by Jane Kendall
Whenever I was taken from my stall to be washed or exercised, I could see into the courtyard. It was very pleasant to gaze across the sun-washed cobblestones to the street and watch the delivery carts and automobiles, and the people passing by like characters in a play. In the evening the view was even prettier—especially, as I discovered that first winter, when the streetlamps were lit and the snow was falling in a silent blanket over the city.
Anton Knoedler was my groom, and a nicer fellow you never met. That first morning he came into my stall and introduced himself as he was brushing me. He ran his sturdy hands expertly over my hindquarters and announced, “A good strong boy you are, Maestoso Petra.”
So I whinnied a little and nuzzled him, remembering my father’s advice. Listen to the humans, Maestoso Elena had told me, especially those who take care of you. You will never understand all they say—who does?—but they are important.
“Ach!” Anton cried delightedly. “We will get on well. Time for Morning Parade now, so behave”—he wagged a forefinger at me—“and do as I say.” After putting on a saddle blanket, he fastened a scarlet rug trimmed with gold braid around me. Then he took my halter and led me to the courtyard, where some twenty other Lipizzaner stallions were lined up, each with a groom at his head. The church bells chimed seven times. At an unseen signal, we all began to move forward.
As we came out to the Josefsplatz, the policeman who was directing traffic blew on his whistle, spread his arms, and screamed, “Halt!” Horns sounded, brakes squealed, and the traffic screeched to a stop. The sidewalks were lined with the people who came every morning to watch us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little girl with round blue eyes push her way to the front of the crowd, her schoolbooks hugged to her chest. She stared at us with a kind of eager hunger on her face. Then the crowd shifted and I lost sight of her.
As we began to cross the street the most delicious aroma wafted into my nostrils, and I tried to turn my head to see where it was coming from.
Anton must have read my mind, for he grinned and said, “You smell that? It’s the bakery on the corner.” He lifted his head and sniffed, just like a horse. “Apfel strudel,” he said happily. “Apples and sugar. Just what we like, eh?”
But there was no time to explore, for the parade was moving across the street and then across a wide plaza. We passed the statue of a Lipizzaner rearing, with Prince Eugène in the saddle, and then went under the grand archway that was the main entrance of the Hofburg. Another courtyard, a long hallway, and we had reached our destination—the Winter Riding Hall.
I had never seen anything like it, and to this day I think it the most beautiful place on earth. To say it was large is an understatement. It was enormous. It was flooded with light and as elegant as any ballroom you can imagine, with a high ceiling decorated with carvings and plaster moldings. Huge crystal chandeliers sparkled like waterfalls in the sunlight, which streamed in long, dusty beams through two stories of arched windows. The floor, which was covered by a thick layer of sand and sawdust, was twenty yards wide and sixty yards long. Around the walls were ranks of white pillars and behind those the galleries, where the Viennese came on Sunday mornings to watch us perform.
I was just a simple horse from the country, and I took one look and stopped short, my eyes wide and my sides heaving. Anton merely patted my rump and led me to the center of the floor. “You won’t even notice after a while,” he said to me. “You’ll be too busy.”
Within moments I found out what he meant. Martin Haas entered the hall with a saddle over one arm and all manner of gear looped over the other and came toward us. Martin was an Oberbereiter, a head rider. He was tall and slender, with close-cropped blond hair and an upright bearing that spoke of discipline and tradition. He was dressed in a dark brown jacket, breeches, and boots so polished you could see your reflection in them.
I saw that saddle over his arm and began to back up. Anton started stroking my neck and crooning words of comfort as he unbuckled my rug and slid it off my back. He knew what was coming.
Martin walked up to me, shifted the weight in his arms, and stroked my muzzle. “This won’t hurt, Maestoso Petra,” he said gently. “I promise.” Before I could think twice, he handed the looped reins and gear to Anton, slung the saddle onto my back, and bent down and buckled the girth around my stomach.
