The soup was brought to him by a toadying Lieutenant G. They had also set the table for twelve, and a message was sent to cancel the other invitees.
Herr Wolf filled a plate with what cheeses and breads he could find and sipped lime blossom tea while the Major related his various efforts against the local underground—mostly successful. Herr Wolf had already read all this in the dossier supplied to him, and he switched the conversation to the Major’s background, again, which he already had discerned from the same file. But one can learn much about a man by the way he tells his own story.
The Major was modest without being servile, and when Herr Wolf brought up the soldier’s fencing exploits and his performance at the Berlin Olympics, the officer declared how splendid the entire affair had been and how marvelous the experience was for him. The Major’s distinctive Bavarian accent reminds Herr Wolf of his childhood days. The Major seems to be a stolid soldier, hard as Krupp steel. Herr Wolf wonders if a promotion and transfer to the Reich Chancellery might be prudent and useful. He will consider this. After all, this brave and obviously intelligent officer most likely could do better than Herr Wolf’s Generals. The New Reich needs men of Imagination who confront the impossible and accomplish it—not the naysayers and defeatists who now compose his General Staff.
At this point, Herr Wolf’s patience for the niceties was at an end, and he interrogated the Major about the purpose of this journey. The Vampire was still in custody, and Herr Wolf was eager to see the myth for himself. But the Major kept glancing at his watch, checking the window. Only when the first rays of dawn began to seep into the room did the Major finally deem it time. The sun was “at the proper inclination.” They left the dinner table and descended into the bowels of the castle.
There was a curious aspect to the castle architecture; the dungeon had been fitted into the cleft of the mountain, so that it was possible to have windows even in the lower depths.
Along the way the Major spoke of his latest discovery, that the vampire was vulnerable to the touch of silver, that this metal could possibly be fatal to the creature. The Major had one of his men, a Private Venohr, who had previously worked in a Hamburg foundry, melt down as much silver as had been collected from the Jews and gypsies, plus some religious figures from a Zarnesti church that had harboured fugitive terrorists, and he’d had this smith create a silver sword for the officer.
Major R proudly showed Herr Wolf the results, a handsome blade in the sabre style with a Waffen-SS design embossed into the hilt. The Major remarked that the blade was a mite heavy and could not hold an edge very well, but would suffice for the purpose intended.
The Major’s plan was to admit another human into the vampire’s cell to be bitten, a person that the Creature might not feel so free to kill once the victim had been infected—a friend or possibly one of his terrorist compatriots.
Herr Wolf inquired as to whether the Creature would agree to feast on a friend. The Major’s reply was that as an officer involved in the Warsaw Ghetto conflict and the Polish internment camps he bore witness to the fact that hunger triumphs over all social constraints. Herr Wolf’s experience in the trenches of the Great War only confirmed the Major’s hypothesis.
The plan then, after acquiring someone who had been bitten, was to use this infected person to bite one of our own and hence to control the dissemination of the gift.
Herr Wolf voiced doubts whether a new vampire would be any easier to handle than the one in their possession now.
The solution to that problem the Major had already pondered. He had found a victim who was already weak enough, morally and constitutionally, to do his bidding.
Meanwhile, they meandered down narrow stairs, curving and steep, always leading below, and then reached a level where a long corridor was lined with cells with large, barred steel doors. The passage was of grey stone with an arched ceiling, damp and oppressive as most cellars are. From the cells Herr Wolf could hear the moans and pitiful whimpers of the various guests, the voices echoing about, multiplying the misery within. The odours emanating from the cells were disgusting and foul.
The Major stopped at one of these. Inside a prisoner crouched in a corner, brooding with a dull, sullen, woe-begotten look on his face, huddled as if against the cold. The prisoner was unshaven, with sunken eyes, filthy clothes, and bloodied and grotesquely swollen hands that he held claw-like in front of him. He was suckling on one finger as an infant does. This motley semblance of a man proved to be British, and he was singing a vulgar song. The Major translated the lyrics. Something about a woman with overly large buttocks and a man with a tiny organ and their difficulties in coitus. The tune was familiar, but Herr Wolf could not place it and was haunted by his inability to name the song. This inane recitation at once belied the oft-repeated axiom that the ravings of the deranged are the secrets of God. Unless He is fond of mauvais ton.
