Death Waltz in Vienna
A novel by
Thomas Ochiltree
Red Cat Tales
Paperback and Electronic Publishing
Los Angeles
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Death Waltz in Vienna
© 2013 Thomas Ochiltree
All rights reserved.
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Cover Image Artwork: Strauss and Lanner – The Ball, 1906
Charles Wilda (Austrian, 1854-1907). Oil on canvas. Wien Museum Karlsplatz, Vienna, Austria.
Dedicated to the memory of my late father and mother, the finest parents one could imagine, and to my brother Scott for his unfailing love and belief in me.
Prologue
The time: One week in April, 1906
The Place: Vienna, capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire
Captain Ernst von Falkenburg’s friend Captain Ferenc Endrödy was only the second condemned person he had ever known, and Endrödy’s strange status bothered him more than Annie’s ever had, even though Annie had lain in his arms, while Endrödy was just sitting in front of a comfortable fire drinking cognac with him. The reason was that he had been able to read Annie’s fate from every one of the overly fine features of her face, and from the heat of lips warmed by something otherwise terrible than passion. Endrödy, on the other hand, was still the healthy young man von Falkenburg had known since they were cadets together. An irresistible, absurd crime of nature had delivered Annie’s fragile body to the grave, while Endrödy was to be the victim of mere human custom and his own pride. But tuberculosis or suicide, the results would be the same.
Von Falkenburg thought of Annie’s grave, which he had visited only once since her funeral, and what her beauty must have become in the two years since she was buried. There was nothing he could have done to save her, but this business with Endrödy was simply too idiotic to be permitted.
“Unlike civilians,” Endrödy had just said, “we officers must know how to choose death when it is preferable to life.” The remark annoyed von Falkenburg immeasurably.
“Ferenc, that’s empty phrase-making and you know it.”
Endrödy looked both astonished and hurt.
“Ferenc, forgive me,” von Falkenburg added quickly, “I know what a dilemma you’re facing. But you mustn’t allow yourself to be influenced by….”
“The desire to engage in empty phrase-making?”
“If I was tactless, I’m sorry,” von Falkenburg said. “But I don’t take my meaning back. Death rather than dishonor. The only way out for a gentleman. Those are words, Ferenc, but reality is you rotting in a coffin if you go through with this ghastly decision of yours.”
Endrödy looked intently at the warm-colored brandy in his snifter, then inhaled the fumes, but without drinking. Finally, he gazed up at von Falkenburg.
“Look, old man,” he said, “I know you want the best for me, but it’s too late to discuss the subject. Ever since Lichtenberg refused to grant me the extension – and you should have seen the look on his face as he reminded me that gambling debts were debts of honor and as such fell due within twenty-four hours – there has been simply no other way out.”
“You say I don’t understand what death really means? No, I don’t. Who does? But I do know that death is something of which I am very, very afraid.”
Endrödy spoke these last words very quietly.
“But then why…?” von Falkenburg asked, searching for words with which to win an argument he knew was hopelessly lost.
“Do you remember Hanfer?” Endrödy asked. “How he dropped out of sight after having to resign his commission? It was gambling debts that did him in, too. Well, one day I went to pay my respects to a dead aunt – who didn’t leave me anything, by the way – and whom should I meet as undertaker’s assistant but Hanfer? I suppose the undertaker thought that Hanfer’s impeccable accent and manner, and the fact that he was Count von Hanfer, formerly captain with the Sixth Dragoons, added some tone to the business.”
“But,” von Falkenburg countered, “when Hanfer is waiting for a streetcar to take him home to Mariahilf or wherever it is that undertakers’ assistants live, and a good-looking female shop assistant gives him an encouraging glance, perhaps he’s glad he didn’t blow his brains out.”
“Perhaps,” Endrödy said. “We both know how nice those little shop girls can be. Do you remember that wonderful, sentimental little Annie, who had consumption and once told you she didn’t mind only having a few months to live as long as she could spend them with you? But it’s not just a question of balancing the pleasures life can offer against what it must be like to be an undertaker’s assistant or to peddle insurance door-to-door.”
“What then?”
“Guts,” Endrödy said. “How could I ever get used to knowing that I didn’t have the guts to follow the rules? That’s what it comes down to. A gentleman, above all an officer, is supposed to accept death rather than dishonor. If he does not, it’s cowardice. And isn’t it? It I resign my commission in disgrace, and accept the contempt of my peers, all to save my skin like Hanfer did, won’t I being saying to myself that I value my life more than my self-respect?”
Endrödy paused. Von Falkenburg had no answer for him.
“I don’t want to die, Ernst, God knows I don’t,” Endrödy went on. “But if I let Lichtenberg send that letter to the colonel accusing me of having welched on a gambling debt after betting money I didn’t have, I’ll despise myself every day for the rest of my life.”
“And,” he said softly, but with a strange intensity in his voice, “I can’t live with that, Ernst. I just can’t.”
Von Falkenburg looked at the fire. He knew that Endrödy had made what for him, at least, was the only possible decision.
