During each Sing Week (of ten days), two picnics were scheduled for our camp guests: one was on top of Mt. Mansfield, the highest mountain in Vermont, and the other on one of the large meadows on our property. The food for the picnics was provided not by a caterer, but by the camp kitchen headed by Johanna, and later by Lorli, and the kitchen crew. The crew consisted of ten seminarians from New York City, who were vacationing in Vermont. After the picnic, group singing and recorder lessons were conducted by my sister Maria.
Every evening after dinner, the guests assembled for folk dancing on the grassy area between the dining hall and the recreation hall. Everyone had fun while getting healthy exercise. The family provided music: Papá played the violin, Maria the accordion, and Werner the clarinet. Sometimes guests played additional instruments. Evening prayers in the chapel concluded the day. All the guests, staff, and family joined in prayer and songs of thanksgiving.
These are only highlights of the program at the Trapp Family Music Camp. Many people came back year after year. Our camp became an institution for twelve years, ending then only because our tour schedule did not allow us to continue it.
Now the site of the camp is overgrown with trees, grass, and bushes. No one who had not been part of the music camp would ever know, when passing through, that once a music camp stood there, bustling with people, alive with music, fun, and laughter. There is no longer any physical reminder of the camp. Only the many guests who came to the summer music camp will remember the joys of singing and making music there.
In 1946, after our Christmas break, and just before we left for a concert tour that would take us clear across the continent to California, a letter arrived from Austria. It was from the chaplain of the American Occupation Army in Salzburg, and he told about the great need of the Austrian people after the war. Knowing that our family gave concerts in the United States, he asked if we would be able to do something to help our countrymen. Immediately we created the Trapp Family Austrian Relief, Inc.
During the next concert tour, Mother made an appeal to our audiences. We called it “Mother’s Austrian Relief Speech.” At the end of each concert, she would tell about the need in Austria. She would ask for donations of canned and dry foods, clothing, shoes, toys for children, and any usable items. She also asked for medicines such as aspirin and other commodities not available overseas, but readily bought here.
The response was overwhelming. Early in the morning after the concert, before our bus left, the donations arrived. Our audiences brought boxes and bags filled with food, clothing, toys, shoes, blankets, coats, and sweaters. In California a school sent a truck full of goods, which the pupils collected from their homes between two concerts. The effort and trust given to us were incredible.
At every stop on our concert tour, Mother made the same speech, and we received donations, which we stowed in the back of our bus. At the next opportunity, we obtained clean new flour bags, and while driving to our next destination, Werner stood in the middle of the bus transferring all items into these bags. At the next train station, we sent them by freight to Waterbury, Vermont. There, someone from our home staff picked them up and took them by pickup truck to the now empty music campsite. We stored the donations in the only barrack that was not in use when the camp was in session. The bags and boxes were piled up to the very ceiling and remained there until the next music camp started.
One particularly energetic camp guest, Mrs. Harper, realized the enormity of the work ahead even before these things could be shipped overseas. She took it upon herself to form a group of volunteers from the guests to sort and repack all these items. This wonderful group of people checked every item, then sorted and packed them into huge crates. These crates, donated by the Stowe Lumber Company, were made especially for this enterprise under the direction of our good friend Craig Burt. They were then sent to New York City where Catholic Charities transported them along with other donations to Salzburg, to the attention of Chaplain Saunders, who with his staff distributed the contents to the needy victims of the war.
The cooperation we received once we started this relief work was miraculous. Donations continued to flow into the bus. Sometimes there was hardly any room for the family to sit. The bus was packed to the ceiling with precious cargo.
Then a letter came from Salzburg containing five thousand addresses. In the letter was a plea for American families to “adopt” one family or person in Austria and regularly provide life’s necessities. Mother again announced the need after the concerts, and again, a miracle happened. We were overwhelmed, not only by the response of goods, but also by the generosity of the American people and their willingness to help a country other than their own.
There were official requests directed to us as well as private letters with pleas for special items that were not available in Austria anymore. Martina worked in the cellar for lack of another suitable place that was large enough to hold all the boxes of donations. There she labored to fill box after box with food, clothing, and other necessities, according to the directions given in these letters. These boxes had to be wrapped in a very specific way: in brown wrapping paper with strong string tied crosswise around them and with the address written on them in big letters. I learned to wrap packages in this perfect way prescribed by the United States Postal Service. This skill came in handy later after I left home.
When letters came to us, thanking us for clothing and supplies, we began to learn how badly war affects civilians. We had had no contact with friends or relatives in Austria during the war, and it was not until years later that we learned how our beloved Gromi had fared. When the Russians invaded Austria, Gromi, in her late eighties, was living with Tante Joan in the Martinschlössl, still owned by Uncle Bobby. On the way to Vienna and its surroundings, the Russians had to go through Klosterneuburg. Unfortunately they did their job well, entering homes, raping women, and stealing whatever they could.
