Imperial Requiem: Four Royal Women and the Fall of the Age of Empires (74 page)

The tide of events in Germany shifted drastically at the end of November, as Marxist Communists began fighting with the more moderate republicans for control of the government. Berlin and its environs became war zones, making it imperative for Dona to leave soon. Violence against the monarchy was escalating. Two attempts were made on the life of Wilhelm’s brother Henry and Wilhelm’s nephews. In Potsdam, small bands of rioters barged into the Neues Palais. The small detachment of bodyguards that Wilhelm had left to protect Dona was unable to adequately defend the palace. The empress was unharmed, but everyone’s nerves were sufficiently jolted. Eitel-Fritz finally persuaded his mother to relocate to his home, the more secure Villa Ingenheim, in southwest Potsdam. Within hours of vacating the Neues Palais, crowds broke in and ransacked the ground floor. Thieves made off with antiques, furniture, and clothes, including one of Dona’s nightgowns. But Ingenheim proved just as vulnerable as the palace. The guards assigned by Eitel-Fritz to protect her openly supported the revolution by wearing red cockades in their hats. But unlike many of the guards who abandoned Tsarina Alexandra at Tsarskoe Selo to join the revolution, those at Ingenheim still did their best to protect Augusta Victoria.

On the first night she spent at her son’s home, a group of bibulous sailors broke into the building and easily overpowered the guards. While the sailors tore room after room apart looking for Dona’s diaries and letters, she was questioned by their officer. The empress faced bravely them, showing great strength during her interrogation, despite still being very ill. When the officer suggested she would be more comfortable if she sat down, she defiantly retorted, “
I
am accustomed to sit down only when I feel like it.”
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Dona’s courage lasted through the hours of questioning. In the end, it was by the “sheer force of her character she had subdued them, and afterwards she had been left in peace.”
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At the Villa Ingenheim, Dona remained in almost total seclusion under the protection of the small handful of guards who were still committed to her safety. The terrifying ordeal involving the drunken sailors further undermined her poor health. Suffering from continual heart pain and fatigue brought on by stress, she spent long hours in bed. The only thing that eased her suffering was the presence of her sons Eitel-Fritz, Oscar, Auwi, and their wives and children, along with Crown Princess Cecilie and her family. Missing from the family group now gathered at Ingenheim were Crown Prince Willy, who was by that time settled on Wieringen Island, and Prince Adalbert, who was in Kiel. When the revolution began, Adalbert fled to his personal yacht, which was manned by a crew still loyal to him. His wife, Adelaide, and their daughter attempted to reach Kiel but were blocked by revolutionaries. They found safety near Munich, taking refuge with the Bavarian royal family; husband and wife were eventually reunited and made their way safely to Switzerland.

At the end of November, the time had come for Dona to leave Germany and join her husband in exile in the Netherlands. The night before her departure, she packed as many things as she could, including a few jewels, clothes, and personal items. Most of her crown jewels had been spirited away with Wilhelm’s cousin the queen of Sweden, who was in Carlsruhe at the time. Before dawn on the cold, wintry morning of November 27, 1918, Augusta Victoria, wearing a long black dress and a matching hat that partially covered her face, left Potsdam. Accompanying the empress was a small group comprised of her ever-faithful friend Countess Mathilde Keller, her beloved dachshund Topsy, and one or two attendants. Noticeably absent from the traveling party were Dona’s daughters-in-law, most of whom chose to stay in Germany, and most of whom now chose to live separately from their husbands. With the exceptions of Oscar’s wife, Countess Ina, and Adalbert’s wife, Princess Adelaide, whom those princes had married for love, all four of her sons’ wives were forced to endure unfaithful, bigoted husbands who had shown time and again that their military careers were more important to them than their marriages. Crown Prince Willy proved to be a particularly brutal husband who hit Cecilie on more than one occasion. When Willy became too insufferable, Cecilie fled abroad, usually with the emperor’s consent, while Dona cared for her young grandchildren.

