The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  Christmas passed quietly and peacefully. Dorothy and Rex Crawford, Miriam and Otto Albrecht, our neighbor, Mrs. Hurlburt, and some more of their friends, the Drinkers included, dropped baskets and packages at our door, and the poor refugees from Austria saw themselves confronted with six turkeys and baskets with pies, fruit, and other edibles, books and toys for the little ones, and books and records for the grownups. When Georg had seen my tears at the mere prospect of having electric lights on the trees, he went all over Philadelphia, and finally found real candles and candle holders. Now the last cloud had vanished, and it was the most beautiful Christmas we could remember. With Peter and John we had to say to our friends: “Money we have not, but what we have, we give you.” This was our music and our prayers. We invited them on Christmas day for a party to help us with our many cakes and pies, and sang for them for two and a half hours—the best we had to give. And every morning and every evening we reminded Our Lord of His promise that. He would reward every drink of water a hundredfold because what should be done unto His least brethren, He would count as having been done unto Him; and would He please. Who had promised such a generous reward for a simple drink of water, look upon all these turkeys, pies, and other gifts, and fulfill His promise?

  Slowly we discovered that it was even beautiful at times to be regarded as poor, because one discovered such riches in one’s neighbor’s heart, and there was so much genuine love all around.

  The day after Christmas I figured it was time for Barbara and me to get ready. I asked Rupert to bring me Barbara’s suitcase, and emptied its contents on my large bed—all the numerous precious little things: shirts of fine muslin with tiny shirrings and pleatings; costly embroidered coverlets; delicate little silken gowns; fancy show dresses; every item with a tiny embroidered monogram and coronet. I had just laid them out all over the room when Mrs. Drinker appeared on the scene—she with the loving heart but a very practical mind when needed, whose eyes could flash green lightning, and who was always sober, never a victim of sentimentality. Not without pride I showed her these little treasures.

  Quietly her eyes wandered over my exhibition, and perfectly unmoved, she asked dryly:

  “And who is going to wash and iron all this every day?”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. When Mrs. Drinker noticed this, she took over immediately. With eyes and mind of a general she surveyed my almost desperate situation: a battle to come, with no ammunition to fight it.

  “Pack that silly stuff away and come with me. We’ll go shopping for some sensible things.” I tried hard to swallow my hurt feelings, while she tried just as hard to drive home the point. While driving over to Germantown she said: “A baby doesn’t need all that. Three shirts, a couple of dozen diapers, and a pair of rubber pants is enough. You have to become practical now—practical, don’t you see? You are poor, don’t forget.” The words sounded hard, but the eyes betrayed a deeply concerned heart. In looking back over the years I can see now what she went through in watching this newcomer waste her time and her little money on things of the past which had only sentimental value. How lucky I was to have such a sturdy friend to put things straight for me in those confusing and bewildering days! How often did we meet refugees who had arrived in this country at the same time as we without such a friend to guide their first steps. They never really “made it,” they live unhappily between two continents.

  But at that moment I didn’t see how you could possibly bring a baby into the world with just three shirts, a couple of dozen diapers, and a pair of rubber pants. But there is no use arguing with a general. That much I felt right away.

  Of course, I had expected that we would go to a baby store, as I would have done in Europe. But, oh no! It was one of those hopelessly big department stores, in which I always felt so absolutely lost. I never could find my way around or my way out again, and I was always tempted to take along a spool of thread, tie it to the doorknob, and then go light-heartedly off from counter to counter, feeling sure I could always spool my way back.

  But Mrs. Drinker didn’t need a spool of thread. Straight away she headed for the baby counter. There we bought a few very sober-looking knitted things, which I didn’t even recognize as shirts at first. Mrs. Drinker took no notice at all of my reserved, almost hostile silence towards American baby clothes. She did all the shopping necessary, and in no time we were sitting in the car again and driving home. She was very pleased. It was a “White Week,” and everything was marked down.

  “Aren’t you glad?” she said. “You have saved more than three dollars on the whole deal!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Drinker,” I answered meekly, but unconvinced.

