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“I don’t know exactly when I was born, but I guess it was around 1650 in Buda, a fortified town on the Danube River. Across the river from Buda was Pest, so today it is Budapest, the capital of Hungary. I do remember that my father was a baker. He had a small shop; I guess you would call it, on the edge of a market. It was really an open air stand with a sort of fireplace/oven in back where he would bake. We lived in a single room, made of brick but with a dirt floor, behind the stand. The oven gave us heat in the winter and made the place stifling in the summer. There were no windows, only a doorway to one side of the oven which we closed with a blanket. I remember that I had both older and younger brothers and sisters, but I don’t remember how many. My mother and father I really don’t remember either, I can’t be sure whether my memories are truth or imaginings.

Being a baker, my father was always up well before dawn. On winter mornings, I would be roused from sleep by his humming as he worked the dough by the light from the open hearth. I remember watching his broad shoulders and powerful arms pushing and pulling on the mass. He would say, “This dough is lively,” if it grew and became light, or “I’m sorry but the children will be weak today,” if the dough would not rise well. He would put seven caraway seeds in the dough and kneed up until they were evenly distributed through the mass, that’s how he knew that the dough was properly mixed.

He had very strong arms and hands. I remember one evening when he cheerfully picked up my mother and held her over his head. He must have held her there for over a minute. They were both laughing, so were we. I don’t know what he wanted, but he refused to put her down until she relented. They were both laughing.

I can remember being hungry only once. The winter had been especially harsh and the river remained frozen late into the spring. This kept barges from coming up from Turkey so the harvest of winter wheat could not reach us. We ran out of flour in April and, for two months, my father did not light the oven. However, he had foreseen this and had sealed many loaves of bread into jars and buried them at the back of our room. These, he dug up, one at a time, so we had just a little to eat. The city broke out in celebration when the first winter wheat came in from local fields—but there was still not enough. The mayor dispatched solders to guard our house and ration the few loaves which my father could make those first few days. Then the first grain barge reached the city and the famine was over.

It’s strange, but I may be the oldest Vampire alive. In theory, we are immortal, but most of our kind becomes bored and sick after two or three hundred years and stop feeding. After a few months, they become too weak, their powers decay, and they soon die. A few are killed in accidents, fire will do that, so will some massive injuries. Two of my associates who I knew well were killed in combat during the Second World War. One was a Marine at Guadalcanal, and the other was an officer in a German Panzer Division. I was saddened by their passing, but I knew that they wanted excitement. The promise of combat (along with almost limitless feeding opportunities) led them to their deaths. Very few are caught. No, we can’t be killed by a stake in the heart. If you get that close to one of us, it is you who will die. I love garlic. However, a grenade or machine gun will do it, so will an inferno. As for myself, I guess that it is the legacy of my rather unusual nature which keeps me optimistic. As the song says, “Girls just want to have fun.”

Of my early life, this I do know. In 1661 the Turks moved north from the Balkans. When they reached the Danube, they lay waste to Pest and put Buda under siege. I remember that, while the armies were still a couple of days away, my father sent my older sister and me out of the city to a Convent in the mountains. I remember the walk through rain and sleet. In 1893, I visited the ruins of that place, now just stones on a hillside. It is about 160 km north of Budapest, so it must have taken us several days to walk there. My aunt was a sister there, my father, I guess, hoped that we would be safe. It was four months before the siege was broken by an army from Vienna. However, by that time, I was even less concerned by politics than I had been before.

The convent was a series low wooden buildings around an old stone church. There were 20 nuns in all, about 5 were novices. My sister and I were housed with these. I was assigned to work in the kitchen, I guess because my father was a baker. My sister, because she could read, went to the households around the valley and read The Scriptures to old people and the sick.

The convent was kind of bleak after living in the city. I was the youngest person there and missed my friends greatly. I did not have to work hard, but I did have constant employment. There was also Morning Prayer (before dawn) Morning Mass (after breakfast), Evening Prayer (after dinner, in the mid afternoon), and Vespers (before bed, usually an hour or two after dark). Sundays were spent in strict silence. We were not to say a word after Mass until Morning Prayer on Monday.

