The Longest Winter

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘All that? For me? I would have all that and you as well?’ Sophie’s emotion burst into delight. ‘We should not have to live in a garret and exist on dry crusts? Then what is there to be so old-fashioned and practical about? Do you think I want a hundred mansions and a thousand servants? You do not know your Sophie, and I am your Sophie. You saved me from Avriarches and therefore you must claim me. James, do you have feelings and needs and desires? I do.’

  ‘So do I, and they all concern you.’

  She pressed herself close to him, her body trembling.

  ‘Then please propose to me and marry me quickly.’

  ‘You know I must first speak to your father,’ he said, ‘I want your parents to be happy about this.’

  ‘Your responsibility is to make me happy, not my parents. Oh, this is quite frightening. My feelings, I mean. I am already thinking—’

  ‘What are you already thinking?’

  ‘That in between nursing our children I shall be able to sit in the garden and write some poetry. We shall have a little garden too, won’t we? Of course, I should not make that a condition, only a negotiating point—’

  ‘We’ll discuss all that,’ said James with advisable gravity. ‘I think we can work it all out. But I have to go to Sarajevo now. We didn’t net Ferenac. He slipped us. As I know him so well the police think I can help to find him. I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after and I’ll see you then. I must see you then. Doing without you for a day or so is as much as I can manage.’

  Sophie kissed him with warm passion.

  ‘James, saying things like that is much lovelier than kissing my hand.’

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ said Anne. With Carl she was saying au revoir to James as they walked over the sanded drive to the gate. He was going to see the Austrian authorities in Sarajevo, and Major Moeller, hoping for more sport, was accompanying him. Baron von Korvacs, alarmed by the significance of James’s story, had departed for Sarajevo earlier.

  ‘Recently,’ said James, ‘I think I’ve learned to be very careful.’

  ‘I can’t comment on that,’ said Carl, ‘but I think you’re a damned good friend, James. The police have located the Benz, by the way. Found it tucked into some woods this morning.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ James smiled. ‘I’m afraid the Benz slipped my memory a bit.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I really must go now.’

  ‘Find that man quickly,’ said Anne, ‘and come back to us soon. We don’t feel quite complete without you now— Oh, who is that arriving?’

  A cab drew up outside the house. Ludwig stepped out. He smiled and waved. They went out to him as the cabbie unstrapped his luggage.

  ‘Oh, Ludwig, how good to see you,’ said Anne, ‘we can do with you.’

  ‘Managed it earlier than I thought,’ said Ludwig cheerfully. ‘Sent your dear mama a telegram. Hope I’m not unexpected. James. Carl.’ He nodded to each of them in his friendly way.

  ‘Mama didn’t mention it,’ said Anne, ‘but things have been happening. I’ll tell you about them. Oh, thank you for coming.’

  She felt happy as she looked at him. He seemed so debonair, so fresh, so much more the handsome, outgoing man than the dark brooding figures of her nightmare. Ludwig would never hurt her, never consider wrongs could be righted by tossing bombs that would injure the innocent. His eyes were laughing, his smile expressive of his pleasure at seeing her.

  ‘My dear Anne, I’m delighted to be here,’ he said.

  ‘So am I,’ said Anne, ‘and I am going to monopolize you because James has to go to Sarajevo and Sophie is—’ She stopped, glanced at James.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said James.

  Chapter Ten

  Sarajevo. 28 June 1914. Sunshine, bunting, colour, crowds and the Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

  The royal procession of motor cars had begun the journey to the city hall, where an address of welcome was to be given. The archduke and his wife were in the second car, a grey tourer flying the Habsburg pennant. Opposite them sat General Potiorek, Governor of Bosnia. The hood of the car was folded down to permit the cheering Sarajevo citizens a fine view of their distinguished visitors. It also allowed the conspirators to see their target.

  They were seven. Among them were the three on whom the Black Hand pinned their happiest hopes. Cabrinovic, Grabez and Princip. All seven young men were positioned at different points along the Appel Quay, the processional route to the city hall.

