Memories Before and After the Sound of Music

by Agathe von Trapp

  Slowly the ship moved toward the pier. With great anticipation, we waited until it was time to leave the ship that had become a home for us as well as for the kind passengers and crew who had made the days at sea not only bearable, but also a wonderful experience.

  Someone from the office of Charlie Wagner, our New York agent, met us at the pier and made sure that all of us, plus our mountain of luggage, arrived safely at the Hotel Wellington. Anyone who happened to be in the vicinity that day would have seen quite a spectacle. There were ten adults in strange clothing with two little girls, ages seven and nine. Each person had a large suitcase and a rucksack. There were three large suitcases for the concert attire, a case containing the spinet, a different case for the four legs of the spinet, five violas da gamba, one suitcase for the recorders, and one suitcase for the expected baby. It was difficult to believe how much luggage one family could have. Even though the amount of luggage might have been a shock for the doorman, somehow it all disappeared into the hotel and ended up in the right rooms.

  Before we went to bed that first night in the hotel, we put our shoes outside our rooms so that they could be shined, as was the custom in Europe. We had worn the same shoes during our long journey from Italy to New York. At midnight the night watchman knocked on our doors and shouted, “Take your shoes into your rooms or tomorrow morning they might not be there anymore!” “Aha,” we realized, “in American hotels you must shine your own shoes.” It was our first lesson on American soil.

  The Wellington became our home for a week until the concert tour started. Therefore, we had that amount of time to learn our way around and to find the sights and places we wanted to visit. Since Papá, Mother, and Father Wasner dealt with our manager about all major matters, our responsibilities included knowing our music, especially important for those of us who played the recorders, keeping our clothes clean and tidy, and being on time for rehearsals. Because Father Wasner was in charge of payments, we had to be together for the meals, which were also times when everyone could be accounted for.

  The Hotel Wellington was one of the places in New York City where many artists from overseas were “parked” until they had their concert schedules, transportation, and day of departure. From our rooms, we could hear the musicians practice their instruments. Sometimes the music that we heard throughout the hotel sounded like a small orchestra tuning its instruments: here a violin, there a trumpet, from another apartment the sound of an oboe, and a clarinet floating up the shaft of the courtyard. Occasionally the voice of a singer could be heard, which added yet another dimension.

  An Ursuline convent in Brooklyn, run by very kind sisters, was recommended to Mother as a school for the two youngest girls, Rosmarie and Lorli, to board while we went on tour. Although they were not happy with the arrangement, we knew of no other place where we could leave them. There they would be safe and could not escape into a world unknown to them. They could learn English and other subjects until we could take them along with us again.

  On the morning of our first concert, Charlie Wagner handed us our schedule and announced that we would travel in a chartered bus. The driver’s name was Mr. Tallerie. We were assured that Mr. Tallerie would get us safely from city to city and from concert hall to concert hall. He was experienced in driving groups like ours, and he would be able to answer our questions.

  Mr. Tallerie, who was to be our driver for two years, was all that Mr. Wagner had told us and more. I will never forget him as our first friend in these United States. A perfect gentleman, of French descent, always polite and courteous, he seemed to be aware of his responsibilities, not only as our driver, but also as our teacher about everything in America. I think he felt obligated to educate newcomers to the United States who came with European ideas, which did not always fit into the American landscape. He did a very good job. He was helpful in other ways as well, such as loading and unloading our baggage, and he drove the bus with élan. His favorite expression was, “Let me tell you something.”

  Our bus, painted a royal blue, was specially outfitted. It had a total of thirty-two upholstered seats, grouped in twos, in rows along either side of the bus. There was another upholstered seat across the back of the bus. A metal cot was placed alongside the last two windows to the left in case someone needed to lie down. Even with all these choices, the window seats were the favorites. On the outside of the bus, on both sides and above the front window, was the announcement “Trapp Family Choir.” It was quite impressive for us to see our name officially displayed on the vehicle in which we were to live and ride during the following weeks.

