Chapter Nine Maria

Chapter Nine

Maria

Salzburg, Austria

1926

I wait for the chaos of four children returning from school to die down before making the announcement. "Today we're going outside to play!"

I pause, expecting exclamations of joy. Instead, there's silence and confusion.

"What do you mean, play ?" Johanna asks.

"Oh, I don't know," I say, refastening my braids. "Perhaps we'll go for a hike. Or maybe we'll play chase or volleyball in the garden."

A few of the children dare to look excited, but Agathe draws her brows together. "I don't think the Baroness will approve," she warns.

"Unfortunately," I say, with far more empathy in my voice than I feel, "the Baroness is upstairs recovering from a cold."

Agathe's eyes brighten. "But if she should see stains on our clothes—"

I laugh. "Come. Mitzi and I have a surprise for you in the nursery."

There's a stampede up the wooden stairs, then shouts of disbelief when they see what Mitzi and I have accomplished.

"Are these your curtains?" Rupert exclaims. The Captain's eldest is a keen observer.

"They were. And now they're your playclothes."

You've never seen such excitement. Trousers and shirts for the boys, dirndls for the girls. Even Mitzi gets dressed and comes outside with us to watch a game of volleyball on the lawn. There is a good chance the Baroness might hear the laughter and come to investigate. But what can she do? Send me back to the nunnery? I actually feel a small thrill at the thought. Let the Captain send me back! The children will have experienced some fun for once and I'll get to go home.

But the Baroness doesn't make an appearance, and it's the finest afternoon we've spent together since my arrival. Seven of us play volleyball until the sun goes down and the cook takes up her residence at the top step of the mansion, violently ringing a handbell to call us in for dinner.

Without the Baroness to preside over the dining room, we chat throughout the meal. I ask each of the children to tell me something they're thankful for this day. The youngest ones say their playclothes, Werner says the volleyball and net that I purchased, then it's Martina's turn and the table goes quiet. The child has spent four of her five years on this earth without a mother, and I know what it is to not even remember the woman who was supposed to love and protect you.

"I'm not grateful for anything," Martina says.

There's a chorus of exclamations, but I hold up my hand. "That's perfectly fine. Perhaps she'll find something to be thankful for tomorrow." I give her knee a little squeeze under the table and I can see that this isn't the response she was expecting. Then I change the subject. "Now why don't we have a little music?" I suggest.

Werner looks around, wondering if maybe I've brought a gramophone with me as well.

"Who has a utensil they're not using?" I ask, picking up my dessert fork. There are giggles around the table, then everyone picks up their fork, even Martina. I strike the edge of my glass and a high, clear sound rings out. Everyone tries it.

"It's beautiful!" Hedwig exclaims.

I use Martina's glass and mine to play the nursery rhyme "Alle meine Entchen."

"How did you do that?" Johanna asks.

"Try it out. In fact, everyone must try it! And use the glass of the person next to you." Agathe and Rupert glance nervously toward the kitchen, and I assure them that it's fine. "It won't hurt the glass." I laugh. "Go on!"

High, sweet music echoes throughout the dining room, like crystal rain droplets bouncing along the roof.

"Now, let's tune our instruments!" I say. I take the water decanter and fill up my glass. "Almost to the top," I tell them, then we play our song again.

"The extra water lowers the pitch," Rupert realizes.

"Can we do this every night?" Johanna exclaims. Even Martina is smiling a little, striking both her glass and mine.

Hans pokes his head into the room to see what's happening, then grins. "You're lucky the Baroness is upstairs recovering."

"Oh, yes." I put on my most pious face. "Godspeed her healing."

But I should have known better than to ask God for speed (healing alone would have been enough), because our happy mealtimes come to an end two days later.

"Why is everyone so fidgety?" the Baroness snaps after she returns to her place at the head of the table.

Seven faces turn toward me, and I can feel my cheeks flush. "While you were recovering," I admit, "I'm afraid we made it something of a habit to talk about our day over dinner."

The Baroness makes a harrumphing noise in her throat. "Mealtime is for eating, not talking," she overrules, and silence falls over the room again.

"But what if…" I interrupt the silence, "…the children could each speak about something they're grateful to God for each day?"

