Thunder at Twilight

by Frederic Morton

  Princip hesitated. He knew that on St. Vitus Day, June 28 of the year 1389, a Serb hero had penetrated the lines of the conquering Turkish army to stab its generalissimo Sultan Murad to death, thereby establishing the date for the Serbian national holiday. He knew that the appearance of a Habsburg prince on South Slav soil on just that day was a sneer at Serb pride and a second important reason for vengeance. But Princip could not think of still another important reason.

  “There are many reasons,” he said.

  “We do not expect you to know that other special reason,” the black hood said. “Very few people know it. Colonel Apis knows it. The Archduke has a special weapon. He will use it if we let him come to power. He will use the lie of moderation to steal our people’s sympathy. Then he will oppress us doubly. You did not know that?”

  “No,” Princip said.

  “Even in our country the Prime Minister uses the lie of moderation to keep himself in power. Did you know that?”

  “I have heard of it.”

  “Are you ready to fight such liars with all means?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are the three of you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Pause.

  “You may go into the next room.”

  The next room was lit by a single candle on a table draped in black, against walls also draped in black. The candle flickered at three men sitting behind the table in black robes and black hoods. Before them, arranged in a circle around the flame, lay an unsheathed dagger, a skull, a crucifix, a revolver, a bottle with a death’s head label. This was the altar of Smrt ili Zivot, the Bosnian arm of Colonel Apis’s Black Hand.

  The black hood in the middle motioned the three youths to step forward. Line by line he began to recite the oath, which they repeated after him, line by line:

  “I swear by the holiness of the cross . . .”

  “I swear by the preciousness of liberty . . .”

  “I swear by the sun that warms me . . .”

  ”And the earth that nourishes me . . .”

  “I swear by God in heaven . . .”

  “By my ancestors blood . . .”

  “By my honor and my life . . .”

  “As true as I am a Serb and a man . . .”

  “That from this day on until the moment of my death . . .”

  “I shall remain faithful to every law of this organization . . .”

  “I shall be ever ready to sacrifice for it. . .”

  “To suffer for it. . .”

  “To die for it. . .”

  “And I swear to take all its secrets with me to the grave . . .”

  The hooded men rose to their feet. Each man reached into the pocket of his black robe. Each pulled out a little cardboard box. Each box contained a capsule of cyanide. The three hooded methe three little boxes to the three youths. Each of the hooded three embraced each of the youths. Not another word was spoken. The candle was blown out. The three hooded men remained in the dark. The three youths groped toward the door.

  The next morning, on Thursday, May 28, 1914, Princip and his two companions boarded a steamer anchored at a Belgrade dock. They carried small suitcases and wore loose overcoats. Under his coat, each of the three had two bombs tied around his waist. Each also carried a revolver in one trouser pocket, ammunition in a second pocket, and in a third, instantly handy, the capsule of cyanide.

  It was a misty, sleepy day. Slowly the ship began to plow upstream on the river Sava, westward toward Sarajevo.

  22

  EIGHT DAYS LATER, ON JUNE 5, HIS EXCELLENCY JOVAN JOVANOVIC, THE Serbian envoy to Vienna, bowed himself into the gold-on-white rococo of the office of the Habsburg Minister of Finance Leon von Bilinski. For intricate Viennese reasons Bilinski doubled as Minister in charge of the Austrian province of Bosnia-Hercegovina; in that capacity he ushered his visitor to a chair. Bosnia abutted on Serbia, and the visitor had come on a queasy errand.

  After an exchange of courtesies all the more elaborate for the tension between the two countries, Jovanovic ceremonially cleared his throat. It was his duty, he said, to express a certain concern of the Royal Serb Government, namely the forthcoming participation of His Imperial Highness the Archduke Franz Ferdinand at Austrian Army exercises to be held in the Sarajevo area. Since these exercises were to take place in territory adjacent to Serbia and since they coincided with Serbia’s National Day, they might provoke some regrettable actions.

  “Regrettable actions?” the Austrian asked.

  Yes, very regrettable, the Serbian envoy said. Under the circumstances an Austrian Army soldier of the Serb race might be misled into loading his rifle with real bullets to aim it at His Imperial Highness. Therefore the Serbian government earnestly hoped that the Austrian government would want to shift both the time and the place of the maneuvers.

