At the border the guards came in to check the luggage for duty purposes. They saw the lady and asked whether she was one of our group. She told the guards the story of the dying grandmother. Becoming suspicious, an official told her to get up. She started to cry. Then the guards searched her baggage and told her to come with them. Later somebody said she was smuggling butter and had it tied in little packages around her waist like a belt. The guards found it when they searched her. Needless to say, she did not return to sit with us.
Arriving at the station in St. Pölten, we were met by a coachman driving an open carriage drawn by two horses. There were two long benches on either side. The ride over a stony dirt road seemed to take an eternity to me. I was tired from the long train trip, but the ride in the shaking carriage, the fresh air, and the new surroundings revived me as the trip went on.
Our destination was the Goldegg Castle, where Mamá’s cousin, Adolph Auersperg, lived with his wife, Gabrielle, and their seven children, who were almost the same ages as we were. The oldest one, Karl Adolph, was only one year younger than Rupert was. We immediately felt at home in the beautiful castle. Tante Gabrielle welcomed us with open arms, kisses, and smiles. She personally showed us to the rooms that had been set aside for us, then showed us the way down the big, wide staircase, over the long black-and-white checkered marble floors of the corridor, to the dining room where we would have supper with the family.
All was new and different. There was so much space, much more than where we had lived previously. There were such long corridors with high ceilings. But as children do, we got used to our new surroundings in a few days.
I remember that Christmas of 1920 very clearly. To my astonishment, the children were allowed to help decorate the Christmas tree. We made chains from different colored paper strips, wrapped candies in tissue paper, and fringed them on each end with scissors. This was very new to us because in Gromi’s home, we had to wait until the bell rang on Christmas Eve before we were allowed to enter the decorated Hall.
In the Castle Goldegg, we sang “Silent Night,” as we had done at the Erlhof. There were presents for us, but the atmosphere was not quite as awe inspiring as it had been in Gromi’s house. Perhaps we had grown up a bit. In addition, actually participating in the preparations had taken away from the element of surprise.
While we spent Christmas of 1920 in the beautiful castle with our relatives, Papá and Mamá made the Martinschlössl ready for our arrival. Shortly after Christmas, on Friday, January 13, 1921, we said good-bye to our lovely and gracious relatives and the Goldegg Castle. Again the carriage with two horses and the driver took us to the train heading for Klosterneuburg. After a twenty-minute uphill walk from the station we arrived at the Martinschlössl, on the Martinstrasse, and were happily reunited with our parents in our new home.
The house was elegant, and our furniture that had come from Pola was just as beautiful as what we had seen in Gromi’s house and the Hall at the Erlhof. We had lived so long in places in which nothing belonged to us that it took time to believe these things were really ours. We soon grew used to coming and going through the green front door with its shiny brass handles and door knocker.
Rupert, Maria, and I were assigned to the top floor. Also on this floor were two rooms for the maids and one for our cook. A small winding staircase led down to the next floor and could be closed off at the bottom by a door. On the second floor were the dining room, the living room, our parents’ bedroom, and oh!—what luxury—a bathroom with a tub! Across from the dining room were the nursery and the children’s playroom. A big staircase led down to the street level. Papá’s library was there, as were a dining room for the domestic help, and a pantry and a kitchen with an exit into the spacious yard.
Shortly after we settled in, we had a surprise. In the middle of the night Fräulein Freckmann was sent to Vienna to fetch a midwife for Mamá. We had no telephone, so Fräulein Freckmann had to walk to the train station, take the local train, pick up the midwife, and repeat the whole process in reverse. She was gone at least four hours. We knew only that she was going to Vienna and would be back in the morning. In those days, we children were not made aware when a new baby was on the way. Mamá’s clothing, being full to begin with, was very concealing.
The next morning, February 17, 1921, we were introduced to our newest baby sister. She had big dark eyes and a very round head like all our babies had. We were delighted! What shall we call her? Mamá and Papá had run out of ideas. Mamá teased us: “Perhaps we should call her Dillenkräutl [little dill plant].” No! For days we thought and thought of a good name for our new baby sister.