The Mother Abbes was remote, she never spoke to me, and she seemed to have a hard face. Later I came to feel that she had a strong faith and, it was with an especially nasty (and unjustified) feeling of spite that I fed upon her. I remember to this day how easily she went; the life flowed out of her like a calm stream. I think she welcomed death. I know that she recognized me; I could see it in her eyes. She almost gave herself up, she did not struggle. Just before I tore into her neck, she had a momentary sad expression. Not for herself, but for me. I think she might have felt that she failed me. At the time, I thought I was just preying on an old defenseless woman, now I think there was more. I have lit more than one candle for her over the years.

At the Church, the serving Rector was Father Demetrius. He will figure greatly in my story, not just because he was the first Vampire I ever met, but because he made me. At the time, I was about 13 years old. This was a sin among Vampires, and, not long after he made me, he died in an inferno. He was executed by his own kind because he had, by making me, brought a risk upon our kind. I hope that I have proven myself to not be a risk.

Minor acts of miscreance can often have great consequences, and, that was never so true as in my story. It started when I stole a roll of bread. Wednesdays were fast days. However, that didn’t mean that the work of the day didn’t have to be done, and, in this case, this included baking the bread for the following day. I was so hungry! The bread smelled so good! I took one of the fresh rolls out of the basket and hid it in my robes. It was warm against my chest, and I could smell it, as I walked across the courtyard to the privy. I couldn’t bring myself to eat in the privy, so I snuck around behind the living quarters and feasted! Nothing ever tasted so good as that hard barley roll. It was later, in my bed, that the weight of my sin started to gnaw at me. By Saturday I was consumed with guilt.

I went into the church to confess prior to Sunday Mass. Father Demetrius sat in a straight chair behind the alter rail. I went to the rail and kneeled.

“Forgive me father, I have committed the most grievous sins.”

“Tell me your sins, child. It is only through the grace of God and absolution which you may be saved,” he responded. His words calmed me. I had heard them for many years, from many different priests.

“Father, I have envied my sister. She gets to leave the convent and visit in the valley. I was also slow to bring a chicken to Sister Olga; instead I played with the chicks. I also dropped and egg while collecting them. But, father, I have committed the most terrible sin, I can’t bring myself.” Tears burst through my closed eyelids.

“Child,” he said, “Jesus loves you and knows your weaknesses. There is nothing you could do that He will not forgive. Tell me your sin, so I may tell you your penitence.”

“Father, I have stolen! I stole a roll from the kitchen last Wednesday.”

“And did you eat this roll?”

“Yes,” I admitted. I had not realized that by stealing and eating the roll I had committed two sins. My throat felt choked.

“So you sinned twice!” he said. “And, what of the missing roll? Did you not take one the following day?”

“Yes Father.” I replied.

“So someone else did not receive their share because you took the roll.”

“Yes Father.” I whimpered.

“And what if that person’s hunger had led them to steal a carrot from the garden? Are you not responsible for their sin also?”

I was overwhelmed with guilt and fear. The act of stealing the roll had never seemed such a crime as it did now. Now, I may be responsible for the damnation of some one else!

“Child, your sins are great. You have stolen from your sisters, you must pay them back. You work in the kitchen, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes”

“You must take upon yourself the additional task of cleaning the chicken coop. That way some other sister may devote more time to prayer and the service of God. Without being asked, or any boasting, you must clean the chicken coops this week. Until you have done this, you cannot receive absolution. Prey that Death may not find you for the next week.”

I was dismissed, still carrying the burden of my sin. The next day, Sister Marie found the chicken coop miraculously clean. When she reported this to the Mother Abbes, she was informed that it was no miracle, just a silly girl. She was told to make sure the coops were clean and report any problems to the Abbes. She was to devote the extra time to prayer.

I doubt that there have never been cleaner chicken coops in Europe. I knew that the only way I was to save my soul, and maybe another’s, was through the act of cleansing the chicken coops. It is ironically metaphoric, isn’t it? That entire week, I was in desperate fear that I would fail in my penitence. I did not dare to think about what would happen to me if I died. It was a squalled and ragged little girl who made her way to the alter rail the following Saturday.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I thought bad things about Sister Margarete when she laughed at me as I was coming in from the chicken coops, and, Father, I have wished the chickens dead!”

“Oh child,” he responded with a laugh in his voice, “is that not what will happen to them anyway? If I remember correctly, I had chicken at dinner.”

