by James Longo
When the Archduke and Duchess returned to Konopiste, they received a long-awaited invitation. Emperor Franz Joseph asked to be introduced to their three children. Franz Ferdinand was to represent the Emperor at an early morning religious service in the Imperial Chapel. He and his family would spend the previous night at the Hofburg Palace. Later that day, twelve-year-old Princess Sophie, ten-year-old Prince Maximilian, and nine-year-old Prince Ernst would be presented to their great-uncle for the first time.
The Emperor had stopped attending cabinet meetings, military maneuvers, and even hunting. It seemed to the Archduke that one more barrier between his family and the throne was being removed. But it had not completely disappeared. Much to their disappointment, the children were not invited to any of the formal morning activities.
The Archduke’s daughter, Sophie, decided to rectify the lack of an invitation. She convinced her governess to allow her to wake her brothers early and lead them to a high empty balcony overlooking the Chapel. From their invisible perch they could secretly watch their father and the ceremonies unobserved, and then silently return to their rooms to prepare for their audience with the Emperor.
Sophie woke her brothers before sunrise and led them in their pajamas through the palace’s dark hallways to the balcony. There they could see, but not be seen by anyone. Loud organ music, Latin prayers, the smell of incense and candles, and the angelic voices of the Vienna Boys Choir masked their whispered squeals of delight as they spied on their father below.
Their bird’s-eye view and the clandestine nature of their adventure made for a magical memory. At its conclusion, the children softly tiptoed from their hidden vantage point and gently closed the balcony’s heavy wooden door, only to be confronted by the muffled sounds of approaching footsteps. A stooped, ghostly figure raised his bowed head and slowly emerged from the shadows. They recognized the wizened face from a thousand portraits. It was Emperor Franz Joseph himself.
Sophie, Maximilian, and Ernst screamed and ran all the way back to their rooms. They failed to mention the early morning encounter to their parents. As the time approached for their scheduled audience with the Emperor, the young Princess later remembered feeling faint from anticipation and fear.
She, her brothers, her oblivious mother, and stately father slowly climbed the palace’s grand staircase and entered the white and gold antechamber room. There they nervously waited under the eyes of brilliantly uniformed guards with ceremonial swords drawn. When Sophie entered the audience room, she found her great-uncle had been transformed. No longer the gray old man she had seen shuffling down the dark hall hours earlier, he had become His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty by God’s Grace, Emperor of Austria, King of Hungary, and dozens of other titles she could no longer remember.
Franz Joseph knew how to impress and intimidate. He stood as erect as a young military cadet wearing the imposing uniform of an Austrian Field Marshal. His blue tunic perfectly matched his pale blue eyes. With his steel-straight posture, white hair, trademark handlebar mustache, and starched black trousers with red stripes, he looked like God himself.
The Duchess of Hohenberg curtsied. The Archduke bowed and formally introduced each of his children. The Emperor paused momentarily. In a firm but quizzical voice he said, “But we have already met this morning.” Franz Ferdinand’s masked composure briefly twisted in confusion, and then froze when the Emperor asked, “Why are your children afraid of me?” The awkward silence was broken when the Archduke’s daughter bravely stepped forward. After a deep breath, she carefully explained their earlier meeting in the logical parsed words of a twelve-year-old girl.
The Emperor tilted his head forward. He listened intently to her answer, and then for the briefest of moments, slightly smiled. For an instant, he almost seemed human. In the years to come, Franz Ferdinand’s children laughed many times over their scheduled and unscheduled imperial audiences with their great-uncle. A gentle touch from her mother on her lamb broach and their father’s sense of humor saved them from punishment. If their father had lived, the Hofburg Palace would have become their home, but they never spent another night in the Imperial Palace.
That January, Adolf Hitler had his own less pleasant encounter with the Habsburg bureaucracy. The Munich police notified Linz authorities that the army deserter they were searching for was in their city. His flight from Vienna failed to protect the Austrian draft dodger. The long arm of Emperor Franz Joseph’s “inseparable and indivisible” army had traced him to Germany. A highly agitated Hitler was promptly arrested and charged with “residing outside of Austria with the object of evading military service.” He was ordered to return to Austria at once.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FATE
“I know I shall soon be murdered.”
