Viennese Waltz: Chance

At last, after a Saturday that seemed to last at least a week, the fateful Sunday had arrived. Rose had spent a restless, sleepless night on the little cot, and was up with the dawn, even though she knew the shots would not be fired until almost eleven. She forced herself to eat some breakfast, washed her face with the last few drops of water from the wineskin, pulled the skirt and blouse back on over her jeans and Tshirt, covered her hair again with the kerchief, and walked down the hill through the morning drizzle, trying to keep her heart from beating out of her chest. As she knew it would, the rain suddenly stopped an hour later, and the sun came out to shine gloriously on the coming small parade. She mingled with the crowds along the riverside route to see the Archduke's procession go by, standing a half-block from where the bomb would be thrown, and watched the first part of the drama unfold as scripted: the bomb missed the Archduke's car and landed under the second, everyone foolishly stopped to see what was happening, then rushed off to the hospital and their further appointments, respectively.

Rose caught a glimpse of the young Serbian whom fate had fingered for the final act, Gavrilo Princip, recognizing him from the photos in the now-lost book, and slowly followed him up the street as he left the parade route. He turned into the little store for his sandwich, and she stationed herself just outside the door, leaning casually against the wall, to wait.

Half a century later – or was it a few seconds? – he came walking out the door again, and was hailed by another young man, apparently the friend mentioned, and they stood for several minutes chatting, not four feet away. Rose could hear them perfectly well, although the language was still a mystery. She kept her eyes on the pavement, watching Princip out of the corner of her eye for movement.

The friend finally moved off with some cheerful parting words, and Princip stood for a moment, gazing morosely at nothing. Suddenly a roar of motors from their left caught the attention of both Princip and Rose, and they (and everyone else on the street) turned to see the unexpected (to most of them) sight of two of the Archduke's caravan of magnificent touring cars, tops down in the sunshine, turning the corner away from the river.

Rose took a swift glance, then forced her attention back on Princip, her nerves stretched to pinging. He was staring openmouthed at the cars, the second chance for "glory" that he hadn't dreamed he'd get thundering down upon him. She saw his arm twitch for the bomb she knew he was carrying, but then the second car, the one carrying Franz Ferdinand, screeched to a halt right in front of them, the man in the front yelling something at the driver. (Rose remembered that he was telling the hapless man to go the other way.)

Princip visibly changed his mind about his choice of weapon, and his hand darted to the back of his waistband, coming out a split second later with a small pistol. The world instantly narrowed for Rose down to that one pinpoint, and she launched herself off the wall at Princip, grabbing his wrist with both hands and forcing the gun skyward.

The pistol fired, gathering screams as well as the attention of the fifty-or-so people in the immediate vicinity; the street had hardly been deserted. Everyone started yelling at once, though to Rose it seemed as if they came from a great distance. Princip was wrestling with her for the gun, his skinny strength seeming to double or triple in his rage. She was jerked around in front of him, then he suddenly pulled his hands down and between them, then shoved her away – right into the side of the target car.

To Rose's instant horror, the gun was now pointed directly at her chest, his furious face behind it an ugly purple mask of rage. Time slowed to a crawl, as out of the corners of her eyes she saw other civilians reaching for Princip from both sides, and felt the car at her back begin to move backwards, away from the danger at last. But his finger was tightening on the trigger.

Perhaps he was also aware of his chance slipping away, because at the last instant, his eyes, and the gun, moved left towards the passengers in the back seat. Rose's hands had been flung out sideways as she'd been thrown back, and automatically grasped the top edge of the car's sides. Now she twisted around, letting the car's movement pull her sideways, reaching with her left hand for the car, too.

She heard the pistol fire again, and felt a searing pain in her shoulder, and she gave a gasping little scream through springing tears. Her eyes fastened on those of the Duchess, Sophie, gaping in terror beside her husband two feet away. Rose's feet were still on the pavement, the car's backwards movement pulling her off of them. A vision of herself tumbling to the ground and under the front wheel flashed through her mind. Then, inexplicably, Sophie's hands were on hers, clutching them tightly, holding on for dear life, and Rose's feet were moving faster than they ever had, as she managed to get them onto the running board.

Time sped up to normal with an almost audible crunch. Behind her, the crowd had reached Princip and were wrestling him to the ground at last. Everyone in the car was yelling, the General in front screaming at the driver, the man standing on the other running board brandishing his sword (sword? In the twentieth century? flashed irrelevantly through Rose's mind) at her. At her!

Franz Ferdinand began adding his two cents, and Rose seized on the comprehensible German with something close to relief. "Sophie! What are you doing? Push her away!" Reaching across the Duchess, he tried to pry her hands off of Rose's.

"No!" his wife returned. "Franzl, she just saved your life! And she's been hurt in doing so!"

It took him a second, apparently startled at her contradicting him, then he focused on her shoulder, and between his look and the continuing, searing pain there, it finally dawned on Rose that she had been shot. He changed his mind in an instant, and added his own hands to Sophie's in holding her arms, keeping her on the running board, then, turning his head, he shouted at the driver to get to the hospital as fast as they could, then telling the man on the running board to shut up.

"No!" Rose gasped out. "Please, you need to listen to me! There's so much you need to do!"

But of course it was useless. How could she ever get through to him in this chaos?

And as soon as that thought struck her, the solution came on its heels. She let go of the car with her left hand, feeling both of the royal couple tighten their own grips on her in response, flipped open the leather cover of the time jumper, and hit Recall and Activate in two lightning-fast stabs of her finger.

The car disappeared in the usual flash of light, and the three of them went tumbling in a heap.