Preview of next book

I've been working on a novel to begin my WWI series. 

The origins of the Great War, as it was known then, are notoriously convoluted, not to say boring, and it was a challenge to come up with a device to lead readers through its opening months without the risk of their eyes glazing over.

Belmédon, 1914, is the story of Gabriel de Metz, the thirteen year-old son of wealthy Parisian art gallery owners. When the family takes its annual trip to Vienna to pick up prints, he thinks it will be the same as all their other summers there – stuffy and boring. But the Austrian Archduke is assassinated in Sarajevo. The de Metzes decide to cut their sojourn short, but Gabriel becomes separated from his parents, and finds himself in charge of his little sister in the midst of a hostile Europe mobilizing for war.

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Belmédon, 1914 will be published on Amazon as an eBook in November 2015. The following is a sample chapter:

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sample chapter © David Andrew Westwood 2015 all rights reserved

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8. Gabriel.
Vienna, June.

At breakfast, Simon finishes his coffee and looks at Gabriel. “Your mother and father are going to the chapel this morning to view the bodies. They want to know if you wish to accompany them.”

 Gabriel looks down the table to Hannah. “Both of us?”

 Simon shakes his head. “No, just you. They feel your sister is too young. Well?”

 “Yes, I’ll go.”

 “Paulette? Madame wishes you to run out and purchase a simple back veil for her.”

 After Paulette has left, Gabriel turns to Simon. “Does she have to wear a veil? Is it… protocol?”

 “No. But it is no longer acceptable to be French or Russian here, and your mother is well-known.”

 “No longer acceptable? Why?”

 “The countries of Europe are taking sides. Austria and Germany are on one side, France and Russia, along with Serbia, on the other. In fact, when we are outside the house, your mother asks that you speak only in German. You must refer to her as Mütter, not maman.”

···

 At the chapel in the Berggasse a long line of people wait to see the assassinated couple lying in state.

 When, after an hour and a quarter, the de Metzes are allowed in, Gabriel joins the mourners as they approach the coffins. He crosses the muffling black carpet and looks up at the candlelit coats of arms and crosses on the walls and pilasters. They pass a prie-Dieu in the front part of the oratory, with a brocade-upholstered armchair set up for the Emperor. Ahead is a broad structure he believes is called a castrum doloris, black velvet-covered, bearing both caskets.

 Franz Ferdinand’s coffin is far grander than that of his wife, the Countess of Hohenberg, and is positioned higher. Around his are arranged the Archducal crown, the General’s plumed helmet with its vulture feathers, and the Admiral’s hat. At his side is his ceremonial sword, and his chest is larded with all his decorations, including the oversized Order of the Golden Fleece.

 At the foot of hers, on the other hand, are a pair of white gloves and a black fan.

 “The mark of a lady-in-waiting,” his mother whispers, behind her veil. “A final insult.”

Gabriel gazes at the stiff and waxy figures, trying to find their bullet wounds, but can see nothing over their high collars. Instead, he turns briefly to the viewers, wondering if there are any famous French or Russian faces hidden behind the veils.

···

His mother is delayed in joining the family outside on the street. The atmosphere is tense. People are discussing what should be done. The word “war” is repeated so often that the disparate conversations around them merge into a muted growl, warwarwar.

 Finally, Judith reappears, looking uncharacteristically flustered beneath her black parasol. She grasps her husband’s arm.

 “Berta recommends that all foreign nationals leave.”

 “Berta…?” Alphonse says, frowning.

 “Berta de Bunsen. Wife of the British ambassador. Her male servants have already been called up for military service. She says it is no longer safe.”

 He glances at his son. “We will discuss this later.” With a patently false smile he says, “I’m sure everything will be fine, my dear. We are well-respected here.”

 But he disappears into his office as soon as they get back to the house, and is not seen for the remainder of the evening.

 Hannah is upset at the tenseness.