—ARCHDUKE FRANZ FERDINAND
“Every step of the archducal pair was playing with fire… a virtual challenge to fate.”
—MILITARY AIDE of Franz Ferdinand at Sarajevo
“I still believe that the world lost a great deal by my not being able to go to the academy and learn the craft of painting. Or did fate reserve me to some other purpose?”
—ADOLF HITLER
Despite his genuine fear and dread, it did not take long for Adolf Hitler to regain his composure, confidence, and arrogance. Within a day of his arrest, he requested a meeting with the Austrian Consul-General in Munich. He then composed a three-page letter to the Linz Municipal Council boldly pleading his case:
With regard to my failure to report for military service in the Autumn of 1909, I must say that this was for me an endlessly bitter time. I was then a young man without experience, receiving no financial assistance from others, let alone beg for it. Without support, compelled to depend on my own efforts, I earned only a few crowns and often only a few cents for my labors, and it was often insufficient to pay for a night’s lodging. For two long years I had no other mistress than sorrow and need, no other companion than eternally unsatisfied hunger. I never knew the word youth. Even today, five years later, I have the scars of blisters on my fingers, hands, and feet. And yet I cannot remember those days without a certain pleasure, now that these vexations have been surmounted. In spite of great want, amid often dubious surroundings, I never-the-less kept my name clean, and a blameless record with the law, and possessed a clear conscience—except for that one constantly remembered fact that I failed to register for military service. This is the one thing which I fell responsible for. It would seem that a moderate fine would be ample penance, and of course I would pay the fine willingly.
Hitler’s chameleon ability to package himself for his audience was evident not only in his letter, but in an accompanying letter of support he received following the meeting in Munich with the Austrian Consul-General. The Habsburg civil servant wrote, “Hitler seems very deserving of considerate treatment… in view of the circumstances and the man’s poverty, you should see fit to allow him to report in Salzburg.”
The Consul-General’s successful plea saved Hitler the humiliation of returning to his hometown in police custody. His meeting on the 5th of February 1914 in the fairy-tale city of music and Mozart ended happily for him. The physical examination declared Hitler “unfit for combatant and auxiliary duties, too weak, and unable to bear arms.” He was free to return to his adopted country of Germany where he was certain destiny waited for him.
When he returned to Munich, he learned that Rudolf Häusler had moved out of the room they shared. Häusler had suffered enough sleepless nights caused by Hitler’s endless speeches and political rants. Alone again, with the study of art and architecture closed to him, a restless Adolf Hitler searched for another purpose in life, and a new audience.
Franz Ferdinand’s own efforts at self-promotion were rewarded in a human-interest story printed in the London Times. England’s most influential newspaper portrayed the Archduke and Duchess as untraditional representatives of their social class and royal position. Whenever he was home, the
Habsburg heir to the throne began and ended each day in the children’s nursery. He seemed happiest playing on the floor with his small sons and daughter. Sophie’s custom of personally caring for her children when they were ill, and tucking them in at night, was another peculiarity highlighted in the article. One of their few Habsburg allies, Crown Prince Rudolph’s widow, Stephanie, was not surprised such simple gestures merited newspaper coverage. She sadly observed, “It was the fashion at that time to despise the joys of family life.”
In March 1914, the Hohenbergs returned to a favorite holiday destination, Miramar Castle on the Adriatic. Even today the castle clings precariously to jagged cliffs that seem to thrust the palace into the sea. It had been built fifty years earlier by Franz Ferdinand’s uncle Maximilian Habsburg. In 1864, he and his wife, Charlotte, sailed from its dock to become the Emperor and Empress of Mexico. Three years later, their hopes for a Mexican Empire ended with his death before a firing squad and Charlotte’s insanity. Every room of the white-walled castle’s heavy gothic interior held some memory of the doomed couple. The Archduke’s son Maximilian was named for the dead uncle he never met. Despite its tragic history, to Franz Ferdinand’s family, Miramar was a world of delights. The Duchess of Hohenberg celebrated her forty-sixth—and final—birthday there.
