The Story of the Trapp Family Singers

by Maria Augusta Trapp

  Meanwhile, telegrams had gone out all over the world to relatives and friends. Answering telegrams came in. Two of them, particularly touching, spoke of the “brave knight of the Theresien Order, Baron Trapp.” One was signed “Zita,” and one, “Otto”—Empress Zita of Austria and her oldest son, Otto. I laid them beside his Maria Theresien Cross.

  Throughout the whole day there were always at least two of us with him. At seven o’clock in the evening the whole family in Sunday best gathered around their father. Friends had arrived by airplane. “Pray and sing,” he had wanted. From seven o’clock until midnight we prayed the rosary and after each decade we sang one of his favorite songs. At midnight we got up from our knees, solemnly Father Wasner intoned the Te Dcum, and we sang, “Holy God, We Praise Thy Name.” According to the promise of Our Lady, she must have taken him to his eternal home, and with this his birthday in heaven had begun. Filled with deep, solemn joy, we ended the death watch.

  Next day the cruel reality overwhelmed me again. Weeping bitterly, I knelt at his side.

  By chance, Johannes came in, waited a while, and then, a little reproachfully, said:

  “But Mother, you mustn’t disturb Papa in heaven. Didn’t you tell me how beautiful it is there? How can you cry so?”

  Finally, the day dawned, which was to take him from us forever: Trinity Sunday, the funeral day. Long before daybreak I was awake. Suddenly I heard the tapping of little feet; Johannes clambered up into bed with me.

  Full of joyous excitement, he said:

  “Mother, I dreamt something so beautiful, I had to come and tell you right away. I dreamt that the funeral was already over, but we only buried an empty coffin, and our Papali himself carried the Cross ahead of the procession; he was tall and shining, and just beautiful. Mother, isn’t that fine?”

  And the little fellow snuggled up to me happily. Johannes is not a child given to fantasy, he never invents stories, and never tells dreams. I was quite moved, and not for a moment did I doubt that this childish dream was more than a dream.

  It appeared that he had more than enough friends to carry the coffin on their shoulders past the apple trees in bloom to the small mountain cemetery. We walked behind and sang the beautiful old songs. All our Cuardian Angels must have helped us to be able to do it.

  By the open grave Father Wasner told of Georg’s heroic life and pious death, he explained the touching ceremonies of a Christian burial, and finally said that, according to an Austrian custom, we give our departed friend as a last gift a handful of blessed earth and a few drops of holy water. Everyone present was cordially invited to participate in this custom. It was truly touching, how everybody rendered this last, loving service, while from the edge of a near-by woods the doleful, heartrending trumpet call sounded: Retreat.

  Dear friends, you may wonder that we told you all this in such detail, but we are convinced that he would have it so. He was a man whose taste was for the fundamental, the genuine, and the important things. What is more important than the ability to die well? In that he gave us a shining example that we cannot keep for ourselves. He wants to welcome all of us, his family and you, his dear friends, there where he has gone before us.

  It seems to have been cancer after all. A few weeks after his death I heard of a doctor who, in his own practice, had had seventeen cases of cancer of the lungs, of which every single patient was a U-Boat man from the First World War. Thus it would not be impossible that “the Trapp,” died a hero’s death, true

  TILL THE LAST FLAG WAS FURLED.

  XX The Memorable Year

  “THERE was a man in the land of Hus, whose name was Job: and that man was simple and upright, and fearing God, and avoiding evil…. Now on a certain day, Satan was standing before the Lord. And the Lord said to him: Whence comest thou? And he answered and said: I have gone round about the earth…. And the Lord said to him: Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a simple and upright man, and fearing God, and avoiding evil? And Satan answering, said: Doth Job fear God in vain? Hast not thou made a fence for him, and his house, and all his substance round about? blessed the works of his hands?…But stretch forth thy hand a little, and touch all that he hath: and see if he blesseth thee not to thy face. Then the Lord said to Satan: Behold, all that he hath is in thy hand; only put not forth thy hand upon his person. And Satan went forth from the presence of the Lord.

  “Now upon a certain day…there came a messenger to Job, and said: The enemy rushed in and took thy oxen and asses and slew the servants.

  “And while he was yet speaking, another came and said: The fire of God fell from heaven, and striking the sheep and the servants, hath consumed them.

  “And while he also was yet speaking, there came another and said: The enemy hath fallen upon the camels and taken them.

  “He was yet speaking, and behold another came in, and said: The house fell upon thy children; and they are dead.

  “Then Job rose up…and said: The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. As it hath pleased the Lord so is it done. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  “The Trapps—everything they undertake seems to turn out a success. And how closely they live together, the parents with their ten children. There seems never to be a fight, hardly a misunderstanding. What an exceptional family! Of course, in real life things don’t happen that way. Any normal family at one time or another has to cope with sickness, breakdowns, even death; with family clashes and endless quarrelings and the neighbors’ gossip. They are rather a picture-book family!”

  How many times has that been said about us and written up in newspapers and magazines, and how hard did we try to correct this impression, try to prove that we are not exceptional, but that our times are; that only one generation ago, families still used to live in a close unit, working, playing, and praying together; that ours is not only a success story, but we have our trials and troubles, too.