  An eighth man, a more independent and vainglorious assassin, sat up in the hills with the brigands of the captured Avriarches. He sat in fuming frustration, but he was not disposed to come down, for a Briton and two Austrian girls had eluded him and his cover was blown. Nor were the brigands disposed to part with him. He was, they said, as much responsible for the capture of their chief as anyone. They would see what happened to Avriarches before letting Boris Ferenac leave them. Since Avriarches was due to be hanged, Boris Ferenac would never know glory, only an unpleasant and premature death.

  Flags waved as the archduke’s motorcade entered the Appel Quay. In truth, the Bosnians were by no means as opposed to Austrian rule as the Serbians wished, and the Moslem population preferred an Austrian administration to the possibility of a Serbian one.

  The conspirator first in line was a youth called Muhamed Mehmedbasic. He had all the hot desire of youth to destroy a tyrant, but not the nerve, and when the archduke’s car drew level with him he did nothing but rigidly gape.

  Cabrinovic, next in line a little farther on, was made of more fiery stuff. He had boasted, and loudly, that all he needed was opportunity. It came. He drew the prepared bomb from his pocket and struck the percussion cap against a lamp post. He took careful aim, the archduke’s colourful helmet an emblazoned 12 o’clock point, and threw the bomb. But the driver of the ducal car had heard the sharp clear sound of percussion cap striking lamp post, and instinctively put his foot hard down on the accelerator as the bomb flew. It landed not in Franz Ferdinand’s lap, it struck his gloved fingers as, seeing it coming, he threw up his hand to protect his wife. Deflected, the bomb hit the folded roof of the tourer and bounced into the road.

  It roared into explosion, injured a dozen spectators and two men and a lady-in-waiting in the following car. The archduke was unhurt, although his wife sustained a minor scratch on her cheek as splinters flew.

  The motorcade stopped. Confusion, loud and clamorous, came out of stunned silence. Cabrinovic, passionate with a sense of failure, swallowed a cyanide tablet. It was impotent from age and did him little harm. He leapt into the river. The water was extremely low and he lay in little more than a trickle. Four men, including a policeman and a plain-clothes detective, went in after him. One or two kicks were aimed at him before they pulled him out and hauled him off to the police station.

  Franz Ferdinand, after making considerate enquiries about the injured, resumed his journey. His car sped past all other conspirators, and even Princip and Grabez were too confused by the sound of the bomb and their ignorance of the consequences to do anything but watch the archduke, very much alive, flash by. At the city hall Franz Ferdinand expressed himself angrily to the mayor, Fehim Effendi Curcic.

  ‘Herr Mayor, one comes here for a visit and is received with bombs. It is outrageous.’

  And having said that he composed himself and requested the mayor to proceed with the loyal address of welcome.

  About this time James and Major Moeller had managed to divorce themselves from the confusion in Appel Quay. They had been looking for Ferenac and the unknown quantity represented by any other men with similar motives to his in mind. The Austrian authorities in Sarajevo had received James’s story with interest, having been alerted by Baron von Korvacs. Uniformed police were everywhere, lining the route, and plain-clothes detectives were wandering keenly about. No one had been able to stop Cabrinovic throwing his bomb, but that did not mean others of his kind should be given the chance. Sarajevo was indignant at the attempt on the archduke’s life, and as th
e police brought order out of confusion the anger continued as a loud buzz.

  ‘Damnably close thing, James,’ said Major Moeller, ‘but it wasn’t your friend Ferenac.’

  ‘No,’ said James.

  ‘Is that it, do you think? An attempt, a miss, and peace for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ said James. It wasn’t his cause, or the major’s, but they felt involved. ‘The fact is I’ve been as uneasy as a woman about it all since I first met Ferenac, and my intuition won’t let it go away. I feel a sense of doom, and that’s an old woman’s feeling.’

  ‘Well, my young friend, apart from Ferenac, who I feel must have done the wiser thing and gone home to his mother,’ said the major, ‘what are we looking for? More people like him? A furtive face, the shape of a bomb, an unshaven desperado or what?’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ said James again, looking around at people standing and people passing.

  ‘Damned if I do, either,’ said the major. ‘Assassins, I suppose, try to look like ordinary people.’

