by Alan Bardos
'I don't regret anything, Sopherl. Your letters were my lifeline when everyone else had given up on me.'
'Are you certain your health can stand up to a Bosnian summer, Franzi?' The memories of that time still ran raw in both of them. Sophie was ever worried that he would relapse.
'I am determined to do my duty, Sopherl,' he answered, but he knew it wasn't his health that really concerned her.
Franz Ferdinand watched Janaczek, his estate manager, personally oversee the beaters as they drove the next roebuck through the traps, before he opened fire. This was his passion, his release from the endless wait for the throne. His power may have been limited, but that did not stop him from exerting influence. He'd invited the German Kaiser to his country retreat in Konopiste. It was vital that a strong union with Germany be maintained and Franz Ferdinand hoped to build on their friendship by obtaining the Kaiser’s support for the reforms he planned to implement when he finally took the throne.
He brought down the last of the roebuck and waited for the next lot to be driven up, while the beaters cleared away the dead. It was an impressive total; Franz Ferdinand would at least be "King Gun" today. The Archduke's total bag as a huntsman was close to a quarter of a million head, all carefully recorded in his game book and mounted on the walls of his country retreats, with the date and place the trophy was taken. Most of Europe's leading sportsman had similar totals, including Franz Ferdinand's British equivalent, the Prince of Wales.
'What kind of reception can you expect in Bosnia, Franz?' Sophie had taken the pause in shooting as an opportunity to further press her concerns. His beaters were taking their time and these interruptions to the hunt were starting to irk him.
'One is always in God's hands, Sopherl. Worries and precautions cripple life.' Franz Ferdinand had a sense that something could happen in Bosnia, but he had chosen to ignore it. 'Fear is always one of the most damaging things,' he affirmed.
If something did happen, Franz Ferdinand had left instructions with his nephew, Karl, the next in line, on where to find his plans for reforming the Empire. Franz Ferdinand had also made arrangements for his burial at his family seat of Artstetten, ordering the construction of a crypt so that he could be interred with his wife and children, who couldn't be buried with him in Capuchin Church, the traditional resting place of the Habsburgs.
Sophie wasn't placated by his stoicism. 'Sopherl, His Majesty the Emperor has assented to your accompanying me, so you can at least look after me,' he reminded her.
Sophie seemed to draw some comfort from that at least, but having to ask the Emperor's permission still galled Franz Ferdinand and brought to mind all of the indignities his wife had suffered as a result of the Emperor's obsession with court protocols. The fact that they couldn’t even ride in the same carriage together, in the Empire which he would one day rule, was a never ending source of outrage to him.
The roebuck still hadn't been brought up, but lost in the fervour of the hunt, it appeared that the Archduke had brought down a white roebuck. It was said that to shoot anything white was a portent to death and the bad omen was causing a certain degree of apprehension amongst the beaters. The Heir finally lost his temper, 'Janaczek, you useless peasant! Do you mean to keep me waiting all day?'
Sophie pressed his arm and whispered, 'Franzi-Franzi'. The flash of anger left as quickly as it had come. He smiled, feeling that she was as good for his health as she was for his peace of mind.
'I'm sorry, Janaczek - forgive me,' Franz Ferdinand said, regaining his self control. Janaczek bowed graciously and hurried away to look for the roebuck. Janaczek may have been the son of a peasant, Franz Ferdinand mused, but he trusted him implicitly; he was more like a family member than a servant.
Franz Ferdinand turned his attention back to Sophie. 'We can mark the fourteenth anniversary of my Morganatic Oath by riding in an open car, side by side, within the borders of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy - and you, my everything, can enjoy the full recognition of your rank.
The idea pleased him. It was one of a series of small victories in a campaign to present Sophie as his consort on the international stage. They'd already visited the Romanian and German Royal Courts, been entertained by the King and Queen of England at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, and in a few days they'd be playing host to Wilhelm II of Germany.
The roebuck appeared at last, taking him by surprise, but the Archduke automatically lifted his rifle and fired two shots in quick succession, bringing down two of them.