Days were spent swimming in the bracing waters and sailing until sunset. At night the children navigated Miramar’s large rooms, massive staircases, and dark hallways with pocket electric lights since the castle had no electricity. Time was set aside to motor along the coast to enjoy picnics overlooking the sea. The Archduke’s military aide warned him of the security risk, but he only laughed and told him, “I’m sure you have a point, but we can’t live our lives under glass. Our lives are always in danger. We must simply trust God.”
German Emperor Wilhelm II visited them at Miramar. He sailed to the castle in a small launch from his sleek royal yacht Meteor. Two German battle cruisers, much of the Austrian navy, and the city of Trieste served as his backdrop. Ship cannons fired, bells loudly rung, and whistles shrilly piped as he swaggered onto the castle’s dock. The Emperor’s entourage included German and Austrian admirals, numerous attendants, and his pet dachshunds, Wadl and Hexl. He confided to the shocked Hohenberg children that he preferred traveling with his dogs rather than his family. Despite his unusual choice of traveling companions, his fixation for changing military uniforms throughout the day, and his loud personality, he treated the Archduke’s wife and children very well. Franz Ferdinand’s daughter, Sophie, remembered that as far as emperors went, he seemed very nice. Wilhelm promised to visit them again at Konopiste that June.
Summer was family time for the Archduke and his family. Only military maneuvers in Bosnia following Wilhelm’s June visit clouded their plans. The previous August, Emperor Franz Joseph appointed Franz Ferdinand Inspector of the Army, a post that had been vacant for eighteen years. Among his new responsibilities was the trip to Bosnia, a notoriously warm Balkan province he never wanted as part of the Empire.
Like the weather, Bosnia-Herzegovina’s heated political situation may have also been on his mind. The provinces shared a long border with Serbia, a hotbed of state-sponsored terrorism and terrorists. The Serbs, oppressed by centuries of foreign domination, did little to hide their hatred of the Habsburgs or their resentment of their expansion into the Balkans. That spring during a visit to Vienna, Franz Ferdinand invited his nephew Archduke Karl and Zita to dinner. Archduchess Zita never forgot the evening, which she described years later:
At the beginning of May 1914, my husband and I were in Vienna and Uncle Franz rang up one evening asking us to come over to Belvedere Palace for supper. It was just a small family affair with us as the only guests. Everything passed off normally—indeed quite gaily—until after supper, when Aunt Sophie took the children off to bed. Once she left the room, the Archduke suddenly turned to my husband and said, “I have something to tell you but I must say it quickly as I don’t want your Aunt to hear any of this. I know I shall soon be murdered. In this desk are papers that concern you. When it happens, take them, they are for you.”
Zita’s husband protested that surely this must be some kind of a terrible joke, but the Archduke reminded them. “The crypt at Artstetten is finished now. That is where I am to be buried.” At that point the Duchess returned, and the conversation abruptly ended. Karl and Zita were never alone again with Franz Ferdinand to ask him further questions.
That June, the most beautiful in many people’s memory, five hundred acres of Konopiste’s roses bloomed in time for the German Emperor’s visit. In addition to his dachshunds, Wilhelm brought with him Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, founder of Germany’s navy. Ever since Franz Ferdinand’s cruise around the world as a young man, he loved the sea, and the Admiral loved roses. The Archduke personally escorted Emperor and Admiral to the castle’s largest bathroom. It was from that room’s high window that he proudly showed them his favorite view of his rose garden.
The Hohenberg children always shared meals with their mother and father, unless their parents hosted a formal dinner. On those occasions they would meet their parents’ guests, and then disappear to dine with their tutor. On the special occasion of Wilhelm II’s visit, following a day enjoying the heavily scented roses, gentle breezes, and glorious weather, the Archduke’s nearly thirteen-year-old daughter, Sophie, received a special invitation. She was allowed to join the adults at the Emperor’s farewell dinner. Wilhelm took the Duchess of Hohenberg’s arm and the Archduke extended his own arm to his proud daughter. They walked into the dining room followed by the Admiral and two dozen guests. The only other family member present was the Duchess’s sister Henrietta Chotek, the favorite relative of all the Hohenbergs.
