The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  “The first prize is awarded to the Trapp Family from Salzburg.”

  I remember that I didn’t understand the meaning of these words, because I applauded wildly with the other people, looking blank. Upon instruction we had to go on the stage once more and receive our prize, a diploma signed by the Governor of Salzburg. More applause, more shaking of hands, smiles all around—but when my eyes searched around for my husband, his seat was empty. He had left in despair. Success or no success—the whole thing was a nightmare to him. It pained him bitterly to see his family on a stage, and only the solemn family resolution never, never to do such a thing again put his troubled mind at ease.

  XII From Hobby to Profession

  THE SUMMER with all its excitements had passed, and the family had settled down again to routine life.

  It was a great day when I walked up the hill to Nonnberg with my little daughter Rosmarie holding onto my hand, entrusting the child to those sacred walls for schooling. Years before, I had torn myself away from this beloved spot with so much heartache, but in a way I had never altogether left. While carrying out the doctrine of the Will of God, I and my family with me, while living in the world, never became wholly a part of the world; and here I came back now with my dear little child. It was with tears and laughter that I stood in the parlor and handed the little one over to Frau Gertrudis, who had shared the times of waiting for the novitiate with me.

  A few days later a telephone call came from the Salzburg radio station. It worked like a stone thrown into a quiet lake. The manager had heard us at that historic contest, and ever since, he had wanted us on the air.

  “Please be up at the Mönchsberg next Saturday at four o’clock. Thank you.” And he hung up. It didn’t even occur to him that somebody might perhaps decline such an offer. Of course, we wouldn’t go. We had said we’d never sing in public. During lunch I casually mentioned the call at the table.

  “You said no, didn’t you?” asked Georg rather anxiously.

  “He didn’t give me any time. He just told me and hung up. But I’ll call right after lunch.”

  “But, Mother, perhaps it is the Will of God that we sing on the radio,” said Hedwig. She meant to tease her father. But was it a joke? How did we know? The fact that we resented it so fiercely ourselves, that we didn’t want to appear in public, that we loved our privacy more than anything—did that mean that we could act accordingly? We had to admit that there was absolutely nothing wrong about singing over the air; the opportunity had been brought to us from the outside; our music might bring joy to many people all over Austria—and what could be said against it?—simply that we didn’t want to do it. That didn’t seem enough reason, even Georg said with a deep sigh; and to our own great astonishment, we found ourselves on Saturday at four o’clock at the studio on the Mönchsberg.

  Kurt von Schuschnigg, Chancellor of the Austrian Republic, was a very busy man. He rarely had time to spend with his radio. Once in a great while he turned it on. This time, I am told, he listened, fascinated: a small choir sang from Salzburg. He had never heard any of their selections before, but ardent music lover that he was, he was entranced by this beautiful music. A thought flashed through his mind. There was a great solemn reception to ge given by the Chancellor for all national and foreign dignitaries, the diplomatic corps and military authorities—his first public appearance since the recent death of his wife. For the entertainment he had engaged the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, and ever since, had looked for another artist, something out of the ordinary. Now here it was, and the Chancellor pushed a button and wanted to know the whereabouts of that singing group, whose voices were still coming to him over the air in Bach’s “Hymn of Thanksgiving.” And out of the enthusiasm of the moment, he sat down and wrote to that Trapp Family in Salzburg, inviting them for his State affair.

  One doesn’t get a letter from the Chief Executive every day. Immediately the envelope made us curious. A deep silence followed, after Georg had read the letter aloud. A pained expression came over his face.

  “That doesn’t mean that we have to accept, does it?” and he looked pleadingly at me.

  “Of course not,” I wanted to say. But, “I don’t know,” I did say.

  And again we went through the same agonizing procedure to find out what was the Will of God in a situation where your own wishes and likings point sharply in one way. What could we possibly say against it? There was nothing wrong, not even undignified. Together with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, we would be in the best company. This invitation from the Chancellor should perhaps even be looked upon as an honor instead of as a bother. Again, the only thing against it was that we didn’t want to. That settled it. On the appointed day we stood in front of an illustrious audience, having been introduced by the Chancellor himself, and sang. The applause was very warm, the interest, great. “That was something entirely different,” we heard all through the evening.

  I noticed a gentleman who was talking enthusiastically over there in the corner with my husband and Father Wasner, champagne glass in hand. Was it the champagne? Never shall I know, but I learned that we were going to give a public concert in the Kleinen Musikvereinssaal two months hence.

  Now our singing evenings at home turned into rehearsals, our hobby changed into a profession.

  On the appointed day we arrived at the ancient building which housed the large, the medium, and the small auditoriums. Rows and rows of cars were parked outside. All those people couldn’t possibly have come for us! No, they hadn’t. There was a sensational attraction, a guest from faraway America, a world-famous Negro contralto, Marian Anderson, giving a concert in the big hall. The whole press had turned out; and during intermission, as they were there already, they casually looked into the small hall to see what was going on. The next morning we read in the newspapers that they had all enjoyed immensely the first concert ever given by the Trapp Family. And so had the audience. A little bit in a daze, a little embarrassed, a little bashful, and already a little proud, we received congratulations afterwards in the artists’ room. Slowly, slowly, Georg lost the intense feeling that he was sitting on the dentist’s chair while he listened to his family from among the audience; and when somebody said, “You really should sing during the Festivals in Salzburg,” he even smiled instead of getting excited.

