In the living room, the whole family congratulated the young couple. Georg and Agathe were then seated at the center of the head table with honored guests on either side. Tables were set for the wedding party and other guests to the right and left of the head table. Each table was richly decorated with flowers; the silver jardiniere adorned the head table. Two lovely floral arrangements, in the form of sailing ships, were presented to the married couple. Delightful speeches were given, and the general atmosphere was joyful.
It was agreed upon that the newlyweds would leave without a formal farewell. Immediately after black coffee was served, the mothers of the bride and groom went to the bedroom where Agathe changed for her honeymoon trip. When it was time to depart, the two mothers accompanied their children downstairs. On the staircase, they were greeted again with the shouts of well-wishers and congratulations from all the wedding guests.
Agathe’s brother John had asked for the pleasure of taking the pair to the train station. After many thanks and good-byes, they got into the car, which was decorated with garlands of greenery and flowers. Since they were going to Metuglie,2 they had to pass by the entrance of the villa a second time and were showered again with flowers, blessings, and good wishes. According to Grandmother, they could not have had a more beautiful, harmonious, and joyful wedding.
After reading this account of my parents’ wedding, I think I can detect a secret tear running down Grandmother’s cheek as she accompanied her beloved Agathe down the stairs to the entrance to say a last good-bye to her. She had poured her love for her daughter into this wedding, and now she would not see her any longer because the couple was going to live in Pola where Georg was stationed. Little did she know that three years later, her daughter would be back, along with her two small children, because of circumstances beyond anyone’s control.
The rumblings of World War I started in June 1914, and all civilians who lived near the coast had to leave areas designated as war zones. Grandmother Whitehead owned a large summer home in the interior of Austria, the Erlhof. That year she invited Mamá to come there with her two children for the duration of the war while Papá was away in the service. Rupert was two and a half, and I was fifteen months old. Therefore, my first memories are of my grandmother’s house, the Erlhof.
Looking back, I think it must have been a great hardship for Mamá to give up her new and beautiful home in Pola, to be separated from her husband, and to endure the uncertainties of World War I with her two small children. But instead of mourning, she was busy around the Erlhof, joining her mother and sisters, Mary and Joan, in the activities of daily life.
Mamá could knit, crochet, and sew. I remember her sitting on the bench in front of the Erlhof, knitting woolen stockings for the soldiers at the front, making bandages of woolen material for leggings, and even white bandages for the wounded.
Not only could Mamá sew well, but she also taught me how to sew when I was four years old. We sewed by hand then, not with a sewing machine. I learned to make small hemstitches, and now every time I hem a skirt I think of those precious moments when she taught me these stitches. I wanted to learn to sew as she did and did not mind practicing the small stitches for what seemed to me to be hours. Mamá made my dresses, underwear, and even a coat. It was made of a bluish gray material that I thought was beautiful. I could not wait until I could wear it!
Mamá knew how to knit and crochet very well and very quickly. She was able to knit and read at the same time, an achievement I admired but never could accomplish. She did this with her book in her lap without looking at what she was knitting or crocheting. When I asked her to teach me how to knit and crochet, she did. In later years, my sister Maria and I sat for hours knitting woolen knee-highs for Papá. He wore them often, even though they were a bit too long on the top.
Mamá, her sister Mary (Tante Mary to us), and Tante Connie, the wife of Papá’s brother, Werner, worked together to make knee-high snow boots for us. For the boots themselves, they used heavy ivory-colored felt, and for the soles, they used some brown carpetlike material. They must have taken the design from the boots worn by the Bosnian soldiers who were stationed at Grandmother’s farm.3 The soldiers helped the farmer with his work, and in the evening, they sat outside the farmhouse singing their native songs. We learned one of these songs not from the soldiers, but from Tante Mary and Tante Joan, who had learned it from the soldiers.
