“Thanks; I feel a better man now than when I came.”
Next day Uncle Craig came again and brought Mr. Perry Merrill, the State Forester.
First, we talked about the winter and the skiing and the new house; and when we had reached the dessert, which was Schmarren, Uncle Craig said:
“Mr. Merrill, the Baroness wants to talk to you about the camp. She has certain ideas.”
And then a great silence settled over the dining room. Mr. Merrill made some encouraging noises and looked at me; not only he, but my whole family looked at me, very interestedly and very curiously; and if I could have looked at myself, I would have done the same.
“What am I going to hear now?” I was wondering.
So far, it had been an intense pity and sympathy towards that good little camp which was about to be torn down, the mere idea of which hurt my heart. But now I was supposed to have certain definite ideas. Well, let’s see.
“You see, Mr. Merrill—I mean to say—what I want to explain is this…”
While I was stammering, the one question zigzagged wildly through my head: what, what, WHAT can one do with a camp? And there was the answer: Sing Weeks. And I listened to myself explaining to Mr. Merrill.
“When I was a young girl, I attended, several times, so-called ‘Sing Weeks.’ We met somehwere out in the country, groups of between fifty and a hundred, and we spent eight or ten days devoted only to music-making and folk dancing. I haven’t seen that done in America yet. Couldn’t we start them in that camp?”
All exhausted, I put down my fork and wiped my face. Mr. Merrill immediately liked the idea.
“That sounds like a very wholesome recreation, and that’s what we want to boost in our State. The type of people who might come for such a thing are exactly the ones we want to draw to Vermont.”
Now I was looking down at my plate, avoiding the eyes of my family. Hadn’t I started something now? Yes, I had. Here we go!
“Inasmuch as there is no other party interested in preserving the camp,” Mr. Merrill went on, “I can assure you that you will be granted a lease from the State of Vermont. You have to make an application, and then a lease will be drawn and will be signed by me and approved by the Governor and five other officials. You can work on your plans right away; and how about going down after lunch and having a look at the camp?”
Well, well! That camp seemed like an orphan clinging to the one person who had talked in its favor, not wanting to let go any more.
So we went down the hill, Georg, Father Wasner, and I, with Mr. Merrill in Uncle Craig’s car; the rest, on skis. We met at the camp. It looked lovely in this wintry landscape. There were eight big barracks on top of the hill, one on the slope, and two more at the bottom. Although the barracks were completely empty and exactly alike, Mr. Merrill opened each single one for us. They were large and bright and airy.
“They seem to be in good condition,” said Georg finally.
Greatly delighted, I noticed the undertone of satisfaction in his voice.
“This was the kitchen and dining room, and this building opposite the others was their recreation hall. Everything else was used as dormitories except the little one over there, which was the infirmary, and the extra long one on the slope, which was the guardhouse.”
“The ex-guardhouse would make a fine chapel,” said Father Wasner; “enough room for everybody.”
“We’ll get you a little steeple with a bell,” promised Hedwig, the practical one.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t leave the arrangement as it was, with the dormitories, recreation hall, kitchen and dining room,” said I.
The others had gone on trips around the buildings on their skis. Now they came back.
“Mr. Merrill,” inquired Illi, “I haven’t seen a single washroom in the whole camp. Where did the soldiers wash?”
“Maybe in the brook like Boy Scouts,” answered Johannes.
“Yes, but…” continued Illi.
“Oh, I found that,” said young Lorli unashamedly. “It’s behind the barracks and has seventeen seats!”
Mr. Merrill and Uncle Craig suppressed a smile, and I, a blush, and then Mr. Merrill said:
“Of course, you will have to do some readjusting for your purpose. But I am sure we can find plumbing fixtures somewhere in the State for you to put in. Whatever we can do, we’ll be glad to help you out.”
When he saw the excitement all through the family, he smiled and said:
“Now I expect your application, and it’s granted so far as I’m concerned.”