  It was Count von Bilinski’s turn to do some throat-clearing. He replied that, first of all, the police reported peace and quiet in Bosnia, including the Bosnian capital Sarajevo. Furthermore the army exercises would take place nowhere near the Serbian border. Lastly, he had no doubt whatsoever that His Imperial Highness, the Archduke Crown Prince, enjoyed the full loyalty of the entire Austrian Armed Forces. Or did his Excellency have specific information to the contrary?

  The Serbian envoy said, no, he could offer nothing specific. The concern of the Serbian Government simply reflected the general mood of the Serbian people.

  Count von Bilinski gave a civil nod. His Excellency’s remarks, he said, would receive the consideration they deserved. Meanwhile he was grateful to His Excellency for taking the trouble to visit him on such a lovely day. The Serbian envoy, on his part, thanked the Minister for extending him so gracious a reception. And the mendacities of etiquette continued until the gold-on-white doors closed on the encounter.

  Of course the envoy’s visit had been prompted by some quite specific information. It had been relayed to Serbia’s premier Pašić by his Minister of the Interior: A contact at the frontier had reported that on the night from June 1 to June 2 three young men, heavily armed, had been spirited across the river Drina which separated Serbia from Austrian Bosnia.

  The purpose and identity of the youths were not known. Known to the Prime Minister, however, were the ways of the Black Hand. Known, too, was the Archduke’s forthcoming presence in Sarajevo as well as the Black Hand’s motives for turning him into a corpse. Decked out in Serb patriotism, they aimed at sedition against the Serb government. A murder of that enormity would cause an imbroglio convenient for the Black Hand—a chance to seize power.

  Prime Minister Pašić could not idly turn his back while such a scheme moved forward, could not let killers, dispatched by Apis across the Drina River, continue toward the Archduke. He must warn Austria. But the warning must be masked. After all, Apis was still Chief of Serbian Army Intelligence. Pašić had not been able to dislodge that bald monster. By giving Austria specifics about a possible assassination, he might be giving away clues leading to the complicity of a high Serbian official and so incriminate the whole country. Hence a compromise: Pašić instructed his envoy to alert Austria but to omit any genuine details.

  In Vienna Bilinski did as he was done to. He was just as cunning about not telling the truth—just as careful. He told neither the Archduke nor the police nor the army nor Austrian Intelligence about that visit to his office. He, too, had politic reasons.

  Bilinski disliked General Potiorek, the Austrian Military Governor of Bosnia, a Serb-eating hotspur of the General Conrad stripe. If Bilinski passéd on these vague, probably meaningless whispers of the Serb envoy, they would eventually benefit Potiorek. Despite their unreality, Potiorek would use them to vindicate his bias, strengthen his position. This, in turn, would heighten his insolence toward Bilinski who was his nominal superior as Minister in charge of Bosnia. And Potiorek was already insolent enough.

  Potiorek had appropriated a privilege belonging to Bilinski. He, not Bilinski, had made the arrangements for the Archduke’s sojour
n in Bosnia; worse yet, he had then sent the Archduke’s program to all ministries except Bilinski’s. On top of that, Bilinski had not even received an invitation to the state dinner! Why should Bilinski play Potiorek’s intelligence-assistant and feed Potiorek every scrap of information that might or might not be authentic, that might or might not help Potiorek to do his job?

  Bilinski retaliated with his silence. And General Potiorek did his job by his—uninformed—lights. Of the 22,000 troops deployed near Sarajevo for maneuvers, he detailed only an honor guard for the Archduke’s route in the city itself. This was to show that under Potiorek’s govenorship Belgrade’s propaganda had been unable to shake the allegiance of the population to the Crown: His Imperial Highness required no extra protection in Sarajevo.

  But in areas other than security Potiorek launched preparations aplenty. Throughout June telegraph keys kept clicking between Potiorek’s office and the archducal chancellery at Belvedere Palace in Vienna. What wines would His Imperial Highness prefer at various dinners? Would Highness like to approve the seating at all the tables? Did Highness wish to specify menus? As for the horse His Imperial Highness would grace, what would be the best saddle and which the most comfortable stirrup length? And what was Highness’s exact weight, so as to select the proper mount?

  There was a moment, peculiarly enough, when all these questions seemed to be asked in vain.

