The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  When, a couple of days later, an old uncle telegraphed that he also wanted to attend the Salzburg Festivals, and a week after that a cousin from Germany with wife and seven children was wondering whether…my husband looked at me and said: “See what I mean?”

  They all arrived, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, who hadn’t seen dear Georg, of whom they had always been so very fond, for such a long time…and who were so happy to meet his lovely wife, and oh, how the children had grown! The big house became almost small, so crowded it was.

  Cousin Hermann wanted to see the town.

  “Rupert, will you go with him and show him…?”

  “I know,” Rupert replied, “The Fortress, Mozart’s birthplace, the house of The Magic Flute, the Mönchsberg, the Kapuzinerberg, the Cathedral, the Franciscan Church, Saint Peter, Nonnberg, and the Festspielhaus.”

  Cousin Elvira, who had seen the town yesterday under Rupert’s able guidance, was entrusted to Agathe, who would show her the lovely little castle Hellbrunn and the water works. Uncle Edmund, who didn’t care, as he said for old stones and old iron, wanted to visit some of the famous brewery gardens around Salzburg with Werner as his guide. Maria conducted a small flock of children to the world-famous puppet theatre downtown, while Georg drove some transient Navy friends up the beautiful mountain road to the summit of the Gaisberg, where you have a lovely view.

  And so it went now for the next thirty days. In the evenings, tired from sightseeing, we would go to one of the masterfully produced operas or to one of those unforgettable concerts; but you were never enough at ease to enjoy it really, because just before you stepped into the car to leave for the opera, another telegram had announced a newcomer “who hadn’t seen dear Georg…who was wondering whether….” And while Leporello surpassed himself in the “Register Aria,” you were counting beds in your mind and blaming yourself bitterly for not having changed the order at the butcher’s. Now there wouldn’t be enough steaks tomorrow, and it was so hard to get anything at the last minute during this time. As the weeks passed, I avoided my husband’s eyes. There was a certain glitter, a certain twinkle which annoyed me.

  Finally everything has an end. When the last guest had been waved good-bye, we sat around the dining room table, alone once more. It was so quiet. Rupert seemed to mumble something to himself, and Maria was deeply concentrated, counting on her fingers.

  Finally they burst forth: “I visited Mozart’s birthplace nineteen times. I went all over the fortress twenty-one times, the churches fifteen times, Hellbrunn and the water works eighteen times, and…”

  Georg put down fork and knife. His whole being seemed to sizzle with glee.

  But before he could even open his mouth, I put my hand upon his and said, and every word was underlined: “Yes, I know what you mean. If we want to enjoy music, we shall go and visit a festival somewhere else. But the summer months we shall not spend in Salzburg again.”

  One day after the guests had left, and the children were playing on the lawn, Hedwig said quite indignantly: “Now, Mother, this is the third time that you haven’t played volley ball with us. That’s no fun. Come on; here’s the ball.”

  I took them all along with me, and sitting in front of the log cabin in the park, I told them that some time after Christmas God would send them a little sister or brother.

  “Oh, Mother, let it be a boy,” sighed Werner. “We have five girls already!”

  And Martina said: “If it is only coming after Christmas, how do you know now?”

  So I told them.

  This was one of those rare hours where heaven seems to touch earth, where a firm bond is woven between hearts.

  Advent had come again, the most beautiful Advent of all; that life of real expectation. When the long evenings set in and we met around the fireplace, there was the same atmosphere, which can only be characterized by that untranslatable word, gemülich. There was something new, which one could feel but not put into words. That mood of cheerful anticipation had taken hold of the whole family. The knitting needles in busy young hands did not bring forth lengthy men’s socks any more, but the cutest little sweaters and caps and playsuits and panties, all in blue, of course, because “we already had five girls.” Georg and the boys were working noisily on a beautiful cradle; and when I read aloud the passage of a fairy tale where it says: “And after a year the young queen gave birth to a little son, and they lived happily ever after,” Martina looked at her toy dwarfs and nodded gravely.