  There wasn’t much time to lose now, and I went out to find what, with the help of my dictionary, I recognized as a “midwife,” like the indispensable Frau Vogl. After asking around, I learned that in the whole neighborhood there were only three midwives to be found, all of them Negroes. At that time I was a little afraid of colored people, whom we had never seen in our country, and who still seemed to us a little legendary; people out of A Thousand and One Nights, interesting to look at and to talk to, but a little scary to have around too close.

  Oh, time and again, Mrs. Drinker told me that one had to have a doctor and one had to go to a hospital to have a baby. I was finally persuaded to make one concession: the doctor. But go to a hospital—that was ridiculous. Why? What for? I wasn’t sick. In Europe you went to a hospital when you were dangerously sick, and many people died there, but babies were born at home. Would they in the hospital allow my husband to sit at my bedside? Could I hold his hand, look into his eyes? Could my family be in the next room, singing and praying? The answer to all these questions was “no.”

  All right, that settled it. I tried to explain that a baby had to be born into a home, received by loving hands, not into a hospital, surrounded by ghostly-looking doctors and masked nurses, into the atmosphere of sterilizers and antiseptics. That’s why I would ask the doctor to come to our house.

  But I had to find the doctor first. I tried many, but each time I mentioned the word “at home,” they didn’t want to take the case.

  When I was very tired and discouraged, I found a young doctor in our neighborhood, young and a little nervous about the whole idea, but he said he would come.

  I consoled him.

  “Don’t you worry. There is nothing wrong. I know all about it. It is the most natural thing in the world. You just have to sit in the next room, and I’ll call you when I need you.”

  His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again in utter amazement.

  And so it happened. The evening came when I knew it was time. Everything went the old way. The family gathered in the living room, reciting the rosary aloud. Then they sang hymns. Then they prayed again. The doors were open, and I could hear them. Georg was there next to me, and his good, firm hands patted me once in a while, as he repeated: “Soon she will be here, our Barbara,” and then we both smiled. The doctor had not come yet.

  Then it had to be: “Call him now and tell him to be quick!”

  When he arrived, he looked troubled. He had a nurse with him—a sweet-looking young girl. They were washing their hands when all of a sudden I had to squeeze Georg’s hand very hard, and time seemed to stand still. Then I heard a funny little squeak. The doctor, pale, beads of perspiration on his forehead, turned to me and said—I couldn’t understand what—and then carried something in his right hand through the room. It was all over. At that minute a full chorale downstairs started: “Now thank we all our God!”

  The doctor, in the middle of the room, turned around.

  “What’s that?” he gasped.

  And then I saw what he was holding: my precious baby—head down!

  My heart almost stopped. I was sure he would drop her.

  “Watch out—don’t break her!” I cried.

  “Her! Why—it’s a boy!” he said reproachfully.

  What? I must have misundersto
od. Georg bent over me.

  “Barbara is a boy,” he smiled.

  My heart started singing: “Now thank we all our God!”

  Many years later I happened to learn about planned parenthood and birth control to guard against unwanted children. I must say, Barbara, whom we now had to call Johannes, had not been exactly planned for that very moment, and as far as being wanted is concerned, I would have gladly said many times, “Oh, won’t you please be so kind as to wait for just six months.” Yes, many times on the flight, on the boat, on the bus, on the stage. But thousands of years ago God assured us—it’s in the Book—“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor your ways My ways.” So if there is any planning to be done, why don’t we let Him do it? Looking back now, I know that He chose the only right moment for Johannes’ arrival. The predictions of the doctor in Munich proved beautifully wrong, and Johannes promises to be a fine American boy.

  V What Next?

  THE little baby boy was almost twins. He weighed ten pounds two ounces when he was born, and never could wear size one.

  When the baby was three days old, he was carried into the parish church, where Father Wasner received him into the fold of Christ in the Sacrament of Baptism. He was given the names Johannes Georg. That was the first great family feast in America.

