The Assassins

by Alan Bardos

  The controversy eventually died down but malicious gossip continued, inspired by Isabella's vilification of Sophie as an ambitious schemer who'd bagged the most eligible bachelor in the Monarchy. At court, protocol dictated that Sophie's birth ranked her lower than the youngest Archduchess. She couldn't accompany Franz Ferdinand on any official task within the Empire, be that sitting at the top table with him at state banquets, escorting him to official balls or even driving in court carriages together.

  These ceremonial rules and protocols of court were zealously enforced by the court underlings, led by the High Court Chamberlain, Prince Montenuovo, whose own father had been made legitimate by a Morganatic union. Nonetheless, Montenuovo did all he could to make things impossible for Sophie. Franz Ferdinand hated him with a vengeance.

  It was as a result of these medieval rituals, inherited from the Spanish Habsburg Court, that they'd arrived at the palace separately. He was in a 'golden' court carriage and she in an ordinary one, reserved for ladies in waiting. The absurdity was breathtaking and it infuriated Franz Ferdinand to see her treated in such a way.

  Sophie bore it all stoically and in spite of the indignities they'd been very happy for the fourteen years of their marriage and had three healthy children. She was currently more concerned about an item on his summer programme.

  'Franzi, are you still expected to observe the manoeuvres in Bosnia?'

  'Nothing was discussed today, but now my uncle's health is improving...' Franz Ferdinand shrugged.

  'It's your health I'm concerned about. The summer heat in Bosnia is unbearable.'

  'My wife, my doctor, my advisor - my entire happiness. It's my duty to go.' The Emperor had recently made Franz Ferdinand Inspector General of the Army, partly to keep him out of the way and partly to help prepare him to become Emperor, but the post offered him very little opportunity to do anything. What chance he had, he felt honour bound to take.

  'Is it safe? The people didn't exactly give you a rousing welcome when you visited Herzegovina and Dubrovnik.'

  Franz Ferdinand turned away; he didn’t want Sophie to see the anger in his eyes. The memory of all of the faces, staring at him in silence eight years previously, still galled him.

  'And there have been threats.'

  'Threats are an occupational hazard, but it might be as well not to tempt fate.' Franz Ferdinand had already been subject to a number of assassination plots. He'd postponed his last visit to Bosnia in 1910, at the recommendation of his advisors, who feared a Serb ambush. Franz Ferdinand was reminded of the time he’d been in the King of Spain’s wedding procession, when an anarchist threw a bomb at the King’s carriage, narrowly missing him.

  'I'll speak to the Emperor,' he said.

  'If you're expected to go to Bosnia then I must accompany you.'

  'You know as well as I do, Sopherl, that it is dependent on the Emperor's permission. The protocols are quite clear.’

  'With a woman at your side it is unlikely that anyone would attempt anything for fear of killing me,' Sophie said firmly.

  Chapter 10

  Gavrilo Princip put down the postcard he was writing to watch the river Drina meander along the shoreline of Koviljaca. He felt a deep spiritual affinity with this stretch of river. It was a powerful emblem of his people’s struggle for freedom. A hundred years ago the whole area had been at the centre of resistance against Turkish rule.

  Gavrilo, Trifko and Nedjo had left Belgrade on Ascension Day, 28th of May. Following Ciganovic's instructions, they'd taken the steamer to Sabac and from there they'd been directed on to Loznica, where they’d met with Captain Prvanovic, a frontier guard who’d told them to come back the next day when he'd arrange their crossing into Bosnia.

  Koviljaca wasn't far, so they'd decided to rest on the border between the free Serbs and the oppressed. Gavrilo was starting to feel the symbolic weight of the journey and the responsibility for what he was trying to accomplish. It wasn't a responsibility Nedjo had chosen to share. Koviljaca was a holiday town and Nedjo was in full holiday mood. Forgetting the oath they had made, he chatted to all and sundry and was even going to show an acquaintance he’d met the bombs tied around his waist.

  Gavrilo and Trifko had managed to get Nedjo away before he gave the game away, but there had been an ugly scene. Tension still rippled between the three of them as they sat by the Drina, writing their postcards. Gavrilo saw this as an excellent opportunity to misdirect anyone who might be tracking them through their mail. He picked up his postcard and continued to write the note he was sending his cousin, telling him that he was on his way to a monastery to study.