When he finished his ditty, the Tommy became entranced by the progress of a very large insect as it traversed the cell wall. Snatching out a hand, this pitiful creature, obviously demented, shocked Herr Wolf by capturing the bug, a küchenschabe, and popping it into his mouth like a piece of zwieback. The crunch-crunch as teeth masticated carapace was loud enough to echo in the hall. Herr Wolf was particularly disgusted by this loathsome act, detesting all insects since that hated, bug-infested apartment in Vienna.
The Major told of a previous incident whereupon a guard saw a bird fly into the cell and seemingly disappear. Then a few minutes later the prisoner vomited a profusion of feathers.
Herr Wolf became slightly sick to his stomach, but maintained a stoic countenance as the cell door was opened and two guards entered to drag the prisoner out. He whined and keened like a rabbit in a trap. If weakness was a qualification for his selection, then the Major had chosen well.
Herr Wolf asked the prisoner’s name. The response sounded Jewish, which explained the cowardly manner.
The guards dragged the prisoner—he was too frightened to walk—down the hall past a machine-gun position to another cell. This door was deformed, bent outward, but apparently maintaining some integrity.
This particular cell was flooded with sunlight from a window, the glare momentarily blinding Herr Wolf to the fact that, indeed, the room was occupied.
In the one corner not illuminated, lurking in the meager shade, was a presence. It took a moment for Herr Wolf’s eyes to adjust. Slowly the figure was revealed. It was tall, pale, the skin luminescent as if lit from within by a lightbulb. The white streak in its dark hair, longish like a bohemian, gave it a theatrical look. Despite the sad state of its clothing, ripped and torn, the figure stood erect, with an inherent dignity.
After all, if the legends were true, this was a descendant of royal lineage. It did not flinch under Herr Wolf’s inspection. Under a noble brow its ochre eyes bored into Herr Wolf.
Herr Wolf knew these eyes, saw them in the mirror every day. Herr Wolf met the striking gaze with his own, not to be intimidated, secure in the knowledge that he is able to stare down any man, from General to foreign dignitary. But then Herr Wolf remembered the Major’s caution about the Creature’s mesmeric abilities and broke the contact.
The Creature spoke a question, in Rumanian, and the Major translated. — Is it really you?
Herr Wolf commented that he could ask the same.
The Major drew his new sword and the cell door was cautiously opened. The Vampire did not move from the safety of his shadowy sanctuary.
The Tommy was tossed into the vampire’s cell and the door hurriedly locked. The two prisoners regarded each other for a moment, the Englishman addressing the Creature as “Master.” Nothing more was said for quite a few moments, during which the Tommy captured another insect, a spider this time, and ate it with some relish, but, thank the gods, none of that hideous, crunching noise.
After his disgusting repast, the Tommy approached the vampire with desperation in his eyes and made a request in English (the Major continued his translation): Would
Master Dracula help him with the fly of his pants as his hands could not perform properly and he had to urinate. This appeal was made with such pitiful shame that Herr Wolf felt some momentary compassion for the man.
The Tommy had to move close to the Creature for this operation and we watched in anticipation, but the Vampire only did as asked. No teeth, no feasting, no blood. It was a humiliating task, but the Vampire’s composure remained a sort of grandiose detachment.
In his days of poverty and pain, Herr Wolf would walk around the Hellabrunn Zoological Gardens in Munich, observing the beasts pacing their enclosures. Herr Wolf often did the same in his tiny lodging. One day at the zoo he heard a keeper announce that the feeding of the big cats was about to occur. Herr Wolf waited for the event, and when the raw meat was tossed to the lions, he watched in awe as the magnificent felines devoured their meal, fighting and snarling at each other.