  It was the highest dream of every artist all over the world to be allowed to give a concert during the Salzburg Festivals. But there were many sopranos and basses, tenors, violinists, pianists, so they had to wait their turn patiently—maybe until next year. But there was only one singing family anywhere around, and this was not a concert; it was a feast. In the first row sat Lotte Lehmann with her husband! During the intermission people stormed backstage, and at the end of the concert managers came from practically all European countries with contracts and invitations. Lotte Lehmann kissed us and was proud of us, and we were truly happy. We bought a scrapbook and pasted in the criticisms from Vienna and Salzburg and the picture of Lotte Lehmann and us. Then we put the contracts, to which one from an American manager had been added, into a drawer and retired into private life. For us this was the end of our concert activities.

  Little did we know that it was the beginning.

  Those ladies and gentlemen from France, Holland, Belgium, England, Italy, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway had not been joking. Early in September we heard from them that their respective countries were expecting us with great anticipation.

  Now it became clear that what had started in a playful way, was growing into a serious activity. There seemed to be a definite plan behind it all, leading to some distant goal, which we could not perceive as yet.

  A European concert tour, the possibility of showing our children the beauty of God’s world and the wonders man has made: cathedrals and palaces, art galleries and museums—it was exciting and breathtaking. At first it all seemed impossible with the children in school and Father Wasner teaching at the Seminary and editing a newspaper. In such moments this is a mo
st consoling thought: only one thing at a time can be the Will of God. If He wants us to act in a certain way, He has to help us with the obstacles. He always does—we can count on it.

  The difficulties melted away like snow in the April sun. Rupert, who had started his medical studies at Innsbruck, and Werner, who was in practical training for agriculture, could arrange a few weeks’ absence; Father Wasner, with permission readily given by the Bishop, found a substitute for all his activities; friends of ours, a married couple, would take care of house, little children, and guests. Even the order of the invitations worked out ideally, except for the Scandinavian countries. These had to be postponed for another year.

  In preparing the programs for this first concert tour Father Wasner went to archives and libraries to copy unpublished works. There he discovered that the ancient masters had written great music to be played on the instruments of their time, the recorder, viola da gamba, and spinet, the forerunners of our flute, string quartet, and piano. Instrument makers in Munich and Kassel made for us a set of violas in different sizes, a spinet, and also a set of recorders: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass recorders. Very serious practicing started now.

  In December we started out. We sang in Paris, London, Brussels, and The Hague. Everywhere an enthusiastic audience greeted us. Newspapers talked about the musical miracle of a singing family. People said how different it was from any other concert, and managers talked about return engagements; we saw the cathedrals and castles, the galleries and museums and the wonderful countryside of France, England, and Belgium; the second part of the trip took us to Italy. We sang in Milan and Turin, in Assisi and Rome. If sight-seeing had been interesting before, now it became really breathtaking. Besides those unique treasures of art stored up in the churches, palaces, and galleries in Italy, there were also many holy places to be visited. It was a combination of concert tour, sight-seeing trip, and pilgrimage.

  We sang for kings and queens; we had an audience with the Holy Father, Pope Pius XI, and sang for him the “Ave Verum” by Mozart; we spent ten happy days in Assisi in the steps of Saint Francis. We walked on the Via Appia, whose cobblestones had been trodden by the feet of the Apostles, into Rome, and knelt in the Colosseum and the Catacombs. These weeks were filled to the brim with happy and holy excitement, and success-success everywhere. We were “a rising star on the musical horizon.”

  A great thing we had learned on this trip: that music is an international language which speaks from heart to heart and doesn’t need the medium of a human tongue. Whether our audience was French, English, Dutch, or Italian—in our music we could talk to them across the barrier of a foreign language. We sang to them what our hearts were so full of: “God is so good! And He is so good to us all! Let us forget all quarreling in the world and be happy together. Let us love one another as He loves us!”

  Music—what a powerful instrument, what a mighty weapon!

  XIII And the Lord Said to Abram…

  “And the Lord said to Abram: Leave thy country and thy people, go out of thy father’s house and come into the land which I shall show thee.” (Gen. 12, 1)

  IT WAS March 11, 1938. After supper we went over to the library to celebrate Agathe’s birthday. Someone turned on the radio, and we heard the voice of Chancellor Schuschnigg say:

  “I am yielding to force. My Austria—God bless you!” followed by the national anthem.

  We didn’t understand, and looked at each other blankly.

  The door opened and in came Hans, our butler. He went straight to my husband and, strangely pale, said:

  “Herr Korvettenkapitän, Austria is invaded by Germany, and I want to inform you that I am a member of the Party. I have been for quite some time.”

  Austria invaded. But that was impossible. Schuschnigg had said it wouldn’t happen. He had said in public that Hitler had promised not to invade Austria. It must be a mistake, a misunderstanding. But the voice of this very same Chancellor had just announced: “I am yielding to force.”