  From his tenth day on, he cried bitterly almost day and night, until I desperately called the doctor. He discovered that there was nothing wrong with the precious boy; he was only hungry. I felt guilty and ashamed. But how horrified I was when I learned that I should give him orange juice—raw orange juice! and squeezed bananas—raw bananas! With my European upbringing that meant almost murder. But Johannes was an American boy, and throve very soon on carrots, spinach, and juices, and there was no more crying to be heard.

  The next weeks were a wonderful change. For months we had been living out of a suitcase, every day in another hotel. Now we were all together again. The little girls were back from the boarding school in New York, and we had our own household. The older girls took turns in kitchen and household duties, and Martina helped me with the baby. The lovely young nurse, Anne, showed us how to do things in America. There were, for instance, the diapers. In Europe they are square. You fold them so that they are three-cornered and knot them around the baby’s legs. In America the diapers are oblong, and you pin them with safety pins. That and the raw orange juice took me a long time to get used to. Soon, however, we found out that those practical little knitted shirts, which washed like stockings, were a grand invention. No ironing was necessary, and what I wouldn’t have believed would ever happen: I didn’t open Barbara’s suitcase a single time.

  Almost every day we had company: the Albrechts, the Crawfords, the Drinkers. They took the family to the symphony concerts on Friday afternoons; to the Franklin Institute; to the Art Museum; for rides through beautiful Fairmount Park; to parties at this or that friend’s house.

  Through Mrs. Drinker we got acquainted with Ravenhill Academy, where the little girls went to school from then on. Unlike the school in the Bronx, it was situated on the very outskirts of town, surrounded by big gardens. Very soon Rosmarie and Lorli felt very much at home with the Sisters and the new schoolmates.

  The question arose now: what to do next? Much of the money we had earned with the concerts had gone into the boat tickets, which Mr. Wagner had advanced, and the daily living expenses, plus the Town Hall concert. Our first contract had been for forty concerts, of which we gave only eighteen, but Mr. Wagner said he could easily have gotten the other dates after Christmas if it hadn’t been for the baby. There was nothing we could do about that. The contract had expired anyway.

  We had arrived in America on a visitor’s visa, which expired in March. Our friends advised us to apply for an extension, which we did right after Christmas. Everybody assured us that these extensions were a mere formality: they were always granted. But our visitor’s visa only allowed us to earn money by giving concerts; no other way. The money which was left would carry us, if we were very thrifty, perhaps into the summer.

  What next?

  These were the things we talked about, Georg, Father Wasner, and I, in these days, but as we didn’t find any solution right away, all we could do was go on with our part of the program: to seek the Kingdom of God.

  Every morning we walked to the parish church, where Father Wasner said Holy Mass.

  The weather can be disagreeable between December and March. The house was a little small for our large family, and it was very meagerly furnished. There wasn’t enough of anything, in spite of the Friends’ help. We simply were too large a family. Most of all, there was never enough food; and if you are hungry and sitting on one another’s lap, you easily get irritated, especially so when the immediate future looks insecure and veiled. So for the moment, to seek the Kingdom of God was, for us, to take it all with a smile and in genuine gratitude, because weren’t there many others much poorer than we?

  One day in February Mr. Wagner arrived unexpectedly at our house. He brought with him an agreement, again for forty dates. Since the baby was here, there would be no trouble, he promised, and happily we signed our second American contract. The tour would start in September. One great worry was lifted off our shoulders. From September on, we would be secure again—and until then? Oh, there would be a little concert here and there, our friends assured us, and if there was only one a month, we could keep alive on it.

  Then one morning came the fatal letter. The U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service informed us that our application for extension of temporary stay was not granted, and we had to leave the United States at the latest by March 4. This was a cruel blow. We had burned all our bridges behind us, and would never dare go back home again, and now America wouldn’t allow us to stay here.

  Now—what next?

  It was such a shock that for the moment no one could say or think anything. Each one swallowed his private disappointment and fear.

  One thing was certain: we had to leave. There wasn’t much time to secure tickets for so many people on one boat. In the newspaper we saw that the Normandie would leave New York on March 4. Georg went to the French Line and was able to secure twelve tickets third class to Southampton. After these tickets were bought, there wasn’t much money left, and what would we do in Southampton?

