To show his appreciation to Gromi, Papá decided that before we left the Erlhof, he would do something special for her. Up to the end of World War I, the lighting in the Erlhof consisted of kerosene lamps with large white lampshades. At that time an electric power station was being built high up in the mountains near Zell am See, so Papá and Uncle Franky worked to wire the Erlhof for the blessing of electric lights. Gromi was delighted at the prospect of illuminating the living room and other rooms with the flick of a switch. Everyone was looking forward to this momentous event.
We assembled in the living room to watch the first bulb light up, but when the electricity was switched on, we could see only a thin rose-colored wire inside the bulb. Too many people had turned on their switches at the same time, and the powerhouse did not have enough power. So the kerosene lamps were in use again for a while until enough power became available. Papá and Uncle Franky could put the wiring in—but not the electricity.
After the electric wiring was installed, it was time to move out of Gromi’s house. Papá did not want to impose any longer on Gromi’s generosity. Papá and Mamá looked around various parts of Austria to find a house that was adequate for a big family. But they could not find anything suitable. Mamá’s brother Franky owned the house next to Gromi’s property, which had previously been a hotel. He offered it to my parents until they could find something to buy.
It was right on the lakeshore and just big enough for our family, the cook, two maids, the governess (for the two older children, Rupert and me), and the nanny (for the three little ones: Maria, Werner, and Hedwig). The house was called “Hotel Kitzsteinhorn,” after the high mountain across the lake. The Kitzsteinhorn was built before the war, close to the water’s edge. At that time, a pier reached out into the lake to accommodate the motorboat from Zell am See, which stopped there for the convenience of hotel guests. During the war, however, the hotel became vacant, and the pier fell into disrepair, after which Uncle Franky bought the property.
At that time, girls did not go out to make a life for themselves before they married. Therefore, Mamá’s two unmarried sisters lived with Gromi. Despite the fact that Gromi had two single daughters in her house, she did not want us to leave her. She had already endured loss. Her oldest son, John, a test pilot in England’s Royal Air Force, was killed in a test flight of one of the first planes to be used in warfare. Her second son, Franky, eventually worked in the travel bureau in Zell am See. Her third son, Robert, lived in Hungary.
The Erlhof was built for her children. Without them, it meant nothing to Gromi. Now her beloved daughter Agathe was going to depart with her husband and their five children, three of them born in the Erlhof. She could not bear the thought of parting with them, but it had to be done. The change was made so that we hardly noticed it. One day we had a new home half a mile down the road from Gromi’s Erlhof.
There was also a new baby on the way, and when it was the right time, Mamá went back to the Erlhof. Johanna was born in the very same room where three other young von Trapps had found their way into the world. I remember the first time I saw her. She was lying in a baby basinette with a canopy of delicate curtains that had little flowers printed on them. The nurse moved the curtains away, and there was the new baby with big brown eyes.
Hedwig, two years old, took a look at her baby sister and said, “Ich werd mit der Lute kommen! [I will come with the switch!]” (unable to pronounce Rute, Hedwig called the switch Lute). Then Johanna started to cry. Hedwig must have heard this phrase addressed to her many times from her nanny and so thought this was what one said to little children! But Johanna obviously did not like the sound of it. Someone took Hedwig out of the room.
After a few weeks in the Erlhof with Gromi, Mamá returned to the Kitzsteinhorn. While our family lived there, Rupert once came down the many steps that led to the place where the pier should have been a bit too fast. He fell head over heels into the water. Perhaps that accident triggered the repair of the pier.
One day some men appeared who were appointed to do the job. In order to build the new pier, the men had to drive heavy wooden posts into the bottom of the lake. While standing on a scaffold, they placed a huge iron block with six handles on top of the post, to be used as a hammer. As they began to work, they started to sing a song, not to the post, not to each other, not because it was a beautiful, sunny day and they felt like singing, but to coordinate their blows on the post. The rhythm of the song told each man when to lift the block and when to let it fall. It was a very wonderful sight to see the men at work.