  But somehow, that didn’t sound convincing. There we were: prosperous—healthy—lucky—united. Until the year which will be unforgettable to us, our memorable year.

  It began in May with a fresh grave on our hill and its merciless “never again.”

  In early June while I was on business in Boston, the message reached me: “Come home at once. Rosmarie has disappeared.” The burden had become too heavy for the sensitive young soul: a most strenuous concert tour, combined with concentrated preparatory work for high school graduation, the anxiety during the beloved father’s sickness, and finally his death. For three days and three nights we searched the countryside, the rivers, ponds, and woods. The people of Stowe offered their cars, their time, their sympathy. The Mystery of the rosary: The Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple, has a new meaning as one’s heart goes through that same agony of the search before the finding. After three days the story had to be given to the radio and newspapers. With our name that meant nation-wide publicity, reporters crowding on the porch, searching stubbornly for the romance, the only explanation for the disappearance. Then she was found while crossing a pasture in the woods. Months filled with untold anxiety and prayer had to pass until God sent the helper, a priest who was also a doctor and a psychiatrist and helped the young soul to find its way back to God and society.

  One morning in June, little Johannes woke up at five o’clock.

  “Mother, I’m so hot, and my neck aches and my legs and my arms.”

  His temperature was 104°, and the doctor said over the ’phone:

  “Oh, oh, I’ll be right up.”

  The newspapers had mentioned several cases of infantile paralysis in the State. When the doctor finally came and discovered that it was “only” rheumatic fever—what a relief! For seven long weeks a lively little boy had to be kept quiet on his back.

  This was in the early summer.

  Then Hedwig developed a severe backache and was brought into the hospital by the doctor for observation. After another most anxious week, it appeared that it was not that grim sickn
ess that the doctor had feared at first.

  Then came the summer camp. People arrived and were shown to their quarters. The program went on as usual. You try so hard to do your best. You come and go. You smile, you talk—but all the time you feel like a machine which has to be wound up. All you do is automatic; at times, even your prayer. Of course, your will is turned in a general way towards God. You are resigned, you don’t want to argue. You repeat over and over again: “Thy Will be done.” But what you feel is that terrible emptiness. The sun has set in your life; it is getting cold. The hundreds of people around you cannot console you for the loss of the one.

  It was in August once when I stood outside on the kitchen square in the camp and watched aimlessly a pickup truck and a car back up towards each other. At this moment Lorli came running to take something off the pickup. I screamed as loudly as I could. It was too late, the drivers didn’t see her. How lucky we were—only a couple of ribs were broken.

  When in September another baby had come and gone, not able to live on account of my bad kidneys, I didn’t seem able to recover. When the whole family went to Fall River, Massachusetts, for Rupert’s wedding, I was deep in bed, too sick to be even sad or sorry or worried. I was only relieved: now I wouldn’t spoil his great feastday with my tears. When I had recovered to a certain extent, I wanted to take part in the concert tour, and left together with the others in November. After a few weeks long fainting spells set in, accompanied by convulsions and high blood pressure. The doctor diagnosed it as a euremic condition, and I was put into a hospital in the Middle West. I was seriously sick. After the best doctors had tried everything, I was told that all there was left for me to do was to pray. On Christmas Eve I received the Last Sacraments. In January I improved slightly and was allowed to travel home. There was nothing medicine could do for me now. I could only wait. It might take many more months.

  After the “seven fat years” the “seven lean years” had come upon the Trapp Family, all compressed in ten months. Now they had to cope with sickness, breakdowns, death. At times it looked hopelessly complicated.

  But must it not have looked that way to Job, the man in the land of Hus who had lost all his material goods, his children, his health, his good name, and the confidence of his friends? And what did Job do? After he had said: “The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord,” he prayed for the friends who had turned against him.

  And how does Holy Scriptures usually end a story which is written as an example for us? “Go and do thou likewise.”

  XXI Cor Unum

  THERE is a beautiful story in the Gospels: There was once a man who was paralyzed; and that’s all we know of him. We don’t know whether he wanted to be cured, whether he ever asked for it. We don’t know what his thoughts were. But this man had friends, and they had made up their minds to have him cured. They put him on a litter and carried him over to the house where on that day the famous prophet, Jesus of Nazareth, was preaching. There was such a crowd around the house, that they couldn’t get in. But they were so determined that nothing could make them change their plan. They climbed up to the flat roof with their sick friend, and through an opening, they let down the litter directly at the feet of Our Lord. Then the Gospel says so beautifully: “And when Jesus had seen their faith, He said to the sick one: ‘Arise, take up thy bed and walk.’”

  This is one of the most consoling stories, as it shows what we can do for our friends, and what our friends can do for us. When the news of my serious sickness had gotten around, letters and telegrams came in great numbers from all over Austria and America, assuring us that many people were storming heaven. And again it happened: When He saw their faith, He said to the sick one: “Arise…and go.” Against all hope, I recovered fully. According to the doctor’s words, this cannot be attributed to medicine. Whatever the paralyzed man’s thoughts may have been before—when he took his bed and went home, he knew that through the faith of his friends, he had been cured. How he must have loved them ever after!

