Was that a premonition?
We arrived in Waterbury, Vermont, the nearest railroad station to Stowe. As the train came slowly in, I saw Rupert’s laughing face greeting us through the window. He was home for a short holiday before starting his interneship. The poor fellow knew nothing yet. But as he helped Georg down the steps of the train, his laughter gave place to real alarm.
Arriving in his bedroom, Georg said with a sigh of deepest satisfaction:
“We have the most beautiful home I can imagine. Here it is best.”
And now he could not do enough to assure me how good he felt.
While he was resting from the exertions of the trip, I told Rupert everything. On the very same day we asked a good friend of ours, a well-known doctor in the university town of Burlington, to come over. Shocked, Dr. R. heard the diagnosis of the New York doctors. Then he went over to Georg.
Long, anxious minutes slipped by. When Dr. R. finally came out of the room, I could hardly believe my eyes, so—almost pleased he looked.
“You cried too soon,” he said to me. “I am absolutely unable to share the opinion of my New York colleagues, and I don’t find him so bad at all. As far as cancer goes, I don’t believe it. The pneumonia took a lot out of him, and now he needs quiet—much quiet. It will be weeks before he’s back to normal again!”
One can also cry for joy. I could not grasp my happiness at all. I felt as if I had escaped from a concentration camp. I rushed to the chapel for an ardent prayer of thanksgiving, and then to Georg!
So—quiet, much quiet. If only there were not this racking cough, which stirred him again and again out of his sleep.
If during the past nights I had been unable to sleep for grief and affliction, now happiness kept me awake. In this night I thought of the many convents, in whose churches and chapels we had sung for cloistered nuns and monks to the greater glory of God. They were our most grateful audiences. And they had not forgotten us; at Christmas, Easter, and on feastdays came greeting cards with assurances of prayer. These friends we needed now! In a short letter I told of “the Captain’s illness,” and asked for prayer. This letter went to all those convents and monasteries, as well as to all our friends in Europe.
A few days went by. Georg was tired and happy. He didn’t want to talk much. He liked it best when I sat at his bedside, held his hand, and read aloud to him. Sometimes he fell asleep during the reading; then with my left hand I got out my rosary. It was strange: Georg, who was always so concerned for others and never claimed a service for himself, now did not want to let me out of his sight for a minute. Not even at night. He was afraid of the night. When the convulsive coughing had again shaken him awake, he often said: “Pray something out loud!” Our Fathers took turns with short ejaculations or with the ancient prayer which I still knew from Nonnberg:
“Oh God, we cry unto Thee,
In the Name of Jesus,
Through the Blood of Jesus,
Through the most Sacred Heart of Jesus.
Most wonderfully Thou canst help us.
Holy God,
Holy, strong God,
Holy, immortal God,
Have mercy on us!”
Again and again the anxious heart appealed to Our Lady: “Maria, cure of the sick, consoler of the afflicted, pray for us.” A gentle pressure of the hand indicated to me: so, now that’s enough; now let’s sleep again a little.
Georg’s faith was just like himself—child-like and uncomplicated. The Lord God, Our Lady, the dear Saints and the Poor Souls, were all one big family, to which we also belonged. He didn’t get very far with prayer books. He presented his petitions to his God in his own way: “Look, dear God, it’s thus and so; please help us.”
An almost personal friendship bound him with Our Lady. When two good Austrian Carmelite Fathers came to visit us one day and told enthusiastically about the “Saturday Promise” of Our Lady, he was immediately very much interested and wanted to know details. They told him that several hundred years ago Our Lady had appeared to a Saint of the Carmelite Order, given him a piece of her robe, and solemnly promised:
“Whoever dies clothed in this garment, I shall take to heaven on the first Saturday after his death.”