  Then it came to us: A year ago we had had an offer from a Danish impresario for an introductory tour of Scandinavia; two concerts in Copenhagen, two in Oslo, and two in Stockholm.

  “Let’s get in touch with this manager to see if he can take us now.”

  It had to be done by cable, although that again was expensive.

  Then came fearful days of waiting. And what if he did not accept us? There was an absolute blank in our mind.

  We started to dissolve our household, giving back the borrowed blankets, beds, spoons and forks. The Crawfords had kindly offered to store in their attic things which we didn’t want to carry with us twice across the ocean; so we started dividing our goods into “takables” and “leavables,” as Hedwig said. But the usual cheerfulness was missing. Everybody went about his duties rather silently.

  About two thousand years ago something similar had happened to a group who left their homelands, merely following an idea represented by a star: the three Holy Kings. When each one of them notified his people that he was about to set out on a long journey to go and find somewhere a newborn King, their friends must have shaken their heads in disapproval: “I hope you won’t regret it.” Then for weeks and months they followed the star, which guided them into the land of the Jews, into the very capital, Jerusalem, and then—it disappeared; and when they thought they had reached the goal, they found themselves in complete darkness. Nobody knew anything about a newborn King, and the words were ringing in their ears: “I hope you won’t regret it.”

  What a temptation to wish never to have left. But after God had tried their faith and their patience, He came to their rescue. They were shown the way, and the star a
ppeared again. “And seeing the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.”

  That was the story we talked about on March 1. Only three more days to go, and still no answer from Europe. It was a dark moment, and no star to be seen. Then we chose the three Holy Kings for our special patron Saints. We promised them to imitate their faith and patience. Would they please ask God to have the star appear again?

  It did. Next morning came a night cable:

  EVERYTHING READY FOR FIRST CONCERT MARCH TWELFTH COPENHAGEN.

  Our new faithful friends helped us in closing the house and getting the family on the right train to New York. The Drinkers sent their chauffeur with the car for Georg, the baby, and me.

  When we came to say good-bye, Mrs. Drinker took both my hands in hers and said:

  “Now, why don’t you call me Sophie?”

  In New York we all assembled at Carleton Smith’s house, and from there we went to the boat. Last kisses and good wishes, then shouting and waving, and then the Normandie was towed out into the open sea. Soon the skyscrapers disappeared in a golden mist, and we found ourselves on the way to Europe.

  The Normandie! What a noble boat, and what a wonderful crew! Although we were only third-class passengers, the French Line went out of its way to make our stay as enjoyable as possible. We got a pass with which we could stroll at any time all over the boat and use all the social rooms and facilities of all classes. We were invited to eat in the tourist class, and for our rehearsals a special drawing room on the first-class deck was assigned to us, adjoining the wonderful winter garden. The third-class cabins were much more luxurious than our places on the American Farmer had been. But the nicest of all was the behavior of the crew. The stewards and stewardesses, the waiters and officers were of such tact and politeness that for four short days we almost forgot that we were poor refugees with a very uncertain future. On board the Normandie we were treated as celebrated artists. People knew about our Town Hall concert and we were asked to give a gala performance on the last evening together with René Le Roy, the flutist. Champagne was served free of charge afterwards. The boat itself was a dream of beauty, and the size was such that it took me eight minutes from my cabin if I wanted to reach the upper deck with Johannes for some fresh air. Long corridors had to be traversed, different elevators taken until we finally reached the “seashore.” There was only one disadvantage: there were four thousand people, and four days was too short to get really acquainted. I felt like asking: When will this town arrive in Europe? When we had just barely learned which passage to take to reach the Chapel Number 1, the Movie Number 2, or the Swimming Pool Number 3, it was time to get ready for Southampton. But four days was not too short to create a warm feeling for the boat and its crew, and when, years later, we learned of the dreadful disaster the Normandie had suffered in New York, we felt as if something terrible had happened to a close friend of ours.