Chapter 19
The sound of voices carried into Johnny's room; there was a heated discussion about something tedious and political going on in the house. Johnny tried to ignore it, as he’d been doing for most of the previous day, while he prepared to meet his new housemates. He glanced around his bare, white-washed room - it looked as if it had seen better days, although some effort had been put into making it look presentable. It had cost fourteen crowns, barely leaving him enough money to pay for food. Breitner had said that carrying around any more money would raise suspicion.
Johnny sighed and turned over on the bed. There was nothing to distract him in the room so he went back to the books Breitner had given him, which were all written in Serbo-Croat. Johnny was a bit rusty but he’d had to learn the language in order to assist Sir George in case he needed to conduct supplementary negotiations for the Treaty of London. However, by the time Johnny had got to grips with the language, the second Balkan war had started and the Treaty was in tatters.
Johnny was totally lost with the poetry. It was very rich with tales of betrayal and noble sacrifice and he'd have liked to have been able to study it properly, but his head still throbbed and he needed something to eat. The out of sync chiming from the bells of the various denominations informed him that it would be lunch time soon. He thought he’d better see if he could find something out before he met Breitner.
He picked up the Kropotkin - it brought back memories. Kropotkin was one of the plethora of revolutionary writers coming out of Russia. Johnny hadn’t read any of his work; he'd mainly been interested in Lenin and Marx who wrote about modern industrial society, and they'd been hard enough to get hold of at his school. He pulled himself off the bed - he'd just have to wing it as best he could.
Still holding the book, he followed the sound of the voices along a narrow corridor to the next bedroom, and seeing that the door was open, he stopped in the doorway of a grimy, book-lined room. Two men were inside, reading Kropotkin. Johnny grinned - Breitner had actually done his homework.
They were still in deep conversation and didn't notice Johnny. The younger, intense one sat on what looked like a pull down bed and was in full flow. 'Danilo, can’t you see? Kropotkin is quite correct. The State crushes the individual. What we need are systems of mutual aid and collaboration.'
Johnny guessed the man who spoke was the same age as him, but Johnny was twice his size. He looked sallow and delicate with a sharp featured face, accentuated by a pencil moustache.
‘I agree, Gavrilo. I am not saying that we should create a state, but we must lay foundations first,’ the older one said submissively. He was sitting on a bed opposite the door. Johnny supposed he was some sort of intellectual.
They were dressed in the same style as Johnny, except the older one was wearing a black tie. Breitner had told him the names to look out for: Danilo Ilic and Gavrilo Princip. They looked as likely a pair of revolutionaries as he was ever going to meet. Johnny knocked and they broke off their conversation.
'Good afternoon,' Johnny said, waving his copy of Kropotkin as they looked up. 'My name is Jon – Jovo. I have the room next door.’ He received the same hard, blank stares as he’d had in the cafe a few nights previously. 'I see you're also reading Kropotkin. Tell me, are you familiar with the pamphlet, “What is to be Done?” by Lenin?'
Gavrilo scowled and stood up. ‘I am sure that whatever is to be done has nothing to do with listening at keyholes,' he said and slammed the door in Johnny’s face.
He turned right onto Appel Quay, a long straight embankment which the Austrians had cut through the city to control the flow of the Miljacka River, and followed the elegant new Austrian style buildings along the embankment.
It was obvious to Johnny just how pointless this whole venture was; he’d exchanged views on historical materialism with Trotsky but couldn’t strike up a conversation about anarchism with some simple peasants.
Johnny crossed a cobbled bridge and sat in the park opposite the embankment, then reluctantly opened the copy of Kropotkin that Breitner had given him. It was starting to look as if he’d actually have to read it.
‘I don’t think that I’ve ever seen such a reluctant anarchist before.’ A smooth, liquid voice immediately distracted Johnny and he turned to see that a pretty girl had sat next to him. She had a perfect oval face, with a cute, upturned nose and long auburn hair neatly plaited and tied back in a bun, but it was the mocking look in her amber eyes that shook him.
