seeds to Sprout, the plant to bloom, the bloom to fruit, the fruit to ripen, and finally for that first bite, the first bite always proven to be the best. Molotov is drawing out the talks of an accommodation with the Communists that will never be found. Stalin has been warned by Churchill of our intentions, but Stalin does not trust the English, suspecting them of trying to trick the Soviets into declaring war on us.

  Herr Wolf has spies in Stalin’s command and . . .

  [PAGE OR PAGES MISSING]

  . . . and the Americans have frozen all German assets in the United States. This was expected, a typical weak-kneed response by the Cripple and his Jews in America, solving their problems with their weapon of choice—Lucre.

  Advisors have talked Herr Wolf out of his intention to ban this disgusting habit of smoking, cigarettes and pipe, especially cigars. The entire country is in the clutches of this irritating custom, even the female populace have fallen under its destructive spell. Herr Wolf’s suggestion that, in lieu of a ban, every packet be emblazoned with a death’s head, to remind the user of the consequences, was also discouraged. Herr Wolf would prefer that soldiers not be issued this vile product, maybe issue chocolates instead of tobacco, but he was warned that there would be a rebellion among the military. This is how pernicious the habit has become.

  Besides these thorns in his side, Herr Wolf’s new suits do not fit properly. Herr Wolf has an indisposition to close-fitting jackets. He needs to move his arms! He thinks some sort of sabotage lies behind this problem. It will be investigated.

  Joke of the day—courtesy of HG. How do you make a Jew crazy? Ham at half price. Very funny. Haha.

  Herr Wolf was examining the latest communiqué from Egypt. King Farouk states he will welcome us if we guarantee the expulsion of the British from his country. This was when HH interrupted once more about this damnable film. Ten minutes was all he requested, then begged.

  Herr Wolf relented. As a Leader, one must respect the opinions of those he has chosen to Command. If HH declares something important, then Herr Wolf must acknowledge that concern or unduly weaken the man in sight of his fellows. A Great Leader must be aware of these protocols.

  Herr Wolf allowed himself to be led to the small private theatre where coffee and carrot cake were provided. The previous evening, Herr Wolf had enjoyed another showing of The Lives of a Bengal Lancer in this theatre. Another film to be shown, the new Greta Garbo feature, was declined as Herr Wolf was indisposed—stomach pain of uncommon strength.

  In the theatre waited the other H, Reinhard. He explained; this film came from an event in Rumania that had occurred four days previous, a raid upon a train transporting some of our officers on leave. A great loss to the Fatherland. One of these brave men carried with him a motion picture camera. What followed would be footage shot during that raid.

  HH nodded to the projectionist in his booth and the lights dimmed. The white light leapt from the booth portal and onto the screen.

  Herr Wolf watched as German officers gambolled in what was obviously a railroad car. They drank and laughed and sang—all silently, there being no sound, the camera work very shaky and, well, amateurish, though the footage was in colour, a comment on the cinematographer’s dedication to his hobby. There was one amusing moment when a rather fat Lieutenant demonstrated the unique ability to draw deeply from his pipe and blow smoke out of his ears. Herr Wolf did not know this was possible.

  Outside that one jape, Herr Wolf was growing bored, hinting that he had more important matters before him, witnessing a soldiers’ drunken frolic not his priority despite the love for his soldiers in the field.

  HH begged for a little more patience, explaining that they had not time to edit the film and, in fact, the context was important to prove that what he was about to see was not fakery.

  So, Herr Wolf watched the incipient Fritz Lang dwell, for far too long, on the new Emil Jannings, who was entertaining one and all by putting his cap on backward and rolling his eyes independent of each other, another feat Herr Wolf had not seen before, when the camera swung violently away from the clown to witness the entrance of . . .

  Herr Wolf was fixed to his seat for the rest of the film, until the end when the camera, lying on its side on the railroad car floor, recorded nothing more than the still, dead face and eyes of the man Herr Wolf assumed was the camera operator. The only movement in the frame was a spray of blood that landed on the lens and slowly dripped until it obscured everything in a pink curtain.

  The film ran out into stark black. Herr Wolf stared at the brilliant white of the still-lit screen until his eyes began to pain him. Could this be?

  — Play it again, he ordered.

  They did. No one spoke a word while the film was re-wound, re-threaded, and shown again.

  And Herr Wolf watched the remarkable footage five more times. Now the jovial antics of those poor soldiers created a grim dread in Herr Wolf’s soul.

  After the last showing Herr Wolf turned to HH and RH.

  The questions were simple. To RH’s credit so were the answers.

  — Who has seen this?

  — Here, just the three of us and the projectionist.

  — In R
umania?

  — The SS officer in charge and a projectionist, who has been silenced.

  — Could it be faked?

  — We suppose so, but it is a very elaborate and difficult process. When the arm comes off . . . the throat torn out . . . I do not know how you would do that. I could consult with some of our motion picture professionals.

  — Then again there is the question: To what purpose would such faking be? I cannot come up with any viable answer. (This was RH positing.)

  — Forget the professionals, Herr Wolf ordered, we must limit the exposure. Who sent this?

  — Major Waltraud Reikel in Rumania. A very trusted SS officer. Not one for pranks.

  — He and I were on the Olympic fencing team together, RH vouched.

  — From Rumania, you said?

  — Yes, Transylvania, to be exact.

  Transylvania. Herr Wolf contemplated this fact, then gave his orders.

  — Send our projectionist to the Russian front lines. As an infantryman. Tonight. He may speak to others, but no one believes a mere Private. As to . . . the personage on the footage, capture him. Alive. Or un-dead. Herr Wolf laughed at his own pun. Whatever its state, preserve it.

  EXCERPTED FROM THE UNPUBLISHED NOVEL THE DRAGON PRINCE AND I

  by Lenore Van Muller

  After returning from the theatre Lucille and the vampire conversed through the night. She told him about her trip with her father to the Paris Art Deco Exposition in 1925. She was fifteen and very impressionable. The first sight of the Lalique fountains at night, lit from within by neon, set a romantic ideal that was matched with every event, every vista.

  They visited the Galerie Pierre and viewed the first group show of surrealists, works by Paul Klee, Hans Arp, Man Ray, Miro. At her insistence, they went back repeatedly, and Lucille decided to be an artist. She was not sure of her medium—photography, sculpting, or paint and canvas—but she was determined that the life of an artist would be her destiny.