“Ferenc, if it would help I’d give you everything I own.”
“I know you would, Ernst, but it wouldn’t be enough, and I wouldn’t accept it, anyway. Let’s talk about the old times.”
And so they did, until the black of the sky had been replaced in the window by a surly gray.
“It’s getting late,” Endrödy said. “Or rather, early. It’s the morning.”
Von Falkenburg knew what he meant by that. He rose from his chair.
“Servus, Ernst,” Endrödy said.
“Servus, Ferenc,” von Falkenburg replied. “Or perhaps with a Hungarian like you I should say, “Istenhozzád.”
“If I’d had more time, I would have managed to make a Magyar out of you yet,” Endrödy said. “It’s one of my great regrets.”
He smiled as he said that, but through the smile von Falkenburg could see both determination and fear. Von Falkenburg knew that at this moment, one final argument might perhaps sway Endrödy, might enable the fear to win out over the determination. But he also knew the price in self-respect his friend would have to pay if it did. He could not make Endrödy’s decisions for him. He turned and walked out of the door and out of what was left of Endrödy’s existence.
As he stepped into the street from the lobby of Endrödy’s apartment building, von Falkenburg felt the cold and looked up at the leaden sky. What must have been the first streetcar of the line that ran in front of Endrödy’s building came down the street, with a surprisingly large number of people in it for such an earl
y hour. Work-bound people who would be alive that evening and the next morning, too. Von Falkenburg thought he heard the shot over the rumble of the streetcar’s wheels, but he could not be sure.
Chapter One
“Schmidt,” von Falkenburg said as his orderly helped him out of his wet coat, “I’ll want you to take a note to Fräulein Linder in a moment.”
“I report most obediently, but hadn’t I better clean the mud off of the captain’s shoes first?”
Like all orderlies in Austria-Hungary’s kaiserliche und königliche Armee, Schmidt addressed his officer in the third person. That was Regulations. Also like all orderlies in the “Imperial and Royal Army,” he almost always replied to an order with the suggestion that he do something else instead. That was just the way Austro-Hungarian orderlies were.
“Schmidt,” von Falkenburg said with exasperation, “I told you I wanted you to take a letter.” Endrödy’s funeral, carried out in the rain with full military honors (for Endrödy had “done the right thing”) had been an emotionally trying experience for him. He knew that unless he had some female company this evening, he would brood himself into a fit of depression.
“I report most obediently,” Schmidt continued unruffled, “but won’t the colonel be displeased by the mud on the captain’s shoes?”
“The colonel? Why would the colonel be coming here to look at my shoes?”
“I report most obediently, but the captain will be going to the colonel. The colonel’s aide left an order for the captain to report.”
“When am I to report, you idiot?”
“I report most obediently, the captain is to see the colonel at once. It was very urgent, the aide said.”
“Schmidt, you’re an imbecile!” von Falkenburg replied without elaboration. He knew that to try to make his orderly understand that he should report the most important things first – such as an order from the colonel to come at once – rather than append them to something seemingly irrelevant such as a suggestion to clean shoes – was dead hopeless from the start. Von Falkenburg kicked off the shoes, and noted Schmidt’s satisfaction at getting his own way. The sight of his orderly take pride in such a nonsensical triumph took a little of the edge off of von Falkenburg’s bad humor.
A little of the edge, but by no means all. He had consoled himself on the way back from the Central Cemetery with the thought of drying out and relaxing in front of a nice fire before going out with Fritzi. Now he was going to have to change his wet uniform for a dry one instead of a dressing gown, and go see the colonel. Seeing the colonel was always a fatiguing experience, too. The colonel was a stickler for unimportant detail who figured that constantly criticizing his subordinates made them respect him as a determined leader. In von Falkenburg’s opinion, Infantry Regiment No. 4 “Hoch- und Deutschmeister” – the most prestigious infantry regiment in the army – deserved better.
“So do I,” von Falkenburg thought as he hooked shut his uniform tunic’s tight collar with its three stars of captain’s rank. The colonel had demanded that he come at once on urgent business. That probably meant that one of the men in his company had been seen in the streets of Vienna with one of the buttons of his uniform unfastened. Von Falkenburg knew that he had the best company in the regiment. He also knew that what he was proudest of about it – the élan and spirit of his men – was something the colonel was quite incapable of appreciating, or even of noticing, for that matter.
“I report most obediently, the captain’s shoes are ready.”
Even though the shoes were still soaked through, Schmidt had managed to give them a mirror-like shine. Von Falkenburg could see the pride in his orderly’s face, and knew that it was not just pride in having done a good job, but pride in his captain’s appearance that Schmidt felt. A matter of honor for Schmidt. Endrödy had shot himself for honor. Von Falkenburg knew that if he ever gave Schmidt a serious reprimand about the care of his clothes, Schmidt would not shoot himself, but would go out on a drunk instead. That said a lot for the intelligence of the lower classes, as far as von Falkenburg was concerned.