  ‘I wish they’d act like them. I’m at a high time of my life, I’d rather like peace, perfect peace.’

  They began to walk, moving along the Appel Quay near the Lateiner Bridge, then turning into Franz Josef Street, Sarajevo’s elegant shopping thoroughfare. They scanned faces. James felt their search was impossible. Instinctively he was looking for men with the same characteristics as Ferenac, men with secrets in their eyes, dark soulful men. He saw only people, all of whom wore an air of festivity for the day or concern for near tragedy. They were not people who seemed hostile to the formidable archduke, a more far-seeing man than Vienna gave him credit for. Perhaps under the eyes of the Austrian authorities the people of Sarajevo had learned to smile on all the right occasions, or perhaps they felt that Franz Ferdinand was sympathetic to the cause of self-determination for Bosnia. Serbia resented the Austrian occupation of the country, but the Bosnians of Sarajevo had flags and bunting out.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ observed the major, neat in a light grey suit, ‘but the sport’s a little more elusive. By God, I thought the police in Ilidze would never let us go.’

  ‘What do you suppose we’ll get, a reprimand or a reward?’ smiled James.

  The major chuckled and said, ‘Either is worth the sport we had. I’m damned pleased to have made your acquaintance, I must say.’

  ‘Mutual, I assure you,’ said James, scanning more faces, ‘especially when I remember the schnapps.’

  ‘Kept us warm company, what?’

  James looked as an elegant woman passed him. He thought of Sophie, so irresistible in her summer colour and her enterprising little turns of speech. She would always be able to talk him into some things and out of others. Well, he had made up his mind to propose to her, and his only obstacle now would be her parents. They would naturally want Sophie to marry one of her own kind. An aristocrat. Preferably an Austrian aristocrat.

  He moved up and down the street with Major Moeller. It was lined with police and people, for the archduke’s return route would take in Franz Josef Street. That, at least, had been the original intention. But because of Cabrinovic’s bomb attempt this had been changed and the motorcade would proceed straight back along the Appel Quay. The public were not aware of this, nor the police, and so they lined Franz Josef Street in anticipation of seeing the archduke and his wife.

  Major Moeller eyed a lady or two with a gentleman’s interest and a man’s appreciation. It relieved the unrewarding work of trying to spot would-be assassins. James eyed almost everyone he passed, although he realized, Ferenac apart, that he was unlikely to distinguish an anarchist from a municipal clerk. He did not have a policeman’s nose or instinct for such work.

  They heard some cheering, much of it sympathetic. Spectators visibly stirred. The archduke’s procession, led by the mayor’s car, was turning into Franz Josef Street. And Trifko Grabez, one of the three most promising conspirators, had just suffered a complete failure of his nerve. At the first bridge the archduke reached from the city hall, the Kaiser Bridge, Grabez stood in numb incompetence and let the car go by. He retired in a mood of maudlin self-disillusionment.

  James saw the first car, the mayor’s, enter Franz Josef Street. In a moment of confusion the driver had followed the original route, making this right turn instead of taking the rearranged route straight along the Appel Quay. Franz Ferdinand’s car made the same turn in the wake of the mayor’s car, for the archduke’s chauffeur had not been informed of the changed plan. James watched. The royal car was not far away, a uniformed officer standing guard on the running board. He saw the archduke, in plumed helmet and white jacket, his wife in shimmering white by his side. Franz Ferdinand sat in broad, soldierly compactness. His wife, the Duchess of Hohenberg, though still shaken by the bomb incident, was smiling in response to the sympathetic cheers.