Upon leaving Ingenheim, Dona was driven by Cecilie to the Charlottenburg station—the same train station where, thirty years before, she and Wilhelm experienced a very different scene. Back then, during the howling winter, the couple had met Wilhelm’s parents upon their return from San Remo when they had just ascended the throne, making the young couple the new crown prince and princess of Germany. This time, the emotional scene that took place was very different. There were no imperial officials, no crowds paying their respects. The Berlin of November 1918 was a far cry from the Berlin of 1888. Absent were outbursts of loyalty to the monarchy or the military on parade in imperial livery. City life hardly seemed to notice the passing into shadow of the empress or her family. On the platform of the station, Dona and Cecilie shared a last, tearful embrace. The only other people there were gray-coated soldiers returning from the front lines, none of whom acknowledged Dona. The only light that illuminated the platform was from the train conductor’s lantern. Cecilie noted that, despite the pain of her departure, Dona maintained “the placidity of her temperament.”
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Dona and her group left for the Netherlands in a specially prepared black train. To ensure the empress’s safety, the government provided her with an escort—the First Guards Regiment—to accompany her to the border and then disembark. But even this benevolent gesture was tainted by political undertones. Instead of wearing the traditional dress uniform in the presence of the empress, they wore civilian clothes. The journey through German territory was performed at breakneck speed. This was necessary to ensure the empress quitted the country while public opinion was still in her favor. With great relief, the train arrived at Amerongen the next day. In spite of the uncertainty of what lay ahead, Dona conducted herself during the journey with great dignity and restraint. Her companions chatted and played cards, but Dona isolated herself at the back of the train, attended only by Countess Keller. Those on board both pitied and were impressed by the empress, who, in spite of her great misfortune, carried herself well. That same regal bearing—the one she had shown as a child—was almost all that Dona had left for her years of exile.

Part 4
Twilight and Shadow 

(1918–89)

23
The Edge of Night
 

(November 1918–April 1919)

W
ilhelm arrived in Amerongen to a disheartening welcome. Half a dozen or so Dutch military officers confiscated most of his military property and ordered the majority of his staff back to Germany. The Dutch officers escorted him to his new home, Amerongen Castle, a four-story brick building located a few miles outside the town, belonging to the “phenomenally obliging” Count Bentinck.
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“Now,” Wilhelm said to his aide upon arriving, rubbing his hands together, “give me a cup of real good English tea!”
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The next day, he wrote a self-pitying note to Dona: “My reign is ended, my dog’s life is over, and has been rewarded only with betrayal and ingratitude.”
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Though incredibly small by the standards of Wilhelm’s former homes, Amerongen was still luxurious compared to what many deposed royals were now experiencing. The castle was large enough that it was surrounded by two moats, requiring entry through a medieval-style drawbridge.

On November 28, men dressed in long black coats arrived at Amerongen from Berlin. They were representatives of the new German government, the Weimar Republic. They had come to secure Wilhelm’s signature on the abdication order, ending the reign of the Hohenzollerns once and for all. Unlike other abdications, this one was simple yet exacting.

I hereby for all the future renounce my rights to the Crown of Prussia and my consequential rights to the German Imperial Crown.

At the same time I release all officials of the German Empire and Prussia, as well as all the officers, non-commissioned officers, and men of the Navy, of the Prussian Army, and of the federal contingents, from the oath of fealty, which they have made to me as their Emperor, King and Supreme Commander.…

Given under our hand and our Imperial seal,

Wilhelm

Amerongen, November 28, 1918
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Later that same day, Dona arrived by train at the Amerongen station. She was met with a similar bare-bones welcome to what Wilhelm had received. Looking “worn and ill”
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according to one witness, she half smiled at the aide-de-camp who was sent to meet her at the station. She was reunited with Wilhelm in the castle gardens. The ex-emperor was standing alone on the bridge over the moat surrounding their new home, leaves from the golden trees fluttering on the surface of the water. The mist that rose from the river created an almost dreamlike quality to the scene. When Wilhelm finally looked up and saw his long-suffering wife, he snapped to attention and gave her a military salute. Then, with tears in her eyes, she ran over to her husband and embraced him, reportedly for the first time in public. A week later, she wrote to her daughter, “Reunited with Papa eight days ago, praise God!”
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The Austrian imperial family found refuge in the town of Eckartsau, taking up residence at the old imperial hunting lodge nearby. Within a few days of their departure from Vienna, the new government of German-Austria, as it was calling itself since becoming a republic on November 12, confiscated almost all of the imperial family’s assets, including their former homes. Eckartsau had the advantage—besides being remote—of being privately owned by the Habsburgs, but compared to their former palaces, it was terribly spartan. Overnight, Zita’s family lost almost everything. At their new home, they were “without fuel for the heating stoves or more than the barest necessities in the royal pantry.”
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As Zita recalled, “Food supplies were supposed to be sent out to us from Vienna but the lorries arrived irregularly and, more than once, they were attacked and picked clean on the way. Everything else was in short supply … The electricity was more off than on and some everyday essentials like matches were missing altogether.”
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The problem of their difficult living conditions came down to the fact that “the court exchequer had been dismissed and the new authorities in Vienna cut off the allowance for the upkeep of the dynasty.”
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Despite the family’s hardships, Zita’s children found Eckartsau “extraordinary but still very beautiful.”
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For the next few weeks, delegations from the remnants of the Austro-Hungarian Empire trickled into Eckartsau. Charles met with each of them, showing his usual characteristic calm and respect for each individual. Zita’s task during this time was equally daunting. It was up to her to care for her five children, all under the age of six, while being pregnant for the sixth time. The few free minutes she had each day were spent turning the barely livable hunting lodge into a home.