Finally someone suggested the name Martina. Of course! That was it! Martina fit perfectly because of the Martinschlössl, the Martinstrasse, where the house stood, and the Martinskirche (the church of St. Martin) close by. We all agreed the new baby was to be called “Martina.”
Now Papá and Mamá’s family was complete—Rupert, Agathe, Maria, Werner, Hedwig, Johanna, and Martina. Life had resumed its familiar patterns, this time in our new home. We older children were still tutored by Fräulein Freckmann. She structured our days so that we knew exactly what to do and when: lessons in the morning, lunch, playtime, a midafternoon walk, and jause at four o’clock. Jause was an Austrian version of afternoon tea; we enjoyed milk and bread with butter and jam. After that interlude, Fräulein set us to do our homework. Dinner was at seven-thirty, and then we went to bed.
Fräulein gave each of us individual instruction according to what grade we were in. She welcomed our questions and gave us satisfying answers. We studied the usual elementary school curriculum with arts and crafts and singing added. We sang from a beautifully illustrated book, a gift from Gromi, called Sang und Klang Fuer’s Kinderherz (Songs and Sounds for the Child’s Heart).
In addition to the songs we learned with Fräulein Freckmann, there was a gramophone in the playroom. We had all kinds of records, including some wonderful concert music. We listened to the famous tenor Caruso, singing his arias from I Pagliacci and Figaro. We clapped our hands and marched along with the rhythm of two well-known Austrian marches. I still remember the “Blue Danube Waltz” by Johann Strauss and Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.” Rupert and I listened to these records for hours on rainy days. Liszt’s “Hungarian Rhapsody” and Beethoven’s “Violin Concerto in D” were two of my favorites.
One day Fräulein Freckmann took Rupert and me on an outing to Vienna to see one of the first films, The Miracle of the Snow Shoe. It was a ski film and my first time to see a movie. I loved the beautiful pictures of winter scenes. It was ironic that this movie was shown in the Urania, a building where we would give a concert many years later.
To me, Fräulein Freckmann’s most important contribution to our education was the religious training she gave us. She taught us the Old and New Testaments using a children’s version. Most of Austria was Catholic, so she used a catechism to explain the Ten Commandments and rules of the Catholic Church and their application to daily life. Most important was attending Holy Mass on Sunday. Neglecting this was a “mortal sin.” We learned that in case anyone, even our parents, wanted us to commit a sin, we should refuse to obey. According to these teachings, we were determined never to miss Mass on Sundays.
This caused us a dilemma. Papá was Protestant, since the German von Trapps were Lutherans. We did not know this. What could we do when one Sunday morning Papá wanted to take us all on a picnic in the woodlands along the banks of the Danube? My sister Maria told Papá that we had to go to Mass. We went to church with Fräulein Freckmann, came home, put away our coats and prayer books, and went into our playroom. Suddenly—in came Papá. He was very upset and appeared to be offended by something we had done. Papá was always calm and kind; we had never seen him otherwise. He felt that his paternal right had been violated by his own children and Fräulein Freckmann, and he let us know it in no uncertain terms. We were stunned!
About half an hour later, Papá returned to
us like a summer breeze. He said that he was sorry, that he hadn’t understood. He said, “Now let’s go on that picnic.” We had a wonderful outing with roasted apples on a stick and potatoes baked in hot ashes.
That was the only time that a conflict between religious teachings and parental authority had an effect upon our family. Papá never once interfered with our religious duties after that incident. Later on, it was suggested to him that he join the Catholic Church for the sake of his children. He had some serious conversations with a Capuchin priest and decided to take the step. From then on, he went with us to Mass, and all was well.
On Saturday evenings, unbeknownst to our parents, Fräulein Freckmann attended Bible study and lessons on early Christian liturgy in another part of town. While she was away we were supposed to entertain ourselves quietly. One winter evening, we discovered a new form of entertainment. There was a coal-burning stove made of iron in our playroom, and when the coals got hot, they had to be shaken down with an iron poker before new coals were put on top. Werner had the great idea of leaving the poker in the red-hot coals until it also turned red. Then he and I took turns burning designs into the floor in front of the stove.
