The Furies by Irving McCabe Page A

‘What do you think, Tom? Shall we let her stay for a while?’
    Seeing his mother smile, the boy looked up at Elspeth and, with a grin, came out from behind his mother’s leg.
    â€˜Thank you so much,’ Elspeth replied. ‘If I could wait here for half an hour or so until the commotion has died down, and then I’ll slip away without causing you any more trouble.’
    â€˜My husband won’t be back until later, so it’s no trouble. There’s even a cup of tea if you like.’
    â€˜Really, there’s no need to go to any bother—’
    â€˜It’s no bother.’ The woman turned away and took a kettle from the table behind her. She held it under the tap, and as it filled she turned back to Elspeth. ‘And for what it’s worth, I support you girls. If I didn’t have this little one to look after, I’d probably be at that meeting, booing the police with the rest of you.’

6. Vienna. Wednesday 29 th July 1914. Afternoon
    Gabriel, dressed in his field grey service uniform, sat inside the cool of the Café Kaiserhof in the Ringstrasse, a cup of iced coffee on the table before him, that day’s edition of
Neue Frei Presse
resting on his lap. It was a swelteringly hot afternoon, yet looking through the window he could see the pavement was packed with an enthusiastic throng of Viennese citizens, some waving Austrian flags, while others held placards which read ‘Death to Serbia’. Inside the café the noise was intense: laughter, singing, and animated conversations, all of which told him that the people of Vienna were thrilled to be at war. You could almost touch the patriotic fervour, Gabriel thought, as he watched anybody in uniform being praised as a hero, clapped on the back, their hands vigorously shaken. This included himself, and as the café was crowded with patrons, Gabriel was finding it almost impossible to read the newspaper without interruption.
    And some of these people were so idiotic! Even though he was wearing a Red Cross armband, one buffoon had shouted across the café: ‘Kill a Serb for me, Officer.’ Gabriel was finding it all rather tedious, this sudden jingoistic flag-waving more than a little embarrassing. Although initially excited at the prospect of using the combat surgery skills he had so carefully acquired, over the past few weeks Gabriel had become increasingly uneasy about the idea of going to war: several of Gabriel’s friends and clinical colleagues in Sarajevo were Serbian, and many of them had now returned to Serbia to join their army medical services. It seemed more than a little strange to consider that they would now be labelled as his enemy. He tried to push these doubts aside: it was the price to pay for the scholarship that had allowed him to qualify as a doctor. And it was his duty to care for the men in his regiment.
    He tapped his fingers on the table and rechecked his pocket watch: ten past two, and the train for Sarajevo left the Ostbahnhof at three. Where was the chief? He should have been here ten minutes ago. Gabriel picked up the newspaper. Below the stark headline ‘War with Serbia’ was an article that described how yesterday was the first time in history that a telegram had been used to notify a country that war had been declared on it. The news had come as a surprise to everybody – including Gabriel.
    In the first three weeks following the assassination there was no response from the Austro-Hungarian government and life had carried on as normal. Gabriel, who only needed to make one final visit to Roth’s factory in order to finish his research, travelled up to Vienna with the chief, who had been summoned to a three-day conference at the Army Medical Board. They had arrived in Vienna two days ago, but yesterday evening the chief had received a telegram stating that the Austrian army was being mobilised and they would have to return to Sarajevo the following day.