  The Christmas story about the Holy Mother with her Holy Child blooms all anew in your heart when you are living through the great mystery of becoming a mother yourself, a bearer of life.

  After Christmas I called on Frau Vogl to make arrangements. She was the youngish widow of a doctor, and had been recommended to me as the best midwife in town. Together we did some figuring, and then it was decided that the baby was due by the middle of February.

  “Do you have everything ready for the baby?” Frau Vogl asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said, rather nervously. “I’ll tell you what I have: ten dozen diapers; three dozen shirts, size one; and three dozen, size two; six dozen diaper-panties, sixteen jackets, a cradle, a crib, a basket, and a carriage.”

  “For heaven’s sake, stop!” cried Frau Vogl. “You don’t expect triplets, do you?”

  Very few of these things had been newly acquired. Most of them were still there from the older children. I only had to get them down from the attic, have them washed, ironed, and pleated, because these cute little things were full of ruffles and tiny pleats.

  By the middle of February Frau Vogl came to stay, and two days later it was obvious: this was the day.

  As it hadn’t occurred to anyone to bring a doctor into the picture during those past nine months, so it also didn’t occur to anybody that I should take even so much as an aspirin. Frau Vogl’s presence radiated confidence. Everything was just fine, the pain simply belonged to it; thus it was ordained by God Almighty ever since Eve ate the apple.

  Georg was sitting at my bedside, and that was very necessary. He knew so much more about it all than I; he had gone through it seven times. He assured me that I was not going to die, and the less I moaned now, the more strength I would have later, and this was only the beginning. He said it so casually that it took the edge off my anxiety. I went through the entirely new sensation that this was not a pain like a toothache, which at times seems to screw itself into your very bones. These pains seemed to come at regular intervals like breakers at the seashore. The moment they stopped, you felt perfectly wonderful and ready to dance, only to change your mind rather quickly when the next breaker came.

  “Will it take longer than half an hour?” I whispered to Frau Vogl, who didn’t seem to understand, because she only said: “Breathe deeply.”

  That was early in the afternoon. When Frau Vogl came back after supper, the uninterested expression on her face changed suddenly. She became all concentration.

  Through the open door I could hear the children. They were saying the rosary now. After every decade they sang a song—softly and only in two parts, as the tenor and the bass were missing. It sounded to me like angels. What a wonderful prayer the rosary is! For eight hundred years it has carried the sorrows and troubles, the joys and happiness through the hands of the Heavenly Mother to the Throne of God. When we repeat over and over: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us…” it is like the begging of little children who want something with all their heart: “Please, Mother, please! Oh, Mother, please, please!”

  With all my heart I joined the chorus silently. Georg hadn’t left the room during those long hours. His strong hand was like an anchor to which I clung when the hurricane of pain tossed about the little boat of a frail human body.

  During the first weeks of the nine months, we had been rather choosy. It should be a boy—blond-haired, blue-eyed, tall and thin. Georg wanted him to look like his mother, whereas I definitely wanted him to be the image of my hero. The closer
the time came, the less fussy we were. If he is only healthy with straight arms and legs, even the color of eyes and hair wouldn’t matter any more. And right now it was just the same whether it was a boy or a girl. All the strength of the whole being was concentrated on the one thing necessary:

  “Oh God, help, help that this Thy child be born healthy in body and soul.”

  When a piercing little shriek cut through the solemn silence, I heard the children downstairs jump from their seats and jubilantly break into the hymn of thanksgiving by the old master Bach: “Now Thank We All Our God,” while Georg was bending over me, kissing me on the forehead. In these precious moments the human being feels itself lifted up into the heights of God, partaking of His power, a co-worker of God, the Father, Creator of heaven and earth.

  Then Georg stepped over to Frau Vogl and looked at his sixth daughter.

  “Looks like every other newborn baby,” he said in the tone of one who knows what he is talking about—“like a little monkey.” The spell was broken. Under my feeble protest he left the room “to tell the children.”