 “I know,” Paulette says. “Let’s go to a newsreel.”

···

Gabriel and Hannah sit fascinated in the dark, watching the jerky images on the screen. The air in the auditorium is thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, making the projection beam a flickering blue triangle spreading from a slot in the wall behind them.

 This is not Gabriel’s first time at the cinematograph — there are many in Paris and he has seen several films — but it is his first time doing so in Austria, and the first with Paulette. Hannah sits on one side of the young woman, and he on the other, intoxicated by her perfume. He is glad Simon is not with them, so that he only has to share the governess’ attentions with his little sister.

 A young woman walks by, selling cigarettes and sweets from a tray suspended from around her neck. Paulette buys them each an ice cream.       

 First, of course, is a newsreel of the assassination of the Archduke and the Countess. Images show the pair entering an open horse-drawn carriage surrounded by admirers, and then a caption card appears.

 The archduke Franz Ferdinand and Countess Chotek, visiting Sarajevo on a mission of peace.

 This is followed by images of the two exiting an open car, escorted up some stairs by several gentlemen in uniform. Then the screen shows a still photograph of a young man with a wispy mustache and bruised eyes.

 Assassination! Gunned down by Bosnian anarchist Gavrilo Princip as they tour the city.

 There are muttered oaths, and the audience radiates a kind of offended fury. If Princip were here in person, Gabriel imagines he would be torn limb from limb.

 At the hospital, there is nothing that can be done. It is too late.

 There is not, however, any footage of the actual shots — the attack seems to have taken the photographers by surprise, and in compensation the newsreel company has included a still of the alleged gunman being manhandled by police, and several clips of the car, post-assassination, with officials aimlessly milling about.

 Riots erupt in Sarajevo after the assassination. Crowds destroy Serbian-owned shops.

 The film now shows soldiers walking through the narrow, rubble-filled streets.

Gabriel is already bored by the event. After more film of overdressed officials looking indignant, a new title screen appears.

 The Grand Prix de Lyon.

 Gabriel sits up.

 Thirty-seven cars from thirteen manufacturers in six countries — truly a pan-European event!

 The camera shows an array of racing cars, each one with a number on its hood and sides, and each flanked by a mustached driver, most looking uncomfortable before the lens and not quite knowing what to do. This, finally, holds Gabriel’s interest, though judging by her fidgeting, not his sister’s.

 Peugeot is the favorite. After all, their head driver, Georges Boillot, won in both 1912 and 1913.

 Boillot is shown looking proud, masculine.

 Gabriel supports Peugeot and its driver Boillot out of national pride, but he feels that the man looks embarrassingly arrogant.

 Twenty laps are required to finish the race — seven long hours of fast and dangerous driving.

 They start in pairs, with thirty seconds between each flag.

 Cars stagger and swerve around the narrow track, leaving behind clouds of exhaust. Tires separate from wheels, vehicles lurch into barriers, spectators wave and in some places run recklessly onto the track.

 Boillot is number 5, and Goux, the winner of last year’s Indianapolis race, number 19.

Here is number 28, one of the Mercedes entries driven by Lautenschlager.

 Cars veer, smoking, off the track and into pits where mechanics wait.

 Pilette’s hastily repaired gearbox gives up again. Sailer has to halt because of rod bearings. Wagner has ruined his tires and has to make a pit stop.

 He can imagine the noise and fumes, the excited atmosphere of national rivalries…

 Boillot weeps over his steering wheel after his useless motor forces him to give up on the final lap.

 Serves the man right. But still…

 Mercedes has a triple win! Lautenschlager first, Wagner second, and Salzer third!

 The screen shows a car flashing past the checkered flag, and then a full-faced man with mustache smiling and accepting the laurel wreath and a magnum of champagne. To lose against the Germans. And so thoroughly…

 The French refuse to play the German national anthem! A shameful example of poor Gallic sportsmanship!