“Then the camp is yours,” whispered Uncle Craig.
“Look, look!” cried little Johannes.
What a spectacle! A wonderful, complete rainbow extended from the top of our hill across the camp. Funny—there had been no rain or snow that whole day. We stood and gazed: the snow-laden trees sparkling in the sun, the camp tucked in between the hills looking so homey and cozy, and over it all the rainbow, the old token of peace. I took Georg’s arm and pressed it.
“Let’s take this rainbow for a good sign.”
Soon we were on the road again on the way out west. In New York we explained to our publicity manager in general terms that we would run a music camp in the coming summer, and would she please announce it. Soon afterwards 100,000 green leaflets went out in all directions, saying: “You are invited to enjoy a holiday of music-making with the Trapp Family Singers during the coming summer at the Trapp Family Music Camp in Stowe, Vermont.” There is always a certain magic in the printed word.
During long hours riding in trains and buses I had plenty of time to consider what I had done, and what I told myself about it wasn’t always flattering. There—our house on the hill was only one-third finished. An O.P.A. and a War Production Board had to be consulted for every single doorknob and every inch of pipe. Was this new project necessary? Did I have to start more trouble? More headaches all around? When I looked at my husband, I dissolved into one act of contrition. Not a single word of reproach had come from him, but when he thought himself unobserved, he looked tired and discouraged. The boys had just been sent overseas. That anxiety was wearing him down, too. We were again deep in debt, and little as I minded that, he hated debts. And now I had heaped another burden on his shoulders. We would have more uncertainty, more anxiety, and more money to borrow. That weighed heavily on him.
But the leaflets were out, and the folders were on the press, giving a description of “a typical day at the Trapp Family Music Camp” as we were planning it. Now there was no way out but through.
So far, we had always traveled by coach in the daytime, but this train from Phoenix to Los Angeles had only Pullman cars, and for a day and a half we enjoyed being together in one compartment. With pencil and paper we started: what do we need for the camp? The most important thing: hot and cold running water in the barracks for washrooms. That meant so and so many feet of pipe—or was it better to say it in miles, as the water had to come from the top of the next mountain. We were figuring on eight dormitories with three showers, four washbowls, and four toilets for each dormitory. A hundred and twenty persons, therefore, would need a bed apiece, equipped with mattress, pillow, and two blankets; the supply of bedding alone would run into a large sum. How many plates, cups, glasses, forks, spoons? Partitions would have to be made—how about the lumber? Metal of any kind was the scarcest of all. How about the pipes and fixtures? The barracks would have to be painted inside and out, and…
And then I was glad that we had arrived in Los Angeles and had to get out. There was not much we could do from out there anyway, except make another application to the War Production Board concerning the camp.
This was an unusually long tour. The time was getting shorter and shorter before the people would be coming to enjoy their vacations at the Trapp Family Music Camp. We had already received a hundred and four reservations from real persons who wanted to come this summer and had paid a deposit of ten dollars each.
At last we were bac
k East. We rushed home and over to Montpelier, and Mr. Merrill handed us the lease, approved by all six important persons, and wished us the best of luck. That was May 24. As our folder invited people for July 10, that left us but little time to convert an abandoned C.C.C. camp into a homey-looking, family-style place for music-making.
Mr. Merrill had told us the good news that he had found a number of washbowls and toilets and a couple of truckloads of lumber. The rest he was sure we could get. The rest—?
There was no time to lose. To our great diasppointment, the War Production Board informed us that we were not allowed to use anything new; even lumber we had to get second-hand. That was a blow. We put an ad in the paper and watched every auction, carrying home eagerly every single two-by-four we could find in somebody’s attic. In the meantime some of us roamed through all the second-hand stores in Boston and New York for washbowls and toilets, for hot-water tanks and electric fixtures, but pipes we couldn’t get second-hand. Another application was refused. Precious time went by. A commission came and investigated the place to see whether it was a necessity for the war effort. We tried to explain that it was necessary in the same way as good concerts, and everything which helps to keep up the morale, that the whole camp was meant to help strengthen family spirit. And so the application for the pipes was granted.