  Our first concert was scheduled in Easton, Pennsylvania. Traveling there gave us our first experience with American highways. We found it remarkable that the traffic was so well organized and that the roads were paved. What a difference from what we were used to! There were no paved roads in Austria at that time. Some stretches were covered with gravel. Virtually all of the roads had potholes in which the rainwater collected, and one could not see how deep the holes were, which made the roads very dangerous.

  People in the United States seemed so nonchalant about this wonderful blessing of paved highways marked with a middle line of white paint—and stoplights regulating the traffic. In Austria a driver was at the mercy of the other motorists. Ah, gas stations, what a blessing! They were not only for refueling but also for other necessities. We were very excited that we could get a drink there and a free map of any state. For Mr. Tallerie none of this was new, but for us it was all new and wonderful.

  Whenever we traveled in the evening, I was intrigued by the rows of red brake lights in front of us and the white lights coming toward us on the opposite lane. I wondered how a Roman soldier of ancient times would feel if he could come back and see these seemingly endless rows of lights on our highways. Would not that sight give him the shivers? To us in the twenty-first century, this sight is an everyday occurrence taken for granted; yet I have never stopped being in awe of the traffic at night on the highways of the United States of America.

  Mother always managed to see something interesting to photograph, asking Mr. Tallerie to stop “right then and there.” He would then come out with his favorite line—“Mrs. Trapp, let me tell you something: I cannot stop here!”—after which he gave her a lecture of what he could or could not do while driving sixty miles per hour.

  Sometimes we saw sights that we had not seen anywhere in Europe. As we were traveling across the United States, we noticed boxes on posts all along the road and questioned Mr. Tallerie. He said, “These are mailboxes. The mailman rides along the highway, stops at the box, and puts the mail in. Handy, isn’t it?”

  On the way to California, we were riding through the desert—the land of the famous giant cactus. We had never seen or even heard of this phenomenal plant. When Mother spotted an especially well-preserved giant, she asked Mr. Tallerie to stop the bus. She wanted to take a picture. Of course, we all wanted to look at the unusual sight. It felt as if we were transported back in time to the era of the dinosaurs. We noticed many little holes in those huge branches where the birds had made their nests. The whole area before us was filled with cactus birdhouses.

  Whenever there was time, Mr. Tallerie would drive us to a place of interest, especially when our route went past the site anyway. For instance, the Natural Bridge, one of the wonders of the world, was located on the way to our concert in Virginia. Even Mr. Tallerie agreed we must see that. After parking, we walked down into the gorge that the river had formed over thousands of years. At the bottom of the gorge, we found seats prepared for tourists from where we could hear an “invisible” organ playing soft music like “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny,” “My Old Kentucky Home,” and other favorites. Above we could see the miraculous arch of the Natural Bridge and the traffic on the highway moving right over it.

  As we traveled farther south, we rode through cypress swamps. There, large trees with oversized trunk roots grew right out of the water, and long strands of Spanish mo
ss hung from their branches. Once when the bus stopped for a lunch break along one of these pondlike areas, Papá and Werner could not pass up the opportunity to take a boat ride. An old rowboat was sitting at the water’s edge, just “asking” for someone to take it out into the cypress pond. Surprisingly an oar had been left in it. If Papá could not have the sea, even a pond in which cypress trees grew would satisfy the deep longing for what was now only a memory for him. A seafaring captain will always yearn for the sea.

  We continued on the long highway passing through Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. In one of these states, we saw the strangest thing. Along the right and left sides of the highway were signs spaced so that the motorists could plainly read them while driving. One of these sentences read, “The Flowers Bloom, the Grass Is Riz, Where Last Year’s Drunken Driver Is! BURMA SHAVE.”