  That moment had come the day before the Serbian envoy’s visit to Bilinski. On June 4, Franz Joseph received his Heir Apparent in audience. It was the first meeting between uncle and nephew since the older man had recovered from his illness. In contrast to some previous encounters, this one seemed to proceed quite cordially. But after expressing his pleasure at seeing the Emperor so well, the Archduke made a rather unexpected reference to his own health. He had not felt very fit lately, he said. The weather down in Bosnia was bound to be hot in mid-summer. He had been asking himself whether he was in a condition to undertake the journey.

  Franz Joseph looked at Franz Ferdinand. The Archduke appeared to be as robust as ever. A bit curtly the Emperor asked if the purpose of this conversation was to inform him that Franz Ferdinand did not wish to go to the Sarajevo exercises.

  Oh, he did wish to go, Franz Ferdinand said. But he would be grateful if he could bring Sophie along; his wife was always a boost to his constitution.

  The Emperor confessed himself puzzled. After all, he said, Sophie usually came along on maneuvers—Franz Ferdinand needed no special permission for that purpose. Yes, the Archduke said, but what he meant was that with His Majesty’s gracious approval he, Franz Ferdinand, would like to have Sophie with him during the subsequent state visit to Sarajevo itself. Her presence would certainly lighten the burden.

  Franz Joseph was ancient but not slow. He understood what Franz Ferdinand really meant: to make Sophie the Crown Princess at least while the two were in Sarajevo. At her husband’s side she would share all the homage shown to the Crown Prince.

  A tiresome issue, a tiresome audience. “Very well” Franz Joseph said. “If you go, let her go with you everywhere. Now do as you like.”

  That ended Franz Ferdinand’s reluctance about Sarajevo, which had been no reluctance at all but rather a basis for negotiations now successfully concluded. Never mind the old man’s gruffness—it was his consent that mattered. As the Archduke took his leave he kissed the Emperor’s hand heartily as never before.

  Never before—certainly not on Habsburg soil—had Sophie received the ceremonial respect she would soon be shown at Sarajevo. And never before had the Archduke been quite so confident of himself and of his future. The tubercle bacillus was the only assassin he truly feared. Some years earlier he’d asked his personal physician for a hand-written note: “ /, Dr. Viktor Eisenmenger, hereby certify that His Imperial and Royal Highness the Archduke Franz Ferdinand has been entirely cured of tuberculosis and that he will never suffer a relapse again.” When anxious, he would reach for the pocket where he always carried “my life certificate.”

  His staff saw him reach for it much less often in the spring of 1914. His hypochondria was receding. As for bullets or bombs, he had always been a fatalist. “Precautions?” he’d once said to his secretary. “Bodyguards? I put up with them, but that’s all rubbish. We are at all times in God’s hands. Worry paralyzes life.”

  Of course, he was not nearly as philosophical about challenges thrust at him by sworn enemies—the likes of General Conrad or the Emperor’s First Lord Chamberlain Prince Montenuovo. Yet in June the Archduke scented victory even in that arena. He discerned it in the Emperor’s consent on Sophie. He saw it—ever since the Emperor’s illness—in the quality of bows and curtsies greeting him. They seemed less rigid, more spontaneous. He didn’t crave acclaim as the Kaiser did, nor encourage it even indirectly like Franz Joseph. Playacting the Lord Affable was not his forte. He disliked indulging the people unnecessarily because he hated indulging himself (even his hunting mania was a pursuit as relentless on his comfort as it was on the lives of ducks and deer). But now he sensed, if not popularity, a readier acceptance of his imperial destiny.

  23

  FOR THE ARCHDUKE IT WAS A EUPHORIC MONTH. ON SUNDAY, JUNE 7, three days after his audience at the Palace, he attended the Vienna Derby. Last year he’d stayed away. In 1913 the occasion had still been blighted by the Redl spy case. This year the young military elite was back with its dash restored.

  The grandstands swaggered with hussars and dragoons, with kepis and capes, with slim captains blowing smoke rings at baronesses whose smiles were half-shadowed by their saucy hats. Perhaps Redl had never happened. Perhaps the Empire would last. Perhaps it would not rain.

  The day began quite cloudy. But when the future, in the form of the Crown Prince and his consort, entered the Imperial Box, the sun pushed through and the stands burst into applause. Not an overwhelming ovation, it was still a salute livelier than the kind usually tendered to Franz Ferdinand. And who must join it, willy-nilly? Prince Montenuovo in the neighboring box.

