I felt the tug at my arm as I lay in bed, I only wanted to sleep.

"Come on, papa!" my son implored. "We need to get a good spot!"

My eyes fluttered open, half-blurred from my slumber, to scan for the clock. Surely I could sleep a little longer.

"It's a quarter past eight," Pejo informed me, keenly aware of the habits of his sleepy father. "By the time you get up and we have breakfast, there will barely be any time to get there!"

"Why would I want to go watch the Habsburgs parade around our city?" I asked him, annoyed. The question missed its mark, my nine-year-old son was too young to be concerned with the political issues of the day.

"It's the Archduke," he said, "how many times do you get to see the next emperor?"

"Once will be one too many," I grumbled to myself. The boy did not hear but renewed his battle to pull me from the bed. I finally relented.

"Fine," I said, slinging my feet over the edge of the bed. I wanted to shoo the boy away to get ready to go, but Pejo was already dressed to leave. "Let me get dressed and have some coffee. And something to eat."

"Papa!" Pejo protested, slumping his shoulders as he knew I would not be swayed from my normal Sunday activities. He sulked out of the room.

I could barely get a morsel of food in my mouth as Pejo skittered about the kitchen, his impatience grew with each slow bite I took. For my part, I was not enthused about seeing Franz Ferdinand, a man who stood between the union of Bosnia with the Serbian kingdom. It was difficult to understand my son's enthusiasm; I did not share his love for pomp and parades, nor acceptance of the rule of the Habsburgs. I blamed his mother.

My wife, Kata, tried her best to corral Pejo, dispatching him to help clean up the dishes, deliver my coffee and other tasks designed to occupy him. She never spoke of the political situation to me, but I knew her feelings. She remained loyal to her Croatian roots. Her people largely favored the annexation a few years ago.

Pejo yanked the plate from beneath my hand as I lifted the last piece of bread smothered with pasteta from it.

"Come, father," he said, trying unsuccessfully to bury his impatient tone beneath one of respect. I looked at Kata, hoping she would have some task for me to keep me away from the parade.

"You two run along," she said, smiling. I could not tell whether she was being kind or whether she was taking glee in my discomfort. I sighed and resigned myself to walking across several blocks of city to Appel Quay to see a man I did not like.

We arrived along Appel Quay roughly 45 minutes later, much to the consternation of Pejo, who wanted to get a good place to view the procession. The streets were already lined with onlookers. Pejo tried to force our way through but was brushed aside by a young man standing on the curb.

"This is my spot," he snipped. We moved a little closer to the Latin Bridge, where a man offered us a place to watch after overhearing the conversation. I confess that I did not give much thought to the young man denying us a place at the front at the time. I was only humoring Pejo and did not care whether or not I saw the Archduke.

Not long after, we heard a small explosion and were jostled in the ensuing commotion. I held tight to Pejo's hand as one of the other onlookers suggested that a bomb had just gone off. Within a moment, the cars in the procession sped past, only offering a quick glimpse of the heir to Austro-Hungarian throne.

"I saw him!" Pejo said. "Though I wish I had a better look. Did you see the green feathers? That was him, wearing his hat."

I nodded, and for an instant felt disappointed that my son had only gotten so brief a look before the car sped past.

"I wonder what happened," my son said, looking up at me. "Was it really a bomb?"

"Perhaps," I said, trying to buy time to think of a lie that the boy would accept. "It was probably a cannon salute or something. You know these politicians, always running late."

Pejo looked at me quizzically but seemed to accept his father's ruse. More pressing matters soon occupied him.

"I smell burek," he said. "Can we get one, please? I'm so hungry."

For a moment I scowled at the child, he had ample opportunity to eat this morning, but would not in his bid to hurry me out the door. But I smelled it too. My wife was a wonderful cook, but Croatian foods were nothing compared to a well-made burek, and Schiller's had some of the best in the city. I reached into my pocket to make sure I had some money before agreeing.