  At this moment the silence on the radio was broken by a hard, Prussian-sounding voice, saying: “Austria is dead: Long live the Third Reich!” Then it went on to announce the title of a Prussian military march.

  We all went into the chapel silently. And there in the dark you could hear only sobbing and deep sighs. It was as if we had read, without warning, the death notice of a dearly beloved one.

  Still in a daze, we gathered together. The birthday was forgotten. We followed Georg’s eyes. He was looking at the flag from his submarine, which was hanging above the mantelpiece, surrounded by pictures and trophies from old Austria.

  “Austria,” he said, and tears choked his voice, “you are not dead. You will live on in our hearts. This is only a sleep. We promise you to do all we can to help you wake up again.”

  No eye remained dry. The little girls, huddled in my arms, cried loud and bitterly. They didn’t understand what it was all about, but the young hearts felt the weight of the hour.

  Georg went to the telephone, and I heard him say:

  “I want to send a telegram. The address is: Dr. Kurt Schuschnigg, Bundeskanzleramt, Wien. The message: May God bless and protect you always.”

  I doubted very much whether by this time any telegram would reach our Chancellor, but still I was glad and proud of Georg.

  “Listen,” said Werner, opening a window, and in came, in rich, heavy waves, the sound of numerous bells. We could distinguish the Cathedral, Nonnberg, Saint Peter’s, the Franciscans, but there must have been many more. Father Wasner called a priest friend of his, inquiring about the bell-ringing. The Nazis were marching into Salzburg. A Gestapo man with a gun was supervising the ringing of the bells in every church.

  “Close the window, it’s cold,” said Georg. But I knew it wasn’t because of the cold; he didn’t want to hear the bells. But what was that? The window was closed and the bells seemed to grow louder—really—they came out of the radio now, and before we could catch our breath, the sharp voice announced:

  “Now we want the whole world to hear how the people in Austria greet their liberators. They rush to their church steeples, and all the bells in the whole town of Salzburg are ringing out their grateful joy.”

  Such a mean lie! Werner jumped up, his eyes flashing, his fists clenched. But what could you do? Nothing.

  This was only the first lie in an endless chain. From now on we led a double life. Whatever we had lived through during the day, we listened to in an altogether different description in the evening over the air—until you wanted to take an axe and smash the radio; and that is about all you could do.

  “Will you do me a favor and promise me something?” asked Georg next morning. “Please don’t go into town for the time being.”

  “All right,” I answered.

  He was worried enough as it was, and I didn’t want to increase his anxiety.

  The very next morning the children coming back from school told me that the whole town was like a lake of red, huge flags with the Swastika practically covering the fronts of the houses all over the place. The next thing we learned from friends downtown was that every house owner had been told how many flags to put out, what size, and where. Over the radio the world was informed that not even during the Festival time had Salzburg looked like that. “The happiness of its inhabitants is insuppressible.”

  Lunch. Supper. Nothing had changed outwardly. Everybody was sitting at his usual place, Hans coming and going with plates and dishes, serving noiselessly. Hans was much more than a very good butler. After the loss of the money, he had stayed on at a much smaller salary. He seemed to be as genuinely attached to us as we were to him. All the children were very fond of him. He was their confidant. He always seemed to have a solution to their problems. Now there was a strained expression on his face as he walked around the table.

  He knew why Georg had said so pointedly at the beginning of the meal: “I think we are going to have a late spring this year. Have you seen any bulbs coming out in the garden?
” and then continued to talk about flowers and the weather. He knew that we didn’t trust him any more, that we were afraid of him. He didn’t belong to us any longer; he belonged to the Party.

  And this was only the beginning. Soon you didn’t know whom you could trust. You might rush in to see a friend and blurt out your indignation, only to discover by his raised eyebrows and strange silence that he didn’t share your opinion. That was bad, because at the same time he might feel it his duty to inform the authorities about your lack of understanding.

  The town looked like a military camp, German soldiers on every street corner and, so the radio told us, the German Army advancing towards Vienna, wildly greeted by the people of every village or town through which they came, Austria in an ecstasy of jubilation. To this we didn’t pay much attention. We knew by now how that worked. It only hurt to know that the whole world was listening to these broadcasts, and the people in foreign countries did not yet know…

  Weeks passed, and it was as if you were living at the open tomb where they had buried your dearest one. We hadn’t known until then how strong the love for your homeland could be. When we learned that it was forbidden by penalty of death to sing the Austrian anthem, which had to be replaced by the Nazi song; that it was a “must” order from now on to use as the sole and only greeting, “Heil Hitler,” and nothing else; that Austria was wiped off the map, incorporated into the Third Reich, that its very name had disappeared, even in its compound forms, and been replaced by “Ostmark,” “Niederdonau,” “Oberdonau”—each time a dagger seemed to go through our hearts.

  We learned that the love for your homeland comes even before the love for your family. Automatically we went through our days. No one was concerned about anyone, but all of us were deeply concerned about Austria and her fate. Our cheerful house of song had become a house of mourning.