‘You do not find his work interesting?’ she asked.
Johnny shrugged indifferently. ‘It’s not that I don’t find it interesting, it’s that I’m more familiar with the works of Lenin.’
‘Really? That is unusual amongst the local youths. In fact, I think you’re the first person I’ve met who is.’ She eyed Johnny suspiciously.
‘I’m sure that Lenin and Kropotkin aren’t so different. They both want a revolution and to change society,’ Johnny said pompously. He doubted that this simple creature would have read Lenin or Kropotkin - probably too busy plaiting her hair.
‘Lenin believes in a strong, centralised state while Kropotkin argues for communities based on mutual aid and cooperation,’ she said, taking a bite from a burek and reminding Johnny just how hungry he was. Her eyes mocked him and she broke a piece off for him.
‘Here - solidarity amongst the workers,’ she smiled.
Johnny nodded his thanks and took a bite from the pasty, savouring the spicy meat and wondered if he could afford to buy one after she’d gone.
'Lenin wants to replace one form of authoritarian state with another. True freedom can only be achieved if we have no state,’ she said.
‘I see, thank you. I’ll bear that in mind the next time I talk to an anarchist,’ Johnny replied, wondering if that was where he’d gone wrong with Princip and Ilic. ‘But surely, they both believe in revolution?’
She looked at her watch before saying, ‘Revolution is more than a slogan; it needs to be a change in the way you behave and feel.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, you can walk me back – it’s the least you can do after I fed you.’
‘I say, you’re very forward,’ Johnny said. He’d been on the back foot ever since he’d met her and he wasn’t comfortable with the sensation.
‘There is a revolution going on and you stand on social niceties.’
‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone.’
‘A girl?’ she asked coyly.
‘No, as it happens,’ Johnny said, looking around for Breitner.
‘I see. Perhaps you don’t like girls.’ She smiled teasingly and walked away, swaying in a long billowy skirt. Johnny waited a moment before following. He couldn’t help himself and he didn’t have anything to tell Breitner anyway.
They walked along the opposite side of the river, from the embankment, past whitewashed Turkish style houses, until they came to the Emperor’s mosque.
‘So do you often do this - dally with strange men in the park?’
‘Is that what I’m doing? I thought I was educating an ignorant youth.’
Johnny was used to this type of charade. ‘I might be ignorant, but I’m sure that I can satisfy your needs – as a woman.’
‘That’s very funny, but inaccurate.’ She turned her head away, hiding her smile and guided him across the Emperor’s Bridge.
Johnny saw a good looking man on the other side of the river stop at the bridge and take his cap off.
‘Right on cue, that’s good,’ she said and pulled Johnny’s cap off. 'You know what this place is, of course?'
Johnny shrugged. He looked down at the Miljacka River, its blood-red water running a few inches deep in the June heat. 'The Emperor's Bridge,' he said tentatively, not sure why she was asking.
'This is where Bogdan Zerajic made his sacrifice,' she said curtly.
'Is it really?' Johnny replied, not sure how to respond to that statement.
‘Zerajic showed us that we too could be like the Russians and take action against our oppressors,' she said and handed him his cap back. ‘If you want to be a revolutionary, you’ll do well to remember these things.’
Johnny looked solemnly at the bridge where Zerajic had made his attempt to assassinate Governor Varesanin, before turning his gun on himself.
‘Hello there. How are you?’ He looked around but the girl with the mocking eyes had disappeared. ‘You took a hell of a beating the other night.’
Johnny saw that the good looking man who’d removed his cap was advancing towards him. ‘You probably don’t remember me. You were getting your wounds attended to in the medical room. It’s Pusara, Mihajlo Pusara. I’m a clerk at City Hall.’ Johnny shook the offered hand. ‘I usually meet a friend or two for lunch at this time - would you care to join us?’
‘That’s good of you,’ Johnny said, ‘but I have very little money.’