He felt the same trepidation here, waiting for the Vampire to pounce.
Nothing else occurred over the next few hours, but Herr Wolf stayed at his post like a loyal sentry.
For quite a long time Herr Wolf paced, watched as the Vampire stayed in its corner, not moving anything but those cruel, mocking eyes.
The Major provided a chair for Herr Wolf in which he occasionally sat, but otherwise he continued to walk the corridor as was his habit. Upon a small side table a plate of savories was set for Herr Wolf’s indulgence. Herr Wolf took his daily pills, regretting that he was missing his injections from Dr. M.
He attempted to engage the Vampire in conversation, asking about the incident that created his current state. The Vampire chose silence.
Herr Wolf inquired about the Prince’s days of rule, hoping to bridge the gulf between them by sharing the burden of Leadership.
Again there was no response.
Herr Wolf knows the power of silence and proceeded in the same manner for a while. After a few hours, Major R brought in another chair and joined Herr Wolf for a light meal. The Vampire had been watching the column of sunlight that pierced its window as the beam crept across the cell. After a while the light disappeared completely. The sun set, and the bare lightbulb that hung in the corridor flicked to a dim glow. Yet the Vampire remained in its corner.
Fresh-baked black bread and cups of hot chocolate were brought down, and Herr Wolf allowed himself a brief respite. After Herr Wolf and the Major had supped, the Major relaxed his officious attitude and began to converse with Herr Wolf as with an equal, as if the bathetic ritual of breaking bread had erased the lines of authority. The Major was enthusiastic about Herr Wolf’s conduct of the war, the speed of the new Nazi Empire’s expansion. He praised Herr Wolf’s military genius with not a note of sycophancy. He then rhapsodised about Herr Wolf’s plan for the Vampire, the creation of a Vampire army. Herr Wolf did not correct the man for his assumption. The Major went on, imagining soldiers invulnerable to ordinary armaments, indefatigable, of superior strength, and so on.
This incited a sardonic laugh from the Vampire.
— A vampire empire! The Creature cried out and laughed more exuberantly.
The Major took umbrage at this outburst, but Herr Wolf knew what instigated the sarcasm.
The Vampire stepped into the artificial light and explained, derided the Major for his small thinking.
— A Vampire army is not in the offing, my friend. What leader would allow a lowly soldier more power than the leader possessed? No, the power of the Vampire would be passed on to one individual and one only.
With that, the Vampire stared directly at Herr Wolf.
Herr Wolf acknowledged the Vampire’s conclusion. Wolf had been sickly as a child, still suffered from one ailment after another. The portent of an imminent death stalked him like a sinister predator; cancer, as his mother suffered, his most likely demise. The pain in his gut was a constant signal that he was not long for this world. His greatest worry has always been that he would not live long enough to complete his Destiny, his Struggle to restore the Fatherland to Glory.
The Major commented that this was only proper. — For this Reich to live forever it must be led by the man who created it.
Herr Wolf could not tell if this was just lip service, but he felt confident in the man’s loyalty so the sentiment’s truth did not matter.
Herr Wolf appealed to the Creature to join him.
— Between the two of us, we could rule the world, two great leaders, ruling an empire that would last longer than the Romans’.
The Creature became mute once more and sank back into the darkness, leaving Herr Wolf with a strange chill. Herr Wolf used all of his miraculous powers of persuasion, but the Vampire was not moved.
Finally, this one they call Dracula approached the bars and faced Herr Wolf, stating that during his many seasons he had learned that there were few solid truths.
— One truth is inviolate—too much power in one individual’s hands always degenerates into misfortune, usually for others. I know this from my own singular experience.
There ensued quiet again as the Vampire retreated to the far wall. Another idle hour passed.