I am embarrassed now to admit such a thing, but I bucked. Oh, how I bucked! After a minute or two of jumping up and down and throwing out my feet—Anton and Martin wisely took a few steps back—I came down to earth and shook my head.
Puh, I thought with a snort. This thing isn’t going anywhere. And it occurred to me, suddenly, that if this was what they wanted, it was a fair trade for a stall in a palace and for eating out of marble. So when Martin came at me with the bridle I stood quietly, as I tried to catch my breath and regain my dignity.
“See?” Martin said as he held the bit out to me. “So small.” He lifted it and blew on it to warm the steel, and then swiftly slid it into my mouth. It felt odd for a moment, and then I decided it was no worse than the saddle. Then Martin clipped a twelve-foot-long rein called a longe to the bridle and took the free end in one hand. In his other hand he held a long whip, a thin six-foot strip of leather on a tall stick. And we began.
Martin backed up to the full length of the longe and started to turn slowly, so I was guided into making a circle around him. Around I went in a measured circle, around and around for about three minutes, and then he let the longe go slack and said, “Halt.” I halted.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed. He walked over to me, pulled a chunk of carrot out of the pocket of his jodhpurs, and held it under my mouth. That was more like it! I’d do just about anything for a sweet, crisp mouthful of carrot, so around and around we went for the rest of the morning: first walking, then, with a tiny flick of the whip—I was worried that it might sting but it tickled—he urged me into a slow trot. More circles, more carrots, and that was my first day in the Winter Riding Hall.
It was so exciting! I know that going around in circles for hours doesn’t sound exciting, but it was. It was thrilling. No longer was I watching the world slide by—I was doing something.
By the end of that first session I knew that my job was to please this tall blond man who spoke so softly and had such enticing treats in his pocket. I was coming to know the sound of his voice, and read from the subtle changes in tone when he was pleased and when he was not pleased. I knew that even if I was just going around in a circle, I should keep my head high and my neck arched and my steps even. I knew that this was the beginning.
Music
From that humble beginning I went forward, even though at first I thought nothing much was happening. Every morning the parade across the Josefsplatz; every morning the mouthwatering smells from the bakery and the little girl who took her place at the curb to stare at us; every morning my lessons with Oberbereiter Martin Haas. But an unchanging routine, I discovered, was the foundation of our work. Day by day little things were added, so gradually that I didn’t realize how far I had come.
In those first months I was always on the longe. But I wore a saddle every day, so I would get used to the feel of it, and a full bridle. The reins were attached to my saddle to imitate the hands of a rider, which meant I could only move my head so far. Then came the day when Martin took off the longe and unfastened the reins. With a leg up from the faithful Anton, he swung easily onto my back, and off we went. We walked and then he gently urged me into a trot. I had been watching the older and more experienced horses, and so I kept my steps even and strong and steady.
I could hear Anton clapping his hands as we came down the long side wall beneath the galleries. We reached the end of the hall, and Martin pulled me up, swung off, and gave me two chunks of carrot. “You’re a fine student, Maestoso Petra,” he said, pride warming his voice. “You are learning to obey, no matter what is asked of you.”
Our training sessions were open to the public. I think this
was so we would never be afraid of, or distracted by, an audience. The Viennese also liked to take tours of the Stallburg, and I got used to gentlemen in fur-collared coats and sweet-smelling ladies patting me as if I were a lapdog.
One afternoon a few months after my arrival, the girl from Morning Parade suddenly appeared at the stables. She walked right in and came up to Anton, who was standing in the aisle with brush in hand, about to start my daily grooming.
“Liesl!” he exclaimed. “Liesl Haas! What are you doing here?”
“I have come to be with the horses,” she said firmly. “I was nine years old yesterday, and Papa says I’m old enough to know how to behave. That was my special birthday treat,” she added anxiously. “To be allowed to come here. I won’t be a bother, honest.”