‘Nonsense, it’s on me. The very least I can do for a hero of our people – the man who dared to insult the Governor and lived to tell the story.’
*
Danilo Ilic looked at his kebab, deciding whether or not he could eat it. He had a stomach ulcer and didn’t wish to aggravate it any further.
His best friend, Gavrilo Princip, was making him anxious. Ilic had known Gavrilo since he’d been a boy boarding in his mother’s house. Ilic was five years his senior and had taken Gavrilo under his wing, introducing him to his friends and his ideas. Now there was no holding him back, as he persisted in the need to assassinate the tyrant.
‘Are you sure now is the right moment to act, Gavrilo?’ Ilic asked, pushing his plate back. His friend had continued the discussion from his mother’s house to the cafe and it was gravely interfering with Ilic’s appetite.
‘How can it not be? We have the means, you have recruited most of the other cell and the tyrant will be here within the month. All the pieces are in place for us to win a great victory for our people – are they not?’ Gavrilo asked, turning his hard, piercing eyes on Ilic.
‘Yes, they are.’ Ilic looked away. He’d begun to recruit people to form a second cell after he’d received Gavrilo’s instructions from Belgrade. ‘They are good men; nonetheless they’re young and largely unproven.’
‘What does that matter, if they believe in what we are trying to achieve,’ Gavrilo said. Ilic nodded his agreement, but he wondered if his friend was trying to reassure himself about his own lack of experience.
Ilic knew he would have to support the other cell. When the time came he might also need others, but he was reluctant to take the risk of recruiting any further members into the cell. Ilic could feel his friend’s eyes boring into him, searching for any sign of weakness.
Gavrilo’s eyes at last turned from Ilic as someone approached their table. ‘Hello Danilo,’ Mihajlo Pusara said. Ilic nodded a hello to his friend as he joined them. ‘Gavrilo, good to see you back in Sarajevo. Nedjo received the clipping I sent, then?’ Pusara asked.
‘You sent it to him?’ Gavrilo asked abruptly.
‘I saw the announcement for the Archduke’s visit in the newspaper and sent Nedjo a clipping,’ Pusara said, looking surprised by Gavrilo’s manner. ‘It is well known that Nedjo intends to make an attempt on the life of a Hapsburg dignitary.’
’Naturally,’ Ga
vrilo said bitterly.
‘And now look, you are here. Ready to act.’ Pusara said, pleased with himself. Pusara signalled to someone lingering in the doorway. ‘Come Jovo, don’t be shy - join us.’
Gavrilo glared. ‘I'd already planned to act against the Heir. When Nedjo received the clipping, we decided to work together…’ he trailed off as they were joined by a bruised and battered figure.
Pusara smiled, ‘This is Jovo. You can talk freely in front of him.’
‘Yes, we know him. He is a boarder in my mother’s house,’ Ilic said. ‘You seem to be turning up a lot today.’
The newcomer blushed and shrugged, embarrassed.
‘You can trust him. He insulted the Governor and took a beating for his trouble,’ Pusara said.
‘Is that true?’ Princip asked Jovo.
‘Yes, but it was nothing - I’ve had far worse,’ he said with an air of arrogance that Ilic disliked.
‘Your accent - where are you from?’ Ilic asked. He felt that there was something odd about how Jovo spoke that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
‘I’ve been studying in France,’ Jovo answered and Ilic felt his curiosity rise.
‘Where?’
‘Paris, but I travelled a lot.’
‘We have friends in France. Have you met Vladimir Gacinovic?’ Ilic asked. Many Bosnians, including leading figures of the Young Bosnian Movement had studied in France, so it seemed natural that this stranger had also.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t have the honour of meeting any of our people there, I er, had certain other distractions,’ Jovo said, looking at Ilic’s half-eaten meal. ‘I say, can I have that? I’m sorry, but I’m starving and have no money for food.’
Before Ilic could refuse, Gavrilo pushed his plate towards Jovo. ‘Of course. There is no shame in being poor and hungry,’ Gavrilo said as Jovo started to eat.