The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  VI In Sight of the Statue of Liberty

  FROM the day in March when we left on the Normandie to that day in October when we set foot on American soil again we learned a lesson, the greatest of them all. In Bible English it is called: “Be not solicitous,” and translated into everyday language, it means: “Don’t worry.”

  We started out by worrying.

  “What shall we eat, what shall we drink, what shall we put on?” These must be the very elements of human worries, as Our Lord picks them out when He says: “Be not solicitous for your life, what you shall eat, nor for your body, what you shall put on.” Then He explains how useless it is if we do worry, how it gets us nowhere; “Can any of you for all his fretting add an inch’s growth to his height? And if you are powerless to do so small a thing, why do you fret about your needs?” After having told us how senseless it is to worry, He tells us what to do. We should look at the lilies, how they grow. They don’t work, nor do they spin, but not even King Solomon in all his glory was clothed like one of them. Now—if God clothes the grass, which lives today in the fields and tomorrow is cast into the oven, will He not be much more ready to clothe you, oh you of little faith? You should not be asking then what you shall eat or what you shall drink and worrying about them. The heathens may do that, who don’t know about God. You, however, must know that your Heavenly Father knows well that you need all these things. Therefore, seek first the Kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you.

  And this half year was set apart for teaching us this lesson, that we should never forget it in the future.

  There we were, a group of twelve people and a little baby who, for the next seven months, had no home, and except for six concerts, which would provide for three weeks’ living, did not know the answer to the question: what shall we eat, what shall we drink? The political horizon was filled with dark clouds; the outbreak of the war seemed imminent; the atmosphere in Europe was full of suspicion and mistrust; we didn’t know a soul in the Scandinavian countries, nor any of the languages; the permission to stay was carefully restricted by every country to the time necessary to give our concerts. Europe was just waking up to recognizing “tourists” as “fifth columnists.”

  It would have been easy for God to show us the plan for this period, as He had it all fixed up, how there would be enough concerts, enough money, extensions of our stay, helpful people, generous invitations, new friends, and new love. But then we again would not have learned that most valuable lesson, so He left us in the dark, and gave us only one thing at a time. We always spent the cent before the last before we got a new engagement.

  In this way we passed the time until the end of May in Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. When our prolonged extension had almost expired, an invitation from Holland with permission to stay for twenty-eight days at the country home of friends took care of the month of June. In July we dared to pay a short visit to Austria. The men of our group, however, stayed away. Back in the old home we learned with horror what one short year can do to an invaded people, how it had embittered the ones while it changed, imperceptibly to themselves, the others, and falsified their way of thinking and living. We learned the shocking truth that “home” isn’t necessarily a certain spot on earth. It must be a place where you can feel at home, which means “free” to us. Soon we met the men in St. Georgen, south of the border, where I fulfilled my promise and carried little Johannes up the hill and lit a big candle in the shrine of Our Lady. For August and September we had our engagements in Sweden. But, mind you, not all of them were neatly put down on a list in advance. No, each concert brought forth the next one, when an excited member of the audience invited us to his home town for a performance. By then we were well advanced in our course: “Don’t worry.” It really would have been a waste of time. All the practicing and rehearsing of this new art we needed badly when in September, 1939, the war broke out. All borders were closed, foreigners were asked to depart, concerts already promised were canceled. But we had learned by then that the Heavenly Father knows what we need. More than before, we tried to concentrate on “Seek ye therefore first the Kingdom of God” in doing our daily duties, rehearsing the program for the next American tour, taking care of all the little chores of everyday life, and trying most conscientiously not to worry. At the moment before our last permission to stay in Sweden expired, Mr. Wagner again advanced the money on the next concerts and sent the tickets for the SS. Bergensfjord.

  When, on October 7, 1939, we finally docked in Brooklyn, Hedwig said with disappointment in her voice:

  “In spite of the war, this crossing was not dangerous and not a bit exciting. Nothing unusual happened.”

  Photographers and newspaper men crowded on board, searching for sensational stories. Our picture was taken, too: The Trapp Family Alone, and The Trapp Family With Kirsten Flagstad, who also happened to be on the Bergensfjord. Then we saw Mr. Snowden, our friendly guide of the first year, in the crowd. He waved and called, “Welcome home!” and then it was our turn with the Immigration Officer. Rupert had an immigration visa this time, whereas the rest of us were all on visitors’ visas.

  I was so relieved and so grateful after all these months of uncertainty to have reached the haven again, that when my turn came and the Immigration Officer asked me the fatal question: “What time do you intend to spend in America?” I didn’t answer as I was supposed to: “Six months, Sir, as my visa says,” but I simply blurted out: “Oh, I am so glad to be here—I want never to leave again!”

  Their whole attitude changed. The members of the Trapp Family were held for the very last, and then they were questioned and questioned again; but nothing we said could undo the dangerous impression my most unwise outburst had created: these people don’t want to leave again!”

  Everybody was gone; we were the only passengers on board. But we were not allowed to leave. A tall policeman came and watched us, and all we could do for the rest of the day was play shuffleboard among ourselves and admire beautiful Brooklyn. We didn’t understand yet why, but we were prisoners, and so Hedwig had gotten her highlight for this trip after all: tomorrow we should be taken to Ellis Island.