From this resulted the so-called Confraternity of the Scapular. Everyone could avail himself of the benefits of this promise by being admitted into this Confraternity. The scapular is two small, brown patches which, attached by strings, are worn over the shoulders, next to the body. Georg was very much impressed by this promise. He was admitted into the “Scapular” and always faithfully added to his night prayers the three Hail Marys which the priest assigned to him at his reception.
I repeat this here in such detail because Georg once said to me from his sickbed: “We should tell everybody about the scapular; it is such a consolation.”
On the doctor’s advice, Georg sat for a while in the afternoon in a comfortable armchair. He longed for the return of the children. When Dr. R. called again, he was very much satisfied. Since he had to go to Chicago for ten days, he gave us the telephone number of a Dr. W., just in case, and when Dr. W. came, he, too, spoke most hopefully about Georg’s condition.
In spite of the confidence of both doctors, I could not rid myself of a secret fear. To prepare me for what was to come, the doctor in New York had pointed out to me that Georg would become visibly weaker, finally a serious shortness of breath would set in, and if heart failure did not intervene, he would slowly suffocate. Like my own death sentence these words still sounded in my ears.
Then Dr. W. himself was suddenly taken ill, and recommended to us a particularly capable internist from the university clinic in Burlington, Dr. F.
Outside the wind howled and tossed spongy, wet snow against the window. Georg asked more and more often about the children, who were still on concert tour. The big house was so lonely and quiet. Finally, the blue bus came panting up the hill. The poor children, they only knew that Papa was much better. Happily they pressed all at once into the sickroom and then—how suddenly they were struck dumb, with what difficulty they held back their tears. The horror which rose in their eyes made me once more aware of the ghastly change. I had just wanted to ask: “Doesn’t Papa look much better already?” but the question remained unasked. Quietly I slipped out of the room, out of the house, and behind the big poplar tree I wept bitterly.
The children’s return worked like a strong medicine. Georg would have liked to have them around him all the time. He had them tell about the last concerts, about the success of the collections for Austria, wanted to see the current mail, to read letters from Austria himself, and began again to talk of the old times.
How stubborn the human heart is! Since it cannot live without hope, it hopes still against all hope. It clings to each tiny straw, and until the last moment, will not believe the awful truth. The new doctor, Dr. F., was much more confident than the first two doctors.
I felt a heavy responsibility weighing on me. I knew that Georg continually repelled the idea of his own death because of my apparent hope and confidence. What should I do? Should I remind him to make a will, ask him how he wanted this or that arranged, just in case…Beyond that, I could not think. Great as my apprehension was, there was still the testimony of three first-class doctors against that of the New York doctors. Even Rupert was full of confidence.
Meanwhile, from all over this country and Europe came answers to my plea for prayer. A real army of allies stormed heaven.
Then came a good visit from an Austrian Jesuit Father, who is now a pastor in Boston. As I couldn’t help reading the deep emotion in Father Weiser’s face, I said to Georg:
“Look, in the New Testament it says clearly: ‘Is any man sick among you? Let him bring in the priests of the church and let them pray over him, annointing him with oil in the name of the Lord.’ Let’s ask Father Weiser for the Last Sacraments; that will certainly do you good.”
Father Weiser was his good friend. Georg agreed immediately.
/> “All right, tomorrow morning.”
We had all gathered in the chapel. While Father Weiser was hearing Georg’s confession, we recited the rosary. Then came Father Weiser to fetch the Holy Eucharist. With burning candles we went before our Saviour, singing, into the sickroom. It was a solemn and festive occasion. Georg was so happy and peaceful; loudly and clearly he answered, together with us, the priest, who said all the prayers in Latin and German. What strength and confidence flowed forth from these prayers! Something of Georg’s peace and joy touched all our hearts. When the holy act was over, the children kissed their father and quietly went out.
Afterwards I was alone with Georg. “I feel so much better,” he said softly, taking my hand in his, and fell asleep. Quietly he slept for several hours. Even the cruel cough was still. Right away my heart began to sing: maybe—maybe. That was the Wednesday before Pentecost.