 More grumbling from the audience. Gabriel cringes in his seat, as if he wears a sign reading Frenchman. “Perhaps we should leave,” he whispers to Paulette.

 “It’s over anyway.” she says, standing.

 As they exit, the newsreel is beginning again with the film of the assassination.

 Gabriel wishes he had been with Clive at the Grand Prix, and not with Simon at that park in Serbia. He stops abruptly, and Hannah turns back to frown at him.

 The man in the newsreel — the young man with the bruised eyes — he was the one in the park! He was the assassin! Simon was meeting with the murderer of the archduke!

Instinctively he looks around to see if anyone is staring at him, pointing accusatory fingers. He feels sick.

 Paulette walks back and looks at him with concern. “Are you all right, Gabi?”

 “I… I feel a little ill,” he says. “Perhaps it was the ice cream.”

 “Mine was perfectly fine,” Hannah says, “and we both had the same kind.”

 “Yes, well… I feel a little funny. May we go home now?”

 Hannah pouts. Paulette looks at each of them in turn, considering. “All right. We will take you home, and then Hannah and I will go shopping, yes?

···

After dinner, Alphonse looks up from his Reichspost. “I heard you were ill at the newsreel. Are you better now?”

 Gabriel nods guiltily. How much does he know that I know? “Yes, father.”

 “The caskets are being taken to the West Terminal tonight. They are to go by train to Pochlarn and then across the Danube to Schloss Artstetten.”

 “What on earth is Artstetten?” Judith asks.

 “One of the Archduke’s remoter castles. They obviously don’t want him buried in state.”

 Judith is disappointed. “No formal interment, then, with kings and queens?”

 “No kings and queens.”

 Hannah is at the window. “I can see lightning,” she says. “A storm is coming.”

 “Good. It’ll cut this beastly heat.”

 The rear servants’ doorbell rings, and their maid answers it. Everyone waits, and she returns in a minute.

 “A message, sir.”

 “What is it, Gertrude?”

 “The butler from next door, sir — the Leibacher’s man — he says to tell you that The Families are following the coffins tonight.”

 Gabriel looks up from his book. “The Families” is how the well-off of the Fourth District refer to themselves.

 “Following the coffins?”

 “Yes, sir. On their way from the chapel to the west station, sir. As a tribute.”

 Alphonse de Metz looks at his son. “Bring an umbrella for your mother, just in case. And remember, if you have to speak, use German — I don’t want us identified as foreigners.”

 They pass the Rothschilds’ palace, now lit with torches, to join the procession at Mariahilfer-Strasse. The gaslights cast black shadows of the silhouetted figures, and as each passes a lamp their penumbra swings forward and away from them, until eclipsed by the next. Their ghostly reflections in the shop windows, the creak and grind of metal-rimmed wheels on cobblestones, the lowering clouds, all combine to make a surreal and theatrical backdrop, and Gabriel is fascinated.

 He is eager to see the ceremonial train so he can describe it to Clive, but to his dismay it is not even one of the big expresses, more of a milk train with an extra coach attached, draped with a few black garlands.

 By the time the caskets have been placed aboard it is midnight. Without fanfare or speech, the train chuffs off into the dark. The male followers doff their hats briefly. Then, as if at a signal, the clouds part. Rain sleets across the station forecourt toward them.

 Everyone pulls up their collars and turns away. Gray and black fiacres appear to take back the families, as well as a few motorcars, so quickly that Gabriel realizes they must have been following at a discreet distance. Those mourners that remain on foot disperse through the streets to their homes. Gabriel hurries next to his mother, reaching up to hold the umbrella over her.

 Judith is silent, unreadable.

 Now who will be Emperor once the old man dies? Gabriel wonders.

 Simon meets them in a couple of blocks. “I’ve brought the car, madame.”