The song sounded something like this: “Milke moye moye moye, Milke moye moye moye, Milke moye lasemta lasemta.” We sang this song with great enthusiasm because of its lively melody, although we did not understand the words. Sometimes Mamá and her two sisters would sing other simple folk songs in two parts, which we children quickly learned and sang among ourselves. Mamá was very musical. Not only did she sing beautifully, but she also played the piano and the violin.
I learned so much from Mamá during those World War I days just by being with her and watching her. She planted flowers and vegetables. Mamá made a garden just for me and showed me how to plant the seeds. Many of the activities that are still useful to me, such as gardening and sewing, I learned from Mamá during those days.
On Sundays, Mamá and the aunts would row us across the lake to go to Mass in the thirteenth-century church in the town of Zell am See. I would sit in the stern of the boat, watching them row while trying not to get seasick until we arrived at the little pier. There the boat was tied up until it was time to row back.
After Mass, Mamá would take us across the village square to the fruit stand of Frau Steinwender. I can still see her friendly face, like a rosy-cheeked apple, with an unforgettable smile as she greeted Mamá and said to us, “Ja, die lieben Kinder” (Oh, the dear children). Then Mamá would buy some fruit, and Frau Steinwender would make a small cone of white paper and fill it with cherries or some other small fruit in season, such as plums or apricots, for each of us. She had loved Mamá for a very long time because she had seen her for many a Sunday, even before we were born. Frau Steinwender wore her white hair in a braid around her head, and her face shone like a sunflower. She must have been well into her seventies.
Then Mamá would go into the bank building next door to visit Frau von Lammer, the owner of the bank. Sometimes she would go upstairs to visit the wife of one of Papá’s officers who lived in an apartment with her little son, Stutz von Jedina, who later became our playmate. Frau von Jedina was a tall, thin lady, and very friendly to us, but to me, she always seemed sad. In the apartment next to Frau von Jedina lived Frau von Kastner, yet another wife of an officer in the Austrian Navy.
By then it was time to take the crossing back to our grandmother’s house on Zeller Lake, which was always peaceful and blue on those excursions. The majestic mountains hovered protectively around us.
Every night Mamá would come to our beds to say evening prayers with us, which included a prayer for Papá, who was out at sea to defend our coastlines. There near the shore of the Adriatic Sea stood our house. We prayed for our father and our house. God graciously protected both.
During the war years at the Erlhof, colds and coughs were common occurrences. In such cases Mamá would put us to bed with a hot, wet compress all around our upper bodies. These compresses were called Wickel (wrappings). In a darkened room, we were supposed to sweat and were told to try to sleep while waiting it out. A hot cup of linden blossom tea with honey completed the treatment. The honey definitely sweetened it for us. It tasted wonderful.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Mamá would return to unwrap the compresses and dry us. She then would give us clean nightgowns, after which we would get a glass of cold water. I can still recall the relief after the unwrapping! Sweating was considered to be the remedy for respiratory infections. It was usually very effective.
Living in such an isolated place as the Erlhof, we regarded anything that broke the routine of daily life as a major event. There was excitement when the first berries ripened, and when we discovered ducks on the lake. Everybody had to come and
take a look as the ducks dove and disappeared! We wondered where they would come out of the water. Oh! They came out so far away from where they dove!
Another event was the coming and going of the trains. We watched the trains pulling into the station at Zell am See across the lake. Sometimes they brought guests who dropped in to visit.
The greatest excitement, however, was the arrival of a new baby. In our time, the “stork” brought babies, and because they always seemed to arrive in the morning, it was natural that they were in bed with Mamá. Four von Trapp children were born at the Erlhof: Maria, Werner, Hedwig, and Johanna.
In September 1914, when Maria was born, the navy did not permit personnel to send or receive private messages. So the only way Mamá could announce the birth of the new baby to Papá was to send an official-sounding telegram to Captain von Trapp: “S.M.S. Marie eingelaufen” (S.M.S. Marie arrived). The telegram was delivered without difficulty.