During this wait the Major presented Herr Wolf with a token of his appreciation in the form of Major R’s pistol, a Mauser M712 he had inherited from his father, a hero of the German East Africa campaign in the Great War. It is a beautiful weapon, ivory grips and a custom holster of elephant hide. Herr Wolf accepted the gift with grace and laid it on the side table.
Nothing again occurred for hours. Dispatches were brought to Herr Wolf, relayed from his secretary at the station, updating him on events at the Chancellery and on various fronts, particularly on the Soviet line. Of particular distaste were the bulletins from Operation Eagle Attack. Despite the assurances and predictions of H and G, the Brits were still battling in the air without diminishment, much less defeat. At this rate, Operation Sea Lion will never be possible. We cannot invade that annoying Isle without total control of the air. Herr Wolf dealt with these missives, never taking his eyes off the cell.
There was an instant of activity in the cell when the Vampire approached the sniveling Tommy. Nothing more than whispers could be heard between the two, and the Creature returned to his previous position on the wall.
Herr Wolf was quite frustrated at not knowing what transpired between the two, and he suggested to the Major that he consider situating microphones in the cell to record any future clandestine conversations. The Major replied that this would be done at the next opportunity.
Herr Wolf inquired as to the last time the vampire had fed and how long it could go between feedings. The Major recounted that the late Corporal Schreck was the last victim, and, as to how often the Creature had to nourish itself, they had no idea.
Herr Wolf suddenly remembered the tune to the Tommy’s coarse lyric—“Yes, We Have No Bananas!”
The Vampire remained erect in his corner, regarding us with the superior air of a Czar; the Tommy still huddled at the foot of the wall, rubbing his hand against the stone in a repetitive manner as one sees the mentally deficient do in an asylum. This manic activity scrubbed off the scabs on his palms and they began to bleed. This zoophagous creature was becoming excited in greater and greater degree, a shifty look in his eyes, which one always sees when a madman has seized an idea.
Senses dulled by the monotony, Herr Wolf was caught off guard when the Vampire finally acted. This occurred with such surprising speed that it was difficult to comprehend what exactly had transpired.
The Vampire had attacked the Englishman.
FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER
(transcribed from shorthand)
JUNE 21, 1941
After returning to Brasov, we rummaged in the ruins of the Van Helsing home for a change of clothes and to further arm ourselves from a hidden cache. We left the city just before sunset, passing through two small towns along the way. The buildings along the road had the dates of construction carved in their street-facing walls, deeming them a hundred, sometimes two hun
dred years old. Apparitions of blue smoke rose from their chimneys, thin souls abandoning their homes. Past the towns, the mountains on the left rose green and verdant. A sullen, black donkey watched our passing with bored disdain.
By the time we were at the base of the Bran Castle, night held full dominance. The castle was a yellow-limestone-and-brick edifice that commanded the crest of a small mountain, allowing a commanding view of the surrounding countryside as it had done throughout the centuries. A slender river cut through the narrow pass the castle commanded. Across the road and river stood the ruins of an imposing and ancient structure, constructed of smooth river rock, Roman in appearance, the ruins long abandoned and overgrown with vine and bush. The decrepit remains of a former ruler.
The clear line of the castle was a black silhouette against the deep blue night sky. There was something wild and rare about the place.
The castle had one rounded spire and a half-dozen peaked roofs on a variety of levels. Multiple chimneys spewed smoke that was instantly dispersed by the wind.
The sheer rock cliffs merged into the castle’s vertical walls. The terrain below was a jumble of trees and thickets. Using that foliage, we darted from cover to cover, ascending the heights. Others of our party used the dense brush that grew alongside the curving access road to hide their approach from that direction.
The stronghold was built in 1212, then burned by the Mongols. The Saxons rebuilt when this was the border between Transylvania and Wallachia and used the fortress to keep out the Ottomans. Up until the recent conflict the castle had been the residence of the Rumanian Queen Maria. She had died three years previously and her heart had been ensconced inside the castle. I assumed that the dastardly Reikel feasted on it while he watched his torturer work.
Dracula vs. Hitler Page 44