···

 This soirée has a very different feel. Gabriel is in his same place at the top of the back stairs, and even most of the guests are the same as before, but the ambience has changed. He presumes this is because of the assassination. There is a blustery quality to the proceedings that reminds him of the giddy bravado of schoolboys having narrowly missed some act of playground violence. He has a sense that this is the last of this kind of party.

 “Since the Redl incident the monarchy has been reeling. All its secrets leaked to the Russians…”

 “The Russians won’t do anything. The Tsar won’t enter a war on the side of regicides.”

 “I agree. The Romanovs have ruled for three hundred years — they’re not likely to weaken Europe’s interconnected royalty…”

 “Besides, the Russian bear is still licking the wounds the Japanese gave him…”

 The same woman punctuates the evening with her laughs, but they seem hollower tonight, more brittle. His mother is as skillfully entertaining as always, his father’s carefully doled-out camaraderie as strategic as ever, but they are unable to resuscitate the former mood. Gabriel suddenly wonders if the world’s mood has changed, not just that of this Vienna party. But he doesn’t really know what that would mean, and does not pursue the thought.

 “Europe has weathered crisis after crisis since the fin de siècle. This is just another.”

 “The generals always want to strike first, and the statesmen always talk them out of it…”

 “Damned Serbs. They’re like monkeys at a party — they can’t join in, so instead they destroy everything…”

 “I think they should annex the whole lot. The South Slavs will always be troublemakers…”

 The thought of a war, and the consensus of opinion seems to be that one is inevitable, gives Gabriel a twinge of excitement. War to him is lines of cavalry charging bravely into the fr ay for God, for the flag, for honor. War ends with glory and glamorous scars, with medals and monuments and tales told to grandchildren in front of the fire.

 “Well, I think we could do with a good fight. What was it Belloc said? ‘A war will sweep Europe like a broom…’”

 “What will Britain do?”

 “Britain has no army to speak of, at least no standing army like the other countries of Europe. It relies on its navy…”

 “The British don’t care. As long as they keep their access to the Black Sea they’ll just sit on the sidelines, harrumphing…”

 “And Britain’s got its hands full with the Irish.”

 A war could last long enough for him to participate. He could lie about his age, and in a year or two he could distinguish himself. Meanwhile, perhaps he might witness a battle, as a spectator. And afterward, he could search for souvenirs — a saber, a helmet, or at least a regimental button or spent bullet. He could describe it all to Clive during autumn term; show him his trophies. They would make him the star of the school. “De Metz was actually there!” they’ll say. “He’ll tell you!”

 “It’s time for Franz Josef to piss or get off the pot. The longer he waits, the harder it will be to deal with.”

 “The emperor’s like Hamlet — he needs to act and he can’t…”

 “He doesn’t have to. His old chum the Kaiser will step in.”

 “Wilhelm the Sudden? He’s driving an automobile downhill and the brakes have failed.”

 “Germany won’t join in. The socialists will strike.”

 “You’re wrong. Germany isn’t a country with an army, it’s an army with a country. They’ll squash the Socialists like so many cockroaches.”

 “I agree. Did you think the Kaiser has built all those battleships without intending to use them?”

 He waits, but this time no couple runs up the stairs for the furtive little ritual. The only person who does ascend from the party is Judith de Metz, the back of a hand placed melodramatically across her forehead.

 “Mother!” Gabriel says, as she comes close.

 The hand transfers to her heart. “Oh my God! Gabriel! What on earth are you doing there?”

 “Watching.”

 “Go to bed, tiresome boy. I have a headache and I’m not in the mood for any more talking.”

 “But—”

 “Do you want me to send up your father? Go to bed.”

···

Next morning Gabriel picks up the speckled egg that he found the previous day in an abandoned nest in the Lainzer Tiergarten. It is a parchmentlike ivory with random sepia blots. His L’Oiseaux d’Europe du Nord identifies it as that of the Hawfinch — the amusingly-named Coccothraustes coccothraustes.