Christmas of 1914 was the year when Papá’s brother, Uncle Werner, was on leave for the holy season. I was not quite two years old then, but I remember his visit distinctly. Uncle Werner was killed in action in May of 1915. My brother Werner, born on December 21, 1915, was named in memory of him. Two more sisters followed Werner. Hedwig arrived in July of 1917 and then Johanna in 1919, after the end of the war. Later, still another baby sister would arrive.
I have a beautiful memory of those days. Papá and Mamá were sitting next to each other in the living room at the Erlhof and talking quietly. As young as I was, it left an indelible impression on me. Today, I can still see the picture of my parents as clearly as I saw it then. I felt the peace and unity that existed between them, and I thought, This is how it is when one is married. Only later in life did I find out that this is very rare.
In spite of the terrible war, our early years were happy and peaceful, entirely due to the atmosphere created by our mother and grandmother. Mamá, with her shining personality, her musical talent, her love of nature, her faith, her kindness, and most of all her devotion to her family, gave us the gift of a wonderful childhood and laid the foundation for our later years. Those happy times took place at our grandmother’s home.
Life with Gromi
Our maternal grandmother, Agathe Breuner Whitehead, was unique. Living at her summer home, the Erlhof, as I did, I learned to know her well. My brothers and sisters and I called her “Gromi.” As a small child, my brother Rupert invented this name because he could not pronounce Grossmutter (grandmother).
Gromi, born in 1856, was the daughter of Count August Breuner. Thus, she was Austrian aristocracy. She was wise enough, however, to know that social standing is not everything, so when she fell in love with a “commoner”—and an Englishman besides—she married him. John Whitehead was an engineer; he inherited his father’s talent for engineering and became his father’s partner in the torpedo factory, which was located in Fiume. There Gromi and Grandfather made their home, the Villa Whitehead, across the street from the factory.
I did not know my grandfather, John Whitehead, for he died in 1902, nine years before my parents’ marriage. Gromi never spoke of him to us. I believe she grieved all her life and was just not up to talking about her husband. I only remember Gromi as a widow.
Gromi was a short, rather stout, dignified woman, and she had very good posture. She wore only the colors of light gray or beige in the summer and black or charcoal gray in the winter. The white veil on top of her hairdo, traditional for English widows of that time, enhanced her suits and added to her dignity. It was very becoming, and I could not imagine her without it. I cannot say that Gromi was beautiful, but she had a natural charm and was totally unaffected. She was who she was and did not try to be more.
Because Gromi was rather heavy, she went to Karlsbad, a spa in Bohemia, now the Czech Republic, to take “the cure” (a reducing diet). She would bring home a treat known as Karlsbader Oblaten, which was a specialty of the Karlsbad spa. It consisted of two large, paper-thin wafers with a sugary layer in between. This treat came in a round tin box with a thin sheet of paper between each one. It was so delicious.
For the journey to Karlsbad, she took along tightly packed suitcases. I believe packing a suitcase was a special challenge for Gromi; when confronted by a suitcase, she must have had a puzzle in mind. To her, this meant do not leave any—no, not even the slightest—space between the objects to be packed and make sure that they fit snugly into each other, always wrapped in white tissue paper. The result of this kind of packing was a suitcase as heavy as a rock. She was very proud of her packing, and she taught it to me. It never seemed to occur to her that the suitcases could have been too heavy for the men who carried them. But then again, did anyone ever tell her so? How could she have known? Men are stronger than old ladies are, and the ones who carried her suitcases never seemed to complain!
After Gromi’s husband, John, died, she bought a piece of land for a summer home located in the Austrian Alps on the Zeller Lake. On the property was a farmhouse with stables. A local farmer worked the farm and later supplied the family with meat, poultry, eggs, and milk. The farm was called “Der Alte Erlhof” (the Old Erlhof).
This beautiful spot in the mountains was an isolated area. A country dirt road ran around the lake, bordered on either side by a wooden fence. This road divided Gromi’s property: the farm buildings stood at the foot of a mountain, and on the lakeside was a stony field, where she decided to build. Across the lake, Gromi could see the lovely view of the snow-clad mountains, the Kitzsteinhorn, and the adjacent mountain ranges. With the help of a local architect, Gromi turned the stony field into a little paradise.