The shoes looked fine, but they were still unpleasantly damp and squishy when he put his feet into them. They should be drying out in front of the fire instead of accompanying him to the colonel’s office. And since his other good pair was at the cobbler’s, he would have to wear soggy shoes when he took Fritzi out tonight. Assuming he got back in time to invite her.
Von Falkenburg cursed the colonel, and then realized that all this heap of petty annoyances that had been dumped on him had momentarily driven Endrödy’s death out of his mind. Suddenly he felt as empty and depressed at the thought that he would never see Endrödy again as he had staring at the mound of mud that now covered his friend in the military section of the Central Cemetery. For the present, at least, it was a bleak world, even though his soggy shoes no longer mattered.
He gazed down at them for Schmidt’s benefit and said, “Schmidt, I’m lucky to have you. You’re a first-class orderly.”
The Rossauer Barracks where the regiment was quartered, and where von Falkenburg had his apartment, had only been constructed a few decades earlier, but had managed to acquire an impressively gloomy atmosphere in that short time. Walking along the building’s echoing, ill-lit corridors did nothing to improve von Falkenburg’s mood.
To von Falkenburg’s surprise there was a major who did not belong to the regiment standing next to the colonel, a major who looked just as grim as the colonel did.
Von Falkenburg saluted, and the colonel introduced him to the major, a Major Becker from Military Intelligence. Von Falkenburg could detect a tension in the atmosphere, an almost palpable feeling of hostility towards himself. He realized that he must be in some kind of fairly serious trouble, but he could not for the life of him imagine why. That business with Hofrat Wanke’s beautiful but hysterical wife had gotten a bit messy, but that was months ago, and besides, the Hofrat would hardly dishonor himself by sneaking around to von Falkenburg’s colonel rather than challenging von Falkenburg to a duel. And what a major from Military Intelligence could be doing here was completely puzzling.
“Major Becker has something he wishes to show you,” the colonel said with a coldness that went well beyond what his unfriendly personality normally had to offer.
The major took a bundle of papers out of a briefcase and handed a sheet to von Falkenburg, who looked uncomprehendingly at the meaningless loops and squiggles that covered it.
“You read Russian, of course?” the major said casually.
“No, in fact I don’t,” von Falkenburg replied, astonished by the implicit assumption of the major that he could.
“Ah, I thought otherwise,” the major said, exchanging a glance with the colonel which seemed to say of von Falkenburg’s denial, “pathetic, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps you could tell me what is written here,” von Falkenburg said coldly. He could see that the major’s question had been intended as a trap of some kind, but his annoyance at being treated this way, and his genuine puzzlement, distracted his attention from the question’s sinister implications.
“I have a translation here,” the major said. “Of course, Russian is much harder to read when it is handwritten than when it is printed.”
Von Falkenburg realized that this seeming concession by Major Becker that he might not be able to read the handwritten document carried with it the implication that he could have read it had it been printed.
“I said I cannot read Russian,” von Falkenburg said, stressing every word and looking the major straight in the eye. “I have good French, fair Italian, and a little Hungarian, but no Russian.”
His stare caused Major Becker to avert his eyes. That was a point gained, and von Falkenburg decided to go for another one.
“Or would you care to suggest, Herr Major, that I was lying just now when I said that?”
A “yes” would mean a challenge and a duel.
“Of course not,” Major Becker said quickly.
> Rarely had von Falkenburg taken a more thorough dislike to someone more quickly. Of course, the colonel should have called the major up short for impugning the honor of the regiment in the person of one of its officers, but clearly no support would be coming from that quarter.
The major handed von Falkenburg a typewritten piece of paper.
“This is a translation of a message from a Russian diplomat in Vienna to the Imperial War Ministry in St. Petersburg,” the major said.
One passage had been underlined in blue pencil, perhaps by the major, since he pointed to it with a gloved finger.
“The redeployment plans for the 5th Dragoons and 23rd and 98th Infantry Regiments are quite a coup,” the passage read. “We hope our source,” it went on, “Captain E. von F., an impoverished nobleman in the 4th I.R., will be able to provide us with other equally interesting items in the future.”
“Typical of the Russians to think writing a name in initials would be adequate cover for their source if the message fell into the wrong hands,” the major said with a tone of indifference which was completely belied by the look of satisfaction and triumph on his lengthy face.
“There are not any other officers in the regiment with your initials, von Falkenburg,” the colonel put in.
The accusation was so unexpected, so outrageous, so false, that for a moment von Falkenburg was not capable of any coherent reaction to it at all.
“Colonel, I cannot believe that you are serious…” he finally managed to say.
“Do I need repeat myself, von Falkenburg?” the colonel asked coldly. “There are no other officers in the regiment with your initials.”
“Nor are there any who could be described as ‘impoverished noblemen,’” von Falkenburg was tempted to reply sarcastically, but discipline and the knowledge that the colonel would probably simply agree with him, made him hold back the words.
“And that is not the most damning evidence against you. We have a witness who has named you personally.”
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