  Had he seen a tear welling up in the hurt young mother’s eye? He was right back and with a warm glow in his fine eyes, he whispered earnestly:

  “But little monkeys are the loveliest, sweetest creatures, and I wouldn’t want her to look any other way!”

  What could I do but laugh through tears? Then he left me to Frau Vogl’s professional hands. Later, after the children had tip-toed in to admire the baby and to kiss me good-night, I suddenly felt very tired. It had been a full day. Right in the beginning of my evening prayer: “I thank Thee, oh God, for these and all Thy gifts,” I fell asleep. My last thought was:

  “It—was—wonderful!”

  That was in the winter of 1929, when Europe had a cold wave such as the oldest people couldn’t remember having lived through. The temperature went down to forty-five and fifty degrees below. Since our churches didn’t have heating systems, we asked the good friend of my Nonnberg days, Father Bruno, to come out to the house and baptize the baby there. Rupert and Agathe were Godfather and Godmother, as they had wished so fervently to be, and the child was given the name: Rosmarie Erentrudis.

  VIII Uncle Peter and His Handbook

  A DISTANT cousin of my husband’s, Peter, had also visited the Festivals in Salzburg the previous summer. With his wife and six children he had stayed in the friendly little inn half-way up the Gaisberg, and it was only towards the end of the season that we had made his acquaintance. The two families liked each other right away. Their children were the same ages as ours, and we discovered many common interests in music and art.

  Peter had been a Major in the Imperial Prussian Army. He was a lovely person with a heart as big as himself, which made it easy to get along with him. When it came to duty, however. Peter was made of iron and steel, and as everything in his daily life was classified either as a duty towards God, or his fellow men, or himself, there was a lot of duty around.

  Peter also loved handbooks.

  When Peter was newly married and they were expecting their first baby, he immediately got the proper handbook, which would guide him safely through the next nine months. In the seventh month the handbook said: “Carpets and curtains should be removed from the bedroom, and the walls and floor washed with antiseptic.” Peter who, as a Major, had two orderlies at his command, was standing in the middle of the bedroom, book in hand, supervising these activities. At the same time Laura, his wife, slipped on the kitchen floor and, feeling a strange pain, went upstairs, heading for bed, saying to Peter:

  “Please, dear, call Mrs. X.”—her Frau Vogl—“at once.”

  Peter merely glanced at her, amazed. Then, looking over the rim of his spectacles, he uttered in a helpless tone of voice:

  “Laura—impossible! I am only in the seventh month!”

  In order to escape another Festival summer, we had made plans with Peter and his family to go down south and camp on an island in the Adriatic Sea during July and August.

  We hadn’t given it another thought when, at the end of February, Georg received a letter from Peter, saying:

  My dear Georg:

  I am very sorry to inform you that your idea of camping out-of-doors is not a good one, as I can prove now by experience. I have spent several nights by an open window on the floor of my bedroom, wrapped in a blanket, and I am sorry to admit that thereby I have contracted the worst cold of my life. My duty to my family obliges me to cancel our previous summer plans.

  Your loving cousin,

  Peter.

  Georg answered:

  Dear Peter:

  Sorry about your cold. Stay in bed, drink plenty of hot grog and sweat it out; that’s the best way. As far as the summer goes, don’t worry. The difference between the temperature of your home in northern Germany at the end of February and the island in July is at least eighty degrees. We’ll have a wonderful time.

  Love,

  Georg.

  And a wonderful time we had. First, many more pleats had to be ironed out of Peter’s troubled conscience, but finally they arrived at our house about the beginning of July. Looking satisfiedly over his eighteen pieces of luggage, Peter assured us that the big luggage he had sent by freight to Pola. Pola, situated on the southernmost point of the Istrian peninsula, was the former Austrian Naval Base, which is now Italian, and the island was a few miles offshore.

  The main feature of last Christmas had been a bicycle for everyone except little Martina, who got a scooter. Since Peter’s older children had brought their bicycles, too, the plan was this: they should join our older ones and me; we wanted to start ahead and tour over the Alps on our bikes. Georg, with Laura and all the smaller ones, were to follow in a few days by car; and Peter wanted to go ahead by train to take care of the luggage. There were not many cars on the highways at that time, and the country through which we cycled was so unearthly beautiful—we had a wonderful, wonderful time. In five days we were in Pola, where we met the rest of our families and, eating the most delicious fried fish and drinking the dark native wine, we sat together until deep into the night, telling of our adventures.