  The car suddenly stopped as General Potiorek called the chauffeur’s attention to the fact that a mistake had been made. It was a mistake that was to cost Austria her empire and Europe over eight million lives. The chauffeur began a reverse turn. Outside Schiller’s well-known food shop, on the corner of the street, stood Gavrilo Princip, the last major hope of the Black Hand. The slowly reversing car came directly into line with him. James saw the young man step forward, and his long-lying uneasiness leapt into a full-blooded certainty that tragedy was imminent. He pushed forward but was blocked by spectators and police, and Princip, redeeming the failure of confederates, entered history. At a distance of no more than six feet he drew his revolver and fired twice. The shots were barely heard above the noise of the crowds. Franz Ferdinand, a bullet in his neck, continued to sit majestically and aloofly upright. His wife, a bullet in her stomach, also gave no immediate indication that she had been hit. General Potiorek was certain both shots had missed, since there was this entire absence of reaction from the royal couple. Princip was whirling about in a melee of enraged onlookers, and while this went on a brief examination was made of the apparently unharmed archduke and duchess. Nothing seemed amiss, but Potiorek ordered an immediate return to his official residence. Just as the car turned to proceed over the Lateiner Bridge the archduke’s mouth spilled blood. His wife cried out and sank to her knees. Potiorek, violently alarmed, shouted at the driver to make all possible speed.

  The police pulled Princip out of the hands of citizens threatening to suffocate him or beat him to death. He was manhandled to the station, green with sickness, for he too had swallowed an aged cyanide tablet. He suffered no more than this sickness and some bruises. But Franz Ferdinand and his duchess were both dead half an hour later.

  James and Major Moeller sat long in shock at a café table, silently aware of Sarajevo in panic, sorrow, mortification and anger. Shouts, cries and running people spoke of citizens conducting their own searches for anarchists.

  In Belgrade, Colonel Dimitrijevic received Major Tankosic. The congratulations were sincere and mutual. Major Tankosic went to church later.

  The assassination shocked Austria but did not intimidate her. The emperor, who had survived far greater tragedies, took the demise of Franz Ferdinand almost philosophically. The seven conspirators were rounded up. Under interrogation some of them were unable to conceal the Serbian origins of the plot. Accordingly the Austrian Foreign Minister. Count Berchtold, proceeded on the basis that the Serbian government was implicated.

  Franz Ferdinand and his wife were unobtrusively buried at the dead of a rainy night, leaving Vienna in a state of mourning but not of grief for the unfortunate heir apparent. The archduke had not been one of the most popular Habsburgs. The capital spent one subdued night and then resumed its air of untroubled summer. The new heir, Charles, was a likeable young man with a lovely wife. The emperor much preferred Charles. So what was there to mope about? There were always Habsburgs to spare.

  The soft warm nights were beautiful, the lights radiant, the dance halls full and The Merry Widow playing to packed houses.

 
And the von Korvacs family, having abruptly cut their holiday short, were in residence again at their house in the Salesianergasse.

  Chapter Eleven

  Baron and Baroness von Korvacs had been shocked and grieved by the tragedy of Sarajevo. Back in Vienna they found it hard to hide their feelings, to re-enter the pleasurable diversities of their everyday life, and there was a quietness within the house for several days. Ludwig called after two days, apologizing for intruding on the family at this time but wishing to enquire after the health of Anne and Sophie. He was unable, in fact, to stay away longer from Anne. He had finally discovered it was Anne who engaged his serious affections and, as he had once declared to Sophie, such discovery must be followed by a vigorous pressing of his suit.

  Major Moeller, who had also returned to Vienna, paid a courtesy call after four days. He came to see how the delightful young baronesses were after their shattering experience and to talk to the family again about the fateful moment in Sarajevo, when he and James had been close enough to see the shots fired.

  ‘James always knew that something dreadful was going to happen,’ said Anne.

  ‘He did his best,’ said the major, enjoying an aperitif, ‘he passed on all the information he could to the police in Ilidze and the authorities in Sarajevo. It all pointed to a positive attempt on the archduke’s life, but when rogues and villains are as fanatical as this bunch were, all the vigilance in the world can be set aside by the momentary freakishness of fate. If the archduke’s car hadn’t stopped, if there had been people close to Princip at that time – well, it is all if, if.’

  ‘Poor Franz Ferdinand,’ said Anne, ‘I’m sure he meant to do so well.’

  ‘Infernally hard on the emperor,’ said Carl, ‘he has had damned bad luck at times.’

  ‘He will survive it,’ said the baroness confidently, ‘as he has survived other misfortunes.’