  'Gavro, would you like to add your greeting?' Nedjo handed him a postcard, waving the peace offering. 'It's for Vukosava.' Gavrilo warmed at the memory of Nedjo's clever sister and took the card, easing the anger he felt towards his friend.

  Gavrilo scanned through Nedjo's words and flushed. Evidently Nedjo had felt the same sense of nostalgia that Gavrilo had at being in Koviljaca - but none of the responsibility. Nedjo had written out the lines of a poem commemorating the Serb heroes who'd fought the Turks here. It would be a clear indication to anyone who intercepted the postcard that Nedjo intended to become a Serb hero himself.

  Gavrilo had had enough and showed the postcard to Trifko with a stern look. Trifko nodded his agreement; they both knew what had to be done for the good of their mission. Gavrilo tried to calm himself and spoke as quietly as he could. 'Nedjo, we're not meant to draw attention to ourselves, and what do you do?'

  Trifko grabbed Nedjo's belt, exposing the two flask shaped bombs he'd tied to it, and said, 'You try to show off your weapons to the first person you meet.' Gavrilo was glad to have the big man with him for the confrontation.

  Nedjo tried to shove Trifko back, infuriated. 'He was an ex-Partisan and a friend!' he shouted.

  'You were going to tell him our purpose,' Gavrilo said. He was angry with himself for trusting someone so unreliable.

  'You know the man. He's one of us,' Nedjo retorted. He plainly couldn’t understand what he'd done wrong.

  'What your enemy should not know, do not tell, even to your friends,' Gavrilo said. It was one of the first things he'd learnt. 'The gendarme you were gossiping with on the ferry was not one of us,' he added. Nedjo had flouted his oath and endangered the mission from the very beginning, striking up a conversation with a policeman he’d met on the steamer from Belgrade. Gavrilo cringed at the memory.

  'A true Serbian hero does not skulk from his enemies, like a dog,' Nedjo said.

  'A hero does not signal his purpose to his enemies on postcards!' Gavrilo rammed the postcard back into Nedjo's hand.

  'A few lines of poetry to my sister,' Nedjo explained, exasperated.

  Gavrilo saw that there was no talking reason to him. Nedjo was a liability and they had to get rid of him. 'We think it would be better if you travelled separately - otherwise you'll wreck everything.'

  'But you cannot mean it?' Nedjo was stunned.

  'Give us your weapons. You can't be trusted with them and they will only implicate you the next time you open your mouth,' Gavrilo said, as forcefully as he could.

  Trifko stepped closer and handed Nedjo his student registration card, adding his physical presence to Gavrilo's order. 'Here, you can use this to cross the border legally, without arms, and meet us in Tuzla.' Broken, Nedjo untied the bombs from his belt.

  Gavrilo fought to keep up with Trifko as they hurried through Tuzla. He was exhausted from the journey; they'd been travelling at night, roughing it across country through appalling weather. He'd hardly eaten or slept in days and fatigue was starting to play on his nerves.

  They'd been smuggled across the Drina into Austro-Hungarian territory without official papers, making them vulnerable to police checks and while being passed from safe house to safe house it had proved impossible to keep their weapons or purpose a secret from the peasants helping them.

  Gavrilo had resolved to follow Ciganovic's suggestion and hand their wea
pons over to Jovanovic, the merchant in Tuzla who Cigo had said would transport the weapons to Sarajevo for them. A local teacher in the underground had arranged a meeting for them and they'd gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to tidy themselves up before entering the city, not wanting to run the risk of being charged as vagrants.

  Misko Jovanovic had been extremely distressed by their request and refused to take the weapons into Sarajevo. After some cajoling, Gavrilo had eventually persuaded him to look after the weapons until someone could collect them.

  Gavrilo was relieved to have dumped his burden but he still felt edgy as he and Trifko neared the station. He saw a uniformed figure approaching and pulled Trifko into a side street. He’d already been recognised by an old schoolmate and didn't want to be seen by anyone who might know his political views and wonder why he was in the city.

  'It's too dangerous to go straight to the station,' Gavrilo said. He knew they could be subject to spot checks while they waited for the train.

  Trifko looked around nervously. 'We can go to the tavern near the station,' he suggested. Gavrilo agreed that would be as safe a place as any to try and stay out of sight. They both knew the city well from their school days and proceeded without further discussion.