As we watched them, we also learned their song, never to forget it. The words are in the local dialect of the Pinzgau. The song went like this:
Auf und z’am
Der Tag is lang
Der Schaegl is schwar
Von Eis’n er war
Da Lercha Kern
Er geht nit gern
Er muass hinein
Durch Sand und Stein
Durch Stein und Sand
In’s Unterland
HOCH AUF!
Up and down
The day is long
The sledge hammer is heavy
It is made of iron
The larch post
Does not want to move
It must go down
Through sand and stone
Through stone and sand
Into the land below
LIFT UP!
The melody to this song was not written down. If it had been written down, it would have become a hit song in the United States! But it was forever imprinted into the memories of the men who sang it probably thousands of times, and into our memories as we watched them pound the posts into the “land below.” The rhythm of this song gave them the coordination to do the otherwise impossible. HOCH AUF!
The motorboat was no longer in operation, and we did not own a boat. So Papá bought a horse and buggy with a few warm blankets to keep us warm as we traveled around the lake to the town on errands. The horse was lodged under the balcony of our house where Papá had built a stable. For us it was a great thing to have a horse and buggy for our own use, even though we children did not ride in it very often. The horse’s name was Dagie, after a friend of Papá’s from the navy, whose name was Dagobert Müller. Papá took care of the horse himself.
To improve our diet, and to provide entertainment, Papá bought chickens—nine hens and a rooster. When he saw how much we loved the chickens and enjoyed finding the eggs, he bought three dwarf chickens just for us—a rooster and two hens. The dwarf hens laid little eggs, and we were delighted.
Every day we went to watch and feed them. Papá kept the chickens in a little wooden building next to our “hotel,” and he made small boxes where they could lay their eggs. Every morning he collected the eggs. One morning, however, there were only two hens and the eggs were crushed. What had happened? There were feathers on the floor and little pools of blood on the ground, even outside. Who had taken the chickens? How had he gotten into the chicken house, whoever he was?
Papá went all around the chicken house to find some tracks on the ground in order to find out who the robber was. That afternoon he took us on a walk onto the wooded hillside behind the house to look for mushrooms. As we came down the hill, he saw one of our chickens half buried under the fallen leaves. Then we saw another and yet another. Who was this mysterious thief that left part of the spoil? Perhaps it was an animal. A person would surely have taken them all.
So Papá constructed a big wooden trap. He covered the far end of the trap with a piece of chicken wire. The trap was constructed so that when an animal went in and got to the end of the trap, the door would fall down behind him. Papá set this trap into the entrance of the chicken house.
The next two days were quiet. Nothing happened. But on the third day the thief was caught. It was a huge, gray wild cat. I had never seen a wild cat before; therefore, I was fascinated.
One day there was excitement in Zell am See to rival our chicken thief.
A moving picture film came to town and was to be shown! That was a very novel event in 1919. The film was advertised as a picture where animals and people could move, just as in real life. Impossible! But the promoters claimed it was true.
How I wanted to see that film! But only Rupert, then eight years old, was allowed to go. I stayed home, being told I was “too young.” I questioned Rupert about the film when he came back home, and he confirmed that the pictures really moved. I would not see my first movie until several years later in Vienna.
In the Kitzsteinhorn, our schoolroom was in the attic. From a point where the roof sloped, a curtain was suspended to hide the family’s trunks and suitcases stored there. We called this area the “North Pole.” When Stutz von Jedina visited, we played all kinds of wild games there, most of them imported by Stutz! War games, Red Indian, and Cops and Robbers—all of the games were accompanied by wild gestures and fierce words, but we never hit or hurt each other. Sometimes we hid in houses, which we formed with our schoolroom furniture; other times we were prisoners bound by imaginary rope. Our imaginations ran wild, and when we were tired, we smoked a make-believe peace pipe.
