Hitler and the Habsburgs

by James Longo

  Communist regimes collapsed across Europe. The Solidarity Movement in Poland voted the communists out of office. By the end of December, revolution in Rumania ended forty-two years of communist rule there. Cracks in the Iron Curtain made at the Sopron Picnic culminated in the fall of the Berlin Wall, the reunification of Germany, and calls for European unity.

  Temperatures fell to near freezing across Austria the last October of Sophie’s life. The cold weather was a reminder that winter was approaching. She had always tried to live in the present. That fall, after moving into the home of her daughter, she more and more revisited the past. But it was not the past of Adolf Hitler, the Nazis, or the wars that followed Sarajevo. Those memories did not linger in her soul. Nor did the ancient castles and palaces where she once lived. They had become museums, vanished, or were in ruins. Dachau and the other concentration camps where her brothers had been imprisoned were silent and empty. The battlefield in Poland where one of her sons died was overgrown, indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. The Russian gulag where her other son was buried in an unmarked grave had long ago disappeared from maps. Those physical places did not haunt her mind or trouble her sleep. It was the vibrant men and women she loved in life and who loved her who remained alive in her heart. Her grandson said of her:

  My grandmother’s generation had so many losses, so many tragedies, yet they found beauty and laughter and goodness in life, even at the end of her life. She saw nearly everything swept away, but never gave up. I think that generation was sustained by faith and loyalty, a sense of humor, and a deep commitment to family. These were things she inherited from her parents that provided her the resilience to survive. But her faith, her religion remained the single most important thing in her life. She never doubted that one day she would be reunited with all those she loved. Her ability to withstand the insanity of life and still be standing was a miracle rooted in that faith and family.

  There were many anniversaries in Sophie Nostitz-Rieneck’s life. Some she cherished, others were too sad or too painful to relive. October 28 was a day she dreaded. It was the date in 1914 when Gavrilo Princip was convicted of assassinating her parents, and four years later when Czechoslovakia declared its independence from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Eduard Beneš announced his ethnic cleansing policy on October 28, 1945. That was the date Sophie, her family, and millions of other Czechs of German ancestry learned they were to be expelled from their homes. On October 27, 1990, one day before those anniversaries, the eighty-nine-year-old daughter of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the Duchess of Hohenberg died peacefully in her sleep.

  She was not buried at Artstetten Castle with her parents, brothers, and sisters-in-law, but in the family crypt of her son-in-law in the Austrian village of Thannhauser. Sophie and Fritz, her husband of fifty-three years, rested side by side. On the Mass card handed out to family and friends who came to bid her “auf wiedersehen” were two photographs. One was a smiling photo of her surrounded by the flowers she loved. The other was a photo of the Infant of Prague statue found at Our Lady of Victories church in Czechoslovakia. She had selected the prayer and a favorite Bible quote for the card. Taken together, they reflect the life she led. “I am with God. I die, but my love for you will not die. I will love you from heaven as I have on earth… I have fought the good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE DESTINY OF ONE FAMILY

  “From tears of war the daily bread of future generations will grow.”

  —ADOLF HITLER

  “Sarajevo, Konopiste, and the Hitler years cast a longer and longer shadow over him.”

  —PRINCESS SOPHIE HOHENBERG DE POTESTA

  on her father

  “When we see names in history books the people behind the names aren’t real. Yet they were once real and continue to influence us today.”

  —PRINCE GERHARD HOHENBERG

  When Maximilian Hohenberg died in 1962, the title Duke of Hohenberg passed to his oldest son, Franz. He had married Princess Elisabeth, the daughter of the Grand Duchess of Luxembourg, a niece of Empress Zita, in 1956. The brilliant wedding, in Brussels’s thousand-year-old Catholic Cathedral, was attended by family, friends, and royal relations from across Europe. Franz inherited his father’s handsome features, charm, and intelligence; his Aunt Sophie’s love of music and culture; and his Uncle Ernst’s wit, love of nature, and restless hyperactivity. Like the rest of his generation, he also inherited the traumatic legacy of Sarajevo, Adolf Hitler, and a decade of communist occupation.