  A large motorboat came, and our policeman took us over to the island with the large prison building, where the doubtful people from foreign countries were scrutinized. Lucky Rupert went to the Hotel Wellington and started from there to try to get his family out of jail, because jail it was. When the huge door was closed behind us, the door which had no knob on the inside, we were led into a hall as big as the main waiting room in Grand Central Station.

  It was one of those beautiful, hot October days, Indian Summer; but tradition on Ellis Island has it that on October 1 the central heating has to be started. The windows, high up and barred, could not be opened, and the temperature was around eighty degrees.

  “Could I get out with the little ones into the fresh air?” Martina approached a warden.

  “Every day for half an hour after lunch,” was the answer.

  We still didn’t understand what we were doing there. We had been told by some officer of the ship that our papers were not quite clear, and it was only for some formality that we were being taken to this place. But we couldn’t remember having done anything wrong. It must be a misunderstanding, and Rupert would come in the afternoon and get us out. So we tried to make ourselves at home on two large benches facing each other. With the help of our suitcases we boarded up a corner, and as there was absolutely nothing else to do, we started to sing. It is always good to rehearse. Soon people grouped around us, and it seemed that their strained faces looked less worried after listening for an hour to our music. Then we started to talk. There were Spaniards, Jews, Greeks, and a large group of Chinese. We learned that the Chinese had been here already for eight months. Most of the people had been here for weeks. Goodness—and our first concert was supposed to be on the fifteenth. A lady from Poland said:

  “At least it doesn’t cost anything; it’s all paid by the State. And if
America doesn’t let you in, the ship line on which you came has to take you back in the same class, at its own cost, to the port where you started out. It won’t cost you a cent.”

  How terribly consoling! That meant another third-class passage on the Bergensfjord to Oslo!

  “And if that country in Europe doesn’t let us in, what then?” asked Werner.

  “Well,” said the lady cheerily, “then the ship has to keep you. There is an Italian family on the ocean traveling for the eleventh time between Le Havre and New York. And it doesn’t cost them a cent.”

  What a prospect!

  One of the wardens came, a fat lady with greasy hair and a stern look, and handed each one of us a sheet of paper where it said in German:

  “Information: You have been asked to come to Ellis Island as there is some doubt concerning your passport. You will come before the special hearing as soon as possible, and you can plead your cause. If you can’t speak English, you will get an interpreter. There is no reason to get excited. You will be treated very politely.” Then it said in capitals: “DON’T TALK ABOUT YOUR AFFAIRS WITH YOUR FELLOW PRISONERS” and at the end it added: “Please be patient. We don’t want to keep you a moment longer than we absolutely have to.”

  Then it was time for lunch. We were lined up by twos and filed through the door, which was opened with a special key from the inside. As we passed by, the fat lady tapped each one of us on the shoulder, counting. Georg disliked this extremely.

  On long tables the food was served in tin plates, everything on one plate.

  After lunch we were taken out into the yard by twos. The yard was closed in by a very tall wire fence, and what should we see greeting us through the bars from a very short distance, but the Statue of Liberty! The half hour was very short; the whistle blew and we had to go back in.

  Finally Rupert came, and he didn’t look very cheerful.

  “One of you must have made the remark that she wants to stay in this country. That makes you all suspicious, and the authorities don’t want to let you in. That’s what Mr. Wagner was told.”

  Soon Rupert had to leave. The visiting hour was over. We asked him to call our different friends to help us out.

  Johannes had started to walk while we were alone on the Bergensfjord on that last day. Now he practiced walking all day long. He was not quite nine months old, but was very strong. Between singing and playing around with Johannes the long hours passed. We filed through the door again for supper, and right afterwards we had to take all our luggage and were led upstairs into a large dormitory. The windows were small slits high up on the wall, and the door had no knob on the inside. The very bright lights were left on the whole night, which made sleeping hard, and every so often the door opened and the warden came in and counted noses. Each time Johannes woke up and cried unhappily.

  Next morning we were awakened at six o’clock. The newspapers had heard of the Trapp Family at Ellis Island and sent reporters and photographers. From time to time a policeman came in and called a name, the name of the lucky one who should go to his hearing. In the afternoon Rupert reported that he had called Mr. Drinker, who had promised to do what he could. How quickly one gets used to things: to be marched by twos, to eat from tin plates, to be counted numberless times day and night, to windows next to the ceiling and doors without knobs. Father Wasner could say Mass each morning, but only we were allowed to attend, no one else.

  Mr. King, the big boss of Ellis Island, came to visit us. He was especially nice and said that even Toscanini had been here briefly, and many other famous artists, and we should not worry. In the afternoon Elizabeth, Carleton Smith’s wife, came with a big basket of fresh fruit and newspapers with our picture: The Trapp Family Playing Recorders on Ellis Island. What publicity! Elizabeth assured us that our friends were working busily to get us out.

  We were singing a good deal now, because the people were so happy about it. It took their worried thoughts away from their own problems. We were getting very popular on Ellis Island.