When the dinner bell rang, we knew it was time to clean up. No more imaginary surprise attacks from the dark, awesome place behind the curtains where the trunks stood! We put the furniture in order, washed our hands, and went down to the living room to wait for the meal. The days when Stutz came to see us were the highlights of our time at the Kitzsteinhorn. His visits were a pleasant diversion from our daily routine. I adored Stutz.
It was 1919 when we settled in to live at the Kitzsteinhorn. Our dear Nenni had left, and in her stead the “little ones,” baby Johanna included, came under the care of a new nanny. We older ones called her “the Dragoner.”1 Of course, we addressed her as “Fräulein” (Miss). She was rather stern, with her sparse black hair pulled straight back into a little knot on the back of her head. The Dragoner always wore a white nurse’s uniform and spoke with a deep voice, using the mannerisms of a sergeant.
The Dragoner loved baby Johanna and disliked Hedwig. She often punished Hedwig by taking away her favorite doll, Liesl. The nanny used to make Maria, Hedwig, and Werner, who resisted her at times, sit quietly on a bench while baby Johanna slept. Then when Johanna awoke, they had to take their naps. My sister Maria is still puzzled by this arrangement, but a story that she recently told me may shed some light on this extraordinary ruling.
At one time, the Dragoner most likely went to check on Johanna sleeping in her crib and left Maria, Werner, and Hedwig for a moment in the adjacent playroom. Suddenly she heard a loud bump and a child screaming. Rushing into the next room, she found a crying Hedwig on the floor in her overturned high chair. Werner, trying to prove his strength, had pushed the high chair over. The nurse picked up Hedwig, who was frightened but unhurt. After a stern reprimand, she told Werner that he would have to go to Mamá for a spanking.
Meanwhile, Maria, who had overheard the punishment pronounced, ran quickly for her doll’s pillow, inserting it into the back of Werner’s pants to soften the blow, at the same time that the Dragoner was trying to soothe the sobbing child. Werner, fortified for the paddling, was escorted to Mamá’s room by the nanny, who left him there. Mamá, who never spanked us anyway, inquired about the mishap and, upon finding the pillow, was touched by Maria’s compassion. Then Mamá spoke kindly to Werner and kept him with her for a while before sending him back to the Dragoner.
Why did Mamá hire such a person to take care of her little ones? The only explanation I can think of is that there was no one else available at that time when a nanny was sorely needed.
The older ones, Rupert and I, did not fare much better. Since there was no school on our side of the lake, it was necessary for us to be tutored at home. Fräulein Zimmermann, from northern Germany, became our governess. It quickly became evident to me that Fräulein disliked Rupert and loved me. She should never have become a teacher; she simply did not understand children. She constantly had a switch ready for Rupert, although I did not see any good reason for that kind of threat. She assigned me, his younger sister, to watch over him so he would not do anything that was forbidden. This responsibility did not help our relationship. All I remember as a response from Rupert for my efforts to keep him on the “right path” was, “That is none of your business.”
In addition to the switch, Fräulein was always ready with sarcastic remarks directed at Rupert and made fun of him at every opportunity. What a terrible experience for a child! We never told our parents about her treatment of him. We considered Fräulein to be without blame because she was an adult and in charge of us.
Fräulein tried to teach me mathematics. I especially remember division. Because I was only six, I did not understand what she explained to me. When I was not able to master division, she called me lazy. I do not know whether Rupert could learn from her either, but I suspect not.
I recall sitting in an unfamiliar room, in front of a lady I did not know, and being asked questions I could not answer. I believe I was in a classroom and being given a test at the end of first grade. Needless to say, I failed. From that time on, I did not have any more lessons with Fräulein Zimmermann. She departed, claiming that Tante Joan, age eighteen and still living with Gromi, needed a tutor. That was a blessing for us. Fräulein Zimmermann’s best service to us was recommending the next governess, who fortunately was an excellent teacher. Her name was Fräulein Freckmann, and she was from Bremen, Germany. Well educated herself, she was determined to give us the best possible education.