  Following his father’s death, Franz discovered a family secret he never suspected. Maximilian Hohenberg had been homesick for his childhood home of Konopiste his entire life. Copies of his private correspondence documented his efforts to have something, almost anything of Konopiste, returned to his brother, sister, and himself.

  In 1945, Max thought his prayers might be answered. Artworks stolen by Adolf Hitler from across Europe were discovered in the Alt-Ausee salt mines south of Salzburg. Max had a hunch and carefully followed the story. In addition to Michelangelo’s famous statue of the Madonna of Bruges, Jan van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece, and masterworks by Vermeer, Hitler had also hidden forty cases of artifacts from Konopiste.

  Maximilian wrote dozens of letters to the military officers who later became known as the “Monuments Men.” He pleaded to have family portraits, paintings, photo albums, and books from his mother’s private library returned to him. They were the legacy Franz Ferdinand and the Duchess of Hohenberg meant for their children, and for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren they would never know.

  His words were eloquent and heartfelt, without rancor, bitterness, or self-importance, but they were rejected. Eventually all the Hohenbergs’ treasures found in the Austrian mountains were returned to Czechoslovakia. In 1947, Konopiste was reopened as a museum. In his father’s last will and testament, Maximilian asked his son to do everything in his power to return Konopiste and its artifacts to the family. His father had never mentioned, or even hinted, any of this to anyone during his lifetime. Shocked, even burdened by the request, Franz decided to travel to Czechoslovakia to visit the castle of his father’s dream.

  During the visit, Franz Hohenberg entered a world that his father had always kept from him. It was a past Franz was never again able to escape. When he returned to Austria, he told his brothers, “Now I really don’t understand our father.” He was amazed someone who had lost so much—loving parents, total security, a close-knit family, a home like Konopiste—and had also been arrested, publicly humiliated, and imprisoned in Hitler’s concentration camps could live a life without anger or bitterness. His father never spoke of those losses or scars, but somehow they became rooted in Franz’s own soul. The Konopiste visit changed him. Franz’s youngest daughter, Sophie, explained:

  My father could tell one joke after another. He loved the arts and nature, but he was also sensitive, almost fragile in some ways. As he grew older Sarajevo, Konopiste, and the Hitler years cast a longer and longer shadow over him. He felt if he had experienced the same kind of loses as his own father, he would have crumbled. That reality began to almost haunt him.

  Franz returned to the castle many times. But in 1977, he died of a heart attack before reaching his fiftieth birthday. No member of the next generation of his family had been able to join him there before his untimely death. Following the collapse of communism, Franz’s youngest daughter, Princess Sophie, and her husband, Baron Jean de Potesta, finally visited Konopiste. Although named for her great-aunt who had been born there, she never imagined she would feel anything seeing the house. Years later she reminisced:

  I didn’t expect to be moved. I felt no links to the house. To me it was only a building with bricks and stones, but I was surprised. Love lingered in every room. It could still be felt. It surrounded and embraced you. This was a home, a real family home, a genuine sanctuary for the loving father, mother, and children who o
nce lived there. Even the Nazi murderers and thieves, and Hitler’s blind hatred for our family, could not steal the love from that house.

  Princess Sophie later returned to the Czech castle with her three children. They were near the ages of Franz Ferdinand’s orphans, Sophie, Max, and Ernst, when they had been expelled from the castle. Following that visit, she decided to try to reclaim Konopiste for her family. Years of legal battles in local, national, and international courts resulted in her claims for repatriation of the castle being rejected. But in 2013 she said,

  The fight itself is important. Not necessarily the result. It is important that people know the truth. It is important for others to know what happened, what was done, and how it was done. If I don’t succeed, someone from the next generation will continue because ultimately this is a fight about justice and truth.