Our designs turned out beautifully and also created a wonderful aroma of burnt wood. It didn’t occur to us that our activity could be dangerous. The stove was far away from anything that could burn, but we ruined the floor! We had such a good time that Fräulein Freckmann’s wrath was totally unexpected. When she saw our designs, she was too enraged to do anything except send us to bed. Then she disappeared into her room. We got together the next morning and wrote letters of apology. They seemed to pacify her, and since the house hadn’t burned down and our parents never learned about it, everything returned to normal with Fräulein Freckmann.
The Martinschlössl was an estate with a beautifully designed set of buildings with orchards that sloped to the train tracks. It was just the right size for our family, which consisted of Papá, Mamá, seven children, the cook, three maids, a governess, a nanny, and the Stiegler family, Franz and Marie, with three of their children. There was plenty of room for everyone, and we could wander around on the grounds wherever we wanted, with one restriction. When we arrived at the Martinschlössl, we children were told that we should not pick the fruit in the orchard since it all belonged to our uncle. Because Uncle Bobby came to visit from time to time and never talked to us about his “forbidden” fruit, I think the restriction was probably invented to prevent us from eating unripe fruit.
A household in those days did not have the conveniences we have today; therefore, many hands were needed to do the work. In the annex of this new home, we had three cows, chickens, one or two pigs. There was also a vegetable garden. Papá had a lot to do to oversee the barnyard and thus conferred with Franz daily.
Mamá oversaw the household in a quiet, efficient way. I never saw her angry, flustered, or impatient. The maids and the cook who had come with us from Zell am See adored her, as did all of the staff. At the Martinschlössl, a young nanny, Elfride, was put in charge of our little ones. She had a hard time with our three lively youngest von Trapps, all under the age of five, but she was able to teach them many songs to keep them happy. In order to use up some of their excess energy, Elfride took them on long walks.
One day Mamá called us all together and said, “I invited Tante Connie and Connie Baby to come and live with us. In Ireland there is a terrible war, and they are not safe. You must accept Connie Baby as one of your sisters because she has lost her father and has no brothers and sisters.” We promised to do just that. Of course, we older children already knew them from our time together at the Erlhof during World War I, after which Tante Connie and Connie Baby had returned to Ireland.
The civil war in Ireland solved our nursery problem. It was natural to put Tante Connie in charge of the little ones. Tante Connie loved children, she had a good heart and a sense of humor, and she could maintain discipline. Mamá was glad to have an intelligent relative in the house to discuss children and housekeeping. Tante Connie’s philosophy of life was “live and let live.” She knew what heartache was, having lost her husband, our Uncle Werner, in the war.
Christmas Day 1921 fell on a Sunday. During Mass I felt sick and told Fräulein Freckmann so. She took me home. I remember lying on a little sofa in front of the fireplace in my parents’ room. The doctor said it was strep throat and recommended that I stay in bed until my fever was gone. Within a few days, Rupert, Werner, Maria, Hedwig, and Martina were sick. The nursery turned into a sick room, and the doctor diagnosed scarlet fever, which was spreading all over Klosterneuburg. Mamá and Tante Connie cared for the sick ones in the nursery, and Frau Stiegler prepared two rooms in the annex for those who recovered or were not ill. Johanna, Connie Baby, and I were placed there under Fräulein Freckmann’s care.
Mamá took care of baby Martina, who was very sick with scarlet fever. Sometime in January, Mamá became ill. We were not allowed to see Mamá in her bedroom because she had such a severe case of scarlet fever. An adult case of scarlet fever was often very serious and left side effects. Mamá was taken to the Sanatorium Loew in Vienna and was there, off and on, for eight months before returning to us. It was August, and we had all recovered many weeks before. I was very happy that she was home again.
Covered with a camel’s hair blanket, she was very weak and was sitting in a wheelchair. “Now I’m home for good,” she said happily, “but I can’t walk anymore. I’ll have to learn to walk all over again.” “I’ll teach you to walk again,” I said. She seemed pleased, even though she knew I would not be able to fulfill my promise because of my young age.