  Still more satisfying was the press next morning. It revealed a certain burgeoning of the Archduke’s image. In the coverage of ladies’ fashion at the track, the Duchess of Hohenberg— Franz Ferdinand’s Sophie—took up more space than the Archduchesses. Most reports went on and on about Sophie’s white voile frock with the black sash, her long black jacket brimming with white lace, her black hat with the white visor, topped by black feathers in—regal!—tiara style . . .

  For once, the two left Vienna with pleased faces. Arrived at their Bohemian estate at Konopiste, the Archduke toured his gardens. It was here that he would make a gesture to the populace—his very first. He had decided on it hesitantly some weeks ago. Now he briskly proceeded with its implementation.

  For fifteen years he had been developing at Konopiste the greatest rose garden in Central Europe. This spring he would open its gates to the public at the very height of the blossoming. The people had begun to welcome him as their sovereign-to-be. In return he would welcome them into his pleasance on June 15, from morning to night.

  First, though, he must do some summit politicking over the weekend of June 12. The Kaiser was coming to Konopiste. With this visit, the display of horticulture mattered less than the cultivation of peace.

  Since the occasion centered on Wilhelm, nothing about it was quite calculable, not even his choice in excess of dress. Expecting something martial, the Archduke appeared at the railroad station in the uniform of a Colonel of the 10th Prussian Uhlan Regiment. However, the Kaiser stepped out of the train in a hunting costume he’d overcoutured himself—brass-buttoned green jacket; shining black leather boots aglitter and ajingle with spurs; and the Order of St. Hubertus, patron saint of the chase, hanging from his neck. In Wilhelm’s wake followed Grand Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, the creator of Germany’s huge new navy, as well as Wadl and Hexl, two ferocious dachshunds.

  Tirpitz’s appearance made Vienna’s leading newspaper comment, “How quickly the ravishing fl
oral scent [of the Konopiste garden] can change into the smell of gun powder.” As for Wadl and Hexl, they rushed off into the bushes and emerged dragging between them the body of a beautiful golden pheasant. Their kill was the only such bird in the estate, meant to be admired, not hunted.

  Franz Ferdinand had to shrug off the loss. The point was to concentrate on bigger game, namely détente in Europe. He resolved not to be deterred by von Tirpitz, bristling braid, forked beard, and all. Fortunately no military retinue accompanied Kaiser or admiral. Indeed Wilhelm said that he had brought along “the sailor boy” because, like Franz Ferdinand, Tirpitz was a breeder of roses. And Franz Ferdinand took Wilhelm very firmly at his word: He sent the rose-loving Grand Admiral away on a walk into the vasts of the garden. Then he led Wilhelm to his automobile.

  During long drives through his domain, tête-à-tête in the back seat, Franz Ferdinand presented his case. The argument he’d made in vain three months earlier at Miramare—here he repeated it much more forcibly: that an accommodation was possible, an accommodation was necessary between Vienna and the Serbs; but that it was constantly sabotaged by Budapest. He really must correct, he told his guest, the good impression the Hungarian Premier Tisza had managed to make on the Kaiser. Tisza did not want the Kaiser’s sharp eyes to see how Magyar chauvinism endangered not only Austria but Germany. After all, the Hungarians were a minority even in the Hungarian half of Austria-Hungary. Yet under Tisza they oppressed the Slav majority there, restricted the voting rights of Serbs and Croats, provided only skimpy schooling in the Serbo-Croat tongue. And through Tisza’s influence the Habsburg government refused Serbia access to the Adriatic, refused them even some flea-bitten fishing village of no naval significance. With that, Tisza played right into the hands of the stormy petrels in Belgrade that were always screeching against Austria—and against Germany. Nor was that all. Tisza had begun to tyrannize the Rumanian minority in Hungary. The result? Rumania was being driven away from the Central Powers, away from Austria and Germany, into an alliance with Russia and France. Tisza just kept inflicting absolutely criminal damage. Under normal circumstances he would be disciplined by his King, who was also the Austrian Emperor, Franz Joseph. But there was Franz Joseph’s advanced age and his fragile condition. Firmness like that could no longer be expected from Schönbrunn Palace. But it could be hoped for from Europe’s most dynamic monarch; it could come from the Kaiser, Austria’s trusty ally. Couldn’t Wilhelm knock some sense into Tisza’s head?