That was how Martin’s daughter came into my life, as simply and as naturally as could be. I still have no idea why she took such a liking to me, but I’m glad she did. Maybe she felt a kinship because we were both young and green. Or maybe she knew that even though Anton groomed five other horses, I was his favorite, and she wanted to please him. Liesl followed Anton like a shadow, and he answered her stream of questions seriously and with great patience. He also showed her how to clean my tack with saddle soap and a rag, which she did quite well. They would sit together outside my stall and chatter away about saddles and snaffle bits and who was the best Lipizzaner of all time.
I came to think of Liesl as my girl. Every day she would wiggle her fingers at me during Morning Parade, and I would nod my head (that was our secret signal). Every afternoon she appeared as soon as school let out for the day. She wore her school uniform, her knees poking out between the pleated skirt and prickly knee socks. She would toss her schoolbooks into a corner with a kind of glee, followed by the ugly round hat that left a red mark on her forehead when she tore it off. “I’m here!” she would sing out.
Always polite—Liesl was the daughter of a cavalry officer, after all—she would greet the other horses before she came to my stall. Then, quickly looking to see if anyone was about, she would slip me the treat of the day: grainy brown lumps of her mama’s coffee sugar, pale-green stalks of celery with the leaves on, and, best of all, fat red apples brimming with juice.
And so life settled into the routine that would continue, unbroken, for years: peaceful afternoons with Anton and my girl, busy mornings with Martin. At one end of the hall, two six-foot-high wooden pillars were set into the floor some four feet apart. Here, tied between the pillars, we practiced the most difficult moves—moves that were intricate and demanding, and had to be learned from a standing position. The long whip was used to tickle us into moving one leg or the other as our Oberbereiter wished, over and over again; at the same time we would be given a vocal command or a twitch on the bit. This was our introduction to the haute école. When we could do the move without the flicking whip, we would take our new skills out onto the floor—first on the longe or two long reins, and finally with a Bereiter.
How I longed to leave the pillars and try my legs! How I longed to be like Conversano Stornella, with his noble head and grave manner, or Favory Montenegro, with his clever, fast feet. How I longed to try the “shouldering in,” where the horses moved on the diagonal so smoothly that they seemed to float over the floor. Or the piaffe, which looks simple and is anything but—a fiery standing trot that is so precise, so intense, that I could barely breathe the first time I was taken through it.
The most amazing were the “airs above the ground,” the dramatic moves only Lipizzaner stallions can do. (I was somewhat annoyed to hear Anton tell Liesl that this was not because we were more intelligent than other breeds, but because of the way we were built.) To see Conversano Stornella rear into the levade, and then hold the pose while time stood still before dropping lightly to the floor, was thrilling. How I loved to see him do the courbette, where he balanced on his hind legs before hopping forward. Or watch Favory Montenegro leap into the croupade with his legs tucked up under him—and then take it one step further to the capriole, where he kicked out his hind legs midjump! I lived for the day when I could fly into the air as they did. Would I ever be able to learn—or perfect—such magnificent and important moves?
In those first months I was taught to bow, striking out my right hoof and lowering my head over it. This was so I could pay my respects to the emperor Charles VI, who had founded the Spanish Riding School in 1735. His portrait, which almost covered the back wall of the imperial box, was the one spot of bright color in the glittering white hall. Every Lipizzaner bows to him on entering and leaving the Winter Riding Hall, for where would we be without him?
On a frosty Sunday morning when the air smelled like snow and my breath puffed white from my nostrils, I made my debut. Not happily trotting as I had with Martin, but walking on the longe. Before the performance that day, Conversano Nina and I were to be led around the hall, just one quick circuit to introduce the new horses to the public. I’m almost white now, I thought as I looked down at my legs, where only a little gray remained around my hooves. At least I’ll look like a real performer….
All the little gilt chairs in the galleries were filled. The emperors were long gone, so the mayor sat in the imperial box with men from the parliament and their richly dressed wives. As Martin and I entered and I prepared to make my bow, I heard the most enchanting sound. It was like birds, or maybe wind through the trees, and there was a rhythm to it that made my ears twitch and my feet want to move.
