Dracula's Ghost - Afterimage: Epilogue

Lucifer Ante Portas

Lucifer Ante Portas

The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mould of primeval earth. But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power.

Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

I.

Nuremberg, Bavaria

October 14, 1946

There is nothing to be said in mitigation. The moving force, second only to his leader… director of the slave labor program and creator of the oppressive program against the Jews and other races… All of these crimes he has freely admitted. The prison complex was adjacent to the Palace of Justice, four stories of stone and steel now manned by American military police. Hermann Goering sat in the visiting area, his hands shackled to the table, and Diels was surprised by the old man’s appearance – prison food and morphine withdrawal had served him well, and the former Reichsmarschall looked better than he had in years. Diels replayed the court’s final judgement in his head.  The record discloses no excuses for this man… His sentence of death by hanging is to be carried out at midnight, October 16, 1946.

“I can’t believe they let you in. For that matter, I’m surprised that you dared to come at all.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” 

“Of course not. I’m glad to see you Rudolf, I just –” Goering paused, and Diels watched as the corners of his mouth trembled. “I never expected our conquerors to allow a visit to the condemned.”

“I suppose not.”  Diels thought of his old cellmate. “We granted little enough mercy in our own time.” 

“Don’t gloat. In two days, they’re going to hang me – I don’t need an old comrade to rub salt in my wounds.” 

“I’m not here to gloat, Hermann.” 

“Then what is it? Why did you come?” 

Diels paused, thinking. The magnitude of Germany’s crimes were beyond comprehension, yet his mind recoiled at his own freedom, as if survival was a betrayal of those who had, however briefly, been his friends. I came because I can’t understand how I didn’t end up in your place. I made plenty of bad decisions and a few good ones, never understanding the wider consequences of my actions. By all rational logic, I should have been at your side, carrying out the murder of millions. I never had the courage to speak the truth, and yet I survived. Why?   

“I suppose I came because I wanted you to see a friendly face.” 

“You’re a good man, Rudolf.”  Goering smiled. “Germany, or what’s left of her, needs more men like you if she hopes to rebuild.” 

The guard escorted him outside, and Diels stood on the streetcorner, breathing the cool air as Allied tanks and Jeeps rumbled past.

II.

Katzenelnbogen, West Germany

November 1957

He drank too much Riesling with last night’s dinner, and the hangover was worse than usual. Still, the wine had allowed him to sleep, and he had the hunting lodge to himself. Too little sleep and too much fellowship as I get older, Diels thought. A pleasant aroma wafted through the room, and Rudolf Diels sat up in bed, fumbling for his trousers as his brow wrinkled in consternation. Who the hell is making coffee?

“I took the liberty of fixing breakfast, but I doubt that you’ll have much appetite.”  The stranger watched him from the doorway, a rifle draped over one arm. “Get dressed, and let’s take a walk.” 

They passed into the forest, and as they walked, the stranger maintained a friendly banter on every subject from vegetarianism (“I don’t know how the Fuhrer expected to seize Europe on a diet of rabbit food”) to smoking (“You should give up those cigarettes – my doctor says they aren’t good for you”). Diels nodded sagely and tried to identify the face from a mental Rolodex of old enemies.

“So as I was saying, it all makes sense if you think about it. The Fuhrer, with the best army in the world, starts making all of the decisions for himself. ‘I alone shall lead!  Not one step back!’  Meanwhile Stalin – who murdered his best generals, for God’s sake – does the unthinkable and starts listening to the advice of his military leaders…  That’s far enough, Rudolf. Turn around.”

Diels turned. “How do you intend to get away with it?” 

“Hunting accident.”  The stranger gestured at the fence behind him. “You’re crossing the fence, get a little careless with the rifle… A tragedy. There will be an investigation of course, but one man alone in the forest, shot with his own weapon? They’ll rule out suicide in consideration of your service to the country.” 

“It makes sense,” Diels said. “Besides, no one wants to dig too deeply into the past. May I ask why?”

“Does it really matter at this point?”

“I suppose not.” 

“I don't know how he conjured that fire, and the fall nearly killed me, but I paid the price for underestimating him.”  Acwulf raised the rifle. “Give my regards to Heydrich when you see him again.”

The shot rang out as the first rays of sunlight penetrated the forest canopy. Acwulf made a few adjustments to the body, then placed the rifle, whistling as he worked. When he was finished, he made his way to the road by a different route. Overhead, the sky was a hard blue, and the sunlight felt good upon his skin. It truly is a beautiful day, he thought, whistling a little as he walked.

Photo by Degleex Ganzorig on Unsplash

III.

Madrid

March 1958

Otto Skorzeny rarely went into the city, for his villa had all that he needed – good food, wine, and a few servants to tend to his needs. Mostly, he disliked the crowds, for it was too easy for an assassin to close the distance with a gun or blade, even in a city as safe as Madrid. Besides, Madrid is dull, he thought. Franco had succeeded where the Fuhrer had failed, and the result was not the blood and fire that Skorzeny had craved in his youth, but a nation of dull conformity where they turned out the lights at eight and the Interior Ministry kept a close watch on German expatriates. Skorzeny’s presence was tolerated by the Caudillo, but he was never quite trusted, for the regime was eager to curry favor with the Americans, and he was considered an embarrassment. Thankfully, with the Russians as a common enemy, no one was eager to reopen the old wounds –

It can’t be…

The man stood near the center of the Puerta del Sol, barely ten feet away, as he smoked a pipe and read from an English newspaper. Skorzeny risked another glance as he veered from his chosen path, taking in the thin face, the long nose, the emotionless blue eyes. It can’t be… I killed you!  The stranger paid him no attention, and Skorzeny walked quickly to a policeman at the far end of the square.

“The man back there, the Englishman. I don’t think he’s supposed to be here, and you should ask him his business.” 

The guard squinted at him from beneath the tricorn hat. “What makes you think so?” 

Because I knew him from before the war, he started to answer before closing his mouth quickly. To bring up the war was to raise all sorts of uncomfortable questions.

“There’s no one back there, Señor. Perhaps you should explain yourself instead.” 

“I’m sorry.”  Skorzeny felt the cool air on his face and realized that he was sweating as he glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not feeling well. Perhaps I made an error.” 

He hurried toward his car, more anxious than ever to be away from the city. At the edge of the square, Otto Skorzeny paused for one final look backward.

The square was empty.