  Things could have been so different, Gavrilo reflected - but for new underwear he would be one of the very people he thought to avoid. Gavrilo's elder brother, Jovo, had been able to exploit the opportunities presented by their new Austrian masters, setting up his own business hauling lumber. Jovo hoped to give Gavrilo a similar opportunity when he left primary school at thirteen. He encouraged their parents to send Gavrilo to military school in Sarajevo, a good prospect for a peasant's son.

  On the way, his brother decided to buy Gavrilo new undergarments, so that the poor boy from the villages wouldn't be disgraced as an officer cadet. The shopkeeper, an old family friend, advised Jovo not to send Gavrilo to be a persecutor of his own people. He said that the Merchants’ School in Sarajevo would be a quicker way to make a profit and bring bread. His brother, ever the entrepreneur, agreed. Changing Gavrilo's fate forever, he found him lodgings in Sarajevo and enrolled him in the Merchants' School.

  The three years that Gavrilo spent in the Merchants’ School, supposedly learning to be a capitalist, became his initiation into a new world of ideas and poetry, nationalism and anarchism. His eyes were opened to the suffering of his people and he knew that he must act to change things.

  The meaninglessness of studying to be a merchant became too much and he implored Jovo to send him to the classical high school in Tuzla. Jovo eventually agreed, seeing it as an opportunity for his intelligent brother to enter a profession.

  Trifko jabbed Gavrilo in the ribs sharply, interrupting his introspection. They'd reached the tavern and Trifko had spotted danger through the window. Nedjo was sitting inside making a spectacle of himself with a middle-aged man; from what Gavrilo could tell he was boasting about his success with the local women.

  'I think we should continue to travel separately,' Trifko urged.

  Gavrilo agreed. It would be too risky to meet Nedjo and they went straight on to the station. Gavrilo was glad to be leaving the city. He'd been a restless spirit during his time at school in Tuzla. He was badly treated by his teachers and missed classes, preferring to read and spend time with the other radical students. He’d eventually transferred to Sarajevo High School to avoid expulsion and joined the front line of nationalist protest.

  *

  Nedjo finally gave up on Gavrilo and Trifko and took the train from Tuzla on his own. They'd evidently decided to travel on to Sarajevo without him, thinking him unworthy or too dangerous to travel with, but Nedjo knew he would still get the opportunity to show himself to be a hero of his people.

  He didn’t doubt that he'd find Gavrilo in Sarajevo. Trifko was going to his family in Pale, but Gavrilo was staying at his usual lodgings in the old town. They had much to discuss and organise; the newspaper clipping hadn't told them the date of the tyrant's visit or what he would be doing in Sarajevo.

  Nedjo watched the familiar forests rush past his window, as the train carried him home to his family. He felt in good spirits, as he’d had an easy journey into Bosnia, using Trifko's documents, and without the encumbrance of the weapons he'd been able to travel freely and enjoy the hospitality of friends and family. Any resentment he felt towards Gavrilo and Trifko had been soothed by Jela, a generous girl he’d met in Tuzla, who had provided his food and lodgings while he waited. Nedjo grinned as he thought of how he would promenade her through Sarajevo.

  'Nedeljko Cabrinovic.' Nedjo looked up with a start. Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed the train stop in Doboj and now he was being confronted by two police detectives who'd just got on.

  'Detective Vila - hello again,' Nedjo grinned. He had bumped into Vila at the tavern while he'd been waiting for Trifko and Gavrilo.

  'Do you mind if we sit with you?'

  'Yes, please join me.'

  The two men sat down opposite him and began to chat amiably. Nedjo was well acquainted with Ivo Vila, who was a frequent visitor at his father’s cafe.

  'I thought I'd see you again,' Detective Vila said good-naturedly as the train began to slowly judder forward. They'd had a meal at the tavern, before Vila went off to meet his colleague and finish some formalities.

  'Did you manage to get your business concluded?' Nedjo asked.

  'Oh yes, just student idealists causing trouble about some play or some such nonsense. They're nicely locked up in Tuzla jail now,' Vila said winking. Nedjo flinched, wondering if the detective was familiar with his politics. 'I’m sure we didn’t have as much fun as you did. Still daydreaming about that girl?'