I must have reacted, for Martin smiled. “You like the music?” he whispered to me. “That’s Mozart, the Eine kleine Nachtmusik. He was a good Austrian, just like us.”
Oh! It was lovely, even from two violins, a viola, and a cello. Years later we would have a full orchestra with French horns and flutes, but I still remember those four musicians and the magic they made. I found myself matching my steps to the delightful rhythm and melody that seemed to pull me along and make my hooves skim lightly over the floor. And that’s when I realized that nothing we Lipizzaners did was meant to be done in silence or to a voice counting out beats. We were not mechanical toys that marched along without a soul—we were dancers.
From that moment on I was like Pegasus, a horse with the white feathered wings of an angel. Every step I took, no matter how simple, was fueled by the music I heard in my head, which spurred me on.
War
In 1938 our troubles began. It was a frightening year, for many things changed … and if there’s one thing horses hate, it’s change. We like to eat the same things every day and sleep in the same stall every night, and we don’t like it when the people who take care of us are unhappy.
In March of that year, my country was taken over. The Anschluss, it was called, a hissing sort of word that meant that we were now part of Germany. The Republic of Austria—my beloved Austria of the snowcapped mountains and golden wheat fields—was no more. Our lives would be ruled by the Nazis in Berlin and by Adolf Hitler, who was the chancellor of Germany. He was known as the Führer, the leader—a phrase spoken with pride by those who thought he was the answer to all their problems, and whispered in fear by those who knew better. We were, I now know, luckier than the poor people of Poland or Belgium or France, who would be invaded by the German army over the following two years, but it still made me sad.
I didn’t know war was coming; I didn’t even know what the word meant. I just knew that suddenly everyone around me started acting nervous and afraid. The first hint that something was wrong came on the twelfth of March, the day of the Anschluss. For the first time in memory there was no Morning Parade to the Winter Riding Hall. We stayed in the Stallburg for the next three days, straining our ears to the noises coming from the city outside: heavy boots marching in the streets, the loud grinding rumble of tanks and trucks rolling along the Ring, and people cheering. Every time we heard cheering Anton would make a face as if he were eating a lemon and mutter, “Sheep. They’re no better than sheep.”
On the fifteenth of March
Liesl came dashing in, her cheeks flushed and her hat on crooked. She said hundreds of thousands of people were gathered in the Heldenplatz, the vast Heroes’ Plaza in front of the Parliament. Adolf Hitler had come down from Berlin to hold one of his famous rallies.
“Führer, my foot,” said Martin, who was spending the afternoon with Anton. “There’s nothing worse than a failed artist.”
“Shhh, Papa, no!” Liesl whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “It’s not safe to say such things.”
“Trust me, Liebchen,” he said. “If the man could have made a living as a painter, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Is it bad, Papa? I mean, really bad? Will the Nazis close the school?”
“Of course not,” said Anton stoutly.
“I’m guessing they don’t care what we do, as long as we don’t make waves,” said Martin. “Thank heavens we are so far from Berlin. Besides,” he said teasingly, “if they close the Reitschule we’ll have to take your brother right to the hospital, eh?”
Liesl said nothing but I knew this was a sore subject: her brother, Hans, after years of pleading and waiting, had just started to train as a Bereiter, continuing the Haas family tradition into the fifth generation. Liesl was tall for her eleven years and Hans short for his sixteen, and they looked so alike that from the back you could only tell them apart by her braid.
And Liesl, with a yearning that was written on her face every time she looked at a Lipizzaner, wanted to be a Bereiter.
“But you know how it is,” Anton said to her. “Only stallions are trained; only men can ride them. No girl has ever been a Bereiter.”
“What has that to do with anything?” she replied angrily. “Papa’s been giving me riding lessons in the park since I was seven. I’m good. I never jerk the bit and I understand horses. It’s not fair.”