Gromi had a loyal Hungarian servant named Loyosz, who succeeded in keeping the household unharmed. Also with Gromi when the Russians arrived were Tante Joan and her friend Lisa, who was a nurse in Pakistan in her early years. She was the daughter of former Admiral Haus of the Austrian Navy. When the Russians entered the house and ordered everyone to the basement, Gromi went downstairs without a word, conducting herself with dignity. Tante Joan, trying to provide food for the duration, grabbed a loaf of bread and a knife as she went to the basement. When one of the soldiers saw the knife in her hand, he was ready to shoot her, but Lisa quickly intervened, saying in Pakistani, “The knife is only to cut the bread.” The soldier, amazed to hear a language he understood, let Tante Joan go. He was from the same area in Pakistan where Lisa had been stationed. Coincidence?
The Russians left the area after a few weeks, but Gromi died shortly afterward. There was just enough time to bury her before the Russian troops returned. Gromi was buried with her daughter Agathe, our mother. Tante Joan and Lisa fled together on foot, pulling a Leiterwagen that held all their belongings. They walked almost the entire way, and it took them two years to reach Switzerland where Tante Joan owned a house.
We wondered at times how long we must keep up the Austrian Relief work, helping victims of the war in similar predicaments as Gromi and Tante Joan had been. Although we were glad to help, our Austrian Relief effort came to an end in 1950. We had concert tours in South America and Europe that same year, which included a stop in Salzburg. When we arrived in Salzburg, the station was filled with people. We did not understand why so many people were there. Then we saw familiar faces, and an official welcoming committee consisting of Archbishop Rohracher of Salzburg, Governor Joseph Klaus, and other dignitaries appeared through the crowd.
We met some of our school friends and Stutz von Jedina, our former playmate, who had become an attorney in Salzburg.1 It was a great surprise for all of us to receive such an enormous welcome, but there was more to come. A few days later an official ceremony was arranged in the Aula, a large hall for official gatherings. The a
rchbishop and the governor thanked us for our Austrian Relief effort. A poetess from the Salzburg area had written a special poem for our family, and she read it to us from the stage.
Little girls in dirndl dresses presented each of us with a lovely bouquet of alpine flowers. The next day, the festivities continued with Mass in the seminary where Father Wasner had been the music teacher, followed by lunch.
Werner’s wife, Erika, had arranged three concerts for the Trapp Family Singers under the auspices of the governor and the archbishop. One concert was in the large concert hall in the Mozarteum. The second concert was staged in front of the cathedral, which was a special honor since our ensemble would be allowed to sing on the large stage where Jedermann (Everyman, a medieval morality play performed annually at the Salzburg Festival) was the only performance ever permitted. At that time, I was not aware of this special honor. As we stood on stage, my thought was, Could they not have a found a smaller place to give us for this concert? The third concert was held in the Kollegien Church in Salzburg.
Having been away from Salzburg for twelve years, we had the strangest feeling being back in the place that had been our home for fourteen years. The Nazi occupation had left its mark not only on the language but also on other aspects of life. We rented bicycles so we could go back and forth between our old home in Aigen, where we were staying, and the town of Salzburg. Unaware of the new traffic rules, we were stopped by a policeman when we tried to cross the main bridge on our bicycles. “Don’t you know this is a one-way street? You cannot proceed,” his firm voice said. I answered that we did not know since we had been away for twelve years. He looked puzzled and asked, “Where have you been?” “In America,” I said. He was not sure whether or not to believe me. We wore the native Salzburg dress, and we still knew how to speak German. But after some discussion, he let us go.
We later experienced a similar incident. Chaplain Saunders, the man from the army who had corresponded with us, lent us a jeep to get around the area. Everyone there knew that jeeps belonged to the American Occupation Army. An American officer stopped us because he suspected the vehicle was stolen. The officer interrogated us about why we were riding in an American jeep. Only after we mentioned Chaplain Saunders’s name, and after we showed our American passports, did he let us go.
Times had changed so drastically, and yet everything still seemed so familiar. We had been given permission to stay in our old home in Aigen because the seminarians were away on vacation. Yes, it was the same house, but it was not the same. The order of priests who bought it after the war had renovated it to suit their needs; they had put in walls where there were not any before. Despite these changes in our former home, we appreciated the fact that we could stay there while we visited in Salzburg. Personally, I had no regrets that we did not live there anymore.
We retrieved some of our furniture that had been stored in different places in Salzburg by friends. Most of the pieces were so damaged that I suggested to Mother that they be auctioned and then we could use the money to buy clothing for the family. I was getting tired of sewing our dresses. She accepted this suggestion. We rescued only a few special pieces of furniture for ourselves and sold the rest. In addition, we gave many household items to our Austrian friends.
As long as we had lived in Salzburg, we had never eaten in a restaurant there. However, from showing our guests around town and visiting the castle, we knew that strawberries with Schlag (whipped cream) were served in the Castle Restaurant. Now that we were visitors in Salzburg, some of us decided that we would also enjoy this delicacy.
From Salzburg our concert schedule took us to Germany, Denmark, and Sweden. In Copenhagen, Erika, who had joined us in Salzburg, was asked to be the tenth member of our group because Rosmarie was sick at the time and our contract called for ten singers on stage. Erika consented with “trepidation” to sing in the second part of the program, which consisted of folk songs. Johannes remarked that Erika turned pale in spite of the makeup.