It was the calm before the storm. The following Saturday shortness of breath set in. Painfully he squeezed out the words: “What’s this, do I have to die now?” And he looked at me anxiously and imploringly.
We telephoned Dr. F. immediately. He reassured us. It was only an attack of asthma; Georg was most probably allergic to some of the pollen from those many flowers his children had brought with them upon their homecoming. He gave him an injection against asthma, and we cleared the pelargonias and petunias out of the room.
When the new doctor saw our dreadful anxiety, he took the whole afternoon and stayed in the sickroom to observe the patient. Before he left, he gave Rupert different medicines and assured us over and over again that no one ever died of asthma, that Georg would soon be much better. His general state of health was completely satisfactory. How eagerly and gladly does one believe what one wants so much to believe!
The next day was Pentecost Sunday. With hearts filled with anxiety we prayed to the Holy Ghost, Who is also called the “Comforter.”
It was the beginning of a martyrdom. Panting heavily and struggling for breath, Georg sat among the pillows. The greatest variety and the most modern asthma medicines brought no relief, and even the morphine dose had to be increased more and more to give him a little rest at night.
Since the beginning of the shortness of breath on the Saturday before Pentecost, the family had multiplied their prayers. Every hour the chapel bell called us. Day and night we took turns before the Blessed Sacrament.
Thursday after Pentecost came. In the afternoon Dr. F. had again spent several hours with the patient. The shortness of breath was mysterious to him.
“If it weren’t for his breathing,” he said, “the Captain could sit out here in a chair, and in a week, on the balcony.” He described his general condition, heart, lungs, etc., as substantially better than a week ago. He did not think it was cancer, and as for the breathlessness, he thought it might be attributed to a nervous condition. He went away more confident than ever.
Then everything was as it had been in the last days, supper, evening prayer. At eleven o’clock I noticed a difference in his breathing. Suddenly I knew with absolute certainty: This is now the end. I called Rupert and waked all the children except little Johannes. Father Wasner came also. After one look at the sick man he left, returning immediately with the stole and the book of Prayers for the Dying.
To assist Rupert we called the nearest doctor in Stowe, a white-haired elderly lady. She came, made a quick examination, said only, “The heart,” and gave him a couple of injections. Then she sat down in the back of the room. We knelt around the bed. Slowly and solemnly the words of the Prayers for the Dying sounded through the room. We prayed the rosary together. No, many rosaries, how many, we don’t know. After every single decade we said a few ejaculations aloud slowly. He was fully conscious, and in the midst of a violent struggle, he repeated from time to time; “My Jesus…Mercy!”
It was long after midnight when the doctor listened again to his heart.
She said in an undertone: “I’m afraid this is the end.”
I knew what I had to do. Many years before, we had promised each other that the one would tell the other when the end was coming. Up to this moment I had waited for a miracle and clung to the confidence of the doctors. But now the word of a doctor had destroyed the very last hope. It had to be.
I got up from my knees and said very close to his ear: “Georg, the end is coming.”
A terrible sob shook the breast fighting for air, and with a last effort he put his right arm around my neck, his hand sought my forehead. A farewell blessing. But that was not yet all.
“Georg, my dear Georg, you accept death willingly from the hand of God, don’t you?”
That was the important, the all-deciding question which we had promised each other to ask. And in the violent spasms of his final struggle for breath, a hero to the last, he gasped, “Yes.”
That was the last word of the dying father. Indelibly it was burnt upon our hearts.
A Saint once said: “The most beautiful word which a man can say to his God is the little word, ‘Yes.’”
Once more Father Wasner brought Holy Communion. In full consciousness Georg received his Master and Saviour, his Commander-in-Chief and Best Friend.
And now it was really there, the end. It was a hard, cruel battle. A hero’s death.