 The sound of the family’s Praga starting up comes from outside and recedes up the street, taking his parents off to a party at the French Embassy.

 Pulling out the small, lacquered box that contains his egg kit, a gift from his father the previous summer to keep him occupied, he removes a diminutive wood-handled awl and a syringe. Blowing an egg, he knows from experience, is messy — even with a three-centimeter egg like this one — and he needs a bowl. He leaves his bedroom and heads down the stairs to the kitchen.

 Paulette and Simon are standing close together. He is touching her hair, twirling a strand in his fingers. She is blushing.

 Simon belatedly notices him, and a brief look of irritation crosses his face. “You like Mozartkugeln, don’t you, Gabriel? Would you like to go and get some? Here — take this.” He hands out a banknote, enough to buy an entire kilo of candy.

 Gabriel takes the money and leaves the house, but once he reaches the end of the street he finds all the shops shuttered — it is early closing day. He returns home after only a few minutes, but can’t find Simon to give him back his money. When he pads upstairs he sees, through the partly open door of the upstairs lounge, Simon and Paulette kissing. Her hair is down, and spills over her shoulders.

 Gabriel finds this deeply upsetting. Not exactly because he wishes it were he kissing Paulette in Simon’s place — he is shorter than she and is not sure how it would work — but because of some vague, unsatisfied yearning inside. It is not just the display of affection — he feels its lack poignantly now he is confronted with an overt display of it — it is a nascent maturity in himself that he suspects he will have to soon confront.

 Flustered, he turns and slips back downstairs, his face burning.

···

 There is time for a book before bed. Gabriel’s summer reading list includes Tarzan of the Apes, and he seems to recall seeing a copy in the library. After five minutes of searching the shelves he finds it — some fool has misplaced under “R” for Rice instead of “B” for Burroughs — and sits at the small side table under the window to begin it. But the table has apparently just been polished, and the smooth-jacketed book skids back and falls behind.

 It is while he crouches underneath to retrieve it that the door opens and his father and Simon walk in and close the door carefully behind them. He stays under the table, motionless, his heart thudding, wondering whether to reveal himself.

 They begin to talk, but their voices are unusually low, and it proves difficult to catch every word.

 Simon says, “It has started. Russia is mobilizing.”

 Alphonse de Metz replies in his deep voice, “‘Period Preparatory to War.’ It is the step before mobilization.”

 “I thought Austria or Germany would be first.”

 “Russia is so huge, it needs more time. Germany will not be far behind with their Kriegsgefahrzustand.”

 “Well anyway, our work is done.”

 “Our work will never be done. Don’t you know that by now?”

 “But here, surely…”

 “Yes, yes, for now. The Kaiser is siding with Austria. The Germans will execute the Schlieffen Plan, and tackle the French before they turn on Russia.”

 “That’ll teach the Austrians. They’ll be far too busy to consider annexing Serbia.”

 His father grunts. “We must not forget that they’re our paymasters. Besides, I have a feeling more countries are becoming involved than intended. It’s like a house of cards. The French have their new alliance with the British, remember.”

 “Surely that’s all to the good.”

 “Is it? We will have to see. But anyway, it’s no longer safe for us here. We’re returning to Paris, Judith and I. You’ll follow with the children.”

 A pause. “Not with you two?”

 “No. For us, time is of the essence. You have no such pressure. Make sure you have everything important in case we don’t come back. Don’t carry anything…”

 “No. Of course.”

 Another pause; longer.

 Simon eventually says, “What about the pouffe and the governess?”

 “Édouard comes with us — Judith won’t go anywhere without him. You will have to organize the packing and shipping. Get rid of the car — no point in keeping it. Paulette will stay to close up the house.”

 “No more summers in Vienna?’

 “I think not.”

 Gabriel realizes the conversation is coming to an end, and if he is not careful he may be caught.