From Sweden, we went to Holland and Belgium before taking a ship to England where we were booked in the Royal Albert Hall in London. England was the only country where Johannes was not allowed to play the recorder on stage because he was a minor.
In England it was apparent that our manager, Mr. Levitoff, had not done sufficient advance publicity; thus, some of our concerts were canceled. We had no money for our return tickets, so after a successful concert in Paris, Mother telephoned Mr. Schang in America. He purchased tickets for us on the Liberté. Since we had some free time until the day of our departure, Mother decided that the whole family should go to Rome. It was the Holy Year,2 and she thought we might get an audience with Pope Pius XII.
We were granted the opportunity to sing for the pope during a general audience. It was held in a special room in the Vatican under the watchful eye of the Swiss Guard. The female members of our group wore long-sleeved black dirndls and black lace veils, and we performed Mozart’s “Ave Verum” for the pope.
From Rome we went back to Paris, via Milan, for our departure on the Liberté. At the time, Erika, Werner’s wife, had to return to her parents’ home in Salzburg to pick up their baby and Rosmarie. The three of them were to meet us in Milan, to join us on the train going to Paris and on to Cherbourg. Their train was late arriving in Milan, and we had already left, but Werner had stayed behind to wait for Erika, Rosmarie, and the baby. They took the next train to Paris. In Lyon both trains were coupled together and, lo and behold, the complete family emerged in Paris from their respective coaches. Greatly relieved to be reunited, we spent the night in Paris, and the next day took the train to Cherbourg where we boarded the Liberté.
The crossing was uneventful until we hit the end of a hurricane. The ship rolled to such an extent that the portholes of the uppermost deck went underwater on one side, then shifted to the other side and continued rolling back and forth. The captain was said to have been concerned that the ship might remain lying on one side during one of these rolls. Everything was made as tight as possible in the dining room and salons. Many people disappeared into their cabins, and the crew ran around trying to help. One could not walk up or down the stairs without sliding helplessly into the corners. A priest was trying to say Mass in one of the salons, but suddenly in the midst of the service, the priest and the table, with all that was on it, fell over and slid along the floor. All activities were interrupted, and anyone who was still around was trying, somehow, to get where he or she wanted to go.
After a day of being tossed about by the severe storm, calm was restored, and we were able to continue on our voyage to the New York harbor. It was good to be home again in the United States of America.
A New Beginning
During our 1947 concert tour along the West Coast, we noticed that Papá had become very quiet. He often retired to the back of the bus to the bench, on which he stretched out and went to sleep. Earlier he had seen a doctor of homeopathic medicine in New York City, and the doctor told him to stop smoking, which he did. His symptoms, though, did not improve. Papá was always tired and seemed to lose his interest in life. Yet he came with us on tour.
The trip back home seemed to take forever. One day Papá said he felt especially tired. Since he also had developed a suspicious cough, Mother suggested he fly to New York City to see the doctor who had helped him before. He flew alone because we still had concerts on our schedule.
Two weeks later Mother got a message from Papá, who was in a hospital in New York City. She left immediately to go to his bedside. When she arrived at the hospital, she was shocked at the terrible change in him. He had lost fifteen pounds in two weeks, he was very weak, and he wanted to go home. Privately the doctor told Mother that there was nothing more he could do for Papá. He had lung cancer, probably caused by the fumes in the early submarines. The fumes were trapped in the engine room where the officers and crew had to remain when doing underwater maneuvers, causing many of the men to die of this treacherous cancer years later. The doctor said th
at Mother should take Papá home to Stowe to spend his last days there. Papá was then sixty-seven years old.
When we arrived home following our last concert, the terrible changes in Papá’s face were quite evident. We were glad we had brought home many potted, blooming geraniums to brighten his room. He lay in bed and could hardly talk. Mother had to feed him spoonful by spoonful. We visited with him only one at a time so we would not overstrain him.
My turn came; he asked me how my new bee colonies were coming along. That was the farthest thing from my mind, though he, in his agony, thought of my hobby. My tears flowed. I could not give him the answer; I was simply overwhelmed.
A few days later, on May 30, 1947, he died in peace, surrounded by all of us whom he had so faithfully protected our entire lives. He had always been there, like the air we breathe and the elements we never question. He went with us on tour in his quiet, gentle manner, ever mindful of our needs, as long as he lived. Papá now rests in our family cemetery, surrounded by lovely flower beds.
Only after all these years of struggle to make a new life in America have I been able to think in depth of my father’s life with us. Yes, as great as he was during the First World War in the service of Austria’s navy, he was even greater during the later part of his life, as the father of his singing family. He lived this new life with utter selflessness in this new and strange land.
Our concert tours continued without Papá, but we felt as if he were still with us. Each year we made two long tours throughout America, eventually singing in every state except Alaska. One season we gave concerts all across Canada. We sang in the Hawaiian Islands several times. In 1950 we traveled to South America for concerts where we sang in the Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires. That same year we returned to Austria.
Memories Before and After the Sound of Music Page 18
