A LOST OPPORTUNITY 

by Richard Banks                   

Gavri turned from the bustle of the crowded main road into a side street and took refuge in the deep shadow of a shop awning. For a few minutes, he pretended an interest in the contents of the shop window while deciding what to do. His mind was confused, struggling to take in what had happened, his mood one of bitter despair. The game was over, they had failed, best to get out of the City, to lie low in one of the villages. That's what the others were doing, brave revolutionaries no longer, self-preservation their only concern.

       Nedjelko was at the police station being interrogated, having the shit kicked out of him. If he started spilling names the hunt would be on. What a mess it was. The plan was good, thorough, it should have worked. The Duke was in an open-top car. Nedjelko had only to lob his bomb into it, to briefly observe the death of the oppressor before taking his own life with the cyanide that had been issued to himself and the others.

       Gavri heard the explosion and thought the deed done. Then to his horror saw the Duke's car speed past too quickly for him to draw and aim the 22 calibre Browning concealed beneath his jacket. Of the seven-armed conspirators, only Nedjelko had acted.

       It did not take long for the news of what happened to spread along the entire route of the procession. The bomb had been deflected by the arm of the Duke onto the rolled-down canopy of the car. From there it had dropped onto the road exploding beneath the next vehicle injuring several of its occupants including two of the Duke's aides. The would-be assassin had been seen to drink from a phial, vomit, then throw himself into the Miljacka river that ran parallel to the road. If he was seeking to drown himself he was again unlucky for the river was only inches deep in water. Within minutes Nedjelko had been dragged from the river and bundled into a police van. The Duke unharmed was now at the City Hall where on his arrival he had angrily berated the Mayor waiting to welcome him. There were rumours that the official programme for the rest of the day had been cancelled and that the Duke would be leaving the City with an armed escort.

       A golden opportunity had been lost and one better might never occur. But still Gavri lingered. Other revolutionaries could play the long game, let years go by before trying again. But time was not on Gavri's side. The inflammation in his lungs could no longer be ignored. In a few months, he might be dead. He knew this as well as any doctor; had he not watched six siblings die of disease and malnutrition. If Gavri was to change history it had to be soon. He was a good shot; given another opportunity that day he would take aim and fire without fear for the consequences. While the Duke remained in the City so would he.

       It was 10.30, too soon for lunch but not for coffee. He retraced his steps to a café at the top of the road. From there he could observe the main road, listen to the chatter of its clientèle, be ready for that precious piece of information that might put him within shooting distance of the Duke.

                                          **********

       The Duke was calm again, determined to fulfil the role for which he had come. His diplomatic mission was one of goodwill, reconciliation. When he came to power there would be reforms, not too many but enough to convince the people of this turbulent country that life within the Empire was preferable to union with Serbia. He must smile, be gracious, show himself to the people without fear. One dangerous lunatic in the crowd was one too many but the crowds that greeted him were respectful some cheering. His mission was to them. He must see it out.

       Potiorek, the Military Governor, was back from the police station where he had assisted in the interrogation of Nedjelko by the breaking of several fingers. After confidential discussions with senior staff, he approached the Duke. The terrorist, he said, was a member of the Black Hand, a fanatic, a Serbian separatist. Despite all attempts to make him reveal the names of his accomplices, the fanatic insisted that he had acted alone.

       “Is this to be believed?” asked the Duke.

       Potiorek hesitated. His security report before the visit had described the City as safe, the terrorist threat negligible. A single terrorist did not invalid that judgement but if there were more, if it was even thought there were more, his career would be over, his reputation in tatters.

         Potiorek smiled reassuringly. The terrorist, he said, appeared to be deranged; instead of making his escape, he had thrown himself into the mud of the Miljacka. A mad man was unlikely to have accomplices. If his Highness wished to fulfil his remaining engagements he had every confidence this could be done safely, without further incident. He had a closed carriage standing by. This time the Duke would be provided with a military escort.

       The Duke said that if there was no further threat he would continue to use the open carriage. The military guard was not needed. He had come to Bosnia as a friend, a benefactor. If the people were to trust him, he must show his trust in them. He was, however, unwilling to expose his wife, the Duchess, to danger, no matter how small. She would remain at City Hall until it was time to return to the railway station.

       The Duke's thoughts turned to those in the following car. On being assured that there were no fatalities and that the injured were being treated at the hospital he resolved to visit them instead of partaking of the refreshments on offer. Instructions were issued to the Duke's driver to make ready the same car as had been used before. Within minutes they were ready to go. As he walked down the ceremonial carpet that almost matched the blue of his uniform he was unexpectedly joined by the Duchess. She pretended to scold him.