  To our great consternation another message that was spread out along the highway read “Jesus Saves.” We could not understand how anyone could put these holy words, which belonged in a church, on the side of the road. Again Mr. Tallerie had the answer. “Here in the South,” he said, “the Christians believe in sharing their belief with the unsuspecting motorists. They feel that the message gives the motorists something to think about. Also, this is a free country, and anyone can say anything he wants, where he wants, and when he wants.”

  Another shock was an oversized milk bottle standing next to the highway. Mr. Tallerie had to stop the bus and drive back so that Mother could take a picture of it. What a novelty! While Mother took the photograph, I took my sketchbook to eternalize in pen and ink this, to me, horrendous and unsightly object. It was not only the size of the giant milk bottle that impressed us but also the audacity of whomever placed it there. Imagine ruining the beautiful landscape with such an atrocious object. Above the bottle was advertised “Cream When You Want It—Ohio Cloverdale Golden Jersey Milk—Helps Toledo Grow!” Even though we saw other things that disturbed us along the highway—such as dead trees, which were not cut down, large pieces of dead wood along the highway, and unharvested apples—nothing could top the giant milk bottle.

  As for the dead wood, I thought, What is the matter with the American people that they do not take care of these things? In Austria the poor grandmothers have the official privilege of collecting the dead wood in the forest. They take away every little branch and twig, bundle them, and take them home for firewood in the winter, or they sell them for kindling. Why do the people in America waste all that good firewood and the ripe fruit?

  Again Mr. Tallerie had the answer to this problem of what seemed to us incomprehensible waste: “Let me tell you something. This is a vast continent. There are not enough people to clean up the landscape. Who wants all that dead wood anyway or these sour apples under the trees? Besides, the things that are lying around are not worth the money it would cost to take them away.”

  Another lesson learned! This is not Austria; this is another continent. This is America, and here we do things differently! Mr. Tallerie was a good sport and always obliged if possible. I think he liked us; we remember him with affection.

  Our first concert tour was the most difficult one. A typical program in December 1938 might have included the following numbers, among others: “Trio Sonata for Two Recorders in F and Figured Bass” by Telemann; “Fantasy in C” by Handel; “Es ist ein Ros entsprungen” by Praetorius; and “Ave Maria” by Mozart. Even though we knew our music practically in our sleep, we were still apprehensive about whether or not the American audiences would like our concerts. But the audiences were very attentive. From the moment we began to sing, peace descended on the audience. In one rural town, however, the peace wasn’t even broken by applause. We thought they didn’t like our music until the local manager explained, “They don’t know how to act at a concert.”

  Mother was expecting a baby, which was to remain a secret. Every day we worried that the baby might appear too soon. The shaking of the bus or the roar of the locomotive on the tracks that passed by our hotel at night was enough to send shivers through the whole family. Did Mother get safely through the night? We were also concerned about potholes or big stones on a stretch of road under construction. We still worried, even though the whole family prayed fervently for God to protect Mother and our new baby.

  Around Christmastime, Charlie Wagner discovered, to his dismay, that there was a baby on the way. He canceled the remaining concerts. We had no more income, no place to stay, and almost three more months in the United States before our visas expired.

  In this predicament, Professor Otto Albrecht, a music lover who had heard our concert at the Museum of Art in Philadelphia, came to our rescue. He looked for and found a small house in Germantown, Pennsylvania, that we could rent. There, in the middle of January 1939, to our great joy and relief, Johannes was born.

  Mother had promised God that if the baby was born healthy and with all its faculties intact, she would take him or her in thanksgiving to the shrine near St. Georgen in Italy where we had been awaiting our first passage to America. Now she would fulfill her promise.

  When our visas expired on March 4, 1939, we boarded the French liner Normandie. It was the most luxurious and elegant ship imaginable, the only one leaving for Europe on March 4 that had enough space for our large family in tourist class. It was so large that we could get lost trying to find our cabins. We were given a pass, which allowed us to walk all over the huge liner. Also, the captain arranged for us to give a gala concert during the voyage.