  On June 28, 2014, four generations of the Hohenberg family gathered at Austria’s Artstetten Castle. The one hundredth anniversary of the Sarajevo assassinations bought together the descendants of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, his beloved wife, the Duchess of Hohenburg, and their Habsburg cousins. They shared family stories, reminisced, and laughed. Young and old relatives attended a solemn peace Mass at the nearby Basilica of Maria Taferl officiated by their cousin the Cardinal Archbishop of Vienna, Christopher Schönborn.

  The sanctuary of the Basilica holds a memorial to the fallen in the two world wars. If visitors look carefully, they can also find an etching of the Archduke and Duchess of Hohenberg, their heads bowed in prayer, tucked unobtrusively into one of the stained-glass windows. Before the family went their separate ways, prayers were offered for peace, and on behalf of loved ones living and dead. The Hohenbergs gathered not to grieve, but rather to give thanks for the founders of their family and the love that made their lives possible.

  Georg Hohenberg, like his father, Maximilian, an Austrian diplomat, entertained family and guests with tales of his diplomatic adventures. His stories brought good cheer but conjured up more than a few ghosts. When he was stationed in Argentina, he found himself working with pro-Nazi Austrians who had fled there after the war, Austrians who fled the Nazis before the war, and Austrian and Czech cousins who escaped the Nazis during the war. He said it took a Hohenberg to keep all the Austrians in Argentina sorted out.

  Once at a large reception in Venice he found himself standing on a balcony next to a small boy struggling to see over the railing. He lifted him up to share the magnificent view of the Grand Canal. An older woman bolted from the reception, yanked the child from his hands, and quickly vanished among the guests. He couldn’t imagine what she had been thinking until another guest whispered an explanation. The lady was a member of the Serbian royal family. The boy was her son. She must have imagined the grandson of Archduke Franz Ferdinand was about to avenge the Sarajevo assassination by throwing the young Serbian prince from the balcony. Georg confessed he didn’t know whether to feel badly about the woman’s behavior or to laugh. Since he was a Hohenberg, he laughed; but being a diplomat, it was a quiet laugh only he heard.

  A favorite story shared by Gerhard Hohenberg, Georg’s brother, concerned an encounter with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Gerhard was once seated next to the Duchess at a dinner party on the island of Malta. She effortlessly switched from English to German in midsentence when she discovered his identity. Her dress, manners, and jewels were impeccable. He looked across the table at the Duke of Windsor. During his nation’s worst crisis, the Duke had abdicated the throne of England to marry the chattering woman seated next to him.

  Gerhard was struck at how small the former King was, not just in physical stature, but in other ways. He and the Duchess seemed to have spent their adult lives attending parties and avoiding responsibilities. Resting in the nearby harbor, within sight of the dinner party, was the still magnificent British Mediterranean Fleet. At one time every sailor, admiral, and soldier in the British Empire saluted the Duke as Edward VIII by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland, and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, King, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India.

  Captain George Jervis Wood, Maisie Hohenberg’s father, served as the Duke’s personal military aide throughout the Second World War. His stony silence regarding the couple as individuals and as members of the royal family spoke volumes. Others who knew Edward said of the dethroned Prince Charming that he was at his best in the best of times, and at his worst during the worst of times. Gerhard couldn’t help contrast the legacy of the Duke and Duchess’s love story with that of his own family.

  Georg Hohenberg’s last diplomatic posting was as Austria’s Ambassador to the Vatican where he was quickly befriended by Pope John Paul II. The two had much in common. The Pope’s father was a captain in the Austro-Hungarian army who named his son Karel, the Polish version of Karl, after the last Habsburg Emperor. In 2004, the Pope moved the late Emperor one step closer to Catholic sainthood. For his virtuous life and peace efforts to end the First World War, Karl was recognized by the Catholic Church as a “Servant of God.” A crowd of fifty thousand people from across central Europe celebrated the televised event from St. Peter’s Square. Ambassador Hohenberg, his family, and Habsburg cousins were there. Archduke Franz Ferdinand had stood as Karl’s godfather. Following the death of Karl’s dissolute father, he became the guardian of the future Emperor and his younger brother. The founder of the Hohenberg dynasty said at the time, “I will do everything in my power to bring them up as good Christians, Austrians, and Habsburgs.” He succeeded. Looking back on the story of his remarkable family, Ambassador Hohenberg stated:

  It helps to take the long view of history, of justice, and of life. As a retired diplomat, I see things through different eyes. My grandfather Franz Ferdinand struggled throughout his entire life. My parents struggled too. They didn’t accomplish everything they wanted to accomplish. And our generation won’t either, but with the next generation, there is always hope.