Security was also an issue. Sentiments against the monarchy were rising, and there were only a handful of guards to protect the family. Their entourage, which only a number of weeks before had numbered in the hundreds, had dwindled to less than fifty. The empress feared for the safety of her family, especially after angry crowds were spotted outside the gates. To make matters worse, the drafty, damp climate at Eckartsau played havoc with the health of the emperor and the children. By Christmas, Zita was the only person in the household who had not fallen ill. “Christmas 1918 was a rather sombre festival,” she recalled, “especially as the emperor, who was anyway suffering from repeated heart attacks and overstrain, had gone down with a severe attack of Spanish influenza ten days before and was now really ill. All the children caught it as well … Charles Ludwig, for example, who was then barely eighteen months old, very nearly died.”
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The empress was determined to give her children as happy a Christmas as possible, despite being nearly destitute from having had all their assets seized. She had a tree brought in from the forest and decorated. On Christmas Eve, she spread out a pile of tiny gifts for everyone. She recalled how they were able to provide gifts: “We had found at Eckartsau a trunk we had once used on our official journeys which was nearly full of minor presents and this came in most useful.”
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For the servants who were with the Habsburgs, Zita gave each of them specially wrapped up scraps of chocolate that she had been saving. By Christmas Day, the emperor was dangerously sick. His fever skyrocketed. Zita’s eldest son, Otto, remembered that his father “got up for the occasion but was so weak that [he] had to remain seated in an armchair and retired again to bed immediately afterwards.”
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The end of the Great War brought with it the end of Old Europe. Almost every monarchical power was overthrown, replaced by republics or dictatorships. The Habsburgs, Hohenzollerns, and Romanovs had been dethroned, exiled, or executed. The federal monarchies that had made up the German Empire were dissolved and reformed into the Weimar Republic. The diverse ethnic groups that belonged to the Habsburgs for six hundred years all broke away. What had been one great empire were now half a dozen smaller nations that included Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, and a unified Romania. But it was perhaps the former empire of Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna that was the most tragic of all, whose rich past was now washed away in violence and bloodshed.

In Britain, whatever popularity George and Mary enjoyed in 1914 had exploded four years later. The king and queen were more popular than ever and planned on settling down to a quiet, retiring life to enjoy peace they had not known for years. But as the rest of the world struggled to move past the horror of the last four years, the British royal family was hit by a personal tragedy. At 5:30 a.m. on January 18, 1919, the queen received a telephone call informing her that Prince John, her youngest son, died during the night when a severe seizure caused his heart to fail. The thirteen-year-old prince had led a retiring life at Wood House; however, despite her son’s isolation, Mary suffered his death like any loving mother. She wrote to her old childhood friend, Emily Alcock.

For him it is a great release, as his malady was becoming worse as he grew older, & he has thus been spared much suffering. I cannot say how grateful we feel to God for having taken him in such a peaceful way, he just slept quietly into his heavenly home, no pain, no struggle, just peace for the poor little troubled spirit which had been a great anxiety to us for many years, ever since he was four years old—The first break in the family circle is hard to bear but people have been so kind & sympathetic & this has helped us much.
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The private funeral for Prince John was conducted on January 21 at the church in Sandringham. Mary confided her memories about the service to her diary that night: “Canon Dalton & Dr. Brownhill conducted the service which was awfully sad and touching. Many of our own people and the villagers were present. We thanked all Johnnie’s servants who have been so good and faithful to him.”
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The queen did not have much time to mourn the loss of John because only a few months later came the Paris Peace Conference to settle the fate of Europe after the war. Never before in history had there been the precedent of reconstruction after such wholesale devastation. In soldiers alone, there was “an awesome loss of lives. The British Empire had lost 767,000 men; France 1,383,000; the United States 81,000; Italy 564,000; Germany 1,686,000; and Russia 1,700,000. At least 1,000,000 men were missing in action, and over 12,000,000 had suffered serious injury, many maimed, blinded, or mentally unbalanced.”
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It was estimated that Austria-Hungary had lost more than 17 percent of its active male population.
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The humanitarian crisis that ensued after the war was equally devastating. In Russia, the hardships imposed by the war and the Bolsheviks’ brutal regime left somewhere between five and ten million people dead from starvation between 1918 and 1922.
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One of the most pressing concerns at the time of the peace conference was the rampant Spanish influenza sweeping the globe. Despite its name, this deadly pandemic was believed to have originated somewhere in the central United States. The death toll, estimated somewhere between fifty and one hundred million, easily dwarfed those caused by the war.