"You should have eaten breakfast at home," I said, using my best-sounding surly voice to give the impression that I was cross with him. Pejo saw through it. I could not help but break into a smile. "Come along, we'll share one."

Inside the delicatessen, we got our food and sat down. The men inside chatted about the unsuccessful bomb from earlier, it had disabled the car behind the Archduke's vehicle. I tried to engage my son in other discussions, I did not want to have to explain to him why someone would try to kill Franz Ferdinand. Pejo, to my relief, was too distracted by the burek and the little peek he had seen of the prince to notice the discussion around him.

"His uniform was blue, with lots of shiny buttons," the boy explained to me. "And I wonder where he got a green feather for his hat. I've never seen one before."

I feigned ignorance and let the boy prattle on, dividing my attention between him and the conversations behind me to gather more news of the failed attempt on the Archduke's life. A few people hurt, but not the heir or his wife. There was little other news.

"Ready to go?" I asked Pejo as he leaned back in his chair, unable to finish his share of the burek. He nodded and I scooped up the last few bites of the pastry as we headed out the door. As we left, I noticed the young man from earlier, the one who had refused to give up his spot along the quay, finishing up a chat with another person. At that moment, I had a notion to turn around and say something on account of his rudeness, but was interrupted from doing so by a friend.

"Good morning, Petar," I heard someone say. It was an acquaintance, Milan Drnic and his wife, headed into the cafe for a bite to eat. I nodded and touched the brim of my cap to acknowledge him.

"Morning, Milan," I said, straddling the line between trying to avoid small talk with him and being rude. He smiled and said nothing else and continued toward the door of the deli.

"Papa!" Pejo suddenly shouted, pointing out onto the street. It was the Archduke's car. Someone yelled from it and it lurched to a halt. They had taken a wrong turn. The commotion caught the attention of the young man, who suddenly produced a weapon and leveled it at the Archduke. He fired twice before I could say anything, before I could move, before I could avert the gaze of my young son.

I barely managed to grab my son by his shirt as he instinctively moved toward the car. Pandemonium erupted around us as police tried to separate the man from a suddenly angry mob of onlookers ready to dash him to pieces with their fists. I tugged hard to pull my child away from the scene.

"The prince!" Pejo said, attempting at first to wriggle free.

"Pejo!" I said sternly. "This is no place for us." He stopped and looked around briefly. We seemed to be the only motionless figures amidst the chaos. He took my hand and began walking with me, all the while looking over his shoulder to observe the scene.

"Father," he said after we had walked for about a minute, "do you think the Archduke will survive?"

"I don't know Pejo," I answered. I had hoped my son did not have a good view of what happened. I was certain that the Archduke had been hit, and was nearly certain that his wife, Sophie, had also suffered a wound from the assassin.

We seemed to arrive home in no time at all. Little was said on the walk back, both our minds occupied with the event we had just witnessed. My wife seemed surprised to see us.

"What's happened?" she asked as she saw our faces. Neither of us could hide our distress.

"Mama," Pejo whined softly as he slung his arms around his mother's legs. "It was terrible. They shot him."

Her head instantly snapped to attention, she stared at me with shock. I could only nod to confirm what Pejo had said. But Kata persisted until I was forced to divulge what I had seen.

"He was wounded, I could not say how badly," I explained. "I believe his wife was also hit. I saw her slumped over in the car."

I immediately regretted that I had offered anything, Pejo looked back at me with tears in his eyes.

"Why? Why would they shoot him?" he asked.

"I...I don't think you would understand," I started.

"No one understands," my wife mumbled. My mind retraced back through the different political developments over the past few years, things that were said, things that were done or not done. I stood silent as both my wife and son looked to me for an explanation. I myself was no longer convinced there was one.

"A radical does not need a reason," I finally managed to say, at once realizing that at that moment I had removed myself from the ranks of Bosnian Serbs that advocated action to join with Serbia. I reached for my wife's hand and held it in mine as I looked at Pejo.

"Let us pray that the Archduke recovers," I said. "I do not wish to think about what might happen if he does not."