During the turbulent days following the end of the war with food shortages and the lack of all daily necessities, a levelheaded person like Fräulein Freckmann was a blessing. Throughout Austria, everyone was affected by the aftermath of the war; the change from monarchy to a makeshift government created insecurity and confusion. Even traveling became extremely difficult. My parents were looking for a permanent home to buy, but they could not find anything suitable for our big family. Another temporary solution, however, was already on the horizon.
Years of Change
We stayed about a year and a half in the Hotel Kitzsteinhorn. Life continued as usual with lessons, walks, and our daily routine. During the summer of 1920, the glaciers melted, and the lake rose so high that the water flooded into the kitchen almost to the top of our stove. All the food that was stored in the kitchen had to be brought upstairs, and the mice started getting into everything that was edible. Gromi again opened the dining room of the Erlhof to us, and we took our meals there since it was just a short distance away. We had to pass by a meadow where a bull was grazing; therefore, Fräulein made sure that we did not wear bright red clothing on our way to Gromi’s.
It must have been a difficult time for Papá and Mamá. Johanna was a baby, and the family of six children needed a place to live since the whole downstairs of the Kitzsteinhorn was waterlogged. Mamá’s youngest brother, Bobby Whitehead, offered a place he owned in Klosterneuburg, close to the Danube and about a half hour’s train ride from Vienna.
Uncle Bobby’s property, called the “Martinschlössl” (Martin’s little castle), was a former summer residence of Maria Theresa (1717–80), empress of Austria. The place was in excellent condition, with a caretaker’s house, a greenhouse, an orchard, and a garden. In the middle of the courtyard, between the main house and the annex, was a round garden bed of roses.
It was a perfect place for our big family because the food shortage continued, and we could grow our own fruits and vegetables, raise chickens, and keep a cow and also a pig to eat the garbage. Papá’s orderly, Franz Stiegler, and his wife, Marie, were of peasant stock, and they were willing to take care of the barnyard. They had been caretakers of our house in Pola during the war, so we knew them well. Uncle Bobby’s house was going to be our home until Papá and Mamá could find a suitable one for us. Little did they know that Mamá would not live to see her family in a place of their own.
The Martinschlössl was unfur
nished, so our parents decided to reclaim all the furniture they had left in Pola. Doing that was not an easy undertaking, however. Papá could not set foot into Pola, which was now Italian territory. As the commander of an Austrian submarine, he was blacklisted and would have been arrested if he had appeared in Italy. So it was decided that Mamá would make the trip to Pola to fetch our furniture.
I remember the November day when Mamá put on her black gloves and arranged her hat with the black net veil covering her face. She kissed us all good-bye and reminded us to be good while she was away. Mamá took her lady’s maid, Peppina, with her. In Pola, the Stieglers assisted in the big job of crating furniture and belongings to be sent by freight to Klosterneuburg. The whole process took six weeks.
Papá went from our temporary home, the Kitzsteinhorn, to Klosterneuburg, to be there to help Mamá when the furniture arrived. We children were invited to the home of Mamá’s cousin for the Christmas holidays. Under the protection and able guidance of Fräulein Freckmann, our governess, with a nanny and a maid, all six of us children embarked on the train headed for the station of St. Pölten.
My only recollection of this trip is a border incident related to hamstering. We traveled second class, which meant that we had a compartment for ourselves that consisted of two long benches facing each other, where four grown-ups could easily sit in a row. The seats were upholstered in blue or green. Overhead were shelves made of iron bars and netting for the luggage. We needed two compartments to accommodate all of us comfortably. The nanny and Johanna, the baby, were in the second compartment.
At one of the stations along the way a lady, dressed in black with a hat and veil, boarded the train. She asked if she could sit with us in our compartment. Fräulein must have given her permission. The woman proceeded to tell us a story about her dying grandmother.
Memories Before and After the Sound of Music Page 6