<chapter>A Moment of Indecision
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by<br>
M. Stanley Bubien
</center>

It was a moment of indecision, a single instant, but even after four
years, the consequences to my hesitation are still being paid out.  Could
I have guessed at the time, though?  Surely not.  Surely not.  Especially
on such a bright, sunshine-filled day.

<BR>

The crowd had thinned by the time I approached the shop, hoping to
procure a small meal and a curbside seat from which to view the
procession.  A slightly haggard young man came out bearing a sandwich and
brushed past me.

"Gavrilo?" I said, spinning after him.

He hesitated.

"Gavrilo?" I repeated.

He glanced back at me, squinting sallowly as though he were
evaluating a rival from the street corner.  But, recognizing me, my old
roommate's demeanor relaxed and we clasped hands.  His grip had weakened
in the intervening years though he was a youth of barely twenty.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.  "I thought you opposed the
Empire.  'Filled with imperialist dogs' you used to say, yes?"  I laughed
while Gavrilo answered with darting eyes --- always the understated one.

"How have you been, then?" I asked.

Gazing about, he replied, "Getting along," his voice sounding as
though it lacked oxygen.  "You look quite fair yourself," he continued. 
"Married yet?  I seem to recall a courtly maiden striking your fancy."

Never a healthy man, but always a barbed wit!  We both laughed, for
he referred to a woman he himself had introduced me to --- the daughter of
a politician.  Yes, she had struck my fancy, but her father --- he had
struck my jaw!  I touched my mouth and Gavrilo laughed harder.

"You rascal," I told him.  "You knew her father wanted her married to
the Mayor's son."

"Is that right?" he feigned ignorance.

"I still marvel that you shared acquaintances with such an
influential family.  Quite well-connected for such a young radical."

He nodded, "I have a tendency to know people."

"Often to your own foul purpose," I joked, but a dark cloud passed
over Gavrilo's demeanor.  From down the lane, a clacking reached us, but
neither Gavrilo or myself gave it attention.  I decided to change
subjects, "And you, Gavrilo, are you betrothed?"

Unfortunately, I made poor choice of subjects.  Gavrilo's head
drooped as though he were examining his shoes.  "Almost," he replied in
near whisper.  The noise from down the street resolved into a rumble and
the crowd began thickening about us.  Still staring at his feet, Gavrilo
coughed once and said, "I have not the time for love these days, having
returned to Sarajevo on a matter of some urgency."

His sandwich crinkled while, as if choreographed to the crush of
paper, the noise of engines filled our block.  Afraid to say more to
Gavrilo, I reached out to grasp his shoulder as I had oft in times past.

"This is the wrong way!" a voice cried from the street.  "Go back to
Apple Quay!"

Gavrilo looked up, and before I gripped his shoulder, he dropped his
sandwich and took a single step to brush past me.  From his jacket he
pulled a revolver, pointing it at the nearest of the vehicles pausing
before us.  Within the automobile, I realized, sat the man everyone had
come to see, the Heir Apparent, Archduke Ferdinand.

My arm remained outstretched, and though Gavrilo was moving forward,
he hovered scant centimeters from my grasp.  As I realized my
predicament, all motion slowed --- Gavrilo's waving gun, the converging
crowd, the braking autos --- as if time itself was attempting to avert
coming disaster.

In these frozen seconds, events resolved within my mind.  Three days
prior, I had heard rumor of a Black Hand plot to retaliate against the
Empire's annexation of our Bosnia-Herzegovina --- an illegal maneuver on
behalf of the Archduke's uncle that most Serbians opposed.  Gavrilo's
presence here made a sudden sense.

My hand approached Gavrilo --- so frail, I would easily be able to
wrest him backward.  He took aim.  I reached further.  His finger slid
against the trigger in an agonizingly slow progression.  Palm
outstretched, I sought to grab his coat.

And I hesitated --- just for a moment --- for I understood what Gavrilo
set out to accomplish.  Austria-Hungary's ruler, Franz Josef, a powerful,
arrogant man, stole the land of our fathers believing he would force us
to his will.  So self-absorbed, he sent his nephew to review his troops
on our own soil, further humiliating us upon the anniversary of our great
defeat by the Turks.  It was outrageous!  He would pay --- yes! --- for
underestimating the dangers of meddling in Serbian affairs...

In that instant, time returned to normal.

"Wait!" I screamed.

Before my hand fell upon Gavrilo, he stepped away from me and fired. 
The echo of two gunshots drove all other sound away, and from my vantage,
I viewed the blood spreading from both Archduke and wife.  I also heard
the Archduke speak his last words.

"Sophie.  Sophie.  Don't die," he said in German.  "Stay alive for
our children."

As if this were a cue, the mob attacked.

"Gavrilo!" I cried, trying to reach him through the gauntlet of
bodies, "Gavrilo!"  They knocked him to the ground and kicked him
mercilessly.

The bloody vision, the cracking gunfire, and my own hesitation all
resounded within my head.

"Gavrilo!"

Madly, I forced my way into the mob, renting away those weaker than
myself.  In my furor, I reached the center, and there upon the ground lay
Gavrilo, receiving blows like a dead man.

"No!" I cried, bending my foot back, but a police whistle wailed and
I was thrust aside.  Officers surrounded the assassin, lifted him to his
feet --- for he yet lived --- and bore him away.

"No!" I cried again, rushing forward to strike at my old friend, but
I received a blow myself and collapsed upon the street.

"No," I sobbed.  "No, no, no..." I repeated, for, with all my being,
I wanted to kill Gavrilo.  He forced the responsibility of two lives upon
me, and, in a moment of indecision, I failed them.  And could I have
looked ahead four years, I would have sobbed all the more.  For the
millions --- oh! --- the millions!  I failed them all.

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###
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Based on a true story.

1024 Words.

<chapter>Copyright and License

Copyright &copy; 1997, M. Stanley Bubien.
<BR>

The author(s) hereby <i>grant</i> the right to electronically distribute
this story via e-mail, ftp, and/or usenet news for non-profit purposes
provided the story, title, authorship, and copyright (including this
notice) remain in their original form, without modification or deletion.

<br>

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