I stayed mute, not knowing whether I was forgiven or so lost that even he had contempt for me.

“Mother Abbes tells me that the chicken coops are the cleanest under God’s creation. Child, you have truly shown that you fear God and wish to please Him through your acts. No one can ever be worthy of God’s love, but you truly have tried.”

Now, switching to Latin, he said, “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis. Prey that the Lord finds you worthy of His Grace.”

The weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. I loved God! I loved life! I even loved the chickens! And, I loved Father Demetrius! I was walking on air as I left the church. My labors were no longer a burden. When, two days later, I passed Mother Abbes in the yard, she looked at me with an approving smile.

A couple of days later, I was told by Sister Anna, the sister who was in charge of the kitchen, that I was to go to Father Demetrius’ house. Sister Marta, his housekeeper, was ill and he had asked for me to stand in while she was convalescing. As I was leaving she said something about my having proven my cleaning abilities. My heart raced when I heard the news. I had developed quite a crush on Father, and the thought of being near him excited me. Two days later, Sister Anna died, it looked as if my new work assignment would last as long as I stayed at the Convent.

I enjoyed spending so much time with Father. He became a real person when we were alone. He was funny and considerate. I had never had an adult say “please” and “thank you.” He took me with him on calls, showed me the valley. He showed me a meadow full of flowers and frogs living along the brook. He had me get meals at the convent kitchen. The sisters always gave him large helpings, and I got only the small, burnt bits. But when I got back to the house, Father would always mix our meals, and give me large portions. I had never had so much to eat.

One evening, while reading by a candle, he called me over to him and had me sit on his lap. Then, using a letter he was reading, he showed me the different letters and their sounds. Over the next few weeks, he worked to teach me to read. This was also when our relationship began to move into being more than that of a Father and a child in his parish.

One evening, while I was sitting on his lap, he wrapped an arm around me and pulled me against him. He nuzzled my neck. His cheek felt cold and a shiver ran through me—for some reason I was scared. I felt an evil presence. His breath moved over my neck, it felt cold. Father lifted me off his lap and told me he was going out, I was to put myself to bed after saying my prayers. It was strange, he looked shaken as he left, looking at me with a mixture of sadness and—maybe fear.

I felt scared as I washed and lay down on the couch which served as my bed. The evening was warm, and the shutters were open. The room was well lit with moonlight, and I imagined spirits in the dark places. With difficulty I slept.

I don’t know how long I slept, but light of the moon had moved to the edge of the floor when I was shocked awake by a scream in the village. The sound was a haunting, despairing cry from a woman. It was followed by more yelling, this time men’s voices. I crept from my bed and peered out the window. The village was below the Convent, about a verge* away. One torch was joined by another, then two more. Two of the torches moved away quickly in opposite directions. One of the torches moved toward the convent.

A couple of minutes later, two men came into the yard; I met them at the door.

“Is Father Demetrius up?”

“He is not here Sir. I think you will find him praying in the chapel,” I said.

The men went to the church and went in, the light of their torch joining the low light which had been burning in the chapel. Then three men came out. One was Father, he came to me and said, “Go back to bed child, I will be back soon.” He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, “You will be safe—now.”

His hand was burning hot where he touched me. I looked up at him in shock. His eyes seemed to glow. “You’re safe, go to sleep.”

I went back into the house. It was dark and I knew that I should not light a candle. But, I was frightened and could not bear to lie back down on the sofa. I climbed into Father’s bed and pulled the covers over my head. The bed was soft and warm, it smelled of him. Here I felt safe. After a few minutes, I fell back asleep.

Later, Father came in. When he pulled the covers back and found me, he grunted. Then he slipped into the bed next to me. The night had become cool. He wrapped his arms around me, cuddling me to his chest. He was so warm! So warm I thought he must be feverous. I looked in his face and he gave me a relaxed smile. But his eyes! They seemed to glow with their own light.

In the morning, the town and convent were abuzz about the murder. An old drunk, a drifter who had appeared in the village two weeks ago, had been found dead, his throat slashed. A funeral was held that afternoon, Father Demetrius celebrating, and he was buried. After a couple of days, the hubbub settled down. The murder was blamed on other travelers who had left the village the same night.

Chapter 10

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