       “What kind of a husband is this who abandons his wife only days before their wedding anniversary.” The Duke's reply was impeded by the forefinger of the Duchess which pressed lightly against his lips. “No argument now. This is our first official visit together. We started it together, we will finish it so. The Court may think me unworthy, but I am your wife. My place is with you, no matter what.”

       The Duke took her hand in his and kissed it affectionately. “It will soon be different,” he whispered. When he was Emperor no one would dare speak disrespectfully of her. Did their Hapsburg blood make them better than her? He thought not. She was worth more than all those wagging tongues put together.

       The Duchess slipped her hands around his arm and they walked towards the open door through which they had entered only twenty minutes before.

                                             **********

       Gavri drank slowly, making the coffee last as long as possible. Outside the café, the main road known as the Appel Quay was still busy with the many sightseers who had come to see the Duke. A rumour that he had been wounded by the bomb was refuted by those who saw him arrive at City Hall and ascend its steps to the portico where the Mayor was waiting to greet him. A man on the table next to Gavri was loud in his support for the Duke. Gavri wanted to tell him about poverty in the villages. What had Austria and the Duke done about that? Only when Bosnia was free of the oppressor, when it was one with Serbia, would there be freedom, an end to poverty and hunger. The man was an oaf and Gavri could no longer bear to be in the same room as him. As he left the café by its entrance in Franz Joseph Street the crowd on either side of the main thoroughfare was beginning to stir, voices raised, bodies turning towards the road, vying with each other to get closer to it. “The Duke is coming,” he heard someone say, “the official programme has resumed.”

       Gavri retreated to the doorway of the café and ascended the several steps that led to it. From there he could see over the crowded pavement on the Appel Quay at the steady approach of the Duke's car. There was no time to lose. He needed to be kerbside, in the front row but that was now impossible as more and more people flooded out of shops and cafés to join the ranks of those already gathered.  A short distance to his left the buzz of voices erupted into loud cheers, cries of “long live the Duke.”

       In a few seconds, the car would be passed, another chance gone. There was nothing for it but to shoot from where he was over the heads of the crowd. His position was poor, ten feet back from where he wanted to be, but if he fired rapidly, discharging all six bullets, he might still be successful. He reached into his jacket for the Browning but before he could grasp its handle a customer exiting the café inadvertently sent the door hard against his back, tipping him face down onto the pavement. For a few moments, he lay there too stunned to be conscious of the sharp pain in his chest. He struggled to his feet and regained his position on the step.  All was lost, of that he was sure. In his mind's eye, he saw only an empty road, the Duke gone, hidden behind the façade of the café. Instead, he saw the car turn into Franz Joseph Street.

       Potiorek was shouting at the driver. “Stop, stop you fool. This is not the route. Get back on the main road.”

       If Leo, the driver, had been allowed to speak to his illustrious passengers beyond a polite confirmation of an instruction received he would have said that this was the route. The itinerary had been handed to him early that morning by Merizzi, the adjutant. That was his job. If there was a change Merizzi would have told him.

       The car shuddered to a halt and Leo engaged reverse gear. More shouting from Potiorek as the car slowly backed up towards the café where Gavri waited, gun drawn. His first shot hit the Duchess as she moved protectively in front of her husband, the second severed the jugular vein in the Duke's neck. It was done. The next bullet would be for himself. As Gavri pointed the gun at his head he felt a moment of euphoria. The time of lost opportunities was over, a new age was about to begin.

Postscript

The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg by Gavrilo Princip on 28 June 1914 was the opening salvo in a conflict that claimed the lives of over eight million combatants. The defeat of Austria and the other Central Powers in World War I precipitated the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the formation of the Serbian Kingdom that included Bosnia. 

Princip's attempt to take his own life was thwarted by passers-by who wrestled the gun from his hand. Too young under Austrian law to be executed, the nineteen-year-old member of the Black Hand was sentenced to twenty years imprisonment. He died in prison of tuberculosis in April 1918. Nedjelko Cabrinovic also died in prison of tuberculosis.

Lt Col Merizzi was one of the aides injured by Nedjelko's bomb. Taken directly to hospital he was unable to inform the driver, Leopold Loyka, of the change in the Archduke's itinerary. Had someone else thought to do so the assassination and the war that followed may never have happened.

At the lying in state of the Archduke and Duchess the body of the Duchess was placed on a plinth eighteen inches below that of her husband – a final slight by the Austrian Royal family who despised her for being the daughter of a Czech aristocrat.

   Copyright Richard Banks