  Prince Gerhard Hohenberg, Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s youngest grandson, had the last word on his family’s past, present, and future. Sitting at a small outdoor café in Vienna across a windy street from St. Stephen’s Cathedral, he said:

  Some years ago I visited a dear friend in southern Austria who had recently been widowed. She asked me to stay for lunch and if her grandson might join us. I of course agreed. Throughout the meal the young boy, who was very nice and polite, kept staring at me. He hardly spoke. He just sat there the entire time looking at everything I did. After he left she told me he wanted to see for himself if people like me really still exist. He couldn’t believe he saw the grandson of Franz Ferdinand, someone from the history books who had been killed in 1914. It was very funny. When we see names in history books the people behind the names aren’t real. Yet they were once real and continue to influence us today. People don’t realize that our family still exists, but we do. The history of Austria and the history of our family is a history of real people and real miracles. We have always believed in miracles and will always believe in miracles. We survived Sarajevo and the wars that followed. We survived Hitler and the Nazis, Stalin and the Communists. We survived the twentieth century. How could we not believe in miracles?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing is a solitary activity, but writing nonfiction is a team sport. There have been many people who have shared this journey with me. This is a collective thank you to friends, librarians, historians, archivists, and others in the United States, Austria, Belgium, Bosnia-Herzegovina, England, Luxemburg, and Germany who helped in large and small ways to tell this story.

  The roots of this book began when I was a small boy. My mother introduced to me to Kurt von Schuschnigg, a professor of Political Science at St. Louis University. She told me this quiet, shy man had once been the Chancellor of Austria, was arrested by Adolf Hitler, and then imprisoned in Germany at the Dachau Concentration Camp. I didn’t know what a chancellor or concentration camp was, where Austria or Germany were, or the name Adolf Hitler, but th
at introduction created a lifetime of curiosity and questions. This is where that curiosity led me.

  As a young teacher I visited Dachau in Germany, and Vienna’s Imperial War Museum in Austria. I learned of the 1914 assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the only political assassination to spark a world war. His last words to his dying wife, “Sophie, don’t die, live for our children,” haunted me. I wondered, what became of his orphan children? No one seemed to know.

  I only began to learn the answer to that question in 2007. That year an article in the New York Times titled, “Princess and Heir of Franz Ferdinand Fights to Repeal a Law and Gain a Castle,” caught my attention. I began a correspondence with the Princess, Sophie Hohenberg de Potesta of Luxemburg, the great-granddaughter of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

  In 2011, when I was serving as the Fulbright Chair of the Gender and Women’s Studies Program at Alpen-Adrian University in Klagenfurt, Austria, the Princess and I finally met. She introduced me to her uncle, Prince Gerhard Hohenberg, the youngest living grandson of the Archduke, her cousin Count Fritz Nostitz-Rieneck, and HRH Georg, Duke of Hohneberg. Together they introduced me to other members of the Hohenberg, Nostiz-Rieneck, and Habsburg families. Without them, this book would never have been possible.

  My wife, Mary Jo Harwood, has been with me throughout this long writing and research project. Without her patience and support, there would be no book. Diane Day and Merry Zylstra patiently and loyally read through endless drafts of this story offering invaluable insights, suggestions, and encouragement. Heather Painter in the United States, Germany, and Austria, in English and in German, provided invaluable research, help, and assistance. A special nod to Jeanne Norberg my first editor on my first book who taught me to write, and whose loyalty and friendship saved my life more than once.