She herself told me how she did it. She knew how she wanted the house built and all that was connected with it. The architect drew the plans according to her description. When she had a special idea that he would object to on the grounds that it was not possible, she would show him how it could be done.
On this piece of property, she created an almost self-sufficient unit. There was the farm with livestock, milk cows, chickens, and pigs. Below the road by the lake was the house for her family, a chalet built of masonry and wood with a granite foundation. There was a smaller building in the same style, housing the kitchen and the servants’ dining room and sleeping quarters. A closed-in corridor with glass windows and a glass door on each side connected the two buildings, making a convenient walkway from kitchen to dining room and yard to garden. There was also an underground icehouse for refrigeration. In a small building in back of the main house three women did the daily laundry for everyone on the premises.
Gromi built another smaller house for the gardener and his family. He took care of the vegetable garden and tended the plantings around the house and grounds; he planted trees and flower beds, according to Gromi’s directions.
In the garden was a small house with a bench inside. It had an unusual construction. The roof was solid wood, but the sides were made of wooden poles with spaces between them. The poles were overgrown with a vine, Pfeifenstrauch (pipe bush), thus forming a trellis. Its huge leaves were heart shaped, and the blossoms looked like little pipes. We picked them and pretended we were smoking.
On the lakeshore, below the house, were two boathouses. One was for the flatboats, a local type of boat in which one had to row in standing position, used solely by the staff. The second boathouse was for the two rowboats, imported from London, which were used by the family. There was also a wooden barrack on what was formerly a tennis court, which served as storage and occasionally as a play area for the children.
Map of Gromi’s Property
A mountain stream bordered Gromi’s property on one side. At times it was a little brook, but during long periods of rainy weather, it swelled to a rushing mountain stream. Then it brought stones and tree trunks as well as boulders down from the mountainside. The name of the brook was Erlbach because of the trees, die Erlen, which grew on its banks. This brook started to form a peninsula because it deposited an enormous amount of debri
s into the lake. The rock in this area is slate, which is one of the oldest rock formations and is very brittle.
On the other side of this mountain brook was another little building, a playhouse for Gromi’s youngest daughter, Joan. It was a wooden hut with a bench and a built-in table. There was a narrow bridge leading to it.
All of this was built at the turn of the twentieth century when Gromi’s children were young and needed a place to spend their summers away from the heat of the city. When we came along in 1914, the Erlhof was simply there, and we did not realize until much later how Gromi had developed this beautiful summer home for her children.
When my mother moved back to the Erlhof, she brought her two children and a nanny who had been with her since my brother Rupert’s birth. In addition to taking in my mother and her two children, Gromi generously invited Tante Connie, the widow of my father’s brother, Werner, and her child.
Since Tante Connie was Irish and knew only a little German, Gromi and her family spoke English most of the time. Therefore, in our early childhood, Rupert and I learned German and English. As strange as it may sound, I believe God saw to it that we acquired, at an early age, the knowledge and the feeling for the very language we would need in what would eventually become our home, America.
Our nanny was very important in our lives. Her name was Marie Holzinger, but we called her “Nenni,” a germanization of Nanny. Nenni spoke only German, the Austrian variety, of course. She was a very kind person and was Mamá’s right hand. Nenni kept the nursery in order and provided a daily routine for us. She gave us meals, made sure we had an afternoon nap, took us for walks in the garden, watched over us while we played, bathed us, and put us to bed. She saw to it that we had clean clothes to wear and clean sheets on our beds. Nenni took care of all Mamá’s babies as they came along in quick succession. I am sure Mamá was grateful that she did not have to run up and down the stairs as often as Nenni! In a big household like Gromi’s, a nanny was a necessity, and she became like a family member. Although our parents were a regular part of our lives, the daily routine was left to the nanny. Only Johanna and Martina did not come under Nenni’s loving care because by the time they were born, we had a new nanny.
Memories Before and After the Sound of Music Page 3