A week passed. At six o’clock on Sunday morning, September 3, 1922,1 I awoke to the sound of the little bell ringing in the spire of the Martinskirche.
This is for Mamá, I thought, knowing that the bell rang only to announce that someone had died. I slipped back to sleep until Tante Connie came in, telling us it was time to get up.
Rupert, Maria, Werner, Hedwig, and I were taken downstairs and told that we were going to Vienna to visit Gromi. Johanna and Martina stayed behind with Tante Connie. As we got into Uncle Bobby’s car, I asked if I might say good-bye to Mamá, completely forgetting about the bell I had heard earlier.
Tante Connie replied, “No, Mamá is very tired and still asleep.”
Uncle Bobby delivered us to the Breuner Palace in Vienna, where Gromi had an apartment. We stayed there several days, and Papá visited us each day. We asked about Mamá: “Is she better? When can we see her?”
How hard it must have been for Papá to hear our questions without telling us that Mamá had died! After a few days, Uncle Bobby again loaded us into his car and drove us to Hungary, where he owned a house in the middle of a plum orchard. The trip with Uncle Bobby was my first in a car. In those days, the roads were muddy and filled with holes. The car was an early model, an open vehicle. Uncle Bobby, knowing that there were no places to stop for food, gas, or other necessities, drove us over the muddy roads of Austria and Hungary at a speed that defies description. He must have decided to drive nonstop to his house in Hungary! The mud sprayed in all directions as his wheels hit the potholes filled with muddy water. Every pedestrian who walked on the side of the road got a shower unless he was quick enough to jump into a field. For me, it was a hair-raising experience. Finally, after what seemed unending hours, we arrived at Uncle Bobby’s house. He, a bachelor, was in a difficult situation, charged with the duty of delivering to this house his motherless nieces and nephews, who were unaware of their mother’s death.
After a few days, Papá joined us. He called his children together and sat down on a little sofa in the living room. We all sat on the floor in front of him, and he told us that Mamá had gone to heaven. He did not cry, nor did he tell us a long story. He simply said that she would not be in Klosterneuburg when we returned. Some of us started to cry, and Tante Connie tried to comfort us. “Now you will be our mother,” I said to her. I did not really mean
for her to replace Mamá, but in my nine-year-old mind, I sensed that a mother was needed.
It may seem unusual that Mamá’s children were whisked away at the time of her death. We were not allowed to be with our mother during her last hours; nor could we accompany her to her last resting place on earth. Much later Papá told us that he wanted us to remember Mamá the way we had known her—smiling, happy, and healthy. Perhaps he remembered his own sorrow when he and Uncle Werner had closed the coffin of their beloved mother, and he wanted to spare his children that grief.
In Klosterneuburg my bed was positioned near a window. When lying in bed, I could see into the dark sky. One night as I looked out I discovered one very bright star. Now that Mamá was not with us anymore, I pictured her living on this star so that she could look down and watch over us.
Our New Home Near Salzburg
After Mamá was laid to rest, we came back from Hungary and returned to an empty house. Yes, the furniture was there and all in order as usual; the staff was there, and Fräulein Freckmann had come back from her vacation. The Stieglers were there. The gardener, Gustl, and his helper, Oskar, took care of the vegetable garden and orchard as usual. Tante Connie came back with us from Hungary to supervise the household for Papá. But it was still an empty house; its soul was gone, the sweet presence of Mamá, which had pervaded the household, was missing, and dust settled on the furniture. I wondered about that. Mamá once showed me how to dust: “Take away, one by one, each item that stands on the furniture—books, trinkets, a little figurine, a photo in a frame—dust it, dust under it, place it back where you took it from, and set it down the same way it was when you took it away.” She must have dusted the living room and dining room herself while we were having our lessons upstairs. Nobody saw to it anymore. It was noticeable. Dust settled everywhere.
Memories Before and After the Sound of Music Page 7