  The children were all excited, and surpassed one another in happy reminiscences—topped by Hedwig who, almost choked with giggling, said:

  “And you know, Papa, what happened? Every day when we had our big rest at noon, Rupert disappeared. On the fourth day we followed him, wanting to know what he did. And you know where we found him? Sitting in the middle of a clearing in the woods with a mirror on his knees—sha-a-a-a-aving!”

  Poor Rupert! He blushed to the roots of his hair, and you could easily see how he would have loved to strangle his dear little sister, who had given away the deep secret of his sixteen years.

  “Never mind, Rupert,” came Georg to his rescue. “That’s one thing for sure in which Hedwig cannot imitate the boys!”

  And then it was really time to go to bed. The next day we hired a big boat to take us over to Veruda, our destination. When we came to the pier, several men were already loading huge boxes.

  “Heavens! The big luggage!” escaped my lips.

  That’s what it was. Peter, in the thorough fulfillment of his duty towards his family and himself, had followed the guidance of the Handbook of Camping word by word, which tells you what is the minimum you need per person (a) for eight people, (b) for six weeks, (c) for sunshine, (d) for rain, etc. It was all in the boxes. Georg and I exchanged a glance. We knew we would have a good time.

  The island had no pier; one had to wade ashore. Our luggage consisted of six tents; and a hammock, plus sleeping bag, plus two blankets, and a rucksack with personal belongings, per person. We had camped before.

  It had been very hot in the morning, and now black clouds were gathering. A critical look at the sky and Georg said to us:

  “Make camp—hurry!”

  In no time the six tents were put up in a circle, and the rest of the luggage stored in the big tent, which would serve as living and d
ining room on rainy days. We had been silently busy, everyone knowing exactly what to do next. Only now I remembered Peter. Where was he?

  “Peter, Peter!” I called, and followed hurriedly the muffled “Here!” of his answer.

  Behind a bushy pine I found what is left to be seen if the whole upper part of a man is plunged headfirst into a deep box. At this moment he emerged, purple of face, triumph in his look.

  “Here it is!” he shouted victoriously.

  And what was it? The Handbook of Camping, which by mistake had been buried in the very bottom of the biggest box. Nervously he searched for his glasses, which he never, never found, for they were usually pushed up on his forehead. Then opening the book on page one, he said: “Now, cousin, let us commence.” And then he read to my unbelieving ears:

  “‘The first step to be taken upon reaching the prospective site of the camp is to investigate whether the site is: (a) sandy, (b) rocky, (c) swampy, (d) hilly, (e) flat.’”

  Up went the glasses, and with the voice and air of Julius Caesar, Peter shouted:

  “Children, ’ten-shun! Let’s investigate.”

  Georg, appearing on the scene and not having witnessed what I had, interrupted the strategic manoeuvre with a suggestion:

  “Peter, I think you’d better get your boxes into one of the tents. It will pour within the next five minutes.”

  I felt sorry for “Caesar,” so I said: “The site is flat and sandy—come on!” The first drops, big as cherries, began to fall.

  The highlight, when the storm was over, was the unpacking of the big boxes. Looking back on it, I can only compare it with the Boy Scout Department at Macy’s. Brand-new tents with a rubber floor attached to them; acetylene lamps for each tent; two folding boats with three sails each; and the most fancy sleeping bags and fluffy pajamas; shiny kitchen equipment; a gramophone and records; one box full of books, and one box full of wine, another one filled with silk-hemmed blankets in lavender and pea-green, and dainty cushions; still another one filled with canned delicatessen foods; and in the middle of this “Handbook-of-Camping-Come-Alive” stood Peter, beaming, opening his arms wide and saying: “Help yourselves, help yourselves! We have much more than we need!”