  On the fourth day we were pretty much at home, with a daily routine: ora et labora. Mass in the morning and rosary in the evening, during the day rehearsals, recorder practice. Father Wasner was working on a new composition. We wrote letters back to Sweden, letters of thanks. Quietly we waited for our hearing. We had been told from all sides that this was merely a formality; we just had to wait for our turn. An extremely nice letter from Mr. Drinker helped a great deal to cheer us up. In the afternoon the door opened again, and this time our name was called. The policeman led us over to the courtroom. There we took a solemn oath that we would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then the long questioning started. For two and a half hours we (I particularly) were questioned. Why had we come? What did we intend to do? Where did we intend to live? On what boat did we intend to leave again? We didn’t know? Didn’t we have return tickets? How come? Didn’t we intend to leave? And so on. After we had told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth for two and a half hours, the judge said he didn’t believe us, and we were dismissed.

  “And the Bergensfjord is sailing tomorrow,” went through my mind.

  Our companions were eagerly awaiting the outcome, and when they heard what had happened, all looked very gloomy. Each time a prisoner is released, they all gather around him and applaud heartily while he is let out the door. This they had intended to do with us. But quietly we all sat down again and—started to sing. It was the only thing to do if we didn’t want to cry. In the middle of a song Georg was called out. He came back shortly afterwards, and his beaming countenance spoke the word: we were FREE. Our friends had approached their senators and congressmen, vouched for our honesty, and word had come back from Washington to Ellis Island and the misunderstanding was cleared up.

  It was touching how our fellow prisoners selflessly shared in our joy. First endless applause while we got hold of our bags; then one more song; more applause; another song, and finally our best Jodler at the end. Outside Rupert was waiting, and in the motorboat we waved over at the Statue of Liberty, this time from the other side of the fence. The second dove had returned into the ark with a branch from an olive tree. It was safe to set foot on land. And this must have been the feelings of Noah, his wife, his daughters and sons, when they sang their hymn of thanksgiving after the tempest was over.

  VII Learning New Ways

  Now we were really in America, and although I wouldn’t even have dared to whisper it to myself on the top of the Empire State Building or in the middle of Central Park at midnight, for fear the Immigration Officer could hear it again. I knew this was for good.

  A touching reunion with the Hotel Wellington! For the first time I noticed that there were green carpets in the lobby and the nice bell captain with his bellboys and elevator boys wore a handsome purple uniform.

  A great many other things I seemed to discover all anew, and many times my family exclaimed:

  “But, Mother, don’t you remember from last year?”

  No, honestly. I didn’t. It seems that an expectant mother is more occupied within herself, taking in from the outside world merely the bare essentials.

  The first concert was in Town Hall, New York, on a Saturday afternoon. It was a weekend, and what is more, it was one of those balmy days in the fall where the foliage in the country is a riot of color, and people simply didn’t feel like staying in town on such a day and listening to Palestrina. Result: a small audience. Further result: a disappointed manager, who had thought we were a better “drawing card” than the box office receipts showed.

  For the weekend of our Town Hall concert our Philadelphia friends had come to New York. How wonderful to see them again! The Crawfords offered most kindly to take the little ones into their home. Rosmarie and Lorli could go to their old Academy again, which was not too far from the Crawfords’ home. The parting was always a very bitter moment for all of us; but at that time I still thought children had to go to school, and everything else had t
o be sacrificed to this fact. Later I should learn better.

  That was the year of the World’s Fair, and we spent some most exciting days on the grounds, which seemed like a whole book of fairy tales.

  What that word “drawing card” meant, we should discover in a painful way during the next weeks.

  In a short time we learned to know some of the largest auditoriums in this country with a seating capacity of between 2,500 and 4,000, and we always had ample chance to meditate on the color of the upholstery; in one place, a silvery gray, in another, a deep red, or a warm golden yellow; because it was not disturbed by human forms—the huge halls seemed practically empty. (And the artist said to his audience: “Come into the front row, both of you.”)

  An otherwise large audience of eight hundred or nine hundred got almost entirely lost in that vast space. What was the matter? Well, Grandpa Wagner had “invested quite some money in the Trapp Family Choir,” and now he wanted it back. That’s why he had them sing in large halls; but he forgot to tell the people about it. From our short meeting with publicity we had learned sentences like this: “You can’t tell the people often enough. You just have to rub it in, or they forget.” For these people in Hartford, Connecticut; Harrisburg, Pennsylvania; Raleigh, North Carolina; or Washington, D. C., it was not a question of forgetting, but of getting acquainted with the fact that their presence was requested at the first concert of the Trapp Family Choir in their town. But aside from a meager notice in the rear of the local paper, we couldn’t find any window cards or photographs, no “three-sheets” glared from the walls; no interviews, no photographers made our life miserable. Quietly we came and quietly we left, and Mr. Wagner got more and more disgusted. At that time he used pink stationery. At each hotel and at each concert hall those pink envelopes awaited us, filled with gentle reproaches about how badly we had done the last time. This is not exactly a tonic before a concert.