  'She is a relative, helping me while I look for work,' Nedjo said. He'd had to tell Vila something during the meal as he didn't want to dishonour the girl’s reputation.

  'I'm sure she was very helpful. I take it you didn't find work in Tuzla. You're a printer aren’t you?'

  'That’s right. Hopefully, I'll have more luck in Sarajevo,' Nedjo said. The detective didn't look impressed by his lack of concern.

  'I'm sure your good father will smarten your ideas up,' Vila said.

  That was the only black cloud on the horizon, Nedjo thought. His father would demand to know what he'd been doing with himself and start pontificating about the wonders of their Austrian rulers.

  'So, you were telling me you've been away.'

  'Yes, I've been living in Belgrade,' Nedjo answered, glad not to have to think about the coming reunion with his father.

  'Belgrade?' Something caught Vila's eye before he could continue. 'Who's that fellow over there who keeps staring?' the detective asked, pointing across the carriage.

  Nedjo looked around with a start. Gavrilo was sitting behind him, in a different compartment, with Trifko. They were both looking at him very intensely.

  'That is Gavrilo Princip, a friend from Belgrade.' He was so surprised to see Gavrilo that he blurted out his real name.

  'What were you doing in Belgrade, exactly?' Vila glanced over Nedjo for something incriminating. Not seeing anything, he seemed satisfied that Nedjo wasn't a criminal.

  'Have you seen my father recently?' Nedjo asked, trying to deflect attention.

  'I saw him yesterday, as it happens. He and your family are well,' Vila answered.

  'I'm glad.' Much to Nedjo's disgust, his father had got very friendly with the police so that he could get a licence to open his cafe.

  'We're all very excited by His Imperial and Royal Highness Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s visit to Sarajevo,' Vila said.

  'I hear it is to be soon?' Nedjo enquired.

  'The 28th of June.'

  'Vidovdan? Our most sacred day!' Nedjo was furious. He couldn’t believe that the tyrant was coming on the day the Serb people remembered the great defeat by the Turks.

  'Yes, he does us great honour,' Vila said solemnly. Nedjo thought that he would bestow his own honour on the Heir, now that
he knew the exact date on which he would take his revenge.

  Chapter 11

  A court lackey showed Franz Ferdinand into the billiard room at Schonbrunn, the Emperor's summer residence, to await his audience with Franz Josef. A great chandelier shone above the billiard table, which was placed in the centre of the room, no doubt to help the Emperor's petitioners pass the time while they waited. He glanced around at the familiar paintings and white-gold rococo design on the walls.

  The Archduke was agitated; he disliked having to come here, cap in hand, for the sake of protocol. He ignored the billiard table and paced across the block wooden floor in military step, to calm himself before his audience with the Emperor.

  He glanced at a small wall clock in the corner of the room, without registering the time. Franz Ferdinand was impatient to get this ordeal over with, but the Emperor would not disturb his routine for anyone, least of all for his nephew, the Heir Apparent.

  Emperor Franz Josef described himself as the first public servant of the state. He lived a solitary and ritualistic life, repressed and self disciplined, working tirelessly in the service of the Monarchy, from four in the morning until eight at night. He even took his meals at his desk. Franz Josef wasn't an intellectual, but he was certainly meticulous and thorough in his duties, with a reverence and devotion to detail. Franz Ferdinand remembered that the Emperor's wife, Empress Sissi, had said that Franz Josef had the soul of a drill sergeant.

  In his constant battle to maintain order in his Empire, routine and protocol were the Emperor's guiding lights, taking the place of innovation and change. He’d told Franz Ferdinand that a dynasty without ritual or protocol was a dynasty without meaning or defence.

  Franz Josef had been Emperor for over sixty years, holding the Empire together through some of its most turbulent times, but he had only slowed the decline. He and his ‘cabinet of mummies’ had lost territory to Italy, suffered humiliating defeats to Prussia and made concessions to Hungary, resulting in the Habsburg Empire being split in half and recreated as a dual monarchy. To Franz Ferdinand’s abhorrence, Hungary now governed the eastern half and Austria the western. Both had separate parliaments, with financial, military, and foreign policy administered by three joint ministries. It was an abnormal and diseased condition, in Franz Ferdinand’s opinion, and the confusion and conflict this joint system caused was the single greatest threat to the stability of the realm.