Every day the telephone was busy.
“Uncle Craig—where can I get…?” and the silence on the other end of the line grew longer and longer. Finally we had the necessary men; but the painters couldn’t start until the carpenters were out, and the carpenters couldn’t finish because the plumbers were still working, and the plumbers couldn’t do a thing right now until the pipes came from Boston or New York.
But how many other things we had to think of! Our folder promised the future campers that we would sing with them out-of-doors down at the brook under the old shade trees in the grove, where it would always be cool, even in July and August. That called for benches.
“Uncle Craig—could you possibly imagine where we could get benches for, let’s say—for a large number of people?”
The faithful one could imagine. There was an auction at Mosglen Falls with benches on the list. We got them.
More and more as I came to talk with different people about camps in general I learned that such recreation spots were not at all unusual in these United States; but I was told that two things are the life-giving essentials of a camp: the camp manager and the cook. None of us had ever been in an American camp or seen one from within, so I simply took for granted all I heard, and went on another trip to Boston; this time not to visit wrecking companies, but employment agencies. Within three days I was told that I could count myself extremely lucky to have found a camp manager who was reported to be most efficient and experienced. Before he would accept the position, however, he wanted to see the place. He would come within the next few days.
They had also found a cook for me, who was supposed to be perfect in Viennese, French, American, and Chinese cuisines. She asked one hundred dollars a week, and wanted to bring her husband along. Everything was all right with me.
As I was in Boston already, I continued to hunt for pots and pans, chairs and blankets. I had to go from one store to the other, grab here a dozen blankets, there six pillows, and in a third place, a bunch of spoons, hoping to find matching forks and knives somewhere, anywhere at all.
Then came a day which I shall never forget. After I had come back from Boston, I was standing in one of the barracks, talking to Mr. Steele, our plumber. Martina came in with two visitors.
“These gentlemen are from the War Production Board,” she announced.
Soon I found out that these gentlemen were the War Production Board, and they didn’t like us at all—anything combined with the name Trapp, whether it was the Trapp Family Farm, or the Trapp Family Music Camp—too many applications.
Sternly they looked around and pointing to the newest partitions, they said:
“This is new lumber.”
Well, it was and it wasn’t; and I tried to explain that we had bought that lumber for the farm half a year ago, and now had bought it second-hand from the farm for the camp. But that didn’t make it any better. One of the gentlemen waved a six-page folder in very small print before my eyes and said:
“Didn’t you study that? Don’t you know that you have transgressed the law?”
I had seen the folder before, but it was in such mediaeval English with “heretofores” and “wherewithals,” references to schedules or provisions, which were “superseded by…” and “further amended…” that I never could make out what it was all about.
Both gentlemen were very stern, and one said now, firmly:
“You are to stop all activities here and on the farm, and you are summoned to appear at the main office in Montpelier on Tuesday for a hearing.”
With a long, sympathetic look Mr. Steele, the plumber, slipped out. That was Saturday, and it was a long time until Tuesday; a long time in which to think and be sorry, and to wish one had never heard the name Trapp Family Music Camp in all one’s life.
At the main office in Montpelier I was informed that, having wilfully transgressed the law, paragraph so-and-so, I was to be fined $10,000 in cash and must serve one year in jail, and did I have anything to say in my defense?
Whereas my English, according to my own estimation, was quite good enough for most occasions, unfortunately, it grew worse and worse when I got excited, and this I was now: excited. Who would ever lend me $10,000 to pay my fine? And would Columbia Concerts ever take us back after a year in jail? And what would my family say, and Freddy Schang, and the Drinkers, and all the other friends? My imagination ran riot. The more I tried to talk composedly and quietly, the more I stuttered and stammered. I tried to explain that I had not wilfully transgressed the law.