 Luckily the two men leave the library through the French windows and walk out to the veranda, smoking. Cool, moist air blows in. Gabriel scrambles out of the main door and surprises Paulette, who has obviously been listening outside.

 The governess puts her finger to her lips and follows him to his room. Once they are both inside, she closes the door and leans against it, holding the collar of her dressing gown together. Outside, the rain patters at the window. “I was… looking for you,” she whispers. 
“You were not in your room.”

 “You never come into my room at night. You were listening too.”

 “So what if I was? I just wanted to know what we’re going to do now.”

 “Now?”

 “Now that war is likely. I’m affected by the family’s plans, after all. And your father always seems to know more about what’s going on than anyone else.”

 Gabriel is not sure he believes this explanation of Paulette’s eavesdropping, but it sounds plausible. And besides, his senses are a little befuddled by having a half-dressed young woman in his room. “Why don’t you just ask Simon?” he says, archly.

 She moves her head from side to side, and her hair falls about her pretty face in delicious disarray. “Oh, he won’t tell me anything. He just teases.”

 Is that what he needs to learn? Teasing? How does one start? He updates his mental list of experiences to embark upon: painting, drinking absinthe, smoking, and now teasing.

 Paulette misinterprets his hesitation. “Don’t say anything to anyone, please?” she asks him, a pleading look in her eyes. “I have a right to know what’s going on.”

 Gabriel does too. They are co-conspirators, in a way. “All right.” But he has his class’s mistrust of the hired help. He has always been told that they steal from you. Apparently, they also spy on you. But then he was spying too. But then again, he is allowed to — he is family.

 Paulette studies his face. “What was it like in Belgrade?”

 Gabriel shrugs, pretending nonchalance, though he is flattered by her interest. “Old fashioned. The streets were made out of wooden blocks. We drove in a Doktorwagen.”

 “And where did you go?”

 “Simon had to meet some people in a park—”

 “A park?”

 “Topcider Park. There was shooting. Pheasant, Simon said.”

 “Ah, of course. Did… did you see who he met?”

 Gabriel decides not to answer this. After all, he was not supposed to have followed, and he can’t possibly admit to seeing that Princip man. On the other hand, Paulette is only a governess. What he tells her doesn’t matter, if he is vague enough. “I wanted to see if they were going to shoot pheasant too. I’ve never seen that before. Of course I think it’s unfair to shoot birds—”

 “Yes, yes. But who did he meet?”

 Gabriel becomes suspicious. “Why?”

 “Because I’m curious. I always have been. Aren’t you?”

 “‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ my mother says.”

 Paulette laughs, a little nervously. “Yes, that’s right. But it’s so tedious in Vienna, don’t you agree? There’s nothing going on. You’re the only one doing interesting things.”

 Gabriel blushes. He does do interesting things, doesn’t he? School in England, a house in both Paris and Vienna. He was close to the archduke’s assassination, and then he went to see the bodies. He must seem quite cosmopolitan to this teenage nanny.

 He leans closer and narrows his eyes. “There were men shooting with revolvers.”

 “Gosh! How exciting. And did Simon just… talk to them?”

 Gabriel remembers the folder. He is certain Simon should not have had it, nor handed it over. He decides on discretion. “Yes, I think so. I was too far away to see much.” He adds lamely, “I was birdwatching.”

 She nods and pats his shoulder. “I like to hear about your expeditions. It adds some excitement to my life, like going to the moving pictures. Just think, one day you could write about your exploits.”

 Gabriel considers this. Her life must indeed be limited, because of her social position. “Yes, I suppose I could.”

 “I hope you’ll always tell me what you’ve been up to. I don’t have time to read, after all, with all my duties. So it’s like having a romantic novel read to me.”

 “Oh.”

 Paulette pauses, her hand on the doorknob. “So we’re all going back to Paris early, then.”

 He nods. “My parents first. And then we follow.”

 “I’ll help you pack after breakfast. Get some sleep.”