Everyone was dressed in the finest suits, gowns, and uniforms. A nine-course meal furnished from Konopiste’s own gardens and hunting preserves; the German Emperor’s raucous voice; the Archduke’s basso profundo laugh; the hum, flow, and rhythm of the music; and the murmured conversations of friends and neighbors made it a dreamlike evening.
Princess Sophie Hohenberg later remembered every exquisite detail of the night. Even in its midst she wished she could stop time, but she couldn’t. Wilhelm II, Admiral Tirpitz, and the Emperor’s two dachshunds were soon on their way back to Berlin. The first grown-up dinner party she shared with her parents would also be her last. The Archduke and Duchess would leave for Bosnia in a few days.
That spring Serbian nationalists, terrorists, and anarchists as far away as Chicago were informed of the Archduke’s trip to Sarajevo, the capital city of Bosnia. How they learned of his journey before it was publicly announced in Vienna has never been determined. One Serbian newspaper wrote, “If the heir to the throne goes to Bosnia we will make sure he pays for it. … Serbs, make use of every available weapon; daggers, guns, bombs, and dynamite. Revenge is sacred; death to the Habsburg dynasty.”
Anti-Austrian propaganda in the Balkans never seemed more violent than in the weeks prior to the Archduke’s visit. Pamphlets passed out at Christian Orthodox churches denounced the Catholic Duchess of Hohenberg in words and cartoons as “a monstrous Bohemian whore.” Bold headlines read, “Down with the Este’ dog and the filthy Bohemian sow!” Assassination rumors became a favorite topic of conversation in Balkan coffeehouses. Austrian counterintelligence agents sat cheek-by-jowl with known and unknown terrorists; yet they reported no unusual activities or need for special security during the Archduke’s trip.
On the day Franz Ferdinand left Konopiste, he seemed unusually quiet, even depressed. That morning he handed the keys of his Belvedere Palace desk to Franz Janacek, his onetime valet who now managed the estate. He instructed him to give the keys to his nephew Karl if he did not return.
Janacek had been in service to the Archduke for many years, but he was much more than a servant or Konopiste’s overseer. He was the Archduke’s shadow, a trusted confidant; the first person to hold Princess Sophie in his arms following her 1901
birth. Franz Ferdinand surprised Janacek that day with a gold watch for his years of loyalty and discretion. He then surprised him with a personal request asking him to stay with his wife and children if anything happened to him. Janacek quickly agreed.
Chlumetz, the Archduke’s other estate in Bohemia, was where the Hohenberg family spent their final days before Sarajevo. His son Maximilian was taking school exams in nearby Vienna. The family’s last morning together was like a thousand others. They attended early Mass and shared a light breakfast together. Franz Ferdinand took eleven-year-old Max for a long drive through the grounds. Princess Sophie and Prince Ernst spent a quiet morning with their mother. Nothing was remarkable about the day, except there would never be another like it.
At the noontime meal, no one mentioned the trip to Bosnia until suddenly the Archduke blurted out, “I am the Inspector General of the Austro-Hungarian armed forces! I must go to Sarajevo. The soldiers would never understand my absence.” He seemed to be arguing with himself. Uncomfortable silence followed. After an awkward moment, his dark mood lifted and the meal continued.
Only later did the children learn their parents had been reluctant to undertake the journey. Franz Ferdinand told a friend, “This thing is no particular secret. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are some Serbian bullets waiting for me.” Privately he did not fear for his own life, but worried about leaving his children fatherless. The Duchess confided her own fears to her chaplain, concluding with the words, “If there is any danger, my place is at my husband’s side.” A Konopiste neighbor later wrote, “I think in her mind the poor woman foresaw the catastrophe a hundred times.”
More than once the Archduke threatened to cancel the trip. His military aide Baron Albert von Margutti later wrote. “The whole trip appalled him from beginning to end.” Maneuvers were traditionally scheduled to prepare the army for deployment in a time of war. But the troops in Bosnia had already successfully mobilized twice and performed well during recent crises in the region.