  Our first concert was scheduled for March 12 in Copenhagen, Denmark. We didn’t have much time to get there, but we made it. We spent that spring giving concerts in the Scandinavian countries. The people there were very friendly and helpful. I still remember one elderly grandmother in Copenhagen who saw us carrying baby Johannes around and insisted on lending us a lovely baby carriage.

  In June we moved on to Holland. There, the president of KLM airlines, Mr. Menton, and his wife had invited us to stay in their guest house adjoining their beautiful home and had arranged a private concert for their friends and acquaintances. After several days, he moved us to a sweet little cottage in the dunes, which was their summer home. During these wonderful weeks, we shared our household duties, practiced our concert repertoire, and otherwise were free to do anything we wanted. I made some sketches of family members doing their chores as well as some of the dune landscapes.

  Since refugees were allowed to stay only a certain number of weeks in one of the unoccupied countries, we had to move on in July, and we split up. Father Wasner and Rupert did not go back to Austria but waited in a French town in Alsace-Lorraine. Papá and Mother, with baby Johannes, went back to St. Georgen, Italy, in order to give thanks in the little shrine on the hill behind the inn where we had stayed the summer before. Werner and the girls went back to Austria to stay with relatives; two of Mamá’s cousins took us in.

  Because no concerts were scheduled during July, I decided to take a bicycle trip to visit some other relatives of Mamá’s in their summerhouse by a mountain lake. I had heard about the beauty of this place and wanted to see it. Along the way I could draw sketches of the countryside, the way I had done in Scandinavia. The scenery exceeded my expectations; I filled many pages of my sketchbook, and I still have these sketches. When it got dark on the first day, I stopped at a country inn for the night. I noticed that I needed a clean set of sheets and, overcoming my shyness, asked for clean sheets, which were given to me along with a lame apology.

  The next day I started out again on my bicycle, and in the middle of nowhere, I had a flat tire. As I was pushing my bicycle up a hill, wondering if I would have to walk the rest of the way, an old farmer on a bicycle stopped to ask if he could help. I replied, “Yes, I have a flat tire. Could you tell me where I could have it fixed?” He said that he had something with him to repair tires. It did not take him long, and my tire was as good as new. I thanked him and was about to continue on my way when he invited me to stay overnight in his house. I
declined politely and told him that I wanted to reach my relatives before dark.

  When I finally arrived at their home, I was greeted by two elderly ladies who were surprised to see me. They were not the relatives that I remembered, so I introduced myself and they invited me in but were not very friendly. They seemed to be reluctant to share their food with me, especially the butter. The next morning they put me to work taking care of their two grandchildren. I could sense that I had come uninvited and at the wrong time. It never occurred to me to write to them in advance to ask if a visit was convenient! We had always lived as a family group, and our authority figures made all the arrangements for us. It had never fallen on me to be involved with the preparations. I just thought my relatives would be happy to see me. How could they if they did not even know who I was?

  Since I did not feel welcome there, I decided to leave the next day, but I did take time to sketch the house that was situated at the base of a steep rock. Two little peasant boys came along to see what I was doing and asked me to draw their pictures. I was glad to comply, and the boys were delighted with their likenesses. On the way back, I filled another sketchbook. In spite of the attitude I encountered from the two ladies, I remember it as a very enjoyable adventure. Thirty-five years later I converted some of the sketches from this trip into watercolors and exhibited them in a gallery in Reisterstown, Maryland.

  At the end of July, the whole family was to meet in Amsterdam, Holland; by the grace of God, we did. Our former manager in Sweden had arranged more concerts there as well as a place for us to stay on one of the small islands in the southern part of Sweden. We lived in little cabins on a former farm with a central house as a dining room for the guests. In that climate, all the fruit trees were laden with ripe fruit. There on the old trees grew cherries, apples, and pears. Also growing were strawberries, cranberries, and blueberries—all ripe at the same time and could be had for the picking.