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It was an old women’s summer in Vienna and even in the late afternoon a warm breeze could accompany an artist on his walk home.


It was days like these in which Franz Cizek felt younger than his 65 years and he took a notion, as he often did, for a walk through the city’s Stadtpark. Whilst many of his young students would be off to spend the rest of their Saturday afternoon at the ever expanding funfair around the ferris wheel at Prater the Stadtpark remained Franz’s go-to place for peace and serenity. The park’s small bumps and bends were so familiar to him that he felt he walk through it blindfolded without accidentally walking into a pond and disturbing the swans. He got a lot out of it nonetheless even if it had changed over the years. People were more relaxed about their appearance these days, and the attractions on offer were more gaudy. There were no longer any young men selling their own art it seemed. A person would need a license for that sort of thing these days.


It was when Franz had been walking through the park on a day where the weather had been similar that he had first met Adolf Hitler selling his paintings. It was hard to think that almost twenty years had passed since that day. Franz had tried to follow the progress of his former protege since he had first been shaken to read his name in the paper in 1924, from that day he had grown accustomed to it. He had even seen Hitler’s political text in the more raggedy bookshops he would sometimes frequent. It was a work he wasn’t sure whether he should read and he had held off on doing so.

Franz had contemplated contacting Adolf but he always seemed to be busy with whatever was going on in Germany. The sort of politics Franz had tried to rein him in from following were now the younger man’s life, at the expense of his art. Did he even paint anymore? A letter from an old man from his past self of poverty and near-vagrancy might not be welcome even if he had now stood to speak for millions of people who were still like that. Franz had seen that strange mix of inferiority and superiority within his friend more than a few times.

Franz sauntered over to one of the many cafes adjacent to the park and managed to grab a seat outside. He could contemplate things here from a relaxed setting after his stroll. It was good to see the cafes busy again, although an integral part of Viennese culture they had suffered when the recession following the Creditanstalt collapse had hit the city. The Social Democrats nationalising and subsequently breaking up the giant bank was cathartic but hadn’t brought any immediate economic relief. It was the customs union with Germany that had really brought deliverance, the free trade between the countries had kickstarted both of their economies but Austria’s especially. This didn’t mean that unemployment was solved, far from it, but there were other things for idle young men to do these days other than sell paintings to tourists.

Franz wished trade was the only thing Germany had gifted Austria recently but their political radicals on both the left and the right had been another major export. First it had been the communists and socialists fleeing the military takeover but as the civil war had turned in favour of the United Front and the so-called Third Reich had turned in on itself many fascists and other blends of reactionary had also made their escape south. Austria had hardly been averse to political militias and violence beforehand but these new arrivals, along with the economic and political instability in both countries, had taken in to a new level. The militia’s appeared to be larger than ever and their goals now seemed to be framed in a wider German context, whether that meant joining the radicalised form of revolution unfolding in Germany or turning Austria into a fortress against it until such a time came that a reconquista could be launched.

He tried to put such thoughts out of his mind and focused on enjoying his coffee. He was supposed to be having a leisurely time after all, the politics of the day could weigh a man down if he spent his entire day dwelling on them.

He marvelled at the ducks and swans disembarking en masse from the park and wondered what might have caused such a sudden exodus.

Then he heard the rumbling.

It came in the form of banging drums and chants and Franz was taken away from his coffee once again by the march that was coming down the street. At their front they carried a large banner which swayed backwards and forwards in the light breeze.







This was a new message and Franz couldn’t help but be reminded about an old English idiom about things not lasting for long after reading it but the uniforms of the Heimwehr were well known to him by this point. the faces of the men were serious, some even seemed reluctant but steered on by a determination amongst their comrades. They were chanting the slogan on the banner like a religious mantra.

Visitors to the park began to vacate the scene and the few policemen mulling around the park were clearly panicking, it was clear this march wasn’t scheduled, Franz observed, but there were those in other uniforms running from street corners to form a cordon. Cries broke as at several loud bangs. Franz dived under the table, before hearing the chants grow louder. The militiamen were armed and trying to clear the way ahead.

Franz’s knees protested as he broke into a run that he hadn’t put his body through in many years, eventually forced into more of a tense jog, whilst he focused on getting to his home and away from this madness. He had slowed himself due to the pain in his legs but also because so many people were also now fleeing. He was wary of collisions.

Not everyone seemed to be running however, and it seemed a larger collision was imminent. In a bizarre display of unity men in the uniforms of the Republican Protection League and Communist League militias had linked arms alongside men and women wearing just their work clothes. They had linked arms in a rushed fashion and were now marching towards the Heimwehr. It wasn’t long before they had broken out into song to march the chant of the their opponents:





The singing went on, mixed with the chanting, until both sides collided. More shots could be heard. The police, already unsure of how to react, now gave up on trying to contain either side and began to join Franz and many others in getting out of the way of the riot.

Continuing to jog across the Donaukanal Franz realised that people were now running towards the scene whilst others appeared to be running away but from other directions. Whatever was going on it seemed to be big and he sighed with relief that nothing was happening outside of his home. At least for now. Leopoldstadt’s population were already preparing themselves for the conflagration that could still be heard from nearby. Worn out he staggered down the cobbled streets towards his home.

Once inside he double checked that he had locked the door and then pulled the shutters down until he was sitting almost entirely in the dark, mere cracks of light emanating from what had previously been the pleasant day outside.


Franz sat down on the table within his studio, weary from the run. The crackle of gunfire from outside made him flinch.


Franz began to shake. He wasn’t sure if he was in shock or had merely had been undergoing a joint surge of adrenaline and caffeine but his eyes couldn’t stop themselves from pacing up and down the room, from easels, to canvasses to old works of his own, to those not yet completed. Before finally, they fixed on a painting he had bought over twenty years ago.


It was clear that the shadow men were now upon Vienna once more.



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The painting is The Metaphysical Muse by Carlo Carrà