I see the Baroness briefly touch the cross at her neck. "Well, I suppose there would be nothing wrong with that."

I sit straighter, feeling triumphant.

"However, there is a matter of some missing curtains that I would also like to discuss," she says. "Perhaps after dinner."

It's the longest meal I've ever eaten. I can barely concentrate on what the children are thankful for I'm so nervous, and as I look around the room at each of their sweet faces—Rupert with his grown-up haircut and steady gaze, Agathe with her pretty round face and chestnut-colored plaits, Werner with his ruddy cheeks and freckled nose—I realize how much I want them to be happy. It wouldn't be right to take away the playclothes we made. If you can't run outside and play as a child, then when?

I'm preparing to launch my defense in the library when the Baroness collapses into the nearest chair and sighs.

"Your curtains, Fr?ulein? What next? Turning the rug into winter coats?"

"I just wanted to give them the opportunity to have fun!"

"They have fun."

" Real fun." I remain standing. "Like all the other children in Austria do."

"They're not like all the other children, Fr?ulein. They are the sons and daughters of a Baron."

I shift from one foot to the other, searching for the politest way to say this. "With the greatest respect, Baroness, I believe those days are over."

Her eyes snap to attention. "We don't know that," she says, and maybe she's right. It's only been eight years since an emperor ruled over Austria, and though we are a republic now, there's no telling when the archduke might return from his exile to reclaim his throne. "And if the archduke should return, how will these children conduct themselves at court? What do you propose? That they run wild through the Hofburg?"

"No. I would propose that they become the rare breed of children fortunate enough to experience the refined world of the palace and the wilds of their own backyard." I straighten, ready for more fight, but her recent bout of the flu has drained the Baroness's energy and she doesn't have it in her.

"Just go," she says.

"But—"

"Leave." She waves me away with a gloved hand. "And try not to cause further disruptions. There is a reason for all of these rules, Fr?ulein, even if you cannot understand them."

I make my way toward the door and hear the scampering of feet outside. Naughty children! "Does this mean they can keep the playclothes?" I ask.

The Baroness glowers at me. "As long as I never have to see them looking like ruffians and they are properly dressed for dinner."

"Oh, yes. Of course." I open the door.

"And their nails will be clean. Always," she calls after me.

"Of course, Baroness!" I hurry upstairs to the nursery.

Seven nervous faces look at me.

I smile back at them. "Who wants to go for a hike tomorrow?"

—

After so many glorious days of sun it was bound to happen. I wake up on the seventeenth of November and hear the familiar patter of rain against the glass. At first, it's only a shower. But as the days march toward December, it begins to come down in sheets, making the walk to and from school unbearable. In German, we call this Schnürlregen, a rain so hard you can't even see through the drops.

"If they had Wetterflecks none of this would be a problem," I grumble. Our five umbrellas have to fight for space on the tiny country roads, then there's the mess they create in the hall for the maids. But I've probably pushed my luck as far as it will go with the Baroness.

The next week, when the rains are really terrible, I gather everyone together in the nursery and the children help me with darning their socks. It's supposed to be done while they're at school, but I've decided that teaching Martina and Mitzi is more important than patching up holes.

"Wouldn't it be nice if we had some music," Rupert suggests, tired of the constant drum of the rain.

There's a chorus of "Ja"s from around the rug.

"But how will we bring the glasses up here?" Johanna asks.

Agathe laughs. "We don't need glasses. Fr?ulein Maria has a guitar!"

My heart beats faster. There have been so many moments when I've wanted to reach for my guitar but was too nervous. What would the Baroness think? How would the Baron react? I study the hope in Agathe's face. "You want me to play?"

The agreement is near unanimous. Only Martina refrains from nodding, concentrating instead on mending her socks.

"All right, the guitar it is." I go to fetch my instrument, and when I return, there's a circle of eager faces waiting for me. It almost feels like my classroom at the abbey. I seat myself in the middle of the group, open the case, and take out my guitar. I haven't held it in weeks, and it feels wonderful to brush my fingers over the polished wood. "All right, how about a folk song?"

Rupert wrinkles his nose. "What's a folk song?"