How terribly still it was in the room when the last death-rattle was silenced. The poor breast had its peace now, the brave heart stood still. In this holy silence Georg suddenly opened his eyes. The tortured features became calm and with an expression of endless wonder Georg gazed into another world. What may he have seen there? It must have been something indescribably beautiful. After about two minutes he nodded his head a little, and the dear eyes closed forever.
It was Friday, May 30, 1947 at 4:30 A.M.
We said the rosary again beside the deathbed, and then went over to the chapel for the first Requiem Mass.
Little Johannes had been sleeping soundly in the next room with the door open. When he awoke around eight o’clock, his first question, as usual, was:
“How is Papa today?”
When he heard the sorrowful answer, his face lit up with joy.
“That’s good that Papa died on a Friday; now Our Lady will take him to heaven soon!”
We were prepared for tears and great sorrow, but not for that. The child had immediately remembered what his father had told him about the scapular.
After Holy Mass we stood a moment together in the hall in front of the chapel, weary with a night’s watching, shivering, sorrowful and lonely. A despondent voice asked:
“What shall we do now?”
Then suddenly a scene arose before my inner eye, and I said:
“Children, I know exactly how your father wants to have it.”
Sitting around the black breakfast coffee—no one could eat anything—I told them:
“When we were in Vancouver Island a year and a half ago, a guide described to us the customs of the Vancouver Indians in burying their dead. Do you remember his describing how they crammed their dead into a little wooden box and put this box on a forked branch in a tall tree? That was their funeral. Then Papa turned to me and said in a sly undertone: ‘But I don’t want to be buried that way!’ Half joking, half serious, Papa enumerated his wishes. ‘You know, when I’m dead, you mustn’t begrudge me my rest. Since my Cadet days I’ve never had enough sleep. Then I’ll really be able to catch up. You mustn’t cry and lament, but you should be glad for me, for then I’ll have gone home, and you’ll soon follow. This lying in state and those black sheets I can’t stand. Let me sleep a day or two among you in the living room. You sit around me, praying and singing. You must sing all my favorite songs for me again. And flowers I want, a whole room full, but they must not be bought. They must all be grown on our grounds.’ The conversation obviously amused him, and he said impulsively: ‘You know, I’ve already found a little place for myself not too far from the house so you can come and visit me often. Do you think I’ll have enough friends that they can
carry my coffin over on foot? I can’t stand these rubber-wheeled things. On the way to the grave you must sing ‘Andreas Hofer’s Farewell to Life’ and ‘Meerstern, ich Dich Grüsse,’ and ‘Innsbruck, ich muss Dich lassen.’ On the way back there really should be an Austrian military band playing a lively march. But I guess I have to do without that,’ he said quite resigned. Then we both had to laugh heartily.”
Never again had I thought of this conversation, and now this scene came so vividly to my mind that I almost thought I could hear his voice. And so our dear dead one had not yet laid down his command. It was up to us to fulfill his last wishes and commands.
First we applied for permission from our Bishop. Most willingly, kindly, and full of sympathy, he gave Father Wasner the authority to consecrate a cemetery on our own grounds. Before he could do that, however, the area had to be fenced in. All the children went to work immediately to build a beautiful wooden fence. Storms and rain were over; a brilliant blue spring sky arched over the world. We thought of the flowers. In the middle of the woods, where once a little farm had stood, we knew of a few wild apple trees. The boys brought a whole wagonful of enormous branches, and the living room was converted into a garden in bloom. In front of the chimney we hung a red brocade curtain. Then we brought our father down, dressed in his Austrian gray wool suit. Of all his decorations, he had taken only the Maria Theresien Cross with him. This we placed on his breast. Over his knees we spread his old U-Boat flag. Above him on the mantelpiece stood the old wooden figures as usual, Our Lord and His Apostles, smiling down on the silent sleeper, surrounded by candles and flowers. His face radiated such sublime dignity and beauty that one could not look long enough at it. It reminded one of the Apostle’s words: “I have fought a good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the faith. As to the rest, there is laid up for me a crown….”
The Story of the Trapp Family Singers Page 32