“And gentlemen,” I said, “I can’t serve my penalty all at once. Will you allow me to do that in installments? Half a year I must have to earn the money to pay my fine. The other half I can spend in jail. I think I can do it in two years.”
After this heroic speech I was all done in. One single tear stole out of the right eye and rolled slowly down my nose, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Was it the tear, or had the gentlemen meanwhile received an impression of my well-meaning harmlessness? They withdrew for a moment, and when they entered the room again, they were very different. I should relax and not get excited, and things would be ironed out. They saw that I didn’t want to cheat the government, and they would be up on Luce Hill late this afternoon for another investigation. I should go ahead.
They came and were very human. We showed them all over the place, house and camp, and explained all the purposes of each. Then it was suppertime, and we asked them to stay for an Austrian meal, goulash with beer and afterwards, Apfelstrudel. After they had convinced themselves that there was really no dishonesty involved, they stopped being fearful officials and were very friendly. What a revelation to us, who came from a country where every office seemed to be created to make things hard for the people, and every official seemed to be a super-human being! Next morning we could continue our work, and I didn’t have to go to jail or pay that fine, either; but the gentlemen had gone all through that leaflet of the War Production Board with us to avoid future misunderstandings.
The two boys had landed safely in Europe. They were not supposed to say too much, but from the whole tone of the letters, we could grasp that they were in Italy, and that they were enjoying it.
Amid all the hustle and bustle of the preparations for the camp, there fell one beautiful family feast: Johannes’ First Communion. He was only five, but since the days of his early babyhood he had been present with us at Holy Mass in the morning, and day after day the sad moment would come when little Johannes would be the only one who did not receive the little white bread. At the age of three he started begging for it. When he was told that he must wait until he was able to make real sacrifices
to show his true love, he wanted to know what a sacrifice was.
“Do something you don’t want to do, like eating your spinach without yelling,” explained Lorli most readily. “Or don’t do something you want to do; for instance, leave those candies for me.”
And the little fellow set out on the road to perfection by trying to curb his likes and dislikes. When the small chapel on the farm was installed, a new hardship had been added. Every Saturday evening the family would sit on the bench outside while one after the other went in to Confession, and Johannes was always told to keep quiet and out of the way because he was too young. But now the great day had come. He knew all he was supposed to know, and had shown good will through a lengthy period of time, and the Bishop gave permission for his First Holy Communion on Corpus Christi day. The evening before, Johannes went down to the chapel to go to Confession for the first time. This he couldn’t keep to himself.
“Now it’s my turn,” and at the word “my” he beat his little breast. “Now it’s my turn; now I’m coming for a change!” he hollered all over the place.
Next morning he knelt in his red altar-boy cassock and surplice at the altar steps, a burning candle in his hand, to receive his Lord and Master into his young heart. A radiantly happy boy sat in the place of honor at breakfast afterwards, his plate decorated with flowers and heaped with little gifts.
It was but two weeks before the camp was to open. Not a single house was finished. The whole family worked together feverishly. Each one wanted to have three pairs of hands and feet. The beds had been promised by a department store in Boston, and the kitchen equipment by one in New York, but nothing had come so far. Again we lived on hope.
On a rainy morning we all assembled in the camp kitchen for a family council about the rusty Army stoves and the oily, filthy cement floor which was cracked in many places. The kitchen was the sore spot of the camp. The paint had scaled from the drab, tin-covered walls. It was entirely empty except for those huge stoves and several sawhorses, on which we were perched. We didn’t look very hopeful on that particular morning. We were all engaged in painting, and it could easily be told which one was painting the red floor in the chapel, or the white window sills in some of the halls, or the green flower boxes. From running to and fro through the rain our hair was wet, and for painting jobs we were all dressed in something like fatigue suits. From our seats we were looking disgustedly around the kitchen, when the door opened and one of the workmen said:
The Story of the Trapp Family Singers Page 28