"You know. ‘In Stiller Nacht,' ‘In Einem Kuhlen Grunde.'?" There's no recognition on their faces and my fingers drop from the guitar. "Well, haven't you learned any folk songs?"

The children shake their heads.

"What about at school? Something simple like…" I begin to sing "Die Hoch Alma," but the children's faces remain blank. I put down the guitar. "No one can sing this?"

"We can if you teach us!" Mitzi says. She'll be the star of every classroom when she returns to school, so eager to learn whatever is on offer.

"Do all of you wish to learn?"

"Oh, yes!" Johanna exclaims.

I look at Martina. "What about you?" I ask softly.

Her dark eyes fix on mine for a moment, then glance away. "I don't care."

"Well, perhaps you can pick our very first song. What do you say?"

This time, she holds my gaze. "Me?"

"Why not?" I list for her a few of the songs I learned when I was traveling with the Austrian Catholic Youth Movement. Then I tell the children how we would walk in groups of four or five and return to our campsite at dusk. There, about thirty of us would sing the night away—ballads, church music, anything. Those weekends filled with hiking and song were the best times of my life.

Martina offers quietly, "?‘Es wollt ein J?gerlein jagen,' I guess."

It's a beautiful song, and because most of the children can already read music, it doesn't take long to teach them the rhythm. At first, they have trouble harmonizing together. Then I split them into groups and have each group sing different lines, adding one line at a time until they are all singing the final verse. The sound they make together is surprisingly good. Rupert is a natural bass vocalist, Agathe a stunning soprano, Werner a truly perfect tenor, and Hedwig a born alto. They ask to sing it again and again, because none of us can believe how beautiful it sounds.

And so begins a new rainy-day tradition. When it's too wet for hiking and too icy for volleyball, we sit around on the rug in the nursery and sing. Two days before Advent, I ask if they would like to begin learning songs for Christmas. The vote is unanimous.

"Perhaps when Father returns home," Agathe says, "we can surprise him with a concert!"

The suggestion takes me by surprise. "Do you think he would like that?" I ask cautiously. Because the Baroness has implied that the Captain is a man with little time or affection for frivolity.

"Oh, yes!" Agathe replies. "We've never sung together before, but we used to play our instruments together after dinner. It was with Mama, when she was here."

Martina glances up from her dolls. She was too young to remember, of course, but I recognize the hunger in her eyes.

I'm shocked. "So what instruments would everyone play?" And why haven't they been playing them?

"Well, Rupert plays the piano and accordion," Agathe says.

"And I play the recorder!" Johanna pipes up.

"And now I can play the violin," Mitzi adds.

"That's lovely," a voice says from the doorway. Everyone freezes as the Baroness steps inside. She rarely comes to the nursery, although I know she must hear our singing. "And how are we doing on our sewing?"

"We're not sewing." Johanna laughs brightly. "We're singing."

"Yes, I can hear that. And I was not asking you, Johanna." The Baroness presses her lips into a very thin line. "Fr?ulein Maria, where are the socks?"

"Well, we haven't finished this week's batch," I admit. "But—"

The Baroness crooks a finger at me. "If you will," she says, and suddenly I recall the last time I was taken from a group of children. If she forces me to leave, I will go back to my sweet six-year-olds in the abbey, I think as I rise. I don't even want to be here. Let her send me back to the nunnery. Then I imagine the look on the Reverend Mother's face and my chest tightens. If I'm not seen as fit to be a tutor, perhaps she'll think I'm not fit to teach at Nonnberg. Or, worse, to take my vows.

In the hall, the Baroness's voice is stern. "What are these children learning in there?"

"Songs for Christmas," I tell her.

"And what about the socks?"

I want to laugh. Who cares about socks? They'll get done. But I school my features and tell her earnestly, "?‘A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…He hath made everything beautiful in His time.' I promise you, Baroness, I will get to them. And I will not ask the children to help."

This settles her a little. "The children do sound beautiful together."

My eyes brighten. "Don't they?"

"Yes. It's actually rather extraordinary."

"Perhaps we can—"

"No." The Baroness is firm.

"But I haven't even—"

" Whatever the question is, Fr?ulein Maria, the answer is already no."