VIENNA, AUSTRIA,
SEPTEMBER 10, 1944
A shrill air raid signal pierced the quiet of the cobblestoned Michaelerplatz, a plaza in the heart of central Vienna. A moment later, the grand baroque edifices ringing the square shuddered in violent reverberation. Vienna was under siege. On the grounds of the Hofburg Palace, tucked away from view in the ornate stables that once belonged to an emperor, thirty-three majestic white stallions startled, pawing and rearing, their eyes white-rimmed with fear.
Peering out of a box stall, one eight-year-old Lipizzaner stood perfectly still, his white coat glowing in the stable’s dim light. His ears pricked forward as he tried to pick out the soft tread of his master’s footsteps through the sound of airplanes roaring overhead. Next to his stall, on a small black slate, his name, Neapolitano Africa, and his birthdate, 1935, were neatly stenciled in white paint. A moment later, a slim middle-aged gentleman rushed to Africa’s side, whispering a word of reassurance, then placing a warm hand on the stallion’s shoulder. Alois Podhajsky was utterly concentrated on a single goal—to keep his stallions safe. With a deft motion, Podhajsky slipped the polished leather halter from its peg next to the stall. The stallion lowered his head and placed his speckled muzzle through the leather noseband, helping to make the task easier. His eyes seemed to say, “I know what’s going on here. Let me help.”
By now the entire stable, with its marble water basins and neatly hung tack, its wide aisles and airy stalls, was a hive of activity: Grooms in gray uniforms quickly haltered some of the stallions while riders, in their buckskin britches and jackets, took charge of others. Around them, bits of plaster broke free and a powdery residue sifted down like snow.
In single file, the horses and men crossed a large courtyard, passed through heavy iron-studded wooden doors, and then clattered across a city street, now deserted. The horses filed through a second set of doors and into a sheltered hallway. The stallions had calmed and didn’t shy or balk even as the loud booms and crashes almost drowned out the ringing of their iron shoes on the cobblestones. The last to enter the shelter of the hallway was Alois Podhajsky, Olympic bronze medal winner and director of the Spanish Riding School of Vienna. The enormous wooden doors swung shut behind them; here, the thick walls muffled the sounds a little bit. For the first moment since hearing the air raid signal, Podhajsky took a deep breath. He reached into the leather pouch at his hip, extracted a sugar lump, and offered it to Africa, feeling the tickle of the horse’s whiskers as he lipped it up from Podhajsky’s bare palm. Horse and man were clearly intimate and seemed to converse without words, the man promising protection and the horse evidently comforted by his silent reassurance.
The Spanish Riding School of Vienna was one of Austria’s most beloved institutions. Named for the Spanish provenance of the original horses, the school famously showcased the finest specimens of the equine species’ most rarefied breed: the royal Lipizzaner. As priceless as any of the masterpieces that hung in Vienna’s museums, from their snow-white coats to their large aristocratic heads and deep brown eyes, the horses were unlike any others in the world.
The horses and masters huddled here were at the center of a maelstrom. Around them, war raged in all directions. These royal horses had escaped danger on numerous previous occasions, fleeing for their lives and safety from the armies of Napoleon and again during the Great War. Each time they had been able to find safe haven. But now, in the all-out war of air and ground that was engulfing Europe, where could they go? No obvious path to safety lay before them.
A loud boom ripped through the building. Next came a deafening thud; glass shattered high above them. A cacophony of terrified neighs tore through the dust-choked air. Podhajsky and Africa turned to look at each other. Podhajsky gripped the sturdy lead rope, held his breath, and waited.