  Then came the big day in May when we were summoned to the courthouse in Montpelier—the five years of waiting were over. It happened to be the Feast of Corpus Christi, and since early morning we had been in a festive mood. What a mixed group it was, waiting there in the courtroom: Italians, Croatians, Syrians, English, Irish, Polish people, and we Austrians. The clerk called the roll. Then the judge entered the room. We all rose from our seats. Then we were asked to raise our right hand and repeat the solemn oath of allegiance to the Constitution of the United States of America. After we had ended: “So help me God,” the judge bade us sit down, looked at us all, and said: “Fellow citizens.” He meant us—now we were Americans. The individual flags of seven different nations had been lowered. Only the Stars and Stripes were waving in the breeze. It was a big day.

  After Armistice Day when the boys were still in Europe, they had gone for a short visit to Salzburg and found that our old home there had been confiscated by Heinrich Himmler personally; that it had been made the headquarters for the last period of this cruel war; that the chapel had been turned into a beer parlor; parents’ rooms into Himmler’s private suite; and what had been Father Wasner’s room had become Hitler’s quarters when he came visiting. Gruesome stories they heard, like this one:

  One day when Hitler was visiting there, chauffeurs and orderlies were waiting outside on call. One of these soldiers hummed the melody of a Russian folk song. Hitler heard this, jumped to the window and yelled:

  “It is beneath the dignity of a German soldier even to hum a Russian folk song” and he had them all shot on the spot, without taking the trouble to find out who the singer was.

  That house was haunted for us all. How could we ever live harmoniously on such bloodstained ground? When it was given back to us after the war, we prayed that we might be able to sell it. Our prayer was answered. The house was sold to a religious order in America which wanted to establish a seminary in Europe. The place is now called Saint Joseph’s Seminary. It has a chapel again.

  With the money we paid our debts, mortgage and all. What a feast that was! With the rest we wanted to build two additional wings on the house, one with a large chapel, and the other with enough room for guests so that eventually we could have our Sing Weeks at home, winter and summer.

  After having learned the hard way how not to build a house, we engaged a contractor this time. All we had to do was sit back and watch those powerful bulldozers eat their way into a deep cellar twice as long as the one we had dug inch by inch, and in one-tenth of the time. With grim satisfaction we watched the hard-pan trying to be really hard, but being chewed up like soft butter by those blades. When the new wing was roughly finished, the family and the men who had worked on the house had a big steak dinner. Then we had to stop building for the time being because the money was used up. Some day there will be another steak dinner when the new wing is completely finished.

  Martina had a bosom friend, Erika, from whom she was inseparable all during her school years. Ever since we had come to America, it was understood that Erika would sometime come to visit. This plan, interrupted by the war, was resumed right afterwards, but it took years until finally Martina stormed through the house waving a telegram and shouting:

  “Erika arrives by plane in Boston tomorrow!”

  Two weeks later a happy young couple entered my room—it was Werner and Erika, who wanted to go on through life together. There was a beautiful engagement feast. The newspaper man, when he learned in an interview that Father Wasner had in his speech compared Erika to Rebecca, who had also left her home and her family to follow a beloved husband into a strange country, said dreamily:

  “Rebecca—oh, yes, I saw the movie—” wherewith we hastened to explain that it was Rebecca of the Old Testament, who had married Isaac.

  The wedding shortly after Christmas was celebrated in the new chapel. When the bride threw her bouquet over her shoulder, Martina was the lucky one who caught it, and there is one of the
Canadian boys who agrees most heartily that for this reason Martina has to be the next bride.

  One day last year we felt very strongly that our home had to be given a name. We all sat down together and tried to work it out right away. At first, it seemed to turn into one of those evenings where you can’t stop laughing. The suggestions got funnier and sillier all the time: “Snowplow’s Turn,” “Musical Tavern,” “Heaven’s Lobby,” “The Lord’s View.” An old Chinese proverb says: “Every minute you laugh prolongs your life an hour.” If this is true…

  Father Wasner, who had joined us, finally said:

  “The new name should have a meaning. It should stand for what the place wants to be.” That made us serious again, and it made us contemplate: what does the place want to be? Father opened his Latin copy of the New Testament, and his eyes fell on the words of the Acts of the Apostles which describe the life of the first Christians in Jerusalem: “They were one heart and one soul”—“COR UNUM ET ANIMA UNA.” This Father Wasner read aloud to us, and there was a great silence. It was the answer to what we had been looking for: our new name and our new motto.

  In their coat of arms the Trapps had the words: “Nec aspera terrent”—“Let nothing difficult frighten thee.” That seemed quite appropriate to have been used by us so far. We needed it through the perilous cruise across dangerous waters. When we acquired our new citizenship, we gave up our title and the coat of arms, and somehow, “Nec aspera terrent,” which had served very well, was not so necessary any more. A new word to live by from now on had been given us now: “Cor unum.” The goal is that the world should be able to say: “Look how they love one another. They are one heart and one soul.”